When I was little we had a telephone. That is not a big deal now, but it was back then. Our phone was big almost two feet long and hung on the wall It had a crank on it. You had to turn this crank real fast and that got you the operator. You told the operator either the number or the person you wanted to call and she would “put you through”. There was a catch to the phone use. We were on a sixteen party line. That was a lot of people all using the same line. It was very difficult to get through. We have road rage now, we had phone rage back then. Often people would get into arguments and tell each other off because they were on the phone too long.
The telephone was my mother’s entertainment. It was called “rubbering”. Not eavesdropping. Eavesdropping was against the rules, but listening in to other people’s conversations was alright. My mother didn’t drive, she worked really hard day and night, but occasionally she would listen to her neighbors talk on the phone. She then had interesting things to tell my dad when he came in from the fields.
I still remember our telephone number back then. It was 1647WJ. How’s that for a phone number? It was my job to remember it for some reason and I have to this day.
I now have two telephones, a home phone and a cell phone. I have difficulty programming them and remembering to take the cell phone with me. People get upset with me because I don’t answer the phone, but you see I don’t need my phone for entertainment, I have a computer.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Our "New Linoleum"
When I was little I had no clue that we were poor. We had clothes to wear and lots of good things to eat. What more could you want. Well at five or six you just don’t know much, believe it or not. My parents could not afford a five dollar piece of linoleum. Linoleum in those days had a thin pattern on top of black sticky stuff that made the backing. The thin pattern wore off within a year or two and needed to be replaced or all that showed was the black back.
Our kitchen linoleum had a strip right down the middle that was all black, with the pretty pattern still showing on the sides where the traffic was less.
Since we couldn’t afford new linoleum, my mother and dad moved all the furniture out of the kitchen, and mother painted the floor by hand with a brush. Our kitchen was twenty six feet long. I can remember she painted it gray. After the floor had dried, She took pieces of sponge that she had cut into pretty shapes, hearts, diamonds, squares, rectangles, stars etc and dipped them into brightly colored containers that had just a little bit of paint in each one; red, green, black, blue and yellow. She carefully, like an artist placed each sponge onto the freshly painted floor with color after color until the whole floor looked so pretty. I have fond memories of how pretty our new floor looked after mother was done with it. She was proud of it too.
Since the kitchen turned out so pretty she wanted the dining room to look nice too. They did pay the five dollars for the new linoleum in there because that was where our guests always sat and visited. The five dollars would only pay for a 9x12 piece of linoleum. So she took dark brown paint and painted all around the edges so that it looked like hardwood trim. The new linoleum was burgundy with gray feather plumes. Real fancy. She was so proud when she finished. So was I until she told me that it would be my job to dust mop the new floors when they were dirty. I evaded the issue, until the inevitable happened and this is a famous quote from my mother, “Lu Anne you can dust mop now if you want to.” Being a little smarty one day I said, “No, I don’t want to.” And of course, she said “do it anyway.” And on it goes, mom’s against little girls or so it seemed.
Our kitchen linoleum had a strip right down the middle that was all black, with the pretty pattern still showing on the sides where the traffic was less.
Since we couldn’t afford new linoleum, my mother and dad moved all the furniture out of the kitchen, and mother painted the floor by hand with a brush. Our kitchen was twenty six feet long. I can remember she painted it gray. After the floor had dried, She took pieces of sponge that she had cut into pretty shapes, hearts, diamonds, squares, rectangles, stars etc and dipped them into brightly colored containers that had just a little bit of paint in each one; red, green, black, blue and yellow. She carefully, like an artist placed each sponge onto the freshly painted floor with color after color until the whole floor looked so pretty. I have fond memories of how pretty our new floor looked after mother was done with it. She was proud of it too.
Since the kitchen turned out so pretty she wanted the dining room to look nice too. They did pay the five dollars for the new linoleum in there because that was where our guests always sat and visited. The five dollars would only pay for a 9x12 piece of linoleum. So she took dark brown paint and painted all around the edges so that it looked like hardwood trim. The new linoleum was burgundy with gray feather plumes. Real fancy. She was so proud when she finished. So was I until she told me that it would be my job to dust mop the new floors when they were dirty. I evaded the issue, until the inevitable happened and this is a famous quote from my mother, “Lu Anne you can dust mop now if you want to.” Being a little smarty one day I said, “No, I don’t want to.” And of course, she said “do it anyway.” And on it goes, mom’s against little girls or so it seemed.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
On My Soap Box
This morning I was searching for a tv station that had Gospel Music when I happened on to a channel that was all big band music. I closed my eyes and I could see myself dancing in a big ball room. I mean I looked really good. My dress had a full skirt, it was chiffon overlay of taffeta. I had high heels on and my hair was perfect. Then I closed my eyes and I saw Melanie come down stairs all ready for her first high school dance. She was wearing a sweater and blue jeans. I told her that I thought she was going to a dance why wasn't she dressed up. I got the traditional answer I was soon to find out was, "all the kids dress like this to go to a dance." I can remember that I was disappointed, but kept quiet. Proms are about the only dances that kids dress up for now days.
As I listened to Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey, and of course, Harry James, my very favorite, I wondered what happened to those wonderful ball rooms. It really didn't take me very long to figure it out. The answer: blue jeans. Yup, those things used to be for women to work in. Not too long ago I found a pair of blue jeans I really liked. My husband about had a stroke. They were $385.00. I told him I wanted two pair. Of course, I was joking, but the blue jeans have taken over the chiffon ball gowns. How sad. Those days were so much fun. I can still hear the clarinets, the trombones, and the expertise of the drummer using his brushes more than the drums so that you could hear individual instruments. I never went home with a headache from listening to that dreamy music. Long live chiffon!
As I listened to Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey, and of course, Harry James, my very favorite, I wondered what happened to those wonderful ball rooms. It really didn't take me very long to figure it out. The answer: blue jeans. Yup, those things used to be for women to work in. Not too long ago I found a pair of blue jeans I really liked. My husband about had a stroke. They were $385.00. I told him I wanted two pair. Of course, I was joking, but the blue jeans have taken over the chiffon ball gowns. How sad. Those days were so much fun. I can still hear the clarinets, the trombones, and the expertise of the drummer using his brushes more than the drums so that you could hear individual instruments. I never went home with a headache from listening to that dreamy music. Long live chiffon!
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Katzenjammer Kids
I have written lots of stories about my mother, but few about my father. Dad was very soft spoken, and liked quiet when he was in the house.
One day when he was gone I asked mother about dad when he was growing up. She smiled and told me that dad and his brother Roy were called the Katzenjammer Kids when they were little. Ray, my dad, and Roy were just a few months apart in age. The Katzenjammer Kids were cartoon characters in the newspaper at the time the boys were little. That cartoon originally started in 1897 in the Sunday paper. The way mom talked was that they got into everything and were very naughty and full of mischief.
One day my dad’s uncle was washing his car and waxing it getting ready to go into town on a date with his girlfriend. He worked on his car all afternoon. When he was done it just sparkled. He took his pail and his rags and put them in the shed and went to the house to get dressed for his date.
When he came out a short time later, his car was a disaster. Dad and his brother had taken hands full of muddy water and smeared their uncle’s car with their little hands until the whole car looked like it had gone through the Mississippi River. Not only did they put the muddy water on it, but they picked up gravel and put it in the mud and smeared the car until the car was all scratched.
They both got spankings.
The story of the Katzenjammer Kids and the muddy car survived many years of telling. I heard that story every time dad’s relatives got together for reunions and family gatherings. My dad was not always quiet it seems.
One day when he was gone I asked mother about dad when he was growing up. She smiled and told me that dad and his brother Roy were called the Katzenjammer Kids when they were little. Ray, my dad, and Roy were just a few months apart in age. The Katzenjammer Kids were cartoon characters in the newspaper at the time the boys were little. That cartoon originally started in 1897 in the Sunday paper. The way mom talked was that they got into everything and were very naughty and full of mischief.
One day my dad’s uncle was washing his car and waxing it getting ready to go into town on a date with his girlfriend. He worked on his car all afternoon. When he was done it just sparkled. He took his pail and his rags and put them in the shed and went to the house to get dressed for his date.
When he came out a short time later, his car was a disaster. Dad and his brother had taken hands full of muddy water and smeared their uncle’s car with their little hands until the whole car looked like it had gone through the Mississippi River. Not only did they put the muddy water on it, but they picked up gravel and put it in the mud and smeared the car until the car was all scratched.
They both got spankings.
The story of the Katzenjammer Kids and the muddy car survived many years of telling. I heard that story every time dad’s relatives got together for reunions and family gatherings. My dad was not always quiet it seems.
So many Rules.....
From the time I was about 3 feet tall, I was gently but firmly fed from the family book of rules. Rules from my mother and father as well as my grandfather and grandmother. I was a happy child until rules were brought up and enforced. I would be happy that it was meal time until I was told that nice little girls did not sing at the table. Nice little girls did not talk when there were grownups at the table. Nice little girls ate with her left hand in her lap unless she needed to cut her meat.
Rules have been the vain of my existence my whole life. It is almost inevitable that if someone or something tells me that I can't do something that is exactly what I want to do. I remember when I was six years old, my mother made me a beautiful suit from a gold medal flour sack. The jacket covered up the words, Gold Medal. It was one hundred percent cotton and wrinkled easily. My mother taught me to smooth my skirt before I sat down, and cross my legs at the ankles. That was the rule.
I started taking piano lessons when I was six years old. That was what little girls did in those days. I enjoyed the lessons, however, there was a rule. That rule was that I had to practice my lesson for one half hour every day. I hated that rule. I would have rather read my books. My mother said that she had to pay a dollar for my lessons and she wanted me to be a pianist like she and her mother. I wanted to play the flute like my friend. Mother said when I was eighty I would play the piano, probably not the flute. I am sure she was right.
Our piano was in the parlor. It was completely removed from the hustle bustle of the household. I personally think they put it in there so I would practice like I was told to. Well boredom seemed to fall on my shoulders like a load of hay. The sun shone in on the window and I stared outside wishing I was anywhere but sitting on the piano bench. My mother's sewing machine was sitting not far from my piano. She had a pair of pinking shears on her machine. I had never used them before, so I thought I would see if I could make the lace curtains at the window pretty. I made several strips up and down the curtain. When I was done, I put the scissors back and played the piano some and then went to my favorite spot and read my Laura Ingall's Wilder books. A short time later I heard my mother sobbing. I, of course, looked to see what the problem was. In her hand she held the strips that I had cut with her pinking shears. She never said a word to me nor I to her. When I was grown I talked to my mother about it. She said, "it was just a childish mistake, but we were so poor I couldn't replace the curtains, so anytime we had company they either couldn't go to the parlor or had to look at the strips. The decision was quite simple. We had no more company in the parlor.
This last spring I was making curtains for our camper. I was looking for some scissors. There in the bottom of my mother's sewing basket lay those dreaded pinking shears.
Rules have been the vain of my existence my whole life. It is almost inevitable that if someone or something tells me that I can't do something that is exactly what I want to do. I remember when I was six years old, my mother made me a beautiful suit from a gold medal flour sack. The jacket covered up the words, Gold Medal. It was one hundred percent cotton and wrinkled easily. My mother taught me to smooth my skirt before I sat down, and cross my legs at the ankles. That was the rule.
I started taking piano lessons when I was six years old. That was what little girls did in those days. I enjoyed the lessons, however, there was a rule. That rule was that I had to practice my lesson for one half hour every day. I hated that rule. I would have rather read my books. My mother said that she had to pay a dollar for my lessons and she wanted me to be a pianist like she and her mother. I wanted to play the flute like my friend. Mother said when I was eighty I would play the piano, probably not the flute. I am sure she was right.
Our piano was in the parlor. It was completely removed from the hustle bustle of the household. I personally think they put it in there so I would practice like I was told to. Well boredom seemed to fall on my shoulders like a load of hay. The sun shone in on the window and I stared outside wishing I was anywhere but sitting on the piano bench. My mother's sewing machine was sitting not far from my piano. She had a pair of pinking shears on her machine. I had never used them before, so I thought I would see if I could make the lace curtains at the window pretty. I made several strips up and down the curtain. When I was done, I put the scissors back and played the piano some and then went to my favorite spot and read my Laura Ingall's Wilder books. A short time later I heard my mother sobbing. I, of course, looked to see what the problem was. In her hand she held the strips that I had cut with her pinking shears. She never said a word to me nor I to her. When I was grown I talked to my mother about it. She said, "it was just a childish mistake, but we were so poor I couldn't replace the curtains, so anytime we had company they either couldn't go to the parlor or had to look at the strips. The decision was quite simple. We had no more company in the parlor.
This last spring I was making curtains for our camper. I was looking for some scissors. There in the bottom of my mother's sewing basket lay those dreaded pinking shears.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
My Broken Ankle
By the time I was ten years old I had begun to like my brother better. At least he was someone to play with at times. I would rather read or play the piano, but at times I would go outside with him.
We had one old bike to share at that time. It was a big boys bike and difficult to ride, but I did master it. Keith thought it would be fun to take turns racing with it. He said he could get some twine out of the shed to make a goal line to see who could break it as we went whizzing through. He got the twine and we stretched it across our driveway. We were a long ways away from the house. Since I was the oldest I told him that I got first try. He didn't like it, but he let me. I was a lot bigger than him. I went quite a ways back from the twine and built up quite a bit of speed. I hit the twine and was so tickled for a split second. The twine got tangled up in the spokes of the bike and stopped me on a dime. I got thrown into the air and when I hit the hard ground I twisted my ankle and broke it. Keith went tearing to the house and told my mother and she got my dad. They came to see how bad it was. My dad got all excited and kept telling me to walk on it. Oh that made my mother so mad she yelled at him. I had never heard her yell at my dad. She said, "can't you see that it is broken?"
Well the next thing was that I was taken into town to the hospital in Cherokee. At the hosital they put my leg in a cast with a rubber thing that was sticking out from the bottom. It was called a walking cast. I thought to myself, "That just isn't going to happen." I was to walk with crutches for a few days then walk on the broken ankle in the cast.
My mother was talking to my dad and said, "I think we should buy a television. She (meaning me) is not going to be able to go outside until that leg heals and she needs something to do." Dad said ok. That was in 1954. The television cost two hundred dollars. I couldn't believe it. They had already spent eighty dollars on the doctor and hospital bill. I heard about that plenty, let me tell you. We true to form, I became addicted to television. I watched Two Gun Play House and Howdy Doodie until my mother wanted to scream. The day came when she said that I should start walking on my cast. Of course, I said no, I would not do that. She put a kitchen stool in the middle of the kitchen and told me to walk to the stool and sit on it. Again I said no because it would hurt too bad. She tried and tried to no avail. Finally she said (she must have taken psychology courses too) "ok, but you will have to stay on that stool because I have things to do. You just decide what you are going to do." I can remember Keith coming in to the kitchen grinning at me like I was some big coward. Finally, I said "ok but it's going to be all your fault if it breaks again" Well it did not hurt a bit and I found I could walk all over the place by myself. I had found myself chuckling kind of a sick chuckle because I could not believe that she had been right. My mother told that story for years.
We had one old bike to share at that time. It was a big boys bike and difficult to ride, but I did master it. Keith thought it would be fun to take turns racing with it. He said he could get some twine out of the shed to make a goal line to see who could break it as we went whizzing through. He got the twine and we stretched it across our driveway. We were a long ways away from the house. Since I was the oldest I told him that I got first try. He didn't like it, but he let me. I was a lot bigger than him. I went quite a ways back from the twine and built up quite a bit of speed. I hit the twine and was so tickled for a split second. The twine got tangled up in the spokes of the bike and stopped me on a dime. I got thrown into the air and when I hit the hard ground I twisted my ankle and broke it. Keith went tearing to the house and told my mother and she got my dad. They came to see how bad it was. My dad got all excited and kept telling me to walk on it. Oh that made my mother so mad she yelled at him. I had never heard her yell at my dad. She said, "can't you see that it is broken?"
Well the next thing was that I was taken into town to the hospital in Cherokee. At the hosital they put my leg in a cast with a rubber thing that was sticking out from the bottom. It was called a walking cast. I thought to myself, "That just isn't going to happen." I was to walk with crutches for a few days then walk on the broken ankle in the cast.
My mother was talking to my dad and said, "I think we should buy a television. She (meaning me) is not going to be able to go outside until that leg heals and she needs something to do." Dad said ok. That was in 1954. The television cost two hundred dollars. I couldn't believe it. They had already spent eighty dollars on the doctor and hospital bill. I heard about that plenty, let me tell you. We true to form, I became addicted to television. I watched Two Gun Play House and Howdy Doodie until my mother wanted to scream. The day came when she said that I should start walking on my cast. Of course, I said no, I would not do that. She put a kitchen stool in the middle of the kitchen and told me to walk to the stool and sit on it. Again I said no because it would hurt too bad. She tried and tried to no avail. Finally she said (she must have taken psychology courses too) "ok, but you will have to stay on that stool because I have things to do. You just decide what you are going to do." I can remember Keith coming in to the kitchen grinning at me like I was some big coward. Finally, I said "ok but it's going to be all your fault if it breaks again" Well it did not hurt a bit and I found I could walk all over the place by myself. I had found myself chuckling kind of a sick chuckle because I could not believe that she had been right. My mother told that story for years.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
My First Permanent
I was chubby, I was cute, but I had the straightest hair you can imagine. My hair was a light brown when I was six years old. About shoulder length. The only way my hair looked good was in braids. My mother braided my hair so tight, I can remember it was hard to close my eyes.
Mother had a friend from church whose name was Judy. She ran a beauty shop out of her home. Mother wanted me to have a permanent. She made a deal with Judy to provide her with baked goods until my perm was paid for.
The day arrived that my mother took me to Judy's home to get my perm. Oh, I will never forget that day as long as I live. The permanent machine was about five feet tall. It had all kinds of insulated electric wires that dangled down to chair height. On the end of the wires were metal clamps. The first thing that Judy did was to wash my hair, then she put permanent solution on little strands of hair then rolled my hair on some kind of roller. After that was done, she clamped my hair onto the electric permanent machine. She did that to my whole head. The solution smelled so bad it was difficult to breathe. Then she turned on the electricity. It shot out sparks and made horrible noises. I thought for sure I was going to die. She left those clamps on my hair for several long minutes. She then looked at the curls and told me that I was going to be beautiful and that it was worth the trouble. I thought it was agony. She then put some other stuff on my hair, which I suppose was neutralizer. Then she dried my hair and fixed it in long curls. Long curls were wound around the ladies' fingers and either tied with strips of cloth or pins made for that purpose. I did look beautiful
The next week, my mother washed my hair in the kitchen sink. That's where we did the hair washing and the little "baths" that we took in between our weekly baths. When the hot water hit my hair that horrible smell came right back. Even my mother said, "Oh I don't think she rinsed out all of the permanent solution." There was no such thing as hair conditioner in those days. They had a hair oil that was called VO5. Mother used that on my hair because after it was washed and dried (no hair dryer) my hair swelled to the size of a bushel basket. I cried and cried. Mother wasn't too happy either. I told my mother I wasn't going to school, I wasn't going to church and I may have told her I hated her and the mean old lady that ruined my hair. Mother took me to another beauty shop and had my hair cut and then she took me again until the perm was gone. Then I was allowed to let my hair grow into a pony tail. I let my mother give me a Tony home perm just for my bangs. I thought that looked cute. You may think it's silly, but every time I get a perm and get a whiff of perm solution, that first visit to a beauty shop comes to my mind.
September 25, 2018
I no longer get permanents, just a cut. When I told my beauty operator that the other day, I smiled remembering this horrible day, and every other day I got a perm. Not again, no thank you.
Mother had a friend from church whose name was Judy. She ran a beauty shop out of her home. Mother wanted me to have a permanent. She made a deal with Judy to provide her with baked goods until my perm was paid for.
 |
| A photo of a photo of the horrible machine not real people. |
The next week, my mother washed my hair in the kitchen sink. That's where we did the hair washing and the little "baths" that we took in between our weekly baths. When the hot water hit my hair that horrible smell came right back. Even my mother said, "Oh I don't think she rinsed out all of the permanent solution." There was no such thing as hair conditioner in those days. They had a hair oil that was called VO5. Mother used that on my hair because after it was washed and dried (no hair dryer) my hair swelled to the size of a bushel basket. I cried and cried. Mother wasn't too happy either. I told my mother I wasn't going to school, I wasn't going to church and I may have told her I hated her and the mean old lady that ruined my hair. Mother took me to another beauty shop and had my hair cut and then she took me again until the perm was gone. Then I was allowed to let my hair grow into a pony tail. I let my mother give me a Tony home perm just for my bangs. I thought that looked cute. You may think it's silly, but every time I get a perm and get a whiff of perm solution, that first visit to a beauty shop comes to my mind.
September 25, 2018
I no longer get permanents, just a cut. When I told my beauty operator that the other day, I smiled remembering this horrible day, and every other day I got a perm. Not again, no thank you.
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