Janice Monahan Rodgers's Blog

WHAT’S IN YOUR EASTER BASKET?

Well for starters, no candy bars. I don’t mean to sound like a candy snob but, come on, it’s Easter. There are all kinds of special Easter candies out there. You don’t have to resort to a Kit Kat. Not in my Easter basket.  Thanks to my mom’s refined choices, no mediocre candy bar ever resided in my carrier of confections.

She created our Easter baskets with the skill of surgeon. Firstly, there was always a set of hollow milk chocolate figures. The nest, as it was called, generally consisted of a milk chocolate bunny or three and various Easter figurines, with perhaps, a little chocolate wheel-barrow or cart dotted with sugared candy décor. To add a pop of brightness, yellow marshmallow peeps were dropped in. Mom was only half way finished. 

Handfuls of jelly beans were scattered around the cellophane Easter grass so little fingers could have yet another egg hunt, scooping them out from the bottom of the basket.  Then, chocolate covered marshmallow eggs and bunnies joined the jelly beans along with a brightly colored hard-boiled decorated egg. 

But the piece de’ resistance for me was always the peanut-rolled coconut cream Easter eggs. The mouth-watering scent of these confections permeated the parlor of our little row home on Easter morning, tempting, yes, practically calling, We’re here – Hop on over.

But there would be no hopping over to snitch a candy or two until after Mass. To me, it seemed, our Lenten deprivations weren’t really over until we burst in the door after church and grabbed those baskets. 

Yes, it was a long time ago. Easter baskets have changed a tad over the years. But I wouldn’t change mine for all the Easter Eggs in China. 

Have a Happy, and Blessed Easter Everyone!

DAVID COPPERFIELD AND ME

The bell rang and I joined throngs of my fellow classmates shuffling through the halls like zombies, lurching to their next class.

It was almost mid-June and we only had a few more days of school left before we embarked on a life of summer fun and frolic. Final exams were over, marks were in and we were all just marking time, much like the inmates of the Lehigh County Jail down the street. 

Obviously, in these last few days, there wasn’t much to do to keep us occupied. Regular classes were pretty much over. 

However, never underestimate the sheer resourcefulness of a bunch of nuns who need to keep well over 1000 students busy. Because those enterprising ladies managed to find various tasks to keep us all working – and fairly quiet. 

This morning, our desks already had stacks of Biology 101 books waiting for us. Our task, simple and boring as it was, was to clean up the books with soap erasers for the incoming fall freshmen. I had already spiffed up a bunch of theology books at my last class and was bored stiff.

Then I was rescued from my mind-numbing, soul-destroying task, by a heaven-sent angel. Sister Regina appeared at the door. After a little confab with Sister Bartholomew, she beckoned me to follow. 

“Dear, I need a little help with the English literature book closet. Would you mind?”

First of all, you never say no to a nun. Second of all, well, there is no second of all.

I followed her to a closet right off Rockne Hall. She pulled out a ring of keys, fiddled around until she found the right one and unlocked the closet door.

The two of us surveyed the inside of the book closet. Books were tossed on shelves in a haphazard way, some barely clinging to the edges.

“Oh no. This worse than I thought,” Sister Regina said. “We’ll have to clear everything off the shelves and start from scratch. I’m sorry dear, that I got you into this.”

“I don’t know, Sister. It’s not so bad,” I said. I always liked Sister Regina. 

Given the alternative, I was happy as a clam to help her with the mess before us.

“Well, once more into the breach,” I said and began pulling books from the shelf and sorting them into piles on the floor. 

Sister Regina laughed at my Shakespeare quote, while I handed her more copies of Silas Marner. We started on the second shelf when I noticed something beige and red wedged into the corner on the very back of the first shelf. 

“There’s something else back here, Sister.”  Reaching back, I took hold and pulled out a huge dusty book. Just under two inches thick, it weighed a ton. Okay, not a ton, but at least a pound or two. I blew the dust off and noticed it had deckled edges and a tight stitched binding with strong sturdy boards front and back. A pretty pricey tome for a high school book closet.

I opened it to find the high school stamp inside and the library book pocket and card on the inside page. Dickens, David Copperfield, was written in fine nun’s penmanship on the card. And that was it.  

“What a shame, Sister. It’s never been taken out.”

“Of course,” she sighed. “That’s because it’s the unabridged version, unlike all the abridged versions the students read. Perhaps someone donated it and Sister Irene thought she should have at least one good copy for her shelves.”

I began paging through to the first page. 

Chapter one. I Am Born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

Well, I thought, I’m liking David Copperfield way more than Silas Marner. Truth to tell I didn’t appreciate Silas when I read him. But it seems like David’s already a much more interesting, fun fellow.

“Janice,” Sister Regina said, jolting me out of my reading. 

“Oh, sorry Sister. Better get back to work before you fire me,” I said handing her David.

“No, I just wondered. Would you like to have that book?”

My hands closed around the book again, with its deckled edge pages, all 850 plus of them, its sturdy boards and tight binding and I realized David and I were going to become good friends. 

And we did. 

The Promise of a Garden

No occupation is so delightful to me as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden.

Thomas Jefferson

Well, the last Christmas cookie has been crunched, the last pine needle swept up and the last metal ornament hanger placed in the junk drawer as we bid farewell to another Christmas holiday season.

So, of course, it’s that time.

No, not time for Valentines Day candy, although that’s close.

This is the time of year to plan your garden. However, true, avid gardeners would argue that planning a garden is a full-time project. A never-ending cycle of preparation and designing.

But for me, this is when seed and gardening catalogues and some spring magazines arrive in the mail.  A time to cozy up with a cup of tea and peruse my treasure trove of Spring promise. Time to slowly leaf through the wonderous pages of lush azaleas, colorful tulips and fragrant stargazer lilies. 

Dreamily gazing out my window at the wintry landscape, I can envision all those glorious colors coming to life in my yard with the arrival of the first robin.

For the gardening untutored, (that would be me) I learned about planting in varying degrees. My mom taught me some things about planting. I read other tidbits in catalogues and magazines, and the good old, trusty hard way. One of my plants would thrive while two others failed.  And I learned, over time, that just like words, soil matters.  So does climate.  A lot.

Recently I read a very interesting article about Thomas Jefferson and his garden at Monticello. Many years ago, I visited Monticello, but was overwhelmed by all the beauty and history at that time. Except for one tree that intrigued me, I just gave nodding acquaintance to Jefferson’s gardens. Since it was early Spring there wasn’t too much growing yet.

But the article (discovered in an old Southern Living Magazine, Breaking Ground by Steve Bender September 2012), tells of his experiments and failures with various fruits and vegetables. Those failures only spurred him on to more experiments. Soil, climate, type of beds, what seeds would thrive where.  He grew plants from around the world. Foreign embassies would provide the seeds and Jefferson, in turn would give them to local farmers. He also traded seeds with friends and neighbors.

One interesting side note in the article, explains how the Monticello family physician made a red pepper gargle from Jefferson’s gardens for his grandchildren for their sore throats. So back in the 1800’s, they were learning about the use of capsaicin as a pain reliever. 

Jefferson was a statesman, lawyer, diplomat, architect and philosopher. And a serious gardener.  He is known to have recorded 330 varieties of seventy species of vegetables grown at Monticello. Plotting, planning, recording, and charting, Jefferson’s experiments and research had an enormous impact on the food we grow today.

We can thank “America’s First Foodie” as he was called according to the article, for tomatoes and peppers, eggplant and squash and so many other vegetables from around the world.

So, when Spring finally comes, and you turn over the soil in your garden, think of the bounty to come and then thank Thomas Jefferson.

Happy gardening!

COUNTRY GIRL

Born and raised in the city, I have always been a country girl at heart. 

As a little kid, the clang and whir of trolley cars, the hustle of shoppers shoving one another in their frenzied dash to catch a bus, the frequent siren calls of police or emergency vehicles, always disturbed me.

On my infrequent visits to bigger cities, I found the smell of heat and exhaust fumes rising from concrete canyons in the peak of summer suffocating. I longed for something different.

I was happiest when visiting my uncle’s farmhouse or taking a quick trip with my friend to her grandparent’s farm in Limeport.  Playing in hay-filled barns, wading in shallow creeks, listening to the buzz of insects in cornfields; all these things held a certain fascination for this city girl.

And while I never did get to live on a farm, I am lucky enough now to enjoy some of those things in my greenbelt bordered by farms.

Birdsong, the trill of insects in the evening, roosters crowing across the valley, pheasants cackling in the brush, the beating wings of red tail hawks flying over-head, the screech of a fox looking for its mate on a crisp fall evening, watching the first lightening bugs emerge, all these things have taught me over the years to appreciate the timelessness of nature.

The countryside has a rhythm all its own. It won’t be rushed. It is slower, calmer, with sounds designed by nature to be reassuring, soothing. Sounds that change season by season.

Like listening to the steady summer thrum of a tractor as the farmer across the way plows his field. Or the distant hammering of a woodpecker in the woods below my home. Or the echoing sound of the thresher as farmers reap their Fall harvest. And noticing the gradual slowing of cricket sounds as the days grow shorter and cooler.

To stand quietly in the winter night and absorb the absolute stillness in the air before snowflakes begin their descent. To hear a crisp, crackling sound like cellophane unfolding, as ice crystals hit the windows.  

And to then, at last, welcome the Spring arrivals of bluebirds and robins, even as the smell of winter snow lingers on the air, while the first snow drops push their way heavenward through flowerbeds fed by springtide showers. 

Doubtless, some city dwellers would find this quite boring; the pace dull or mind-numbing. They delight in having a restaurant down the street, a theater around the corner, or a museum a short walk away. Entertainment at their fingertips.

But no restaurants, no theaters, no museums fill my horizon.

My view is brimming with pockets of woods thick with trees, open fields and meadows, and rolling hills with the occasional barn or two dotting the landscape. It is a treasure trove of scenery that changes color with nature’s brush every season, never disappointing in its palette. 

When I look out my windows and see flowers, birds, a glistening creek meandering through the trees and the sudden appearances of fox, deer, wild turkey, or even the occasional coyote, time has taught me to watch for a shifting parade of colors over the coming seasons. 

The bright yellow of the first daffodils and flash of an early bluebird herald Spring.  With the timid appearance of subtle fawn shades, uncertain baby deer emerge from the woods and summer is on our doorstep. The measured stroll of a flock of wild turkeys, slowly moves us closer to Autumn. By the time winter has frostily iced its way into my greenway, the deer and coyote have transformed into mushroom brown, carefully blending into the browns, umbers and grays of the woods.

 In my front row seat, in my greenway bordered by farms, season by season, my countryside theatre is always open. And what amazing spectacles Mother Nature produces!

Yup, I’m thankful I’m just a country girl at heart.

The Blue Angels

Something on the horizon caught my eye. It looked like a wisp of smoke. Since we’d had a really dry spring, I hoped it wasn’t a brush fire. But it was miles away from where I sat in the stands at the Pocono Raceway.

The day was sunny and unseasonably warm, but a cool, gentle breezed kept everyone comfortable. And the blue skies above were cloudless. Perfect weather for an airshow.

I looked around the stands, briefly taking in the diverse sold-out crowd, including a throng of young families, with their little tykes in tow.  One little blond lassie, about four years old, even sported hot pink ear muff ear protectors, while the older folks in the crowd opted for bright orange ear plugs. 

For the past forty minutes, we had been entertained by the most awesome aeronautical aerobatics ever seen. Beginning with the P51 and F22 Raptor Heritage flight soaring into the azure firmament above us, followed by a Vampire, a Sukhoi, an MXS-RH all carbon craft and then the United States Coast Guard doing a search and rescue demo, it was heart-stopping entertainment.

Those pilots and their aircraft performed death defying stunts. Their aircraft soared and swooped while we in the stands squinted into the sunlight following their vapor trails as the flash of their wings rose high into the sky and turned into specks. 

But now there was lull in the activity and it became rather quiet in the stands. 

Some folks looked into the skies left and right anticipating the next round of daring do, but for some reason, my eyes were drawn back to the horizon. 

That wisp of smoke I had seen just a few moments ago had now become a rather large cloud. It was straight ahead, growing larger each second and headed right for us, dead center. I watched mesmerized as the smoke trail grew and six tiny specks grew with it.

Afterburners! 

It wasn’t a brush fire I was seeing. The “smoke” was the afterburners of fighter jets. In what seemed like mere seconds, those specks had turned into the deep navy blue and gold insignia of six F-18 Super Hornet fighter jets and they were flying directly at us.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the announcer intoned, music blaring in the background, “the Blue Angels!”

In a now classic maneuver, six jets flying in a tight diamond, peeled off and soared into the sky, afterburners leaving their classic Fleur di Lis pattern against the azure sky. The crowd roared in awe and delight.

A blue sky full of Blue Angels, soared and rolled in the heavens above us. Delta rolls, diamond loops, knife edge passes, vertical rolls, inverted crossings and much more. The maneuvers were flawless, breathtaking and fearsome. 

Back in 1946, in an effort to raise public interest in naval aviation and continue with the precision flying Navy pilots had learned, a flight exhibition team was created by order of Admiral Chester Nimitz.  And the tight formation, low flying Angels have been entertaining us ever since with their spectacular maneuvers.

Watching the awe-inspiring Hornets in the sky above, I felt a particular rush of pride in my country. The young men and women of the United States Navy and Marine Corps performing that day were truly heroes. And we are so blessed as a nation to have them.

I looked over again at the little blond lassie with the pink ear muffs. She was clutching the seat in front of her, her eyes riveted on the aircraft above. 

There’s our future, I thought. Oh yes, the sky’s the limit for you, little one!

Blue Angels Forever, Forever Blue Angels!

Blue Angels Motto

He’s Here, He’s There, He’s Everywhere

For those of you who have read my book Life Before Seatbelts, you may remember a story called The Bear That Wasn’t There. 

When I asked my sister to suggest events from our youth that I could write about, she immediately recalled the time a black bear rambled around the west end of Allentown scaring the daylights out of the residents of Hamilton Park and Union Terrace. Indeed, my dad found large, unexplained prints in our backyard prompting a police search of the fields nearby.

I, however, could not recall the incident at all. Of course, in order to remember it, I would have had to have been there or at least be interested in what was happening at the time. I was neither.

Still, I took her suggestion and proceeded to make a story out of her memory. A cursory internet search yielded nothing.  Had I had a subscription to online newspaper services when I wrote it, my tale might have been a bit different.

Although, judging from the article that I found recently recounting the event in 1956, even the policeman who took the report didn’t quite believe what he was hearing.  Apparently, the elusive bear had been seen everywhere. In fact, the beleaguered officer’s reply to yet another bear sighting went something like this.

“I’m beginning to think they’re coming from Mars.”

The peripatetic bear sounded a lot like that cartoon character of the 1960’s. Remember Klondike Kat’s nemesis, Savoir Faire?

He’s here, he’s there, he’s everywhere, he’s Savoir Faire.

Well, that was our bear.

Initial sightings had reported the bear in the vicinity of Quakertown. And in the days that followed, reports popped up, just like Savoir Faire.  A bear, appearing then disappearing. In fact, the bear had been roaming around and doing his disappearing act for weeks, causing some to wonder if there really was a bear. 

The erratic reports of a huge black bear near Bucks County, then Emmaus Avenue and then South Mountain reservoir, had police searching – well – here, there and everywhere. 

And then, just as our ursine friend was enjoying lunch and a rest at the reservoir – wild grapes, pears and apples – he was again spotted by police only to vanish once more. 

At that point, our bear made a fatal mistake. Because, now the sightings took on a more worrisome tone. He had moved into West Allentown and was seen at Raub Playground and the honeysuckle thickets behind Raub School.  

It was bad enough when he popped up beside the car of a family driving along Emaus Avenue. But now, to be seen rambling around a school playground, well that just would not do.

And sadly, it spelled the beginning of the end for the 260-pound wanderer. Around six pm, on an October evening, officers of the Allentown police department dispatched the bear ending the, was he or wasn’t he there, debate.

So, my sister was right, there really was a bear – there. 

River Queen on the Lehigh

Summertime 1950

As the summer breeze tickled my arms, I leaned over the pavilion railings and gazed across the river at Adams Island, its cottages reflecting off the still water at the river’s edge. Below me, passengers with their packages and grocery bags were boarding the ferry that would take them across the wide waterway.  The craft’s motors began churning up small waves in the dark green waters as it prepared to depart.

My eight-year-old child’s imagination ran wild, spurred on by the last Tarzan movie I saw. What if there were crocs hiding at the water’s edge? Just floating there quietly, like a log. Nah. For sure, someone would have mentioned it. At least at that point in my life, I’d never heard about anybody finding crocodiles in the Lehigh River. Although, that shadowy waterway could be covering any number of secrets in its murky depths. Even so, crocodiles or not, the ferry looked like a fun ride.

Sighing, I watched the ferry pull away from the dock without me, working its way across the river.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the River Queen had been in service since around 1907. Only back then, passengers had to grasp a cable and pull the vessel along by hand.  Later, an Allentonian named Charles Henry Nadig designed a chain gear drive engine for the ferry, so now passengers could sit back and enjoy the ride. (It is said that Nadig invented the first horseless carriage in the United States around 1889.)

The small craft that voyaged back and forth to Adams Island was vital because it not only transported people, but also carried furniture, groceries, and ice for the iceboxes of residents on the island. As time went on and new cottages were built, a barge was attached to the ferry and it moved sand, cement, stone and various construction materials to the island. 

During the 1930’s, the ferry was lost to a flood, but a new one was soon built continuing the long tradition of transport across the river. 

While ferries have plied the waters of the Lehigh at least since the 1740’s, sadly, most of their stories are now lost to history.

However, I did manage to find a few tales that I thought were quite interesting. 

A ferry, once owned by Captain Abraham Rinker, figured in the transport of the Liberty Bell across the Lehigh when it was brought to Allentown in 1777.  Also, in 1952, a small want ad appeared in the Morning Call looking for a Ferryman. Ferryman to run Adams Island Ferry from May through September, easy work, salary plus year-round living quarters.

But one story I found was quite humorous.  It seems that one enterprising group managed to detached the ferry from its cable, and took the craft on a joy ride on the river, until it was returned at dawn. 

Now, as I see it, the miscreants missed a golden business opportunity. Just imagine, all they had to do was get a few fake crocodiles to float here and there along the river banks, and sell tickets for an excursion.

I’d have paid for that experience.

Cue the jungle drums here!

THE NIGHT SHIFT

When I was a little girl, I hated it when my dad worked the night shift. One of Allentown’s finest, one of the men in blue, he was out there in the city with his police brothers, scooping up criminals, rescuing the downtrodden or aiding those adrift. 

At least, that’s how I saw it.

But what about us. Us being his kids. Oh sure my Mom was there, but what if we needed him.

Like at three AM. Suppose a crook wanted to break into our house. Huh. How about that! Yup, there was a bit of resentment where a bit of pride should have been.

Nevertheless, as the years passed and I grew up, I got over it. Helped in large measure by the advantages that came with the eleven PM to seven AM graveyard shift, at least, as far as we kids were concerned. 

Because, depending on what district he was patrolling, very often when we woke the next morning, there would be a big white box in the center of the dining room table. 

And inside the delectable smelling box, were a dozen donuts. Six white iced and six chocolate iced, raised dough, hot off the racks, donuts.

Dad never forgot, no matter how hair raising a shift he may have had. He took the time to stop at Behringer’s Bakery.

And four hungry kids pounced on Behringer’s Donuts like they were manna from heaven.

Let’s hear it for the night shift! 

LUNCH AND A MOVIE

Back in the early 50’s when I was a kid, my aunt would take me to a popular restaurant on Hamilton Street in Allentown, called Betz’s.

Aunt Ree and I would go there for lunch and then we would catch a movie at the Rialto movie theater. It was her special treat for me that began when I was about eight and continued for many years. 

Although Betz’s was known for its Pennsylvania Dutch dishes, the restaurant also made the best hamburgers.

How would I know this? Because that’s all I ever ordered.

A hamburger, french fries and a chocolate milk. My standard order. Never hesitated.  My childish reasoning being, I don’t get this at home so why should I order anything different.

Plus, it was a homey kind of place. The waitresses knew us by name and we almost always were seated in the same booth, like visiting dignitaries. I may only have been eight-years-old, but that was old enough to be suitably impressed by their attention.

In those days, there were quite a few restaurants along Hamilton Street. Eateries like Rube’s, the Marble Bar (in the Dime Savings Bank and Trust), The Brass Rail, Look Lunch (about a half block off Hamilton) and The Superior among others. But Betz’s was always my favorite. 

Located at 726 Hamilton Street, not far off the square, it had a storied history. Established in the 1890’s as a saloon owned by Neuweiler’s Brewery, it had numerous names over the years.

But in 1924, it was purchased by Chester Betz and became quite popular for its Pennsylvania Dutch cooking. During the early fifties, my aunt and I visited it often until 1957, when it had yet another incarnation as the Kopper Kettle Restaurant. 

The Kopper Kettle had a unique façade done in the Early American style and was, as I recall, charmingly decorated with maple furniture and, of course, shiny copper kettles. With a warm and inviting ambiance, the tradition of fine food was upheld, just like its predecessor.

Now, when I remember the downtown Allentown of my youth, so many institutions have either evolved or disappeared into history.  Maybe that’s what they call progress, because nothing ever stays the same. 

But in my child’s heart, I will always remember Betz’s with a special fondness. 

I see myself as I was then.

A little girl on a special outing with her aunt. We walk into Betz’s and the waitress rushes over to say hello and seat us. I slide into the booth and pretend to peruse the large menu.

And then, like magic, my order appears before me and I am in hamburger heaven. 

A plate of crisp French fries, a savory hamburger, and a cold glass of chocolate milk! 

Lunch has never, ever, tasted so good!

A LESSON IN HUMILITY

“You drive the car, don’t let the car drive you!”

I received this pearl of wisdom from my father on the occasion of my first driving lesson with him.

Really, I thought. I already know that. After all, I was almost sixteen and pretty much figured I knew everything. How hard could driving be, anyway?

We hopped into our car of the moment which was a black 50’s something Mercury. The Merc was an intimidating, snobby looking car, heavy on the chrome. The only thing missing were the rich Corinthian leather seats.

Dad drove to Twenty-Second Street in Hamilton Park where there was little traffic, pulled the Merc over to the curb, and I moved into the driver’s seat. 

Piece of cake so far. 

“Now put your foot on the clutch, press down and then slowly give it some gas.”

“Okee dokee,” I said stretching myself to look out the windshield and also reach the pedals. 

I did all that and then the car bucked and stalled.

“Okay, don’t worry,” he said patiently. “That can happen. Just start it again.”

I did and it stalled once more.

“Try it again.”

After a few more tries, I sighed with relief when I finally heard the engine rumble to life. 

“Good, good,” he said. “Now we’re just going to go down to the end of the block, okay?”

I nodded. 

“Gently give it some gas, but remember the clutch.”

I nodded again, trying to remember just what was it that he said about the clutch? Something about letting it out slowly, I think and…

And then the Merc, that rotten traitor, took off down the street bucking like a nasty bronco on big money night at the Rodeo! 

We hopped to the end of the block and the Merc came to an abrupt stop.  

“Like that, Dad?” I asked, looking hopefully at my father, as my pony-tail whip-lashed around my neck.

Dad had that look on his face he always got when he helped me with my math and I just didn’t get it. 

And then I realized two things.

Driving was a lot harder than I thought. And, I had just been knocked off of my lofty teenage perch.

I learned a lesson alright, but it had nothing to do with driving.

For more stories like this, read my latest book, Life Before Seatbelts.  Available on Amazon.com at https://www.amazon.com/author/janicerodgers  and visit my website at janicemonahanrodgers.com