My Mother's Pancakes

 This morning I decided to fix my husband pancakes for breakfast. I got out the griddle and put some oil on it. My husband came out to the kitchen and said, "Oh pancakes. My favorite." I smiled, but inside I was thinking about my mom and Fran was wondering why I had put some oil on the griddle. You see when I was a little girl we lived on a farm. My mother cooked with what she had.

We were poor as I have often said, but we always had enough food and really good food. My mom used her cast iron skillets for fried chicken and pancakes. It actually made no difference what she was cooking she used those heavy black pans.

 I can remember one day my mother lit into my dad. He had taken her biggest cast iron skillet and took it to the machine shed and ground all the black off of it. He was so proud when he came in the kitchen and held his head down when he left it. You just don't grind off the black from one of those magical frying pans. My mom was explicit about explaining that to my dad.

Once again I got sidetracked while telling a story about my childhood. Her pancakes were made from Gold Medal flour which she purchased in fifty pound bags because of her baking, fresh eggs from her own chickens, milk from our cows and maple syrup often which she made herself. She put melted lard in the batter and put lard in the skillet until it was hot enough to suit her. Hot meant that when she dropped a tiny drop of pancake batter into the skillet and it danced as she called it it was hot enough.

The pancakes were the size of a plate and crispy. Oh they were so good. We often put our own cream and homemade applesauce on them too. Those memories have just been filling my mind this Christmas season.

Anyway, back to my pancakes this morning. They weren't crispy; they were soft restaurant pancakes, but doable. Mother's had ridges that were dark and the edges that were dark and oh so crunchy.

Well a few years ago we found out that cream and lard and eggs weren't good for you. Cast iron skillets were too heavy for me to lift and pancake mix was easier and faster than making them from scratch. A woman once said, (me) that no fat no flavor. That's true because Fran bought me some low fat ice cream  milk yuk. He also was educated on the taste vs. ingredients. 

I'm sure you all are remembering those that you used to share the holidays with. Yes, it puts a lump in your throat, tears in your eyes, but also a smile on your face. Those memories are the best of gifts that are absolutely free. Just close your eyes and there they are. Happy holidays and a very Merry Christmas.

Mending and Memories

 Yesterday my husband and I went to a yearly indoor yard sale at the Methodist Church. It is always a fun place to go not only for the things on sale, but the folks you meet there; both old friends and acquaintances and visiting with friendly folks that you've never met before.

I picked up some pretty tops for fifty cents a piece and was pretty proud of my purchase. As we were going out the door there was a quilt displayed over a trunk. It was twenty dollars. I picked it up and it was so very soft. I looked it over and noticed that it was machine sewn but had some hand stitching also. I also noticed that it had no batting like I used to use. I decided that that quilt needed a new home and sent Fran to pay for it. An elderly lady came up to me and said, "You really knew what you were buying didn't you? That's an antique you know." I smiled and said, "I think I will cuddle up to it when I get home. I'm old too." We both chuckled and felt a camaraderie even though we didn't know each other.

When we got it home Fran and I noticed that it needed to be washed and also notice a frayed square that needed to be repaired before it was washed. Today I was carrying it into my bed and Fran said, "I thought you were going to wash it before you used it." I told him I needed to inspect it to see if the one square was the only one that needed mended. We saw two others so I got out my needle and thread and proceeded to repair and inspect. As I was sewing Fran watched me very carefully. We visited about the news and family, especially his mother and her beautiful quilts she made. and her niece that does beautiful quilting. But I was thinking of my mother's quilt that was hanging in our bedroom that she hand stitched while she was carrying me in 1944. 

We remarked on the many repairs that the quilt needed. I told him that I thought the lady that made this quilt so many years ago had not had much money or that she cherished the quilt because I could tell where she had replaced a pattern with hand stitching over a place that had been completely worn through with newer material. Or as I later happened to think, it could have been handed down to a relative.

 I kept saying this quilt has been washed so many times the material feels softer than the very finest material. All this time I was thinking about my parents. My dad would read to my mother while she was mending. I never remember interrupting; it wasn't my place. But I do remember my mother darning socks as I found that I was in fact using darning stitches to repair some places that only new material would strengthen it. I didn't want to do that. This quilt was old and just needed a boost so that I could put it on my bed. I knew that I didn't need it for warmth, but the smile it will bring to my face every time I look at it. Oh the stories that quilt was hiding.

A Day Of "Firsts"

I am putting this post in my Lu's Place blog because someday I hope my grandchildren or even my great grandchildren will read it. I am generally a very happy person. I write make believe stories for children and adults to read several times a week. Hopefully the fun photos and little stories make people smile and lift their spirits in these trying times.
Today I am not writing to make folks smile. I am writing because I am angry. I am so angry I can hardly think of anything else. My seventeen year old grandson has Covid19. He is in basic training for the Army. He is part of the split entry program for seventeen year olds.  He was barely in the Army for two weeks when he tested positive. Last night I got a lengthy message from him. He told me many things that I thought I would never hear. He told me that he is bunking with "over three hundred other trainees packed in here." who have also tested positive. He said they keep coming in. I asked him if he had a doctor checking on him. He answered by saying he got his temperature checked daily. However, he never did have a temperature only the "sniffles." He said he knew immediately that he had "it".  He said "it's getting better, I woke up gasping for air. It's like trying to breathe in 200% humidity. The air feels heavy." He said, "I can breathe alright, it just takes some adjustment."  I said are you eating? He said, "We used to have a lot to eat, but not now since there are so many of us." What? Are you kidding me?
He told me that he is not allowed to send letters because of the virus and not to send him anything either. He said, "Don't worry, Grandma. I will manage to get through. I feel horrible." I told him it was my job to worry about him. He said, "Thank you Grandma I love you."
Suddenly the messages stopped. I waited and waited, but I didn't receive any more messages from him. I was so very angry because my blood flows through that child's veins. He is part of me. I fight for what is right. I Googled the Fort that he is at. They said they only had fifty cases of the dreadful virus. Fifty? Hmm. So this morning I did my first letter to my congressman. That made me even more angry. I had to choose a topic from A-Other. Yup Other. Of course, I didn't expect to talk to him, but I did expect to speak to a human being. Not to write him a note of 2000 characters or less. 2000? Give me a break! Anyone that knows me knows that 2000 words can come out of my mouth in less than a minute, 2000 characters? I said what I had to say imploring him to please look into what I consider a "Keep quiet about it" situation. Our young folks are sick and we don't know about it. I was without television for over a month and had no radio reception as well. Did I miss something?
I cannot send my grandson a birthday card for his eighteenth birthday. So I am writing this to you to read and ponder. I consider this my second step. I will take another step. I will hand write some letters. I was taught cursive and I think he ( our congressman) is old enough to read cursive. Long may it be taught. Yes, I am angry. This will be my first and last such post.

Your Age Is Determined By The Circumstances..

The other day I went to the DMV to renew my driver's license. That was an experience I thought I should write down for my grand and great children to read someday. I never in my wildest dreams thought that I would be living through a pandemic. A pandemic that was caused by a virus that has been named corona virus 19. They (the scientists) have told us that social distancing and wearing protective apparel such as masks and face shields can prevent the spread of this horrible disease.
I thought about my drivers license renewal coming up, but then read that the DMV had waived the renewals for March and April, but the May renewals would proceed as usual. Since I only believe half of what I read I called them. They verified that they would be open, but that I should go to the window. "The window?" I thought. So I drove to our small DMV office and there in the parking lot were several cars and pickups with people in them. As I looked around there were two people sitting on small chairs outside talking to people inside the building. Oh it was such a windy day. People were keeping their papers from flying off the small ledge with their elbows and lower arms while they were writing checks to pay their renewal fees for license plates etc.
I was instantly confused as to how the people who had only about 6" of open window space would know that I was there. How was I to get in line when all those people were sitting in their vehicles? Well, it was the one and only time I was pleased that I had not been able to go to the beauty shop. My hair had turned to multiple shades of worn out color and gray. My smile, eye and neck wrinkles were very apparent in the bright sunshine plus a very helpful young man said, "Ma'am, I will tell them you are out here waiting. It's okay for you to sit in your car to wait."
Now if my mother had been alive to wait with me she would have said, "Well, that handsome young man just goes to show that chivalry isn't dead."
Also if my mother had been sitting there with me she would have told me again about the Flu Epidemic that had killed some of her family members in 1918.
When the young man waved at me that it was alright to go to the window I was asked for my paperwork and current drivers license. I then had to wait while the girl unlocked the door and invited me to sit down to take the vision and sign test. She asked me to sit down while she entered all of my information into her computer. She said to look into the camera which in no way resembled a camera. It took four tries because the light glared off my glasses. She was getting rattled and I was making smart remarks and wishing that I had tried taking the test without my glasses like I had six years ago. Then I was asked if I wanted to be an organ donor. I have always been a donor, but said, "Am I too old now? I don't know what age they refuse your organs." She said she thought it would be fine. So then it was time to pay. It was the same amount that I had paid six years ago, but wait! The new license was going to expire in three years! "What's this? I asked. I have always gotten my license renewed for six years." The girl said, "I'm sorry it's because of your age." I mumbled something about I'm not too old to donate my organs, but too old to get my driver's license for six years and attempted to go out the door. I was of course, locked into the building.
So my life continued as usual until one day I received a call from my Medicare Supplement insurance company. My company provides an in home physical once a year. This year it was to be a virtual physical. Of course, I thought, "Hmm, I wonder how that is going to work. I probably could fudge on my weight a little..." The day arrived and the first thing the Nurse Practitioner said was, "You look so young for your age." Err, I immediately thought of the DMV. Now why did that irritate me so?
There is just something about having your driver's license that makes an older person feel free and independent. I expressed these feelings to my husband and he said, "Well, I am younger than you are so I get mine for six years when I go in August to renew mine." Once again I mentally growled...

Memories Of Past Easters

Oh I can remember so many Easters when I was a little girl. They all took place in Iowa. So many of them were cold and even colder. It made no difference to my mother, she always made me a summery dress only to be covered up with my heavy winter coat.
I can remember only one Easter egg hunt at the farm. Once again it was too cold to go outside so my father "hid" candy eggs in the house. The eggs were horrible tasting things. They had a hard candy shell of various colors and an even harder white center that was pure sugar. Yes, the memories of that one and only egg hunt when I was a child will always be recalled.

However, I do remember an Easter when I was twelve. It was probably about 1956 or so. Mom had gotten me a new Easter dress from J.C. Penny's. I can see it in my mind's eye like it still hung in my closet. It was a brilliant blue shambry with snow flakes scattered about the fabric. Appropriate for the weather that year because once again there were snow flakes falling. I can remember it wasn't a heavy snow but Mother Nature made us aware that she still had the power to let us know that even though the calendar said it was Spring it sure didn't feel like it.
The blue dress wasn't the most exciting part of my wardrobe that year, it was the knee high nylons plus a new pair of shoes. They were white with about an inch and half  heel. Therefore, my first pair of high heels.
The hem of my dress covered the top of my knee highs, but when I sat down or crossed my legs there the top of those stockings made themselves available for all to see. These were the bane of my existence because of them I was made to sit like a lady with my ankles crossed. That particular day I  made my mother happy because of my lady like behavior. I was the perfect example of Emily Post's example of the manners and etiquette, much to my chagrin, however.

As the years passed, I married and had children. My father again was able to have Easter egg hunts for his grandchildren. Then he used plastic eggs and my sister's huge yard. He would fill the colorful eggs with little surprises even money and little toys you can get from vending machines. Oh the children loved it. I have a feeling my sister did most of the hiding, but I know everyone had a good time. After my father passed my sister found one of those eggs hidden so well that none of the children found it. It was a bittersweet memory for her, I'm sure.

This year the children are all grown and have children of their own. Their children are mostly grown now with their own memories. I wonder if they will someday tell their children of their great grandmother's and great aunts' memories.

Talcum Powder The Playing Cards?

Like most of the folks around the world I am looking for things to keep myself busy and my mind as sharp as I can keep it. Reminiscing is one way to do it. Looking back and trying to remember names, places, activities, and dates! Forget the dates, I have never been good at that. I like to think that approximate is good enough. As many of you know I am now a caregiver once again to a lady that needs some assistance in her daily activities. One of the things that she really enjoys is playing cards. We have played hundreds of games with the same two decks. Well, with the circumstances in the world today with the Corona Virus 19 I don't like anything brought into the house that might be contaminated, so I haven't gotten new cards.

The stickiness ( is that a word?) makes for my arthritic thumbs to give me a painful jolt every evening when I deal out the cards. Last night I was telling my lady that it seemed to me when my late husband and I were really poor and played lots of cards that I put those sticky cards in a pan of flour. She looked at me with doubt. So I did my "go to" and Googled it. Sure enough, it said to put sticky cards in flour, corn starch or talcum powder in a paper sack, shake it and then wipe each card off. Well it sounded like a lot of work to me. I for sure don't remember doing that.

 I had two of the three things. I asked her what she thought I should use. She opted for talcum powder. So this morning they all fifty two cards ( no jokers) went into a paper sack with about three tablespoons of beautiful smelling baby powder. The fog of the talcum powder was frightful. Who knew? But you see this fluffing caused an unexpected development other than the fragrant fog. They no longer fit in their case. They are almost twice as big as they were. In the old days we didn't have a case, we either had a little cardboard box or a rubber band wound around them. That way they could get thrown into the junk drawer and all stay together for the next card game.

I am not doing the second deck until after I see just how slick these cards are tonight. I first have to get all this talcum powder not only off the cards, but shake out the towel and wash it. Clean the counter and the floor and put the sack inside another sack. Mercy one more thing for my great grandchildren to read about. I wonder if I should put this in a Marlee story...

Sunday Afternoon Drives : Burma Shave Signs

I don't consider myself very old, but by other's standards I'm sure that they do. Today I realized that they just might be right. Yesterday I took the lady that I care for to the beauty shop. (It's fine folks. We were two of four in the shop.) She was very quiet on the way there. I asked her what she was thinking about and she pointed out things that I had not paid any attention to. Why were the cattle all laying down? Why did some abandoned homesteads have so many daffidils blooming and others didn't?
I grinned to myself because I thought of myself as a youngster; probably about ten years old or so going for a Sunday afternoon drive. My dad always drove, mother pointed things out to  my brother and I as we traveled. I can remember roadside signs. They were called Burma Shave signs. I asked my companion if she remembered those. Oh she grinned and said, "I sure do, but I can't remember any of them. I wonder why they took them out." I said something to cover my ignorance like 'they had a big deal once about road side signs being distracting to the driveres.'. She thought that was a terrible thing to do, but it got me to thinking. Thinking for about three or four minutes then my mind was onto something else.

This afternoon I was mind reminiscing about our afternoon yesterday and happened to think about the Burma Shave signs and why they took them out. They were really fun for a little girl to read out loud and pretend to understand them. (Many of them I did not) So of course, I Googled the signs. This is what they said:
Burma Shave roadside signs were from 1929-1963. They were only enjoyable at the driving speed of 35 mph. What?? I only drive 35 mph in town.
Here is a sample of a Burma Shave sign. If you were so very old like me and enjoyed them like I did, comment and let me know if you remember any of them. Memories often make you smile you know. And in our crazy world we now live in we could sure use a few more smiles.

Will anyone say, what is Burma Shave?

This...

This is what the lady and I call this corona virus 19 that has the world at it's feet. It is the master of the supermarkets, the hospitals, the churches and of course, the schools. "This" is shutting down our way of life as we have known it all of our natural lives. Never ever, have I in my wildest dreams or imagination would I have thought that a virus would disrupt my train of thought, let alone my way of life. It's called worry. I worry about my family and the economy. I find myself worrying a lot nowadays.

I am a caregiver to a lady that is only three years older than I am, but has some health issues that calls for someone to be with her to provide assistance with most things. We eat together and watch television together. She likes political stations. I do not like that kind of thing. Give me a Notebook or a Bambi movie and I am set for the evening. However, nowadays, I am tuned in at least to the audio of the channel that she watches. "This" (she points to the television) is this going to make it so I can't go to the beauty shop? Does "this" mean that I shouldn't go to the doctor for my test?

My husband called me in the midst of some of these many questions to tell me that our little store now has toilet paper. The price is $10.00 for four rolls. What? "This" is ruling our fundemental right to care for ourselves and others.

Yesterday I watched church services via the internet. The service was from the little town where I lived with my husband and small children years ago. It was sad to see the minister sitting on the floor in an empty church visiting with us sometimes shaking his head in disbelief as he also could not believe the effect of this new master that has so many defeated and sick and terrified.

"This" has me thinking of the stories that my mother told me of the days of the Great Depression which she and my father lived through. No one hoarded then; they moved. They moved for a nickel an hour more for their pay. They lived in coal shacks, they painted with calcimine paint or whitewash. They fixed and patched and shared their food with others. They went on picnics which consisted of bread and butter sandwiches and cold water. There was a trick to keep that water cold. You wrap a burlap sack that was soaked with cold water around a glass canning jar. There were no Igloo coolers.

My mother also told me of another time. A time of whooping cough which caused so  many deaths of children. Tiny babies that were children of their friends. A baby of four months old, for one that was our neighbor. She told me that I had whooping cough, but she had me vaccinated so it wasn't deadly.
Then there was polio. Polio the killer; iron lungs which helped people breathe, but they could only see their visiters with a mirror. Now this new Master is causing visitors to have to visit with their family or friends through the windows of nursing homes. Thank goodness for cell phones so they can actually talk to each other. Of course, some folks are unable to talk....

"This", like the Great Depression, is going to have lasting effects on future generations just like the horrible things that I have just mentioned. Them being just a few I might add. I have a small inner smile when I hear folks collecting things like Depression glass, iris pitchers and glasses. I know for a fact that the iris pitcher I have of my mother's cost a dime; a dime. Will there be things for future generations to collect from "This"? I can't even imagine what it would be.

I love children and writing little stories in my daily blog. I love to see them share and be kind. "This" has caused many acts of greed and unkind deeds and words to be said. However, this morning I was reading some Facebook posts. Guess what? Familys are watching church together on their computers, the children are in the kitchen baking and cooking with their parents. And snuggle time has hit an all time high. "This" may have caused unmeasurable acts of unkindness towards others, but I am seeing a family unit once again begin to knit a closer relationship that will create memories for a lifetime.
Stay safe and be kind to one another. Don't let "This" be your master, we will overcome this as did other generations their own "This".

She Spit On Her Iron

I was talking about my mother the other day and how hard she worked when I was a little girl. I was some of the hard work she encountered. I was telling a new friend how I got to stomp my little brother's diapers in a wash tub. Oh, I am so sure she wanted to do it herself. It would have been so much faster, but she let me "help". She always washed clothes on Mondays. She ironed on Tuesdays and baked on Fridays and Saturdays. She somehow fit in all of her other duties like cooking, gardening, canning, and plucking chickens on the other days.

The picture that you see is similar to my mother's. My mother's however, was smooth with age and use. The corners of the boards were round. I don't know if it was made that way, or from many loads of laundry.  It smelled of homemade lye soap. I can almost smell it in my mind's eye today.

I can see my mom with a wet rag washing down the wire clothesline. Then she would put a clothespin bag on the line. Then the fruit of her labor was the basket after basket of wet clothes she carried outside. She would put the basket on the ground, grab a lot (in my little girl mind) of clothespins and put them in her mouth. One by one she would hang out the sheets, pillow cases and the rest of the white clothes. On and on it went until the overalls were finally on the line to dry.

 Our uncle lived with us. His pants were put on metal stretchers and then hung on the line. They gave his pants a nice crease. Which was funny because he owned a mill and ground feed for farmers. Of course, he came home white with flour dust everyday, but he did start his day out looking good. Some stores still sell these for about thirty dollars a pair. I couldn't find the cost in the forties, but I'm sure it was nowhere near that amount.

When the clothes were dry mother would bring them in the house to sprinkle. My little girl mind couldn't grasp this concept. She got them dry just to get them wet again.
She had a dish with warm water in it. She would spread out the shirt or whatever she was going to iron on the kitchen table, then she would shake the warm water on it. Then she rolled them all up tight and put the clothes one by one in the laundry basket. Then the next day, being Tuesday, she would iron them all.
The one thing I never got to do was spit on my finger and test the iron to see if it was hot. She always said I might burn myself so that was her job.

I had a tiny little ironing board and a tiny little iron that I just now remembered. It would barely get warm, but I was allowed to iron my daddy's hankies; not the sparkly white ones for church, but the everyday red and blue ones for work.

When I look at the picture above I just grin to  myself. Her ironing board was wooden. The cover on it she made herself out of old sheets and large safety pins. There were scorch marks on it, and even a hole or two. She must have been interrupted a time or eight on laundry day.