Some people say, "boys will be boys." and I am sure that I was not an exception. Our neighbors' boys were older and were into much more construction and destruction than I was. They were always tinkering with cars, sleds, and cannons. Yes, cannons, but all the more dangerous. The neighbor boys had older brothers who supplied them with firecrackers. They were legal at that time.

Homemade Cannon

 

Our neighbor's boys had some cherry bomb firecrackers that their older brothers had bought for them. This was a time when fireworks were legal in Pennsylvania. I was visiting them and they were looking for an ingenious way to set them off. The loud noise wasn’t enough for them. Why waste a cherry bomb and just see it explode. An idea came to them as they started rummaging around in a scrap pile. They had already put a firecracker under a can and watched it fly into the air with the force of the explosion.

Pulling an old metal bedstead out from the other items in the pile, they carried it to a level place and pushed one end into the soft ground at a slight angle, while the opposite open end aimed skyward. They dropped a lit cherry bomb into the tube, It was cool to hear the ringing peal of thunder and see the flying paper and smoke come out of the end of the tube. It was impressive, but not impressive enough.

They found the large tomato can that they had used earlier. It was just small enough to slide down the tube snugly. They lit another cherry bomb, dropped the explosive charge and the can quickly followed down the bedstead tube. I could hear the metal scraping metal as it made its way to the bottom.

Boom! The can flew nearly twenty feet into the air. I thought  it was great, but of course they wanted more.

Retrieving the can, they filled it nearly half full with the pea –sized gravel and small stones. They dropped it down into the cannon following after the lit firecracker. (That was what they were calling the bedstead by now.)

BOOM!. The percussion was louder than before. The weight of the can must have caused a greater compression before the can was forced out. It shot about another ten feet higher than the previous shot.
The gravel flew out of the can. Some it ripped leaves from the branches of the oak trees overhead. The scattering gravel fell back onto our heads, some down the driveway, and some hit their dad’s pick up truck parked near the house.

Although they still had several cherry bombs, they wisely chose to save them for another day and the cannon went back to the scrap heap.

I read of a challenge to write something in a flash. I hadn't written poetry in awhile so I thought I might give it a shot. The challenge was to use, bats, cats, and rats. It was a sort of challenge for Halloween. Instead of creatures crawling up a pant leg or down a collar and scaring us, I thought about Aesop and how he used animal traits to point out problems or to lend courage to the mortal world. I thought why not? All that can happen is that they will like and choose some other person's submission, but on the chance they are looking for something different... this is as different as one can get, not the usual Halloween fare.

Aesop Speaks Through Cats, Rats and Bats

Aesop writes his famous fables. He writes his morals clear.

On a more virtuous path he attempts to help us steer

He uses men and animals intentions to convey

To animate these sayings and animals to portray

He uses some of the lowly creatures like snakes and frogs

Animals like ants, grasshoppers, fish, pigs, and even dogs

To explain these morals he includes crows and mice and cats

Morals easy for people to see in bulls and bats

Wolves, deer, eagles, foxes and other creatures tame and wild

Wander through his stories written to educate a child

Monkeys, asses, goats, lambs, camels scamper across his pages

Using common beasts, he lures the common man and sages

If on a cold October night you need something to read

 Aesop can be scary for an immoral world to read.

What do you buy older people who don't need anything? I found a solution and it was easier than I thought. Let me share it with you.

Christmas Gifts for My Grandparents

When my dad’s mom and dad grew older, it became harder and harder to find a Christmas gift that they could use and would want. It was the same for anniversaries and birthdays. They already had all of the furniture that they wanted and needed. They still had clothing in the original cellophane packaging it the dresser drawers upstairs.

I was at a loss of ideas for gifts until one day I was visiting and heard them respond to a commercial on the television. It was for Col. Sanders “Kentucky Fried Chicken.” Granddad said, “That really looks good. We’ve eaten it before and it tastes good.”

Bingo. I had my plan when Christmas rolled around. I knew then what I was going to do.

When we were younger, Grandma used to put out a few decorations for the holidays, but when they reached their eighties, decorations stopped. It became too big of a chore for them to decorate. I thought that was sad, not to have something special, at least for Christmas.

When the next Christmas rolled around, I went to a local store that sold pre-decorated pine trees that were about eighteen inches high and bought it. With the tree tucked in the apace behind the front seat yellow Chevrolet Nova, I drove to the other side of town to the Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant and bought the entire meal deal; biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy, Cole slaw and a twenty piece chicken meal.

With the gifts tucked in my car, I headed to my grandparent’s house. It was the week before Christmas, but there was no need to call and see if they were home. They only left the house for funerals and doctor’s appointments. I hurried to be sure I got there before their meal time and so that the food would still be hot.

The chicken smelled so good, I was sorely tempted to reach behind me and take a drumstick out of the bucket. But I was a good boy and managed to get to their home meal intact.

Grandma answered the door with her usual greeting, “Well bless my soul, Edison look who’s here.” and she gave me the customary hug. She was short and her arms barely reached around my waist.

Grandpa joined her and I said, “Hi Grandpa. I have to be going, but I wanted to drop off your Christmas gifts early so I was sure you would have them.”

I sat the food on their kitchen table. (You always came in through the kitchen door.) Granddad took the little pine tree after we shook hands.

After another hug and “Thank you” I left.

I know that the food lasted them most of the week. Their appetites had waned and ate small amounts. The pine tree in the spring was planted outside.

I bought the same gifts for the next few years and Grandpa had started a pine forest, so I changed a bit. I still bought the chicken, but that year I bought a medium sized Crèche. I was surprised to see it perched on top of their television set several weeks after Christmas, but Grandma said she liked it and there it remained. When they died, I claimed it and it has a place of honor on a bookcase in my entryway. I bring it out for every Christmas.

All families have shady characters that fall out of the family tree. Some have horse thieves, mine had my uncle Dale. He was an unique character who made up stories that competed with Paul Bunyan's tales and his cursing would have put a ship's boatswain to shame.

Dale Tells Lies

Dale, one of my uncles, had cultivated his crop of profanity until he could not complete a full sentence before a curse word would come tumbling out somewhere. He also loved telling tall tales and outright lies. The bigger the lie and the more cuss words he would use, the better he thought that the story was.

He used to tell the story of a fruitful day of finding and picking morel mushrooms. He had filled a large basket and was carrying it back to the car. The basket was hanging on his arm, but the closer to the car, he thought the lighter his basket felt. When he turned he saw a deer following him and eating those morels out of his basket. (Please excuse me for deleting the expletives to shorten the stories.)

Another story he would tell was about his dogs. The C.I.A. became interested in them because he had taught them to read. The C.I.A. wanted them to be spies for them, to send them behind enemy lines and gather information. Who would suspect a dog? They lost interest when he told them he hadn’t worked out the problem of the dogs relaying to him what they had read.

Deer were involved in another tale he would often share with us. He was in the woods one day and heard this loud crashing and thrashing coming his way. He hid behind a tree to see what was making so much noise. The noise kept moving closer until he saw two does using their heads and necks to push aside the heavy underbrush. Behind them walked a huge buck with a tremendous set of antlers on his head. They were going before the buck so his rack would not get hung up in the thick bushes.

One story that he told I know was true. I saw it with my own eyes. He was a great fisherman. He kept what he caught even if it was above the legal limit, game warden or no. The way he got his fish home was in his old Willys truck. The passenger door couldn’t be opened from the outside and the bottom of the door had rusted out completely. When he had caught his limit, he would take them back to the truck and pop off the handle on the inside that wound the window up and down. (The window didn’t wind down anymore.) He would slip his catch of fish inside of the door and go back to fishing. When he was tired of fishing he went home.

At home he would open the door from the inside of his truck and the fish would fall out onto the ground. He would gather them, gut them and get them ready to fry. My mom took a picture of his one night’s catch. It covered the top of drop leafed, enamel topped kitchen table with both sides up. All but an eight by ten inch corner was covered with fish, lying side to side and head to tail.

Once Dale built a bench and when he saw someone, he would ask them if they could figure what kind of wood it was made of. Everyone would guess wrongly and he would chuckle, but not tell them what it was. I made my guess, and I was wrong. When I didn’t ask what it was kind of wood it was made,  it must have upset him because he blurted out, “It’s made of sycamore wood.” We talked some more and I left.

As I was leaving, my cousin came. We stood outside and talked a bit. I said to him, “If I know Dale. He’s going to ask you about that stool that he made. Make a few wild guesses, then guess, ‘sycamore.’”

I met my cousin a few days later and he told me what had happened. Dale asked him about the bench, my cousin guessed, “Red oak?”

Dale shook his head. I said, “Butternut?” and Dale said, “No.”

"I picked up the bench rubbed it, smelled it and then tasted it. I pretended to think for a few seconds and said, 'It’s sycamore.'”

Dale’s face fell and he looked disappointed that someone had guessed his secret.

Alzheimer's disease is a cruel disease taking away the mind and trapping the soul of the person inside a prison. It is hard to watch someone that you love change and slowly disappear. This is about my mom and a brief walk through its progression in her life.

 

Mom’s Love Escapes

My mom Sybil had Alzheimer’s disease. It was difficult to see the slow progression of the disease and to watch it imprison and consume this intelligent, active, loving person that she was. Most times it was a slow insidious encroachment and at other time, it would rapidly take away a part of her being.

As it captured more and more of her life, she forgot the storied that she once relished sharing with us. When we would tell a story she had told us, to confirm we had the facts correct, we would say, “Isn’t that right Mom?”  she would answer, “If you say so.” as if it was the first time that she heard it.

Before the disease, she worked with my grandfather do income taxes for nearly forty years and was an accountant with my granddad. They “kept books and made checks” for two local multimillion dollar companies.

It seems odd that there were two (and I am sure that there are more) large companies in such a rural area, but these were lumber companies. They had lands, buildings, equipment, and on hand stocks of wood, their value increases dramatically. Her concentration waned and she had to quit that kind of work. She would have trouble balancing the figures and that would almost send her to tears.

She loved to read, but slowly when she found she was having difficulty reading, she blamed it on her glasses. After we recognized her condition, we decided that she had forgotten how to read.

Always neat and clean, her hair had to be just so. That changed and she would wear whatever she could find unless my dad put clothes out for her. Often she refused to bath or to even allow my dad to wash her.

She couldn’t stand to be away from home more than two hours without being restless and fussy about being where she was. She just knew that she wasn’t at home and that would agitate her to wander. Constantly she had to be watched so she would not stray.

We knew that she loved my dad, but the final straw came when she threatened to stab him with a fork. Dad wasn’t safe there with her alone and we placed her in a nursing home. Dad couldn’t handle it alone. We couldn’t be there because all of us kids were working with our families to support. We did relieve him so he could leave for a few hours.

Near the end of her life, she refused to eat. Once in awhile we could coax her into taking a bite of one of her favorite we would bring from home and talking was reduced to a jumble of sounds. Some words could be understood, but had no meaning. One day at the nursing home, she reached out and took my hand. She smiled the old smile that I remembered as my mom and said, “Where’s Carl? I love him so much.” It was plain and clear. It brought tears to my eyes as I thought her love for my dad had escaped Alzheimer’s prison bars. It had pushed through the cobwebs of her disease and flashed like a beacon burned brightly for that instant.

This is in remembrance of those who have perished for our safety and freedom and God bless their families.

Remembering on Memorial Day

Americans and much of the rest of the world should be thankful for those men and women who we are remembering and honoring on this day. It is a time for reflection and recollection of those men and women and their deeds of bravery and sacrifice.

Our Constitution and Bill of Rights were written in their blood. Each and every letter, phrase, and sentence was invisible endorsed and signed by them. Each freedom was hard won, paid for by long periods of pain, deprivation, suffering, and loneliness of being separated from homes and families. Many braved the cold ice, and snow with the agony of frozen fingers and toes. Others endured the sweltering heat and humidity dealing with rotting flesh, insects, and snakes.

They all had to face the looming threat that they might not return home or return home injured and disfigured. It was not a “one time” emotion, but a long, drawn out, grinding on their souls. They all faced the bullets, bombs, and mines and the possibility that even their bodies might not be found to be sent home.

Through the many years, they have fought to defeat tyranny, piracy, and terrorism and to keep it at bay. It is because of them that we can live in relative peace, have the freedoms of speech, bearing arms, and the freedom of religion.

I’ve seen a quote saying, “There are no Atheists in a foxhole.” I understand that soldiers are praying for safety and comfort, praying for fortitude and bravery, and praying as an outlet for their fear and grief. All are praying for a glimmer of hope and relief from the untenable position in which they find themselves. They come face to face with eternity and face to face with their own mortality.

The scenes of war are horrible, devastatingly horrible. These scenes of death and destruction stay in the mind forever. Scenes of man’s brutal nature will ever torture the soldiers’ and sailors’ souls.

The true tragedy unfolds as we read of the pain and suffering that these men endured. They bravely fought through the war daily facing the unknown future. Some of these men faced Hell only to find at their death, they will live in Hell for an eternity; where there is no comfort, no relief from the pain and fear, where there is no glimmer of hope, only despair.

Those who have never claimed the saving grace of a merciful God and accepted the gift he offered over two thousand years ago and still offers today. Christ was born of a virgin and came into the world to bear our punishment and our sins to the cross. He took upon Himself to bear our suffering and a load of sin that we could not bear. Christ is the only way to escape the fires and horror of Hell. Good works will never be good enough. Only by claiming and accepting this free gift of salvation through His Son Jesus Christ.

I am posting a Memorial Day blog a day early. It is about getting ready for the holiday. I did not write about the brave men and women who have kept America free and continue to do so. It is because of them I can still write this blog, still enjoy the love of my family, and travel to be with them without restriction. Fellow soldiers and sailors, I salute you.
I have included a friend's recipe for those who do canning. The flavor in wonderful. By including it, I wanted to change my usual ramblings into something more. I may include a recipe from time to time when it adds to the story.

Prepping For Memorial Day

Who would have thought that I would almost get frost bite of the fingers on Memorial Day weekend? It was cold, windy, and damp. The weather channel announced that there would be the possibility of widespread frost. I had most of my garden already set out. The tender plants would be very susceptible to the frost and would probably die. There was no way I wanted all of my work to come to naught nor did I want the added expense of replacing my tomatoes and pepper plants. The seeds I had sown had not sprouted and were in no danger from the cold.

My garden is about thirty-two by twenty-four feet. It’s not huge, but it’s all I want and need. I planted twenty-six tomato plants: Heinz Hybrid, Roma, and a couple of Beef steak. Twenty-nine pepper plants; California Wonder and Hot wax banana peppers planting them in two rows. There is a reason for so many peppers. I want to can a pepper mix that has many uses. A widowed lady friend named Marie gave us the recipe. It had no name listed on the handwritten note, so we’ve always called it “Marie’s Pepper Mix.” It is a great sauce to put over a beef roast as it cooks, to top a hamburger straight out of the jar, or cooked with ground beef it makes a great sloppy Joe.

 

In a large pot or kettle, combine one large onion diced, one clove of garlic chopped, and two kegs of ketchup. (Sixty-four ounces.) Slowly start to heat stirring in one cup of sugar and one cup of oil. Adding twenty-five green peppers and thirty hot wax banana peppers that have been cut into strips or coarsely chopped. (When we made it we made the pepper ratio about equal parts to adjust the heat of peppers in the mix.)

Bring the mixture to a boil, stirring frequently until the peppers start to soften. Ladle while hot into clean pint jars, cap, and cold pack for fifteen to twenty minutes.

The cold weather and the thought of losing those plants caused me grief. I made newspaper tents for each one, folding and stapling them. Out in the garden I placed one of the caps over each plant for protection. I looked out of the bedroom window in the morning. I didn’t see any frost, but the paper bonnets reminded me of boat sails on a chocolate sea. They were still in place even after the brisk winds.

I needed to finish mowing. The rain had interrupted me and had to quit about two thirds done. I donned a heavy jacket, work gloves, and a cap with ear flaps. I was ready to face the forty degree weather. I started my Toro riding lawn mower and started mowing. The wind seemed to be lazy. It wanted to go through me and not around. In the half hour I needed to finish the mowing, my fingers were stiff and cold. The wind had blown the cold through the fabric of my gloves. I went inside to wash my hands. The warm water stung my heat deprived fingers. After forty-five minutes of thawing, they felt almost normal.

As I sat relaxing, I remembered I had bought patriotic red, white, and blue bunting for the railings of the front porch. I gathered the things that I needed and carried them outside. I couldn’t wear glove to tie them into place and after fifteen minutes, the bunting was hung and my fingers were again cold and stiff.

The yard and the house looks good, but I felt like “Nanook of the North.”

Family gatherings can be fun and sometimes the unusual happens. This was one of those occasions.

Grandma’s Porch Refrigerator

In the winter, my grandmother would often store food that needed to be kept cold on her front porch, especially if there was a family gathering and the space inside of her white Frigidaire refrigerator was at a premium. With a clan as large as ours, even finding a place to serve the food, finding a place to sit, or even finding a place to stand was considered to be a blessing.

At Christmas or at Thanksgiving, everyone would bring a large covered side dish to the gathering.  Grandma always provided the meat; chicken, ham, or even roast beef, that had been raised on her own farm.

Food covered the center of the kitchen table and on the cast iron coal stove (Which kept the kitchen cozy and warm.) Food often filled the middle of the large oval dining room table, or on the wide oak sideboard. The family wandered around the house with plates in hand taking spoonfuls of this and sampling a little of that. It was an all day affair; visiting, chatting, telling stories, and nibbling. Everyone had a great time.

Any of the food that Grandma and the aunts thought would spoil, would be put into the refrigerator or back onto the front porch in covered pots and containers. That didn’t stop the eating. Cookies, cakes, pies, and candies were still sitting around for snacks.

Grandma always made two things for the holiday meals other than the meat. One was candied popcorn. Her popcorn was unusual in that the syrup she made, coated the popcorn in a bright pink glaze. I felt odd eating the soft pink popcorn, but the other ingredient gave it the most unusual flavor. She always used nuts in it. I like nuts and nuts are good, but the ones that she used were butternuts.

Butternuts have a black walnut flavor, but much stronger. I usually picked the nuts out and ate them first or gave them away. I thought they competed with the sweet popcorn taste.

The other thing that Grandma made for any of the gatherings was some flavor of Jell-o with fruit mixed in it. Most of the time it was orange Jell-o with sliced bananas deeply submerged in the jiggling dessert.

Her Jell-O was always made in a pink enamelware pot with a matching covered lid. She would store it on the front porch with the rest of the food until she served it with the evening meal. But one year something unusual happened. Much to the embarrassment of one of my cousins who caused the surprise.

When the Jell-o was brought in to be served, there was an added ingredient. Laying on top of the shiny surface of the orange Jell-o were three tiny turds. The cousin had a pink potty similar to the Jell-O pot at home and when nature called, it was natural for her to think this pink pot was hers.

Every year someone would say, “Check the Jell-o.” and Grandma would be quick to remind them, “Just be thankful that she had to poop or we might not have known and eaten it.”

I am changing pace for today. I want to share some interesting things that I have read. It has made me much more aware of my place and responsibility in society and my community. I hope it does the same for you.

Forgiveness

These thoughts are something different than my family history and some will applaud it. I have been reading a book titled “A Prayer to Our Father” co-authored by Nehemia Gordon and Keith Johnson. Nehemia holds a degree in archeology and has worked in translating the Dead Sea scrolls while Keith Johnson is an American with a Masters of Divinity. Odd circumstances led the men to meet and to get to the root meanings of the “Our Father Prayer."

The whole book was enlightening, but I was struck more intensely when they started to share the meanings of the words for forgiveness. It expanded exponentially my thoughts on that subject.

In the prayer, we ask forgiveness for our sins and not just for our own. It becomes a collective word for the society in which we live. It is a collective responsibility. The Irish philosopher wrote, “All it takes for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing.”

It falls back onto our ideas of moral decency, of what is the correct thing to do, and what is truly honest and honorable to say. It becomes obligatory for us to at least speak out and rebuke those around us when we see wrong being done. In legal terms we “aid and abet” the criminal when we do nothing.

If our words don’t stop them then at least we have made an attempt to correct the situation, but remaining silent we must share their guilt.

Asking for forgiveness doesn’t relieve us from the responsibility to act and prevent the spread of this transgression, but it allows us to recognize that there is no one who has not sinned. We become guilty by association with our society, with their wrongdoings, their transgressions, their sins.

The Hebrew language has several words that mean forgiveness. The first is “mehol”. It has the meaning of “to cancel a debt.” It is a thought that should make each person grateful to the person who is showing us forgiveness.

The second word for forgiveness is “nasa.” It means to carry a burden.” Not only is there forgiveness, but there is the comprehension that someone else will take that responsibility from us to themselves. Not only will they lift the burden, but that they will be accountable for that burden.

The third Hebrew word is “mahal” that translates “to erase.” Not only is there forgiveness, but the person who is forgiving the offense, but there is a complete clean slate. It is erased, forgotten, and as if it never happened. The one who has forgiven me, no longer has remembrance of it.

Our challenge comes when we, as human beings, have to forgive other people to the extent and the measure that God has forgiven us. No matter how deeply we have been hurt, no matter the size of the offense, no matter the type of the transgression, we must strive to let go of our anger, our resentment, and our indignation. Forgiveness there is so meaning much behind a single word.

It will soon be time for the firemen's fairs, street fairs, and Independence Day celebrations. Almost all have at least one common denominator: a fireworks display. This incident happened one year at the end of the Indian Head fire department's street fair.

Looking For Fireworks

My mom and dad’s house is situated nearly halfway between two small towns, Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania. Both towns have volunteer fire departments because they were in different townships. It was necessary for them to  give each other back up for fires, accidents, or rescues. But both had street fairs where they sold foods and had games to earn money for the day to day operations of the departments and to buy new trucks, equipment, and for the upkeep of equipment and the buildings.

Each fire company held their street fairs on different weeks so they would not compete for customers. Every night there was some type of entertainment provided as well as offerings of food, beverages, and games of chance where players could win prizes or money. All of it was designed to entice people to come and to spend their money.

The foods offered were pizza, French fries, hot dogs, hamburgers, and funnel cakes. All sorts of sodas and strong coffee were sold as drinks. A small carnival company would be there to offer rides for the children. Miniature cars and trucks that ran in a circle, a Ferris wheel, and a swing ride were the usual offerings. They also had booths that sold caramel apples, popcorn, and cotton candy and booths of ball toss, ring toss, and darts.

We had gone earlier in the week and Dad said that we weren’t going the last night of the fair and the last night was the night that the fire department set off the fireworks display.

When we heard the first few dull booms of the explosions from the rockets, Dad couldn’t resist and went upstairs into the bedrooms to look, hoping that he might glimpse some of the display over the tops of the trees. The fireworks were only two miles away, he could hear the explosions, and surely he should be able to see something.

It wasn’t very long until we heard a “Thump. Thump. Thump.”

Mom said, “Kids, your dad is stomping on the floor. He must want us to come up and see the fireworks. Let’s go before he gets upset with us.”

We left the family room and went into the living room. There at the bottom of the wooden stairs, Dad lay in a crumpled heap, on his back and his butt. Dad had slipped and fallen.

What caused Dad to fall happened earlier in the day. My mom told my sister, Kathy to dust the steps and the living room furniture. Instead of doing the steps first with a clean dry cloth, she dusted the furniture with Pledge, and then wiped down the stairs. The Pledge had coated the steps with wax and had made the stairs slippery.

When Dad ran up the stairs, he was wearing only socks on his feet. As he came down, the socks lost traction and his feet flew out from under him, and he skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. He wasn’t hurt.

Once we knew he was okay, we hurried out of the room to laugh. If he would have seen us even snicker the real fireworks would have started and we would have been in so much trouble.

 

The storm today had some fireworks of its own, lightning, but I was able to finish planting my garden and let the rain soak the ground for me. It's not a large garden, but it's planted full with tomatoes, three kinds of beans, beets green and hot peppers, cucumbers, zucchini, several salad greens and spinach. I am praying that it grows well.

My aunt and uncle lived with my grandparents for awhile after they were first married. This is the only story that I can recall anyone sharing about this time and that is only because my uncle Charles enjoyed telling it so much.

The Attic Fire

It was a sweltering hot summer’s day that was made even hotter because my grandmother and my aunt were baking bread. They had been baking for the most of the afternoon. When my uncle Charles walked in to the kitchen, he said, “Becky, you two have the stove pipe cherry red. One of these days you two are going to burn this place down.”  My grandmother still used a coal cook stove to do her baking and cooking.The stove’s pipe ran up through the first floor ceiling and then through the second floor ceiling to join the chimney in the attic.

The pipe from the kitchen was indeed glowing red hot from the heat of their baking. “I’m going upstairs to check it out.” My uncle called over his shoulder as he left the kitchen.

He walked through the dining room and up the stairs to the hall way. Looking into a bedroom where the pipe from below emerged, he could see the pipe and how hot it was even at this level. Above in the attic, he could hear clumping sounds almost as if someone walking up there.

He ran to the opposite end of the hall and could see a flickering light shining out from under the door. Spinning around he ran back to the stairway. Leaping down the stairs two steps at a time, he hollered, “My God Becky, the house is on fire!” He was going so fast, that he flew through the screen door at the bottom of the stairs. Just like on the television cartoons, he left a silhouette of himself in the screen.

“Get buckets and water. The attic is on fire.” Every container that could hold water and they could lay hands on went into the spring that day.  Each of the kids and the adults formed a bucket brigade. They hurried back and forth to supply the water to try and extinguish the fire.

It was a time before the area had a fire department and some neighbors ame to join them. Buckets were filled in the spring and ran or passed to the next person along the line. The people in the attic would throw it on the fire and pass the empty container back to be refilled.

Smoke and now steam billowed from the opened attic window. Oot through the window, using a pitchfork, they tossed some of the burning toys, school papers, and dolls outside to be doused with water. They slowly gained on the fire. After what seemed like hours, the last of the hot embers were extinguished. The men kept a vigil throughout the night with buckets of water at hand, to squelch any rekindling of the fire.

The house had minimal damage, but all of the kid’s childhood memories were lost. Either burned up, or damaged beyond saving by the smoke and water.

I always loved it when my uncle would retell the story. His voice would become animated and it almost seemed as though I was there. My favorite line in the story was always the same, “That night scrub buckets, dishpans, and piss pots went into the spring.”

I want to write stories that include even the minor events in our family as I think of them. The major events are so often told and retold, that they are ingrained in our heritage, but small happenings like Emily being sick would more than likely be forgotten if they are not written down to read later. I don't do this to embarrass anyone, just to share memories.

Emily Is Sick

I got a call from my sister-in-law, Susan. Her younger daughter Emily had a gastrointestinal problem. The poor little girl had been vomiting and was having diarrhea. The call was to ask me what she could do to make things better. I told her that she should give Emily clear liquids only until she stopped vomiting. If the vomiting continued, she would have to call her pediatrician, before Emily became dehydrated.

Clear liquids would include ginger ale, Sprite, 7-Up, etc. with some of the fizz out of it.

Once the vomiting stopped, I told Susan that she should progress Emily to crackers and ripened bananas. We talked about a few other things, and then hung up.

I was praying that everything would be okay. As a parent, I was always tender hearted when one of my kids were ill, wishing that I could something make them better.

It wasn’t to be. I got another telephone call the following day. It was Susan. She told me that the vomiting had stopped with the clear liquids and the diarrhea had slowed. She started to give Emily the crackers and the bananas to eat as I suggested.

Then all of a sudden the diarrhea had returned, as bad as before, if not worse. I scratched my head, wondering why? A child could get dehydrated with extreme diarrhea as well as with vomiting. I asked, “Is Emily still able to take liquids?” It gave me some more time to think what was happening.

Susan replied, “Yes.”

I started to tell her to go back to giving Emily the clear liquids, since that had seemed to help. I was out of ideas. It was then I something popped into my head. I asked the question, “What kind of cracker are you giving her?” I was thinking that possibly she had been giving Emily Hi Ho or Ritz crackers that have oils and grease in them, but when she said, “Graham crackers. Emily just loves them.” I thought, “No wonder the diarrhea returned.”

Graham crackers are made of whole wheat flour. Whole wheat flour still includes the wheat bran. Bran can be used to help people to move their bowels by adding bulk to the diet.

I hadn’t explained clearly enough. I hadn’t said, “Saltine crackers.” I thought that Susan would automatically know to use saltines.

I said, “Keep Emily on the clear liquids for now. Be sure that she is drinking. Then give her saltine crackers only. You can add ripened bananas when the diarrhea slows.”

No more calls and my little niece was feeling better.

Shoe Fly

Carrie, our neighbor boys’ mother was older in age when she had the two of them. They were the youngest in the family and the oldest was just into his teenage years when I was allowed to go next door to play. When one or the other of the boys would do something wrong, she would have a difficult time punishing them. She couldn’t chase after them. (Her husband was even older and wasn’t able to discipline them either.)
It wasn’t long until the brothers figured out they could outrun and out maneuver their mom and stay away from her until she forgot about whatever sin had been committed. They found places hide. Sometimes it was in the unused chicken coop, the garage, or in the woods. They would stay out of sight for hours.
Then they would slip back into the house unnoticed. They watched until they were sure the wrong they had done was truly forgotten and they were no longer on their mother’s mind. They would stay out of reach and slowly relax until they had blended back seamlessly and inconspicuously into the household routine.
After awhile, their mom Carrie put two and two together and it added up to two sneaky boys.
She figured out a counterattack. Her legs were bowed and arthritic. She could walk, but never run. She could only wear hard soled flat, slip on shoes and that is what became the object for her retaliation.
No kid wants to come and be punished when a parent calls them to come, knowing he is about to be punished. Most are reluctant, but these boys would run away. When they heard Carrie’s certain tone of voice, they knew. Dodging past their mom’s reach, they would shoot by her and escape out the door.
What Carrie lacked in speed, she began to make up in agility and accuracy.  Shuffling as quickly as she could, she went out onto the porch, pulling off her shoes and she walked after the fleeing kid. Pulling back her arm, she would take aim, and throw with extreme accuracy. The shoe would tumble end over end until like a guided missile; it would hit its intended target. Even when the fleeing “sinner” would dodge, she managed somehow to hit the intended target.
The spot she always chose was same It was the middle of the upper back, between the shoulder blades, or the back of the head of the escaping person. The boy was doomed as soon as the launched shoe left her fingers.
Until the boys grew older and heavier, the shoe would actually upend the boy and take him to the ground. It seemed no matter how large of a head start they had or the distance they had run; her aim was steady, straight and true.
The boys were then commanded to bring her shoe back and they listened. They had already been punished and she always had the other shoe in hand and neither one of the boys wanted the other shoe to drop.

Amanda Decides to Run Away

One day my oldest child Amanda and I had a disagreement. I can’t remember what it was about, but it really upset her. She stormed around the house for several minutes before stomping up the steps to her bedroom. I heard drawers slamming and I went after her to investigate what was going on.

I arrived outside of her door just in time to hear another drawer slam shut and I decided to stop her from damaging the furniture.

“What’s going on in there? Why are you slamming the drawers?” I demanded.

After a few seconds, she yelled back. “I’m leaving. I’m running away!”

“What?” I said pushing her door open.

Across the bottom of her bed was an open suitcase. One of the drawers of her dresser was hanging open. She was taking clothing from that drawer and tossing them into her suitcase, piling them onto the clothes she had already put in it.

That upset me, "Running away?"

The great thing about the situation was that it had started to storm outside; with rain, lightning, wind and thunder. Even the weather was on my side for this plan. I thought, “If she wants to run away, why don’t I help her? In this weather, she won’t get far.”

So I pulled open another drawer and grabbed handfuls of her clothes and tossed them on top of the things that she had decided to take. I took another handful of clothing and added it to the pile. “If you want to leave, I can help you.” I offered.

Just then a flash of lightning lit the darkening skies and a roll of thunder shook the windows. It was done as if on cue. She looked out the window, then at me. She apparently had changed her mind and started to grab the things from her suitcase and put them back into the drawers.

I took another handful of her clothes and threw them into her open suitcase. “You wanted to leave. I’m just helping you.”

“No Dad! No!” she pleaded and kept putting her clothing back into the drawers. I kept forcing the issue by pulling out clothing until she said, “I’m sorry Dad. I don’t want to run away. Stop!”

I stood there for a few seconds and then said, “All right. Put your clothing away and get ready for bed. It’s getting dark outside.”

She had no more complaints and there no more plans to run away from her or her brother or sister.

I am trying to write things that I remember from my childhood. Stories that will be lost if not shared. I will try not to be boring and write what I have witnessed or stories that have been passed to me by my parents, grandparents and other relatives. Everything that I write should be true stories, other than Uncle Dale stories. Those I am never sure of being true. I hope they will give some insight to lives of the time period.

The Huckster’s Pansies

My grandmother used to buy produce from an older Jewish huckster; a trader; a vendor. He would drive to her farm in a large box truck and sell her items that she couldn’t raise in her garden or on the farm. His small trading grew as they got to know each other over the years and developed a true business relationship. He would always visit the farm late on a Friday afternoon, lowering the prices of items that he knew would not last until Monday. He would sell them a few pennies above his cost and my grandmother would buy all that she could afford. He would also give her cabbage leaves, lettuce leaves, and items that had blemishes, a softening, or the beginning of rot. It saved him from having to pay for their disposal in the garbage.

Grandma would cut out the bad spots to salvage what was edible, cutting up the good parts of the fruit or vegetables to eat or to can. The rest went into the swill for the hogs to eat.

It worked out well for the both of them. He could cut his losses, not have to pay garbage disposal, and Grandma would get more of a variety of foods and fresher foods for her eight kids, herself, and for Granddad. It became a mutually advantageous deal for both of them.

She cooked on a coal stove and it didn’t take much for her to put on her canner and fill jars with the fruit. She would place the glass jars into the boiling water and can the food to store it for the winter months when fruit wasn’t plentiful and when the old peddler wasn’t making his rounds and selling his produce.

My grandmother would often talk about their friendship. She was so grateful for the old man, but my favorite story about him was the story she told the most. Several years had gone by with the old man selling his produce and Grandma buying what she could. The old vendor told my grandmother how much he appreciated her help. One year on his first springtime run, Grandma had bought all she could afford; he went back to his truck and carried back a flat of flowers. They were assorted colored Pansies. Pansies were my grandmother’s favorite flower. He had listened when they had talked and she had said, “I love Pansies. They’re my favorite. I think their flowers look like little boys with dirty faces.”

He handed the flat of plants to my grandmother and said, “These are for you. You have been a great customer over the years and I consider you a friend.”

My grandmother looked so surprised.

He continued, “They are for you. No charge. You have become a true friend over the years.”

The “F” Word

This incident occurred within the first few weeks my son Andrew had started kindergarten. It was a hard time for him. We were in the process of moving into our new house. We had tried to get everything done earlier so we would have time to get adjusted to the new house before school started, but it just didn’t happen. The actual moving into our new home continued into his first week of school.

We would sleep at the old house and he would catch the bus there. We would pack things and take them to the new house and after school; he would get off his bus at the new house. The family would work into the evening getting the house into shape, cleaning, minor repairs, finishing a few unfinished areas of the house and putting away items that we had brought with us.

The actual move lasted about one whole week, packing and unpacking. Things travelled from one house to the other in cars, trailers, and trucks. Friends and relatives helped us in the move.

It was a difficult time. He was leaving the familiar and moving to a different and strange place. He also had to adjust to the new routine of schooling. I heard him say “I hate this place.” in the first actual week that we were completely moved into the new home. We sat and talked through it. “We are done with the move. We just need to get used to things as they are now.” and things settled.

A few weeks later, his sister came to us and said, “Andrew said the ‘F’ word on the bus today.”

“Oh no.” I thought. “Where did he learn that word? I know he didn’t hear it at home. We’ve never said anything like that.”

I looked at my wife and she was looking back at me, completely stunned. What were we going to do?

I don’t know to this day why I asked, but I said, “Amanda, what word did Andrew say?”

In a small voice, she said, “Fart.”

I was relieved. I almost danced, but I still had to talk to my son. It wasn’t an appropriate thing for him to say, especially for a kid to say in mixed company. “Andrew.” I called. “Come in here.”

He came dragging himself into the living room, head bowed. He knew that his sister had already told us what he had said.

“Andrew, what word did you say on the bus today?” I asked.

He bowed his head even more. He was staring down at his shoes. The silence seemed to go on forever, until in a small voice he answered, “Fart.”

“Andrew. I don’t want you saying things like that in front of little girls. It’s not nice. You know that your grandma doesn’t like to hear that word.” I told him. “Now go to your room.”

The Attic Fire

It was a hot summer’s day and was made even hotter because my grandmother and my aunt were baking bread. They had been baking for the most of the afternoon. When my uncle Charles walked into the kitchen, he said, “Becky, you two have the stove pipe cherry red. One of these days you two are going to burn this place down.”  My grandmother still used a coal cook stove to bake and cook her food. The stove's pipe ran up through the first floor ceiling and through the second floor ceiling to join the chimney in the attic.

The pipe from the kitchen was indeed glowing red hot from the heat. “I’m going upstairs to check it out.” My uncle called over his shoulder as he left the kitchen.

He walked through the dining room and up the stairs to the hallway. Looking into a bedroom where the pipe from below, he could see the pipe and how hot it was. Above in the attic, he could hear clumping almost like someone walking.

He ran to the opposite end of the hall and could see a flickering light shining out from under the door. Spinning around he ran back to the stairs. Leaping down the stairs two steps at a time, he hollered, “My God Becky, the house is on fire!” He was going so fast that he flew through the screen door at the bottom of the stairs. Just like on the cartoons, his silhouette was left in the screen.

“Get buckets and water. The attic is on fire.” Every container that they could lay hands on went into the spring and each of the kids and adults formed a bucket brigade. They hurried back and forth to supply the water to try and suppress the fire.

This was a time before the area had a fire department. Some neighbors came to join them. Buckets were filled in the spring and ran or passed to the next person. The people in the attic would throw it on the fire and pass the empty ones back to be refilled.

Opening a window and using a pitchfork, they tossed some of the burning toys, school papers, and dolls outside to be doused with water. They gained on the fire. After what seemed like hours, the last embers were extinguished. The men kept a vigil through the night with buckets of water at hand, to squelch any rekindling of the fire.

The house had minimal damage, but all of the kid’s childhood memories were lost. Either burned up, or damaged beyond saving by the smoke and water.

I always loved it when my uncle would retell the story. His voice became animated and it almost seemed that I was there. My favorite line in the story was always the same, “That night scrub buckets, dishpans, and piss pots went into the spring.”

Shoe Fly

Carrie, our neighbor boys’ mother was older in age when she had them. They were the youngest in the family and the oldest was just into his teenage years when I would go next door to play. When one or the other would  do something wrong, she would have a difficult time punishing them. She couldn’t chase after them. (Her husband was even older and wasn’t able to discipline them either.)

It wasn’t long until the brothers figured out they could outrun and out maneuver their mom and stay away from her until she forgot about whatever sin had been committed. They found places hide. Sometimes it was in the unused chicken coop, the garage, or in the woods. They would stay out of sight for hours.

Then they would slip back into the house unnoticed to be sure the wrong they had done was truly forgotten and they were no longer on their mother’s mind. They would stay out of reach and slowly relax until they had blended back seamlessly and inconspicuously into the household routine.

After awhile, their mom Carrie put two and two together and it added up to two boys.

She figured out a counterattack. Her legs were bowed and arthritic. She could walk, but never run. She could only were hard soled flat, slip on shoes and that is what became the object for her retaliation.

No kid wants to come and be punished when a parent calls them to come, knowing he is about to be punished. Most are reluctant, but these boys would run away. When they heard Carrie’s certain tone of voice, they knew. Dodging past their mom’s reach, they would shoot by her and escape out the door.

What Carrie lacked in speed, she began to make up in agility and accuracy.  Shuffling as quickly as she could, she went out onto the porch, pulling off her shoes and she walked after the fleeing kid. Pulling back her arm, she would take aim, and throw with extreme accuracy. The shoe would tumble end over end until like a guided missile; it would hit its intended target. Even when the fleeing “sinner” would dodge, she managed somehow to hit the intended target.

The spot she always chose was the middle of the upper back, between the shoulder blades, or the back of the head of the escaping person. The boy was doomed as soon as the launched shoe left her fingers.

Until the boys grew older and heavier, the shoe would upend the boy and take him to the ground. It seemed no matter how large of a head start they had or the distance they had run, her aim was steady, straight and true.

The boys were then commanded to bring her shoe back and they listened. She always had the other shoe in hand and neither one wanted the other shoe to drop.

Dale Tells Lies

Dale, one of my uncles, had cultivated his crop of profanity until he could not spout a complete sentence before a curse word would sprout out somewhere. He also loved telling tall tales and outright lies. The bigger the lie and the more cuss words he would use, the better he thought that the story was.

He used to tell the story f a fruitful day of finding and picking morel mushrooms. He had filled a large basket and was carrying it back to the car. The basket was hanging on his arm, but the closer to the car, the lighter his basket felt. He turned to see a deer following him and eating those morels out of his basket. (Please excuse me for deleting the expletives to shorten the stories.)

Another story he would tell was about his dogs. The C.I.A. was interested in them because he had taught them to read. The C.I.A. wanted them to be spies, to send them behind enemy lines and gather information. Who would suspect a dog? They lost interest when he told them he hadn’t worked out the problem of the dogs telling him what they had read.

Deer were involved in another tale he would share with us. He was in the woods and heard this loud crashing and thrashing. He hid behind a tree to see what was making so much noise. The noise kept coming closer until he saw two does using their heads and necks to push aside the heavy underbrush. Behind them walked a huge buck with a tremendous set of antlers on his head. They were going before him so his rack would not get hung up in the bushes.

One story that he told was true. I saw it with my own eyes. He was a great fisherman. He caught what he caught game warden or no. The way he got his fish home was in his old Willys truck. The passenger door couldn’t be opened from the outside and the bottom of the door had rusted completely out. When he had caught his limit, he would take them back to the truck and pop off the handle that would the window up and down. (The window didn’t wind down anymore.) He would slip the catch of fish inside of the door and go back to fishing. When he was tired of fishing he went home.

At home he would open the door from the inside of his truck and the fish would fall out onto the ground. He would gather them, cut them and get them ready to fry. My mom took a picture of his one night’s catch. It covered the top of drop leafed, enamel topped kitchen table with both sides up. Only about an eight by ten inch corner was covered with fish, lying side to side and head to tail.

Dale had built a bench and when he saw someone, he would ask them if they could figure what kind of wood it was made of. Everyone would guess wrongly and he would chuckle, but not tell them what it was. I made my guess, and I was wrong. I didn’t ask what it was kind of wood it was. It must have upset him because he blurted out, “It’s made of sycamore wood.” We talked some more and I left.

As I was leaving, my cousin came. We stood outside and talked a bit. I said to him, “I know Dale. He’s going to ask you about that stool. Make a few wild guesses, then say, ‘sycamore.’”

I met my cousin a few days later and he told me what had happened. Dale asked him about the bench, my cousin guessed, “Red oak?”

Dale shook his head. I said, “Butternut?” and Dale said, “No.”

I picked up the bench rubbed it, smelled it and then tasted it. I pretended to think for a few seconds and said, “It’s sycamore.”

Dale’s face fell and he looked disappointed that someone had guessed his secret.

 Mother’s Day Chores

Just a few thoughts on a mother's normal day when I was growing up. It is a compilation of things she would do. Besides these things, she worked as an accountant, book keeper, tax  preparer, and when we were older, a teller at a local bank. I miss you Mom.

I followed Mom around today, watching her, while I’m at play.

She made the beds, picked up clothes, many tasks, hand never slows.

Breakfast’s made and dishes washed, coupons clipped to cut food cost.

Cleaning kids and wiping drool, dressing kids, rushed out to school.

Off to market, purse in hand, buying food for meals she’s planned.

Home again. Groceries stored. Clothes washed from dirty hoard.

Washed clothes hung on outside line. I am glad that she is mine.

Lunch is served and dishes cleaned. Plants watered to keep them green.

Ironing fills her afternoon. Snacks made, kids will be home soon.

Table readied. Homework's done. Kids run off for times of fun.

Veggies chopped, so much to do; starting supper’s pot of stew.

Diapers changed needing washed clean, tossed in the washing machine.

Biscuits made in the oven I fell and got some lovin’.

Dad comes home and gets a kiss, house ordered nothing amiss.

Supper’s over, dishes done, telling tales and stories spun.

Clothing folded, put away. More to do ere end of day.

Light fades and darkness falls, Feeding time when baby squalls.

Bath time, Putting kids to bed. Prayers heard with kiss on head.

I knew Mom had more to do; old chores and some that are new.

It was late. I used the john and I saw Mom working on.

All that work and here’s some pay, With love, Happy Mother’s Day.

Grandma’s Portrait

One of my favorite stories about my Mom’s Mom was about the time a travelling photographer took her picture. She was a young farmer’s wife and every penny had to count. My grandfather worked hard for the money and my grandma stretched it to meet their needs. He ran the farm by day and worked the coal mines at night to keep clothes on the kids and food on the table. Grandma made money by selling butter and eggs.

The photographer persuaded my grandmother to change into a nice outfit, saying, “I will take your picture and be back around in several weeks. If you like it, you can purchase it, but if you don’t like it for any reason, you don’t have to buy it.

Grandma came back downstairs wearing a white blouse and a velvet jacket. The throat of the blouse was secured with a gold and pearl pin. The photographer set up his camera and snapped the photograph. He said “Thank you. I will be back to show you the finished product.” The film needed to be processed and developed back at the company’s lab. Grandma forgot all about it, secure in the knowledge she could refuse to buy it and not have to spend any of their hard earned money for something as frivolous as a photograph.

Several weeks after, the young photographer was back. He showed my grandmother her picture in a wooden oval frame. She saw a beautiful young woman looking back at her. The black and white photograph had been hand touched. She looked splendid with the pearl pin prominent at her throat. The back ground had been colored to a dark sepia color. Making her raven black hair curled on her head more distinct. The artist had added blush to her cheeks and rose to her lips. The irises of her eyes had been tinted a pale blue. The picture was impressive, but money was always tight on a farm when you had a lot of children.

“No thank you. “my grandmother replied when the young man quoted the price.

The photographer never batted an eye. He took back the photo and frame. As he was wrapping it up to put it away, he said, “The photographs that I don’t sell to the customer, we offer to saloons. They buy these pictures of lovely young women and hang them on the wall behind the bar for their customers to look at.

What he was saying was completely absurd. The photos that hung there were more risqué, more titillating, more vampy showing more flesh, But to a naïve farm girl she was afraid of what he was saying. She didn’t want some drunks leering at her picture. She felt as though she would be violated.

“Wait a minute. How much did you say it cost?”

The photographer repeated the price.

Grandma thought for a few seconds then said, “Wait a minute.”

She went to get the price from her egg money to pay the man. The photographer knew that these farmer’s wives were frugal and he had developed a sales pitch that most often worked and that is why I have her photograph hanging on my entryway wall.

My grandmother was a remarkable and creative woman. She only completed fourth grade, but her wisdom and creative genius superseded the learning she would have gotten in school. Raising eight children from what they grew in their garden and farm was a monumental task. I hope to share some of her beauty in other articles that I write.

The Christmas Cactus

My grandmother’s house was always filled with plants. In the vestibule hallway, at the front entrance were two snake plants, their sharp, green spears guarding the glass panels at each side of the door. Their variegated and yellow edged leaves twisted as they rose up from their soil filled ceramic planters.

In the formal sitting room, where kids weren’t allowed, were two huge Asparagus fern plants. They grew in pots that filled a cream colored wood and wicker “fern stand”. The leaves of the ferns’ leaves were fine and wispy hairs that cascaded over the sides of the stand in pale green clouds.

The window sills in the kitchen, the bathroom, and a built-in porch sported Geraniums of all colors, but were predominantly red. They were planted in shiny silver aluminum foil covered tin cans to survive the harsh winter. Some were being started from cuttings and others much, much older. She would grow them all winter until she could replant them in her dark green, wooden porch planter boxes in the spring. I can remember sitting on the toilet, reaching up, and touching their dark, dull green leaves. The heady and spicy aromatic oils would cling to my fingers for hours.

But the plant that impressed me the most was the gigantic Christmas cactus that dominated the hallway at the top of the stairs. It was old. My grandmother had probably started it when she was young and had just moved into the house. It had been replanted into larger and larger pots until it now filled the stainless steel chamber of a milk and cream separator. This pot was nearly fifteen inches deep and about twenty-eight inches across at its widest part. It was huge and Grandma kept it in the center of a dark oak library table that was in the style of Mission Oak furniture. The desk’s lines were straight, plain, and smooth. The top surface of it was covered by an inlaid piece of black leather.

As large as the separator top was, the Christmas cactus was so much larger. It rose nearly twelve inches above the top of its creamery planter. The thick, ropey branches draped over the sides until the tips of the longest rested on the table top. The flat oval green leaves looked like a waterfall pouring over the smooth silver sides. When it bloomed, the pink and white multilayered blossoms looked like tiny, frilly petticoats. They were so numerous; they often concealed most of the flat green leaves. Because it was cool and dark at the top of the stairs, the blossoms seemed to last for months.

I am trying to share the thoughts of my past as a child and the things that I can recall before they are gone forever. Not that they are so much better than another person's memories, but they are a part of my family's history. My dad has trouble sharing his memories now and I don't want that to happen to me.

 

When I was a young kid at my grandmother’s house, it was hard to find a quiet place to hide or take a nap, especially on the holidays. My grandma had eight kids and thirty-two grandchildren. Even though it was a large farmhouse with that many people confined inside, it felt crowded. Felt crowded nothing, it was crowded. When everyone gathered, there was little room to move. A kid was fortunate to find a place to sit, let alone a spot to lay down for a nap. A kid was lucky to sit in an unoccupied corner with a plate of food on his lap.

My grandmother had a formal sitting room and there was a “no kids” rule in that room. It was off limits to adults as well if they had food or drink. It was the one place I found to hide and it was in that room. If I watched carefully, I could slip inside undetected, quickly crawl, and curl up behind her dark blue, plush, overstuffed couch. It was just inside the door and it was easier to access than any other spot. The back of the couch leaned back a bit toward the wall and made a perfect cave. It was a dark and quiet spot where a tired kid could take a nap.

There was one another place that needs mentioned, but it was outside of the house. I found it by accident one day when we were playing hide’n seek. It was on her porch.

On my grandmother’s front porch she had two Adirondack chairs and an Adirondack settee all painted a dark forest green. They sat there the whole years round.

Her porch had a block parapet that ran the whole way around it, except for the entrance for the house. On top of the wall, she had wooden flower boxes painted the same color as the chairs. Late into the Fall, she would cover her flowers at night when the temperature dropped to protect them from the killing frost. During the winter, she would roll them up and store them on the settee. In the summer, she would spread the rugs on the concrete floor. (It was better for her arthritis.)

That settee made the best place to curl up for a nap. Wrapped in those rugs, I was snug and warm. Even though the night air was cold, I loved it. The only thing that felt chilled was the tip f my nose

There were five trees in front of her house, three tall pine trees and two hemlocks that were every bit as tall. I would lay there wrapped in those old rugs and listen as the night winds played in the tree tops. They would sing and sigh softly. It was a natural lullaby. They seemed to draw me off and have me wander in dream land. I cannot think of a time or a place when I felt more safe, more warm, and more secure than when I was rolled up in those old rugs. Many times when I just hear wind in the pines, cedars, or hemlocks, I am transported back to that time in my youth.

The Aluminum Siding Salesman

My mom and dad’s house is situated on the heavily traveled route 381/ 711. This story occurred at a time when salesmen travelled from house to house hawking their wares. This could mean anything from vacuum cleaners to encyclopedias to Bibles.

Mom answered the door to the knock. The salesman greeted her saying, “Ma’am, I think your house needs aluminum siding.” At that time our house was clad in brown Ensel brick. It was a thick tarpaper coated in grit and designed to look like brick. Although it wasn’t the most appealing to look at, it sealed the cracks of the house and kept the cold air outside.

The salesman hit all of the angles of his product; its beauty, its durability, its strength, and it would never need painted. He waved his arms saying, “Your house would look so much more beautiful encased in white siding.” (White was the only color it came in at that time.) He finished by saying, “Yes, your house really needs aluminum siding.”

Mom hesitated for a second. She was getting tired of the many sales people who stopped and said, “ If you really think that my house needs it, go ahead.”

The salesman’s face cracked a huge smile and whipped out a measuring tape, a pad, and a pen. He walked all the way around the house measuring and taking notes. He listed all of the dimensions. When he had all of his measurements, he followed Mom into the house and sat on the couch. He pulled a sheaf of paper from his briefcase and spread them on the coffee table. After transferring the measurements to those papers, he began to tally and total everything. He wrote those figures onto a printed sheet.

When he got to the bottom of the sheet, he sat back and said, “The total cost for the siding and installation will be…”

Before he could finish, my mom interrupted, “Wait, you said my house needed siding  and I sid, ‘If you think it needs it, go ahead’. I never said I was going to pay for it.”

The salesman couldn’t have looked more surprised if my mom had hit him in the face with a baseball bat. He managed to sputter, “What?”

My mom repeated. “I didn’t say I would pay for it.”

He snatched up his papers and pen, tossing them into the briefcase and slamming it shut. He snatched it up and headed for the door. He practically ran to his car. Yanking the door open, and disappeared inside and slammed the door. It echoed off the front of our house.

Starting the car, he spun the wheels as he backed out of our drive. He had to make an emergency stop and pull back into the drive. He had almost backed out in front of an eighteen wheeler tractor and trailer. The air horn blared at the salesman as the semi rolled past our drive.