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...