Jesse Crain's Blog
January 22, 2014
Moving!
It seems we've become such a mobile society. My parents have lived in the same home since 1955. Other than his few years away during the War, my grandpa lived in or near the same town his entire life. And his ancestors had already been in that area for a few generations when he came along! And yet, none of his four children or twelve grandchildren live there now. People move away, switch jobs, change houses.
I resist change in many ways. I've lived in the same old farmhouse for over twenty-one years now, and have no intention of going elsewhere anytime soon, if ever. Once in a while, though, it's time to perch on the edge of the nest and test one's newly-sprouted wings.
I resist change in many ways. I've lived in the same old farmhouse for over twenty-one years now, and have no intention of going elsewhere anytime soon, if ever. Once in a while, though, it's time to perch on the edge of the nest and test one's newly-sprouted wings.
January 12, 2014
To Iron or Not to Iron?
After ten Saturdays in a row of posting to this blog, I skipped last weekend, and am now a day late, but it's for a good cause. I had an Adventure! Early on New Years morning (before the butt-crack of dawn, as my daughter would say), I flew from Missouri to southern California. Uncle D and Aunt T picked me up from the airport and took me out for breakfast at Polly's Café, where we had the first of a week's worth of scrumptious meals. (We won't discuss the bathroom scale reading when I got home!) The next morning, we hit the road, making our way just north of Seattle to visit Uncle L and Aunt M. It was a whirlwind trip, but SO much fun! In addition to the precious family stories they all shared, it also provided a chance to get to know five of my six cousins who grew up across the country from me, which was a gift in itself.
Somehow in the course of our conversations, the subject turned to clothing and ironing. ("How the heck did THAT come up?" I hear you wondering)! Can't say as I recall, exactly, but it was interesting to get the different perspectives.
My mother--an excellent seamstress--ironed just about everything when I was a kid. She even took in ironing, sewing and alterations for neighbors to make extra money. We had a long clothesline strung between poles outdoors, and the smell of fresh linens dried outside is still one of my favorite scents. When the laundry was brought in, Mother would plug in the electric iron to preheat while she sprinkled the cotton fabrics with water from a Pepsi bottle that had a stopper in the top and a bunch of tiny holes in the domed metal cap. She'd then roll up the damp items and stash them in a heavy plastic garment bag to keep them moist during the process, then begin the ironing.
She ironed sheets and pillowcases, tea towels for the kitchen, our clothes . . . even Daddy's undershirts. The outer clothing often received a spritz of spray starch, too, so everything looked nice and crisp. I can't begin to guess the number of hours Mother spent over the years in ironing. But it seems to me that with the advent of polyester, so-called permanent press fabrics, and the increase of women in the workplace, ironing might be moving toward a Lost Art.
My sister got the ironing gene. She's good at it, and will sometimes pass the time during this chore to visit with me via speakerphone. I once worked with a man whose classic long-sleeved business shirts were taken to the cleaners for washing and pressing each week, even though his wife was retired from her own career. She was an excellent cook and housekeeper, but maybe she drew the line at ironing. Cousin J admitted that her husband C irons all his own clothes, a habit he started in Junior High. She, on the other hand, will bring her chosen outfit for the day into the bathroom on a hanger while the hot shower is running to help steam out the wrinkles as she gets ready for work. Aunt M often wears a cardigan over her blouse, and said she gets dressed, holds the hem of the blouse out taut, then runs the iron over only the middle part that will show. Ingenious!
Me? Well, I try to get to the dryer as quickly as possible after I hear the buzzer to put things on hangers before too many wrinkles have set in, but that's usually the extent of it. While I really admire the appearance of nicely pressed clothing--and am capable of the job--it just isn't high on my list of priorities. When I see other people who look neat as a pin I sometimes get a little twinge of guilt about my lack of dedication, or maybe downright laziness. But is it enough to make me mend my ways?
Hmmm. Not yet. Maybe someday. So, which type are you? Got any tricks for tidiness you'd like to share?
Somehow in the course of our conversations, the subject turned to clothing and ironing. ("How the heck did THAT come up?" I hear you wondering)! Can't say as I recall, exactly, but it was interesting to get the different perspectives.
My mother--an excellent seamstress--ironed just about everything when I was a kid. She even took in ironing, sewing and alterations for neighbors to make extra money. We had a long clothesline strung between poles outdoors, and the smell of fresh linens dried outside is still one of my favorite scents. When the laundry was brought in, Mother would plug in the electric iron to preheat while she sprinkled the cotton fabrics with water from a Pepsi bottle that had a stopper in the top and a bunch of tiny holes in the domed metal cap. She'd then roll up the damp items and stash them in a heavy plastic garment bag to keep them moist during the process, then begin the ironing.
She ironed sheets and pillowcases, tea towels for the kitchen, our clothes . . . even Daddy's undershirts. The outer clothing often received a spritz of spray starch, too, so everything looked nice and crisp. I can't begin to guess the number of hours Mother spent over the years in ironing. But it seems to me that with the advent of polyester, so-called permanent press fabrics, and the increase of women in the workplace, ironing might be moving toward a Lost Art.
My sister got the ironing gene. She's good at it, and will sometimes pass the time during this chore to visit with me via speakerphone. I once worked with a man whose classic long-sleeved business shirts were taken to the cleaners for washing and pressing each week, even though his wife was retired from her own career. She was an excellent cook and housekeeper, but maybe she drew the line at ironing. Cousin J admitted that her husband C irons all his own clothes, a habit he started in Junior High. She, on the other hand, will bring her chosen outfit for the day into the bathroom on a hanger while the hot shower is running to help steam out the wrinkles as she gets ready for work. Aunt M often wears a cardigan over her blouse, and said she gets dressed, holds the hem of the blouse out taut, then runs the iron over only the middle part that will show. Ingenious!
Me? Well, I try to get to the dryer as quickly as possible after I hear the buzzer to put things on hangers before too many wrinkles have set in, but that's usually the extent of it. While I really admire the appearance of nicely pressed clothing--and am capable of the job--it just isn't high on my list of priorities. When I see other people who look neat as a pin I sometimes get a little twinge of guilt about my lack of dedication, or maybe downright laziness. But is it enough to make me mend my ways?
Hmmm. Not yet. Maybe someday. So, which type are you? Got any tricks for tidiness you'd like to share?
December 28, 2013
Fun With Words
With the weekend break between Christmas and New Years here in middle American farm country, it's a sunny 54 degrees this afternoon. Tomorrow, though, there's a high of only 36 predicted, and a low of 9! It reminds me of one of my Grandpa Charlie's favorite sayings: "Don't like the weather in Missouri? Stick around a day or two; it'll change." Another one I heard on an old black and white episode of the Andy Griffith show (but which originated elsewhere, I just don't know where) makes me laugh: "Everybody complains about the weather but nobody does anything about it!"
Call them funny sayings, clichés, or whatever you like, certain words strung together can make us chuckle, smile or even laugh out loud. Here are a few of my favorites:
"Our camping trailer was so small, you couldn't cuss a cat in it without gettin' hair in your teeth." (credit to my father-in-law for that one!)
"Slicker than cat doodle on a linoleum floor."
"Drunker than Cooter Brown"
and from my mother:
"If God made man out of dust, you girls have a whole army under this bed!"
and
"Ok, girls, let's get in here and work like we're fighting snakes."
or "let's work as though we just heard company's coming in 30 minutes."
The list could go on and on. Someone told me recently that I should write a book on all the funny sayings I've heard over the years; maybe I will someday. It would be fun to visit with people in different parts of the country to collect those, wouldn't it?
What about you? It's come to my attention that you have to join this site in order to leave a comment. If you'd like to send feedback but don't choose to join here, send me an email: jcrainbook@gmail.com Thanks!
Call them funny sayings, clichés, or whatever you like, certain words strung together can make us chuckle, smile or even laugh out loud. Here are a few of my favorites:
"Our camping trailer was so small, you couldn't cuss a cat in it without gettin' hair in your teeth." (credit to my father-in-law for that one!)
"Slicker than cat doodle on a linoleum floor."
"Drunker than Cooter Brown"
and from my mother:
"If God made man out of dust, you girls have a whole army under this bed!"
and
"Ok, girls, let's get in here and work like we're fighting snakes."
or "let's work as though we just heard company's coming in 30 minutes."
The list could go on and on. Someone told me recently that I should write a book on all the funny sayings I've heard over the years; maybe I will someday. It would be fun to visit with people in different parts of the country to collect those, wouldn't it?
What about you? It's come to my attention that you have to join this site in order to leave a comment. If you'd like to send feedback but don't choose to join here, send me an email: jcrainbook@gmail.com Thanks!
December 21, 2013
Recipe for a Happy Dog
Three years ago my grandson and I drove to the animal shelter in a nearby town. I had studied the dogs available for adoption on their website and upon arrival, requested the privilege of meeting Albert. Heidi brought him out to the lobby on a leash. Albert was (and still is) a very handsome boy. At that time he was around 18 months old, with a salt & pepper coat of short hair, medium height, about 45 pounds, but very timid. He stayed tucked up against Heidi's leg, trembling, making no eye contact. The poor guy was terrified!
"Oh, Albert," Heidi crooned, probably fearing that if he didn't show at least a little positive response, I might not want him. And common sense would probably warn most folks off from a challenge like this. But something in his demeanor caught at my heartstrings, and we decided to give Albert a try. The Shelter took $50 in exchange for a very healthy dog who'd already been 'fixed', had his shots, and was blessedly housetrained!
The adjustment wasn't foolproof. Albert is still afraid of getting into a vehicle, and tends to drool and get carsick from the fear. He doesn't always come when he's called, especially if he's digging intently at a mole tunnel. On the other hand, he has rid my lawn of several of those varmints, is perfectly behaved with friends and family (once he figures out they're not going to hurt him), and is a super companion. It may just be that Albert is the best dog I've ever had.
"What kind of dog is that?" people ask me when they see him.
"He's a DG dog" I reply.
(this provokes a puzzled look)
"Darn Good" I explain.
So in the spirit of Christmas and the tradition of giving gifts to our family and closest friends, I'm going to bake a different type of cookie this afternoon. Here's a recipe for Dog Biscuits that are sure to make your Canine Companion a Happy Dog!
5 Tablespoons Butter
3/4 cup broth (chicken, beef, turkey, or vegetable)
1/2 cup dry milk powder
1 egg
dash salt
3 cups whole wheat flour
Pour hot broth over chopped butter in a large mixing bowl. Stir to melt butter.
Add remaining ingredients, mix and knead with dough hook attachment of mixer or by hand. Dough will be very stiff.
Roll out dough about 1/2" thick and cut into squares or use a cookie cutter for shapes.
Place on baking sheets, bake at 325 degrees for 50 minutes. Cool 5 minutes before removing from pans. Cool completely and store in tins or airtight plastic containers.
Merry Christmas, Albert!
"Oh, Albert," Heidi crooned, probably fearing that if he didn't show at least a little positive response, I might not want him. And common sense would probably warn most folks off from a challenge like this. But something in his demeanor caught at my heartstrings, and we decided to give Albert a try. The Shelter took $50 in exchange for a very healthy dog who'd already been 'fixed', had his shots, and was blessedly housetrained!
The adjustment wasn't foolproof. Albert is still afraid of getting into a vehicle, and tends to drool and get carsick from the fear. He doesn't always come when he's called, especially if he's digging intently at a mole tunnel. On the other hand, he has rid my lawn of several of those varmints, is perfectly behaved with friends and family (once he figures out they're not going to hurt him), and is a super companion. It may just be that Albert is the best dog I've ever had.
"What kind of dog is that?" people ask me when they see him.
"He's a DG dog" I reply.
(this provokes a puzzled look)
"Darn Good" I explain.
So in the spirit of Christmas and the tradition of giving gifts to our family and closest friends, I'm going to bake a different type of cookie this afternoon. Here's a recipe for Dog Biscuits that are sure to make your Canine Companion a Happy Dog!
5 Tablespoons Butter
3/4 cup broth (chicken, beef, turkey, or vegetable)
1/2 cup dry milk powder
1 egg
dash salt
3 cups whole wheat flour
Pour hot broth over chopped butter in a large mixing bowl. Stir to melt butter.
Add remaining ingredients, mix and knead with dough hook attachment of mixer or by hand. Dough will be very stiff.
Roll out dough about 1/2" thick and cut into squares or use a cookie cutter for shapes.
Place on baking sheets, bake at 325 degrees for 50 minutes. Cool 5 minutes before removing from pans. Cool completely and store in tins or airtight plastic containers.
Merry Christmas, Albert!
December 15, 2013
O Tannenbaum!
Everyone's been busy with their holiday preparations and celebrations. Christmas is my favorite holiday, without doubt. The carols and cards and candles, the wrapping paper and (more recently) gift bags, garlands and bows and ribbons and wreaths and the spirit of giving, the Cookies! (see last week's post), and let's not forget the Reason for the Season! But through all the years, almost every Christmas season, one of my favorite activities is decorating the Christmas Tree.
My siblings likely recall a few more fresh trees than I do, from the Boy Scouts' sale corral on the parking lot at our church when we were young. By the time I'd turned 10 our parents had an artificial tree, which meant no one had to crawl underneath the sappy, pokey branches to put water in the bowl of the stand, and Mother didn't have to battle so many pine needles in the living room rug. Even better, we could usually sweet-talk Daddy into bringing in the box that held the tree the evening of Thanksgiving, so that the holiday decorating could begin. Most of the year this box was balanced across boards in the open-ceiling area of the garage, so the extraction of it involved at least one ladder, some tricky balancing, and no small amount of dust which inevitably tried to halo Daddy's head for his trouble, but choked his nostrils and dang-near blinded him instead. The air was blue from it afterward. . . or maybe from the comments it elicited in the process.
Once the box had been wiped off and brought into the house, though, the fun began. Sorting and assembling the branches, shaping them to look just so, disentangling the lights and testing bulbs on the strands that weren't working, and then the Main Event: the ornaments. These days there's a tendency toward "theme" trees, where all the decorations are coordinated to appear matching or complementary and quite lovely. Not me; I'm a sentimental traditionalist all the way. Almost no ornament is too shabby from age or humble in its design to pass muster for my tree.
I've often said that for only raising one child, we got a heck of a return on our investment: four grandchildren! Yesterday I really hit the jackpot when they helped to move things around to clear out a corner of my living room and put up the nine-foot tree that brushes the ceiling of this old farmhouse. As we opened the boxes and took out particular ornaments they heard the provenance for so many of them: "This one we bought as a souvenir on our first family trip to Colorado to visit Papa's folks; this one was sent to your mama when she was just a baby; that stocking was mine when I was your age; these were made by your Great-Grandma; those came from the set my parents bought in 1955!" and so on. And yes, there were a few tears when I located the sack that contained a few more, including the last one that Larry had picked out himself, the memory of that occasion clear as a bell. The children and I agreed that Papa would be pleased to see us getting the tree up to enjoy and hanging that ornament while thinking of him.
And so, new memories are formed. My hope is that some day down the line, these precious ones will be decorating their own trees with the families they raise, and will cradle a delicate striped glass bulb or a hand-sewn stuffed felt dove in their hand and maybe relate something about it to their own little ones. If not, at least to see the old familiar bits mixed in with their own newer collections, and feel the family love that they symbolize, along with God's love for us all. (see John 3:16)
Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas!
My siblings likely recall a few more fresh trees than I do, from the Boy Scouts' sale corral on the parking lot at our church when we were young. By the time I'd turned 10 our parents had an artificial tree, which meant no one had to crawl underneath the sappy, pokey branches to put water in the bowl of the stand, and Mother didn't have to battle so many pine needles in the living room rug. Even better, we could usually sweet-talk Daddy into bringing in the box that held the tree the evening of Thanksgiving, so that the holiday decorating could begin. Most of the year this box was balanced across boards in the open-ceiling area of the garage, so the extraction of it involved at least one ladder, some tricky balancing, and no small amount of dust which inevitably tried to halo Daddy's head for his trouble, but choked his nostrils and dang-near blinded him instead. The air was blue from it afterward. . . or maybe from the comments it elicited in the process.
Once the box had been wiped off and brought into the house, though, the fun began. Sorting and assembling the branches, shaping them to look just so, disentangling the lights and testing bulbs on the strands that weren't working, and then the Main Event: the ornaments. These days there's a tendency toward "theme" trees, where all the decorations are coordinated to appear matching or complementary and quite lovely. Not me; I'm a sentimental traditionalist all the way. Almost no ornament is too shabby from age or humble in its design to pass muster for my tree.
I've often said that for only raising one child, we got a heck of a return on our investment: four grandchildren! Yesterday I really hit the jackpot when they helped to move things around to clear out a corner of my living room and put up the nine-foot tree that brushes the ceiling of this old farmhouse. As we opened the boxes and took out particular ornaments they heard the provenance for so many of them: "This one we bought as a souvenir on our first family trip to Colorado to visit Papa's folks; this one was sent to your mama when she was just a baby; that stocking was mine when I was your age; these were made by your Great-Grandma; those came from the set my parents bought in 1955!" and so on. And yes, there were a few tears when I located the sack that contained a few more, including the last one that Larry had picked out himself, the memory of that occasion clear as a bell. The children and I agreed that Papa would be pleased to see us getting the tree up to enjoy and hanging that ornament while thinking of him.
And so, new memories are formed. My hope is that some day down the line, these precious ones will be decorating their own trees with the families they raise, and will cradle a delicate striped glass bulb or a hand-sewn stuffed felt dove in their hand and maybe relate something about it to their own little ones. If not, at least to see the old familiar bits mixed in with their own newer collections, and feel the family love that they symbolize, along with God's love for us all. (see John 3:16)
Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas!
December 7, 2013
COOKIES!
'Tis the season . . . decorated trees, tiny lights on houses and landscaping, bell ringers with red metal kettles outside the stores, presents and bows and wrapping paper and--most important of all--COOKIES! OK, so maybe not Most Important, but they run a close second, right?
Today two very nice friends were co-hostesses for a Cookie Exchange, to which they kindly invited me, along with nine other ladies of their acquaintance. If you've never been to a Cookie Exchange, the idea is that each person chooses a favorite homemade cookie (or candy), submits the recipe to the hostess, and commits to making a dozen cookies for each of the attendees, plus an extra dozen on a plate for sampling at the party. In exchange for making a few batches of my own recipe, I received a dozen each of 11 other kinds of scrumptious cookies to bring home, along with delicious refreshments and a copy of all of the recipes printed up and distributed by one hostess, PLUS prizes for the super-fun games supplied by the other hostess. I also saw some friends I'd not seen in a while and made a few new ones. It was a blast!
Two other ladies I know once had a different experience with this type of event. (They shall remain nameless to Protect the Innocent).
Here's how it went:
Lady One was invited to a Cookie Exchange.
Lady One doesn't really care to bake and didn't have time to do so, anyway.
But she has a neighbor who bakes (quite well, I might add), and asked said Neighbor to pinch-hit for her on the project.
"What cookie do you want me to bake?" asked Neighbor.
"Snowballs" said Lady One. "I just love those Snowball cookies you bake every year!"
So Neighbor baked the Snowballs and Lady One took them to the Cookie Exchange, where they were such a great hit, everyone requested she bring those again the next year. The process was repeated when the calendar rolled around.
Then comes the third year, when, once again, Lady One is invited to the Cookie Exchange. She opens the invitation and her husband sees it.
"NO" he says. "Not this year."
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Why do you keep taking 156 cookies that you love and trading them for other cookies, half of which you don't even like?" he counters.
He had a point! She stayed home, and she and her Neighbor shared a wonderful plate of Snowballs together.
So what's the moral of the story? (Does there always have to be a moral??) Well, I guess it's just this: Be Honest. If you don't like to bake, it's ok to say so. I happen to know Lady One is extremely good at other things like organizing and decorating and assembling things that come in boxes with insufficient instructions. She's one of the most helpful people ever. So if baking's not her forte, hey! that's quite alright.
On the other hand, having cookies in the house that you don't like can be good, too. At least you won't be tempted to eat them all before the holiday guests arrive!
Now it's your turn. What's your favorite holiday treat?
Today two very nice friends were co-hostesses for a Cookie Exchange, to which they kindly invited me, along with nine other ladies of their acquaintance. If you've never been to a Cookie Exchange, the idea is that each person chooses a favorite homemade cookie (or candy), submits the recipe to the hostess, and commits to making a dozen cookies for each of the attendees, plus an extra dozen on a plate for sampling at the party. In exchange for making a few batches of my own recipe, I received a dozen each of 11 other kinds of scrumptious cookies to bring home, along with delicious refreshments and a copy of all of the recipes printed up and distributed by one hostess, PLUS prizes for the super-fun games supplied by the other hostess. I also saw some friends I'd not seen in a while and made a few new ones. It was a blast!
Two other ladies I know once had a different experience with this type of event. (They shall remain nameless to Protect the Innocent).
Here's how it went:
Lady One was invited to a Cookie Exchange.
Lady One doesn't really care to bake and didn't have time to do so, anyway.
But she has a neighbor who bakes (quite well, I might add), and asked said Neighbor to pinch-hit for her on the project.
"What cookie do you want me to bake?" asked Neighbor.
"Snowballs" said Lady One. "I just love those Snowball cookies you bake every year!"
So Neighbor baked the Snowballs and Lady One took them to the Cookie Exchange, where they were such a great hit, everyone requested she bring those again the next year. The process was repeated when the calendar rolled around.
Then comes the third year, when, once again, Lady One is invited to the Cookie Exchange. She opens the invitation and her husband sees it.
"NO" he says. "Not this year."
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Why do you keep taking 156 cookies that you love and trading them for other cookies, half of which you don't even like?" he counters.
He had a point! She stayed home, and she and her Neighbor shared a wonderful plate of Snowballs together.
So what's the moral of the story? (Does there always have to be a moral??) Well, I guess it's just this: Be Honest. If you don't like to bake, it's ok to say so. I happen to know Lady One is extremely good at other things like organizing and decorating and assembling things that come in boxes with insufficient instructions. She's one of the most helpful people ever. So if baking's not her forte, hey! that's quite alright.
On the other hand, having cookies in the house that you don't like can be good, too. At least you won't be tempted to eat them all before the holiday guests arrive!
Now it's your turn. What's your favorite holiday treat?
November 30, 2013
How Many Goodbyes?
How many times do we say "Goodbye" . . . in a day, in a year, in a lifetime? How many times do we say that word, not knowing it will be the last time we say it to a specific person? And how do we cope with the finality of those losses?
This morning I attended the funeral of a very dear lady, my Aunt Evelyn. To her children, grandchildren, siblings--all the family--I offer my sincere sympathies. We were fortunate to know her, have many happy memories, we believe she's just fine now, but still, it hurts. And unfortunately, that's something we just have to work through.
My daughter and her husband don't say "goodbye" when they speak to each other on the telephone. They'll say "Love you" when the conversation's over, then just hang up. She told me one time, "We just don't say Goodbye." This seems to me to be a sweet tradition.
Sooner or later, we all lose someone we care about. And whether we verbalized the farewell or not, isn't what came before that moment the part that truly matters? The words, deeds and emotions we shared during the time we were allowed? We grieve for the loss of their company, for what might have been, and this is natural. Sometimes we think, "Oh, if I could just have one more visit, one more hour, one more day . . .", but really, would it ever be enough? Somehow, I think not.
I believe in Eternity. I also believe our lives here on Earth are important, for learning, for giving, for loving, and probably many other things. Do what you can, when you can, and try to live with few regrets. And when the day arrives that my family and friends are saying "Goodbye" to me, I hope they'll be able to do so knowing how very much our relationships meant.
Feel free to use the comment box below. Tell us all what you think about saying Goodbye, or just leave a note "In memory of . . . " and name someone you're missing now. In honor of my Aunt Evelyn, I'll mourn with you, and we'll get through.
This morning I attended the funeral of a very dear lady, my Aunt Evelyn. To her children, grandchildren, siblings--all the family--I offer my sincere sympathies. We were fortunate to know her, have many happy memories, we believe she's just fine now, but still, it hurts. And unfortunately, that's something we just have to work through.
My daughter and her husband don't say "goodbye" when they speak to each other on the telephone. They'll say "Love you" when the conversation's over, then just hang up. She told me one time, "We just don't say Goodbye." This seems to me to be a sweet tradition.
Sooner or later, we all lose someone we care about. And whether we verbalized the farewell or not, isn't what came before that moment the part that truly matters? The words, deeds and emotions we shared during the time we were allowed? We grieve for the loss of their company, for what might have been, and this is natural. Sometimes we think, "Oh, if I could just have one more visit, one more hour, one more day . . .", but really, would it ever be enough? Somehow, I think not.
I believe in Eternity. I also believe our lives here on Earth are important, for learning, for giving, for loving, and probably many other things. Do what you can, when you can, and try to live with few regrets. And when the day arrives that my family and friends are saying "Goodbye" to me, I hope they'll be able to do so knowing how very much our relationships meant.
Feel free to use the comment box below. Tell us all what you think about saying Goodbye, or just leave a note "In memory of . . . " and name someone you're missing now. In honor of my Aunt Evelyn, I'll mourn with you, and we'll get through.
November 23, 2013
Thankful
Last month I took my first "real" vacation ever; no family or friends to stay with, responsible for no one but myself (my good friend Peggy came along, and she is responsible enough for both of us, if needed!), no schedule except our travel to and from our destination, which was Plymouth, Massachusetts. The weather was perfect, the flights were uneventful, the seafood delicious and the history was fascinating.
On our way to supper the first evening we happened to walk by Plymouth Rock, which was one of the landmarks we had on our short list of "gotta see" items. As the week went on and we toured First Parish Church, the Pilgrim's Museum, the Mayflower Society Museum, Burial Hill, Plimoth Plantation, the Jenney Grist Mill and the Mayflower II, the significance and symbolism of that rock truly came to life for us. A chart showed us the families who arrived on the Mayflower in 1620 were comprised of 102 people. We learned that only 51 of them lived through their first winter on American soil. And although Jamestown, Virginia was founded in 1607, when most Americans think of Pilgrims and the First Thanksgiving, we think of Plymouth.
Already the townsfolk and tour guides there are talking about the 400 year anniversary of the settlement coming up seven years from now. They take pride in the rich history of the area, as they should. Several organizations take an active roll in preserving, restoring, and promoting education in regard to their many historical treasures. Reading the textbook accounts is one thing; walking the path next to the fresh water of the town brook that attracted the settlers in the first place is another. If ever you have a chance to visit Plymouth, I encourage you to do so. See the monuments. Talk to the locals (they're very friendly and helpful)! Tour everything you can. It's an important part of our history.
This week we celebrate Thanksgiving. In the midst of the local and national and worldwide news of gloom and doom, let me suggest we all turn off the TVs. Set aside the newspapers and mute the radios. Dust off your attitude of gratitude. Let's look around us and find all the things--big and little--for which we can be thankful. The colors in a sunset. A warm place to live if you have one. Family, friends, loyal pets. Books to read and the ability to read them. And a wonderful country to call home.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
On our way to supper the first evening we happened to walk by Plymouth Rock, which was one of the landmarks we had on our short list of "gotta see" items. As the week went on and we toured First Parish Church, the Pilgrim's Museum, the Mayflower Society Museum, Burial Hill, Plimoth Plantation, the Jenney Grist Mill and the Mayflower II, the significance and symbolism of that rock truly came to life for us. A chart showed us the families who arrived on the Mayflower in 1620 were comprised of 102 people. We learned that only 51 of them lived through their first winter on American soil. And although Jamestown, Virginia was founded in 1607, when most Americans think of Pilgrims and the First Thanksgiving, we think of Plymouth.
Already the townsfolk and tour guides there are talking about the 400 year anniversary of the settlement coming up seven years from now. They take pride in the rich history of the area, as they should. Several organizations take an active roll in preserving, restoring, and promoting education in regard to their many historical treasures. Reading the textbook accounts is one thing; walking the path next to the fresh water of the town brook that attracted the settlers in the first place is another. If ever you have a chance to visit Plymouth, I encourage you to do so. See the monuments. Talk to the locals (they're very friendly and helpful)! Tour everything you can. It's an important part of our history.
This week we celebrate Thanksgiving. In the midst of the local and national and worldwide news of gloom and doom, let me suggest we all turn off the TVs. Set aside the newspapers and mute the radios. Dust off your attitude of gratitude. Let's look around us and find all the things--big and little--for which we can be thankful. The colors in a sunset. A warm place to live if you have one. Family, friends, loyal pets. Books to read and the ability to read them. And a wonderful country to call home.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
November 16, 2013
In Honor of Veterans
This afternoon I attended the monthly meeting of the Henry County Chapter, NSDAR (National Society, Daughters of the American Revolution). Genealogy has always been a captivating subject to me, and this organization encourages that pursuit. They also support several schools, provide annual scholarships and awards for good citizenship, respect our nation's flag, and honor our veterans.
This past Monday was Veteran's Day, so many of us have been more cognizant lately of what these folks have done for us all, and made more effort than usual to voice our appreciation. A special ceremony honoring Harry "Punk" Barber, one of our local veterans of World War II, was held during the monthly Chamber of Commerce luncheon this Wednesday. Mr. Barber was in the Army Air Corp, and flew 13 missions as a gunner before the B-24 he was in was shot down over Holland. He endured 11 months as a prisoner of war before returning home.
My grandpa was a civilian instructor at Camp Crowder during that war, and his six brothers all served (four of them during the war, and the younger two, later). Daddy was in the Army in the early 1950s and went to Korea. And the reason my sister, aunt, mother and I can all be in the DAR? Our ancestors served this nation during the fight for independence. I'm proud of their service, but mostly I am grateful. Without their efforts--their commitment--we might not be where we are today. Just thinking about this makes me feel very privileged.
So the thought I'd like to leave you with this week? Forget the calendar. Forget waiting for any special day to roll around. If you enjoy the freedom of this country, Thank a Vet!
How about you? Who are your favorite veterans?
This past Monday was Veteran's Day, so many of us have been more cognizant lately of what these folks have done for us all, and made more effort than usual to voice our appreciation. A special ceremony honoring Harry "Punk" Barber, one of our local veterans of World War II, was held during the monthly Chamber of Commerce luncheon this Wednesday. Mr. Barber was in the Army Air Corp, and flew 13 missions as a gunner before the B-24 he was in was shot down over Holland. He endured 11 months as a prisoner of war before returning home.
My grandpa was a civilian instructor at Camp Crowder during that war, and his six brothers all served (four of them during the war, and the younger two, later). Daddy was in the Army in the early 1950s and went to Korea. And the reason my sister, aunt, mother and I can all be in the DAR? Our ancestors served this nation during the fight for independence. I'm proud of their service, but mostly I am grateful. Without their efforts--their commitment--we might not be where we are today. Just thinking about this makes me feel very privileged.
So the thought I'd like to leave you with this week? Forget the calendar. Forget waiting for any special day to roll around. If you enjoy the freedom of this country, Thank a Vet!
How about you? Who are your favorite veterans?
November 9, 2013
Family Time
Our maternal grandparents lived in a tall old Victorian-style house in a small Midwestern town. The ceilings downstairs were at least 10' high, maybe more. And on the front wall of their living room was a real attention-getter to us little kids . . . a cuckoo clock. We'd sit, watching and waiting for the half-hour (one "cuckoo", with a very quick glimpse of the little bird before he retreated back into his hiding spot and the wooden door would snap shut) or the hour (especially noontime, when the little guy would really sing!). It seemed like our grandparents enjoyed watching us as much as we liked watching for that little bird.
But Grandpa Charlie & Grandma Helen are both gone now. The contents were dispersed and the house was finally sold. We're hoping the new owners will fix it up to at least a semblance of its former glory, but it's going to take a lot of work, and no small amount of cash.
My "twin cousin" Jeffrey (I always liked to call him my twin because we were born only one day apart), ended up with the old cuckoo clock. Ok, so maybe it's not terribly antique. My mother and uncle don't recall it being there until after they left home in the mid-1950s. But I cannot remember a time when it wasn't a part of those family visits. Jeffrey was happy to have the clock and I was happy to see it there in a place of honor when I went to visit him, a piece of our shared history. The clock didn't work any more, he told me, but it was treasured, just the same.
Almost a year ago, at the age of 51, Jeffrey joined our grandparents. I can only imagine the joy of that reunion. Down here, we've done a lot of grieving. It's a process with many stages, and none of them any fun. This Autumn I made the decision to kick myself into gear and do something good. You see, the box with the cuckoo clock had been given to me after Jeffrey's funeral, with my name scrawled across the top with a black marker, in Jeffrey's handwriting. After driving home, I'd carefully placed the box in a cushioned chair and kept it safely covered all those months. Finally around the time of our birthdays, I got up the nerve to open the box. No note, no letter, no last words of comfort or wisdom were inside. But the message was clear. "Family" that clock says to me. "Family" and "love".
In a town about 35 miles away, I located a watch repair shop. The owner--a man in his 80s--got the clock back into working order. My son-in-law sunk a sixteen penny nail into a wall stud behind the paneling and the lath & plaster in the front wall of the living room of my old farmhouse. The ceilings here are only 9' high, but sufficient to accommodate the winding chains with their cast iron pine-cone weights at the ends. That cuckoo is back in business, announcing the half-hours and the hours, just as he did for all those years.
Next Friday my grandchildren are coming to spend the night. I can't wait to see their faces when he makes his appearance.
But Grandpa Charlie & Grandma Helen are both gone now. The contents were dispersed and the house was finally sold. We're hoping the new owners will fix it up to at least a semblance of its former glory, but it's going to take a lot of work, and no small amount of cash.
My "twin cousin" Jeffrey (I always liked to call him my twin because we were born only one day apart), ended up with the old cuckoo clock. Ok, so maybe it's not terribly antique. My mother and uncle don't recall it being there until after they left home in the mid-1950s. But I cannot remember a time when it wasn't a part of those family visits. Jeffrey was happy to have the clock and I was happy to see it there in a place of honor when I went to visit him, a piece of our shared history. The clock didn't work any more, he told me, but it was treasured, just the same.
Almost a year ago, at the age of 51, Jeffrey joined our grandparents. I can only imagine the joy of that reunion. Down here, we've done a lot of grieving. It's a process with many stages, and none of them any fun. This Autumn I made the decision to kick myself into gear and do something good. You see, the box with the cuckoo clock had been given to me after Jeffrey's funeral, with my name scrawled across the top with a black marker, in Jeffrey's handwriting. After driving home, I'd carefully placed the box in a cushioned chair and kept it safely covered all those months. Finally around the time of our birthdays, I got up the nerve to open the box. No note, no letter, no last words of comfort or wisdom were inside. But the message was clear. "Family" that clock says to me. "Family" and "love".
In a town about 35 miles away, I located a watch repair shop. The owner--a man in his 80s--got the clock back into working order. My son-in-law sunk a sixteen penny nail into a wall stud behind the paneling and the lath & plaster in the front wall of the living room of my old farmhouse. The ceilings here are only 9' high, but sufficient to accommodate the winding chains with their cast iron pine-cone weights at the ends. That cuckoo is back in business, announcing the half-hours and the hours, just as he did for all those years.
Next Friday my grandchildren are coming to spend the night. I can't wait to see their faces when he makes his appearance.
