The Reindeer Keeper

Don't Go Down To The Creek!

2012-02-19T09:22:00.000-05:00

I've written before about how much fun my cousins and I would have playing down at the creek that flowed behind our houses out in the country. It didn't matter the time of year. We were always down there. I've written about the rafts our uncle made us out of telephone poles and how we'd go all over that creek pretending this or that. It was called Sucker Creek for a reason-there were blood suckers in it but it never kept us away. We just never swam in the murky water. In the winter we'd skate for hours-even at night under the moonlight. But it was one Saturday morning, as the hint of spring was in the air while snow was still covering the ground and the ice was still intact, that will forever remain my most poignant memory of those days down at the creek.

My mother asked me to watch my sister-who is seven years younger than me-as out the front door we went to play. I must have been around eleven years old at the time. Her last instructions were firm, "Don't go down to the creek. The ice isn't safe."

After being outside for a bit I heard some friends laughing and playing-down at the creek. I told my sister to follow me. Down to the creek we went. I wasn't going to actually go on the ice. I was curious. I wanted to know what they were doing especially since my mother said the ice was not safe. I remember standing with my sister on the creek bank watching them. They had their skates on. They were having fun. When they saw us standing there they waved us over. I said no-at first-but then that curiosity took over. I remember telling my sister to "stay right here. Don't go on the creek. I'll be right back."

I meant what I'd said. I thought I'd be right back but once I reached my friends I lost all track of the time-and my sister. Finally-finally I looked back where I'd left her-and she wasn't there. My first thought was that she'd gone back home and my mother would be running through the field after me. I knew I'd better leave. As I reached the point where I'd last seen her I heard water. Someone was splashing water. I looked around and saw my sister further down the creek. She'd fallen through the ice. She was trying desperately to keep her head above the water. One time she disappeared but came back up and grabbed hold of the ice. It kept breaking.

I screamed for my friends to help me. My sister was dressed in a heavy, woolen snow suit which added to the weight pulling her down. The closer I got the more the ice would crack so I decided to get down on my hands and knees and crawl towards her. One of my friends threw a limb to me as I edged my way forward. My sister went under again and that's when I went for her. I threw the limb aside and crawled at lightning speed. Reaching the dark hole I stuck my hands in and felt her. I pulled with all my might and soon out she literally popped. Taking my coat off I covered her up and carried her-not home-but to my grandmother's house next door. While she was frozen to the bone, my sister was awake and breathing.

Our grandmother stripped us down and covered us with warm woolen blankets in her bed. She gave us hot tea and hot cereal. Once she knew we were safe and sound she called our mother. The rest of this story you can only imagine!

Happy Hearts Day Everyone!

2012-02-14T07:42:00.000-05:00

Celebrate! This is the day of hearts and chocolates and little messages of caring and expressions of Love! Happy Valentine's Day!

Learning How to Sew on Saturdays in the Winter

2012-02-11T15:52:00.000-05:00

When I was in my preteens my grandmother taught sewing on Saturday mornings during the winter in my mother's fabric shop which was attached to our home. That's where I learned about darts and inseams; marking and pinning patterns and secrets of how to cut the patterns out. I discovered how some materials such as silks and velvets are harder to sew than others like cottons and rayon. While it took me forever to trim a pattern, pin it to the fabric, and cut it out, my grandmother did it in lightning speed. On went the pins and soon, off they came. That's the manner in which she sewed, too. And when she wasn't the instructor, she'd be at her little black Singer sewing machine pumping the foot pedal and turning out one item after another. This instructor never needed a pattern back home in her sewing room. She had the eye for her artform and those of us lucky enough to be in her family, benefited. When you have the eye-the imagination, the creativity is the driving force, not what's been learned in a book or classroom on a winter Saturday.

I haven't sewn in a very long time yet I still wander about fabric stores. There's something about all those bolts of material that ignite a spark. I find myself pulling one bolt off the shelf and matching it with others. There are so many from which to choose in so many colors and designs. I mix-match corduroys with linens and organzas with taffeta. I go from sewing a dress to a coat to a fancy outfit and then I start all over, overlooking the fact I have no fancy event written on my calendar. I check out the buttons-so many buttons. I am amazed at the endless shades of thread or fancy sewing machines that seem to have a brain of their own. I sit at the pattern table and wander through pattern books. Nothing escapes possibility as I sift through those pages.

When all is said and done, I eventually close the books, put the bolts back where they belong and walk out the door without buying a thing. For the time being, that urge to sew has been satisfied-until the next time.

Skating on the Creek

2012-01-28T09:33:00.000-05:00

It's one of those things-you don't realize how lucky you were kind of thing until you are remembering it! All winter long we had our own skating rink right out the back door and down the hill to the creek. We didn't have to depend on anyone taking us somewhere to skate inside an arena. We'd bundle up and disappear for hours. I don't ever remember getting cold but then that would have been impossible since we were in constant motion-racing, swirling and twirling in olympic-style fashion. The only thing that stopped us were frozen reeds sticking up from the ice. If we caught our skates on them, down we'd go-but not for long!

Sometimes we'd pack a lunch and follow the creek as far as it allowed. Other times we'd skate at night under the moon and stars. It was breathtaking, with the moon acting as a spotlight and the frosty, snowy fields glistening while twinkling stars danced their winter dance. Lying on the ice, my cousin and I would enjoy the winter night's show from above. We'd talk and share,lick the snow from our mittens and eat icicles gathered from our private rink.

Looking back I believe those times spent skating on the creek defines absolute pure enjoyment-just what childhood should be!

For the Love of Hot Cereal!

2012-01-22T21:52:00.000-05:00

I really enjoy the fall; can't stand the muggy days of summer or drizzly days of spring-but winter, specifically January, tops the list as my favorite time of the year. It might be the contrast-harshness wrapped in breathtaking beauty. It might be the quiet after December's rush. It might be the welcome embrace of home when walking through the door as the snow flies and wind blows. It might be many things but one thing for sure-hot cereal cooking on top of the stove while toast is being toasted and hot chocolate is being stirred is the most soulful-most heartfelt reason for January to be the first of the twelve months on the calendar.

My grandmother-my aunt-my mother all cooked hot cereal. They each had their variations. Some used brown sugar-some sprinkled cinnamon in the bubbling mix-some served it with cream instead of milk. My grandmother would add a dab of butter when dishing her cereal into a bowl. She used a simple sauce pan with a top that had a dent in it for cooking the cereal. She'd used it for years. My aunt used it too.

On Sunday mornings in the wintertime, that pan made serving after serving of hot cereal-depending on how many grandchildren were there. Many times after we'd been outside skating or sliding we'd stop at our grandmother's to warm up-then go back outside to play. Many times we were served a bowl of hot cereal before leaving.

Besides Oatmeal, we loved Cream of Wheat and Corn Meal. We weren't picky just as long as it was piping hot off the stove served with buttered toast and hot chocolate. No microwave variations here-just spoons full of creamy, delicious hot cereal cooked in a certain saucepan served around the table as the January snow fell and wind blew!

Laurie's Thoughts and Reviews: The Reindeer Keeper by Barbara Briggs Ward - Excer...

2011-12-27T05:57:00.000-05:00

Laurie's Thoughts and Reviews: The Reindeer Keeper by Barbara Briggs Ward - Excer...: ABOUT THE BOOK Abbey senses something special about the little man tending to the reindeer who, along with a century-old farmhouse, a b...

Christmas Eves in the House on the Lane

2011-12-24T23:54:00.000-05:00

The house where Santa came on Christmas Eve when I was growing up was situated beside a lane on a street with a bit of a hill. It was a great place to live when just a youngster and the place I look back upon fondly when thinking of hanging my Christmas stocking with my brother on the taped-together, heavy cardboard fireplace our parents brought down from the attic a few weeks before Christmas. We loved the fireplace. It looked real once the “fla

mes” were plugged in. The flickering effect for some reason made me feel warm and cozy. Sitting on the black cardboard mantle in the same spot every year were a plastic Santa and Snowman. Once turned on, they’d light up. The snowman became a green or blue or red snowman-depending on the little bulb my mother chose.

We always had a real tree. It always sat in the same corner of the front room. My mother insisted. She was a perfectionist when it came to decorating it after my father strung the lights. The smallest ornaments would be hung at the top. The bigger decorations, most of them bought at a local hardware store or Woolworth’s, filled-in the middle and bottom of the tree. Then each branch would be covered in heavy tinsel making it look like something out of a magazine. The decorating of the tree was a tradition-just like my grandparents and aunt joining us for Christmas Eve dinner.

They always came in through the side porch which sat alongside the lane. My grandfather would nudge his old Ford truck as close to the house as possible. They used that particular door to bring in presents-some my brother and I weren’t supposed to see. Years later I figured out my mother hid those presents on the porch until Santa came down the cardboard chimney long after midnight mass and long after we’d gone to bed-but not to sleep.

It was a sight, seeing my aunt with her long hair and red lipstick bounding into the kitchen loaded down with the gifts that needed to be placed under the tree. My grandfather followed carrying homemade pies and breads. But it was what my grandmother carried that instilled in me a feeling of tradition even though I didn’t know such a word existed or such a feeling had a name. Despite the fact that you couldn’t eat it or play with it or wear it or the fact that it didn’t have bells or whistles, what my grandmother carried into our home was the one thing that never changed. It was a constant. It simply was-a silver ladle wrapped inside a deep-blue velvet bag with strings that you’d pull to keep it secure. It was a custom for my grandmother to bring that sparkling heirloom to Christmas Eve dinner in the house that sat by the lane. My mother would always make oyster broth and it was the silver ladle that served the soup into china bowls sitting on a linen tablecloth that had been in the family for as long as my grandmother could remember.

It’s not the gifts or the parties that are remembered long after the tree is down and thoughts turn to spring. Its traditions, linking one Christmas to the next and one generation to another, that remain forever in a family’s tapestry. To some it was just a silver ladle. To me it was the silver ladle in the deep-blue velvet bag brought to Christmas Eve dinner year after year after year.

Snowy Country Christmases

2011-12-24T07:14:00.000-05:00

Growing up out in the country mounds of snow were as much a part of Christmas as the presents. We never doubted if we'd have snow for Christmas. The question was how much of it would there be.

Those wintery Christmas landscapes were strikingly beautiful day and night. Down in the pine grove, trees with thick, white branches looked like Christmas snow angels; fields and pastures stretching forever appeared tucked under the same blanket. In the evenings when skating on the creek-with the silver stars and dancing moon-sparkling diamonds lit the landscape as my cousin and I would talk Christmas lying atop the ice- wondering who got us what, trying to keep secrets, and fearing it would never arrive!

Looking back we lived and played and waited anxiously for Santa Claus in a Currier & Ives Christmas scene-all part of the splendor of a snowy country Christmas.

Santa Claus was a Woodworker

2011-12-22T06:12:00.001-05:00

My grandparents worked more than a full day every day no matter the season. There were no vacations; no sick time. From all my grandmother's daily responsibilities in the farmhouse-plus caring for six daughters and preparing the earth for the spring gardens-to my grandfather working the fields and tending to his duties in the barn-that farm defined them and left those of us who loved them a lasting impression of what the word "work" both looks like and means.

When my grandfather came in through the back door at night after finishing his nightly chores in the barn, he'd take time to relax before going to bed. Besides being an avid reader he was quite skillful as a woodworker. To the left in this picture you can see his saw. In the Chicken Soup for the Soul Book, "Christmas Magic" I write about my most favorite Christmas present ever-a pine desk with a single drawer and matching stool which my grandfather made for me when I was seven.

Leading up to Christmas that year my cousins and I weren't allowed in the kitchen in the evenings if we happened to be there when this craftsman was at work. As we'd play in the dining room, sawdust would seep through the cracks around the closed door. The sound of that saw told us it was very busy at the North Pole just feet away. But then, it was the season of surprises and I was thoroughly surprised Christmas morning when I found the desk and stool waiting for me. I thought he'd been making me bunk beds for my dolls.

I remember a feeling coming over me as I touched the wood. I could smell the varnish on the pine and envision my grandfather laboring into the night in an effort to complete his Christmas projects on time. As I sat down, I pulled open the drawer and found a pad of lined paper with a #2 yellow pencil. It'd been sharpened just for me. That was the moment I knew I wanted to be a writer. It was only fitting this desk came from my grandfather as he loved relaxing in the front parlor; loved reading his Zane Grey mysteries and Saturday Evening Posts. We'd play all around him and he never seem bothered. He never seemed to notice we were even there.

Reading a good book does that-even after a hard day's work on the farm-including playing Santa Claus for grandchildren anticipating his Christmas morning surprises!

The Gathering Season

2011-12-20T23:44:00.000-05:00

Christmas is the Gathering Season; families coming together; generations connecting around Christmas trees and kitchen tables and oak pedestal tables such as the one pictured here. It was a fixture in my grandparents' dining room in their old farmhouse. Weddings and birthdays; holidays and funerals-whatever the occasion that table served as host to those gathering.

At Christmastime, we gather to celebrate. We gather to remember. We gather to share. We did all of that and more around that oak table. As bowls full of home-cooked favorites were passed from one to the other, conversations flowed and connections renewed. When the mince pies made the rounds, conversation came to a halt while outside the snow kept falling.

As you gather this Christmas take the time to sit back and absorb the moments around the tree-around the table. They slip through our fingers too quickly and become memories. Happy Gathering!

"Christmas Cookie Fun"

2011-12-19T21:29:00.000-05:00

I know I've written about our chicken coop clubhouse many times; telling you about all the fun my cousins and I had playing and pretending inside that old place. A favorite thing I liked to do was write little poems.
I still like to do that and I thought it might be fun to share one with you-especially since it's a Christmas poem.

This is for all the Christmas Bakers and Cookie Cutters and Gingerbread Men Makers: CHRISTMAS COOKIE FUN

It's Christmas 'round the kitchen;
We're making cookies by the dozen.
We cut them from the spongy dough;
then put them in the oven-
to bake up warm and tasty;
they're such delicious treats-
We have so many recipes-
some with oats and some with whole-grain wheat-
or little chocolate morsels; topped with a brush of honey;
Some turn out square or very round;
Some look like elves so funny;
or snowmen standing with their brooms or Santa in his sleigh-
Mommy calls me her little helper as we pick up from our day.

She brushes flour off my nose and wipes the table clean.
We laugh and giggle merrily while we scrub our messy scene.

Yes! It's Christmas 'round the kitchen; we're baking Christmas cheer-
We wish this was a recipe that would last throughout the year!

Happy Christmas Baking and Nibbling Everyone!

A Christmas Tradition

2011-12-18T21:59:00.000-05:00

While family traditions are as varied as snowflakes, they all come wrapped in memories. My grandmother's Christmas bread remains a tradition in our family. Although she is no longer with us, some in the family have continued the laborious process of scalding the milk; folding in the currants and candied fruit and seedless raisins and pineapple; then letting dough rise three times followed with more mixing and pouring and greasing-and then waiting and praying the batch in the oven passes the family taste and smell test. The bread had a certain texture. We all know it. Its aroma is unique and remains in the hearts of all fortunate to have called this woman Giddy-a nickname given to her by her first grandchild. It caught on. Everyone who knew her called her Giddy.

The attached picture shows Giddy in one of her house dresses preparing the bread with greased tins ready to go. She knew that recipe by heart. She knew every recipe by heart if there was a recipe. Most times she just went by instinct.

Giddy was our hub; our heart and soul. As we ready to gather once again at Christmas I know she's near. I can smell the pine as if I was back in that farmhouse with her-and taste that Christmas bread coming out of the oven of her woodstove. Traditions most certainly do come wrapped in memories!

http://myemail.constantcontact.com/My-Christmas-Angel.html?soid=1104865671040&aid=oDqUU_pzTe0

2011-12-18T19:38:00.000-05:00

http://myemail.constantcontact.com/My-Christmas-Angel.html?soid=1104865671040&aid=oDqUU_pzTe0

A Christmas Cowboy

2011-12-17T10:59:00.000-05:00

Pictured here is my older brother showing off his new cowboy outfit Santa brought him "just a few years back" on Christmas. I'm in the rocking chair. With us are two cousins. Brothers are good to have. Maybe one doesn't realize it for they can be pests. Take this cowboy for example. It's not that he was a pest. It's just that he was the first born and in my parents' eyes-especially my mother's-and my grandparents, aunts, uncles,and cousins he could do no wrong.

Growing up, because he was a few years older, he really never hung around with us younger ones. He never played in the clubhouse or skated on the creek with us. Instead, he hung around more with our grandfather-riding the tractor or going to town with our grandfather in his old truck. Aunts and uncles included him in activities and usually he got to sit at the big table during gatherings. We younger ones were never jealous or felt slighted. After all, he was the oldest. With his red hair and freckles and a zest for life that's never gone away he paved the way for the rest of us. It's since growing older that I understand the value of an older brother.

When we hit our late teens he became my protector. Although his friends would hang out at the house he tried separating me and my friends from them-especially when we were all out and having fun. Sometimes that worked but most times, it didn't! When our father died he became the oldest in a different way. When our mother died he stepped into a new role for me and our younger brother and sister.

Roles in families evolve as families grow and change and lose loved ones along the way. It's memories like a little cowboy sitting under a Christmas tree and his sister sitting nearby in a rocking chair that tie the bond as years flow by. The trick is never to lose site of those memories as we go along for they are the foundation from which we go through life.

The Wood Stove

2011-12-11T10:23:00.001-05:00

I've blogged so much about my grandparent's old farmhouse. I've written about the parlors and the back stairs and front veranda; the dining room with the slanted floor and the bedroom upstairs with a secret passageway. All those memories played a role in my writing of The Reindeer Keeper. The warmth and joy of family felt in that old house has stayed with me through the years and it was those memories that I tapped into when writing about the family in my Christmas story. The barns and fields and pastures and pine grove in the book all stemmed from the surroundings around that old farmhouse. I only wish my grandparents were still alive to read The Reindeer Keeper. My grandfather would especially have enjoyed what happens inside the "majestic old barn" in the book. He was an avid reader; a lover of Christmas.

I'm attaching a photo showing my grandmother cooking at her woodstove. You can see her in one of her house dresses which I've previously blogged about. Her hair is as it always was, pulled up on top of her head and held in place with hair combs. She maneuvered that stove and all her pots and pans like a conductor of an orchestra. She'd cook using pinches of this and dashes of that and the end results were always the same-mouthwatering, delicious meals! Next to the stove-but not shown in this picture-was a woodbox. We'd take turns filling it which was always fun.

To the left you'll see the back door open. You get but a glimpse of the outside which was rolling pastures and hayfields and a bridge down at the creek leading to the back fields. The farmhouse was sold when my grandparents quit farming. The veranda no longer exists. Most of the tall and proud poplar trees lining the cinder driveway have been axed. That barn which plays such a vital role in The Reindeer Keeper was sold; then burned down. All that remains is its lonely silo.

But absolutley nothing can wipe away images of a family living out in the country; working the land and raising six daughters. Nothing can take away this image of my grandmother at her woodstove. I can smell the aromas coming from that kitchen and feel the warmth as we'd gather to enjoy whatever it was she created between doing everything else she had to do. Just as conductors pull together musicians, my grandmother pulled us together time after time around the kitchen table-around the dining room table. She's left us with pricless memori

es and gifts of giving and caring-all something to think about this holiday season.

Celebrating Authors: Interview with Barbara Briggs Ward

2011-12-10T18:52:00.000-05:00

Celebrating Authors: Interview with Barbara Briggs Ward: Tell us about you. I grew up in the country. There were 4 houses in a row all full of relatives. My cousins and I were always outside playi...

The Christmas Spirit: Sharing the Joy: The Priceless Little Gift--Barba...

2011-12-07T19:11:00.000-05:00

The Christmas Spirit: Sharing the Joy: The Priceless Little Gift--Barba...: Please join me today in welcoming Barbara Briggs Ward, author of The Reindeer Keeper . The Priceless Little Gift For whatever re...

Just A Kitchen Table

2011-12-03T23:53:00.000-05:00

In my previous blog I posted a photo of my grandfather's old barn which played a keyrole in "The Reindeer Keeper." Now I'd like to share another one I found Thanksgiving night when going through old photo albums with my brother. It shows the kitchen table I've talked about several times-the one we'd all gather around as a family at my grandparents. This old table has heard many a great arguement; kept many Christmas secrets; and withstood generations.

I was fortunate to have been given this table by my aunt when she passed away. To say I treasure this heirloom doesn't begin to describe how happy I am to have this table in my home. Tonight my 18-month old granddaughter came for an overnight. As she climbed up onto one of the chairs shown in the picture; then stopped to play with the little ring on the wire near my grandmother in that very picture-before climbing on top of the table and sitting proudly where meals of so many before her had been served-I thought about those who'd sat around this table-especially my grandmother shown here in in her "housecoat" enjoying a cup of coffee in the early morning.

I am certain my grandmother never thought that one day her great-great granddaughter would be sitting smack dab in the middle of where she was quietly spending time. It's sad to think my granddaughter will never know my grandmother. But that's where old photo albums and stories repeated will link their generations. I know they would have had fun together. I know they would have shared conversations around that table for, after all, that's a family tradition.

My Grandfather's Old Barn

2011-11-27T07:10:00.000-05:00

What a treasure of a picture I discovered Thanksgiving day. Going through family picture albums with my older brother we came across so many pictures we'd never seen before. We had an aunt who organized family pictures by year and by family. Behind many of the photos were the negatives. I can't imagine how long it took her to do this but I am thankful she did.

The first photo I would like to share is this amazing photo of my grandfather's barn. This is the barn I went back to in my memory several times when writing, "The Reindeer Keeper." My cousins and I spent countless hours playing and pretending in this massive structure with two haylofts connected by an old plank bridge and empty stanchios and empty chicken roosts. But empty didn't matter to us. In our imaginations they were sometimes occupied. In our imaginations that old barn was one great adventure after another. Despite the snow and rain creeping in between the cracks, we stayed inside that barn-and waited for the next stagecoach or hid from younger family members or dashed from one haymow to the other in hot pursuit of evil creatures.

That weathered old barn was our Disney World and our Great Adventure and Smithsonian every time we stepped inside. And when I sat down to write "The Reindeer Keeper" that barn with its creaks and smells and fascination became the focal point to a story I felt brewing inside me about bringing adults back to that wondrous feeling of truly believing in the Spirit of Christmas.

Family photo albums are a family's history. They link generations, telling them about those who came before them and about special times and places-like an old barn now gone except for its silo.

The Coleslaw in the Yellow Bowl

2011-11-24T08:13:00.001-05:00

My one particular aunt who lived with my grandparents really never cooked. Besides oatmeal and chipped beef on toast, she stayed out of the kitchen. She really didn't have to cook when my grandmother was alive for nothing could beat what this woman of French-Canadian descent created with ease; mixing and stirring without a recipe; using a pinch of that and a dash of whatever else she felt was needed. My grandmother mastered the art of cooking long be

fore TV chefs made their way into our homes.

But once on her own, my aunt did master a few recipes including her great version of coleslaw. It became a family favorite. It was always requested for family gatherings including Thanksgiving. I'm not sure if my grandmother gave her some secret tips for making coleslaw but whatever my aunt's secrets, her version of this basic salad was carried out to perfection every single time she made it.

On Thanksgiving Day her yellow bowl with that salad was a sought after item. It always blended in perfectly with the rest of the amazing feast served around a table of cousins and aunts and uncles-all talking at once and all thankful to be together as that yellow bowl made its way around the table again and again until it was empty.

Family traditions come wrapped in many packages. This particular tradition came in a yellow bowl created by a reknowned chef-at least reknowned in her family and missed this day when yellow bowls and serving platters and pie plates are full and appreciated by loved ones gathered once again in Thanksgiving.

The China Cupboard in the Corner

2011-11-23T20:42:00.000-05:00

Even though we were young, my cousins and I must have realized the china cupboard situtated in a corner of the dining room of the old farmhouse was off limits. I don't remember us talking about it. If we had talked about it I would have remembered because such talks were usually long ones. And I don't remember any adult telling us not to play near the cupboard so it must have been our youthful intuition at work. Oh we played in the dining room all the time. We ran through it, played tag around the oak pedestal table; hid buttons for "Button, Button, Who's Got The Button", laughed and giggled in games of "Red Light-Green Light" and so much more but not once did we venture near that cupboard. Looking back I think it's because we knew it wasn't just any china cupboard. It was our grandmother's china cupboard.

The glass doors were only opened on special occasions-including Thanksgiving. When they were, out came bone china dining sets and serving bowls and silver soup ladles and tall, etched goblets. Underneath the glass doors were two pull-out drawers full of fine linen tablecloths and crocheted, linen napkins and serving pads.The cupboard had its own special smell-a mixture of shellac and green tea. For some reason my grandmother kept her green tea bags near her collection of china tea cups. Throughtout the year she'd go to the cupboard; choose a cup, pick out a tea bag, boil some water and enjoy a cup of tea. I don't know exactly how many cups and saucers she had but I remember thinking there were zillions. The cups hung from little hooks. Some were decorated in an old-English flair; others with dainty flowers and swirly designs. Others were void of anything but a gold-like rim. My favorite cup had pretty clovers all over it. The saucers were neatly stacked on the shelf underneath the cups.

When my grandparents moved out of the farmhouse the cupboard was relocated to one of my aunt's.

The tea cups with matching saucers were divided up between the grandchildren. I felt so lucky. I was given the cup with the pretty clovers!

House Dresses

2011-11-13T10:24:00.000-05:00

I only remember one time when I saw my grandmother in anything but a house dress. It was later on in her life. She was going berry picking in a pair of jeans. That image was odd to say the least because growing up, she always wore a house dress; sort of like June Cleaver and Harriet Nelson but more down-to-earth like the Waltons.

My grandmother worked from the minute she got up to the minute she went to bed. I guess you could say when she went downstairs in the morning, she was reporting in to work wearing her uniform. Functional, with pockets, her house dress with its lose fit freed her to move fast, cook fast, mend and sew and knit fast, bake bread and prepare meals and clean-up after fast, tend to six daughters fast, help her husband in the barn and fields and gardens fast and deal with everything else in between through four seasons, seven days a week even faster.

She had a few house dresses. They were always clean and neat and complimented her as she moved about the old farmhouse which would have been comparable to today's woman in the workplace. That rambling home with its front veranda was her office. The kitchen was her board room. The long, pine table was where board members met to enjoy home-cooked meals and partake in conversations on a daily basis. Instead of stocks and bonds and trends, discussions focused on chores and family matters and more chores.

I dare say the work was harder and the hours longer in my grandmother's office. She never closed for holidays. She didn't benefit from paid vacations or sick leave or health insurance. Work as it is defined was real work back then. And even though she never wore pants, everyone knew she "wore the pants" in that office while wearing a house dress with pockets.

For the love of Tuna Fish

2011-11-05T18:51:00.000-04:00

I can remember going to my grandmother's and eating tuna fish sandwiches. She'd cut up celery into little bits and with a dash of pepper, add the bits to the fish and mix it all together with mayonnaise-never a substitute. Then she'd open a jar of pickles and put them on the table. If she'd run out of her own slippery pickles-the best pickles in the world-she'd serve dill pickles bought at the A & P or Loblaws. To me, pickles and tuna fish were made for each other-like peanut butter and jelly-ice cream and cake.

My mother made a great tuna casserole. Served piping hot with bread, the creamy mixture complete with peas and sliced hard-boiled eggs was the perfect meal on a winter's night. It was also good the next day-cold, for lunch.

Still to this day my love affair with tuna fish continues most every single day either for lunch or dinner-or both! I don't know what it is about that can of flaky fish. It's not just a habit because more often than not I crave my tuna. The worst example of this craving came when I was quite pregnant and in the grocery store. I realize now that I should have eaten before going there but I didn't think I'd be that long. But since it wasn't busy I bought more than I'd planned. Suddenly, waddling down the frozen food aisle that tuna craving hit so hard that I hurried to the front of the store and told a teller with a long line that I'd be right back. I parked my cart by the front desk and rushed as much as I could out the front door.

Thinking back and remembering the looks on faces, I bet they thought I was in labor. In a way,I was-

a labor of love started long ago by a grandmother who cut celery up into little bits and with a dash of pepper, added the bits to tuna fish and made sandwiches served with pickles on the side.

Happy Spooky Halloween!

2011-10-31T06:16:00.002-04:00

"Run! Run! This Halloween-
Get away from such a scary Scene!
Ghost and Goblins, Witches too-
Are ready to scream a Halloween B-O-O!"

The Halloween Storyteller

2011-10-30T10:59:00.001-04:00

With Halloween looming I'm reminded of my one particular uncle blessed with the art of storytelling. He was from Indiana; taught biology and coached basketball but it was his wit and smile and that particular gift of his that I remember the most-especially this very spooky time of the year.

There was one particular poem he'd recite and everytime he did we sat breathless, gearing up for that last sentence spoken with such certitude and fear. Although he'd recite it any time we asked, it was this time of the year of witches and ghosts and creepy, dark shadows that the ending of that poem sent shivers through our little spines. Of course it was all in the delivery-and deliver he did every single time.

"Little Orphan Annie" was the poem. It was written by James Whitcomb Riley who was born in the very city in Indiana where my uncle lived with my aunt and four cousins in an amazingly elegant, old Victorian home filled with amazing antiques he and my aunt restored. It was a great place to visit. They were lots of fun and that Victorian fit well with that storyteller. Is it any wonder that when he was about to recite that last line, that our hearts were beating a little faster and a tingling of nerves was setting in? No matter how many times I heard this, I still jumped right out of my skin.

With his eyes fixated and his Hoosier drawl in spooky mode, this uncle turned Halloween storyteller slowly let these words out. As I write them, I can hear him and see him and miss him greatly:

"The Goblins Will Get You-If You Don't Watch Out!"

Happy Halloween Storyteller!

The Reindeer Keeper: Halloween in the Country

2011-10-28T20:37:00.000-04:00

The Reindeer Keeper: Halloween in the Country

Another True Lover of Christmas!

2011-10-28T06:16:00.000-04:00

I've written about one particular aunt before-the one who absolutley loved every little thing about Christmas. She lived with my grandmother. One of her favorite things to do was to sit around the kitchen table with whomever stopped by-and with her coffee pot perking-"talk Christmas" as she would say. If she was alive today and we were gathered around talking Christmas I would tell her about Michelle Stockard Miller-the "true book addict."

Michelle is not only a true book addict, she is a True Lover of Christmas as evident on her website-christmasspirit-truebookaddict.blogspot.com. While there are countless wonderful sites devoted to Christmas, Michelle's encompasses the Spirit, Wonder, and History of the Season.

Being a person who appreciates attention to detail and presentation, I found this website both pleasing to the eye and the heart with beautiful Victorian art and snippets about the origins of many of the Holiday traditions familiar to us all including-candles, yule logs, greenery, mistletoe, and Santa himself. Favorite Christmas movies and TV specials are discussed. Quotes from treasured books are highlighted including one from a favorite book of mine, "Little Women." Michelle also reviews Christmas stories-including my book, "The Reindeer Keeper." Along with seasonal poetry, you'll find comparison Christmas budgets over the years. For example, in the early 1900s, the cost of a woman's corset was $1.59!

So as the calendar turns to November and December take a moment to visit Michelle Stockard Miller's website where the Spirit and Wonder of Christmas abound through art, books, poetry, histories,and so much more all gathered on one amazing site by a True Lover of Christmas!

Disaster on the Cinder Driveway!

2011-10-22T22:20:00.000-04:00

Running along side my grandparent's farmhouse was a cinder driveway. To the adults it was a driveway; to those of us riding our bikes it could have been the Indianapolis 500. Some days, it was.

Afte waiting impatiently for the snow and ice of spring to somewhat melt away, we took our Schwinns out of the garage. I loved my bike. It was blue and maneuvered that track like a pro. A long straightaway marked with tall poplar trees led to a left-hand curve we called Dead Man's Curve. The trick was to build up speed when approaching it and just as you'd go into it, you'd slow down, keeping your feet poised to brake-but not abruptly for that could prove fatal. There were times when the course was flawless. This was normally on those hot summer days when the breeze through the poplars fanned us from one race to the next. There were times when it should have been shut down-like the wild October Saturday when wet leaves covered the cinders like a damp, slippery blanket. It didn't stop us.

We'd ridden the track several times at normal speed-kind of like being out on a Sunday afternoon drive. Then my cousins and I decided to go for it. We were just kids. We never thought that rain-drenched leaves on cinders might add-up to real danger and looking back, even if we had realized it, it wouldn't have stopped us. It probably would have made us more determined than ever. Kids are like that you know!

So the decision was made. The three of us would start up by the road all clumped together which was what we usually did. I had the inside. First one around the corner and behind the garage would be the winner which was usually how the winner was declared. Of course we'd never stop behind the garage. We'd go past it and down the side hill to the flatrocks. But that was usually. This was no usual race.

Out of the gate, my one particular cousin shot ahead but he always did that. We were all standing up and pumping our pedals for speed. My bike had great pick-up. I'd learned to lean-in a bit. I never understood why but doing that increased my speed. My other cousin and I had about caught up with him when it was time to prepare for that infamous curve. I guess I really wanted to beat him that windy fall day for instead of slowing down I pedalled even faster. I whizzed right by him! I was on my way to victory going into Dead Man's Curve at top speed. I felt a rush of excitement! I kept standing and pumping my pedals. As I looked back to see where my rivals were I felt the bike starting to swerve. Flashing through my mind was the thought, "Slow Down", but I couldn't. The drenched leaves were controlling me and my Schwinn now. I started to skid right towards the farmhouse. The last thing I remember seeing was the big plate glass window in the dining room as cinders flew and leaves scattered and over the handlebars I soared. I scrapped along the driveway, ending up in the middle of my grandmother's peonia bushes which was certainly the better alternative to that window. One of my cousins came rushing to see if I was alive. The boy cousin went on to victory-again.

I had lots of bruises

but nothing was broken except for those bushes. My bike survived. To this day I still can see cinders in my left knee which I consider miniature trophies for taking a risk and going for it on that cinder driveway covered in wet, slippery leaves! Victory was so near but that proved to be the last race at the Indy 500 on that blustery day! My mother had alot to do with it!

Small Town Post Offices

2011-10-16T23:53:00.001-04:00

When I was older and we moved above my father's funeral home situated in the nearby small town, most every day he'd go to the post office to pick up the mail. More often than not he'd be gone for over an hour-and the post office was just around the corner. That's because he didn't go just to get the mail. He went for the experience. He went for the exchange of conversation. Sometimes the conversations were with business acquaintances; sometimes old friends and sometimes with people he really didn't know but saw every day at that old building with its wall of p.o. boxes and photos of the town so many years ago and the counter where stamps were bought, letters mailed and packages picked-up.

Christmas was his favorite time to go there. Besides the usuals he was certain to run into old friends visiting or locals not normally there but were in need of services only a post office could provide back then.

Sadly I hear some small town post offices might close. You hear various reasons why but I dare say this internet thing-this device that has connected me to you-played into the demise of grand old buildings and small one room buildings and everything in-between we affectionately call Post Offices which are so much more than the apparent.

If post offices close we lose another real, hands-on and in-the-face way of communicating with each other. And that's not only sad-it's scary!

Digging Potatoes and Pulling Pumpkins

2011-10-09T10:08:00.002-04:00

This is the time of the year when all the thinking and ordering, cultivating, planting, weeding, watering, picking, cleaning, canning, freezing, and pickling come full circle. You've done all the work starting back in January when the seed catalogs showed up in your mailbox. You've accomplished and crossed off each step on your long list. Now it's October. Time to dig for those potatoes and pull those pumpkins from their straggly old vines.

Digging into the earth in search of potatoes is as exciting to me today as it was back when I was a kid living in the country. My grandparents had massive gardens. They had to. With 6 daughters and farmhands, meals were major productions especially during haying season. When it came time to clearing the gardens in the fall, helping dig for potatoes was like going on a treasure hunt. You never knew what the shovel pushed into the ground might reveal when pulled back out. The hope was for oodles of potatoes but there were no guarantees. Of course even just one potato was well worth a jump up and down. When there were several potatoes of varying sizes a scream of joy would be added to the celebration. Moving the earth aside with our hands, my cousin and I would scrutinize what the shovel left behind in a mound of vines and soil. We realized that in the excitement we might have missed a few!

I still feel the same way when the shovel goes into the ground around the potato plants and I'm still excited to see what's pulled back out. There's nothing like being able to see what those lumbering potato plants have been doing all summer. With their fruit of the harvest kept under wraps until the very end, potatoes provide the last surprise to many months of hard work and wondering.

Pulling pumpkins from their tired vines is fun too. Unlike potatoes you've been able to watch them grow. You've nurtured them, making sure they were still attached to the vine. You kept an eye out for little critters trying to nibble away at them. Pumpkins are bright and orange and happy reminders that besides the economical and health benefits that go along with planting and working a garden, just as important is the magical wonder at what started back when it was still a bit cold and wet and windy with tiny seeds has come full circle all because of you-and Mother Nature.

I do think potaotes and pumpkins are meant to be the last of the garden bounty for a reason. They make you very happy. While you clear away vines and roots and leaves and shriveled plants, those beautiful potatoes and pumpkins are testimony to the spirit and soul of what a garden is as you end one garden and start to think of the next after the snow comes and goes and the hint of spring is back in the air.

Adventure at the Bubble

2011-10-04T23:45:00.001-04:00

The statistics are amazing! In 2008 Americans bought 34 billion liters of bottled water. Everywhere you go you see people carrying those plastic bottles. Water has become a zillion dollar business!

One of the most favorite things my cousins and I did when growing up in the country was to go down to the flat rocks which spread out between our grandparents' farmhouse and their barn. One by one we'd lay on the rock; clear away the green, stringy moss and drink the fresh, spring bubble of water shooting up and out from between the rocks. That water remains the coldest, the most refreshing

water I've ever drank even in the smothering heat of the summertime. And every time we'd have our fill there were no plastic bottles to redeem. Sometimes simple is best-and more fun!

I admit I do drink the bottled stuff these days but despite all their hype not one of those brands could ever satisfy like that natural bubble-sprouting its way up to the surface for little kids to get on their knees and enjoy. Sometimes we'd get more of that water up our noses than in our mouths but that was part of the adventure at the bubble. And if we became impatient waiting for our turn we'd run to the pumphouse and with a few quick jerks of the pump's handle we'd cup our hands and gather as much of that well water as we could.

There were no soft drinks to drink on the farm. That was fine because you don't miss what you've never had. Water was the beverage of choice-even without realizing the benefits. It just tasted really good!

Ahhh-October!

2011-10-01T09:31:00.000-04:00

There's something about the colors and aromas and crispness of October that, when combined, present a most amazing awareness to one's senses. Add in apples and cider; pumpkins and candy corns and October climbs to the top of my most favorite list.

I wrote a little poem once about leaves which stated exactly how I felt about them: "Falling, tumbling, drifting down-I love the leaves when they cover the ground; Falling, tumbling, drifting down-I love the leaves all around!" I still feel the same about the leaves. I love watching them zipping and skipping and dancing across a field or highway. I imagine them in a giant hurry to get somewhere-all travelling in a clump like a family on a mission.

When I was growing up in the country leaves were meant to be played in. They were more than just leaves. They became giant mounds to jump in and hide in; getting up the nose, in the mouth, and stuck on clothes. None of that mattered when playing and pretending with cousins in leaf piles.

Just as much fun was the making of leaf houses. Painstakingly we'd rake leaves into a giant square or rectangle. Then we'd clear away any leaves from the middle and there we'd have a frame. Then we'd use

the leaves to designate the walls between the various rooms, leaving spaces for doorways. In the leaf bedrooms we'd make leaf beds with leaf pillows; in the leaf living room we'd make a leaf sofa and maybe a few leaf chairs; in the leaf kitchen we'd make a leaf table with a few more leaf chairs. We'd bring apples from home and eat them in our leaf kitchen. Thinking back, we never did make leaf bathrooms!

Most times the wind would sweep through and take our leaf houses away. But that never stopped us. No matter how many times we had to, we'd be back constructing new leaf houses with our rakes; sometimes playing into the evening with a big harvest moon as our guide. How very lucky we were!

Great Time on Channel 10 in Fairfax, VA.

2011-09-28T22:34:00.000-04:00

On Monday, September 26th I had the privilege of being the featured guest on "Communicating Today" hosted by John Monsul, Channel 10 in Fairfax, VA. It was a great experience. I met some very talented professionals and enjoyed watching them prepare to tape the show. John was a very gracious and enthusiastic host.

I thank everyone at Channel 10 for their hospitality. To those who catch the show and have questions or comments you would like to direct to me I'd love to hear from you. You can email me at: maggieosheacompany@yahoo.com.
Thanks again "Communicating Today"! I'm happy to have been Show #604!

Gone Fishing

2011-09-24T22:31:00.000-04:00

Fishing down at the creek consisted of either a bamboo pole or very long stick with string and at the end of the string a safety pin left wide open in order to hook-something. I don't think we'd ever seen an actual fish in the murky water that flowed behind the four houses in a row but that didn't matter when you are determined fishermen-and we were determined. Either casting our string while surrounded by creek grass standing on the shoreline or casting while standing on the edge of the rickety plank bridge that connected the backfields, we tried with all our might to get that string as far out into the creek as we could. Usually it ended up tangled in weeds or right back next to us.

Determined we remained; excited by the old cans we'd catch or masses of guck and goo. We never did catch a fish but we sure had lots of fun trying and that's what it's all about when your a little kid playing in the country.

Hair Combs

2011-09-24T08:54:00.001-04:00

In the evening my grandmother would sit in her rocking chair by the front window surrounded by African Violets and Geraniums and slowly take the combs out of her waist-length hair. As she'd talk she'd pull the combs through her grey locks. There was something reassuring watching my grandmother do this; sitting there surrounded outside by the acres she and my grandfather had farmed for years. She represented tradition. She spoke for those who came before us; sharing their stories so we'd be able to share them with future generations. We'd hear about her days of living in the farmhouse with six daughters, parents, and a hard-working husband who in the evening would chew tobacco as he sat in the front parlor and read. We'd hear about the barn and favorite horses and bringing the hay in from the back fields.

When she was finished combing her hair she would put the combs in her lap and gather the hair together in a ponytail. Then she'd do a few twists, pulling the hair up on her head into a bun,

securing it only with the hair combs. Her hair always stayed in that bun. No matter what she did the combs never fell out. I've tried doing that but it's never worked like it did for my grandmother. She had a magic twist I have yet to master.

To think of the money we spend on our hair. Between coloring and glitzing and streaking and shaping so much money goes into maintaining hair.
My grandmother did it with a few plastic combs. To me she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever known. Her beauty and strength came from within with her hair always gathered in a bun; something I could count on to be a constant despite the world changing around me and despite my growing up from that little girl watching her comb her hair in the evening while she sat in her rocker to the teenager stopping in to see what kinds of cookies she'd baked to the adult bringing my own chldren to visit this woman with long hair gathered in a bun and arms outstretched to greet us. Priceless!

Carrot Picnics

2011-09-08T22:19:00.000-04:00

My grandparents had a few gardens but the one I remember most spread alongside the farmhouse. Being a kid I can't remember who cleared and worked the field in early spring or who planted the field later on but I do remember sitting with my cousin amongst the rows of carrots in that field-and eating as many of them as we could. I have no clue how long we sat there or how many times we sat there. Nothing like that mattered. I just knew every time we did sit in the carrot patch, great fun and a delicious meal were seconds away. If we pulled on a carrot and the top broke lose leaving the carrot in the ground, we'd dig deep into the soil all around it with our fingers and patiently free that carrot for our quick consumption.

There were no hoses to clean the vegetables off back then but even if there had been we wouldn't have taken time to use them. You see, we firmly believed a fresh, vibrant carrot coming out from the soil was about the best tasting experience to be had when young and carefree. Oh we cleaned the dirt off them. We probably wiped them on our shirt or pants but that was it. We sat there in the shade of tall poplar trees and had our own private carrot picnics.

This went on throughout the summer-right up to when the long shadows of Autumn interrupted our parade; straight through the harshness of winter and piles of snow; straight through to the following spring when someone would clear and work the field and someone would plant carrots, squash, corn, beans, beets, onions and so much more-and two little cousins would once again sit in that garden in the summer breeze and eat those carrots right out of the ground!

The Yellow School Bus

2011-09-01T08:35:00.007-04:00

Despite believing with my whole heart that Summer would never end when growing up in the country, September brought reality with the return of the yellow school bus. After what felt like a century-long time lapse devoted to playing down at the creek-pretending and swinging on the rope with its big knot-going out and around and over the creek and sometimes in it and riding on telephone pole rafts off on great adventures from one bank of that sucker-filled creek to the other; climbing into the hay lofts of our grandfather's old barn and walking across the rickety, wooden planks going from one hayloft to the other; spending hours day after day in our chicken coop clubhouse pretending, creating, reading, writing,and producing great circuses and art shows which the adults, I am sure, loved attending-it happened-that yellow school bus was once again coming around the bend of the road to pick us up and take us back to that other world we'd left behind so very long ago.

Riding daily on a school bus forges unspoken friendships. Watching kids saying good-bye as they'd walk down driveways or wave to moms standing by the side of the road, you felt like you really knew these kids while most times you hardly ever spoke to each other. Usually everyone sat in the same place. Bigger kids seemed to gravitate to the back. No matter where you sat, the bumps felt along the way would pop you right up in your seat and cause uncontrollable laughter.

The bus driver was conveniently a bit deaf so he was oblivious to the chatter going on behind him. Returning home was noisier. Anticipation was usually the cause especially when the creek and the barn and fields and our chicken coop clubhouse were waiting! To this day when I see someone who'd ridden that yellow school bus with me I feel a special bond and remember them as those half-awake little kids climbing aboard a big yellow school bus from that first day in September to the last lazy, hazy summer day in June.

"Let's Talk Christmas"

2011-08-28T23:28:00.000-04:00

Growing up when Summer gave way to Fall meant it was time to say to the adults, "Let's talk Christmas" as we gathered around our grandmother's kitchen table. One aunt in particular loved to talk Christmas. Most of the time on those Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings she'd do all the talking-telling us of their Christmases in the old farmhouse. We'd hear about the oranges and nuts in their stockings; the meals prepared; the spirit of the Season shared.

With the Holidays less than 16 weeks away I'd like to talk Christmas by sharing a few odd little Christmas bits of trivia-fun to know-especially good for crossword puzzles! Here we go:
. In the poem, "The Night Before Christmas" Donder and Blitzen were originally named Dunder & Blixen.
. The Christmas window displays seen in the original movie, "Miracle on 34th Street", are on display at a bank in Milwaukee every December in the bank's lobby.

Have fun! Enjoy! More to come!

Mom's Choice Awards Recipient!

2011-08-27T09:12:00.000-04:00

I am happy to announce that "The Reindeer Keeper" has been named a "Mom's Choice Awards Gold Recipient" in Adult Fiction! I thank Mom's Choice Awards for this honor. When writing "The Reindeer Keeper" awards and honors were never part of my plan. I had a story inside me that was bursting to be told. That was my focus. While I was the instrument through which the story was written, the characters themselves led me from the first page straight through to the last.

I can't help but think back to that chicken coop clubhouse where all of this began. They say when you are a young child what interests you have stay with you throughout your lifetime. Problem is they can get buried under all the stuff that comes with growing up. If you get confused as to where you are headed or if you find yourself at a crossroads and not sure in which direction to take the next step, think back to that little child within you. That child is still there. You might have to stay quiet to be able to reconnect but that child has stayed with you all along.

There are times when I go back in my mind to that chicken coop clubhouse. I can see every nook and cranny of that dilapidated old building. The smells, the excitement, the joy of pure imagination are all still there waiting for me! By plugging back into what that little girl was all about I can keep moving forward with a clearer vision as to where I am going. Receiving recognition like the "Mom's Choice Award" confirms to the little girl that the big girl is still the same girl!

Did you know this about Rudolph?

2011-07-30T07:51:00.000-04:00

Through the wonder of the internet my path crossed that of Michelle @ The True Book Addict who is-a true book addict and a lover of Christmas! It is from Michelle that I learned the 25th of every month is-for true lovers of Christmas-"Rudolph Day."

I had the pleasure of doing a Guest Blog 7/28 on her site-The Christmas Spirit. It's a magical site capturing the spirit of the holidays all year long. Besides poems and stories and snippets of old movie scenes and favorite TV specials and a collage of Christmas books and marvelous art including Victorian, the well-designed, well-thought out layout of the site right down to the colors and typestyles used taps into that heartfelt feeling of Home and Christmas. (My blog can be found down the left-hand column-"Guest Post with Author Barbara...").

I'm happy to say Michelle will be reviewing "The Reindeer Keeper" at a later date.

To check out Michelle's sites:
. christmasspirit-truebookaddict.blogspot.com
. thetruebookaddict.blogspot.com
. Historical Fiction Connection (hf-connection.com)
. thestoryinsideme.blogspot.com

Happy Holidays!!

Cookies

2011-07-24T22:13:00.000-04:00

Sitting amongst the cupboard and tables and chairs in my grandparent's farmhouse kitchen was a small, white free-standing cabinet. On one side of that cabinet there was a door that when you opened it, you'd find boxes of hot and cold cereal. On the other side there were 3 drawers. One drawer in particular was the most exciting; not because there were surprises inside. It was just the opposite. There were no surprises at all-just Cookies! We all knew that's where those special cookies were always kept!

Later when the farmhouse was sold and my grandparents and aunt moved into a smaller home nearby-that cabinet went with them and sat in their new kitchen. Nothing had changed but the location for inside that one particular drawer with its top with holes for fresh air that you'd have to pull back with your finger in the right spot were those cookies. They were always the same cookies-Lorna Doones and Fig Newtons.

Unlike today there weren't a zillion varities of those two brands or any brands available. They were simply Lorna Doones and Fig Newtons, shared when sitting around the kitchen table together. My grandmother baked cookies all the time. We especially loved her big, molasses cookies but the cookies she baked never lasted very long. You could always count on that pullout drawer. If the packs had been opened, they'd be neatly secured, waiting for the next little hand to reach in for a familiar treat.

Going down the grocery store cookie aisle these days is confusing. There are too many concoctions to basic cookies from which to choose. Some have added fruits; some have frosting or sprinkles or are stuffed with creme or peanut butter or jelly or raisins or mint or colored frosting or whatever else you might imagine and available in low fat, no fat, diabetic, salt free, sugar free, etc. Just as confusing are the size of packages available made even more confusing by the clever pricing.

Getting a cookie was so much easier when going to that drawer in that cabinet that sat in my grandmother's kitchen.

The Little Downtown Bookstore

2011-07-19T21:40:00.000-04:00

When I heard that Borders will be closing all their bookstores my thoughts took me back to when I was a little girl, going downtown to a small bookstore with my mother. She was a nurse; on duty midnights. Back home in the mornings, she'd read before going to bed. She was an avid reader even when exhausted.

There was something about those stacks of books piled on top of old tables and filling shelves in that bookstore of long ago. That place was part of the community. It was a place to gather located in a family department store on the main floor tucked off by itself. I remember small window panes protruding out a bit onto the sidewalk; making for great displays especially when it was Christmastime and I was shopping with my mother. I don't think I could read back then but it didn't matter. Whatever book I picked up I'd pretend to be able to put sentences together-and read.

Bookstores, real bookstores with front doors and people browzing and sitting and sipping coffee-all involved with a book or two, are about so much more than books. They are an oasis in this oversaturated life of ours; this faster than a speeding light society. Bookstores open minds and imaginations; expand horizons-narrow prejudices and induce conversations-hopes and dreams. Bookstores touch all five senses. They can turn a stop at the mall into a memory.

After my mother died I was blessed with most of those books bought years back when we'd go downtown to that little bookstore. When bookstores close, we lose so much more than the obvious.

"Happy Brithday America"

2011-07-04T12:55:00.000-04:00

In the words of Snarly Sally, an avid flag collector at a very young age:
"I love my flags: I really do,
But my favorite flag-is Red, White, and Blue!"

Happy Birthday America!
Your friend,
Snarly Sally

Summer Vacation

2011-07-03T20:11:00.001-04:00

It seemed summer was forever when growing up in the country. Saying good-bye to friends at the end of the school year was like a sad farewell. But once the school routine was tossed to the wayside not much thought was given to those friends until that routine returned.

We never did day trips or long trips; trips to Disney or parks full of animals or historic sites or beaches. Instead our trips were on the back of an old wagon going over the plank bridge to the hay fields. Our trips were walking down to the pine grove-lying under the pines and talking and listening to the wind sift through the trees. Our trips were waiting for our aunt to get home from work to walk down through the woods to the river for a swim and after the swim, enjoying graham crackers on the walk back home.

Our summers were totally set in the country-on our rafts made out of telephone poles going up and down Sucker Creek on great adventures; up in the haymows or around the stanchions and paddocks that once housed my grandfather's livestock or in the small granary next to the barn. We'd have sleep-outs in the backyard; picnics under my aunt's pine trees; drink freshly squeezed lemons turned to lemonade and stuff ourselves with hotdogs and hamburgers and watermelon and roasted marshmallows.

The majority of our time was spent in and around our Chicken Coop Clubhouse revamped to include the desks, books, and chalkboards of an abandoned one-room schoolhouse. Imaginations were in flight there-every single day-all summer long surrounded by arts/crafts, books, and cousins and siblings.

We were never bored. We never asked to go anywhere because we had everything we needed to turn a summer vacation into one enjoyable, seemingly never-ending adventure-even with chores to do and brothers and sisters to watch. When it was time to return to that routine; time to catch the yellow bus which would take us to see those long, lost friends, our summer matched any other student's summer despite their trips and bells and whistles.

We didn't measure summer fun by miles traveled but if we had, our summer most certainly would have placed first because when you use your imagination-you can go anywhere you'd like to go-over and over again-all summer long.

Backstairs

2011-06-28T06:21:00.000-04:00

There's something about a back stairway that adds comfort to a home. They certainly did in my grandparent's old farmhouse. While the front oak stairway and banister were polished and kept immaculate, the backstairs were quite the opposite. Worn, made from planks of wood, some creaked; some were uneven. But they were such fun. We'd run up and down them-half running and half skipping through the five bedrooms and the bathroom with two doors. Tucked behind my grandmother's wood stove in the kitchen, you'd never know the stairs were there if the door was shut.

My mother used to tell how she and her sisters would run down them in the winter, anxious to seek heat from the woodstove. When we were very young, we'd hurry up those stairs to bed when staying over, especially when the adults told us if we didn't-a man up the road would be stopping by to find out why we were still up. It worked every time. That's when we rushed up those stairs so fast that a few times we tripped over each other.

Proably the best case for that back stairway in the rambling farmhouse was when we'd play hide 'n seek. Those rickety old stairs allowed for a great escape just before capture. Of course they gave us older kids a quick get-away from pesty, younger siblings and faster access if playing upstairs to good things cooking downstairs on the woodstove.

But most likely the fastest anyone came down those backstairs was on Christmas morning when my mother and her five sisters were young and still believed. That was one winter morning when gathering in the kitchen was not about getting warm. It was all about checking their stockings full of oranges and nuts as smells of cinnamon filled that home full of family and excitement.

That back stairway holds so many memories of little feet running up and down for countless reasons through every season over so many years. How lucky we were to be carried to adventures and getaways and hideaways by simple planks of worn wood. Sometimes-Simple is best!

Family Nicknames

2011-06-12T10:45:00.001-04:00

I know every family has those unique, in-family nicknames given to one another over the years. Most of the time just family members are aware of them and when you get together years later, those nicknames seem to slip right out. While people obviously mature and grow out of a strange, cute, or scarcastic name attached to them when they were younger, awkward situations can arise when a potentially new member to the family is introduced. That's when the fun begins for family insiders!

Our family certainly has had its share of nicknames. The most "famous" of them all continues to be the nickname "Giddy" given to my grandmother by my brother. He was the first grandchild and was unable to say grandmother. It came out Giddy and that stuck like glue to the most amazingly strong and beautiful-in-spirit woman I've ever known. Fact was she was called "Giddy" by most everyone who knew her.

Other nicknames that have sprung up over the years-and I will not connect any of them to anyone in particular for fear of being chastised are: Whell, Sparkle, Mooonbeams, Mooo, Butt Bows, Bart Lib, Fred, Freddie, Hound Dog, Houndie, Hound, Nookie, Pin, Cures, JoeMeDough, Bif, Doo, Dooweenahogboat, Porky, Tubby, Pree, OoooWaaa, Gwim, BiBe, Barns, Bud, Boone, Crow, Deacon, Buzzy, Den, Fuffy, Fluffy, Trish, Beauty, Beauties, Moop, Chief, Nu-Nu, DateMan, Sport, Guy, and probably more that I'll hear about from those inside-the-know once I post this.

Bottom line, family is family. We can pick and moan and groan and rail against one another within the confines of the family unit but it's family we call on when in need; it's family we gather with for holidays, birthdays, weddings, funerals. While we are all unique, we share a heritage-which includes all those cute, scarcastic, funky, strange nicknames

"When A Hamburger Was Just A Hamburger"

2011-06-07T23:33:00.000-04:00

I've had lots of fun being a contributing writer on a great website-http://boomer-living.com. I've been allowed to ramble on about beehive hairdos, dancing the jitterbug with my older brother, discuss the heart-thumping experience of receiving Valentine's when in elementary school, go on and on and on about my very first and forever favorite car-my'68 cherry red, classic Mustang with bucket seats, reminisce about my hometown's downtown at Christmas time before it was all torn down-etc.

All my articles can be found at that site as previously stated. Once there, just click on Coffee House Blog; scroll down and click on "Hodge Podge". I felt that would be a perfect title as I am not an expert on anything but do love to write and touch people in some way.

This brings me to one of my June articles entitled, "When A Hamburger Was Just a Hamburger." The idea came when sitting in line at a McDonalds, waiting to order a filet'o fish. They were busy so I sat there reading the menu board and it got me thinking. Since when did "super-size" wedge its way into the norm? What is normal about super-sizing hamburgers one on top of another-and another or overloading on fries or so much soda that surely you'd have to get to a bathroom before the giant, plastic cup was empty?

By the time I got back home the ideas were flowing. With my filet 'o fish in hand I turned the computer on and out came the words. I hope you enjoy them all meshed together-but never super-sized!

Late Night Movies with my Father

2011-06-06T06:14:00.001-04:00

When I was a little older and when summer vacation hit, I'd stay up after the late news and watch the late movie with my father. He'd sit in his chair and would usually fall asleep before it was over. He always said dozing off in that chair was the best sleep ever for him.

There was never a hesitation if I'd be able to watch any of the nightly, feature-length films. They were all decent movies with no overload of special effects or violence or sex. They were good, solid movies with no effects needed. The acting did all of that. I'd either curl up on the couch or on the floor with blankets and a pillow and go off on adventures with Clark Gable, Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Rita Hayworth, Marlon Brando, Natalie Wood, Robert Wagner, Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Henry Fonda, Ingrid Bergman, Humphrey Bogart, Gregory Peck, William Powell, John Wayne, Robert Mitchum, Elizabeth Tayor, Richard Burton, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Cary Grant, Doris Day, James Cagney, Kirk Douglas, Gene Kelley-and so, so many more! All superb and talented actors and actresses who kept me up until after 1 a.m.

I always knew when those two night owls popped up on our TV screen-sitting on a branch with the moon overhead announcing the movie was about to start that it was again time for my special couple of hours with my father-even if he did fall asleep!

Photo of the Chicken Coop Clubhouse

2011-06-04T10:15:00.003-04:00

To the right and down a bit on this page you will see a photo added this week of me standing between some neighboring kids in front of the Chicken Coop Clubhouse which I've written about in a few blogs. The photo points out the truth in the adage, "A picture is worth 1,000 words."

Ramshackled with hardly any glass in the windows that small, old building was our DisneyWorld-the hub of our growing up in the country. It was a schoolhouse-a playhouse-a library-a restaurant-a stop along the way for stagecoaches or whatever else our imaginations pretended it to be. It provided us hours of creativity. It allowed us to explore the depths of childhood imagination. It instilled in us an excitement of the possibility. We learned sharing and responsibility; caring for those younger than we were; organizing events and carrying through with those events when the best laid plans hit roadblocks-just as life does when becoming adults. We read books; my favorites always by Laura Ingalls Wilder and Louisa May Alcott. We wrote books.

From that Chicken Coop Clbhouse came plays and fairs; ciruses and artshows. We taught the younger ones their ABCs. We read to them. We did projects with them. We even sent worksheets and report cards home with them. We hand-printed 4 copies of a family newspaper and delivered the copies every Sunday morning complete with family news, display ads, and local family sports.

Most kids don't need anything fancy to play with. Imaginations just need to be stimulated-not from TV or electronic games but from the freedom to explore where their very own imaginations can take them. Turn a sofa into a cabin. Throw a blanket between two chairs. If your lucky turn an old chicken coop into a Clubhouse for if you do, those marvelous experiences will stay with that child forever. I know this for certain!

Creative Cooking

2011-06-02T23:19:00.000-04:00

When we could-meaning when there were no adults around-my cousin and I conducted experiments in my mother's kitchen. We'd take out my mother's big, yellow bowl and "make recipes." Sometimes we'd add the ingredients-just water and an egg as I remember-to a Jiffy cake mix and then devour the goo like soup. No need to bake it when you're experimenting. After all, it was a small cake mix; like drinking a milk shake!

Before we'd make-up recipes we'd look out all the windows to make sure no one was coming; then we'd rush back into the kitchen and the fun would really begin! We'd start with one of those little cake mixes-most always white or yellow. Then we'd add whatever we could find; mushed-up bananas, cut-up cherries, peanut butter, jam of all sorts, pepper (Yes-Pepper-we were experimenting remember!), coconut, chocolate chips, more sugar-even brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, garlic (Yup-garlic),allspice, plus a dash or two or three of whatever else we could find in the refrigerator or my mother's baking drawer. This may have included mayonnaise, thyme, ketchup, mustard-a cut up pickle-whatever caught our fancy for after all, we were creating and creating means using your imagination and ingredients otherwise foreign to baking a cake.

After we felt the concoction was complete, just like two mad scientists, we'd stir the savory hodge podge and actually bake it, or at least try to. Once in awhile the end result was so good we'd devour any evidence it ever existed but that was once in a great while. Usually what was in the cake pan was impossible to swallow; even worse, impossible to bake. The birds, however, had a great time with their suprise meal discretly discarded behind my mother's rock wall where she grew her snapdragons.

After the kitchen was cleaned up, we'd go back outside to play-certain my mother would never miss the cake mix, eggs, bananas, cherries, peanut butter, jams, pepper, coconut, chocolate chips, more sugar-even brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, garlic, allspice, and whatever else we threw in. Surely she'd never wonder what the strange aromas were coming out of that kitchen or why her big, yellow bowl wasn't where she always kept it!

A Cup of Coffee and Conversation

2011-05-29T10:10:00.000-04:00

Amazing how coffee is such a phenomenon. So many brands and so many ways to serve it besides the standard hot cup of coffee. Now you have choices with strange names like frappuccino-latte-caffe mocha-macchiato. Then you can choose to stir-whip-steam or shake-and drink and drink some more! Some of these brands are so recognizable that their locations are sought after destinations in metropolitan centers to rural locations and every place in between.

When I think of coffee, I think of my aunt who loved to go out for breakfast at local diners or small eateries. She'd savor every bite and enjoy every drop of her brewed coffee served in a thick, milk-white ceramic cup with a saucer. She'd add a bit of milk and sugar and stir it until it was "pretty"-as she called it. The waitress would fill her cup up a few more times as we'd linger and talk and watch people come and go. It was always fun being with her at these places which, to my aunt, were more enjoyable than a five-star restaurant. After leaving a tip on the table she'd put any remaining little paks of jams or jellies in her purse to take home. There was just something about peeling them back and spreading the stuff over toast. My aunt savored the simple things in life.

This aunt also loved it when we'd visit and gather around the kitchen table for conversation and a cup of coffee made in a stainless steel pot void of timers and buttons and bells and whistles. That old pot made the best cup of coffee every single time. Favorite brands were Chuck Full Of Nuts and Eight O'Clock. Watching her make a pot, it was obvious she was as excited to prepare the coffee as drink it. Sometimes during our gathering we'd need more coffee. Up my aunt would jump. Putting the tea kettle back on to boil the water, she'd then clean the old grinds out and add new. Once the kettle whistled, she'd fill the top of the pot with the scalding water. Then we'd wait for it to drip down through the grinds. Sometimes it seemed like it took forever but it wasn't any longer than standing in line for some of today's high tec brands served in plastic cups with lids.

When ready, my aunt would hold the top of the pot with her left hand as she'd make the rounds around the kitchen table, filling empty cups-which were my grandmother's flowered china cups with saucers. We'd wait until everyone had their coffee before we added whatever we felt needed; then we'd sit some more, sipping and talking. There were no earphones blocking our participation. No laptops or Kindles or Nooks grabbing our attention.

I think my aunt had it right-sharing conversation and time together while dipping ginger snaps in our piping hot, freshly dripped coffee. So simple-just so very simple; just how life should be sometimes.

BookExpo America

2011-05-28T10:14:00.002-04:00

I just returned from NYC where I was an exhibitor at BookExpo America. This yearly event is centered around the book industry. Anyone with any interest in books is present-including agents,teachers, librarians, bloggers, publishers, distributors,authors, etc. Not only is it an opportunity to network, it is THE place to make those important connections that an email or phone call just can't do. Nothing beats the face-to-face meeting where you can tell your story with passion and assurance.

I was fortunate to make some great connections. I also met some very talented fellow authors. It's good to share journeys and hopes and dreams and to support each other. The written word-no matter what the form,can inspire-inform-amuse-educate-question. It is a right we are blessed to possess.

I was able to listen to the one and only Michael Moore. He spoke about his new book coming out-"Here Comes Trouble-Stories from My Life." He was himself-everything from the baseball cap to sneakers and political barbs plus serious insight.

The unexpected highlight of the 3-day event was the opportunity to meet and talk with the amazingly talented Jane Fonda-a dream come true for many reasons. She is releasing a new book in August published by Random House entitled, "Prime Time-Creating A Great Third Act." The wisdom and insight she shared was absorbed by all those present. I will forever cherish our conversation.

Authors come in all forms and genres-some are famous; most are struggling but in the end all authors are the same. They share a passion for telling stories-fiction or nonfiction. They struggle with looking at blank screens or blank pages of a pad of paper almost in a panic mode when only junk comes out-or worse yet, nothing at all. They stay up late. They scribble on paper. They drink too much coffee. They share a joy-a rush-when the words flow so fast it's hard to keep up getting them out in complete sentences. But authors wouldn't have it any other way. It's all part of that wacky yet amazingly amazing Creative Process-the core of any such gathering like BookExpo America.

Christmas Tree Birthday Cakes

2011-05-10T23:52:00.002-04:00

Digging through a kitchen cupboard the other night I came across two cake tins that symbolize the celebration of birthdays out in the country. They're pretty worn but then they were used for every birthday when we were growing up. They're not very deep but they're not supposed to be. Both are shaped like Christmas trees and when stacked on top of each other-with icing in between-they make the perfect sized cake especially when you are young and it is your day on which the Christmas tree cake is made just for you.

It didn't matter in what month a birthday fell. The cake was always the Christmas tree cake. On the morning of a birthday my mother would get the tins ready, coating them with butter and then covering the butter with a layer of flour. It seemed to me the making of the cake was an all-day procedure but I now realize my mother certainly did much more leading up to the celebration after dinner than just bake a cake. But I only cared about the cake-making going on and the licking of the beaters.

My mother would take the same big, yellow bowl out of the cupboard as she always did. There was no box mix. The cake was made from scratch as was the frosting. It was always the same-a white cake with white frosting. Real eggs and real butter and real flour were used. It always smelled the same cooking; always tasted the same when devouring. There were no fancy decorations on top. Just plain, little candles that went out when the birthday kid blew them out. I don't recall any pieces leftover.

By today's standards the Christmas tree cake was pretty simple. There were no licensed characters with multi-colored frosting and fancy script declaring whose birthday it was overpowering the moment baked by someone somewhere other than home. Sometimes simple is best. Sometimes simple tastes better.

Something From Nothing

2011-05-07T09:21:00.000-04:00

It was the glitzy box that caught my eye just as it was supposed to do. I'd run in the store for a few things and ended up in the aisle loaded with all sorts of craft kits for kids. I was surprised to see so many kits designed to stir a child's imagination. I was also taken back by memories of doing funstuff when I was growing up in the country and doing projects with my children when they were young. But aside from the kits I bought my daughters to make pot holders out of loops on a grid and those bags full of colorful plastic crystals which they used to fill-in wired shapes the best their little fingers could and when ready I'd put them in the oven to bake with the end result being a pretty flower or butterfly or rainbow suncatcher-the rest of whatever was created was purely out of what nature provided-with a little help from crayons and glue made from flour and water when in a pinch. Most of the time imaginations were stirred by what was around.

Rocks were always great fun to paint or glue or use in masterful designs. Adhere some grass for hair and you could make a family with twig feet and arms. Old boards-minus the rusty nails-provided unique surfaces on which to draw or paint. Cutting and folding pieces of paper to make little books was always fun as was cutting construction paper into strips and making paper chains. Sometimes the strips would have an added crayon design; sometimes they didn't. Collecting shells down along the creek and then drying them out in the sun was a favorite thing to do as was painting them and sometimes adding them to a collage on wood or paper of stones and moss and pinecones and stuff.

Probably the most fun for my own children took place at an old camp where we'd spend time during the summer when they were young. There was a perfect spot where the water was shallow; where right under the surface was a huge bed of clay. Walking around in the water-feeling with their feet-once that clay was discovered they'd scoop it up and put it on a board. When satisfied they'd found enough of the gooey mud they'd shape the clay into all sorts of creations and then let the sun be the oven to bake their creations to pefection. Once dried, they'd paint their masterpieces. I did buy ModPodge back then. Decoupaging stones and clay was always fun as was doing the same to little jars which then made cute little flower vases or places to keep secret treasures.

It doesn't take a kit to ignite a child's imagination. Just take a look around and you'll discover how you can make something from nothing and have alot of fun doing so! It's a great way to create memories that last a lifetime.

"At The Hop"

2011-05-03T19:02:00.000-04:00

I took the school bus every day straight through high school. When I missed it in the afternoon, I'd walk home if my father wasn't able to drive me. In my early teens it didn't matter how I got there as long as I was back in time for American Bandstand. You see I loved to dance which was a good thing as that was the era of so many dance crazes and all the kids on that TV show knew how to do each one.

I thought you might enjoy reading an article I've written about all of this which I've entitled, "At The Hop." You can go to http://boomer-living.com and then click on Coffee House Blog! Get your dancin' shoes ready!

May's Approaching-Isn't it?

2011-04-26T23:49:00.000-04:00

It doesn't feel like May yet. Where I live we're still getting sprinkles of snow now and then but the anticipation for wildflowers smiling about the fields and a warm breeze and garden planting is the same as when May was approaching out in the country when I was a kid. May's like a gift; a reward for getting through the winter-a pleasant sort of a month before the humid side of June swallows the landscape up in a smothering blanket especially when working in the hayloft during haying season. When that happened, I'd always wish it was winter again. Guess we're never happy with the weather-sort of like our hair. Sometimes all the weather is good for is conversation.

When you're young rooms seem bigger; backyards seem to go forever-the wait for Christmas never-ending. That's how I felt when May was just about here; when one day would be freezing and the next day in the 50s. When would it happen? There never was a magic wand to wave and then-here you go-it's May! It sort of happened while we played. We were so busy playing we didn't notice the fields not so soggy or the stream running alongside the farmhouse slowing down or the need for an extra sweater not there anymore. One day-it was May. We knew the winter boots and heavy coats and mittens would be packed away but not too far away. You just never know about the weather!

Easter Treasure Hunts Out in the Country

2011-04-19T06:18:00.001-04:00

We were lucky. We had that uncle who was more child than adult and never was this more apparent than on Easter.

As I've explained before, there were 4 houses full of relatives all sitting in a row on a winding country road. Besides yards, there were back fields and a creek and an old barn and granary and pump house and wood shed and a chicken-coop-turned-clubhouse and on and on and on. There were just so many nooks and crannies tucked here and there and our uncle took advantage of most all of them because back then, every Easter, he plotted and ployed as off on a mission he'd go around the fields and creek and old barn and granary and pump house and wood shed and a chicken-coop-turned clubhouse hiding numbered, folded pieces of paper on which he'd written a clue. Putting all those clues together, this uncle was actually the Mastermind behind Treasure Hunts that could have been possibly the most amazing adventures any child anywhere could ever had wished to be a part of on Easter.

Rain or snow we'd be out there-searching, running, peering, wondering, figuring-scratching our heads; one minute in deep despair unable to find the next clue while maybe seconds later jumping for sheer joy with that clue in hand, ready to figure out where the next clue might be.

You must understand these clues were not hidden haphazardly or obviously. From the first to the last, each clue was cleverly disguised by clever wording and the entire hunt was thought out, mapped out and staked out with every little detail considered. We were taken all over the place-from the hayloft to backseats of parked cars to cracks in siding to cinderblocks and tree twigs. Nothing was off limits.

All in all there were probably about 20 clues. The older kids would haul along the younger ones who'd get tired or crabby but the thought of a brown grocery bag with their name on it full of candy out there somewhere kept them in the race. For the older kids it really wasn't the candy. It was that Mastermind watching from his glassed-in side porch getting as much enjoymnet watching as he had creating the maze. A few times one of us might have run and asked him for a clue about a clue we just couldn't figure out but he never obliged-and looking back I'm glad he didn't. Not once was the treasure not found and we did it all on our own.

When it was over, we all ended up with our brown bags, although a few Hunts were harder than others-like the time the final clue most certainly referred to the creek grass but there was just so much of it. We scoured the bank of the creek-over and over, again and again we'd stomp our feet, move aside the course grass. Eventually we found it but it was almost time for dinner-and now thinking about it, maybe that was part of the ingenious ploy behind those amazing Treasure Hunts. We were out from under foot. The older kids were babysitting and never realized it as the adults gathered peacefully inside.

Very clever! That uncle was more of a Mastermind than I ever realized back then-out in the country, searching for brown grocery bags full of candy hidden by a man with the heart of a child!

Easter Parade at the Clubhouse

2011-04-16T20:52:00.001-04:00

Excitement was building. What was quite possibly our biggest event ever scheduled to take place at our Chicken Coop Clubhouse was fast approaching. My cousins and I had spent every spare minute we had getting ready;scrubbing and picking up the Club; practicing and then practicing some more; getting all the little ones prepared to perform the way we expected or at least march in a straight line for a few minutes. This would be our first of what we hoped would be many more Easter Parades-a new event added to our list which included carnivals, circuses, art exhibits, plays, and Halloween spook houses-and others without official titles. How lucky were all the adults to have so many wonderful happenings to attend! We took pride in being such an active Club.

Hours were spent making decorations from construction paper. Perfect Easter eggs were easy when you folded the paper in half and finished the job with crayons. Decorated strips of paper glued together made simple Easter baskets. Our bulletin board was especially attractive with oodles of paper eggs and paper bunnies and chicks. We'd been to the store. We bought lots of Easter candy from dues collected. No Easter parade was complete without candy. The front yard-eventually hay that in a few months we'd stomp down with our boots-would be where the audience would sit on whatever we could find in the barn. Sometimes that meant a cinder block at either end of a board.

The last rehersal had been a success. Our parade was to be Saturday. Easter was always busy enough out in the country with four houses full of relatives. We'd start marching up the path that was between the Clubhouse and farmhouse. I wouldn't join them. I was in charge of the window. This was where all the action would be; announcing the goings on; selling the candy. Once we removed the chicken wire and put out our cardboard sign which we'd spent hours on designing, the First Annual Chicken Coop Clubhouse Easter Parade would be underway. The little ones were told to be at the Club right after breakfast. All our work was just about to pay off.

Well it never happened. We awoke to an all-day spring downpour. I met my cousin at the clubhouse only to find melted marshmallow chicks distorted so badly that they were just sticky blobs. Jelly beans were inseparable. Chocolate eggs were chocolate soup. Since most of the windows were without glass, paper decorations were destroyed as was that window sign we'd labored over.

We were certain all the adults were as disappointed as we were. We told them not to worry. We'd get to work on a new event just as soon as we could pick up the sticky chicks and lopsided bunnies.

Goodreads | Barbara Briggs Ward's Blog - "Magic Carpet Ride" - April 16, 2011 11:21

2011-04-16T14:22:00.001-04:00

Goodreads | Barbara Briggs Ward's Blog - "Magic Carpet Ride" - April 16, 2011 11:21

The Art of Sewing

2011-04-10T10:46:00.000-04:00

Both my grandmother and mother were fine seamstresses. Perfectionists when creating with fabric, every seam had to be straight; every dart even with another. Sitting at her small, black Singer sewing machine with the pedal on the floor and her tape measure around her neck and straight pins pinned to her sleeves or house dress, Giddy as we affectionately called our grandmother would mend, nip, tuck, take in, let out, patch whatever demanded her attention. Most times she never used a pattern when it came to a new project. She'd take the measurements and go from there. When she did use a pattern she'd sometimes combine two into one; taking something from each to obtain her end result. She worked quickly. But then, with six daughters and a farm, there was no time to waste.

The last thing she ever sewed for me she never had time to finish. She'd started basting pieces of fabric together that she'd cut into squares with the plan of making the child I was expecting a quilt. Instead of putting those pieces away in a drawer, I've framed them and keep them out as a reminder of this woman who created right up to her very last breath.

My mother was really the true perfectionist. She not only sewed the basics. She mastered tailored coats and jackets; suits and fine dresses. After a blood clot in her leg forced her to retire from nursing, an addition was built on to our home in the country; giving her the opportunity to open a fabric store. But it was much more than fabric. This was back when women and men wore hats. Not baseball caps but stylish hats; some with jewels and sequins; some with feathers. My mother carried a full line of hat accessories, plus jewelry, Vogue and Butterick patterns, and bolts upon bolts of cottons, wools, corduroy, linen, silk organza, felt, rayon-and if she didn't have something in stock that a customer requested she'd get it.

A couple times of year she went on buying trips to New York and a few times I was lucky enough to go along with my parents into the garment district where we'd hurry from one fabric warehouse to another. It was exhilarating; the crowded streets with racks of clothing zooming by and people shouting and flatbeds of fabric being forklifted off trucks. I think that's when I fell in love with New York City.

I'd also fallen in love with my mother's shop. On Saturdays my grandmother taught sewing. That's when I learned about inseams and back seams and darts and buttons with button holes and zippers. I learned about working with certain types of fabric; how to measure and how to do the basics. While I mastered the basics, I've never risen to the level of perfectionist.

Sometimes I'd take my homework and do it on the large,oblong table which served as the measuring and cutting table in the shop. Being surrounded by fabric and feathers and colors and designs with the smell that only those bolts of material can project made it hard to concentrate on algebra and biology. There was never anything creative to me about those subjects. They were too exact. When I did do what I had to do, the books were closed. Then I'd pull bolts of fabric out and mix and match them to my own patterns I'd create on paper by using Vogue or Butterick as my guide. I was a great designer in that fabric shop in the evenings until it was time to go to bed and back to boring algebra.

I often think about those two women and their sewing abilities. My mother ended up with a computerized sewing machine with all the bells and whistles-but she never used all the fancy options. She might have selected a different type stitch now and then but anything else could have been accomplished on that Singer model of my grandmother's. Sometimes we are given too many options. I am gratful that I was given the option of leaning how to sew or not for sewing is yet another creative outlet for those with fingers and hearts aching to create.

Whether it's a blank canvas or blank sheet of paper; a bolt of fabric or a slap of clay, it takes an artisan with his/her heart soaring to turn those raw materials into illustrations, books, paintings, designer suits and cups and bowls and vases. Sure beats numbers and formulas and strange signs that equal equasions-or something like that!

Aprons and Doilies

2011-04-06T23:38:00.000-04:00

I wish I wore aprons but I don't. Actually I don't spend that much time cooking except for the holidays or Sundays. I could use that for an excuse but truthfully, I don't own any aprons. Not a one. Martha Stewart wears aprons but I'm sure they're designer brands.

My grandmother's aprons were basic all-cotton. They went over the head and tied in the back. Some had a pocket-type thing in the front that served like a catch-all as she worked about her farmhouse kitchen while being interrupted by other chores or distracted by children or totally caught off guard by things that needed fixing right then. Those aprons resembled the things carpenters tie around their waistline holding different sized nails. Hers held everything from buttons to pencils and whatever else came her way. Doctors have their white coats. My grand mother had her aprons which were hung on a hook behind a door leading from the kitchen to the dining room. A few were kept for good; a few saved for the holdiays.

I don't have any doilies either. I wonder if anyone these days do. I don't remember them that much in the farmhouse. It was my mother who starched and pressed the knitted table coverings. It was a painstaking, time consuming process just to end up with very stiff coverings that sat on end tables underneath plants or lamps or whatever she chose. I don't know where she found the time to starch her doilies. Looking back I'm glad she did. I always thought they looked nice as did my grandmother in her cotton aprons.

TV Westerns

2011-04-02T21:40:00.001-04:00

When I was growing up there were plenty of Westerns on TV. Guess they could be compared to today's glut of reality shows or CSI series or those singing/dancing talent competitions except the Westerns were in black and white and the actors weren't actors-they were are best friends; part of our family.
I think I was infatuated with every cowboy. When they rode off into the sunset I was right there with them. From Adam Cartright on "Bonanza" to "The Rifleman"-men were men; clearing and defending their land and tipping their hats to the women when in town. When they wore their leather chaps I melted. When they tied their 6-gun on and went after the bad guys I cheered.
As I've mentioned before Saturday night gave us Gunsmoke followed by Paladin. From Matt and Miss Kitty to that "Knight without armor in a savage land" Saturday night was a smorgasbord of boots with spurs and long dresses I wished I could wear.

When we played "Western" in our Chicken Coop Clubhouse I did wear those dresses; I did ride off into the sunset with those cowboys-after my work in our schoolhouse-turned-restaurant was done although some days I just had too much to do. It was really busy when a stagecoach stopped. The horses had to be watered. The people had to be fed and all rather quickly as the driver was in a hurry; had to make it to Dodge by sunset. That meant the stone eggs we scrambled and the twig strips of bacon we grilled and slices of leaf toast we toasted and the mud coffee brewing all had to be prepared and served-before the next stagecoach pulled up or the next Marshall stopped for a cup of mud coffee or the next cowboy in transit asked for the special-cardboard pancakes with homemade mud-maple syrup.

Thanks to those TV Westerns, we spent hours in our clubhouse enacting our own Western sagas. Difference was our scripts weren't written down. There were no lights, camera, action. Our scripts came soaring from imaginations intent on the moment flipping bark french toast or waving good-bye to patrons with full stomachs-on their way to Dodge before sunset.

Darning Holes in Worn Gloves

2011-03-26T01:26:00.001-04:00

I wore the same black gloves every day this past winter. I'd found them in the grocery store in the frozen food aisle. They held up pretty good for being cheap and considering I used them to scrape snow and ice off my car windows. But in the last few weeks the tips of my fingers have pushed through the ends of my gloves; making them look more like those things that golfers wear.
I know it's pretty sad but I refuse to go buy a new pair. It's the principle of the thing. By the calendar, it is spring so soon I won't be needing them. Right! Today I had the bright idea I'd sew the ends with tiny, black stitches just like my grandmother would darn socks.

When I think about it, my grandmother-and those of her generation-never threw anything out just because it had a hole or it was ripped. Nothing was tossed. Everything was given a 2nd or 3rd life. Needle and thread would be pulled out of her sewing basket. When she found a spare moment she'd mend the holes in the socks and rips in pants or shirts; even sweaters. When clothing was really worn she'd cut the cloth into strips and when she had enough material she'd braid her rugs. If something needed a button she'd go to her button bag-all recycled from the clothing she'd cut up. That button bag was also a great source of fun when in need of checkers for the checker board or playing, "Button! Button! Who's Got the Button" or "Hot Potato" or "Hide the Button" or for seeing who could make the longest line of buttons around the farmhouse. Zippers and hooks 'n eyes each had their own bags too but they weren't as fun as buttons.

If there were leftovers, the next night the meal was a different version of the previous night. Rice left from dinner might turn up as rice croquettes for breakfast. When my grandmother made her to-die-for-flaky-crisco pie crusts, she would roll any leftover dough out into small,separate crusts. In the middle of each, she'd spoon on some of her homemade jam-whatever she had ready; then roll each little pie crust up into a tart and bake them until the crusts were golden and the jam pipping hot. With a glass of cold milk, those tarts quite possibly were the best treats my grandmother baked. They said alot for leftover pie crust and the art of recycling when recycling was just the way of life.

Dogs, cats, a mean rooster, and an alligator

2011-03-19T07:37:00.003-04:00

Pets make their way into our hearts and a family's legacy. They mark an era; bring tears and laughter and make great stories when remembered. Growing up in the country we were blessed with many little friends. Some were given names while some remained generic like "that" chicken or "the" pig.

There was Pepper-a small kind of a dog hanging around the farmhouse when we were little. He was short with a long sort of a nose. He probably had been named Pepper because he had black and white fur with a tinge of butterscotch-an odd pepperish mix. There were two particular horses I remember hearing stories about when sitting around the kitchen table; remember being told which stalls had been their's but I can't recall their names. One might have been Molly.

No particular barn cats come to mind although there must have been a few of them. After all there was a barn with haylofts and nooks and crannies. Barns are full of mice. Nearby stood a small grain shed which made a perfet place to play especially when the bins were full. It also was where strays gave birth. The grain made a warm, soft, and sheltered bed.
Old farmhouses with woodpiles in the shed just outside the kitchen scream for mice to come in and play. One cat roaming around the big kitchen with its tail waging comes to mind. I'd forgotten about the cat. I was quite young.

The most infamous of the animals in the barnyard was the bald-headed rooster I've written about before. That mean guy had earned the name Baldy because of all the fights he picked and won. He ruled the roost; terrorized my brother when he was a toddler. To this day there still stands a small building the size of an outhouse where Baldy finally was forced to live alone. We still call it Baldy's house.

There was a black angus calf which an aunt nicknamed Sparkle for my little sister. When my grandfather was older he had a pet bird named Pete. My mother couldn't stand Pete, especially the time Pete got out of its cage and swooped about the dining room-the parlors-around the kitchen and then back into his cage. I can still hear my mother yelling, shooing Pete away with flailing hands.
As I got older the pets increased. There was Ranger-a black lab and Smoky and Bess-sister German Shepherds and Tink Tinkerbell-the best cat ever and a Doberman Pinscher I'd prefer to forget. My aunt had a big, fluffy white dog that underwent an operation which left it half-shaven and sickly looking. There was Brandy-a yellow lab that seemed to live forever-but he didn't except in the hearts who loved him.

The strangest pet on the farm was an alligator. I think it came from a school project as my uncle had been a biology teacher. My cousin cared for him. He finally let him go in Sucker Creek and we never saw the alligator again.

Geraniums in the Window in the Winter

2011-03-12T07:29:00.001-05:00

When I was young and my grandparents were living in the farmhouse a favorite room of mine was one of the front parlors-especially when winter's grasp was harsh and gray days prevailed. I'd stand by the window looking out towards the barn in awe of my grandmother's geraniums in full bloom sitting in front of me soaking up what sunlight there was coming in from the cold. The contrast was stark. Outside everything was frozen in place. Inside those plants with their big, happy, green leaves and big, happy, red flowers weren't stopping to wait for the heat of summer. They didn't seem to care. They made no distinction between the seasons. They were getting what they needed and letting you see how content they were in that window-all thanks to my grandmother's green thumb. She cared for her plants like she did her cooking-smidgens of this and that done naturally and with lightening speed and with great results.

There was no down time for this woman who juggled her many roles and duties in a house dress with her hair wrapped up in a bun. Her gym was her surroundings-up and down the stairs endless times a day; stacking wood and loading her stove; carrying babies-chasing babies; slicing-dicing-whipping-kneading-canning-knitting-sewing-crocheting-mending-braiding rugs-braiding hair; shoveling snow; walking back and forth to the barn; doing chores; planting-picking-pickling-working in her garden; stocking up the root cellar. Maybe her equipment wasn't made of steel and maybe her house dress was void of a brand name logo but that woman never left her gym and never quit working out and did it all with ease and did it all every, single day. Her water wasn't in plastic bottles. It came from the well.

I often think of how my grandmother made her way. She continues to influence me. My geranium plants with their big, happy, green leaves and big, happy, red flowers have bloomed all winter long-sitting in a window looking out towards the barn.

March Madness-Country Style!

2011-03-05T17:26:00.002-05:00

Nope. No basketball hoops growing up in the country. No snowmobiles or 4-wheelers back then either. I dare say if we had stuff like that we probably wouldn't have bothered with any of it for we had our own versions of what we considered fun-know today as recreational playtime.

Any hint of spring would find us outside in the mud; making snowballs that would soak our mittens and marching through puddles that would flood our boots. Once the stream that meandered its way between the farmhouse and our clubhouse began to wake up, we'd help it along with shovels and picks and whatever else we could find in the shed. It came through a tunnel built underneath the road; run-off from a field that stretched way back to the pine grove. If you bent over and yelled your loudest into the tunnel, it would echo out the other side. Sometimes we'd throw stones into the tunnel to see who could throw the farthest. We had lots of fun with that tunnel. It became whatever we wanted it to be.

Once we felt the stream was ready, we'd take little twigs and have races to see which twig could make it down to the flat rock first. The course was a rough one with patches of ice cakes still in place. The best twigs would flow right underneath them and come out farther down the stream. You had to watch for your twig. Sometimes it'd get lost in the muck along the way. Sometimes the race would end in a tie. The next day we'd be right back at it. That is unless winter had returned over night and froze the stream in place just as we'd left it. That didn't stop us. Because of its overflowing banks we had more room to skate-until it opened up again and we'd be back running our races.

I've never been to Disney World but I have been under the road playing in the tunnel that became a ship or hideaway or castle. I have frolicked in the stream that offered hours of pure fun-where our imaginations took off just like those twigs hurrying along. There were never any crowds to fight; no long lines to stand in. And there was never a charge for playing to our heart's content!

Good Friends Forever

2011-03-01T05:49:00.002-05:00

Books mark stages of our lives. They become more than words on pages forming sentences. They become good friends and when thought of, bring back memories of being swept away while sitting quietly turning pages.

I can still see my grandfather in his chair by the window in the front parlor of the old farmhouse in the early evening. After a full day's work, he'd sit and read. He loved Zane Grey westerns; devoured Saturday Evening Posts cover to cover. We'd play all around him but I don't think he ever noticed. He was being swept away.

I still remember going with my mother to a small bookstore in our downtown when we had a downtown. She loved fiction; mostly of the South when sprawling plantations were still sprawling and the women dressed like Scarlett O'Hara and all the men were Rhett Butlers. My mother worked as head nurse, evening shift in the ER. When she got home-before going to bed, she'd read. She'd sit near the window in the side room that bordered the lane-sometimes with her white duty shoes still on and let the words sweep her away. I bet that's how she relaxed after hours at the hospital.

My grandmother gave us books as gifts. Laura Ingalls Wilder, Louisa May Alcott, Carolyne Keene's Nancy Drew Mysteries, even the Bobbsey Twins took turns going to the chicken coop with me-just in case I had a spare minute to read between going on great adventures with my cousins. Sometimes that chicken coop clubhouse turned into a library. We'd put all the books we had up on display; turn little slips of paper into our card catalog; then check them out to as many pretend patrons as we could make up that day. Some days we were quite busy!

There's no richer an experience we can give our children than that of immersing them in books; taking them to libraries and letting them sift through the shelves; letting them touch them and smell them; letting them experience being swept away for once they've been swept away, they'll want to be swept away again and again. Boredom will never be in their vocabulary.

No one could sweep children away better than Theodor Geisel-the beloved Dr. Seuss who celebrates his birthday this month. His hilarious, tongue-twisting characters and storylines continue to spur young imaginations everywhere. Happy Birthday Dr.Seuss. What a good friend you are to children and the young-at-heart everywhere!

Breakfasts at Giddy's

2011-02-26T15:43:00.003-05:00

I've told you about my grandmother Giddy's molasses cookies so big that they took two little hands to hold and her traditional Christmas bread that remains a tradition and brown donuts that melted in your mouth. Her breakfasts were just as special. Whether they were enjoyed in that huge farmhouse kitchen surrounded by wainscoating or some years later in the smaller home she and Grampie and my aunt Claire moved to within view of that homestead, breakfasts at Giddy's surpassed any IHop anywhere.

For some reason Sunday breakfast seemed extra special.I think it was because we took extra time to enjoy each other around the pine table with its drop-in leaf. My Aunt Claire always sat in the same place. She kept her things in the same spot-like pills, pencils, a small pad of paper, maybe a stray button or piece of candy. On the window sill beside her sat trinkets she'd received from her nieces and nephews. Usually a candle was in the mix. If my cousin Carol and I had stayed the night-enjoying Gunsmoke, Lawrence Welk, and Paladin-we lingered even longer.

By today's anti-lard, anti-grease, anti-fat standards Giddy's eggs cooked in bacon grease and served with a dash of pepper and salt would have been considered a no-no. So too would have been her French Goulash-spaghetti mixed with garden stewed tomatoes, onion, and a half a pound of cut-up bacon-all blended together with the bacon grease, dotted with real butter and baked until just brown. One more note on lard and grease: during haying season when Giddy cooked the big meal at noon for all the workers and Grampie, there'd be bowls of grease from whatever meat she was serving. Throughout the feast her homemade bread smothered in butter was dipped into the piping hot grease-and enjoyed! Giddy lived into her eighties. My grandfather died of asthma but lived a long life. While they consumed the grease and lard like we do lettuce and fruits and nuts the difference is their food was chemical free. They grew and raised most all they consumed.

Of all the breakfast treasures she served-the french toast and pancakes both fried in hot fat, then covered in butter and real maple syrup; the hot oatmeal or corn meal, a favorite was her rice croquettes which were simply cooked rice mixed with beaten eggs, shaped into croquettes, rolled in flour or bread crumbs-then cooked in that deep fat until browned and served with hot tomato sauce. We'd stuff ourselves with those croquettes-and pancakes and french toast and eggs and bacon and hot cereal. There was just something about gathering around that kitchen table at the beginning of a new day-where aromas of cinammon and bacon and coffee perking mingled about and the spirit of a woman we all called Giddy made us feel a part of something special called family.

Those breakfasts are now sweet memories made even sweeter when considering I was given that simple pine table with its drop-in leaf. On Sundays when my sister comes for coffee we sit around the table and talk and share-just like days gone by with Giddy cooking and wide-eyed grandchildren talking and sharing and eating. Last Christmas I sat around that table with my 6-month-old granddaughter. When she is old enough I will tell her about others who'd gathered around that table and if she asks I'll cook her rice croquettes or pancakes or french toast. I'll go light with the butter. It's a new generation.

Getting the Message Right on Valentine's Day

2011-02-11T22:09:00.000-05:00

I remember when I was in grade school how my stomach would be tied in knots when trying to decide which valentine would go to which classmate. Those knots became even tighter when it came to choosing a valentine for a boy. It couldn't say too much. "Be My Valentine" was a no-no. "Be My Friend" was a bit nervy.

Making folders that would hold the valentines we'd be receiving from classmates was not quite so nerve racking. Rather, it was fun folding the construction paper; then very lightly drawing half-hearts on the fold. After cutting the shapes, we'd open the paper to discover perfectly shaped hearts. When everyone in the class was finished, our teacher would pass out fancy doilies. We'd take turns using some of the white sticky paste scooped out from a plastic gallon container sitting in the middle of her desk. Wiping some of the goo on the backs of our cut-out hearts we'd then stick them onto the doilies. I remember thinking they were breathtaking. When we were finished with the folders we'd make valentine cards for our parents.

Besides the school party with homemade sugar cookies shaped like hearts covered in red dye frosting and the red dye punch served in little paper cups, the best part of Valentine's Day was taking that folder full of valentines-each tucked inside a flimsy envelope-home to be studied over and over again. Who gave me what valentine? Which boy gave me which valentine with which message? Would any say, "Be My Valentine"? Would any ask me,"Be My Friend"? Sometimes-they did! That's right sometimes a boy asked those questions and when he did I'd study the valentine like a hawk-checked the artwork-the message-the signature. Did he sign it or did his mother? You see when it comes from the heart the signature has to be genuine-especially on Valentine's Day!

Valentine Snow Cupcakes and Cookies

2011-02-10T23:03:00.000-05:00

Getting ready for Valentine's Day was especially fun in our chicken coop clubhouse. Despite the snow sneaking in through the cracks we were so busy it never really bothered us. We'd swipe it off the desks; push it aside with our boots and play-honest to goodness, pure imagination full-steam ahead play as we made valentine cards and valentine chains kept together by a pastey sort of glue made ahead of time by mixing flour and water. Valentine decorations were created and put in the windows which were allowing the snow inside.

We'd instruct our two rows of pretend students to follow us as we drew designs on the chalkboard; then drew them on paper much of which had become wet by the snow and then cut them out with an old pair of scissors our grandmother gave us. We helped our pretend students make cards to take to their pretend families living in pretend homes nearby. Each student had a name taped to their desk. Of course, as is usually the case, we had our favorites! Those who didn't behave didn't get the pretend snacks at snack time which was snow piled on top of cardboard plates.

Snacks varied-everything from pretend valentine snow cupcakes to pretend valentine snow cookies with little stones-serving as pretend chocolate chips-which had been found under the snow and dug up by little frozen fingers. Whatever we were serving was quite delicious. After our pretend students left to go back to their pretend homes we'd stay to finish the snacks they'd left behind. Those valentine snow cookies were our favorites although the chocolate chips were just too hard to chew even when we were pretending!

Christmas Lights and Valentine Hearts

2011-02-07T22:53:00.000-05:00

Now that January has given way to February with its chocolate hearts and paper hearts and hearts on socks and hearts on cards and hearts on sleeves declaring love forever-I have finally put most of Christmas back into boxes and drawers and wherever else I can stuff it.

Out near the barn there remains a string of solar-powered Christmas lights strung around a massive bush of some sort sitting by itself in the field. When it's been a bright, sunny winter's day those lights of red and green and blue illuminate winter's night. Looking out the back window when the dark sky's a bed of silver stars and the moon's but a sliver those dancing lights in the massive bush spread wonder and warmth out across the giant snowdrifts and into the hearts of anyone passing by. That alone justifies leaving them up. After all, it is the month of hearts and I'll keep them up until the month of hearts lends itself to the month of shamrocks.

Winter's Contrast

2011-01-27T23:40:00.002-05:00

Winter brings a stillness and beauty all its own. Early morning, deep-purple skies against the lacey frost cover of a new day leave me speechless as do snowladen trees and drifts so high they make you wish you were a kid again.

In stark contrast, winter brings a harshness that dares you to survive. White-outs; frozen pipes; sub-zero temperatures that make the house crack; power outages; cars that won't start; highways turned ice rinks; school closings that ruin morning's routine and a mother's patience; cancelled flights; runny noses; and boots that really don't keep your feet warm. Old Man Winter keeps it coming; teasing us with sunrises and sunsets that are a photographer's dream while bringing us to the point of despair-almost.

Whenever it seems that winter is winning the battle I remember what my grandparents and their six daughters endured in winter's grip-back when winter was winter. They certainly had more snow; drifts so high they reached the top of the back woodshed. There were no fancy snowblowers to clear a path. Shovels did the trick. My mother used to tell how she and her sisters would huddle around a floor register in a bedroom above the kitchen. Heat from the woodstove below would provide the only heat in the house. They'd dress quickly and run down the backstairs to the kitchen.

Before bundling up and walking to the one-room school up the road, my mother had to bundle up and walk down the back hill, over the flatrock hidden under ice and snow; then up the buried pathway to the barn surrounded by drifts. The barn itself, with cracks in its woodframe allowing bits of snow to get inside, had no source of heat unless you counted cow pies freshly dropped on the floor and hay serving as both a food source and insulation.

My grandfather, bundled up in a fur coat and cap, would harvest ice from the river; then bring the chunks by horse and flat-bedded sleigh to another barn and store them there in sawdust. They'd have ice usually through the summer. Those were hard winter days with no technology to help. But they were tough. They went into that bitter cold every single day and did what they had to do to get to the next day. Of course my grandmother's cooking, started in the early morning as the snow fell and north wind demanded their attention, was certainly a reason to endure the elements-at least to the dinner hour.

Thoughts of those who lived in that farmhouse, surviving winter's furry, is what just got me through four long days with frozen water pipes. When something as basic as water coming out of a faucet is taken away it is a reminder how spoiled we are with our push-buttons and downloads and tweets and twitters and energy-efficient windows and furnaces.I bet those sitting around the kitchen table in that farmhouse with winter trying to get in felt a sense of satisfaction at the end of the day-not because of any technology but because they worked as one. There's something to be said about hard work-even better when it's a family doing it.

Soup's On!

2011-01-08T18:37:00.001-05:00

January is my favorite month not only for its stillness and beauty but for the pots of soup created and served on cold winter days and nights. Add a loaf of bread and a salad and January gets even better.

My mother was known for her "witch's brew." This favorite was not served just around Halloween-but all through fall and straight through March or April depending on the weather. The thought of that broth cooking on top of the stove with snow softly falling congers up memories of those childhood days in the country.

Making the brew was an all day event or maybe it just seemed that way. Anticipation has a way of doing that especially when you're young. After cutting up the carrots and onions just so, my mother would add the seasonings including bouillon cubes. My mother loved bouillon cubes; kept cans of them in a drawer next to the stove. She'd often boil a cup of water; throw in some cubes and drink it like a cup of tea.

There was no recipe followed. Sometimes tomatoes would be added; sometimes a green pepper or chicken cut up into small pieces or tiny meatballs dressed in garlic and bread crumbs-whatever made up the bubbling broth always had one constant-one ingredient never left out and that was tiny acini d'pepes. Those little round bits of pasta were the icing on the cake or in the case of my mother's witch's brew-the finishing touch of a homemade soup which I now create; cutting up the carrots and onions just so; adding the seaonings with bouillon cubes included; then going to the refrigerator to see what else I might add before stirring in those tiny bits of pasta.

That witch's brew holds memories of family gathering; of being in a place of warmth and contentment while outside the wind would howl and the snow would grow into giant mounds-perfect for kids to roll in or slide down or pack into balls after having their bowl of witch's brew.

Ahhh Sweet January!

2011-01-04T23:08:00.001-05:00

January has always been my favorite month. Yes, I'm serious-my most favorite month and the older I get the more favorite it becomes. There's no single reason why. When I was younger I'm sure it had lots to do with digging into all those Christmas presents just received even though the vacation ended and the school bus was rolling again. Didn't it seem back then that it'd been forever since you'd seen your classmates? After all, it'd been since the year before! Remember how everyone was wearing brand new clothes even if they didn't quite fit?

Included in all the loot my cousins and I'd collected Christmas mornning, there most always was something for playing outdoors. Not that we needed toys or props for the outdoors was our year-round playground all on its own. Winter was the best season. Back hills became Olympic mountains perfect for wooden skiis with wooden poles. Simple skiis that you slipped your snow boot into; the front of your boot fitting into a single leather strap; then off you went on adventurous runs that not even the real Olympics could top.

Just up the road a bit was a bigger hill with a toe line. My aunt and uncle would pack all of us in a car; tie a toboggan to the top along with some of those skiis and off we'd go. Both my aunt and uncle were skiers. I remember doing the snowplow down the hill thinking I wanted to ski as beautifully as my aunt way ahead of me-working her way down to the bottom like a swan dancing on water. Later we'd have hot chocolate and saltines in an adjacent country restaurnat while our boots and snowpants dried before we headed home.

Of course the creek was where Olympic-style ice skating competitons were held after school; all weekend long and into the night. Going along at top speed was exhilarating unless you caught a skate on a clump of reeds!
That uncle of ours was always outside too. Sometimes he'd make us forts out of blocks of snow. We'd make a whole bunch of snowballs; have them ready just in case. We'd carve out peek holes; be ready to spy on any approaching enemy. We'd divide the fort into areas; places for secret stuff; places to store our food supply. Those forts lasted into spring; replaced by tents that'd get too hot in the summer sun.

Yes January is still my most favorite month of all. I love the snow; the harshness and breathtaking beauty of winter. Its stillness fills me with hope; inspires me; its freshness invigorates me. Fields decorated in shimmering diamonds; cornstalks left haphazardly; abandoned old barns surrounded by snowdrifts like blankets against the elements-Winter in the country is possibly the closest thing to heaven on earth-if you take into consideration making those snow angels underneath millions of dancing silver stars. Ahh sweet January-sweet, sweet January!

Christmas is in the Heart

2010-12-23T06:21:00.000-05:00

I can't single out one Christmas over another; one that stands out as the best Christmas ever for each year presents a different story of circumstance and expectations. But I can say that those Christmases spent in the country will remain in my heart forever. My aunt who swam like Esther Williams would on occasion say that youth is wasted on the young. I never understood what that meant until later in life. As a child, growing up in that row of 4 houses full of relatives was just the way it was to me. Having cousins, aunts, and uncles as part of my daily routine along with the surrounding fields and pastures; woods and old barn and chicken coop clubhouse and meandering creek-all just part of every day life.

No other time of the year brings that all back around like Christmas does. My grandmother baking her cookies and Christmas bread; the heartwarming scent of fresh greens mingling with cinammon and nutmeg; snow falling-and falling; presents wrapped in tissue paper held together by stickers that often didn't stick; skating under the dancing stars-all and so much more part of life in the country at Christmas time.

I've written before about my favorite Christmas present ever-the pine desk my grandfather made me with the pad of paper and sharpened #2 pencil in its drawer waiting for me. Another gift-a rather simple gift of a pencil and letter holder from my aunt who made awesome candles also comes to mind as a favorite. I don't know why; perhaps because I was able to set the gift on my desk and use them when pretending to be a writer at a very young age. Funny what we remember isn't it? I think she ordered the set from Miles Kimball. At least I remember seeing the catalog and a few weeks later saw her walking down the cinder driveway to the mailbox where there was a package waiting so naturally I thought the package was for me!

There was one aunt who lived faraway. She was beautiful; always wore a single strand of pearls and lipstick and cardigan sweaters. Because she'd had polio growing up, she walked with a limp. She never had children. My cousins, siblings, and I were her children. When she came for Christmas it was an overload of excitement for her presents were always among our favorites. Not just because of what was inside but because of the way she wrapped them. She never used tissue paper. Rather, each gift was wrapped in brightly decorated paper with curly ribbon and bows. Every gift she'd either sent ahead or carried through the door was wrapped like this-meticulously-with corners tucked just so and edges folded over. I remember one year in particular when she came home for Christmas. I'd written her; asked for a particular doll; even sent a picture of it. Turns out I didn't get the doll and my disappointment was obvious. That Valentine's day I received the doll in the mail.

So many Christmases-so many memories. From my brother coming home from Vietnam and surprising my parents to my father dying on December 22nd and everything else in between. Point is-each Christmas writes its own story. Each Christmas offers its own memories which we can take and tuck away in our hearts-for that is where the Spirit of Christmas exists-forever.

Christmas in the country

2010-12-18T08:06:00.000-05:00

Besides the anticipation and warmth of family gathering what I remember most of those many Christmases in the country was the setting. As gifts were wrapped and distributed between the four houses; as the older generation shared traditions with the younger generation; as the wide-eyed wonder of Santa Claus was not only in the eyes of the children but the adults as well, something else was going on. Mother Nature was at play; providing perfect backdrops-enhancing that wonder all the more.

I can still hear the crunch of the snow underfoot as we'd race down to the creek to skate.In the evening,lying atop that bed of ice, my cousin and I would "talk Christmas" as shimmering stars danced for us in the black-violet sky. The moon-a crystal white in the midst of those gleaming stars-seemed to touch the earth beyond the snow-covered fields glimmering in diamonds. Corn stalks left from the harvest assumed the role of toy soldiers in wait of Santa.
Snow sprayed by the wind from branches of pines and maples made little whirlwinds swirling about the drifts. Tracks of rabbits and field mice told of the little creatures scurrying about as the scent of woodstoves warmed our spitits. Far in the distance the haunting passing of a train whistled through the night going to places we could only dream of.

And on Christmas Eve-we were quite certain we heard the jingling of those famous bells-out in the country-where it was Christmas every day!

Saturday Night at the Movies

2010-12-11T00:19:00.000-05:00

My oldest brother and I were lucky for on Saturday nights our grandparents would take us into town to the movie theatre complete wih a balcony and ushers with flashlights. There were always two movies showing. Between the first one ending and the second one starting a news reel featuring real news not opinion and black and white promos of coming attractions played. Then the fun started. It was time to play bingo. After paying to get in the attendant would give each of us a bingo card. Everyone in the theatre played bingo while eating popcon smothered in butter. There was never talk about needing a license or protests over kids playing bingo. It was simply fun; part of a Saturday night at the movies.

A short man in a suit stood up on the stage and out of what seemed like a giant fish bowl pulled numbers painted on round discs one at a time; yelling the numbers so loudly until someone stood and yelled back, "Bingo"! The cards were perforated so as a number was called that matched your card all you had to do was push the number in and down. I'm not sure but I think the prize was free tickets. I don't remember any of us winning. It didn't matter. We were sharing time.

After the movies we'd go next door to a local diner; the sort of place with a countertop where see-through holders on pedestals displaying homemade pies and donuts sitting on doilies sat. In front of the countertop stationary stools that swivelled all around were bolted to the floor. These were usually occupied by the regulars-prime property where they could read the papers and watch who was coming and going. Booths lined the walls and ran up and down the center with an aisle on each side.

It was crowded after the movies. People gathered to talk about what was shown. We always tried for a booth near one of the windows. I'd sit on one side with my grandmother and my brother would be with my grandfather on the other side. When the movie had been a western my grandfather went on and on. Grampie loved westerns. He loved to read, especially Saturday Evening Posts and Zane Grey novels. Although we went thought the ritual of the waitress coming to the table with a menu covered in plastic and her small pad of paper in hand and a pencil behind her ear we always ordered the same thing-a hamburger with a pickle and a coke in a real coke glass with chopped-up ice and a straw. This was the only time we ever had soft drink so every last drop was enjoyed. Our grandparents were never in a rush to get back to the country. Dressed up to the point of even wearing hats they'd sit with us as locals came and went and the theatre sat in wait for the next Saturday night and more bingo and even more popcorn smothered in popcorn.

Giddy's Christmas Bread

2010-12-09T06:29:00.002-05:00

For any and all who knew and loved our grandmother she was affectionately called "Giddy"; nicknamed by my brother when he was a toddler. She was the cog keeping us together; as strong a woman as I've ever known.She defined the power of a woman way before it became a cliche.Cook, baker, homemaker, mother, wife, garden tender, sewer, crocheter, rug maker-the list goes on defining this French-Canadian woman with high cheek bones and waist-length hair wrapped up in hair combs on top of her head.

When I think Of Giddy this time of year it is her Christmas bread that fills my heart. The aroma-the texture-the taste remain in my memory of Christmases when we'd gather together out in the country. I can still see her in her kitchen with an apron around her and her strong hands stirring and folding; a few wisps of hair out of place as she works the dough just where it needs to be. She never measured her ingredients. She didn't have fancy appliances or a multitude of tv chefs telling her what to do. She was the chef in her farmhouse kitchen kneading the bread for the holidays; folding in the fruits and nuts and raisins and then baking the loaves in her woodstove as outside the snow fell and inside the wonder of Christmas approaching filled every room of that old homestead.

Of course the proof is in the pudding as they say. Sitting down to enjoy the bread was more than a delight-it was tradition. Many times as we'd gather to talk and eat while nipping away at a loaf with a slice here and a slice there,the bread simply would be devoured in minutes! Of course there were more loaves in the waiting. Giddy always made sure we never ran out.

The recipe for Giddy's Christmas bread has been passed down. Those in the family who've followed in the tradition of baking the bread,which is a 2-day endeavor, have done quite well. Of course they have Giddy as their mentor. I've never attempted to make the bread. I think I will remain a taster-enjoying every slice as memories of Giddy in her kitchen fill my heart.

Dolls

2010-12-08T06:21:00.000-05:00

Just like anything else dolls define a generation-from rag dolls to dolls that look, act, and feel like newborns, dolls leave an imprint on those who receive them. I only remember one doll I ever wanted. She didn't cry or eat or roll over or walk-she was just a baby doll with two little braids on the top of her head, blue eyes, and a warm and happy smile. I remember the moment I unwrapped the box covered with red-tissue paper. There were no glitzy photos or warnings that what was inside was unsafe or declarations that batteries would be needed to make whatever it was function. It simply was a doll whom I scooped up into my arms knowing at that very moment Santa Claus had again received my letter and again made my Christmas dreams come true. Her name was Bonnie Braids. Bonnie and I spent many hours together-at tea parties, in classrooms on the side porch, on picnics in the back yard. We became good friends.

When my oldest child was a little girl there was one doll constantly advertised on television. Of course those big companies know just how to make kids think their products are must-have, to die for gifts. Santa bought into the hype. Under the tree on Christmas morning was that doll that ate-and then literally pooped! My daughter never realized the meaning of the latter so when "it" happened she jumped up crying. The actuality of what those ad campaigns were screaming from October thru Christmas hit home and my daughter never played with that doll again.

Sometimes micro-chipped dolls; dolls that are endowed more than a little child needs to know; dolls that do everything but be what they should be in the first place-a doll that can just be wrapped in a blanket and hugged-are discarded along the way when the novelity rubs off. That's when that hard chunk of over-advertised plastic is replaced by something simplier; something that allows a young imagination to take a baby doll into their world-and truly and beautifully play-and pretend. What a real gift that is! No glitzy ad campaign needed!

The Busy Fingers Club

2010-12-07T06:30:00.000-05:00

For awhile my mother, 3 aunts and grandmother would get together once a week and create whatever it was they felt like doing. A few may have knit or sewn while others may have preferred to crochet. My mother was a talented seamstress; making tailored coats from Vogue patterns or suits with narrow lapels. She loved fabric. She loved fabric so much that for awhile she ran a fabric shop right off our living room decorated in antiques. I'd go in her shop in the evening and pick out bolts of fabric and mix-match them into outfits in my imagination. She carried all the top pattern lines and fancy feathers,pins, and jewels to make hats. Some times I'd bring a pad of paper and design my own patterns-or try to at least.

My grandmother was always braiding rugs. Her generation never wasted a thing. Socks with holes were darned; discarded clothing debuttoned; cut into strips and braided into rugs of all sizes. My cousins and I used to lay on the floor in her living room and pick out material woven into her rugs that had once been our pants or shirts or jackets. Each of those rugs was a tapestry into our family. They each told a story.

Christmas time is when those busy fingers got really busy. Wreaths made from greens brought in from the nearby woods were created around coat hangers. Fresh greens were also turned into centerpieces for each of those 4 houses in a row. But the candles are what I remember the most-especially the ones made by my creative aunt living in the old farmhouse. She must have collected bits of crayons and milk cartons all year for at Christmas she'd melt the blocks of paraffin and turn bits of crayons and milk cartons into beautiful,colorful, sparkling, shimmering candles of all sizes. I don't know how but she'd whip the paraffin and make some candles look as if they were covered in snow. To some she'd add little silver beads. Those were my favorite ones.
Making memories can sometimes be quite easy if you take the time to gather and share. I'm quite certain the talk was lively and the laughter loud as those busy fingers created into the night!

The Place Where Santa Came Down the Chimney

2010-12-05T10:28:00.002-05:00

No matter how old we are, when it comes to Christmas that little child within us goes back to a place we keep tucked away in our hearts-a place we called home when Santa came down the chimney; a place where we'd put the cookies and glass of milk and sugar for the reindeer out-then hurry to bed but hardly to sleep.

I remember such a place. It wasn't in the country with those four houses in a row. Rather it was a few miles away in the small town where I grew up. Occasionally I'll drive by; feel a little anxious as down the hill I go,slowing when approaching the place still sneaking into my dreams. I can visualize my mother sitting on the front steps-smiling and waving-looking beautiful-watching me and my brother cross the road to play with neighbors who remain young in my mind. Although it is no longer a pale yellow and a 2-car garage stands where lilac bushes once bloomed, that house sitting next to the lane is where Santa made every Christmas magical for me. Somehow he came down the chimney although we never had one. My parents did put together a cardboard fireplace; the kind where you fit a tab into a slot and instantly you have a teetering fireplace complete with cardboard mantle,logs and flames. It was ok for me and my brother. We we were able to hang our stockings on it before running up the backstairs to bed.

The house had a double living room separated by a wide archway. The tree was always in the front nudged into the corner by the window. After my father meticulously hid the huge,blue lights back between the banches and the ornaments from the 5 and dime were in place, my mother would take over-covering every inch of the tree with strands upon strands of sparkling silver tinsel. My mother loved the stuff. She'd buy whatever Woolworth's and Newberry's had to offer. By today's standards it'd probably be condemned as I bet it was full of lead. But no one cared about that kind of stuff back then especially with Christmas approaching.

There was a smaller area off the second living room which my mother used as a dining room only on Christmas Eve. She'd set the table the same way every year-with linens and china, tall-stemmed, etched crystal glasses and a silver soup ladle for serving her oyster broth. Red taper candles sat in polished holders. Her parents and sister would come for dinner; usually later than normal and then we'd all go to midnight mass. Now that I am the adult I wonder what time my parents went to bed for after mass they still had to bring us home and get us upstairs and quieted down; making sure we were asleep before assuming the role of Santa Claus. Kids don't ever think of such things. That is the blessing of childhood.

My brother was usually up first; making just enough noise so that I'd follow right behind. Rushing down the front stairs that creaked with age I'd pause at the bottom before looking into Christmas.Cinnamon was coming from the kitchen; stockings were overflowing-sitting on the floor lopsided beside the cardboard fireplace. Piles of presents from Santa were in front of other gifts wrapped in tissue paper. Those were from our parents. As the heat came through the old registers and the snow fell ever so softly I'd rush into that front room in embrace of Santa's visit.

I was in third grade when we moved to the country. Although so many wonderful Christmas memories of family followed I still feel a twinge when thinking back to that pale yellow house with its small stoop and screened-in side porch.I remember being so excited when I'd bought my brother a 5-cent pack of Wrigley gum. I mulled over what wrapping paper to use; couldn't wait to see his expression when he opened it. While he liked the gum it was his Hopalong Cassidy radio that stole the show that year. It didn't matter for he shared the pack of gum with me.

It's December!

2010-12-01T06:29:00.000-05:00

Well now the longest wait known to mankind would have officially begun; the countdown to Christmas would have been underway out there in the country. Any indication of it approaching would have been noted and talked about between my cousins and me over and over again. That aunt with the bright red lipstick took such care in buying her presents. She truly made her list and checked it more than twice. Even the paper she used for each gift was taken into consideration. There was a room where she would pile the presents in wait of Christmas. Whenever my cousin and I were at the house we'd go in that room and touch and feel and hold the gifts to our ears to see if we could possibly get a hint as to what was inside.We noted each sticker used to keep the present wrapped; each illustration on each tag. I don't recall we ever figured anything out.

When the creek froze we'd spend hours down there talking Christmas; exchanging anything we might have heard. Some evenings we'd lay on top of the ice under the stars and tell each other what we thought so and so was getting us. I can still hear the ice crack and the wind blow through the baren trees along the creek's bank; hear the blades of creek grass grind in winter's capture. I don't remember feeling cold. Rather we would get so excited it might as well have been summer!

More blogs to come about Christmas and those 4 houses full of relatives sitting along a rambling stretch of country road!

Two Reading Suggestions

2010-11-27T07:08:00.001-05:00

If you enjoy reading my reminiscing posts you might like to read my short story, "In Anticipation of Doll Beds", published in the Chicken Soup for the Soul book entitled, "Christmas Magic". It was released October, 2010 and includes 101 heartwarming stories.

Another suggestion: Log onto Boomer Living; click on Coffee House Blog; scroll down to Hodge Podge-the name of my blog where you will find "A Plastic Santa-A Holiday Tradition." This entry looks back to the downtown of my hometown years ago when we had a downtown; of shopping in the hustle and bustle where everyone knew each other; where Newberrys and Woolworths each had live Santas and toy departments to die for!

Hope you enjoy. If you feel like sharing traditions you remember from your hometown I'd love to hear from you! Wishing you a Happy Holiday season!

Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T10:37:00.000-05:00

Although we gathered frequently there was something extra special about Thanksgiving. Besides the turkey and all those marvelous trimmings with homemade pies and my grandmother's famous-much anticipated Christmas bread-there was something else going on. Looking back it was an appreciation of and respect for this day set aside for gathering together and giving thanks. Whether in red vests or a suit and tie, my father and uncles dressed for the occasion. That one particular uncle who lived 45 minutes away was always dressed in his suit and tie. To this day I've never met a man so respectful of or in love with his wife-a spitfire of a woman who was small in stature but full of spirit.

Of course the women dressed extra special too. My one aunt in particular always wore red lipstick and her hair was long and flipped up. I thought she was so beautiful. Many of the women wore aprons over their attire as they bustled about the kitchen. There were two tables set; one for the adults; one for the children. It was a right of passage when graduating from the smaller to the larger table-leaving behind wiggling kids with thoughts of that next holdiay fast approaching or itching to get back down to the creek and continue skating if the weather had been cooperative.

Seasonal music and aromas I can still tap back into filled the air. A lover of Dean Martin, my mother would play his "Marshmallow World" over and over. We'd join in as Dean took us though that classic song as only he could. Hushed conversations of Christmas surprises were held between adults as potaotes were whipped and vegetables were placed in serving bowls.Hard as we tried we never caught a word of what they were saying.
Dinner was a flurry of dishes passed and plates filled. One particular uncle was always in charge of which way the food was passed so there'd be no traffic jam holding up the flow.

Even after the turkey and pies had been enjoyed there was one more tradition we shared. A few of us older kids would cut strips of paper into smaller pieces. On each piece we would write the name of a family member. All of the names were put into a ceramic Santa Claus with a handle and after dinner we would go around the table. Everyone would take one name from the pile. That person was responsible to buy the person whose name was on the slip of paper a small gift which would be handed out on Christmas after dinner. We called them "Table Tree Gifts". It was fun to guess who had chosen whom. We'd mumble if we'd chosen someone we "didn't like" which really meant we felt they weren't that exciting to buy for. We'd spend hours trying to figue out who'd chosen our names for some bought better things than others-we thought. One particular uncle would never tell.

Of couse Thanksgiving meant "Miracle on 34th Street" would be on the tv along with great family Christmas specials such as Perry Como, Red Skelton, Dean Martin, Lawrence Welk,Carol Burnett-to name a few.

To say we were lucky living out there in the country on that certain stretch of road will never to it justice. So I will just say "Happy Thanksgiving" to all-and especially to those of us who were but little ones sitting at that smaller table. We were cetainly blessed weren't we!

Grinding Cranberries

2010-11-21T11:11:00.000-05:00

Back when we all lived in those 4 houses in a row Thanksgiving was often at our house. Of course the hope was my father wasn't called out on an ambulance call or had calling hours at the funeral home to tend to but if any such scenarios arose Thanksgiving went on as planned for such happenings were a part of our daily lives.

I loved the anticipation just as much as the dinner itself. My parents always ordered a Butterball turkey from a local family-owned grocery. They'd both go to pick it up. I can still see my father walking into the house with his hat and tie and long coat unbuttoned proudly carrying the thick cardboard box with Tom Turkey inside. He'd strut into the kitchen as if he'd gone to the woods himself in hunt of the perfect bird.
The hustle and bustle was contagious as potatoes were peeled; stale bread cut up; seasonings gathered; squash readied to be split open; pie crusts made from scratch rolled out on floured boards; china taken out of the cupboard; chairs counted; house cleaned-and cranberries crunched.

That's where I came in-grinding the cranberries for my mother as she hurried about while keeping an eye on me. She had a simple, non-fancy, non-electric blender, grinder, mixer thing. It attached tightly to the end of the kitchen table. After the handle with a wooden end was fit into place and a large saucepan was placed on the floor to catch the escaping berry juice, I was good to go. It was time to massacre the waiting fruit.

It was so much fun; putting those dark red berries in the top of the grinder; then pushing them down through as I turned the handle; listening to them pop as they became blops of mush with the juice streaming out and the blobs falling into a waiting bowl. After my mother thought I'd massacred enough berries she handed me some oranges-peeled and sliced- which I'd put into the grinder one at a time for I loved watching the wedges disappear only to reappear as more mush. I did the same for apple slices which were even more fun because they put up a good fight only to momentarily join their fellow fruits in the big yellow bowl.

Somehow I inherited that non-fancy, non-electric blender, grinder, mixer thing. It's in my kitchen cupboard all ready to go-and when it does I'll be thinking of those 4 houses in a row as we gathered in Thanksgiving-enjoying the mush I so proudly prepared.

Now that's a lot of Bull!

2010-11-19T00:46:00.003-05:00

There was a favorite story we asked to hear over and over when sitting at our grandmother's kitchen table with a favorite aunt who'd never married. It was this aunt we'd wait for a little after five o'clock in the summer heat; hoping she'd take us swimming across the road and down to that river with an Indian name. I couldn't really swim. I'd hold on to a big rock and kick while I watched my aunt. She was a beautiful swimmer; voted prettiest girl in her class. She'd methodically tuck her hair into a white plastic swim cap; then stand there-wetting her arms a few times while checking to see where we were; then stir the water a bit with her hands before diving in like Esther Williams. The best part came after the swim. That's when the graham crackers came out. They tasted so good as we made our way back home dodging cow pies. But it was when this aunt told a certain bull story that we became numb in silence around the kitchen table. No matter how many times we heard it we wanted to hear it again.

My mother was the 2nd born of the 6 daughters. Each had their chores to do. My mother's were in the barn beside my grandfather.She'd always tell me she was meant to be the boy helping in the barn for she was named after him. His name was Frank. Her's was Frances which led to an unspoken bond between the two. That near catastrophic bull event happened as she was racing out of the barn one Saturday-trying to get ahead of the cows to open the gate that would take them across the road and into the pasture.In her rush she smacked right into a grazing bull. She never thought anything about it. She was in a hurry-to beat the herd.

But on her way back to the barn that grazing bull had her in his sights. He was ready to pay her back for disturbing him. According to our aunt, that bull put his head down and barreled right for my mother who was skipping her way back to finish her chores. I don't remember how many of her sisters or farmhands were around but anyone who was there and saw the impending tragedy about to happen started screaming in an attmept to warn her of that raging machine picking up speed. The chaos of the moment alerted my grandfather who rushed to the front of the barn just as my mother-now aware and sprinting towards the finish line-was about to fly through the doorway. Lunging forth, my grandfather grabbed her; pulled her in; then took a pitch fork and embedded it into the bull's backside. End of the bull and the bull story-no bull!

The Veranda

2010-11-16T00:48:00.002-05:00

I always liked the word-Veranda when used by the adults describing the screened-in front porch of the farmhouse. It was an elusive term; fancier than needed but it intrigued me; made me feel as if that farmhouse was a castle and my cousin and I were princesses-or something. We could have been whatever we chose for when pretending became part of the play-verandas or tree limbs or hayfields or rambling streams transformed into whatever it was that worked into the script of the moment.

My most vivid memory of being on the veranda was far from the world of our imaginations. It was real. It was frightening and everytime I hear a clap of thunder and see a bolt of lightning sizzle the landscape I go back to that particular hot, summer night where we gathered together to watch it storm. Yes-watch it storm. My grandmother called us to join her as the wind began to pick up speed and little whirlwinds in the cinder driveway were whipping around like the warm-up-show of things to come.

And come they did-with my cousin and I on either side of this grandmother who had an adventurous flair about her despite her days so structured in chores and cooking and baking and caring and doing. With each jolt we dug in closer. With each electrifying flash that lit the yard up like spotlights we threw our hands over our eyes and wormed down farther into our chairs. And when the flash and the jolt combined into one huge, gigantic, earth-shaking crack my cousin and I shot to our feet and went screaming off that veranda-through the door leading to the front parlor and then straight into the coat closet under the stairway and slammed the door shut. It seemed like we were there for hours. We weren't for the storm soon drifted over the backfield-rumbling and grumbling all the way. Our grandmother sat straight through every act of that rambling storm. Something tells me her imagination was soaring that hot, summer night on the veranda.

Baldy

2010-11-13T09:28:00.001-05:00

I don't remember much about the days when my grandparents' farm was thriving but I've heard the stories. It was always fun to sit around the kitchen table where my grandparents and aunt lived. We'd have a cup of coffee made in my aunt's simple coffee pot that only made 6 cups and enjoy whatever delight my grandmother was baking while we listened to the stories about "back then."
"Tell us another one," we'd say. We never could get enough of those stories.

One particular story was told over and over. It had to do with one mean chicken named Baldy. This bird earned the nickname because of the many fights he'd partake in around the barnyard. Baldy ruled the roost if you know what I mean-winning every battle he chose-leaving him "hairless" in the process.

One battle he won every time the opportunity arose was with my oldest brother who was the first grandchild and constantly at the farm. Something tells me he was my grandfather's sidekick around the barn and a frequent passenger in Grampie's old truck. But whenever he was toddling around that barnyard and Baldy spotted him-the scurry began. Baldy would go right for this what had to be strange creature running about his domain with red hair flying and freckles plastering his face. What must have Baldy thought of this intruder at my grandparents' beck and call. Maybe it was jealously; maybe he didn't like foreigners. Whatever Baldy's reason, he would go right after my brother. With his head down and those twigs for legs flying he'd dig right in and chase my brother at high speed leaving clouds of dust and dirt behind him and one little boy screaming. No matter how many times he'd be reprimanded Baldy would do it again and again whenever it became necessary to declare just who was King of the barnyard.

Eventually Baldy earned his own private living quarters at the farm-a small buidling about the size of an outhouse where he lived in exile of fellow foul and one red-headed toddler. I don't know what ever happened to him but Baldy's house (which we family members still refer to it as)remains intact and my brother-to this day-has a fear of chickens-especially bald ones!

Cooking berries in a rusted can

2010-11-11T00:54:00.000-05:00

I really make an effort this time of the year to absorb all that's going on for it's a smorgasbord of the senses-just as it was when growing up in the country. When I hear the geese flying overhead I remember back to those times we'd be playing at the creek as fall was thinking about turning into winter. Making fortresses along that creek's bed by building walls of leaves all around us, we were able to see up and down that murky waterway just in case an enemy approached. Don't tell any grown-ups but one time intent in play we picked lots of berries of some sorts; then put them in a rusty old can full of creek water and built up leaves underneath and around the can;then we lit the leaves on fire. (I really can't remember who had the matches)! It fit right into the script of what was going on-survivng in an unknown terriory or something like that.

Anyway our leaf fire quickly turned to smoke-lots of smoke. My two cousins were scoping the nearby field for twigs and when they returned they asked me if the berries were ready. Guess we were thinking of eating them?
Anyway I remember the next second as clear today as if it was yesterday. I was sitting cross-legged stirring our "supper' with my eyes shut and tears streaming down my cheeks. Smoke had taken over but I was sticking it out. After all we were on some foreign soil and needed to survive by any means-even if it meant eating berries-maybe. I looked up-still with my smoke-filled eyes shut-and said, "I don't know. I can't see!"

And then the three of us lost it on the banks of Sucker Creek. For some unknown reason we found my answer funny-really funny. One of those moments when you laugh so out of control and when you look back you wonder what was so funny. Well we thought this was so, so funny that it turned into rolling around in that field funny! We laughed so hard we couldn't breathe, lying there with the geese flying by. It was a moment of pure childhood-pure spontaneous childhood.

Kindle Formatted and Ready to Go!

2010-11-10T19:06:00.000-05:00

"The Reindeer Keeper" is formatted for Kindle and ready to go. And if you haven't done so lately log onto www.thereindeerkeeper.com and read the Reviews! Much more to come!

Chicken Coop Clubhouse

2010-11-10T06:30:00.001-05:00

It was like combining FAO Schwarz, Disney Land, and the North Pole into one. That's what it felt like when our grandparents, aunts, uncles and parents bought the remaining items from an abandoned schoolhouse and filled the old chicken coop with those desks, chalkboards, and books-lots of books. It'd been void of chickens for some time but there were still bits of feathers drifting about. Most of the windows were missing glass; the door crooked but none of that mattered to us even when it snowed inside.

We declared it to be the Girls Club but allowed our boy cousin to join and when that cousin who wore dresses came to visit she was allowed in too but I think we might have been mean to her at times. Not really mean but throwing our weight around because we were older-and we certainly didn't wear dresses as we played and pretended in that old coop.

Looking back we were babysitters of the younger cousins in the summertime and we didn't even realize it. To us,they were our students to the point that we even handed out report cards which included our personal remarks. We had all the tools-workbooks, chalk for the chalkboard, those desks like on Little House on the Prairie that had the round hole to the right at the top for holding bottles of ink. We taught math and read stories and sent home papers and notes if they'd misbehaved.
We even "published" a family newspaper and delivered it to each home on Sunday mornings. It contained family news, sports, and hand-drawn ads for those businesses akin to the family. I wish I could remember how we advertised my father's funeral home!

When we weren't teaching we were putting on cicuses which included getting huge empty boxes from our uncle who owned a shoe store and using them for our tumbling act. We held art shows; went out and got a small tree at Christmas and decorated it. One particular "show" where we'd invite all the adults to attend and worked so hard on organizing got washed out. It was an Easter extravaganza. We'd planned quite the event complete with pink and yellow marshmallow chicks and jelly beans. The night before it poured-really poured and all of our cardboard props and Easter candy were destroyed. The show was cancelled. But more shows were to follow.

To say we were blessed just doesn't describe what that old chicken coop with the remains of an abandoned schoolhouse gave us every single day as we experienced the pricelss gift of free play; opportunities to drop barriers in our minds and let our imaginations soar-every time we stepped through that crooked door.

H-O-L-Y Cows!

2010-11-07T19:17:00.000-05:00

You won't believe what I'm going to tell you but even though I grew up in the country I never liked cows-with maybe the exception of black angus. My brother had a small herd of angus cows and when he went away to visit relatives I was left in charge of caring for them. I'd get up way before the bus came and go out to the barn; returning when I got off the bus in the afternoon. I didn't mind. I most likely would have been playing around there anyway. His cows never bothered me. They just wanted to be fed and let in and out of the barn that for years housed herds of dairy cows.

By the time we all came along the herds were gone. Stanchions were vacant so it wasn't as if I'd grown up surrounded by cows. There was just something about those black and white beasts grazing in the fields of neighboring farms. With their big, bulging eyes, they'd stare as my cousin and I walked by; staring and chewing-and chewing some more as their tails constantly tried keeping the flies away. Then there was the fact they'd just let it all out standing there chewing and then after they were finished, their tails would go even faster as they kept chewing.

My gut instinct proved valid when I was a little older and went for a walk down into the woods across the road. Two of my friends and my younger brother joined me. When we reached the area of those woods where the orphans spent their summers we lingered. It was a beautiful spot. Pine and maple surrounded the open area where the orpans pitched their tents. There was a small building where the nuns slept and a much larger building where everyone ate. Caretakers lived in the back. They only stayed in the summertime so no one was around. Off in the fields there were some cows but cows were always in those fields. I guess we were so intent in what we were doing that we didn't notice more and more cows gathering-and heading straight towards us at a full, galloping gait. It was a stampede of those mighty beasts and it was obvious we were their target.

We made a dash inside the sacred building that housed the nuns; slammed the door shut and moved whatever we could in front of the door. Shaking in fear, we thought those warriors of the fields would do us in. They tried. Oh how they tried, butting their big, hard heads against the building. It was deafening-especially if you're young and despise cows in the first place. I can't remember how long they kept us prisoners in the woods but eventually they moved on and we darted home-keeping a watch over our shoulders and elated we'd escaped the attack of those H-O-L-Y Cows!

Grampie's tractor

2010-11-06T21:33:00.000-04:00

I was in the 6th grade when my grandfather passed away. Glimpses of him remain vivd in my mind; suspenders holding his pants up; hands worn yet strong; his chewing tobacco in the checkered pouch. I can still hear the put-put of his tractor pulling a wagon full of hay over the plank bridge and up the hill; then down across the flatrock to the barn. We loved his tractor. We'd play on it when he went inside the farmhouse; pretending to shift it into gear and go on wild adventures through alfalfa and clover and then out of sight and into the big, exciting world beyond the horizon.

It was small in size. Red-maybe an orangish-red with a seat sitting on springs that would bounce up and down. The bigger the bump, the greater the bounce. There was some kind of compartment that held nuts and bolts and screwdrivers and stray nails-anything he'd need should he break down in the back fields. He must have greased that tractor daily for it constantly smelled like those cans you'd squeeze and out would come that slimy guck. It was all over the tractor-in every little crevice; over every bolt. Old rags were always near and covered in it as were his work gloves. We got covered too but it never bothered us. It was part of playing on Grampie's tractor.

I wonder what he'd say about the size of tractors today. To me they just don't look like alot of fun if your a kid and ready to head off into the sunset-or sit by your grandfather and put-put up the back hill to the barn. I bet the seats don't bounce either no matter how big the bump!

Halloween in the Country

2010-10-30T08:32:00.000-04:00

Just by virtue of being in the country made Halloween even scarier than it really was when interpreted through the eyes and minds of a kid. What might have been a cluster of leaves dancing past the cinder driveway or swirling atop an open field was actually a pack of menancing rats out to attack and devour trick or treaters. Baren trees became gnarled enemies that at any minute would join forces and nab all the children of the earth and take them off to certain demise. What cornstalks there were left standing in deserted fields transformed into haunting souls ready to avenge their fallen comrades of the field. Twisting vines once the lifelines of pumpkins now picked and gutted; carved and painted with candles flickering in their bellies slithered about the fields anxious to grab hold of those who'd taken their fruit. Certainly under the cover of that purplish black sky they were not vines at all. Rather they were serpents-angry serpents who'd coil around innocent children and leave them to the fate of those scurrying rats.

Acting as a prop the harvest moon would disappear behind passing clouds just when their light was desperately needed. Nothing-not even the moon-could be trusted on Halloween. The barn became a fortress of gloom and doom; full of monsters and dragons about to settle the score with children who ran about their castle in the daylight-laughing and playing while they lay dormant waiting for the dark of night.

Throw in grownups who'd never grown up and the scene was set for even more of a harrowing experience. You never knew where they'd appear. A grandmother who took her hair combs out-unleashing long strands of grey that seemed even longer when evolving into the Wicked Witch of the North might have peered through kitchen windows or hidden in wait behind one of those gnarled enemies. With a nose that was a natural and a cackle perfected, this country witch was better than any Hollywood version. And then there was that uncle who made us rafts and set us off on day long treasure hunts. He was never to be found on Halloween. We could have used his help when escaping from Frankenstein himself!

Halloween in the country alerted our senses; the smell of the leaves that weren't actually leaves; the sound of the wind through nasty branches; the touch of a witch's grasp; the sight of ghosts and goblins peering out at every turn. Even after returning back home-after sorting through the lollipops and candy bars and Bazooka gum-it was unsettling to peer through any window. That Wicked Witch of the North might have peered right back!

Creek Grass

2010-10-28T06:33:00.000-04:00

Because my father was a funeral director when I was growing up we never really went on extended vacations. Back then funeral directors were also the local rescue squad-on duty 24 hours a day-7 days a week. I remember hearing him going off into the night after an accident call had awakened him. Besides that he was dedicated to the families who came to him in grief. He treated them as he would have treated his own family.

With that said I never felt we missed out on a thing. The backfields and creek and barn with its pastures and pine trees across the road all were like a Disneyworld to me-maybe even better for there were no crowds or anyone trying to sell me a thing. It was full steam ahead for my imagination every time I stepped out the door no matter the season.

Props were everywhere for me and my cousins-from haylofts to the grain shed; empty silo to creek grass. Our parents didn't have to spend a penny to keep us amused. Mother Nature took care of that. Looking back I remember the creek grass had its own smell. To this day I turn my head going by a meandering creek which to me still looks like a great place to linger as the world rushes by for you see creek grass to us was not just creek grass. It became forts and hideaways. It'd protect us from the evils of our imaginary world or become a secret spot to sit and talk and dream. It never mattered that we might be getting wet. We never even noticed. We were off on childhood adventures-nurtured by the amazing world around us. Pretty good considering it was all free-all at our fingertips without standing in line-waiting and waiting and waiting some more.

More weathered the old barn the better

2010-10-24T12:58:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was joined by the award-winning illustrator of "The Reindeer Keeper"-Suzanne Langelier-Lebeda at a book signing held at St. Lawrence University's Brewer Bookstore. The response to "The Reindeer Keeper" was tremendous. In fact, we sold out! The bookstore will be restocking their shelves with more copies and another signing will be announced soon. Interestingly many who stopped for their signed copy (in some cases-"copies")lingered. Conversations flowed-from personal Christmas memories and love of Christmas stories-to infatuations with old barns.

I've let it be known that when I was growing up, my grandfather's barn was a favorite place for me and my cousins. We'd heard the stories of wayback when my grandfather and his hired hands would bring the hay in from surrounding fields under the sweltering June sun. Wagons overflowing with the hay made their way over the plank bridge to the side of the barn where it was then brought up and into the silo.

Haylofts provided us the perfect places to play-or hide-or watch barn swallows swoop in and out of broken windows of that eventually abandoned barn. We'd heard names of favorite horses; imagined what it was like when that barn brimming with memories was bustling. Chickens pecking;pigs wallowing and cows lazily making their way back and forth-that barn with its two haylofts chronicled life as it was for my grandparents; their six daughters and my grandmother's parents who'd sit at night and read to the little ones.

To hear others tell me yesterday how they too were infatuated with barns-old barns-the more weathered the better; that they too kept fond memories of old barns once part of their families close to heart was music to my ears. Old barns are history. Old barns link one generation to the next. Old barns provide us a tapestry of yesterday just as a history book provides. And that old barn of my grandfather's played a role in my writing, "The Reindeer Keeper." It was a main character!

Corny

2010-10-22T11:08:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned, when growing up-living in the farmhouse that had housed my grandparents and their six daughters were my aunt, uncle,four children and a dog named Ranger. My uncle was a teacher and coach and my aunt-a nurse. They'd met when they were both in the service. He was originally from Indiana and what I remember most about him was his rendition of "Little Orphan Annie." We'd sit in silence in the kitchen or on the veranda of the screened-in porch and listen to him. In his laid back voice he'd recite the lines until he got to the end. Then with a twinkle in his eye he'd look right at us and say in a stern and scary voice-"The goblins will get you if you don't watch out!"

I loved playing in that old farmhouse with my cousins. Inside and outside we had so much fun-climbing trees, playing baseball or stomping around in a creek rambling along nearby. The water flowed through a tunnel underneath the road and wandered on down to Sucker creek. It'd usually disappear in the summer heat but in the spring it was a must-to-be-played in spot. We'd have races to see whose twig-turned-raceboat would make it to a certain point first. We'd go on adventures while all the while getting soaking wet yet never feeling cold.

There were four cousins in that house. The third-a beautiful little girl with beautiful eyes like her dad had a favorite friend named Corny. Everyone knew about this swatch of cloth that had once been a full-sized blanket but because of her constant holding and feeling had been reduced to a mere piece of material. None of that mattered to my little cousin. That was her Corny. I remember one summer evening at suppertime when we were all gathering admidst my aunt's pine trees. This aunt lived with my grandparents on the other side of us. A shout of desperation came from the farmhouse. It was my little cousin's mom shouting to all that Corny was missing. Everything was dropped. Hot dishes turned cold. Salads with mayonaisse were abandoned. The hunt began. How could we sit and eat our dinner when Corny wouldn't be joining us?
I can't remember how long it took but Corny was found. We all celebrated and supper went on as usual-with one very happy little girl and her friend named Corny.

Joy Rides in the Backfields

2010-10-20T06:34:00.000-04:00

My father was a funeral director and ever so often in the summertime he'd drive a big, black transport-of-coffins type van home for lunch. Back then the vans were not sleek and shiny and full of bells and whistles like they are today. This was more the type of a haunting getaway car for the gangsters in a "Godfather" type film. It didn't matter to us. It made the vehicle all the more intriguing so while my father was eating lunch my cousins and I would take the van for a ride-a marvelous joy ride amongst the clover and hay. Of course we told him we'd be careful; that we'd be right back but once we made it over the rickety bridge spanning Sucker Creek and then up the hill-it was a straight shot to those backfields. I can't remember how old we were. I don't think that old for my mother had a fit. (My father was always the one we'd go to first.)

Once we were on that straightaway the fun began. Down came the windows as we stepped on the gas; our hair flying in the breeze as we flew over one bump and then another; turning in circles; dodging trees and shrubs and any little creatures that might have been curious. We never wore seat belts. No one did back then. Our heads would hit the top of the van but we never felt a thing. We were free spirits. Nothing else mattered until zipping around that raceway we saw my father in the distance flagging us in. Lunchtime was over and so was our joy ride in the backfields-until the next time.

Circus in the barn

2010-10-18T09:04:00.000-04:00

My cousin and I were always putting on shows;issuing a summons for all adults to attend. Now that I am the adult I understand what an effort it probably was for those adults to come when we rushed in with the announcement two minutes before whatever we were doing began.Guess that's what makes a family.
Besides art shows and Easter pagents the event in the barn that backfired stands out in my mind. My grandfather's barn was immense. Two haylofts connected by a rickety old wooden bridge suspended by rickety old beams provided us hours of adventures-crossing over from one hayloft to the other in lightening speed. There were abandoned stanchions where the cows had been kept; abandoned stalls where the horses had bedded down. The chicken's little roosts and the pigs' pen were still there but empty. In its day that barn was a buzz of activity. In our minds it still was.

We'd organized somewhat of a circus. My other cousin joined in so there were three of us presenting the show. The main event was aimed directly at an uncle we'd singled out. He and my aunt and cousin didn't live in the row of four family homes. They lived some forty-five minutes away; just far enough for us to consider them from the city. Adding to this assumption was the fact whenever they came he was always wearing a suit; most always wore a tie. Through our eyes he had something going on-so that's why he stood out and that's why we suspended a long piece of twine down from the hayloft directly above the door he had to walk through. On the twine we put a note saying, "Pull this!"
Our plan was to wait for him to be the one walking through. We'd drop the twine and when he pulled it a rusty old can full of water would fall all over him. Funny, right?

We waited and waited as in filed the adults. Finally we heard him coming; could smell the cigar odor he was famous for. Down went the string. My heart was beating. I couldn't wait to see him drenched. But it didn't work. Oh he pulled the twine but the can didn't budge. It was stuck; couldn't get over the edge of the board in front of it. Our devious deed had failed but the show went on without any adult getting soaked.

Turns out a few weeks later I went back with that family from the city for an overnight. I did like going there because my cousin was an only child and I think she had every Golden Book ever printed. I used to think she was so lucky. During this paticular night-when everyone was asleep-I became very homesick. I wanted to go home right then. I started to cry and it was my uncle who wore suits all the time that heard me-and comforted me and he wasn't wearing a suit. Without question he wrapped me in a blanket; got all my belongings and drove me back home. I remain grateful that bucket of water failed to tumble down upon him!

Autumn

2010-10-17T00:28:00.000-04:00

I took part in an Authors event today held at a community library about two hours from where I live.I love doing these events especially when held in libraries. The smell of the books and quiet respect for one another does something to my soul.
It was a crisp autumn day. Shuffling leaves as I carried my books into the building brought me back to growing up in the country and going across the road; then down to the woods with my cousin. Our grandparents owned the property. It was never referenced as the woods. To the family it was "the camp." Not your regular camp but rather a camp for orphans in the summertime. You see,in the nearby town there was an orphanage run by nuns. I remember going there with my grandmother who sometimes cooked for the children. I loved going there. In fact I think I would have stayed there if possible. Clean and bright with rows and rows of beds and children of all sizes and ages made it look like one big, happy family to me. Obviously I didn't understand the situation.
My grandparents grew quite close to the nuns so that's how "the camp" came to be. Only the boys came out and stayed. They walked out; brought tents and whatever else might be needed and stayed right up to Labor Day. A couple stayed there along with the nuns. They did the cooking and any maintenance. There was a little house where the nuns slept. The boys' tents were pitched nearby.
But today's drifting leaves took me back to when my cousin and I went on adventures down there; collecting pine cones and shiny stones while making sure to step over cowpies plopped haphazardly about the landscape.Fall was the best. With a richness in the air;with oranges and yellows sparkling in the sunshine walking down to and playing around "the camp" was invigorating-just like today as I carried my books inside that charming library full of charming people.