Memories From Childhood

 NATIONAL GRANDPARENTS' DAY !!! September 7:
I was so blessed to know a great-grandmother and a great-grandfather growing up. Both were a real "hoot".
 
> Great-grandfather would take me to the local grocery, set me on the counter to show everyone his great-grandchild BUT . . . only if I was clean and dressed up. This big nosed, bald man loved any old western on television. He went dancing every Saturday night in his pin-stripe suit with watch chain dangling and chewing Black Jack gum. He swallowed a teaspoon of Vicks Vapo Rub every night at bed time. The man lived into his 90's with one kidney.

> Great-grandmother worked as a tailor at a men's store, would take us to the circus and eat cotton candy. She took us to the fair and rode the roller coaster with my brother and the ferris wheel with me. She bought tickets and took us to TV wrestling matches where she would sit on the front row and yell, "Git him, git him!, pin him down!" She was an old lady who never grew old. I will never forget the way she washed our hands - not with a cloth but with her hands. I remember the way she washed my eyes open with a warm cloth, when I had whooping cough.

> Paternal grandmother was a "vamp" singer in the style of Kate Smith and Sophie Tucker was a professed Catholic who never went to church. I remember watching her get ready for an appearance by putting on false nails and lashes, shaving and repainting her eyebrows and using those long metal waving combs to set her hair. She baked the best sugar cookies in the world and always made amazing cakes for our birthdays: dolls in cake dresses, a merry-go-round with animals that carried candles, cars and clowns. At Easter, she turned eggs into dolls. She loved to braid my hair and tie big bows on the ends. Her kitchen drawers were toy chests full of wooden spoons and cookie cutters.

> My mother's mother (my American Indian grandmother) was up at dawn to prime her well pump and hoe the corn before the sun got hot, in a large straw bonnet. She canned the best bread and butter pickles and let me eat all I wanted. There was a metal bucket of water in the kitchen with a rusty ladel that everyone use. She always had a black cat around - said they were lucky. Her outhouse had a wasp nest at the door and - two seats - ? I climbed her apple tree with a salt shaker and ate until I was sick. I sat in the limbs of the mulberry tree, overhanging the road, and flicked little green spiders off the berries to eat them as cars passed below. (Mother would have whipped me if she knew.) I ran her corn fields until dark, playing with kids across the road. I remember warm baths in a galvanized tub beside her pot belly stove while she poured baking soda water over my chicken pocks. And, she had the gentlest stroke when brushing my hair and relating Indian folktales. We ate diabetic ice cream and she always let me run free. She was my favorite.

> Grandfather said she didn't know how to boil water when he married her. They separated before I remember. He was a house painter and when my father left, grandfather moved in to be chief cook and babysitter while mother worked. He practiced tough love and taught me to cipher, cook, look people in the eye, shake a firm hand, stand up straight, color mixing and how to run a chalk line. He played the harmonica and spoons and we danced with abandon. We cleaned wallpaper with putty, painted the walls every two years and I listened in awe to his childhood stories of a one room school house he walked to in his bare feet in 12 inches of snow - up hill both ways. No one messed with his grandkids and we adored him to pieces.

I do not remember any of them ever going to church on Sundays. The Indian grandmother is the only one I know of who read the Bible. God provided a rich heritage and some great memories.

Eyes In The Back of His Hiead

One more person I want to relate to you before my story moves on from innocent childhood, is my grandfather who has had a profound influence on me.

 
I instruct you in the way of wisdom; I lead you in courses of fairness. Pro. 4:11

Blessed are those who find wisdom. Pro. 3:13

 
When our father left, we moved to the inner-city neighborhood I have previously mentioned. That is when Mother's father moved in. He practiced tough love, practical thinking and common sense. I was eight years old, headstrong and a bit spoiled. I had been "Daddy's girl" and put a lot of misplaced blame on my mother for him being gone. Children cannot understand the nuances of adult relationships in their small, self-centered worlds. I harbored some resentment for Grandfather in the place of male role model. 

He had moved in to tend to us while Mother worked. This man took on cooking and tending his three grandchildren while Mother earned a living for us. This created a form of role reversal in our home. This was a good lesson that just because you are born into male or female gender does not mean you can't take on roles related to, or competing with the other gender. I grew up with this as a fact of life. 

 
Everyone came to call him "Pop". He was respected by everyone who knew him. Whether you liked him or not, you respected him. His word was his bond. He looked you straight in the eye and shook your hand firmly. He was six foot in bare feet with massive hands, straight black hair and a hook nose. He was always squinting from the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Oh yeah, he had a firm protruding belly you could set a tray on but you could not call him "fat".

 
He was a retired house painter and was the first person to instruct me about primary colors and how to mix them. By the time I was ten, I could run a chalk line and cut a baseboard with the best of them. I took pride in being neat and never needed a drop cloth if there was a brush in my hand. To this day, I have the neatest art studio I have ever seen.

Pop was indeed an "angel in disguise". He saved all of us from lives misspent. No telling what Mother would have done without him. He served God by serving his children and their children. Before and after helping us, he had and did live with aunts and uncles helping them in much the same way. I don't know that he owned a Bible, but he never spoke irreverently about God and he did speak of Him.

 
STORY: Pop teaching himself to make pie dough is a memory that comes to mind. I don't remember if he had a recipe but that dough got the best of him for a long time before he finally mastered it. He would knead it and roll it, and it would fall apart. He would knead it again and again and it would fall apart again - or fall apart while he was rolling it out. I saw him, on more than one occasion, throw that dough across the kitchen. It would fall to the floor and he picked it up and rolled it again. "The heat will kill the germs," he said. That is what he always said when he was cooking. He hated waste - with a passion. Later, he taught himself to make bread dough that seemed to be easier for him - he didn't have to use that rolling pin.

 
I remember that he would eat anything, like cooked dandelion greens with fat back, fried mountain oysters and was very fond of sopping bread in bacon grease for calf brain sandwiches. Uugghh! No matter what was shot during hunting season or caught from the lake in the summer, we ate it. He detested waste.

 
He was self taught with the spoons, fiddle and harmonica. In deed, a great role model for being "self taught". He could cipher like a mathematician. He liked beer, occasional cheap wine and drank more as he got older. Pop had high blood pressure - no wonder. I wonder if the alcohol helped cut the cholesterol in his blood to be the only reason he lived as long as he did. 

Photos are Author, Brother Jerry, Sister Karen 
Circa: 1955 

 
This man put food on our table, turned all his pension income over to my mother, planted a vegetable garden, cultivated our grape vine and peach tree to make juice and jelly, brewed home made beer, canned, hunted and fished to put meat on our table. I remember picking buckshot out of rabbit and squirrel during supper. He taught us how to gig a frog, fish with a cane pole and gather mushrooms. He canned and fished in summer and hunted in winter. For several years, he opened a neighborhood pizza shop with pinball games and sub sandwiches. He mastered bread dough but gave up on pies.

 
To be continued . . . .

 This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

 

Grandmother's House Cont'd . . .

 

Grandchildren were never disciplined and allowed to run free on the "farm". On occasion, time was spent with children from across the road, running through the rows of corn with our imaginations right behind. We wandered great emerald jungles that would hide us until fireflies came out to play. The green apple tree was a favorite place while sitting on a limb with salt shaker in hand and a guaranteed bellyache to come. Green spiders were flicked off the mulberries as I sat among curtains of leaves and watched cars pass on the black top below. Mother would have had a coronary, if she had known. (She would have done her imitation of a flock of attacking birds.)

 

As stated earlier in my story, God was a constant companion.  I merely had to acknowledge Him to feel His presence.  In quiet solitude at grandmother's house, there was a lot of time to just "be in company of" my invisible friend.  He was there in the rows of corn, we shared mulberries and fed clover to the rabbits.  I was never alone; I ran with abandon without fear; my imagination soared beyond the clouds that built scenes of angel hair castles.

 

STORY: Chickenpox arrived when I was visiting Grandmother one winter. I remember a large galvanized tub she set up in the living room next to the potbelly stove. Into the water, which was heated one pail at a time, went baking soda and she poured it by the pitcher full over my lesions. Mother came to visit with one of the most unusual dolls I had ever seen; fourteen inches tall in a black and white nun's habit - rosary and all. ? (You remember: Mother sent the priest packin'.) Still strange to me. One thing about being sick: you feel so good when you are well again.

 

Grandmother would braid my hair and relate Indian folktales. Her brush stroke was so gentle and patient - not like Mother's. She was diabetic and shared her sugar-free ice cream which held a special attraction for me. I could eat an entire pint jar of her homemade pickles in one sitting with never a scolding. It was a magical world that was evidence of God in my life. Grandmothers can be such a special blessing.

 

 

 

 

STORY: I remember one visit in particular. My younger uncle was in his mid-teens, living at home and I was half his age. I used to torment him to get attention when outside excursions were called on account of rain or feeling restless. I was doing anything I could think of to take his attention away from his television program. The last time I did this, he carried me upstairs to his bedroom, laid me face down in the middle of his bed and pulled my panties down.  He then proceeded to rub his member between my thighs. I made such a commotion that he let me up. I ran and my visits to grandmother began to taper off.  On the couple remaining visits, I made it a point to know where my uncle was at all times so I could be sure to avoid him.  I was in my adult years before I related this story to my sister. Guess I felt like I asked for it. Guilt is a difficult thing for a child to cope with.  And, this has always been difficult for me to understand.

 

My uncle was a pubesic teen age boy is my excuse for him.  But this incident robbed me of a joyful part of my childhood.  I was now banished to the inner city of a crumbling neighborhood where we were no longer allowed to leave the safety of our own small yard.  No more running through emerald cities or climbing trees.  No more feeding clover to rabbits or drinking well water from a rusty ladle.  No more hours spent alone with my imagination or tales of illusive Indians.  Most of all, no more sitting with those gentle hands braiding my hair.

 

Diabetes was taking Grandmother's eyesight. She read her Bible cover to cover and back again, until the magnifying glass no longer worked for her. She and Grandfather were never divorced but they did not live together in my lifetime. 

 

 

 

Years later, Grandfather had three strokes over a period of several years. It was so sad for me to see him wither into such a frail person. It was just a few weeks after he died that Grandmother was taken to the hospital for exploratory surgery. She was failing fast and no one knew why. The doctor found cancer in her liver and sent her home to be with her family. She did not linger. Doctors could not understand why she never complained of any pain. To this day, I believe she withstood everything as long as Grandfather was alive. When he was gone she no longer cared to be here. You cannot chose who your heart will love.

 

To be continued . . . . .

* This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

A Two-Seater Outhouse

 

I hope for nothing, I fear nothing - I am free

 

Life is the dream from which we wake to the reality of death.

 

Summers with my maternal grandmother are some of my most treasured memories: corn fields, rabbit hutch, well water, coal heater and pickles.

 

She lived in the country in a long house covered with roofing shingles that looked like red brick, with a crawl space that set the house up on cinder blocks. Overhanging the road was a large mulberry tree, and a sour apple tree grew beside the dirt driveway.

 

So many wonderful memories retained all these years later, play like a picture album across my mind. There was the red checkered tablecloth with condiments in the center, her bed that sagged in the middle and the black cat under the coal burning, cast iron heater. This all-too-brief time in my life leaves me with wonderful food for peaceful daydreams.

 

> Her well water was a favorite drink of mine and I remember her saving enough at night for priming the pump, next morning, in the winter to get it started.

 

> There was a two-seater outhouse that I never did understand. I cannot imagine sitting in passing conversation with a fellow traveler. Under the eaves of the outhouse was a wasp nest that always gave me cause for concern. I remember my youngest uncle's rabbit hutch and the glorious cornfield that she hoed every morning at 5 a.m. in her straw sunbonnet. I was always excited to help.

 

> Inside the house, the kitchen held the galvanized metal water bucket with the rusty enamel ladle everyone shared for a quick sip. There were two cast iron heating stoves, one in the eating area, the other in the living room at the other end of the house. This one served to heat the two upstairs bedrooms in the winter because heat rises. In between was her bedroom and a makeshift pantry with a curtain that hid the shelves of canned goods.

 

Aunt, Grandmother, Mother

 

> The two bedrooms upstairs had beds heaped with blankets in the winter. One bedroom was occupied by my mother's youngest brother with the other generally reserved for visiting grandchildren. Behind the heater in the eating area was a fourth bedroom reserved for one of my older cousins who stayed more with grandmother than her own mother. In a small mud room off the back of the kitchen was the bucket used when it was not convenient to trek off to the outhouse. That was one cold metal bucket that left a ring around your butt if you sat on it. And, you better sit down squarely if you didn't want an overturned bucket.

 

> Grandmother had been an only child and wanted a large family. She lost three children at birth, two were twins. Nine babies survived that she and Grandfather raised through the Great Depression.

 

> I loved visiting. One summer, Mother called to ask if she would get to see me before school school resumed. "Are you ever coming home?" Every opportunity to visit Grandmother was accepted with great enthusiasm. Her country residence was always an adventure of monumental proportions. Every bit of it was adventure to this city girl and Grandmother was in her element with grandchildren around.

 

To be continued  . . . . . 

* This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

Mother Struggled

Mother struggled:

to raise three children on tips and her less-than-minimum wage. At that time, a waitress salary was not required to be up to minimum pay standards because of monetary tips that came with the job. Unlike today when the gratuity is figured into your bill to assure you pay for services rendered - or not, which can encourage laziness and a disregard on the part of your "server". Mother took pride in hard work and a job well done. I am certain she was excellent at her profession.

> As a child, I frequently wrote to my father with never an answer. I would literally beg him to attend dance recitals and school functions. He never came. Memories flood back to mind of standing behind a stage curtain and peering out at the audience to scan the crowd for his face. I just swallowed the disappointment of a little girl seeking the attention of her adoring "daddy". That undefinable bond that develops between a father and daughter that can not be duplicated with any other man in her life time; that relationship that sets the standard for men for the rest of a woman's life. A certain yearning has remained with me for most of my adult life; a small empty place inside never filled. That special indescribable relationship between father and daughter never happened for me.

> Fathers everywhere should be made to understand the affect they have on their children. I never shared my deepest disappointments with anyone; just swallowed them down deep and struggled with controlling my growing need. 

 

Father

> Dance lessons and my first dream of "what do you want to be when you grow up?" (answer: a prima ballerina), died when my skills advanced beyond mother's income. Any advancement was out of the question. Mother couldn't drive, we did not have a car, no money for travel, costumes or advance training. This was another disappointment to be swallowed that God would replace with an obsession in a few years.

> A prominent childhood memory is searching the sofa many times to find hidden coins for a loaf of bread and some milk. There was always something to eat even if it was just soup beans and fatback. There was a time when Mother had surgery, then months recuperating and searching for a new job. She applied to the state for Aid To Dependent Children. This was before food stamps. Once each month, she would walk with a neighbor friend, pulling a little red wagon to the fairgrounds to pick up her commodities. She was so embarrassed that she would try to hide under a head scarf. That winter, the heat bill did not get paid and I don't know what we would have done without the ingenuity of Grandfather.

> Lest this story take on a morbid twist, let me state here we were never given to self-pity. Mother often explained that no matter how bad off it got, there was always someone in lesser circumstances. Besides, Grandfather always had a childhood story available of how he had it worse: trudging through three feet of snow, barefoot, for five miles uphill - both ways, into forty-mile-an-hour winds and drifts as high as barns, to the one-room schoolhouse with a coal stove for heat. When Grandfather finished talking, we thought we were rich.

 

*  This "Book Blog" begins with my first posting on Dec. 30, if you would like to follow this story from it's beginning.  This biography is on going until the finish of the book.

Children and God

 

It was the dawn of color television and the Howdy Doody show, Ed Sullivan, poodle skirts, saddle shoes, drive in theaters, the jitterbug, jukeboxes and candy buttons on paper. The milkman delivered to your door and the family doctor still made house calls. Women stayed at home, wore aprons and cooked Maypo for breakfast. It was convertible cars, the polio vaccine, home perms and Alaska became a state. It was Elvis, Mickey, Uncle Milty and American Bandstand. We caught pollywogs and fireflies, played hopscotch and jumped to Double Dutch. It was the magical time of childhood wonder and innocent discovery.

> Childhood seemed, then and now, not to be unlike any other child's.

 

> Adults have little understanding of the influence they have on the lives of young children. In many ways, we become imprinted by those who are the strongest personalities in our young lives. It is said from birth to four are the years that set us on the course of who we will become. I am sure my mother, grandfather, Mother Carmichael were strong influences in my life. 

 

> There were a few struggles for our family and within our family. All families struggle with internal and external relationships. We learned give and take. My brother and I were close as children, but on one occasion, our tempers were so riled that we threatened each other with knives. Grandfather stopped that little drama before it turned tragedy. The next day, we were trying to defend each other against a common enemy. We grew through all of it.

 

> Back then, God was the invisible friend I talked to and the subject of Bible stories at church. My life was about friends, school, fishing, parakeets and dress up. Children are truly blessed to have their own world and a direct line to the ear of God. Children are on God's priority list. Need prayer? Ask a child to intervene for you.

 

 

 

> We are tested daily. The greatest trial in my first ten years was overcoming not having a father. When a parent leaves or gives up a child, that child's small world insists that this is their fault. Children take these huge burdens on themselves and create guilt and blame. Until he left, I was Daddy's girl. After he left, I craved male attention. This had a huge affect on my life for many years to come and is still a small part of my emotional baggage. He left an unfulfilled hunger inn each of us. My sister and I yearned for the paternal presence that is the role model for a girl's choice of male relationships. My brother just wanted a father's guiding hand and approval for a "Job well done, son."

 

> A huge part of my character is defined by my mother's heart. It cannot be explained any other way - example is a great teacher. What do we know of giving, if not witnessed by us of those we admire? What does anyone know of compassion without suffering?

 

> I believe that God listened to me from the first time I called on Him; wishing upon a star in the night sky. He hears every word from the lips of a child. Let me say here, there have been a few times when I felt lonely, but I cannot remember any moment when I felt alone - not ever.

 

> There are no coincidences, no accidents in God's perfectly ordered universe. Everything in the life of a believer happens for a reason. As you continue through the reflections of my life, you will see why I have come to believe this way. Our lives come together in the end for a purpose.

* God is on His thrown and all is right.

Merry Christ Mass

What does Christmas mean to you?  Does it mean hurry to get the lights up right after Thanksgiving to out do your neighbor?  Making a list and rushing around to spend money and fill that list?  Does it mean arguing over where to spend the holiday?  Is it rushing for a flight?  Is Christmas debt, stress and a lot of effort that goes unappreciated?  I have heard the statistics for the amount of debt this time of year.  It takes some people all year to pay off Christmas - at least.  There is no evidence in the Bible of Christ (or anyone else) every celebrating His birth.  This is something that man has created and, look what we have done to it.  God, who knows all from the beginning said through the prophet in Amos 5:21-23 what He thinks of man made holidays.  (Amos was a prophet and spoke of end times.  What are we living in now?  He was also speaking to the Israelites.  Through Christ, all have been given the promises of Abraham.  This warning is for all of us.)

When I was a kid, it was explained to me that "Christmas" means. "A Mass for Christ".  A mass means to "assemble", "mobilize" or "rally".  Is this what we do at Christmas today?  How does Santa Clause, pine trees, bills, elves, arguing, crime and gastric distress relate to a mobilization for Christ? 

I have always taken issue with all the donating this time of year.  On top of the pressure to "out do" last year with feasting and giving, we have every organization in the country advertising their need for assistance.  Great organizations that do a lot of good and help a lot of people/children.  My thought:  why don't we spread out our giving more throughout the year.  People have need all year.  If we did that, it wouldn't all "come due" when we can afford it the least.

Before you try to stone me, let me ask a few questions; just as food for thought:  Do you argue with family this time of year?  How could that be remedied?  Are you stressed and spending money you can't spare?  How would you really like to spend the season?  Are you tired of seeing your children disappointed and sulking because they did not get that item you just could not fit in the budget, or the store ran out of?  What could you do better to teach your children the true meaning of this time of the year - giving?  What do you think Jesus thinks of how we honor His birth?

Christmas has become such a huge tradition in this country and many people get caught up in getting as the reason for giving.  I know what a daring opinion I have.  (When I speak my mind on the subject, I feel people looking around for stones they can hurl at me.)  Why?  "Oh, You can't disappoint the children !"  I want to know, what is wrong with teaching truth to our children?  The Bible speaks of truth setting us free.  How much do you think this man made holiday would change if we spoke truth and got rid of the commercialism?  Take a look at Colo. 2:8.  Aren't we called to be Christian soldiers? ?

Bottom line:  It comes down to personal decision for each of us.  I don't mean to TELL anyone what to do; just presenting some food for thought.

Here's an Idea:  Just one year, don't give any gifts and see how that works out for you - just one year.  Just one year, remove everything commercial from your celebration.

We just might have a quieter, less stressful and more fulfilling Mass for Christ.
Amen

Thanksgiving

This year, my husband and I decide (actually I decided) we would stay home for our meal.  My husband's huge family is hours away and since his parents are both gone, his siblings have their own children and grandchildren to feast with.  My remaining family is hundreds  of miles away.  I always miss my grandmothers' recipes and wanted some leftovers on my favorite holiday of the year.

For the past ten years Steven and I have attended the community buffet meal provided by a large church in our small rural town.  It is always nice to see town folk that you know and don't know.  We sit at a large table with friends and neighbors who didn't cook for one reason or another.  Some are elderly and not well, some bring their family, some live alone and various other reasons that make a community meal so inviting.  Desserts, turkey and salads are always donated by the community and a jar is available for donations to help pay for the side dishes.  Volunteers from church and community start early to prep everything in the large kitchen and make deliveries to shut ins.  Sometime after the first or second shift, Santa shows up with small gifts donated by fire and police personnel.  It is an amazing community effort.

When I got up this morning, my thoughts went to friends and how they would be spending the day.  

I have one friend that has already had one holiday meal.  She is part of a family and extended family that can never decided when and who will host the meal.  Parents want one, in-laws want one and children want a meal with their parents and kids.   I envy her all the food but not all the fussing and hurt feelings that hang over this holiday.  All in all, my friend makes a great effort to appease everyone and look for the bright side.

Another friend will host a meal at her dining room table with family and be exhausted for days.  She prays all the grandchildren make it  home and anxiously accommodates  great grandchildren.   She loves her family.  Her house is decorated for Christmas and there is a parade on the television as prelude to the football game.  Lots of food from her kitchen and her children's.  They will have time to catch up on what each other has been doing lately and how they are contending with health and family issues.  Lots of talk across the table, coffee with the dessert buffet and sleepy heads afterwards.  

A neighbor friend is surely sad this year.  She is not able to cook and serve her family in the tradition she has created.  She has been fighting terrible infections for a couple months now, due to an injury that is not healing.  She has created a family that depends on her.  However, this is their chance to shine and take care of things for her, as I am sure they will.  This is the kind of woman who is always busy serving others and it will not be easy for her to sit and be waited on but well deserved.  It is important to be on the receiving end of the giving once in awhile.  We seldom stop to think of the great pleasure we derive from doing the serving.

I am concerned about another friend having health issues; seems like one after another for several years now.  She and her husband will be going to family for their meal and socializing.  Grandchildren will be visiting from the city with a new beau or news of a job promotion.  Some even bring pets with them, which are always accepted.  I am sure she will come home exhausted but oh so happy not to have clean up in her home this year.  It is so great to have family to share with.  

One friend I am particularly happy for this year.  She and her husband have been invited to the house of her daughter in the city for her meal.    It seems that for a reason, unknown to her, that the relationship between the two of them has been distant for several years.  This meal was her daughter's idea and my friend is elated.  It will  be a wonderfully special day for her.

Do you see yourself in any of these situations?  Steven and I do not have children, family is unaccessible and friends are preoccupied.  We are looking forward to our meal together with hearts full of gratitude for all of God's blessings which includes our marriage.  We always miss family but are making our own tradition.

I know that grace of great gratitude will be said at each table I have mentioned.  

May the Lord bless you and your family today with loving conversation, fellowship, great food and safe travels.

Amen