Jerry, The Bull

It's interesting to me that the older I get the more memories seem to pop up in my mind with little to no prompting. I was just posting one of my children's stories this morning and all of a sudden I thought of Jerry. Jerry was the biggest meanest bull ever, or so I thought when I was a little girl.

As I have said, we walked about a quarter of a mile to the highway where we caught the bus. I am beginning to think that I was a little wimp when I think back to those days.  I was afraid of mice, wasps in the outhouse but most especially Jerry.
Jerry was a Hereford bull. He had a white face and a red body and the meanest eyes this little girl had ever seen. He was big. Jerry would come running to the fence to greet us when we were walking down the driveway. In my little girl estimation it was not a greeting of "Hello, I am so glad to see you." It was more like, "Hey, you kids. If you get close enough I am going to eat you."

One day my dad came in the house and told mom that Jerry had gotten out of the fence. We needed to stay in the house until he and the neighbor man could get him back in the field. He was in a terrible hurry to not only get him back in the pasture, but to get the fence fixed. In my grownup mind our fences weren't the best. I can remember fence posts being tree limbs mixed in with regular posts.

Like most of my stories, they end up well. They got Jerry back in the pasture where he belonged, but here is the kicker. My dad said he needed help mending fences. My mom was way too busy baking for the grocery store and taking care of my little brother and probably a hundred other things, so dad took me along to hand him these little "U" shaped things that fastened the fencing to the posts. Yes, Jerry was watching our every move planning his next escape. I was terrified and kept telling my daddy that the fence was fixed good enough and that we should go back to the house.

I just Googled the proper name for those U shaped nails. They are called Fencing Staples. There are even YouTube videos explaining the correct way to use them. Nowadays they have a battery operated tool that farmers use instead of a hammer that often times missed the staple and hit my dad's thumb.That would have tickled my dad because he loved to invent things even up into his sixties.

Where Jerry got his name I will never know. We didn't know anyone named Jerry, but as time went by as it always does a baby Hereford calf came to live on an acreage that my husband Wally and I owned. I had gone to an auction. It was an adventure for me. He was a bottle baby that hated milk. I bought him for two dollars. He would drink milk replacer, but he never grew any taller than a mini horse. Of course, we named him Jerry after his fierce ancestor or as it was his mean namesake, because he too, was an escape artist and was often found in the house yard.

One day a Sears repair man had come out to do a maintenance check on my washer. Jerry, the little bull was very interested in the tools and parts in the back end of the van the technician was getting out. I saw what was happening and I said, "Jerry, get out of there. How many times do I have to take you back to the pasture?" The technician straightened up and there was Jerry; A Sears technician I worked with. We had a good laugh that day.
 Oh the memories continue to pop up. I'll probably see you soon with another.
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The picture of the bull is a Wiki picture, but in my mind's eye it resembles Jerry to a T.

Leave A Dish

I decided to do some dishes by hand this morning. I enjoy doing dishes. It has always been a time for me to have fun with my sister-in-laws, my sister, my mother and my kids. They often didn't want to do the dishes when they were teens, but almost always once we got started we talked about their day at school or at work.
My mom would tell me stories and I can even remember doing dishes with my grandmother. Yes, dishes is a short time out of the day for me to solve the world's problems, to worry about my children, and to think about others who have brought food to my table.

This being the holiday season when often folks bring side dishes to your home or when you take food to theirs leave the dish with a smile and say, "You keep it. I had such a good time today. Think of me when you wash it." Well, that is exactly what was happening this morning. As I was thinking about my Thanksgiving Day menu I found myself washing a dish that my late mother-in-law left me one day. She had brought something for a meal. I can remember telling her, "Just a minute I'll quick wash up your dish so you can take it home with you." She said, "Ah, just keep it. It may come in handy some day." I use that dish almost every day and every day I think of her.

I have very old dishes that belonged to my grandmother and my mother. I have given many of them away so others may enjoy them, it being my "golden years" I want them to go to exactly the right folks.
I still have the dish that my mother made home made cottage cheese in when we were just children out on the farm. She would clabber milk on the back of the corn cob cook stove, then she would put it in cheese cloth and hang it from the clothes line. When it was completely dry she would bring it in and mix it with whipping cream and put it in the ice box. Yes, ice box. Oh the memories I have from that first eleven years of my life. They are full of stories, both hard times and fun times. The milk pitcher that you see with sunflowers was on our kitchen table three times a day. We always had milk with our meals often with bits of cream floating on the top. (Probably not so good for our arteries, but no one knew about cholesterol in those days.) Right beside it are three refrigerator dishes that mother always put her churned butter in and possibly some leftovers.

My big computer sits right by my china cupboard. I just turned and looked and there in the back behind the "cottage cheese dish" is a silver crumb brush that belonged to my children's Grandmother Grafing. I'm sure it was part of a set at one time.

Nowadays it is so much easier to take dishes in disposable pans and dishes that can just be thrown away. I agree it is much easier, but if that had always been the case, many of my prized possessions wouldn't now be sitting in my everyday and  company only china cupboards for me to remember the special person while I am doing the dishes.
Happy Thanksgiving, folks. Have a wonderful and safe holiday season.

Thinking Of You

This morning I was working on my children's story blog for next week when I thought, "Oh, I need to send my husband's aunt a card. She is in a nursing home because of a bad fall.
I can remember taking care of my mother-in-law for a long time. The highlight of her day was her mail.

There were days and sometimes weeks without cards in the mail for her. She was almost deaf so telephone calls were frustrating for her as well as the caller, I'm sure. When she passed away I found totes and sacks, and bags full of saved cards from throughout the years; birthday cards, get well cards, Christmas cards, and thinking of you cards. She saved her great grandchildren's coloring pages as well. Those cards meant the world to her. They were on display on her cedar chest right next to her chair. (The most recent ones.) Most days she would take them out of their little holder and re-read them. She often would tell me stories about the person that had sent them to her, whether it be a grandchild, great grandchild, sister, brother, niece nephew or child. After she read them she would put them back on her cedar chest and either stare out her window remembering those folks or crochet when she was able. She was able to read her stories I put in her own blog until she was well over 102 years of age.

My featured child in my children's story blog is Marlee. She is three years old. Her mama not too long ago started working for a nursing home. She posted the other day, that the residents tell her every day that they would love/need visitors. I worked as an Activity Director, and an Administrator of Skilled Nursing Homes for twenty years. I heard the folks say the same thing. Sometimes the people that were able would share their cards and pictures with their friends they had made in the facility.
 People get busy with their own lives and forget, so I decided to remind you all that they need to be remembered by their family and friends; Their neighbors, their church family and even the mail delivery person, the meals on wheels people that used to stop and visit several times a week. They need you.

So if you can't visit please remember them with your cards, pictures and letters. They are thinking of you, so please think of them.

The Grandma

Several months ago my husband and I went to a little town that had a small store that sold everything on their shelves for a dollar. I saw items on their shelves that I had just recently paid four times that amount for. I was amazed. I had heard of those stores, but had never shopped there before. I was so amazed that I even had asked one of their clerks how much an item was that I had in my hand. She smiled and said, "Everything in our store costs a dollar."
As I looked around I noticed that every so often there were signs that said, Every thing that we sell is only one dollar. I didn't put quotes around that because I am not sure exactly what the sign said, but something to that effect.

That particular day my husband and I filled our cart to the brim with items that we generally bought at the grocery store only when they were on sale.
After that initial trip about once a month we would find ourselves in that little store always with smiles on our faces. We were on a fixed income and once a month we were able to buy things that we really enjoyed for a price that we could afford.

Many of you know that I love to write children's stories on my Grandma Lu's Winter Wonderland blog. I have fallen in love with a little three year old girl who is the granddaughter of one of my dear friends. I send Marlee on all kinds of adventures. She has prospected for gold, gone on a hot air balloon, and even foiled the mean old giant in Jack and the beanstalk; not to mention stowing away on a pirate ship.

Marlee was only sixteen months old when I first started documenting her little shopping trips to the mall with tiny little two or three paragraph "stories."

As time went on she and her best friend, Stashia a big old wrinkled dog of her Grandma B's became best friends in my stories. They told each other their problems,  ( I can remember potty training for one), shared secrets, and even played tricks on Marlee's Grandma B.

Before I knew it, the tiny little baby in a stroller was almost three years old. Her family and friends were going to have a tea party for her birthday party theme.
Once again my husband and I picked out little trinkets at this little dollar store to put in her birthday gift bag for her big day. I can remember putting a little tiara with little pink stones in my shopping cart for her and a little bracelet. Neither of these things did Marlee need, but my husband especially, thought that she would like them.

At the check out counter there was a grandma and her very cute little granddaughter waiting in line behind us. The little one was busy to say the least and like many children continued to plague her grandma by wanting to add more things for her grandmother to buy for her. I guessed her age at about three years old or younger. In her hands she had two little tubs of Play Dough and a small ball that sparkled the size of a tennis ball.
The little one was getting fussy and had seen things at the "gotcha" shelf that she would have liked to have. Her grandmother said, "I'm sorry little one, but this is all the money I can afford to spend today"; three dollars and tax. I suddenly felt like I should do something. I told the cashier to add her little things to my bill. My husband raised his eyebrows and I said, "Yes, this is part of Marlee's birthday gift. I know she would like to share."

The lady and her granddaughter looked at me like I was Santa Claus and continued to thank us onto the parking lot. Remember, three dollars. Those two folks have plagued my dreams and my thoughts for at least two weeks. I just needed to write this down.

I finally told the grandma, "If you ever get a chance to have three extra dollars do something nice for someone you think could use a boost someday." She smiled a worried smile and said, "I will if I can."

That's the end of this story.  I am hearing of so many grandparents that are raising grandchildren regardless of their age or health. I thought that might have been the case that day. It was the right thing to do that day.

Our First And Only Motor Home; The Peddler Wagon

I am now seventy-five years old and find myself reminiscing much more than I used to. Some of the "good old days" weren't so pretty good as far as finances were concerned, but oh we had so much fun being poor.
This is Memorial Day weekend of and of course, it is raining. It seems like rain on Memorial Day weekend is a given.
My husband at the time of this story was the father of my children. At the time of this story my children were 3+ and over a year old. Just a perfect age to teach them the joy of camping.
Wally was a body technician. His shop was small and he did the majority of the work including painting. He found a real deal on a Hiland Potato Chip van. He paid three hundred dollars for that wonderful soon- to- be- a- motor home. (As I am writing this I wonder where in the world he got that kind of money. He and his brothers often did odd jobs for extra spending money. Maybe that is what he did.)
After he ate his supper and on weekends he sanded it all down and then painted it. He painted it red and white. It looked like a VW on steroids. The top was white and the bottom was red. It came to a V in the front.
Wally was a very good artist. He painted the Ace of Hearts, the Ace of Spades, The Ace of Clubs and the Ace of Diamonds on each side. He painted them so they were fanned out like the winning hand in a poker game.
The inside of course, was gutted. It was all metal on the inside. It had a driver's seat and that was it. Wally kept reminding me that the motor sounded really good. That also would be soon put to the test.
 So my imagination was running wild. I was so excited. I loved to go camping, but with the children being so small, it seemed like too  much work.
I had less than a shoestring budget to work with. Wally found an old camper stove and put in a little closet. We found a little port-a potty to go in there too. There was no water tank. We had no cupboards. We had boxes for dishes and pots and pans for our first trip. We had coolers for our cold food and drinks and adult beverages, and probably something for silverware. I couldn't afford paper and plastic in those days, so I just took out extra from the house to outfit my new doll house.
I knew that the inside walls had to have something done with them. I didn't want my little ones to touch cold walls during the night. So I went to the carpet store and bought $20 a yard carpet. It was a rust color. It cost me just over a dollar because it was a poor cut remnant. So of course, it had to be glued on. Wally got the glue but I was the instrument to hold it up to the wall with my back as well as my feet. That was a really hard job!
When that job was done, I reminded him that I had no where to put all of the utensils. We planned on doing mostly grilling. So he immediately found a piece of pegboard and screwed that on the wall above the stove. Then he put some S hooks on it. There was my utensil cupboard! That little addition gave birth to our motor home's nickname: The peddler wagon. You see those spatulas and big spoons and can openers and what have you would clink and clang as we drove down the street. They acted like wind chimes only in the key of "Noise flat."
We didn't care we loved it. He made a king size bed in the back of it and two little hanging bunk beds for the children. We were finally set to go. Oh I couldn't wait for the next day to arrive. I had the kids so  psyched up they were wired and ready and were hurrying their father in combo, "Hurry daddy, hurry. Let's go camping." Of course, they had no clue what camping was.
Then the first crack of thunder sounded accompanied by buckets of rain, dark skies and the dismal fact that there was not going to be any camping that day. If you have ever attempted to calm down two youngsters that were gung- ho on an outing you probably realize the problems we were having.
Wally's brother lived just one block away from our house. I called them and said, "What am I going to do with these kids, they are out of control." They were going to go to the lake with us that day too. Then my sister-in-law said, "Well, why don't you just come on down in the camper. You can park it in the driveway. The kids will think they are camping. We can play cards while it rains."
That's exactly what we did. We had BLT sandwiches and had a ball.
The following week the fan belt broke on the way to the lake. Yes, another story because as you know there were no cell phones in those days, but once again Wally's family was following us.
Oh how I wish I still had pictures of that old potato chip van. We had such fun in it.
 Aww the memories...

The Boxcar Children Were My Friends

When I was a little girl my books were my friends. We lived in the country in the the 40's and 50's. There were no siblings close to my age. My sister was much older and my brother was four years younger. I didn't care for dolls which was a good thing because there was no money for such things. Of course, no video games that the children have to occupy their time nowadays.
I can remember getting my library card when I was seven years old. I think I may have it somewhere even now. (I found it!)
That library card was to me like a drivers license is to a teenager. I can vividly remember "signing" my name to that precious card. I felt so very grownup. It was the key to so many things. I could see new places, do new things. I could experience other little girls pain and cold and hardships. I could try to solve mysteries. I can remember laughing and crying. I hated for a book to end. I would tell my mom about the books that I read. I even used them as an excuse to stay up later than my bedtime with something like, "Can I just finish this chapter, then I will go to bed."
 I could use my imagination to the fullest every single time I held a book in my lap. I can remember an almost jittery feeling when I opened up the brand new Little House On The Prairie books. I was one of the very first to read them. I can see them in my mind's eye to this day. They even smelled and felt new. The pages were slick and the covers were shiny.
I can remember reading Heidi for the first time. I asked my mama so many questions about pronunciation and meaning of words. She finally said, "You need to go get your tablet
 and write the words down that you don't know. Then use the dictionary that your dad has. Well, that wasn't my favorite thing to do. My penmanship was not one of my talents. It was time consuming. I was short on the virtue of patience in those days. When I wanted an answer I wanted it now! I complained to my mother, but she persisted and told me I would thank her someday.
 I laugh to myself now that my children and most of my grandchildren are grown. The only thing I thank her for in that department is the opportunity to read as many books as the library would allow which was seven. My parents went to town twice a week. Sunday of course, for church. The other day was either Friday or Saturday.
 The librarian told my mother that other children my age liked to read also and many wanted the same books I read so I had to learn to share with strangers at a very early age. Sharing also, was not in my top ten of things I was willing to do without a stern face from my mother.
When my children were small and even before they were born I told them stories I made up. When they were older they always had a book to read.
The other day I was visiting with a friend and referred to the Boxcar children books that I had read as a child. She said, "Oh, I loved them too!" For a few days I thought about those books. I even looked them up on line. Like most things in my childhood they are listed as "vintage." Hmm. Just the other day I stopped at the library and asked if they had those Boxcar children books. He just looked at me. I said, "They are vintage. I read them as a child." He smiled and said, "Let me look on the computer and I will check to see if we have them." He brought me a CD. Yes he did. I gave him the same look as my mother gave me. He said, "I will check to see if we have them in books as well." Long story short they did have them. I was disappointed to say the least because I could remember the book covers from all those years ago. These books had shiny new covers. They also had a bar code printed on the cover. My librarian in Cherokee, Iowa where I grew up was Mrs. Irene Leeds. She knew every book, every location and for that matter most of the children as well as their parents.
When we got home from town, I sat down in my easy chair and looked at this shiny new book with some trepidation. I didn't want this book to change. I wanted the same little book that I had loved over sixty-five years ago. I opened it up and there it was. My little Boxcar Children book in all it's glory. The pages were soft and colored a light brown with age. They were older than me. I was born in 1944 it was born in 1942. I was in Heaven. As I read I got a lump in my throat.  They assumed their grandfather was mean and evil. They lived on the run. They walked at night so they couldn't be seen and slept at night.
They washed dishes with sand and cold water. I can remember doing that while camping. They used a board for a shelf that was propped on bricks. I did that. They used dishes that they found in a dump and washed and used. I didn't do that, but my dishes didn't match and had some cracks just like little Ben. He loved his "dear pink cup." Oh they just loved their boxcar that they had found. It was old and rusty and overgrown with weeds. It was their home and they loved it.
I guess what I am saying is take your children to story time when they are little. I know and see that a lot of you are. Teach them to know how precious books are. They are your friends when you are all alone. They are there when there is no television. They are always there when others are gone. Maybe, just maybe when they are old they will have fond memories of their favorite books like I do.

May Day Memories

Today over sixty five years ago I can remember my mother making me a new outfit for the school May Pole Dance. I was very young. My parents were poor, but I never knew it. My new outfit was made out of flour sacks. Gold Medal flour sacks to be exact. I was a chubby little girl so my mother made a "dress". The top of it was sleeveless and said Gold Medal in great big letters. The skirt was blue with pink clovers and little white flowers. The skirt was sewn to the top. Then she made a jacket which matched the skirt. It had buttons and long sleeves. Unless I unbuttoned it, which I would never do, a person would think that I was wearing a "store bought" outfit. It was very pretty.

I can and always will remember that outfit because that was the day that my mother taught me to be a lady and to sit like one in the car. You see flour sacks when washed were very limp. Mother had to starch the material with Linit Starch and iron it. I had to put it on carefully so that it didn't wrinkle. Sitting in the car was a trick. I was taught to gather my skirt carefully and smoothly so it too, did not wrinkle. When I arrived at school that evening I was a success. I was not wrinkled.

My mother made me lots of clothes from feed sacks also. They essentially were made from the same type of coarse material, but they made very nice clothes.
I looked at the calendar today and was a little surprised that it was May 1, 2019. That little girl that danced around the May Pole would never have imagined that date. And I'm here to tell you that she had a vivid imagination. Some folks say that she still does.
The reason I titled this post A Bruised and Battered Holiday is because in my mind it is. I Googled May Day. Oh my goodness. It has been celebrated and condemned and banned and celebrated again since forever. Not just in the United States, but in many many countries.
I saw that it was first celebrated by seeing some of the myths and the early years  A.D. I saw that it was a Communist and Pagan Holiday. I read that music and spring and new beginnings were the reason that it was and sometimes is recognized as a day or a space of time to celebrate with music and food and fun.
Be that as it may I can remember having fun with my children when they were young. We made May Baskets. They were made of construction paper and cupcake papers. Oh so full of popcorn and a little bit of candy. I taught them how to sneak over to the neighbor's houses and hang the little baskets of goodies on their door handles and run really fast back home. Such fun we had.
In later years I stayed home with my children and cared for children in my home. We had crafts then too. Yes, we made May Baskets. Again, another fun activity. I didn't give paganism or communism or any other problems/obstacles a thought, because what we did was celebrate Spring and have fun with our neighbors.
I didn't make any May Baskets this year. But I still have the fun memories. That's what we do as parents, teachers, and grandparents. Just think how long ago that little girl danced around a May Pole. Now that's a memory!