Thursday, June 29, 2017
Did you ever look at an old photo and wish you could remember being in that moment; wish you could recall the conversation and remember who was around and figure out how that moment came about? When I look at the attached photo, I wonder. And I wish I could remember that day, sitting outside of my grandparents' farmhouse in the summertime behind my grandmother's tulip patch.
I'm seated to the left in the wicker chair. My older brother is seated across from me and our cousin who is four months older than me is sitting between us. We appear to be having a snack or lunch. I appear to have my snack in my lap. That was probably a good idea because whatever I was eating most likely would have fallen to the ground and most likely a dog named Pepper who was most likely nearby would have enjoyed whatever I was supposed to be eating. We are probably drinking milk. As I grew older I remember enjoying the homemade lemonade my grandmother would make, using her lemon squeezer and filling a pitcher with that lemon juice, along with well water and lots of sugar and lemon slices.
My brother had red hair and freckles when he was a little boy. He was the first grandchild and would often go with our grandfather in his old Ford truck. When we were old enough we'd get to ride behind our grandfather's little red tractor, sitting on the hay wagon, feeling every bump and taking in the smell of the hayfields and buzzing of the flies and bees and feeling the warmth of the sun with a gentle breeze making the clover dance and wildflowers twirl as we'd go over the plank bridge, taking us to the backfields. That farm was a paradise for adventures when growing up.
On the day this photo was taken clothes on the clothesline were swaying in the breeze. Those tall posts held the waterline going out to the barn. In the very top left you can see an inkling of what was the pump house. We loved playing in that pump house. We'd pump the cold water into our hands and keep repeating the process. That water was so cold and so tasty. On real hot days we'd pump the water onto the cement floor and then splash in it with our bare feet. We also had the option of going down to the flat rocks pictured to the right of the laundry flapping in the breeze where there was a natural bubble that would spring out from the rocks. Clearing away any moss, we'd spread out on our bellies and enjoy sipping that water, trying to avoid the water from going up our noses.
Amazing how one photo makes you wonder as it takes you back to a moment when sitting in an old wicker chair in the summertime.
Sunday, June 25, 2017
As far back as I can remember, my grandmother always wore a house dress with black shoes that tied up the front so seeing her dressed in jeans was like seeing a whole other side of her. She had an assortment of house dresses. They all had pockets. Most were a muted plaid material. Probably a cotton. On special occasions she'd wear one of her good dresses and if she was cooking, she'd wear an apron. While I don't remember ever picking berries with my grandmother, I do remember enjoying the pies she'd bake by combining a pinch of this and a dash of that. Of course her crusts were homemade. Crisco played a role in that.
Her list of homemade pies was extensive including favorites such as apple and pumpkin; mincemeat and custard. I loved her raisin pie and all the berry pies made when the berries were in season. My all-time, most favorite pie was her lemon meringue. I've tried my best to create a lemon meringue pie just like my grandmother's, even using her recipe, but I fall short every time. I think the problem is my thoughts wander back to those times of eating her lemon meringue pie and having her there and sitting in her kitchen and enjoying the pie on a certain plate surrounded by other family members doing the same while talking and enjoying the moment. Funny how food sparks our memories. Funny how food takes us back. The texture of her pies-the aromas from her kitchen-her rolling pin-her worn yet strong hands-her hair pulled up in a bun-flour everywhere-her braided rugs-her African Violets sitting on a drop leaf table in the other room-the bookcase full of books and photographs.
Funny how a pie, a simple pie made with love and served with a smile while wearing a house dress with pockets and black shoes that tied up the front can bring it all right back as if it was yesterday. There's magic in those recipes. Of course the magician herself had lots to do with it.
Thursday, June 22, 2017
I can't remember exactly when it happened, but soon after my mother came home from the hospital with him, she discovered she had a blood clot in her left leg. All I remember her telling me in the middle of the night was she'd experienced pain in her leg. It had turned black. They woke me up to listen for the baby while my father rushed my mother to the hospital. Back then the treatment for such a blood clot was far different than it is today. My mother ended up staying in the hospital for most of the summer. I was taken out of school early to help. My aunt who lived next door-a nurse with four children-stepped in as well. She'd take my baby brother as much as she could which was a lot. He'd sleep there. She'd care for him-feed him-bathe him. I wasn't happy with the arrangement. He was my brother and I wanted to do it all. Looking back, I thank God she was there. I never would have made it. I think she felt my frustration so we devised a plan with input from my father who was very busy being a funeral director, visiting my mother in the hospital, and helping me keep the house picked up and cooking and watching my younger sister. We decided I'd go to my aunt's house after my brother's morning bath-bring him home and take him back after supper, depending on how things were going. It worked. I had him most of the day. On sunny days I'd put him in his carriage and go for walks, visit my grandmother next door, or sit alongside the rock garden. When he slept, I'd read a book. But there was one time it didn't work. Not at all. I thought he'd end up in the hospital alongside my mother.
It happened when I kept him home for supper so my father could see him. I was so proud. I'd cooked the meal although I can't imagine now what it was. My aunt had just started feeding my brother cereal with some Gerber applesauce or pears so when my father and I went shopping, I bought him some chocolate pudding. I thought he would love it. But it turned out just the opposite. He became very sick and I became very nervous. I thought the days of 'adopting' my baby brother were over. But they weren't. The adults weren't as worried as I was and when my mother heard what I'd done, she didn't have a problem with it. But my father did throw out my supply of that chocolate pudding in the jars.
When my mother finally made it home, she had to take it easy. But at least she was home and feeling better. The top picture shows her outside sitting down while I rock my baby brother to sleep in his carriage. The bottom photo shows my parents next door at my grandmother's for a picnic. You can see the bandage she had to keep wrapped around her leg even when she went to bed.
That summer which began early for me was one I will never forget. I'm just glad my baby brother hasn't a clue, especially when it comes to the chocolate pudding.
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
I never did learn her name. She was a beautiful, young girl sitting across from us with her mother and grandmother. While language was a barrier, it didn't matter. We communicated just fine. When the train slowed and it became apparent it was their stop, I reached into my purse, pulled out the doll and gestured to the mom if I could give the doll to her daughter. Her smile said it all.
As they disappeared into the crowd I watched as the young girl held the doll up for me to see, waving the little doll in the gentle breeze smelling of olives, oranges and the Atlantic.
Sunday, June 11, 2017
When I was in high school, girls were more often than not encouraged by their guidance counselors to go into nursing or teaching. Or, they had their own plan to get married and raise a family. Throughout my senior year, my mother kept after me, "What are you going to do after graduation?Where are you going to apply?" It didn't help that my two best friends had known all along what they wanted to do and they had their applications in to prove it. One was going for nursing; the other teaching. I was clueless. While I never liked high school, I had no idea what I wanted to do when it was finally over. Well actually I did but my mother would have kicked me out of the house. You see, all I wanted to do was write. It didn't matter what I was writing as long as I was in that mode. So if I'd had my way I would have stayed sitting at my desk in my bedroom writing. Needless to say, that never happened.
Throughout that last year my mother kept throwing ideas at me. She really pushed nursing because she was a registered nurse. She'd been in charge of the ER. The thought of doing what she did made me ill. She was not happy with me so she arranged for a man representing an airline that serviced our hometown to come to our house and interview me. Of course the interview was not for piloting the plane but for becoming a flight attendant. The thought of flying around-landing and taking off-made me ill as well. Totally disgusted with me, my mother had my father take me to a local, all-girls Catholic college run by nuns for an interview. It was very small. There was one cinder block dorm. My parents told me I could live at home and take the car when it was available. And on some of those days when the car wasn't available my older brother could possibly pick me up. I liked that plan-especially the part of my brother picking me up because he had a red TR3. So I applied for an AAS Degree in Liberal Arts and I was accepted. And once classes began I found I liked it. It was nothing like high school. I made some friends but I think my having an older brother with a sports car helped. They loved coming home with me on weekends. I graduated at the end of two years and went on to another school some 3 hours away. There I applied for an AAS Degree in Advertising and Design. I liked that too and earned the degree and then life took hold of me. But down deep inside, I knew I had one more degree to earn.
You see, while I was attending the local, all-girls Catholic college, my favorite course was Creative Writing. At the end of the semester the nun teaching the course pulled me aside and told me I had a "gift for writing." I never forgot that. And when I was married and a mother of three I went back to that small local college and earned my AAS Degree in English. (The attached photo shows me receiving my degree).
Thanks to the nun encouraging me, I found my way in getting published. I am so glad my mother kept pushing me!
Saturday, June 3, 2017
Recently when involved in a home renovation I came across what had been a focal point of my mother's fabric shop-a small, antique, hand-painted, working sewing machine which my uncle had turned into a lamp just for the shop. It was a centerpiece of conversation. My mother used it as sort of a "logo" back then for her country shop of fine fabrics. She had many offers from those interested in buying the little machine. From antique dealers to antique lovers, that mini machine caused a stir.
It is still causing a stir as it now sits on display in my home. And every time that happens I get to tell its story and the story of my mother's fabric store in the country.