Our Mom's Obituary

Karin wrote this lovely obituary for our beloved mother.

 

Janet Mary Hull Preisel of Henderson, NC, passed away peacefully in her home, surrounded by loved ones, after a brave and courageous three year battle with cancer. She was 73.

She was born in Cleveland, OH, on September 6, 1941. As a teenager, she met her true love in the halls of James Ford Rhodes High School. She graduated in 1960 and worked at National City Bank for several years before leaving her career to get married and start a family.

Janet married Frederick Louis Preisel on August 18, 1962. Becoming a devoted wife and mother brought her tremendous joy. She was an amazing hostess and she loved to entertain family and friends. Extremely talented when it came to all things crafty, she enjoyed crocheting afghans, knitting baby sweaters, sewing, painting, gardening, flower arranging, decorating wedding cakes, and dabbling in interior design.

She relocated to Fredonia, PA in 1972, where she became one of the founding members of a local sewing club that met at a different house each week in order to share coffee, conversation, and creativity. She eventually began hosting a weekly painting group as well.

Janet rejoined the workforce on a part time basis after her children started school. She was the bookkeeper and secretary for Preisel Service Inc. in Greenville. She worked at Wendell August Forge, a fine gifts and collectible shop in Grove City. She practiced for having grandchildren while working at Hadley Play N Care. She was later employed as an administrative assistant at Huffman Tax Service in Hadley. For many years, she also taught religious education to preschoolers at Saint Columbkille Roman Catholic Church in Stoneboro.

In 2003, she and her husband retired to North Carolina where she became an active member of the Ladies Altar Society at Saint James Roman Catholic Church in Henderson.

Janet is survived by her husband Frederick at home; three children, Scott Preisel and his partner Douglas Wildoner of Hunlock Creek, PA; Colleen (John) Tyburski of Henderson, NC; and Karin (Scott) Wetterau of Lindenhurst, NY; and two grandsons, Lucas Joseph Tyburski and Ty James Wetterau.

She was preceded in death by her mother, Evelyn Frances Clark Hull; three brothers, Kenneth Hull, James Hull, and Charles Hull; and two infant daughters.

In the spring, a memorial service will be planned at Saint James Catholic Church in Henderson. Memorial contributions in her name may be made to the March of Dimes NICU Family Support Program.

Arrangements are by Flowers Funeral Home.

Date of Death: Wednesday, December 24, 2014

A Quote from Mom, and One About Her

"I love you, always and forever, until the end of time."

-Janet Preisel

 

 

 

 

 

Attack of the Blob!

When maturity finally happens in your life, it is quite humbling. It often requires apologies to your parents, and especially to your Mother. I have called her many times to share a sudden epiphany that led to the need to apologize for past behaviors and comments that lacked any form of insight. I grew to appreciate Mom more each time I understood what wonders she was capable of, sometimes under less than ideal circumstances.

 

I have begged Mom's forgiveness long ago for my unwarranted criticism of her, and not only did she grant me total absolution, she found it greatly amusing. The same issue has come up for me again recently, and confession being good for humility, I thought I would revisit it here.

I already had to apologize to my mother for my arrogance as a teenager regarding an incident of an unforgivable slight to my food preferences when she mistakenly bought (GASP!) CRUNCHY peanut butter. At the time, I detested crunchy peanut butter, perhaps because I was too lazy to chew. I was not usually disrespectful to my dear mother, who indulged us daily with good homemade food, prepared to our liking. However, since I was suffering from the “testosterone poisoning” of the brain that happens during puberty, I scathingly criticized her for her mistake. I said, “How could you possibly mistake CRUNCHY for CREAMY?! Not only does it say it CLEARLY on the label, but the words themselves are in different COLORS."

I arrogantly thought at the time, that such a blatant oversight was inexcusable. My apology came later, as a grown up with responsibilities, after I had squeezed a shopping trip into my very busy life, with children along. Working, taking care of the spouse and house, pets and children, I found my usual attention to detail a bit faulty. Planning a week's worth of healthy delicious menus and buying all the ingredients, while entertaining youngsters in the actual store (but without making a scene worthy of a mental health evaluation) was not as easy as Mom had made it look.

I returned from the store and unpacked my groceries. I was so shocked that I was sure that someone must have switched products. I have been a vegetarian for years. I had picked out vegetarian baked beans, as usual. Somehow in the chaos and confusion, I had grabbed a can that said CLEARLY on the label, “Pork and Beans.” Not only were the words in different COLORS, the can itself was a different color, because it was a completely different brand. How could I possibly mistake the two? Apparently, with enough distraction, I had grabbed the wrong one off the shelf, placed it into the cart, unloaded it from the cart, put it on the belt at the checkout, and bagged it, without actually seeing it. My mother laughed, not unkindly AT me, but WITH me. She knew exactly how it could be, and now, so did I.

Just this past week, without anyone along on my shopping trip to blame for distracting me, I bought a half-case of Bounty Select-A-Size paper towels. I hate this product. I am not wasteful, and I do more than the average person to be gentle on our Earth, but the size I want to “select” to clean up with is… a WHOLE paper towel. I have tried to use these, but even though I am not a math wizard, I know that needing TWO half sheets of paper towel for a mess means that you really needed a WHOLE one. I have never walked around the house looking for something else to clean up because I have only used half of my paper towel. I am not wasteful, so I will use the other eleven rolls, but I will be grumbling for many months. How is such a blatant oversight possible?

 

So, it is without any implied criticism, and with much personal empathy, that I now share something funny from the height of our “Distracted Mom” years. My mother was no stranger to making homemade bread. I had only experienced having Wonder Bread glued to the roof of my mouth at other people's houses. Mom often made perfectly light yet hearty loaves, as well as Aunt Dot's sandwich buns, or Aunt Mary's cinnamon rolls with their caramelized bottoms. As one child in our family became two, and then three, the time to raise and knock down the dough was taking away from the raising of the children, who frequently knocked down each other. Mom heard about a shortcut.

It was a product called Rhodes Frozen Bread Dough. There were three in a bag and you pulled them out of the freezer, let them rise for hours, and then baked them. This was before the advent of those strange square and heavy loaves that could be made with a bread machine. The Rhodes bread was a decent substitute for Mom's homemade, eliminating some of the steps for her. The majority of times, she was very successful.

However, there was one flaw to the Rhodes product. The rise happened slowly as the frozen bread dough thawed. It thrived on hours of benign neglect, unlike the children. So it saved time and steps, but when it was ready, the baker could not be distracted. We pesky kids loved to distract our mother, and our mom was pretty talented at taking on complex projects that also distracted her. When this bread was not successful, it was a legendary failure.

One of the times, Mom got busy and forgot the dough was rising on the counter. It became a science fiction movie. It raised itself out of the bread pans, creeping out from under the damp cotton towel, and became the Blob, seeking things to devour. It completely enveloped the sugar bowl, the salt and pepper shakers, a container full of toothpicks, and was working on a dozen napkins in their holder. The bread was ruined. The cleanup of springy, sticky dough off those items was not very time-saving.

Another appearance of the Blob was when Grandpa Joe was living with us. It was a lovely spring day, so to keep the dough out of the drafts from the open windows, Mom decided she could let it rise in the oven itself. Unfortunately, her distracting progeny had some mandatory event that we forgot to mention to her, turning all four of us into Whirling Dervishes. Grandpa wisely hid in his room until we left, but he heard a strange creaking noise upstairs. He was not a timid man, but was a little concerned when the dog was growling at something around the corner in the kitchen. There was another creak. Grandpa Joe saw the oven door being pushed open from the inside by a tan substance that was slowly oozing out all sides. The dog had seen what happened to the items on the sideboard and was in fear for her life. Like a good horror movie, at that very moment, there was a startling BANG! as the oven door opened enough to turn on the light inside. The creature imploded and the door slammed shut. They both jumped, but while Grandpa Joe was amused, the dog remained wary of the abode of the Terrifying Hot Box Creature for weeks. This was not a self-cleaning oven. Again, it was not such a time-saver to scrub collapsed dough off of all surfaces of an oven interior, including the racks.

Mom's picture of another forgotten Rhodes batch. Notice the
bread pans are no longer visible.

The Blob's best attempt to destroy our family was when Mom decided to put the dough on the windowsill to rise. Again, she was distracted. With one car, if she wanted to go anywhere, she had to roust her three grumpy children to take Dad to work in the morning, and then she had to time it perfectly to be back to pick him up when he was done. We lived in rural PA, where there was nothing within walking distance, and Dad's work was a 40 minute commute one way. Multiply that trip by the four times required for drop off and pick up each day that Mom wanted to do her “running” and add in three kids. I can't do the math, but it makes me tired to think of it.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the bread continued to rise unattended all day. By the time we returned home, the Blob had climbed four feet up Mom's blue lace curtains in the living room. It was the perfect ladder for it, and the Blob expanded through the holes as it went. Most of the curtains were now inside the dough. This was the funniest, but least time-saving incident with the Rhodes frozen bread dough.

Actually, what is amazing is that there were not a hundred of these stories about the bread getting away from Mom. I know If I tried it, my track record would not be nearly so good. I rarely found the time to make homemade bread at all. Even using the short-cut product of Rhodes frozen dough was pretty ambitious for a woman distracted by three kids. If it had been me, eventually there would have been a strange news story about a family found smothered by dough in their sleep. Thanks, Mom, for all the delicious food AND for keeping us safe when the Blob attacked!

 

We Are Thankful For: The Pie Fight

As Thanksgiving approaches, there are some family traditions that we miss and others that faded away and made us even more thankful. We spent almost every holiday in the car, traveling to Cleveland to spend time with the relatives, which was great, but holiday traffic and bad weather will not be missed.

Gram's turkey dehydrator

Grandma Evelyn was not a fancy cook, but she had mastered the art of putting on a delicious holiday meal, with one notable exception- the turkey. Gram lived in fear of a holiday urban legend that someone had once poisoned their entire family by undercooking the turkey. She was not going to let that become her legacy. She had one of those specialty electric turkey roasters as a permanent resident in the corner of her dining room. It was white enamel, on its own wheeled stand, with a glass window in the lid. A few times each year the black enameled pan inside held the remains of a turkey. Not in the traditional sense of the "remains" but it would be more accurately described as a turkey dehydrator. Gram's idea of safe Thanksgiving day fare was turkey-jerky.

A little turkey named Scotty Joe in front of Dad and Gram,
as he carves a dangerous oven-cooked bird in the days before the
Westinghouse dehydrator.

Each year, our mom would try to convince her mother not to overcook the turkey, but Gram would not take the risk of serving up food-poisoning to her beloved family. Gram would get up in the middle of the night- dinner was at 2 PM so starting it at maximum heat at 2 AM should do the trick. After twelve hours, there was never any shortage of liquid in the roaster for gravy. In fact, it was a bit like turkey soup. Gram had given up on the dubious "stuffing" in the bird cavity since most of it floated away. Each year, Dad had to try to carve the breast meat, without getting "White Lung" from inhaling the dust, but never fear, the dark meat was moist, as it was submerged for most of the cooking.

What it might have looked like eight hours prior...

One year, Gram was so excited that there was a plastic indicator right in the turkey that popped out when it had reached temperature and was safe to eat. Mom was truly concerned about the safety of the food that year, since Gram had melted the plastic indicator long after it popped out, "just to be extra safe." (Toxic melted plastic being the lesser of Grandma's concerns.)

Grandma Hull did not scrimp on her sides. There was dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, carrots, corn, green beans, broccoli/cauliflower mix and Gram's Sweet Potatoes. Those were the best- cubed raw, then slow-cooked in butter and brown sugar until it caramelized. That lovely orange sauce could glaze a piece of the white meat on your plate and make it almost moist again.
Grandma's two personal favorite parts of the turkey were the the two ends. She loved the neck meat and what she, surprisingly for the President of the Catholic Ladies Guild, referred to as "The Pope's Nose"- the tail.

Mom wanted us to all look nice as we planned our wardrobe every year. Dad was comfortable in a suit from his years of travel. However, we tried to arrive looking fashionable, but often ended up in T-shirts on Gram's unheated sun porch. Her base house temperature was about 90. Add in the Roaster dehydrating the turkey for 12 hours- and the multitude of sides. It smelled divine, but we were all at serious risk of heat stroke. If we had little plastic indicators, they would have melted as well.

SEE?! One did not pop yet- beware of death by turkey!

I have been trained that at a meal, no matter how obscenely big, and no matter how full everyone is, it is not complete until dessert is served. I blame Grandma Evelyn for this, although it might very well be due to my innate love of sweets. Gram had few rules for her family but one was that no one leaves her table prior to dessert. It was done in a most lovingly passive-aggressive grandma way. "Is everyone ready for dessert?" she would ask sweetly. If anyone protested that they were too full, she would say, "That's okay. We will just sit here and wait then." On Thanksgiving it was just gastric torture, but on Christmas, we were not excused from the table to open the piles of presents under the tree until after dessert.  Everyone quickly learned to make a mental note not to overeat and to always leave room for at least a sliver of dessert. If someone suggested we let our meal digest a bit and come back to the table later for dessert, she would agree we should wait a bit, but no one was excused. She acted as if she did not hear the last part at all.

 

Homemade pumpkin pie!

 

In exchange for the dessert torture, being stuck at the table did give us all ringside seats for the yearly "Pie Fight". I don't mean an actual food-throwing pie fight, but we sometimes wondered if it would indeed come to that eventually. Every year, Grandma Evie's older sister, Aunt Mae would make a homemade pumpkin pie. It was delicious and Gram appreciated her sibling's help. The problem was that Aunt Mae did not like the aerosol can Reddi-Whip topping. She preferred Cool Whip and she liked it chilled on the room temperature pie. Every year, Grandma would ask her if she took her Cool Whip out of the freezer the night before, and every year her sister would lie to her face and insist she had, even though she was seen pulling it out of the freezer with a conspiratorial wink when we picked her up shortly before dinner.

Aunt Mae's choice- but freeze solid

 

Grandma had us all prisoner at the table, and when we finally caved in to her dessert demands, she wanted to act quickly. Now we had to wait for each slice of pie to be served, as the topping thawed with the speed of a glacier. Poor Mom, diplomatically trying to keep the peace, would frequently bend a serving spoon, scooping from the slightly softened edges and trying to avoid the ice block center. The fight was inevitable, however.

Grandma would begin muttering obscenities under her breath. Aunt Mae would smile sweetly but her backbone was made of steel as they sparred about the pie topping. Grandma would suggest we have the pie plain. Aunt Mae countered that would ruin all her hard work on the pie. Grandma would acknowledge that everyone was very eager to taste the delicious pie but we now had to wait for the topping to thaw. Aunt Mae pooh-poohed her concerns by asking what was the hurry? Grandma would say I would like to finish Thanksgiving before Christmas arrives. Aunt Mae ignored that and extolled the wonders of room temperature pie with chilled Cool Whip on top. At each blow, they each attempted to draw us in and get us to take sides, but we all had siblings of our own. We also knew that the only safe course was to maintain the balance between the two mega-powers facing off over the dinner table. If either one gained advantage, there would be Holiday Armageddon. Grandma always technically won the debate, but due to her sister being hard of hearing, Aunt Mae didn't notice. Grandma would eventually lose her cool and suggest a way to thaw the entire container of Cool Whip with her sister playing the part of a Thanksgiving turkey. There were variations on the theme, but each holiday dinner ended in the Pie Fight.

Contraband!  Say, "ahhh"

One year, Grandma valiantly tried buying Reddi-Whip and her sister said that if anyone wanted to ruin her pie by putting that on it- go ahead. With Aunt Mae's tone of voice, not even Grandma stood up to her challenge. We secretly squirted it directly into our mouths while doing dishes later, so it was not a total loss.

Another year, we thought Grandma had finally won in a surprise move as she victoriously produced a completely thawed and perfectly chilled container of Cool Whip from her own refrigerator. Even with all her criteria met, Aunt Mae was not going to concede one little bit. Without a moment of appearing flustered, she opened it, gave it a sniff, and said it had spoiled as she dropped it upside down in the garbage on top of the turkey bones. She said it was a good thing she had brought her own Cool Whip to save dessert. Gram's hair flamed a little redder that day, but she had to admire such an undaunted opponent. The Pie Fight remained a draw.



Aunt Mae and Gram: post-Pie-Fight

The more you saw them interact, the more obvious it was that the multitude of inconsequential things they disagreed upon was rooted in some longstanding feud started in childhood. They were fiercely loyal to each other, but they had become worthy adversaries. Each complained about the other, but like two different but equally matched boxers, there was a brutal artistry once the bell rang. Many families have fights at the holidays. Ours were safely predictable and never uncivilized, just part of dinner and a show.

Holiday Feast Humor

Since the holidays are approaching rapidly, here is one of my old recipes from our Edinboro Book Arts Collective cookbook project.

This recipe should be reserved for a special holiday treat, as it is somewhat expensive to prepare.


SCOTT'S ROAST PACHYDERM WITH STUFFING

1 medium to large pachyderm, preferably professionally butchered
270 loaves of day-old bread
42 TBS of Sage
16 pounds of butter
65 cups of celery, chopped
25 pounds of sausage, cooked and drained
15 large onions, minced
24 TBS salt
12 TBS paprika

1 garden hose
1 fifty-five gallon drum
1 snow shovel
5,000 feet of aluminum foil
10 gallons of kerosene
1 pack matches
1 tractor with front-end loader



Preparation:
Knock out kitchen wall with front-end loader. Do not worry about the mess- it will be taken care of later in the recipe. Call your butcher well in advance of your event to arrange for delivery. Push pachyderm into the kitchen. Hooking your garden hose to the sink faucet, (if still in working order) clean the carcass thoroughly, inside and out. Do not forget to remove the packet of giblets! Place them in the 55 gallon drum of water and reserve for later.

In a clean bedroom, cut the 270 loves of bread into cubes and toss onto floor. Melt the butter and sauté celery and onions. Add sausage (cooked) and seasonings. Mix well using the snow shovel. Dressing should be stuffed generously into the cavity. (Some people prefer to truss it also, in which case a knitting needle and some clothesline will be required)

Wrap pachyderm in aluminum foil. The steam will cook it, so do not leave gaps. This tends to dry out the white meat. Push prepared package (again with tractor) to an inside wall and douse your home liberally with kerosene, both inside and out. Obviously, as with any cookout, neighbors and fire department should be notified in advance to prevent a false alarm from spoiling your event. Try to time it so that dinner is ready just before your family, friends, and total strangers begin to gather.

Cooking time varies; estimate 6 hours for a brick house, but allow 8 for wooden ranch types, since they don't hold the heat as well. Drum of giblets can be placed upon the chimney, but care should be taken not to allow them to boil dry. Light the fire and prepare other traditional fixings such as sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce, while main course is cooking.

Serves: 250-300 people




Pre-emptive disclaimer- Do the internet a favor and please keep preachy comments to yourself. This is intended to be about absurdity and humor. I am a vegetarian and very appreciative of my four-legged relatives. I boycott zoos and circuses. I understand that a house burning down is traumatic. Like most of the recipes I have seen on Facebook, I would NOT recommend actually making this. If you are outraged and offended, your assignment prior to commenting is to read Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal" and use it to explain the word satire. Hoping this silly piece brings a chuckle or two to everyone else.

 

Get Up- You Are Wasting The Day!

As Karin mentioned, I was one of the green burritos on the cabin's living room floor in my sleeping bag. I was not, and shall ever remain, NOT a morning person at all.  I am a night owl, and usually only saw the sunrise on the back side of a sleepless night.  At the time, I didn't care for the sisterly-tot-turning-me-into-a-trampoline wake-up, Grandpa's Tarzan yell, followed by his looping announcement of  "Get up! You are wasting the day!"  Even the wonderful big band and swing music that I loved our grandparents playing for us seemed slightly less wonderful when it was blasting at 6 AM.

In retrospect, Grandpa Joe made our vacation home possible because he spent years getting up at 5 AM to work at the Alcoa Aluminum Plant in Cleveland. He allowed us the consideration of moving around quietly for the first hour so we could all, as he described it, "sleep in." It was impossible to get seriously annoyed with him, however, because he was so cheerful, and really just wanted to spend as much time in the fun company of his family as possible.

Grandpa joking around before going for a walk

Well, it wasn't completely impossible to get seriously annoyed- his wife, Grandma Kay was definitely was not a morning person either, but in spite of that, she got up and cooked him breakfast at 5 AM for years while he was working. She just wanted to snooze a bit on the weekend mornings.  Her husband was so relentlessly cheerful, that she managed to get in the spirit of things eventually, once she had a cup of strong coffee.

Now, I am very glad Grandpa didn't let us waste even a part of those days.

Camp Road

101 Days of Sunshine: Day 22 = Hula Dancing Heros

Sometimes when I sit down to write, the process of sorting out my earliest childhood memories makes my head hurt.

Click link for Karin's Blog

Karin's Campout

For many generations, our family has delighted in telling stories. Sometimes they would be embellished a bit, but mostly they were told just as they had happened. The thing that gave these stories an eager audience around the campfire or kitchen table was that our (admittedly somewhat annoying) positive outlook emphasized the humor we encountered in our daily situations.

For example, Grandma Kay's first minibike ride at Uncle Bud's camp could have been told as a tragic tale, or a cautionary one of danger and doom, but instead, by laughing at herself, she turned it into a hilarious story. She would start by admitting that her well-known "Need for Speed" made her impatiently breeze through the operating and safety lessons they were trying to provide. She saw others riding around at top speed and she said her only question was- "where is the throttle so I can open this baby up and see what she can do?" She would explain how she popped the clutch while gunning the throttle, and her first ride dramatically began with a "wheelie" down the wooded trail. Grandma Kay's eyes would light up as she explained how difficult it was to steer between trees with the front wheel located over her head, hanging from the handlebars, trying to keep her balance, but still focused on accelerating wildly. Her much too short first ride ended in the ever-present and dangerous "picker bushes" found at the border of every wooded trail in the Tionesta area. She bemoaned the fact that she was "only just starting to move at a decent clip" when she fell off and landed on her posterior in the brambles. She wound the story up with her regrets that she couldn't try to ride again that day because Grandpa Joe had to pick all the thorns out of her backside first. This illustrates how outlook and attitude can make a story entertaining, even though the events were terrifying.

Karin's Senior picture, taken by SJP

With that established, I would like to tell the story of my sister Karin's "Final Hurrah" camping trip. There will be danger and poor choices, but overall, it was very amusing to us.  Not only had Karin grown up spending every weekend at our camp at Skinny Timber in Tionesta, she had willingly accompanied me on more primitive campouts with Joe and Barbara Harris, and their three children, Jason, Julie, and Leslie, in the primitive campsite in the area at Minister Creek. We had great adventures together and made many fond memories there. It is one of the smallest campgrounds, with only 6 sites. The amenities do not include showers, RV hookups, and streaming WiFi. Instead, there is a fire ring at each site, an old hand-pump well for water, and two outhouses.

The babbling brook of Minister Creek to lull you to sleep each night

 

So when I asked Karin what she wanted to do on the last weekend before she departed her childhood and left home to become a competent woman at college, she said she wanted to go camping at Minister one last time. The Harris clan was uncharacteristically unable to go with us for some reason, so it was to be my sister and I alone.

Unfortunately for everyone involved in my life at that point, my Learning Disability and ADHD was undiagnosed and unmedicated. I was always intense and wildly fun- but the one thing I wasn't- was timely. Karin had packed her bag in 20 minutes and was eagerly ready for departure around 4 PM. I was running around frantically packing for 8 more hours. This was not uncommon, so Karin took a nap while I dashed around, loading up my silver Scout with every possible item that we might need for a long weekend, or for post-apocalyptic survival. My interpretation of the Boy Scout Motto of "Be Prepared" was to be prepared for ANYTHING. I was often a lifesaver, pulling out the most obscure item that was needed in the wilderness, or the ingredients for a camping meal worthy of a 5-star restaurant, or the equipment needed for an fun activity that would be envied by a Cruise Ship Director on the Lido Deck. Unfortunately, this meant that during packing I had to imagine ALL possible scenarios and plan for them. My mind would race full throttle, pulling mental wheelies, and to interrupt me by asking if I was almost ready only distracted and delayed me.

See?  Not making this up

So Karin and I finally left for Tionesta after midnight, maybe closer to 1 AM. We decided en route that perhaps we should stay at the cabin at Skinny Timber that first night so we didn't have to pitch camp in total darkness- although I did pack a lantern, several flashlights, and some Hawaiian Tiki Torches, if we wanted to do that. It was a blustery evening (well, technically morning) when we arrived. At the end of the quarter-mile driveway we saw the parking area was full of the vehicles of our aunts, uncles, and cousins. While our family always makes room for more, we were a bit doubtful that startling them awake in the pre-dawn hours would be polite. Karin and I discussed it and decided to drive the 40 minutes on Route 666 to Minister Creek campground. Again, this is not a story embellishment, that is the actual Route number and it is the Devil's Own Road- it meanders through the forest, with winding curves that double back on themselves repeatedly, with dangerous blind hills, and it is more of an asphalt patchwork quilt than a paved road.

One of the nicer stretches on Route 666

The silver Scout was a wonderful extended-hatchback 4-wheel-drive vehicle, and the V-8 engine is probably still able to run today, but the bodies of all Scouts began to rust out about 3 hours before they were assembled. So, on Route 666 in the darkest heart of the night, we hit a bump and the rusted latch on the hatchback gave way and all our camping equipment blew out the back. Karin and I laughed as we scavenged our gear off the road with flashlights, playing "I spy...a half case of peaches and the Mountain Pie Maker!" We only THOUGHT we got it all packed back in. I bungee-corded the hatch, because, of course, I was prepared for this, even though I had not mentally listed it as one of the possible outcomes.

The sign in the daytime- but all of this happened in pitch darkness
 

Imagine our surprise upon finally arriving to find that all six remote campsites at Minister were completely full. The campground rules allow tents to be pitched off-site, but it has to be beyond the designated sign quite a distance from the parking area. So Karin and I ended up carrying our tent, walking through the kind of darkness where you can't tell if your eyes are opened or closed.
The only tent we had was the last one our family had used while camping at Tionesta Dam. It was not the tan and orange one that slept 16, but it was the blue and yellow one that comfortably slept 8. Even though I am 6 foot tall, I could stand up in the morning inside it and stretch. It was canvas, which meant even on a sunny day, it smelled like you were sleeping in an old tennis shoe, and the most important rule was not to touch the sides while it was raining or the water would come through in that spot. The Harris children called it the Big Top, or the Circus Tent. It was not a modern tent with an internal frame of fiberglass shock-cord poles. It had an exo-skeleton of aluminum poles, and much like a circus tent, the entire structure had to be assembled and then the sides were raised up. Being canvas and large, it was also extremely heavy, so it took two people to carry it. Karin and I lugged it to a clearing and went back to the Scout for the poles and our sleeping bags. The rest of the equipment could wait until morning.

One of the features of the mountainous areas in Tionesta is the strange micro-climate weather patterns. Fog can hang in the valleys past noon even on a sunny day, and gusty winds can whip down the mountains with tree-snapping force. For Ohio flatlanders, a lightning strike throwing chunks of bark out as it spiraled around a tree was quite a sight. Remember I mentioned it was a bit blustery? Well, as Karin was toting the sleeping bags and I was carrying a very large bundle of aluminum poles over my shoulder, the lightning started. The nice thing was that it provided frequent blinding illumination to see by, but since only copper is a better conductor than aluminum, I felt a bit nervous as we heard the electrical crackle all around us. Under such duress, with a storm roiling above us, we couldn't find the clearing where we left the tent. Eventually I tripped over it- literally.

Duck and cover!

Karin and I then began a race against the rain, to get the tent pitched. We were fortunately well-practiced at a choreographed routine to pitch this tent. For some strange reason, this was also not the first time we had arrived in the middle of the night. However, at this particular moment, we discovered the disheartening fact that one of the L-shaped roof poles had not been found after the earlier hatchback explosion. A sagging roof could wait until morning, but not if it was going to rain. It would be like a large canvas funnel, gathering all the rain from the entire surface area of the tent roof. It would be drier to sleep out in the storm.

So while Karin steadied the semi-assembled tent against blowing to Oz, I used my belt knife to cut a sapling and whittle a makeshift roof pole. At least it wasn't aluminum. Whether Karin is a person of great character, or a loving sister, or she was just immune to my constant lateness after 18 years, she, in any case, did not mention that none of this would be happening if we left a TINY bit earlier. Of course, being in a life-threatening situation which required cooperation to be able to seek shelter for survival may also make saying "I told you so" less desirable.

We got the tent secured and we were inside by the time the rains started. The makeshift pole held and we did not drown in our tent- well, not yet, anyway. It may have been dawn, but the storm raged with such driving wind and rain, that it was hard to tell. We were exhausted as the adrenaline rush faded. Even if this was the Apocalypse, I had the supplies for it in the Scout. We fell asleep quickly in spite of a hurricane.

Karin and I managed to sleep through Nature's fury for a couple of hours. We were awakened by a most unnatural sound for our location. It was the sound of a crowd and orders being barked out. My sister and I unzipped the Circus Tent and darted outside in alarm. What could this be? There were the six campsites through the woods and across the road from us. There were a few seasonal camps that were a decent hike away. The nearest town was miles from us. The one thing there should not be, was a crowd of people.

Amazingly, we had wandered around in the dark storm and pitched our Circus Tent in the middle of a Boy Scout Jamboree Campout in the woods. How we did not see even one tent while looking for the one we lost was astounding. Their pup tents had not held up to the weather as well as the Big Top. The scout's tents were mostly collapsed and all their contents were soaking wet. It was a late summer rain, so even in the wooded valley it was already a hot and humid morning. The soggy scouts were stripped down to underwear, or less, and hanging everything on lines to dry. My sister basically walked out of our tent and into a boy's locker room. The screaming and dashing about for wet clothes for belated modesty was rather amusing, but Karin excused herself back into our tent while they got decent.

Be Prepared!

After exchanging pleasantries with the leaders of our unexpected neighbors, Karin and I broke down our tent and dragged the wet canvas and poles back to the silver Scout. We had still only slept a couple of hours, so when we saw that a less intrepid camper had abandoned one of the streamside spots due to the rain, we decided to pitch the Big Top one more time and maybe enjoy the rest of our weekend together as planned. The weather seemed to be clearing up. We passed out.

Squeaking Minister Creek hand pump

We had taken the only spot available, but it had the huge misfortune to be the one nearest to the water well with the old-fashioned hand pump. A troop of our friends the Scouts were given water detail, and presumably back in uniform, they were now filling canteens and jugs outside our tent. Anyone who has been around testosterone-laden teen boys knows their natural state is one of rowdiness. There was arguing and jostling, wrestling and punching, stick fights and battle cries, as well as the moans of the wounded. The metal on metal squeal of the farm-style pump was the least noisy thing they were doing as they filled about a hundred canteens. Karin and I lay there in a stupor, too exhausted to go out and yell at them like some crabby senior citizens. We half-dreamed that their yelling might be the result of marauding bears picking them off one by one, but even though it sounded like they were being torn limb from limb, there was no silence for over an hour. We would later regret our uncharitable thoughts once the Scouts saved our lives.

Fill 'em up... x100

Sleep-deprivation had obviously made Karin and I delirious. We were not just asleep, we were passed out. We did not hear 5 families pack up and move out of the campsites. We did not pay attention to the well-known fact that we were in a low-lying camp spot just above where Minister emptied into the Tionesta Creek. We were too stupefied to observe the fact that it rained hard all night. All I knew when I woke up was that the boys were back outside our tent being loud, and that I was going to commit Scouticide.

Streamside camping at Minister

When I tried to get up, the floor of the tent was squishy. Like an old-fashioned waterbed squishy. Actually making squishy sounds. I noticed ripples under the floor making Karin float up and down in her sleeping bag. The Scouts were shouting, "Flash Flood!" and were gathering around to save us. The water was not rising very fast, but it was steadily advancing. The Scouts helped us move the Big Top to high ground. We gave them a hero's commendation. After the crisis was over and the waters receded, we decided to re-absorb all our adrenaline and get some restful sleep. We had a nice time with good weather for the next couple days and it seemed our adventure was over.

We reluctantly packed up and I was driving leisurely, taking my sister home to her new grown-up adventures. We crested a blind hill and there was a lone deer standing in the middle of Route 666. I put both feet on the brake pedal and in spite of the squealing tires, the deer remained frozen in place. Karin screamed as both of us locked eyes with this deer and the silver Scout skidded into her. Fortunately, we weren't going very fast, as evidenced by the fact that there was no damage to the Scout at all. However, the impact had knocked the big doe directly down on her side. She was just lying there in the road. (Just so no one has anxiety about this turn in the story, remember it is filled with danger, but it is funny- not tragic.)

LOOK OUT!

Karin and I got out and walked over to the deer, horrified. The doe lay there dazed, legs stiff, muscles quivering and shaking. I moved the Scout back to the top of the hill with the flashers on, just in case there would be any traffic out there. The danger part was that this was before the TV show "When Wild Animals Attack," so we had no idea this gentle victim was capable of doing bodily harm to humans.  My own Boy Scout training kicked in- Always Be Prepared. Render First Aid. Help A Lady Cross The Street.

Of course I had this- and a back up kit as well...

We decided she was in shock. I got the wool blanket from the Scout and we covered her torso. I rolled her up off the pavement expecting to see a bloody mess, but even her fur was intact. I tucked the blanket under her. Karin petted her neck and spoke reassuringly to her, and then put the doe's head in her lap. The deer stopped trembling. Basically we had skidded to a stop almost in time, but just knocked her off her feet. I carefully tested range of motion in all four legs. She let me move her limbs with no resistance or panic. He rear thigh muscle at the impact point was tensed, but moved freely and did not grind or cause the deer any apparent pain. I began massaging the muscle, moving the blood towards the heart and avoiding pressure on the points of insertion. I increased the pressure to the thicker tissue, feeling it loosen as I rubbed. Slowly she recovered and sat up as if she was crouched on the forest floor, resting. We adjusted the blanket over her and I kept working to loosen the leg muscle.

Very slowly the deer got to her feet. She was able to bear weight on her leg, but she walked with a limp. She moved off the road and into the woods, limping a little less with each step. She still had the army surplus blanket on her, looking a bit like a horse with a blanket on, but as she moved off into the woods she looked like a parade float gliding along. Karin and I didn't want to remove the blanket and startle her, so she slowly walked off, with only a slight limp. We joked about the story she could tell her deer friends, and that maybe she would keep the khaki blanket on for hunting season as a way to camouflage herself.

Karin and I had no idea how dangerous our encounter with the deer was at the time. It was also before there was any concern about deer ticks and Lyme Disease. Protected by cluelessness and good intentions we wrapped up the adventure that was Karin's Final Hurrah camping trip.

Outhouses and Churches

While we were growing up, we lived the life of nomads, traveling every weekend and each vacation. At first we were Bedouins, all of us living in a tent at Tionesta Lake every Spring, Summer, and Fall. Then, after Grandpa bought the property for a cabin at Skinny Timber, we travelled there, even in the Winters. We did not wander off the path, just repeated the same trip over and over. It was a long trip when we lived in Cleveland, but when we moved to Fredonia, PA, it made for a way station for Grandma Kay and Grandpa Joe to take a small break on the journey.

Gramma Kay and our "Circus Tent" on the Dam.  Chippy Chihuahua in the corner.

It was a great adventure for a city kid. It was still a great adventure once we became country kids. Every weekend, we lived a frontier life, gathering wood so that we could cook over a campfire. We went for daily hikes in a place where wild animals outnumbered people. We used 4 wheel drive vehicles like our Scout before anyone else had even heard of them, and we traveled by boat and motorcycle, as well. There was hunting and fishing for food, and gathering of wild berries.

Charlotte and Scotty Joe on the Red Scout tailgate at Skinny Timber.
A little work has been done on the driveway since then.

Every basic need becomes more complicated when you remove the trappings of civilization. At the lake, we had a private little grove of bushes where our camp toilet was kept. It was an open seat on folding legs with a very heavy duty bag underneath it. It could be treacherous to sit on it if the ground was wet after the rain- you definitely did not want to fall over if two of the legs started to sink into the ground. Digging a hole to bury the blivet bags was an unpleasant part of the chores. Until writing this and looking up the term “blivet” for proper spelling, I did not know it was a WW2 term describing “ten pounds of manure in a five pound bag.”  It must have been a term introduced by Uncle Bud, our family war hero. The sound of the word itself was always very funny, but now it's hilarious. I remember Dad or Grandpa saying, “Everyone out of the way! Blivet! Blivet coming through!” The more “modern convenience” of having an outhouse came when Grandpa bought the property.

The infamous toilet and blivet bag.  Sniffy Beagle on guard- or perhaps passed out?

If anyone has been to St. Anthony's Catholic Church in Tionesta, you have been the beneficiary of our outhouse. Quite a statement, but I have the story to back it up. First of all, there was no church when we first started camping in Tionesta. Father John Kuzilla held Mass for residents and campers in the Fire Station. What little boy wouldn't like going to church where you could sit on the bumper of a fire truck?

 

 

Father John Kuzilla was Grandma and Grandpa's favorite priest. He had a modern outlook that they liked- they were used to the pompous and stodgy priests in Cleveland. Grandma would sing modern songs like "Shout from the Highest Mountain" even after church. Fr. John was a humble priest who was so accessible. He sometimes came back to camp with us and took off his collar to have a beer with the fellows. We were not overly religious, but he made it worth the trouble- since it was not an easy task to go to church while camping.

We had to get ready at camp with no running water, with the women doing hair and getting dressed up a bit, then the hike down the trail to the Lake to get in the boat. It would take several trips ferrying everyone from our campsite to the docks at the Dam. Ron was not supposed to drive too fast, which would mess up everyone's hair. Then the hike up the cliff to the cars. A short trip into town to hear an inspiring but short sermon. Then reverse the procedure to get back to camp. After Mass, Father Kuzilla would have to be transported by boat to and from our campsite.

Unlike modern ones at parks and events, using an old-fashioned outhouse was never an enjoyable experience. There was the smell of course, and the flies, and even the occasional surprise of a wild animal. When we first got the property, there was no electricity, so this meant flashlights or the lantern. Everyone learned to do their “business” during daylight hours.

The Outhouse at Skinny Timber  (more inspirational than it seems.)

 

Dad is quite a creative builder, so we had a long spring on the door which creaked as it opened and caused it to slam shut with a bang, but reduced opossums and raccoons visiting. We had a regular toilet seat bolted over the hole, which still had to be lifted each time to check for spiders and other bugs. There was a regular toilet paper dispenser bolted to the wall- no Sears catalogs- we weren't that rustic! There were triangular panels of screen below the sloped roof to help with ventilation while keeping the wasps out, but the most innovative feature was the skylight. Dad figured it was scary enough to have to visit this little hut in the woods, so why make it dark and dismal? He used a piece of heavy-duty colored plastic with textured circles molded into it for the roof.

So Father Kuzilla continued to visit the Preisels after Mass at the new property. He even had to use the “facilities” upon occasion. He told us that one time he was greatly amused that while he was sitting there in this most human and un-glorious position, a beam of dappled sunlight came streaming down from above, causing him to look up at the outhouse roof shining like stained glass. He said that God's blessing could come at any time, not just when we felt prepared, and that it was an amusing reminder that God loves us, even at our worst moments.

 

St. Anthony's in Tionesta, PA

For years, Father Kuzilla struggled to prove that there was a need for a church in Tionesta, which didn't have enough Catholic residents, but had a huge influx of campers in the Summer months. Donations kept pouring in and eventually he got approval to use the building fund to construct a church. He was so excited to give us the tour and to show us that he had asked the designers to put a skylight over the altar, remembering his day in our outhouse, and joking that he was hoping to have those rays of sunlight inspire him during a slightly better activity. Until he was transferred to Clarion, we enjoyed our private “privy” joke with him weekly as he looked up during Sunday Mass.

What a Doll!

Language is such a funny thing. I remember it started as, "you can take that beat-up old doll outside, but not the nice ones." To a child's ears, this constant repetition of the rule went from first being a descriptive term for clear communication, to then what the item was called, as in, "has anyone seen my beat-up old doll out in the yard?" to the doll's actual name. Beat Up Old. It was never shortened to a nickname. "Beat Up Old" was my sister Karin's best friend.

Karin and her other best friend, Sandy

 At some points there may have been some implied criticism from our family about Beat Up Old's disheveled state, but you don't want to cause a child distress by disrespecting their best friend. The more adventures Beat Up Old had, the more she earned our respect. Her little cloth body had many scars, from countless emergency surgeries performed lovingly by our Mom, Janet.  Like any Veteran, you respect the sacrifices that they have obviously made.

Beat Up Old was quite possibly a magical doll, since in spite of
her constant presence in our lives, she does not appear in any photos.
I did an exhaustive internet search and found a reasonable likeness,
although this doll's hair is still too long and she is far too clean.

 Beat Up Old definitely did not have an easy life, but she was the sort who let it build character. She would not have traded sitting on a shelf in fine clothes with perfect hair for anything. What a boring life those other fancy dolls lived! They may have been invited to more tea parties to show off their refinement, but they never knew the exhilaration of launching off a little girl's lap at the very highest point of the swing, flying through the air with little arms and legs flapping wildly, and knowing that you personally had caused the squeals of delight from your best friend.

Karin spent hours on the swing with Beat Up Old

It is a testament to her character, and to my sister Karin's as well, that they stuck together through thick and thin, never tiring of each other's company. When Karin grew up and was too old for dolls, Beat Up Old was still around. I think it's interesting that no one knows what happened to Beat Up Old. She never could have been donated to a thrift shop or sold in a yard sale, no outsider would have recognized her worth. None of us would have the heart to dispose of a Best Friend. I had chosen a private Viking funeral for my own Pooh Bear, who had suffered from "plush mange" at age 15 and lost all his fur. Somewhere I still have his jacket, not the cheap original felt one, but the red corduroy one that Mom sewed for him, and that she had embroidered "Pooh" on it.

Dad and Pooh Bear, Mom with Scotty Joe

For Beat Up Old to have gone missing without a trace is remarkable. She was fearless, so I like to imagine her with some other little girl, perhaps in an impoverished country, not caring one bit about her disheveled appearance, and having more Amazing Adventures.

101 Days of Sunshine: Day 21 = The Amazing Adventures of Beat Up Old

In recent days, it seems like my two-year old son would like to take every single toy that he owns outside in order to play with them there.

Click Link for Karin’s Blog

Knock! Knock!

Knock! knock!

Who's there?

Shrimp with Anna.

Shrimp with Anna, who?

Shrimp with anaphylaxsis, no joke!


I inherited the family seafood allergy.  I used to love getting the shrimp basket at the Sky Jet Restaurant in Tionesta when I was a child.  Unfortunately, I consumed my lifetime amount by middle school.  Fortunately, clams and mussels are fine for me, just no crustaceans.

101 Days of Sunshine: Day 20 = Dealing with the Dreaded Clam Cough

Once a year, my dad's entire, enormous, extended family got together to enjoy a giant clam bake hosted by my great aunt and uncle.

Click Link for Karin’s Blog

101 Days of Sunshine: Day 19 = Open Cupboards and Odd Family Rituals

For a variety of reasons, I am personally not a fan of the open kitchen cupboard, despite the fact that I happen to be the proud owner of two of them.

Click Link for Karin’s Blog

Country Mouse and City Mouse



Grandma Kay, The Graduate, and Grandma Evelyn

Like a country mouse and a city mouse, my two grandmothers were opposites.

My mom's mother, Evelyn, had a ritual costume for dealing with rain when we were out shopping. She and her sister, Aunt Mae, had their hair done at Irene's Beauty Shop every week, so the first necessity was a rain bonnet. It was a plastic hat that folded accordion-style, like a map, to fit in a very small plastic case in their purses. They wore long raincoats to protect their outfits. They had galoshes, but not the big black buckling ones. Also known as "rubbers," they were shaped like ladies shoes, complete with a formed sturdy wide high heel. Those could stretch over their dress shoes to protect them from the puddles. Aunt Mae completed her ensemble with her "bumbershoot" which is the best word for umbrella a little kid could ever hear.

Grandma Evelyn, Mom, and Me
 

Shopping in Cleveland, every store was air-conditioned, and in the summer, when you walked outside, the hot air would hit your face like when Grandma opened the oven at the holidays. The outdoor elements were something to avoid and required protective gear to guard against them.

Grandma Evie, hoping none of the neighbors saw that she was outside in her "scuffs",
with Mom, and Aunt Mae, but needing to wear jackets.

Grandma Hull wouldn't let a little rain keep us from shopping, but a storm was a different matter. She was terrified of lightning and thunder, and while she certainly was justified, it was an absolutely irrational, overwhelming fear. As a child, my mother, Janet, spent many hot summer days locked in a stifling little closet with her three brothers, while Grandma Evelyn, squeezed in there with them, prayed to Saint Medard, the Patron Saint of Protection Against Bad Weather. If the storm got worse, there would be invocation of Saint Jude, as the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. Intercession was begged of Mary the Mother of God next. Eventually my own mother started wondering if there was a Patron Saint of Protecting Children from Smothering in a Hot Closet with Their Mother Every Time It Storms. She was the first to rebel and venture out of the closet to Certain Doom. When she didn't perish, her autistic brothers, not fond of being confined in there anyway, joined her revolution.

 Eventually even Gramma herself stopped hiding in the closet during a storm, well, mostly she stopped, but she was always lobbying to find someone willing to join her in the closet, where she felt safe. Each of her three grandchildren seemed like easy converts, but we didn't fall for it more than once.

Gramma Hull hiding in the closet seemed a little over the top, but considering her history, it wasn't all that unreasonable. Aunt Mae confirmed the story that when they were children, during a bad storm, the Devil's own Hellfire came through the open back door and struck the cast iron stove. This rare ball lightning blew the door and lids off the stove. Gramma never recovered from the trauma. Even though we felt compassion, we still refused to join her in the closet.

Grandma Kay, camping at Tionesta

In contrast, I have a very early memory of shopping in New Castle, Pa with my Mom, my paternal Grandma Kay, and Great Gram, Molly. It was one of those days that was "close" and "beastly hot." The store wasn't air-conditioned like in Cleveland. Even the air shimmered and distorted across the parking lot, and the smell of impending rain was in the air. When the deluge actually began, we could barely see the car.

Great Gram, Gramma Kay, Great Grandpap, and his dog Ginger,
all enjoying being outside- ON PURPOSE!

There was no stopping to put on special clothing. Great Gram had her hair bobby-pinned securely in her crown of braids. Gramma Kay had naturally curly hair, which she wore short and styled herself by wetting it every morning and scrunching it up and finger curling it. My mom's hair was straight but almost always worn short in a very cute pixie cut. No one's hairdo would be ruined in the soggy run to the car. No one had a fancy outfit that needed a raincoat, and certainly no one was wearing high heels. No one was worried enough about a sprinkle to even carry an umbrella. This was a bit more than a summer drizzle, though.

Great Gram carried all the packages, while Gramma Kay and Mom had one hand each of little Scotty Joe, as we made our run for the car. Adults often forget how short children's legs are. I could not possibly keep up with these two women, but I was small enough that I could pull myself up by the arms. It was like I was taking giant strides by hanging between them. I was able to fly like a superhero! I was bounding like an astronaut on the Moon!

That day the pavement was the type of hot where each raindrop evaporates at first, and then does not absorb at all, instantly making one enormous shallow puddle. In the way a child perceives the world, I saw the raindrops bouncing as they hit, and thought they were jumping up off the blacktop and heading back towards the sky. Joyfully laughing at this amazing magic, I began to jump too, splashing myself and my family. That infectious giggle prevented any irritation from the adults. They began to laugh, too. We were only halfway to the car and we were soaked to the skin. What more was a little boy splashing going to do? We couldn't possibly get any wetter.

We drove back to Cottage Grove, still dripping and laughing, with the wipers slapping as fast as they were able, and still not able to see much. The rhythmic noise hypnotized me, so that I barely noticed when the finally cooling air and wet clothes made me start shivering. I was a skinny little dude, all bone and muscle under skin, so I lacked any insulation. Soon my teeth were actually chattering.


Great Gram's house always had Indian blankets

As soon as we were back at her house, Great Gram stripped me to my skivvies. There were no fine linens there. Gramma Molly had Pendleton Indian Blankets by the dozen. She wrapped me in the dancing, colorfully geometric fabric and plugged in a small electric heater, then perched me in front of it. It had a rotating tube element and a mirror reflective background. It was another hypnotic motion. Like a little lizard, my core temperature returned to normal and I went from hypothermic to hibernation mode. Nap time for Scotty Joe.



 City boy Scotty Joe in a suit

Country boy Scotty Joe in a swimsuit, in Tionesta with dad

I am glad my Mom made sure I had the balance of experiencing life with both grandmothers. A little protective gear might be a good thing, especially for preventing hypothermia, but I wouldn't want to miss occasionally immersing myself in the magic of my surroundings.

Does anyone have a Geiger counter?
What is the half-life of a radium rosary?

Gramma Evie's actual glow-in-the-dark rosary

P.S. -  Oops!- after talking to Mom, she reminded me that I forgot to include a funny and important part of the story of Gramma Hull praying in the closet during the storms. She had a special glow-in-the-dark rosary that she used. That way there were no worries if the power went out or it was the middle of the night. I don't know how comforting the sickly yellow-green radium glow of plastic beads was to her children, but at least Gramma didn't lose her place every time the lightning and thunder made her jump.