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.