Soap

 I am planning a trip to see my brother, Keith and his wife Linda and of course, his daughter, Jenna, in a few days. I am taking my mother's old cookbook so that Jenna can look at her recipes and take pictures of some of them. I was slowly leafing through the pages and found this gem. A recipe for soap. Homemade soap making was a chore that I was not allowed to help with.

 If you are reading this recipe you will see that it calls for soft water. I am sure that my mother caught that water from the eaves spout on our front porch. I can remember standing as close as I was able to watch this little miracle that my mother made happen. She took fat, and soft water, and lye, and ammonia and mixed them together with a wooden stick. It had borax in it too. It sounds like something out of the movies, but that soap is what we used for washing clothes and bathing, My mom did buy shampoo, but rinsed my hair with vinegar and egg. She said that it brought out the red highlights in my hair.

 As I was going through those years old recipes I found a similar ingredient in most cakes and cookies; fat. It doesn't designate what kind of fat, but I am presuming lard. I did see my mother use lard in her piecrusts for many years.

This recipe was from Eleanor Sheldon. She was the sweetest most kind woman that I can remember. Her granddaughter is now a friend of mine. She remembers my mother's homemade bread. I wonder if she can remember homemade soap.

Going through my mother's cookbook is a joy and a treasure. When I read her recipes she always gave credit to the one who gave her a recipe and the recipes were written in such lovely handwriting. I had the honor of being asked by my mother for some of my recipes. My handwriting was not lovely. My instructions were vague. My language contained the word "goo" in one of them and at the end of the same recipe I said, Good luck! I love 'em. A bit of a difference that goes down for posterity, but also the difference in women. My cookbook is full of bits of "goo" and of course, hers was immaculate. I just don't understand how she did it. Many many of her cakes and cookies were baked in a corn cob stove and a lonely baking thermometer to help her along.

My First School; My First Armistice Day

The year my grandmother Lulu E. Hayes celebrated her eighteenth birthday as well as her wedding day to my grandfather, George Dwight Banister, my elementary school was built; 1895. First of all it is extremely hard to imagine my grandmother at the age of 18, but I have a picture to prove it. Second of all I am amazed that my very first school was fifty four years old and I had just lived five of those years. 

My school was huge. It originally had beautiful turrets and balconies that eventually were destroyed by strong storms. My school was in the plains state of Iowa. Iowa was a frequent victim of strong storms especially in early spring and of course, blizzards and extremely cold temperatures in the winter.

 The people in charge of my school eventually just chopped off that top roof and made it a flat roof, which as we know now is not the best solution for the weight of heavy snow that eventually weakened that roof.

In 1949 the bus picked me up at my driveway very early in the morning which was seven miles away from this beautiful school. A school that I had waited for it seemed like for an eternity. The bus driver's name was Charlie. I will never forget what a kind man he was.

When I got off the bus the teachers were waiting for us on the playground. The school was huge and there were so many children! I was in a group that was to be my kindergarten class. My schoolroom was in the basement. My teacher's name was Miss Peterson. That name sounded a lot like my last name which was Johnson. There were other students whose last name was Peterson and Johnson. I can remember looking out the half windows of my schoolroom. It was a little hard to pay attention to the teacher that first day. Everything was so new and interesting.

School was a fascinating place for me to go five days a week. I couldn't wait to learn how to read and write. I loved to hear the teacher talking. It seemed like every time she said something I learned something new!

The next year I was in first grade. In that grade I learned many things. Some of which were horrifying to me like a teacher spanking a little girl in my class. I can still remember that day in great detail. I also remember my first Veterans Day at Lincoln School only it was called Armistice Day. It was the eleventh month the eleventh day and the eleventh hour.

 My school actually was a high school. The big kids were upstairs and the little kids on two other levels.

On this particular day I had a nickel in my pocket. You have to understand that a nickel in those days was something that I ordinarily never had. This nickel was an entrance fee to go upstairs where the big kids were to watch an Armistice Day movie. If you didn't have a nickel you stayed downstairs and got to listen to stories and color pictures.

As my chubby little legs climbed those cement stairs the edges of them fascinated me. They were shiny silver and slippery on the edges. Little did I know that was probably one of the last years that they were probably safe to use. My beautiful school was demolished in 1965 because it was unsafe.

When we got to the movie room we were told to be very quiet. The room got dark and loud music came on the screen. It was called a news reel that was black and white. It showed men in uniforms with guns and lots of smoke. There was a man's voice that told us what was going on. I didn't like that movie and felt sorry that my daddy had wasted a nickel. I wished that I could give it back. After the movie was over we listened to a man in a uniform that told us that we were very lucky to live in America and that we were free because a lot of men and women fought what I considered to be the bad guys and lots of them died doing that.

Well when I got home from school that day I couldn't wait to tell my mom what had happened at school that day. She sat at our kitchen table and listened to my tale and asked me questions and shook her head and nodded her head as my story continued. When I was exhausted from telling her about the movie I told her I was sorry that I had wasted the nickel. I should have stayed downstairs and colored and listen to stories.

I can remember looking at my mom and asking her how come we were lucky to live where people didn't fight and have guns. She smiled at me and held my little hands and said, "God has a special place for all of us to live. He chose this place for us to live so we need to take good care of it. Some day in Sunday school you will learn about being good stewards.

However, there are some things you need to know and probably won't understand just yet, but in our family we have had lots of soldiers fight for our freedom against "those bad guys" you were talking about. For centuries actually, LuAnne, so take good care of everything they fought for just for us. Honor them and what they stood for.

Happy Veterans Day from a little girl that grew up in Iowa in a small town and went to school in a great big school

I was 6 years old in this photo. I was wearing my very favorite green coat. Oh how I cried when I outgrew it.  By the way the background is the blackboard in my first grade classroom!

The Tinker

 I'm almost seventy-nine years old and had thought that I had written down all of my memories of being raised on the farm in the forties and fifties, but I was wrong. The other day the word "tinker" came to mind as I was watching my husband fiddling with something to get it to work the other day. Then I could see him plain as day; the tinker that would visit the farm hoping for some business from my mother to fix her pots pans, or the wash basins. The one I remember the most sat out on the front porch. My father or my grandfather had put together some boards to make a stand to hold the wash basin and some homemade soap that either my grandmother or my mother had made and was big enough for some old linen towels to dry off with.

There was a plank underneath that served only to make the top steady. That's what I am guessing because I don't remember that it served any other purpose. My mother would fill the wash basin with water from the well in the morning and the heat of the sun would warm it so that my father and any other of the neighbors could "scrub up" before coming in the house to eat an enormous meal that my mother had prepared. The wash basin table was on the front porch, however, the men would go to the pump and again rinse off before coming in to eat the huge thresher or baling meals my mother cooked so well. Their wet arms were of course, dried off on their overalls.

If my mother had a job for him, the tinker would get out his clay or mud in my imagination and put it on the outside of the basin where the porcelain was gone. I can remember thinking that it wasn't a very good fix.( I was probably five or six years old.) Then he would get out some kind of tool ( I now know it was a soldering gun) and put a shiny metal on the inside to fill the hole. After that metal cooled he would take his gloved hand and rub off the mud and would say, "There you go madam. That will be twenty-five cents." I can also remember her going to her little cloth change purse. It was black satin with frayed threads held together with a gold clasp. She would sort through the coins to get him his money. He would thank her and be on his way. It seemed that every time he would stop to repair something there would be a discussion between my mother and father if it was really necessary to spend money on a tinker. The idea of buying a new basin was out of the question. As I'm writing this I can remember my father's solution one time when the basin again needed repair. He was so proud as he showed my mother his handy work. He had put a washer and screw in the hole and ground it off smooth on the outside. I remember my mother telling him that that was the last time the basin would be repaired. With a warning to be careful when he washed his hands not to scrape his knuckles on the screw head on the inside of the basin.

As I was smiling to myself with my old old memories "tinker" brought up another memory We had tinker toys to play with! We would sit for hours and build houses and even people with our tinker toys.

One fun little anecdote about a tinker and his work the phrase "not worth a tinker's dam" is because of the mud like stuff the tinker would put on the outside of a pot then would discard after the solder had cooled because it was worth nothing. How many times I have heard that and never put the old tinker together with how he did his work for my mom and many others along his route.

Christmas Memories

 I have had seventy-eight Christmas mornings and as many Christmas Eves. My mother didn't teach us about Santa Claus. When I asked her why she said she didn't want us to be disappointed when we found out the truth. I was determined to raise my kids with the magic of Christmas as well as the birth of their savior. I thought I missed out on the whole Santa thing. I'm telling you this because you know what? I can't remember a Christmas when I was a child until I was eight years old. It was a sad Christmas for my mother. We always went to church on Christmas Eve and she told me that I could open one present before we went to church. There were two gifts for me. A very large one which I really wanted to open and a very small one. My mother could tell I going after the big prize, but she said, "You know sometimes the best gift comes in a small package." She convinced me to open the little box. It was a Timex watch. Guess what? It did not work. That Timex did not go on ticking. My mother was so very disappointed. She wanted me to be able to wear that precious watch to Christmas Eve services. She sent it back and a few weeks later I did get to wear my new watch, but it wasn't Christmas and Santa did not bring me a broken watch. Isn't it interesting that I don't remember any of my Christmas's before that one? It gives one pause that will our children remember all that we do for them when they are little? I think not, but I remember every single Christmas with  my three children from the very first one to this one.

Then there was the Christmas when I was sixteen. I only wanted one particular sweater for Christmas. That was it. I never ever teased my parents to buy me something. I was easy in that respect, but I just had to have a mohair sweater. It was all the rage. I snooped under the tree one evening to see if it was under there. Oh my! My mom had wrapped something soft in tissue paper.. Just one tiny little tear would never show. It was pink just like I wanted. I felt the burn go up my neck to my face. This was like lying! I put on the Elizabeth Taylor act on Christmas morning, but I learned my lesson. I never peeked again.

Oh how I remember the Christmas when I was about fifteen I guess. I had a boyfriend and we broke up. Of course, it was a disaster in my estimation. The Christmas gifts I got when I was young were often cologne. Evening in Paris. Blue bottle smelled like eggnog! Yes, I can remember so many Christmas's. One in particular my mother made the teacher a loaf of her wonderful homemade bread. She wrapped it in tin foil yes tin foil in those days with a blue ribbon. I was so embarrassed. All the other kids took her beautifully wrapped gifts. I think the teacher felt my embarrassment and told me, "I can't wait to taste your mother's homemade bread. I have heard she is a wonderful baker." Well, then I puffed up a little bit. Especially when I got off the bus to hear my mother tell me that my teacher had called her to thank her for the wonderful gift. Oh such lessons we learn as we are growing up.

The Christmas dinners at my grandparents were dull. Yes dull. I cannot ever remember my grandfather smiling. My grandmother loved us unconditionally. Lots of hand pats and games of tic tac toe. Wonderful food. My grandma made cookies the size of a man's palm. They were so good. I always asked for two because that's how many I got at home. Mom's cookies were the size of walnuts and dainty, Grandma knew how to make cookies! But, when I asked for two I was told "no." The presents at Grandma's house were not prettily wrapped with bright red and green paper. They were wrapped in brown paper and store bought string. Always something she had made, which by the way I loved, but the brown paper at Christmas? I'm sitting here smiling while I'm writing this. Such fun memories. Grandma always had at least five desserts for every Sunday dinner and at Christmas! Mercy, so much to eat. She had a cookstove that took cobs like my mother's and an electric apartment size stove which my mother insisted that she buy. She hated it! She always would say, "Pshaw!" when something she baked in that dratted new stove didn't turn out, not baked long enough or burnt. She knew how to manage that cob stove.

I married young and married a controlling man. He would only let me spend seven dollars for Christmas for my family one year.. And I did it! A store in my little town was going out of business. They had a going out of business sale. I bought my mom a yellow plastic mixing bowl with a cake mix in it. She had used and used that bowl and was in her cupboards when she passed away. Everyone got a gift that year with my seven dollars.

Then the Christmas that my children's dad was able to get a pass from the nursing home to go to my youngest son's home stands out as one of my favorites. I set him up in a wheelchair and gave him gifts, wrapping paper and tape and ribbons. He loved it! And we all loved him. That was his last Christmas I believe, but he had all his children and grandchildren with him. It was wonderful.

As I am rereading this I saw a common thread. Family. Marie Lizotte, my husband's mother said that she had little to give as far as money, but her legacy to the world was her family. She said that so often. I agree. Her family continues to grow as we speak. She has two new great great grandchildren on the way next year. Yes, Marie, family is all our legacies. Related by blood or not, family is family. Here are some of my favorite Christmas pictures. First one is Marie Lizotte crocheting a pair of slippers for me for Christmas. She never got to finish them. She fell and broke her hip that very night. The next picture of the pretty lady in white and red is the last studio picture of my mother. She gave these to us for Christmas that year. She frequently told me I could borrow her clothes, but this outfit she said "No you can't have that one." lol

Merry Christmas everyone!

This picture is of my two oldest children. Melanie was five and Joe was 3. You wouldn't know unless I tell you which I am about to do, that poor Christmas tree is chained and bolted to the wall. When we picked it out it was perfect. We did NOT see that the truck was almost a ninety degree angle. Also not a few more things. Very few ornaments on the tree. The year before Joe was fascinated with the tree and broke most of the glass balls, so that year I was easing into a tree for him that he could enjoy. Also not the orange pheasant sitting on the stereo. Melanie broke one when she was 18 months old so we had one left. Oh yes, the Christmas memories.

The next picture is of my youngest son wishing me a Merry Christmas a few years ago. I was tired of him taking my coffee cups home with him so I bought him a sheave of disposable cups lids and bands for Christmas. Such a character he is. He makes Christmas so much fun with his youthful exuberance and excitement. He shakes each and everyone of his gifts before opening guessing what's inside. So much fun.

This picture is of my very best friend ever. She died too young, but made the most of her life for sixty-six years. This picture was taken against her better judgement to say the least. If looks could kill. I had just finished "frosting" her hair in  my kitchen. Such fun we had. In all reality she was my sister.

This is my children's father. Happy go lucky, laid back, easy going, and could tell jokes for hours on end and never repeat himself. He was a WWII veteran and highly decorated. We all miss him. One of his favorite things to say to the boys when they messed up and did something not so good. He'd say, "So how's that going for ya?"

This picture is of Carlene. She is my friend and I make sure she is well and safe. She is spending the Christmas holiday with my family and me this year. She opened up the box and it was a box of scalloped potatoes or so she thought. Then inside was only one slipper. Lo and behold she got another box that said scalloped potatoes and she found another slipper. She was so relieved. lol

Then there is me with my memories of all the Christmas's in the past and already thinking of the ones in the future. Take the photos. I had very few photos to enjoy until the children were older. Photo memories are the best. Enjoy your day and again, have a very merry Christmas to all of my friends and family.

The Store Room

 When I was a little girl we lived on the farm that had belonged to my great grandfather. The house was a two story home with three rooms upstairs and four rooms downstairs. I can remember one of the rooms upstairs was called the store room. No one went in there. My brother and I were told not to go in there, but I can remember opening the door and looking inside. It had no boxes of stuff. I don't remember cardboard boxes at all to tell the truth. There were piles of material, much of which had at one time held Gold Medal flour and feed for the chickens and other animals. Many of my clothes were made out of those sacks my mother carefully washed and folded and put on the floor of the store room. When I think back to that room it was really cluttered with piles of things looking like they had just been thrown in there. My mother's house was always neat. But that room sure wasn't. It had old pictures in wooden frames. None of them were hanging on the wall. I think they were just waiting to be thrown away. Then there were chamber pots. They were forbidden to use unless there was an emergency declared only by my mother! Oh how I hated to use the outhouse in an Iowa winter. Iowa summers as well because the wasps loved to hide in there.

I always figured that the store room was full of miracles, because whenever we had overnight company they would stay in that room. What did they sleep on? I have no idea because I never saw a bed in there. I can remember my cousin, Jim, when he was a baby stayed with us at the farm because his mom was sick and wasn't able to take care of him. I remember mom asking dad to get Jim out of the crib it was time for him to eat. Where did the crib come from? From the door way I could see things I never asked my mother about. Seashells. Huge seashells. Where did they come from? Were they gifts? I never asked, but evidently they meant a lot to my mom because they were still in her closet when she died.

Another time my other cousin, Bonnie Jean, stayed the whole summer. Did she sleep in the store room? Once a young boy from church needed a job. Where did he sleep? All I know was that often my mother would say, "It must be in the store room." Where? There were no boxes! I don't remember seeing any shelves.

My little office takes up a little space in my client's store room. Yes, she has a store room. It is also full of miracles. You could find anything from a paper clip to a greeting card to a parka in this room. There is a floor lamp that doesn't work and a scare crow waiting for autumn to arrive once again. There are totes of Christmas decorations and a box of hats that a dear friend of mine, Grandma Lu wears at times. There is a gnome doll that sits on my desk and supervises the stories that I write. Of course, there is a clock and a massive closet with shelves! There are books and baskets of computer stuff and hangers!. There is a sewing machine and many sewing baskets. There are boxes of hangers and totes full of pictures.

Of course, there are suitcases. I don't think my mom and dad had a suitcase. They must have stored them in their store room!

Most modern families have basements, garages, or guest rooms. I guess our store room was our guest room, and our walk in closet. I have a feeling that mom and dad stored baby stuff in there like a crib just in case another miracle arrived at our house.

A Christmas Memory At School 1950

 Since this is Christmas Eve of course, my mind takes me back to when I was a child in Iowa. Christmas at our house was pleasant. Yes, pleasant. There was enough money for about two gifts for each of us when I was young. I have told about getting a Timex watch for Christmas and it didn't work. My mother was heartbroken. There was only one gift left for me that year which I am sure was something for me to wear. She had made me pajamas and dresses for as long as I  can remember. She was still sewing for me when I was a young mother. The thing is, I didn't appreciate what she did and went through for me to give me those two gifts. I not once felt cheated out of a lot of presents like a lot of my friends received. But one Christmas the ugly head of jealousy reared it's ugly head. Wouldn't you know it, it was at school when I was in second grade.

Every year parents sent Christmas gifts with their children for their teachers. The school bus driver got a gift and the mail man got a gift. This particular year I was noticing that my gift to my teacher was the same as what my mother gave the bus driver and the mail man. I heard the bus driver (his name was Charlie), tell my mother how much he appreciated her gift and to have a Merry Christmas. My ears were hot and probably red. I was embarrassed, hurt, and jealous of other kids' gifts to him, but especially to my teacher. 

Her name was Mrs. Hanson. She was tiny and pretty. She sat behind a big desk at the front of my school room. Her desk was piled high with Christmas gifts from her student's parents. They were beautiful. The packages were brightly wrapped with Christmas paper, or some with white tissue paper. There were bows and ribbons on the packages. Some of the gifts were small and some were odd shaped and some were rather large. Mine was none of those. Mine was a loaf of bread. Yes, an every day loaf of homemade bread wrapped in tinfoil. Mother had wrapped a blue ribbon around it and placed a homemade bow in the middle. I wanted to run away and hide. I can remember hardly being able to swallow I was ashamed  for the first time in my life. I was seven years old. That is not the end of the story. When it was time that afternoon for our Christmas party the teacher opened everyone's gifts and thanked them for it. She smiled and smiled and said how pretty things were, how much she loved them etc. She came to mine and read the tag. She didn't open my gift. I wanted to melt into the floor. She smiled at me and said, "This is a very special gift, LuAnne. Your mother makes the best homemade bread in the county. I will make sure to serve this to my family on Christmas Day. I will send a note home with you to give to your mom. Merry Christmas, LuAnne. You are so lucky to have a mother like you do."

Well, that teacher remains in my heart as one of my favorites. She made a little girl's day and that memory remains with me for more than seventy years. Teachers and moms are special kinds of Christmas angels whose lessons remain with us for a lifetime.

I'll Have A Cherry Phosphate Please

 I was born and raised outside of a small town that my great grandparents helped settle many many years ago. I lived on the farm that my great grandfather, grandfather, and father farmed for eleven of my years. When I was eleven we moved into the town of Cherokee, Iowa. What a change of environment and social graces that was for me. We had running water, both hot and cold as well as an indoor bathroom. I had my own bedroom and most of all I could have my friends come to my house after school.

My mother went to work at the  Council Oak grocery store and my father was a linotype operator at the Cherokee Daily Times newspaper. Our life was simple, but comfortable. We went to church on Sundays, and my friends and I went roller skating on Fridays. Oh the romance of the couples skate. How could one forget the dim lights and the thrill of being asked to skate by a good looking boy? (I never was.) A Youth Center was built and I learned how to dance to the song called, "Who's Behind The Green Door?"

One of the things that I will never forget along with can cans starched with my mother's sugar, fights with my brother, and playing tennis, was the Soda Grille. Oh how I loved that place. It had a really long counter where men folks gathered for their work break, teachers went to discuss problem students, (hopefully never me) and to order a cold drink. It had a row or two of high back booths where my friends and I would sometimes go. It was such fun to discuss the day we'd had at school, what we were going to do on the weekends and who was going with who or who broke up with who. We talked about riding around. Yes riding around was a big thing especially on Friday nights. The popular boys would sometimes get to drive their father's car around and around the town and most assuredly meet at an empty parking lot to gab. And of course, if we were lucky we would get to see who the boys had in the car with them. That would be juicy news at the locker on Monday morning at school.

There was ice cream, French fries, many things to eat and a sundry of cold drinks; one of which was my favorite; cherry phosphates. It's a crazy thing when you get to be my age, memories crop up for absolutely no reason at all. None. I went out to the kitchen to see what there was to drink. I looked at the healthy fruit juices, a can or two of soda and bottle of water. No! I wanted a cherry phosphate. So here I am still wanting one, but telling you just exactly how good they were. Plus they were served to you in a beautiful soda glass which we did not have at home, and ever so bubbly plus tart and sweet at the same time. And oh the crushed ice and a straw!

My friend, Joan, always ordered a coke and peanuts. She put those peanuts in her bottle of coke! I don't think I ever did try it, but loved to tease her about her odd choice of drinks. Little did I know, but phosphate was in her coke too. It still is in Classic Coke and Pepsi. I mention my ancestors often, because I think they were pretty brave and hard working, but I kind of grin to myself when I think of them drinking a cool drink with phosphate in it in the 1870's. Who knew?

My great grandfather did a lot of trading in Sioux City, Iowa. It was there that they bottled and sold a lot of sarsaparilla. It was fizzy, but I don't know if it had phosphate in it. It now sells on Amazon for almost seventy dollars for a four pack! That amount of money would have purchased almost half of the farm that Great Grandfather Banister purchased. Just think of it.  That's all of my ramblings for today. Great memories though. Loved my home town.

P.S. If you are interested you could Google sarsaparilla. You would find out that Coke and Sarsaparilla were both medicines used for anything from Morphine addiction to syphilis. My old set of encyclopedias probably wouldn't have given me that info! lol Have a good weekend.

My Dad Had A Love/Hate Relationship With Nature

 I only had thirty-six years to get to know my dad. He had this fun relationship with life that would make me shake my head and sometimes chuckle. He had a love/hate relationship with nature. He wouldn't hunt deer even though they would spoil his haystacks. He would go for a boat ride occasionally, but wouldn't fish. He said that he got hungry eating fish because it took forever to find the bones.

At family gatherings we often had picnics. He hated picnics because of the flies and the ants. At one large family gathering he had a box fan at the end of the picnic table to keep the flies away! Yup, that was my daddy.

He would dress up to travel on an airplane, but was comfortable wearing bib overalls when he was a farmer.

He loved his family with all his heart and soul. He did not belong to a church until his second child was killed in a sledding accident when she was but five years old. He said he figured if he ever wanted to see her again he'd better be baptized and join the church.

He loved radios both tiny and large, but didn't like the occasional scolding he got from my mother for spending too much money on them.

He loved calling me Annie, but also got a one liner from my mother, that if she wanted my name Annie that's what she would have called me.

He was determined to get an education even though it took him until he was twenty-seven to graduate from high school. He would work a year then go to school a year until he had accomplished his goal. Times were so very hard during the Depression, but he hitch hiked to Minnesota from Iowa to a school to learn to be a linotype operator so he could support his family.

 He loved basketball and was on the school team. I can remember him showing my brother and I how to spin a basketball on his first finger. He also loved Lawrence Welk and wrestling when we got a television set. Oh the memories of watching my father watch wrestling. He just loved it.

My father loved God and during his later years was an elder in his church. He hated public speaking, but was determined to spread the word of God as he knew it. I still have his Bible that mom gave him oh so many many years ago. It is brittle and has to be handled oh so very carefully. I also have his dictionary which he cared for like it was gold. He used it constantly when he found a word he wasn't familiar with. I also have it along with his Bible. One cover of his dictionary is part of a cardboard box. It has served it's purpose all these years. 

His love of reading and learning new things was something that he lived and taught as we grew. He would read to my mother in the evenings as she ironed or mended. Of course, when we were able to get a radio we would listen to it as a family in the evenings, but not for long periods of time.

He hated mice and bugs, but never swore or used a loud voice. He was a soft spoken man which in turn made his children listen when he spoke to make sure you heard every word. I learned that trick when my children were small. If I yelled they didn't pay any attention!

He loved my mother and all of her accomplishments. She became a LPN when she was in her fifties and when she retired she then enrolled in college to learn to be a CPA. She got straight A's. If I remember correctly she only went a semester or two, but did so very well.  My mother found a newspaper article about her in his suit jacket pocket after he had passed. She wasn't aware that he was showing it to folks he visited with.

My father only had one brother which he also loved and kept all of his letters while he was in the service. When he was ill he would come to the farm and stay and recoup for a few weeks. My uncle always called him "Kid" which I could never understand. My dad was a grownup....

I shared my father's love for reading. I was not an outdoorsy type little girl, but I would follow my daddy around and watch him milk cows. He would squeeze and aim milk to the cats. That was such fun. The machine shed was full of cobwebs, which I didn't like, but we had daddy/ daughter talks. I loved spending time with him.

Then in the seventies I had married and had children. Long distance phone calls were expensive so dad and I would record our "letters" on cassette tapes and mail them back and forth. I still have some of those. I was able to transfer them to CD's so that my family could also keep and enjoy them.

My dad loved his grandchildren, but hated finger prints. Now you just know that toddlers and fingerprints go together! Oh I would smile when he would get the Windex and wipe the fingerprints off the television. Yes while we were there. Such fun memories.

Yes, our time was short, but my memory bank is full and as I am writing this, I am smiling, because when my father left this world I was carrying my youngest child. He someday can read this and know just a little bit about a grandfather that he never got to know.

Happy Father's Day Dad.

The Corn Cob Bin

 Yesterday my mind once again whirled back to when I was a child on the farm. It was a cold and windy day that I remember. Beside our cookstove was a metal bin. My father would fill the metal bin full of dried corn cobs for my mother to cook and bake with. That's right! She baked beautiful angel food cakes, cookies as well as roasts and other goodies in an old cookstove with dried out corn cobs. 

This memory is from so long ago that it took me a very long time to even find mention of cooking with corn cobs. I found a picture from a website that sells antiques. This picture of a rectangular bin is similar to what my father used.

I also found a photo of a metal basket filled with corn cobs and one picture of a lady standing by her cookstove feeding the fire with corn cobs. She was a lady from North Dakota whose picture is now hanging in the Library of Congress. It was taken in 1940.  Isn't it interesting that this picture that is now a part of our American history is the only one I could find? This kind of cooking was common during the Great Depression. It was essentially free, but very dangerous because the cobs were dry and caught on fire immediately as well as created a very hot fire. But you see, none of this concerned me. What concerned me was, that one day my daddy came in and told my mama to find someplace for the cobs. He had to bring a calf into the house to save it's life. What? We barely were able to have a dog in the house let alone a cow. (I was about seven or eight. A calf was a cow.)

It seemed that my whole world changed that day. First my dad brought in straw and dumped it in the bin. Then he asked my mom to hold the door open. I couldn't believe my eyes. He put that ugly animal in the kitchen! Even my mother looked a bit dubious. She said, "I hope you didn't pay much for him. I don't think he's going to make it through the night."

Undeterred from my mother's negative attitude, he explained that he had already named him.; Two Bucks. He had paid two dollars for that calf at the sale barn. He thought it was a deal, my mother would have rather had the two dollars and not the calf. However, they were a team. She steadily kept the fire going with the corn cobs. Dad brought in warm milk from his milking. They put a little sugar in it and that calf loved it. He liked it so well, he started jumping and kicking around in that bin. I got out of there. I thought for sure he would get out and an unknown catastrophe was going to happen for sure. I think it's the only time I ever doubted any of my father's decisions.

Then it pooped! And pooped again. I now know that the calf had scours and both my parents knew it. By now my mother was not a happy woman. She called him by his first name which I can only remember her doing two or three times in my life. "Ray, the calf has to go." The calf did not go. My dad stayed up with it at night and it survived and so did our household. The calf grew to be an adult out in our field. This memory only popped up because I joined a Facebook group the other day. It was called Senior Citizen Friendship Group. They were talking about somethings they remembered when they were children, posted pictures of farm animals and suddenly I could just see Two Bucks in our old kitchen oh so many years ago.

So the moral to this story is two fold. When you think you remember everything from your childhood you probably don't until something triggers that memory and the second thing keep our history alive by telling your stories to your children, to your grandchildren to anyone who will listen. Just think; only one picture of a lady feeding the fire with corn cobs when it was done for years.

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.

New Year's Eve In 1952

As many of you know I lived in an old farm house in Iowa when I was a little girl. Iowa winters are extremely cold. On one night a year, I was allowed to sleep on a day bed in our dining room where the coal stove was. That night was New Year's Eve.
For Christmas the year that I was eight years old, my mama made me a pair of pajamas from scraps of flannel that she had saved over the years. If you think to yourself that sounds like Dolly Parton's coat of many colors, you would be close. I can remember that some pieces were red and white striped, and some were printed; nothing matched. The only thing that was the same was all the little pieces were flannel and very soft.
My pajamas had a large round wide ruffled collar just like Clarabell, the clown's outfit did on the Howdy Doody Show.

 Oh how I remember that night. It was so much fun. I had begged to stay up until midnight to usher in the New Year. My mother didn't argue with me a bit. My mother never let you just sleep on the couch. You slept on clean fresh ironed sheets, a clean pillow case and a soft warm quilt to keep you warm as toast.
I can remember starting a bit of a fuss because I was aware that my mama thought I would fall asleep before midnight, so she wanted me in my pajamas and under the covers.
My mom could tuck you in with her loving hands better than anyone ever! She tucked the pillow under my neck, then she slid the covers close to each side of me. She sat down next to me and said a prayer, then wishing me a happy happy new year. I smiled when she pointed to the clock that was hanging on the wall at the foot of the sofa. She said, "Now remember, when the two hands are straight up at the top the new year begins. She kissed me goodnight and turned out the lights.
Now come on, she knew I would be asleep in minutes, but what she didn't tell me was that they were expecting company and she wanted me asleep before they came. I was completely unaware of them visiting that night because of course, I did fall asleep. I was a bit miffed when I woke up the next morning because I missed watching both hands on the clock be straight up, but that is not the end of the story. The next Sunday night church service was a fellowship party. There were treats and laughter. I had never seen anything like it before. Church was usually a very solemn affair. All these grownups were acting like kids. Soon someone said, "Okay, everyone take your seats. Elsie, could you please dim the lights? We have a treat for you all. It's called a home movie. The other night Elsie and I went to a lot of your homes and used our new 8 mm. movie camera. Get ready for some fun."
Well I sure was ready. I had never seen a home movie before. Soon I saw some people on the screen that I  knew that went to our church. They waved and smiled. Then right before my very eyes was me! Me in my clown pajamas sound asleep. Oh I was so upset. Those grownups were laughing and joking about me and my beautiful pajamas. Interesting that was sixty-seven years ago and I still feel the hurt. I wondered how my mother felt. I wondered if she was in on the fun, or if she was a bit put out as she would always say because they were making fun of my pajamas.
Years went by and one day I remembered that movie and I asked her about how she felt about them laughing. She explained to me that when the camera was off they complemented her about what a wonderful job she had done on those pajamas. They had even said she should sell her home sewn things because she was such a good seamstress. Such different points of view. You just never know what is said and what is felt from two different stand points. Besides that, I loved my pajamas.
Happy New Year! I know many of you have new pajamas. Wear them with pride!

Christmas Memories Through The Years

Good morning. Once again I find myself thinking of Christmas long ago vs. Christmas 2019. What a difference just seventy plus years make. It seemed not so very long ago I was a five year old wondering what was going to be in my little brown paper sack that Santa always gave away at the church program on Christmas Eve. It was always fun to see an apple or orange and mixed nuts and peanuts in the shell. Ribbon candy was always part of that sack. Apples and oranges and mixed nuts were not the norm for my family so our little brown paper sacks were precious. I can remember coming home from church and mom getting out a big bowl. She and dad emptied out their sacks into the bowl. We had the option of adding ours to the bowl or keeping it to ourselves. Well, the little five year old LuAnne most definitely wanted to keep it to myself. I knew that I could make it last a long time, but the angel on my shoulder started clearing her throat and yes, I did empty my bag into the bowl as well.

This is a picture of main street of my little town of Cherokee, Iowa when I was just a little girl. It was all decked out for Christmas. I can remember getting thirty-five cents a week allowance when I was ten years old. I saved a quarter every week and spent the dime on a movie with popcorn on Saturday afternoons if I was lucky enough to get to go. I can remember my daddy telling me that he would match the money I saved. He was a bit shocked when I showed him all the money I had saved towards my Christmas shopping spree. I have a feeling he was hard put to match that money now that I look back at it.

We had a J.C.Penny store on the right hand side of main street. I found my mama a beautiful house dress for just a little over two dollars. It was pink. She was so pleased. I bought my daddy a tie that was red with a yellow horn on it. He wore it to church and received a lot of ribbing for his flashy tie. In those days men wore a lot of black, brown and navy. That tie was still in my mother's dresser drawer when she moved to the nursing home. Tears.

I remember a Christmas that I had two gifts under the tree. One was big and one was very very small. I really wanted to open the big one and save the little one for Christmas morning, but I could tell my mama wanted me to open the little one. She kept saying, "It is said that little packages often contain large gifts." Well, I opened it. It was a Timex watch. She had wanted me to wear it to the Christmas Eve program. It didn't work. Sad faces. Tears.
As time went on my Christmas memories were happy and sad. Missing family members started being the norm instead of the exception. When I was a teenager, I lost both of my grandparents.
I married at a very young age and Christmas time found me with seven dollars to spend. There was a store that was closing in my little village. I spent  a quarter on a big yellow mixing bowl. I put a box cake mix in it and wrapped it for my mother. She often talked about that mixing bowl. When I cleaned out her cupboards that mixing bowl had been well used. It was rubber and showed the use it had had over the years.
Now I talk about the lean years when my children were little. Poor was the word. Poor but oh so very happy with my little family of two children and a loving husband and father. One year I had ten dollars to spend on each of my children. Then and now nothing has changed. If you spend ten dollars or a hundred, the children would count how many packages they each had. Everything was fine if they each had the same "count" they called it. That year they each got ten gifts; you see the trend?
Today I watched the news on television which of course, we didn't have when I was a child. I told my husband this morning I don't think I even knew what war was until I was a young adult. I was watching a city that had been bombed beyond recognition because it was a Christian city and disposable and easy to claim.
I can remember watching Edward R. Merle on the news that started before the movies, but really I can remember the cigarette he was smoking rather than the content of his news. I had never seen anyone smoke a cigarette except our neighbor man.
Now today I again am a combination of sad and happy. My Christmas will be bittersweet because I have company coming for the holidays, but know of a small homeless child that probably won't have a Christmas because of poor decision making of some of her family members. I have put the word out, so Santa if you hear me and do in fact make wishes come true, please make the homeless a better day than yesterday and tomorrow a better day yet.