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
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Country Mouse and City Mouse
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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| Grandma Kay, The Graduate, and Grandma Evelyn |
Like a country mouse and a city mouse, my two grandmothers were opposites.
 |
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| Grandma Evelyn, Mom, and Me |
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| 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.
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| 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 |
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| City boy Scotty Joe in a suit |
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| 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? |
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| 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.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
101 Days of Sunshine: Day 18 = Dad Can't Sew.
At the risk of sounding like a control freak or falling victim to gender stereotypes passed down from generations of women before me, I still feel fairly comfortable making the following statement.
Click Link for Karin’s Blog
At the risk of sounding like a control freak or falling victim to gender stereotypes passed down from generations of women before me, I still feel fairly comfortable making the following statement.
Click Link for Karin’s Blog
Saturday, July 19, 2014
My Favorite Teacher
When we moved from Cleveland, we attended school in a great district where my sisters and I received a superior education. There was only one logistical drawback. Elementary was K - 4. Middle school was on a separate property for 5th and 6th grade. Students then started high school at 7th grade. In any school there is a hierarchy among students so imagine the drama created when combining half of all school grades into one building. There was status, bullying, hazing, and fights with the spectacle of a Roman Arena.
Having taught as a grown-up, I am amazed that this system functioned at all. The maturity difference between children just transforming into teenagers with all the challenges that puberty brings and those young adults focused on dating and college choices are vast. It must have presented a special set of challenges to every teacher there, but for the most part they made it work.
Amid this setting of turmoil, with changes happening both internally and externally, I was a bit overwhelmed by how different everything was within a single year.
We had a great elementary music teacher and I loved singing. It was fun and I was good enough at it that I had performed in small groups and solos for many years. I was expecting the same when I elected "chorus" on the schedule that, as a seventh grader, you got to choose for yourself.
So, imagine the confusion and chaos when a boy whose voice had barely changed finds himself in class next to a practically grown man able to hit notes that almost make the room vibrate like a sub-woofer. It was a bit intimidating. From in front of the class, the Choral teacher has a group of seasoned veterans whom have sung together as a group for 5 years, and she has just lost all her seniors and replaced them with these awkward children. Good luck on all accounts.
It was not surprising I came home from school in seventh grade and told my mom how much I hated chorus. My chief complaint was that it was different, and my expectations that it would be fun were full of disappointment. The new teacher was demanding. She had us do warm up exercises. She insisted we sit up really straight. We had to practice opening our mouths certain ways. We had to waste time singing vowels. We were not allowed to eat chocolate before class- some ridiculous idea about vocal chords. She wanted us to "project" and use our "diaphragm" -whatever that meant. Worst of all, she did not have us singing popular children's songs, we had to do some boring old classical stuff. Misery.
Fortunately, my mom is a very wise woman about how things are in the world, even if she knew nothing about singing. My poor mother, with amazing talent at almost everything she tried, cannot sing. As a child she was told to mouth the words by her own music teacher. She enjoyed music and would try to sing along, but she couldn't get the tunes. She felt so bad about it that we didn't tease her. She did enjoy having three children, all of whom were very good singers.
So, in spite of having no idea of what this new choral teacher was doing, Mom encouraged me to give it a chance. She pointed out that even though I loved the fun I had in elementary music, I was now more mature and there was probably much more to learn. She explained that each teacher had their own style and I might adjust and learn to like something new. She also explained that quitting something was reserved for extreme circumstances, but that next year I did not have to choose Chorus as one of my electives. Bolstered by her motherly support to move forward into the unknown, I gave it a chance.
Perhaps the new choral teacher noticed my shift in attitude, or like all great teachers she saw which students needed a little extra attention. I responded really well in any case. I paid attention and learned the value in all she was teaching us. After all the exercises, rules, and practice resulted in a complex harmonic chord the first time, I felt the magic of synergy. I was totally engaged and committed to more.
I went from being a sulking child, skeptical of a new teacher and her different set of expectations, to her biggest fan. She loved singing and she loved teaching others, not just how to do it, but to also love it. She watched my skills develop, but more than that, she watched my passion for singing ignite. At one point, when she was handing out the sheet music chosen for the concert months in the future, I spontaneously commented, "Ahhhh, Bach..." when she handed it to me, as if I was greeting a personal friend. In her delight, this became an ongoing joke. "Ahhhh, Bach..."
I had many great teachers at Lakeview, but Miss C quickly became, and each year retained her position as, my favorite. I learned more than just music. I learned how to attack something that was difficult, and stick to practicing it until you excelled beyond what you believed you could ever accomplish. Many boys have this experience in sports, but it took me until college to discover that I liked sports at all. My success through hard work built my self-confidence at a time when I really needed it.
The mark of my favor towards her was that Miss C had a nickname for me, and at that time I didn't like anyone else calling me that. "Scotty" was something I had enjoyed being called when I was little, but was not fond of now that I was trying to grow up. She drew out the second syllable, musically of course, as "Scot-teeee!" and it was always clear that it was said with great fondness. I actually liked her calling me what I would not tolerate from my friends, or even my family.
Another mark of my commitment to the passion for music that she inspired in me, was that I had to fake a key part of one skill. I could not read music- actually I couldn't even see it. I have a learning disability called dyscalculia that was not diagnosed in school. It is like dyslexia only it affects numbers and symbols. Sheet music looked like ants crawling around on a wiggly-lined road, always moving, and different any time I looked at it. Fortunately, I have excellent pitch memory and could remember complex pieces. I even memorized a few classical pieces on the piano through kinesthetic repetition.
After I graduated, I continued to use all the skills that Miss Campman taught me, both the musical ones, and the ones that built confidence. I appeared in community theatre musicals. I directed high school theatre musicals. I did summer stock (WAY off Broadway). I performed on stage, and in clubs, and sang at events. I was called up on stage to sing with musician friends. I didn't really like karaoke, as it was fun to do it, but not so fun to listen to, and that voice training versus the lack of it became ear-painfully obvious.
Another thing that benefitted me in a later career as a Health Educator was the ability to support and project the voice. Sometimes I was doing eight lectures of one hour each in a single day. College professors who spoke for a living marveled that I didn't get hoarse, but some sips of warm lemon water, avoiding chocolate, and proper support made it possible. I once was also a keynote speaker when the microphone malfunctioned. I took off the headset and kept going, projecting my voice so even those in the back of the room heard every word.
The other day I posted a cartoon to her Facebook page and she responded that she was glad I had fond memories. That seemed a little understated for what I apparently have never communicated. So, here is a belated explanation and an overdue thank you, Miss C, for being a great teacher. The other thank you belongs to my mother, who was also a great teacher, and who made that relationship possible. "Listen to you mother..."
Having taught as a grown-up, I am amazed that this system functioned at all. The maturity difference between children just transforming into teenagers with all the challenges that puberty brings and those young adults focused on dating and college choices are vast. It must have presented a special set of challenges to every teacher there, but for the most part they made it work.
Amid this setting of turmoil, with changes happening both internally and externally, I was a bit overwhelmed by how different everything was within a single year.
We had a great elementary music teacher and I loved singing. It was fun and I was good enough at it that I had performed in small groups and solos for many years. I was expecting the same when I elected "chorus" on the schedule that, as a seventh grader, you got to choose for yourself.
So, imagine the confusion and chaos when a boy whose voice had barely changed finds himself in class next to a practically grown man able to hit notes that almost make the room vibrate like a sub-woofer. It was a bit intimidating. From in front of the class, the Choral teacher has a group of seasoned veterans whom have sung together as a group for 5 years, and she has just lost all her seniors and replaced them with these awkward children. Good luck on all accounts.
It was not surprising I came home from school in seventh grade and told my mom how much I hated chorus. My chief complaint was that it was different, and my expectations that it would be fun were full of disappointment. The new teacher was demanding. She had us do warm up exercises. She insisted we sit up really straight. We had to practice opening our mouths certain ways. We had to waste time singing vowels. We were not allowed to eat chocolate before class- some ridiculous idea about vocal chords. She wanted us to "project" and use our "diaphragm" -whatever that meant. Worst of all, she did not have us singing popular children's songs, we had to do some boring old classical stuff. Misery.
Fortunately, my mom is a very wise woman about how things are in the world, even if she knew nothing about singing. My poor mother, with amazing talent at almost everything she tried, cannot sing. As a child she was told to mouth the words by her own music teacher. She enjoyed music and would try to sing along, but she couldn't get the tunes. She felt so bad about it that we didn't tease her. She did enjoy having three children, all of whom were very good singers.
So, in spite of having no idea of what this new choral teacher was doing, Mom encouraged me to give it a chance. She pointed out that even though I loved the fun I had in elementary music, I was now more mature and there was probably much more to learn. She explained that each teacher had their own style and I might adjust and learn to like something new. She also explained that quitting something was reserved for extreme circumstances, but that next year I did not have to choose Chorus as one of my electives. Bolstered by her motherly support to move forward into the unknown, I gave it a chance.
Perhaps the new choral teacher noticed my shift in attitude, or like all great teachers she saw which students needed a little extra attention. I responded really well in any case. I paid attention and learned the value in all she was teaching us. After all the exercises, rules, and practice resulted in a complex harmonic chord the first time, I felt the magic of synergy. I was totally engaged and committed to more.
I went from being a sulking child, skeptical of a new teacher and her different set of expectations, to her biggest fan. She loved singing and she loved teaching others, not just how to do it, but to also love it. She watched my skills develop, but more than that, she watched my passion for singing ignite. At one point, when she was handing out the sheet music chosen for the concert months in the future, I spontaneously commented, "Ahhhh, Bach..." when she handed it to me, as if I was greeting a personal friend. In her delight, this became an ongoing joke. "Ahhhh, Bach..."
I had many great teachers at Lakeview, but Miss C quickly became, and each year retained her position as, my favorite. I learned more than just music. I learned how to attack something that was difficult, and stick to practicing it until you excelled beyond what you believed you could ever accomplish. Many boys have this experience in sports, but it took me until college to discover that I liked sports at all. My success through hard work built my self-confidence at a time when I really needed it.
 |
| Miss Campman |
The mark of my favor towards her was that Miss C had a nickname for me, and at that time I didn't like anyone else calling me that. "Scotty" was something I had enjoyed being called when I was little, but was not fond of now that I was trying to grow up. She drew out the second syllable, musically of course, as "Scot-teeee!" and it was always clear that it was said with great fondness. I actually liked her calling me what I would not tolerate from my friends, or even my family.
Another mark of my commitment to the passion for music that she inspired in me, was that I had to fake a key part of one skill. I could not read music- actually I couldn't even see it. I have a learning disability called dyscalculia that was not diagnosed in school. It is like dyslexia only it affects numbers and symbols. Sheet music looked like ants crawling around on a wiggly-lined road, always moving, and different any time I looked at it. Fortunately, I have excellent pitch memory and could remember complex pieces. I even memorized a few classical pieces on the piano through kinesthetic repetition.
After I graduated, I continued to use all the skills that Miss Campman taught me, both the musical ones, and the ones that built confidence. I appeared in community theatre musicals. I directed high school theatre musicals. I did summer stock (WAY off Broadway). I performed on stage, and in clubs, and sang at events. I was called up on stage to sing with musician friends. I didn't really like karaoke, as it was fun to do it, but not so fun to listen to, and that voice training versus the lack of it became ear-painfully obvious.
Another thing that benefitted me in a later career as a Health Educator was the ability to support and project the voice. Sometimes I was doing eight lectures of one hour each in a single day. College professors who spoke for a living marveled that I didn't get hoarse, but some sips of warm lemon water, avoiding chocolate, and proper support made it possible. I once was also a keynote speaker when the microphone malfunctioned. I took off the headset and kept going, projecting my voice so even those in the back of the room heard every word.
The other day I posted a cartoon to her Facebook page and she responded that she was glad I had fond memories. That seemed a little understated for what I apparently have never communicated. So, here is a belated explanation and an overdue thank you, Miss C, for being a great teacher. The other thank you belongs to my mother, who was also a great teacher, and who made that relationship possible. "Listen to you mother..."
Friday, July 18, 2014
Luge!
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| Dad's mother, Gramma Kay, with a new jacket for winter fun |
I solemnly swear that what my sister Karin relates in her latest post is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. No exaggeration was necessary to enhance this story. Luge was not yet a popular sport, or Grandma Kay would have been running an Olympic training camp at the cabin in Tionesta.
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| Luge! |
On really frigid days she would have us carry pans of cold water outside to ice the top of the track. One of her best runs required the use of her three-step kitchen ladder (she was short and needed it to reach the top cupboards) to climb on top of the railing of the front porch.
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| Site of Gram's Tionesta sliding track, which was built from the porch rail and close to the house for maximum drop and speed! |
Not many grandmothers would encourage their precious grandbabies to stand on the railing of a four-foot-high porch. For that matter, how many grandmothers would climb up there beside them? If Grandma Kay had owned a rocking chair, she would have cut it up to make runners for a faster sled out of it.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
101 Days of Sunshine: Day 17 = Grandma was a Speedracer
When you picture someone's doting grandmother, unless they are the matriarch of one of those famous clans known to dominate the world of automobile racing, you do not think of a person who claims to have a need for speed.
Click Link for Karin’s Blog
When you picture someone's doting grandmother, unless they are the matriarch of one of those famous clans known to dominate the world of automobile racing, you do not think of a person who claims to have a need for speed.
Click Link for Karin’s Blog
Monday, July 14, 2014
Shopping with Aunt Mae
For a city gal like our Mom, the hardest adjustment to rural life was "The Trip To Town." Yes, capitalize it, because it was a major event. Notice, it is not trips, plural, to town. Just one- THE Trip. One per week. But to understand the shift, first some background of what life was like prior to our move from the city.
My maternal grandmother, Evelyn, liked to shop- sort of similar as how some people like to breathe. Gramma and Mom would enjoy going shopping every day while Dad was at work. We would shop for clothes, household decor, craft supplies, gifts, and just the general bargain, but the one thing that we shopped for every day was groceries.
Gramma's older sister, our Aunt Mae, liked to shop even more, but when it came to groceries, she was much more rigid in her system. She would get all the flyers from the Sunday paper and then make her List. Unfortunately for all of us, and many stockboys, she always had access to the Sunday papers through her nephew, Uncle Chucky. He had a paper route of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, with over 300 customers, for over 40 years, all committed to his autistic memory, since he couldn't really read. There was no way to prevent Aunt Mae from getting her Sunday paper and all the flyers with a connection like that.
Aunt Mae was a generous soul, but she liked being generous only to her family, not to the stores, who were trying to take the money that she planned to use to spoil all of us. So she would sit surrounded by flyers, like some conquering general surrounded by maps, and make a battle plan for the week. This store had an 8 oz. cream cheese on sale. Another store had a special on 5 lbs. of flour. A pound of butter was a bargain at yet another establishment. Not one penny would be wasted on higher prices.
Aunt Mae was a tactical genius, and she had troops at her disposal. Since she, herself, didn't drive, Gramma was her Chief of Transportation. Sometimes Gramma started grumbling about being on her feet from the 4 AM paper route, followed by her morning shift at the counter of the Donut Shop, and began saying very unkind things about her older sister. I quickly learned a little boy got in trouble for repeating those things, but Mom would try to head off open revolt by driving Gram's big car and helping with The List.
Aunt Mae had no problem executing her campaign solo, but she wasn't the fastest walker. In spite of the early morning start of the initial charge, if Mom had any hope of being at home before her husband's work day ended, we had to pick up the pace. Aunt Mae would push her cart and we helped supply her with the provisions, one at a time, as she would not let anyone else see The List, in case such valuable intel should fall into the hands of insurgents.
In spite of Aunt Mae's age, no one had her stamina. Chucky was always the first to go. She would jolly him along for a bit, calling him "Charlie", her personal nickname, but after being sent back to get the 10 oz. can, not the 14, he would tug at his shoes and complain about his feet before heading to the bench up front, muttering obscenities. Gramma would try to be patient with her bossy sister for a little longer, but then she would join the rebellion and off to the bench, also muttering obscenities. That left Mom and little me to do all the running. When I was in school, matching was not a problem, I learned it in the trenches with Aunt Mae- being shown a picture in the flyer and sent on the foraging mission to find it in the aisle. An EXACT match.
The poor stockboys quickly learned to avoid the shuffling grande dame with the flaming red hair. She considered them part of the enemy camp, trying to sneakily cheat her out of the 2 cents difference by offering her the size that was not on sale. A slight problem was that Aunt Mae needed glasses, but was too vain to wear them, so she really did need their help in finding the exact item on sale. In reality, they just wanted to grab the item she asked for and get back to work without all the disapproving head shakes and tut-tutting. She could clear an aisle of all employees in every grocery store in Cleveland in record time. I think that after a while, the only time she got any help was through the hazing of new employees by the veterans.
This weekly campaign under General Aunt Mae was grueling, since the List involved battles at multiple store Fronts. We followed the List from store to store, and then to another store, making sure that her apartment Headquarters was able to keep her battle-ready for another week. Mom and Grandma did not do their own shopping at the same time. There had been quite a few incidents of melted ice cream and food spoilage while waiting for her to finish. This meant secret forays another day, back to the grocery store to shop normally, and we would rather pay the 2 cents difference on an item than to take the chance that any of the employees might recognize us.
While this type of shopping was extreme, it illustrates that there were many grocery stores available within less than a mile from our house in Cleveland, and 24 hour convenience stores within walking distance on most corners. Acquiring food was so easy, that it could be turned into a very complicated task.
So after our departure from Cleveland to rural Pennsylvania, it was a bit of an adjustment for my poor mother. I can't say that she didn't enjoy getting to stay home for a change at first. However, the nearest actual grocery store was about 40 minutes away- that's one way, not round trip. There were little stores nearer, but they were small and couldn't stock much variety. There was no 24 hour ANYTHING.
Perhaps we could have made more than one Trip To Town, but I don't think Mom could face packing three children in for a half-hour car ride more than once a week. I remember her frustration, even on the way home, when she realized she forgot something. She learned to do without and to substitute. She learned to garden, can, pickle, and freeze. She adapted quite well, but her secret knowledge of how convenient life in the city could be, made it more of a burden than for the neighbors, who didn't know any different.
In the meantime, Aunt Mae decided to come along on Gram's once a week trip to Pennsylvania to see Mom. Like any good General, she intended to seize the supply chain of provisions in the next state as well. However, she had no access to flyers to map out the bargains, and the two hour trip home meant no perishables, so it was a bit more manageable. Additionally, it was only one day per week, just like Mom's Trip To Town. I think it's now obvious why Mom needed to keep those two trips separate.
My maternal grandmother, Evelyn, liked to shop- sort of similar as how some people like to breathe. Gramma and Mom would enjoy going shopping every day while Dad was at work. We would shop for clothes, household decor, craft supplies, gifts, and just the general bargain, but the one thing that we shopped for every day was groceries.
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| Aunt Mae: "Get ready, get set, SHOP!" |
Gramma's older sister, our Aunt Mae, liked to shop even more, but when it came to groceries, she was much more rigid in her system. She would get all the flyers from the Sunday paper and then make her List. Unfortunately for all of us, and many stockboys, she always had access to the Sunday papers through her nephew, Uncle Chucky. He had a paper route of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, with over 300 customers, for over 40 years, all committed to his autistic memory, since he couldn't really read. There was no way to prevent Aunt Mae from getting her Sunday paper and all the flyers with a connection like that.
Aunt Mae was a generous soul, but she liked being generous only to her family, not to the stores, who were trying to take the money that she planned to use to spoil all of us. So she would sit surrounded by flyers, like some conquering general surrounded by maps, and make a battle plan for the week. This store had an 8 oz. cream cheese on sale. Another store had a special on 5 lbs. of flour. A pound of butter was a bargain at yet another establishment. Not one penny would be wasted on higher prices.Aunt Mae was a tactical genius, and she had troops at her disposal. Since she, herself, didn't drive, Gramma was her Chief of Transportation. Sometimes Gramma started grumbling about being on her feet from the 4 AM paper route, followed by her morning shift at the counter of the Donut Shop, and began saying very unkind things about her older sister. I quickly learned a little boy got in trouble for repeating those things, but Mom would try to head off open revolt by driving Gram's big car and helping with The List.
Aunt Mae had no problem executing her campaign solo, but she wasn't the fastest walker. In spite of the early morning start of the initial charge, if Mom had any hope of being at home before her husband's work day ended, we had to pick up the pace. Aunt Mae would push her cart and we helped supply her with the provisions, one at a time, as she would not let anyone else see The List, in case such valuable intel should fall into the hands of insurgents.
In spite of Aunt Mae's age, no one had her stamina. Chucky was always the first to go. She would jolly him along for a bit, calling him "Charlie", her personal nickname, but after being sent back to get the 10 oz. can, not the 14, he would tug at his shoes and complain about his feet before heading to the bench up front, muttering obscenities. Gramma would try to be patient with her bossy sister for a little longer, but then she would join the rebellion and off to the bench, also muttering obscenities. That left Mom and little me to do all the running. When I was in school, matching was not a problem, I learned it in the trenches with Aunt Mae- being shown a picture in the flyer and sent on the foraging mission to find it in the aisle. An EXACT match.
The poor stockboys quickly learned to avoid the shuffling grande dame with the flaming red hair. She considered them part of the enemy camp, trying to sneakily cheat her out of the 2 cents difference by offering her the size that was not on sale. A slight problem was that Aunt Mae needed glasses, but was too vain to wear them, so she really did need their help in finding the exact item on sale. In reality, they just wanted to grab the item she asked for and get back to work without all the disapproving head shakes and tut-tutting. She could clear an aisle of all employees in every grocery store in Cleveland in record time. I think that after a while, the only time she got any help was through the hazing of new employees by the veterans.
This weekly campaign under General Aunt Mae was grueling, since the List involved battles at multiple store Fronts. We followed the List from store to store, and then to another store, making sure that her apartment Headquarters was able to keep her battle-ready for another week. Mom and Grandma did not do their own shopping at the same time. There had been quite a few incidents of melted ice cream and food spoilage while waiting for her to finish. This meant secret forays another day, back to the grocery store to shop normally, and we would rather pay the 2 cents difference on an item than to take the chance that any of the employees might recognize us.
While this type of shopping was extreme, it illustrates that there were many grocery stores available within less than a mile from our house in Cleveland, and 24 hour convenience stores within walking distance on most corners. Acquiring food was so easy, that it could be turned into a very complicated task.
So after our departure from Cleveland to rural Pennsylvania, it was a bit of an adjustment for my poor mother. I can't say that she didn't enjoy getting to stay home for a change at first. However, the nearest actual grocery store was about 40 minutes away- that's one way, not round trip. There were little stores nearer, but they were small and couldn't stock much variety. There was no 24 hour ANYTHING.
Perhaps we could have made more than one Trip To Town, but I don't think Mom could face packing three children in for a half-hour car ride more than once a week. I remember her frustration, even on the way home, when she realized she forgot something. She learned to do without and to substitute. She learned to garden, can, pickle, and freeze. She adapted quite well, but her secret knowledge of how convenient life in the city could be, made it more of a burden than for the neighbors, who didn't know any different.
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| Aunt Mae and her sister, Evie |
In the meantime, Aunt Mae decided to come along on Gram's once a week trip to Pennsylvania to see Mom. Like any good General, she intended to seize the supply chain of provisions in the next state as well. However, she had no access to flyers to map out the bargains, and the two hour trip home meant no perishables, so it was a bit more manageable. Additionally, it was only one day per week, just like Mom's Trip To Town. I think it's now obvious why Mom needed to keep those two trips separate.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
101 Days of Sunshine: Day 16 = No, We Do Not Recommend the Cucumber Ice ...
In the circles that I frequent, I'm known for having a bit of culinary know-how.
In the circles that I frequent, I'm known for having a bit of culinary know-how.
Click Link for Karin’s Blog
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Back Trouble
My dear mother, Janet's back was bothering her recently and it reminded me of long ago when she injured it. I don't recall how it happened, but my current theory is that she had three children who were such a pain in her...back. Oh, that s right, "neck" is the correct term. Anyway, she was in a lot of pain, and Mom is known for having a high pain-tolerance.In this case, however the injury started, the result was a shock to the three of us, and even to my dad. We went from having a very active, busy-bee mother, who anticipated our needs, to a mother who was broken. The doctor made her a very hard plastic back brace and confined her to bed rest for several weeks. She was allowed to get up and walk the few steps to the bathroom, but that was it.
The three of us children suddenly gained an appreciation for all that Mom did for us, because, with no warning, we had total system failure. Nothing was being done. I was the oldest and even though I was usually a responsible lad, I was definitely indulged by my mother, and didn't have to fend for myself very much. Suddenly, I was plunged into being the Head of the Household while my Dad was at work.
I quickly learned that, at the very least, my sisters needed to be fed on a multiple times per day schedule. Who knew? At first they quite happily ate all the snacks I left out instead of meals. In theory, it seems like kid heaven, but after more than one day with no actual sustenance and riding a sugar-high roller coaster, no one was happy with my idea, including me.
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| Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snack! |
When we began to trip over the dog hair on the carpet, I figured out how to use the vacuum cleaner. I can't say I was vigilant about it, but I made an effort. I had dabbled at cooking before, but I now had two little food critics, who were used to eating at Mom's, which boasted simple fare, but everyone had always given 4 stars. I was in the negative star category. Even Dad was not impressed. I started trotting down the hall to Mom's infirmary, to consult with her on every aspect of her culinary expertise. She did not get much rest, as the infidels wanted more than one meal per day.
However, I wasn't really disturbing Mom while she was resting. Here was another shock for us- Mom was a bad patient. She was excellent at taking care of others. Our mother was a combo of Florence Nightingale and Clara Barton. We had a tray that sat on the bed when you were too sick to eat at the table, and even if you didn't feel like eating, you were served weak tea and toast. She had cool compresses to make you feel better. She had medications for every symptom. With the attention you got from being sick, all of us tried faking it at some point, but she always figured that out.
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| Mom's idea of torture |
We found out that asking Mom to lie in bed all day was close to torture for her. She preferred to be the one taking care of others. She wanted to be up and involved and doing something, ANYTHING! Meal consultant was a role that she looked forward to me bugging her about.
My one area of new housekeeping skills where I excelled was doing the laundry. There were 5 of us and we had a very small top-load apartment washer that did little mini loads and then were transferred by hand to the spinning tube. Mom had squeezed a full-sized dryer into her bedroom at this point, as soon as Karin's crib was out of that corner. Hanging clothes out to dry in the country is often very romanticized. The reality is not quite so charming when you are doing it with your mittens on in February. Sheets may smell "outdoor fresh," but a towel dried on the line will abrade your skin like 60 grit sandpaper. Mom insisted that we have a dryer.
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| A lovely fantasy |
Laundry was so easy. You put it in- you take it out. A machine does all the work for you. You don't have to stand there watching it. You can be off doing other things. As I was quickly learning, this was not watching soap operas and sitting with your feet up, eating bonbons. "Other things" meant other crucial things that prevented familial collapse. My mother praised me for keeping up on the laundry. I think I made her feel a bit incompetent in this one housekeeping arena. I was proud of doing something right. It was a skill that endured for years and helped more than one college freshman from trying to look masculine in a pink T-shirt. It's got to be sorted according to color, boys!
By the time Mom was about to be released from bed-prison, I was taking requests in the kitchen. She told me she had a taste for her banana cake. I could now follow a recipe and knew that cooking was an expressive art and baking was science. Experimentation there could lead to failure. I made the banana cake and it turned out just right. I decided I could surprise mom by adding food coloring to the white icing. Bananas are yellow, right?
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| A paler version of my icing. |
Apparently, one should add food coloring by the drop and not by the little bottle. Apparently, once one has added too much, one can't make it less "vibrant." Apparently, one can make a new color that is not found in nature, but is quite popular in plastic toys made by Fisher Price. Apparently, this familiar color is far too tempting to a toddler, who pulled her little stool up to the refrigerator while her parent stand-in was busy. Apparently the color was quite edible to little Karin's palate, as she used her finger to remove all the icing from the cake. I must say I couldn't be angry. It was an improvement. Apparently, one can re-frost a cake with white icing and no one dies from toddler germs.
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| Some folding left to do... |
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| Hey, it was all clean! |
I couldn't be angry at Peg, our neighbor, about highlighting my shortcoming. She and her oldest daughter stayed and folded several weeks worth of laundry and helped me put it away in the empty dressers and closets. Everyone was now able to wear something other than a bathing suit if they wanted. Mom was soon up and back to happily providing for all our needs, but we all pitched in to help after that. We all appreciated her much more, but secretly we worried that she might hurt her back. No one wanted to go back to the chaos of me being in charge. We might have to wear bathing suits in the Winter.
Friday, July 11, 2014
A Dead Duck
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| Mallard ducklings, AKA "Have my parents lost their minds?" |
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| Welcome to my farm apartment! Mind your step! |
However, the little mallards, imprinted to my sister and following her around the yard, were exceptionally cute. As her new pets, Karin was quite fond of them. In the days before the internet, as hard as it is to imagine, it was not easy to have access to all the knowledge of humankind. Whether it was that their heat lamp did not dispel the damp basement air, or from the vicious pecking from their siblings, one duck started looking somewhat peaked.
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| David and Scott |
One of my best friends, David, was visiting me. So that we do not sound like two insensitive cads, let me say that we were huge Monty Python fans. That background fact becomes crucial to the story. Karin was in school, so her ducklings were quacking away in their indoor pen in the corner behind the pool table. David observed that one of them was not looking well. We gently picked him up and removed him from the pen. His little feathered head flopped to one side. David said, "that, my friend, is a dead duck." We knew that this was a childhood tragedy, and perhaps it was our nervousness that brought out our geeky launch into a combination of "The Dead Parrot" sketch and the "Bring Out Your Dead" scene from "The Holy Grail." It quickly became obvious that the poor duckling fit all the adjectives in the sketch, and that unlike the scene, he was not feeling better and going for a walk anytime soon.
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David and I rapidly moved from nervous humor to serious worry. We discussed the harsh reality of life and death and decided that we needed to spare Karin from this for a little while longer. Like many parents and caretakers, we found ourselves in the car with a little shoebox containing the corpse of the fragile pet that we hoped to replace with a look-alike. The three bears of Goldilocks-fame had it easy. We drove frantically from farm store to farm store. These ducklings were too old. Those ducklings were too little. Too fat. Too yellow. Too big. Too thin. Too brown. However, the one we had with us was too dead.
Finally we picked one that was a close stand-in and raced home. I am glad I did not get pulled over for speeding, with one little box quacking and another ominously silent. The explanation would have been a hard sell. David and I barely got the new duckling into the enclosure before Karin got home from school. We had a hidden shoebox for a private ceremony in the woods after she was busy with her little mallard friends. Karin was an observant child and noticed some differences. We were overly effusive about how quickly ducklings grew and changed, sometimes within a single day. We prided ourselves in our successful ruse that allowed childhood innocence to continue a little while longer.
Unfortunately, a month later, Karin was home when her little quartet lost another member and became a little trio. She dealt with the sad event with the resilience of a child. David and I did not regret our extreme effort, even if it only delayed the inevitable. It was a worthy effort put to a good cause. Happily, the rest of Karin's flock survived and eventually moved to their outdoor enclosure and put on their adult mallard clothes. Our backyard had a big low-lying area that was subject to flooding that provided them with a fake lake to practice splashing about in. It also provided an area for them to land in when they returned home for a few years to follow, even if one was a bit of an imposter.
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| Have you seen our Karin? |
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
101 Days of Sunshine: Day 15 = Why Mallards Make Perfect Pets
Any day now, I am expecting to receive a very important package in the mail from my parents.
Any day now, I am expecting to receive a very important package in the mail from my parents.
Click Link for Karin’s Blog
Friday, July 4, 2014
101 Days of Sunshine: Day 14 = Fireworks & Family Secrets
As a child, the Fourth of July was probably my most favoritest holiday ever.
As a child, the Fourth of July was probably my most favoritest holiday ever.
Click Link for Karin’s Blog
Thursday, July 3, 2014
101 Days of Sunshine: Day 13 = Saying I Love You With Leg Warmers
Once upon a time, it was considered fashionable to wear an accessory called the leg warmer.
Once upon a time, it was considered fashionable to wear an accessory called the leg warmer.
Click Link for Karin’s Blog
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Mom's Theory of Relativity
Einstein's Theory of Relativity is very well-known and caused a shift in how we perceive space and time. Less well-known but equally important, is what in our family is simply known as "Mom's Theory of Relativity." It is not so much a scientific theory, as a philosophical outlook. It has not been previously published in a scientific peer-reviewed journal. It cannot be reduced to a concise formula of letters squared equaling something, but is worth explaining.
Our mother has faced many challenges in her life, some being only minor inconveniences, and others turning out to be major catastrophes. She is probably not unusual in this, but her outlook is exceptional. Whenever she faces something that would threaten to overwhelm and depress the average person, she applies her "Theory of Relativity." She takes a deep breath and attempts to see the problem is a "big picture" way. She consoles herself that "there are some people who have it better than me, but there are some people who have it much worse." Thus, to Mom, everything is relative. She, herself, does not call it her "Theory of Relativity"- that name is from her three ungrateful children. Sometimes it was said to her in a dismissive and judgmental way, I must confess, but as we matured, we understood the wisdom she was attempting to impart to us.
As parents, we teach our children what we know, and what works for us. Mom found that, no matter how bad something seemed, you could always find someone more fortunate than you, which is easy, but that also you could find someone whom you would not trade circumstances with, and remember to be grateful that your situation wasn't worse. Our parents fostered confidence and good self-esteem in us, but this was one occasion where Mom encouraged us to take a moment and compare ourselves to others.
Actually, like Einstein's, Mom's Theory of Relativity also caused a shift in perception. It also encompassed space and time. Give the situation a little time and some space, and you might learn to feel differently about it. As children, and teenagers (which is some form of extraterrestrial possession), in addition to the usual comfort received from Mom, we would also get a dose of "Relativity."
"Did someone leave you and break your heart? I am sorry you got hurt. Let me give you a hug. Just remember that there are couples in loving relationships for years, and there are also people who are in an abusive relationship. You might be alone now, but at least you are not an unhappy prisoner with someone who doesn't deserve you."
"Did you lose your job? I am sorry that they didn't recognize your talents and value to the company. Let me give you a hug. Just remember that there are people who retire from a fulfilling career after years, and there are also people who are miserable at their job every day. There are even people who would like to work, but cannot, due to their problems. You will find something else. We don't have much, but we will help you if you need anything."
"Did you hit another deer with your car? I am sorry that you are dealing with that again. Let me give you a hug. I know how hard you worked to save for it, and that must be frustrating. Just remember that there are people that buy a new car every year, and there are also people who have never had a vehicle of their own. At least you weren't hurt- there are other cars, but there is only one you!"
So, to ungrateful and inexperienced younger ears, we did not want to hear that it could be better and it could be worse. We got the valuable message of unconditional love, but the "Theory of Relativity" usually annoyed us. After living a bit more, and experiencing both life's wonders and seeming cruelties, it became obvious that Mom was right. (AGAIN! by the way...)
As we gained perspective, we began to admire how Mom's outlook and gratitude, even in adversity, made her such a balanced person. We no longer dismiss it. We have dropped the sarcasm. It is not annoying anymore. In fact, we are amused at our own limited vision and intense focus on unimportant Drama. We try to see the "big picture" and maintain our perspective. We are grateful for Mom's Theory of Relativity. It has served her well, and she has passed it along to her three GRATEFUL children.
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| Our Mom, Janet |
Our mother has faced many challenges in her life, some being only minor inconveniences, and others turning out to be major catastrophes. She is probably not unusual in this, but her outlook is exceptional. Whenever she faces something that would threaten to overwhelm and depress the average person, she applies her "Theory of Relativity." She takes a deep breath and attempts to see the problem is a "big picture" way. She consoles herself that "there are some people who have it better than me, but there are some people who have it much worse." Thus, to Mom, everything is relative. She, herself, does not call it her "Theory of Relativity"- that name is from her three ungrateful children. Sometimes it was said to her in a dismissive and judgmental way, I must confess, but as we matured, we understood the wisdom she was attempting to impart to us.
As parents, we teach our children what we know, and what works for us. Mom found that, no matter how bad something seemed, you could always find someone more fortunate than you, which is easy, but that also you could find someone whom you would not trade circumstances with, and remember to be grateful that your situation wasn't worse. Our parents fostered confidence and good self-esteem in us, but this was one occasion where Mom encouraged us to take a moment and compare ourselves to others.
Actually, like Einstein's, Mom's Theory of Relativity also caused a shift in perception. It also encompassed space and time. Give the situation a little time and some space, and you might learn to feel differently about it. As children, and teenagers (which is some form of extraterrestrial possession), in addition to the usual comfort received from Mom, we would also get a dose of "Relativity."
"Did someone leave you and break your heart? I am sorry you got hurt. Let me give you a hug. Just remember that there are couples in loving relationships for years, and there are also people who are in an abusive relationship. You might be alone now, but at least you are not an unhappy prisoner with someone who doesn't deserve you."
"Did you lose your job? I am sorry that they didn't recognize your talents and value to the company. Let me give you a hug. Just remember that there are people who retire from a fulfilling career after years, and there are also people who are miserable at their job every day. There are even people who would like to work, but cannot, due to their problems. You will find something else. We don't have much, but we will help you if you need anything."
"Did you hit another deer with your car? I am sorry that you are dealing with that again. Let me give you a hug. I know how hard you worked to save for it, and that must be frustrating. Just remember that there are people that buy a new car every year, and there are also people who have never had a vehicle of their own. At least you weren't hurt- there are other cars, but there is only one you!"
So, to ungrateful and inexperienced younger ears, we did not want to hear that it could be better and it could be worse. We got the valuable message of unconditional love, but the "Theory of Relativity" usually annoyed us. After living a bit more, and experiencing both life's wonders and seeming cruelties, it became obvious that Mom was right. (AGAIN! by the way...)
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| Colleen, Scott, and Karin, in a frame Mom made for us |
As we gained perspective, we began to admire how Mom's outlook and gratitude, even in adversity, made her such a balanced person. We no longer dismiss it. We have dropped the sarcasm. It is not annoying anymore. In fact, we are amused at our own limited vision and intense focus on unimportant Drama. We try to see the "big picture" and maintain our perspective. We are grateful for Mom's Theory of Relativity. It has served her well, and she has passed it along to her three GRATEFUL children.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
101 Days of Sunshine: Day 12 = Life Lessons & Home Hazards
Yesterday afternoon, everyone in the house including the dog took a nap.
Yesterday afternoon, everyone in the house including the dog took a nap.
Click Link for Karin’s Blog
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