The Store Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Christmas Memory At School 1950

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

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

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

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

I'll Have A Cherry Phosphate Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Dad Had A Love/Hate Relationship With Nature

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Father's Day Dad.

The Corn Cob Bin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Mother's Pancakes

 This morning I decided to fix my husband pancakes for breakfast. I got out the griddle and put some oil on it. My husband came out to the kitchen and said, "Oh pancakes. My favorite." I smiled, but inside I was thinking about my mom and Fran was wondering why I had put some oil on the griddle. You see when I was a little girl we lived on a farm. My mother cooked with what she had.

We were poor as I have often said, but we always had enough food and really good food. My mom used her cast iron skillets for fried chicken and pancakes. It actually made no difference what she was cooking she used those heavy black pans.

 I can remember one day my mother lit into my dad. He had taken her biggest cast iron skillet and took it to the machine shed and ground all the black off of it. He was so proud when he came in the kitchen and held his head down when he left it. You just don't grind off the black from one of those magical frying pans. My mom was explicit about explaining that to my dad.

Once again I got sidetracked while telling a story about my childhood. Her pancakes were made from Gold Medal flour which she purchased in fifty pound bags because of her baking, fresh eggs from her own chickens, milk from our cows and maple syrup often which she made herself. She put melted lard in the batter and put lard in the skillet until it was hot enough to suit her. Hot meant that when she dropped a tiny drop of pancake batter into the skillet and it danced as she called it it was hot enough.

The pancakes were the size of a plate and crispy. Oh they were so good. We often put our own cream and homemade applesauce on them too. Those memories have just been filling my mind this Christmas season.

Anyway, back to my pancakes this morning. They weren't crispy; they were soft restaurant pancakes, but doable. Mother's had ridges that were dark and the edges that were dark and oh so crunchy.

Well a few years ago we found out that cream and lard and eggs weren't good for you. Cast iron skillets were too heavy for me to lift and pancake mix was easier and faster than making them from scratch. A woman once said, (me) that no fat no flavor. That's true because Fran bought me some low fat ice cream  milk yuk. He also was educated on the taste vs. ingredients. 

I'm sure you all are remembering those that you used to share the holidays with. Yes, it puts a lump in your throat, tears in your eyes, but also a smile on your face. Those memories are the best of gifts that are absolutely free. Just close your eyes and there they are. Happy holidays and a very Merry Christmas.

Mending and Memories

 Yesterday my husband and I went to a yearly indoor yard sale at the Methodist Church. It is always a fun place to go not only for the things on sale, but the folks you meet there; both old friends and acquaintances and visiting with friendly folks that you've never met before.

I picked up some pretty tops for fifty cents a piece and was pretty proud of my purchase. As we were going out the door there was a quilt displayed over a trunk. It was twenty dollars. I picked it up and it was so very soft. I looked it over and noticed that it was machine sewn but had some hand stitching also. I also noticed that it had no batting like I used to use. I decided that that quilt needed a new home and sent Fran to pay for it. An elderly lady came up to me and said, "You really knew what you were buying didn't you? That's an antique you know." I smiled and said, "I think I will cuddle up to it when I get home. I'm old too." We both chuckled and felt a camaraderie even though we didn't know each other.

When we got it home Fran and I noticed that it needed to be washed and also notice a frayed square that needed to be repaired before it was washed. Today I was carrying it into my bed and Fran said, "I thought you were going to wash it before you used it." I told him I needed to inspect it to see if the one square was the only one that needed mended. We saw two others so I got out my needle and thread and proceeded to repair and inspect. As I was sewing Fran watched me very carefully. We visited about the news and family, especially his mother and her beautiful quilts she made. and her niece that does beautiful quilting. But I was thinking of my mother's quilt that was hanging in our bedroom that she hand stitched while she was carrying me in 1944. 

We remarked on the many repairs that the quilt needed. I told him that I thought the lady that made this quilt so many years ago had not had much money or that she cherished the quilt because I could tell where she had replaced a pattern with hand stitching over a place that had been completely worn through with newer material. Or as I later happened to think, it could have been handed down to a relative.

 I kept saying this quilt has been washed so many times the material feels softer than the very finest material. All this time I was thinking about my parents. My dad would read to my mother while she was mending. I never remember interrupting; it wasn't my place. But I do remember my mother darning socks as I found that I was in fact using darning stitches to repair some places that only new material would strengthen it. I didn't want to do that. This quilt was old and just needed a boost so that I could put it on my bed. I knew that I didn't need it for warmth, but the smile it will bring to my face every time I look at it. Oh the stories that quilt was hiding.