Contracts and Mischief

I haven’t written anything in a very long time, but thanks to a little ceramic pumpkin, this Halloween I was reminded of past friends, contracts, and a little mischief.

Peg Taylor and Mom

Mom and Peg both had to take "Freddy Five Pin" home from bowling

Our neighbor, Peg Taylor, was one of my Mom’s best friends for years.  Rarely a day went by without Peg stopping by for coffee and catching Mom up on everything that was going on in the neighborhood.  They both loved to knit and crochet and do other crafts- like ceramics.  Peg had her own kiln, but bought her molded greenware from a local woman who had converted the covered porch of her house into a store.  "Toodie" was a kind woman who loved the kids who tagged along with our moms, but she was also a smart business woman.  She would tell new children, and remind those returning, that greenware was fragile and following her two rules: no touching it, and no running around her shelves of it, meant that at the very end, we got to pick a tiny greenware animal to paint and she would fire it for free to give to us next time.

Little Mouse from Toodie

Tiny Bee

Many moms like mine would offer to pay her for them, but she said it was a contract between her and the children, besides, the tiny molds cost very little, and the amount of slip the little animals took to pour was the stuff she would have thrown out anyway.

Little Red Rooster

When we kept our end of the bargain, she would let us kids pick a fragile animal from the children’s shelf and paint it.  It was an early example of magic for me- she would take this fragile molded slip clay and let us paint it with the dullest colors, then she would return a hard ceramic animal covered in the brightest shining glass.

Cub Scout Scott's Pumpkin

This memory started because this year my sister Colleen just mailed me a surprise of a ceramic mini pumpkin, that she somehow ended up with, which I made with my mom when I was 8.  My ambitious mother was our Cub Scout Den Leader, and ever the optimist, thought she could have a bunch of rowdy boys paint a ceramic Halloween pumpkin to have Peg fire for all of us.  I remember she had told Toodie she needed at least a dozen, even though there were not that many Cubs, because not everyone had been to Toodie’s and understood fragile greenware, so there was going to be breakage.  I knew about the contract- and with my usual perfectionism, I painted it carefully and very neatly, and I am thrilled that it just made it back to me!  This was a Halloween project- but on to the mischief part.

Peg and her husband, Jim

Peg's kids: Lisa, Missy, and Jimmy

Peg’s kids liked going to haunted houses and hay rides for Halloween.  The first time Peg asked my mom if I could go along, I learned why.  It wasn’t the spooky atmosphere and the adventure of being scared they liked- it was because Peg was terrified of it all and she would start screaming in the parking lot, and by the time we got back in the car- she had usually screamed herself hoarse. We were never scared, because we were giggling at her the whole time.  She would scream enough for all of us, and then make us laugh more when she would say she almost peed her pants multiple times at each event. I had never seen a grown adult admitting to being that terrified, and all the monster actors loved that she was such an easy and shrill screamer, which just made it funnier.  Every year Peg would claim it was the last time and she was never coming back, but every year in October she would be the one to ask us which one we wanted to go to.

Me doing Peg's Halloween makeup

Peg and Mom, ready for a Halloween party.
(My mom made so many elaborate costumes- a post for another time)

So one year, while we were at a haunted house with Peg on Halloween, something happened back in our neighborhood.

Ruby and Pete Brookhauser

We had another much older neighbor named Pete, and he was nice enough, but he was sort of miserly and crabby.  He was always asking my parents and Peg for help to repair major things, then he would give them $2.00 for “their trouble” like it was still 1930. It was not that he was poor, his wife had a beauty shop in their home, and they had tons of valuable antiques.  Most of them were on the second floor of their house, which he boarded up and shut off all the heat “to save money.”  Pete always had a new truck in his barn, and tractors, and he rented his many acres of fields to local farmers for their crops or livestock.  Pete and Ruby traveled across the US for vacations, and they had no children.  He was one of those people who made a big deal about how poor they were, in spite of evidence to the contrary.

So, the mischief started one Halloween.  Pete violated the Halloween contract by accidentally leaving his porch light on, and some local kids stopped for Trick or Treat.  He didn’t have any candy to give out, and instead of apologizing, he was crabby and lectured the kids that he was not in the business of giving out free candy, and then he shut off all his lights and told them to go home.  The kids did just that, and they returned with a few rolls of toilet paper and “decorated” his house.

Pete's house, after he removed the bushes and enclosed the front porch 

Well, Pete was very fussy about the outside of his house and yard, and he cared very much about the opinions of others, and he didn’t like that the whole neighborhood saw that kids had targeted him for his crankiness.  Peg thought it was hilarious and teased him about how kids had finally paid him back for his stinginess and crabbiness. She told him when you leave your porch light on, it means you are giving out candy- it was his own fault. This made him more embarrassed and upset.  He talked for months about how they would not leave any lights on next year.

Pete was so worked up, he started talking about the dreaded Halloween in September.  Peg told him to just buy some candy to hand out to the kids.  He said he would not be extorted into giving out free candy to a bunch of hooligans and future criminals.  Peg hatched a new plan and started a new tradition.  We still went to the haunted houses with her, but she took all of us neighborhood kids on stealth missions to Halloween-prank Pete every year.

That year, Pete made his wife sit in a totally dark house with no lights on at all, so everyone knew he was not participating in Halloween.  We dressed all in black and went at midnight giggling more about how such an innocent prank was annoying the local crabby old man than we did about Peg’s screaming at the haunted houses.

The first year that he woke up to another toilet-papered tree and bushes, Pete blamed the kids from the previous year.  Peg laughed at him and said he should try being nicer.

Two years after that, he was getting suspicious, but we had an adult who vouched for us- Peg said, “My kids were in bed by 10” which we all were- but she would pick us up at midnight for our mission.  She said to Pete, “How mean were you to those kids that they do this every year?”

Pete

We started looking forward to topping our previous year’s antics and Pete was equally determined to catch the culprits in the act, but it was of the utmost importance to him that no one could ever know that some kids had TP-ed his house.  He told Peg he was going to sit on the porch with a flashlight in the dark to catch these kids- not knowing he was talking to the ringleader herself.  That year she said, “Sorry kids, set your alarms, the mission is bumped back to 2 AM- I will be by to get you all then.”  He was out there the next morning at dawn trying to get it all cleaned up.

Sometimes we also soaped his windows- Peg drew a little ghost and wrote “BOO!” next to it.  He took a picture and tried to get every one of us to draw a ghost and write “Boo!” on papers like it was some sort of handwriting analysis.  Peg just said he was finally losing it and refused to cooperate- then finally wrote a big flowery “Boo!” in cursive that looked nothing like it.

A few years in, Pete was suspicious that Peg was involved, but at that point Peg was losing interest a bit.  She was once again waiting until late night, but in the meantime my Dad snuck down and perfected the technique of throwing an entire roll of TP over the maple tree in front of Pete’s house.  It was easily 20 feet high.  There was no way Pete would be able to clean it up until it blew down- maximum embarrassment!   Peg was so excited that some other person had joined in the fun when she took us kids there.

Dad, the mysterious joker

Peg was a person who grew up in the country, so she never locked her doors. All of us kids were with her at Pete’s, delightedly adding to the mayhem, so no one was home at her house.  My Dad snuck over and toilet-papered the inside of her house, hitting all the ceiling fans, dining room chairs, fireplace mantle, chandeliers, shower, going all over the house like a demented TP gremlin.  Dad was back at home when she dropped us off and she excitedly told Dad that someone else “got Pete good.”  When she got home and saw her house had been hit, she blamed Pete.  Of course, Pete denied it since he had no idea what happened.  Dad’s antics kept the feud fresh and interesting for a few more years.

Peg's house from our place- she mowed this enormous yard and field on her riding mower several times a week because she hated dandelions

So, of course, my dad teased her by growing a crop of them in our yard each spring

Each year we got creative with TP, wrapping the bushes in spirals like candy canes, we pre-made TP flowers to make his yard bloom, we wrapped it around the gutters so a curtain of TP enclosed the front porch, we tied it to the doorknobs, we managed to toss it completely over the house across the peak, and one year we tossed twelve full rolls over the maple tree like “the mystery man” had done.  It was a solid white blob in his front yard.  Pete never figured out for sure that it was Peg leading all the neighbor kids.

Pete's barn ramp, with me and Missy on the saucer, and my sister Colleen waiting with Lisa

In one of our final missions, Pete woke up in shock- no one TP’ed his house on Halloween. His happiness lasted until he went to the barn to get his truck out to drive to town.  All those exposed beams and the hayloft?  We had made the inside of his barn into a white-streamered wedding chapel.  Peg liked that we could take our time and really do it up right- it was stealth and had a big surprise reveal when he slid the barn door open, but it lacked the public embarrassment that Pete hated, and was the most important part of the contract to her.  So she had boosted me up onto the cap of his pickup truck and had me tie the toilet paper to the luggage rack and leave yards of TP flat on top.  As expected, he showed up at our house later ranting about how he drove through town with toilet paper streamers flying like a flag of shame from his truck.  As always, Peg asked Pete, “Did you try being nicer yet?”

Peg

Safety Town Saved My Life!

Safety Town saved my life.  This is not just a story embellishment.

I haven't thought about Safety Town in years, but my Mom came to me in a dream the other night and gave me a gentle prompt to start writing again. She had insisted that I promise to continue to write even after she passed.  The time without her has been difficult, but the good memories greatly outnumber the unpleasant ones.  So, at her insistence, it is time to write again, and by her request, about Safety Town.

For those who do not know about Safety Town, it was, and apparently still is, a preschool program offered in many cities across the nation to introduce children to safety.  Like me, it got its start in the Cleveland area.  A Mansfield police officer, Frend Boals, started the program when a little girl was killed by an automobile on her first day of school.  Mrs. Dorothy Chlad, a local nursery school teacher, then expanded the program and took it to a national level. She worked with pediatricians and child psychologists to identify that the concept of traffic is not understood by preschoolers. She found that physically they weren't tall enough to see what they need to, and their peripheral vision, eye/hand coordination, decision making, and depth perception, are not fully developed. Preschoolers also lack the ability to determine the direction of a horn sounding.  For traffic safety, Safety Town teaches preschool walkers to stop at every curb, and get assistance from someone older when crossing the street.  They try to have a 4 student to 1 instructor ratio, and teach through simulation. The program has expanded to include many aspects of safety, not just traffic.

 

 

I vividly remember the Safety Town setting.  It was very cool because instead of being big and scary, everything was scaled down for us tots.  We got to practice being safe walkers.  We got to play at being safe pedal car drivers.  We were under the watchful eye of our instructors.  After being a teacher, I can appreciate how much effort it took to wrangle all these little people so we didn't simulate accidents and miniaturized bodily injury, requiring actual first aid.

As a preschooler, I remember my disappointment that none of the little shops and buildings opened. I was already good at the shopping part- Grandma Hull and Aunt Mae took Mom and I with them every day.  At Safety Town, preschoolers were introduced to traffic lights and signs, and cross walks, and most importantly stopping at every curb.  I may have still been trying the doorknobs on the buildings during the important lesson of getting someone older to assist you to cross the street.  Sorry, Safety Town!

We used to tease Mom unmercifully about our baby books.  Mine is several volumes, with so many entries, and in great detail.  Colleen's is a bit more succinct and hits the high points.  Karin's baby book reads more like modern texts, and years go by between entries.  I also used to tease my sisters that it was because I was Mom's favorite.  This was one of Mom's frequent jokes with us- to tell each of us that we were her favorite child, and tell us not to tell our siblings.  She only said this in the presence of the other two, and loud enough that we all could hear it.  She then moved on to the next child and told them the same thing, until all three of us knew we were her favorite.  After each of her three favorite children having families and children of our own to care for, we are all in awe that she wrote anything at all.  It is a nice memento having something in Mom's handwriting now.  As you can see, I hurt my Mom's feelings so much by not saying good-bye on my first day of school, that she wrote about it twice.  Sorry, Mom!

  

 

 

 

 

Trigger warning: here is where the story gets scary, but remember- it has a happy ending.  Parents, and everyone else who has taken care of a five year old that they love, brace yourself.  I apologize in advance.

We lived in suburban Parma, on Luelda Avenue and I went to Ridgebrook Elementary which was  just a few blocks away on a suburban street as well.  We had a crossing guard, Mrs. Ziegler, to escort us across the very scary and busy five-lane Ridge Road.  I was in awe of her.  She carried her own portable stop sign, and wore a hat like a policeman and also a long police-style coat.  In the mornings and afternoons, she could stop all the busy cars hurrying by with that powerful red sign, and safely escort all of us children across.  Even my mom listened to her.  Mrs. Ziegler was impressed by my Safety Town knowledge.  We admired each other.

After Scotty Joe's first day of school- I like it!

So while I was eager to try new things like school, it lasted for a whole afternoon, unlike Story Hour at the Library, or even Safety Town. I was very clever and other than a pesky problem with right and left, and my numbers, I was already better at the other skills than most of my classmates.  I got bored quickly, and asked Poor Miss K and Mrs. Hoffman how long I had to stay at school.  They said until my mom came and got me at the end of the day.  I explained that wasn't what I meant- how long was kindergarten for, and school in general?  They told me it was until summer, and for the next twelve years.  I silently had an anxiety attack, all internalized, but it was a major shift.  I had been at school a week now.  I was done.

I knew it was important to my mom and dad that I liked school, so I didn't openly tell them that I no longer did.  The turning point was the shock of finding out it was not a Scotty-Joe-centered world.  My mom mentioned that Gramma Hull and Aunt Mae and even my own mother herself, were still going shopping while I was gone- wasting my time at this school-thing.  I thought they sat there and waited for me to get home.  This would not do.

I had determined that the teacher and aide, while nice, were not on my side.  There was some outside recess time.  I was a hyper kid anyway, so it was hard to keep track of me-  I was all over the place and there was quite a crowd on the playground.  I waited for a moment of adult distraction, and when someone skinned their knee, I slipped away.  I cannot imagine the terror I caused the teachers when they realized that one of their charges was gone.  Sorry, Miss Kartisek and Miss Hoffman!

I made it to Ridge Road with no problems, but UH-OH!  Mrs. Ziegler was not there with her hat, coat and powerful red sign.  The traffic was busy, as it always is there.  I could see my house from the corner.  I knew from Safety Town that you don't dart out into traffic without stopping at the curb, and that you look both ways, then walk slowly and carefully in the crosswalk while Mrs. Zielger held back the traffic.  Unfortunately, there was no traffic light at this end of our street, so I waited until the road was almost clear for a moment and walked slowly across, even though my heart was racing.  There were no squealing tires or honking horns, so I must have done it somewhat right.

I was expecting a hero's welcome when I got home, since I had now proven I had learned enough and would not need to be going back to this school-thing.  My mom didn't cry easy, so I was shocked when she listened to my story and cried and told me how scared she was.  No kidding.  As an adult with children, nephews, nieces, grandchildren, and having been a teacher, I am absolutely terrified at any five year old, no matter how precocious, crossing such a big busy city road alone.  Sorry again, Mom!

I didn't much care for being marched back to school and handed over to my frantic and frazzled teachers, who had also been crying.  For the rest of the year, they were the most diligent wardens, and I believe the school put a new chain link fence up on the street side where I had made my escape.  Scotty Joe was sentenced to twelve years, with only summers off for good behavior.  My mom walked me to and from school every day with strict instructions to stay put until she came to get me. My biggest humiliation was facing the crossing guard that afternoon.  When my mom told her, she did not cry, but she fanned herself with her power sign, and looked weak with fear for a moment.  I had scared a steel-haired woman who walked out in front of trucks and cars.  That certainly made the point of how dangerous it was. She made me promise to never do that again. Sorry, Mrs. Ziegler!

Most of all, thank you to Officer Boals, Mrs. Chlad, and to the Safety Town Program for teaching me enough to save my life!

Magnolia

Magnolias were my mother's flower.

Scotty Joe riding my bike in front of the magnolia tree on Luelda Ave

Our first house with a yard in Parma, OH, on Luelda Avenue came with a large pink magnolia shrub in the front yard.  It had long narrow blooms that reminded me of candles. My mother loved its exuberant and excessive celebration of spring flowers, which are never hidden by leaves.

Pink magnolia in bloom

Unfortunately, when that type of magnolia shed its blooms, they were sticky.  Perhaps this is why Google Earth reveals that the bush has not survived remodels with new landscaping.

My sister, Colleen, standing by Mom's PA white magnolia on First Communion

 

However, my mother took her love of magnolias with us- there was always one in the yard where she lived. We had a white magnolia in Pennsylvania.

Wendell August Forge Magnolia pattern coaster

While she worked at Wendell August Forge, my mom gave me a metal spoon rest with magnolias on it.

Mom's NC magnolia in the background of the Christmas cut-outs she made and painted.  She was so talented, but appreciated a good laugh, so we teased her by calling this her "Touchdown Joseph."

When they retired to North Carolina, I think it was her sister-in-law, Tami who bought her another white magnolia as a housewarming present, which did very well in the south.

In my yard, "Dancing Butterflies"

"Dancing Butterflies" opened

I found my own, a yellow magnolia called "Dancing Butterflies." It started as a small shrub that is now about 10 feet tall. My mother enjoyed that she had passed her love of them down to me. While mom was being treated at Duke University hospital, our walks revealed the campus is full of huge southern magnolias.  Those full trees were comforting to see at that stressful time.

Southern Magnolias on the campus of Duke University and Hospital

I still think of my mother every time I see a magnolia.

101 Days of Sunshine: Day 25 = Swamp Monster Soup- Part 2

Every once in a while my mom would bring back a mysterious batch of highly sought after soup from my great grandparent's house.

Click link for Karin's Blog

101 Days of Sunshine: Day24 = Swamp Monster Soup - Part 1

The things that you see and hear as a small child seem to leave indelible marks on the interior surfaces of your tiny but rapidly developing brain.

Click link for Karin's Blog

101 Days of Sunshine: Day23 = Gramma and The Baton Twirling Cult

My paternal grandparents retired to a sleepy vacation community in the mountains of western Pennsylvania.

Click link for Karin's Blog

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.