Mari Collier's Blog, page 10
April 12, 2013
April 5, 2013
Paternal Grandparents
Another blogger mentioned his grandparents and how few he knew. I’m in the same position. My paternal grandfather passed away August 27, 1922, a day before my oldest brother was born. He was born in Pomerania, Germany. It was once part of Prussia, but now is part of Poland. The Germans from that area spoke Platte Deutsche. The family lore says that he came over with his mother and two brothers. They brought apple seedlings with them from their farm in Prussia. This was the orchid that (according to my father) was directly to the west of the house. A tornado in 1913 tore it out. None remained when I was a child.
My paternal grandmother was born in Iowa as her parents had immigrated in 1870, but she insisted on speaking German in her house. It’s a wonder sparks didn't fly when Papa brought home an equally strong minded woman as the one he was going to marry. The year was 1919.
Grandma informed Mama, “We speak Deutsche in this house.”
Mama pulled her compact from her purse, powdered her nose (probably sniffed), and replied, “Not me, I’m an American.”
My paternal grandmother lived until November 1, 1945. Her farm was but five miles from our farm and less than a quarter of a mile east of our church. I remember sitting in her lap in her rocker. What child doesn't love that? I still have the locket she gave me at Christmas when I was three years old. Both of my granddaughters have worn that locket to church the same as I once did. Her Sunday dinners after church were feasts for the entire clan. The dinner (as we called the noon meal) usually was built around a pot roast or chicken, fresh corn-on-the cob, fresh tomatoes, and other fresh produce from the garden. The teaspoons were not set with the plates. They were in a special lead crystal bowl set towards the middle of the table. If one was needed for desert or stirring coffee, the bowl was passed to that person. I thought it looked like an over-sized sugar bowl.
My older brother tells me that Grandmother would take him and our oldest brother on buggy rides. Yes, my older uncles had a car and could drive in the 1920’s, but Grandmother eschewed anything modern as a waste of money. She did not allow water to be piped into her house. She had pumped and carried water all her life and they could do the same.
Her kitchen was long and narrow. The house had been built approximately in 1894 or 1895. It held a huge, ornate black and chrome plated Kalamazoo wood stove and sat beneath higher upper wood cabinets. That’s where Grandmother stored her Limburger cheese. That smell could nearly knock one over. She also delighted in handing out what I remember her calling Zwieback. The spelling is probably wrong as I could not find it in either German dictionary that I have. I thought them the driest pieces of crackers in the world. When I was older, Mama explained it meant twice toasted bread. Why Grandma thought children would like them when we had graham crackers or Animal Crackers is beyond me.
When I was five, I noticed something different. Grandmother no longer did all the baking. That task fell to my youngest Aunt. She no longer held her grandchildren and rocked them in her rocker. Her lily pond was not taken care of after the winter melted away to spring and summer. I was totally puzzled as to why Grandmother wasn't being Grandma anymore. Her weight began to drop away. She lived for three more years. Of course, no one mentioned cancer to a child back then. At least I knew her, and knew that she loved me and the rest of the grandchildren.
My maternal grandparents have another story all their own.
My paternal grandmother was born in Iowa as her parents had immigrated in 1870, but she insisted on speaking German in her house. It’s a wonder sparks didn't fly when Papa brought home an equally strong minded woman as the one he was going to marry. The year was 1919.
Grandma informed Mama, “We speak Deutsche in this house.”
Mama pulled her compact from her purse, powdered her nose (probably sniffed), and replied, “Not me, I’m an American.”
My paternal grandmother lived until November 1, 1945. Her farm was but five miles from our farm and less than a quarter of a mile east of our church. I remember sitting in her lap in her rocker. What child doesn't love that? I still have the locket she gave me at Christmas when I was three years old. Both of my granddaughters have worn that locket to church the same as I once did. Her Sunday dinners after church were feasts for the entire clan. The dinner (as we called the noon meal) usually was built around a pot roast or chicken, fresh corn-on-the cob, fresh tomatoes, and other fresh produce from the garden. The teaspoons were not set with the plates. They were in a special lead crystal bowl set towards the middle of the table. If one was needed for desert or stirring coffee, the bowl was passed to that person. I thought it looked like an over-sized sugar bowl.
My older brother tells me that Grandmother would take him and our oldest brother on buggy rides. Yes, my older uncles had a car and could drive in the 1920’s, but Grandmother eschewed anything modern as a waste of money. She did not allow water to be piped into her house. She had pumped and carried water all her life and they could do the same.
Her kitchen was long and narrow. The house had been built approximately in 1894 or 1895. It held a huge, ornate black and chrome plated Kalamazoo wood stove and sat beneath higher upper wood cabinets. That’s where Grandmother stored her Limburger cheese. That smell could nearly knock one over. She also delighted in handing out what I remember her calling Zwieback. The spelling is probably wrong as I could not find it in either German dictionary that I have. I thought them the driest pieces of crackers in the world. When I was older, Mama explained it meant twice toasted bread. Why Grandma thought children would like them when we had graham crackers or Animal Crackers is beyond me.
When I was five, I noticed something different. Grandmother no longer did all the baking. That task fell to my youngest Aunt. She no longer held her grandchildren and rocked them in her rocker. Her lily pond was not taken care of after the winter melted away to spring and summer. I was totally puzzled as to why Grandmother wasn't being Grandma anymore. Her weight began to drop away. She lived for three more years. Of course, no one mentioned cancer to a child back then. At least I knew her, and knew that she loved me and the rest of the grandchildren.
My maternal grandparents have another story all their own.
March 17, 2013
Oral Traditions
Every family has their stories. Most of the oral traditions would be passed down from the mother to the daughter as they worked side-by-side in the kitchen or the garden. If there were sons, they would be outside with the father or just outside. They would not in those years ago have been doing women's work.
My family was a little different in that I was often drafted to work out in the fields or barnyard with Papa as my younger brother was recovering from rheumatic fever and the old brothers had left the farm. I heard stories from both of my parents. Too often these stories are not written down. This is one I heard from both parents and it involves one of my mother's brothers.
My maternal grandparents immigrated from Germany in the late 1880's. Neither of them would have been called tall, but their children with the exception of two daughters were tall. This tale involves one of the older brothers; the one who became the strongman of the family.
He was not the oldest nor was he six foot three as my oldest maternal uncle. He stood a mere six feet in height, but his body was bulky. There were tales of him carrying three hundred pound sacks of salt with no problem while still a teenager. In later years his son who was over six feet would try that with disastrous results; a messed up back.
My uncle was out at my parents farm one spring to help with the oat harvest and was riding the binder. This was a machine that cut the ripe oats in the field and put the oats into a sheath for stacking. A conveyor belt carried the sheath out to the end and dumped it on the field. The people behind would stack the sheaths; first two upright leaning together. The next two were put on the sides and the last one over the top. The top one was spread out in case it rained before the thresher and crew would arrive.
The date of the thresher arrival was known and time was important. The oats had to be ready as the thresher was rented and that would cost the farmer if they could not thresh the oats on the day arranged.
This is how my father explained it. The field was at the half mark when a grinding was heard and the binder was stopped. An examination revealed that one of the parts for tying the twine around the oats had bent. It would take a week or more to replace that part. My uncle took the metal part in his hands and slowly began to bend it back into shape. According to my father the first time they tried it, the fit wasn't quite right and once more my uncle used the force of his hands to bend the metal. I believe my father told me it was iron. The second time the part fit and the binder started. The field was finished that day.
I cannot dispute that this happened. My father was not a tall man, but his hands were huge and his strength was well known. He swore he could not budge that metal part.
My family was a little different in that I was often drafted to work out in the fields or barnyard with Papa as my younger brother was recovering from rheumatic fever and the old brothers had left the farm. I heard stories from both of my parents. Too often these stories are not written down. This is one I heard from both parents and it involves one of my mother's brothers.
My maternal grandparents immigrated from Germany in the late 1880's. Neither of them would have been called tall, but their children with the exception of two daughters were tall. This tale involves one of the older brothers; the one who became the strongman of the family.
He was not the oldest nor was he six foot three as my oldest maternal uncle. He stood a mere six feet in height, but his body was bulky. There were tales of him carrying three hundred pound sacks of salt with no problem while still a teenager. In later years his son who was over six feet would try that with disastrous results; a messed up back.
My uncle was out at my parents farm one spring to help with the oat harvest and was riding the binder. This was a machine that cut the ripe oats in the field and put the oats into a sheath for stacking. A conveyor belt carried the sheath out to the end and dumped it on the field. The people behind would stack the sheaths; first two upright leaning together. The next two were put on the sides and the last one over the top. The top one was spread out in case it rained before the thresher and crew would arrive.
The date of the thresher arrival was known and time was important. The oats had to be ready as the thresher was rented and that would cost the farmer if they could not thresh the oats on the day arranged.
This is how my father explained it. The field was at the half mark when a grinding was heard and the binder was stopped. An examination revealed that one of the parts for tying the twine around the oats had bent. It would take a week or more to replace that part. My uncle took the metal part in his hands and slowly began to bend it back into shape. According to my father the first time they tried it, the fit wasn't quite right and once more my uncle used the force of his hands to bend the metal. I believe my father told me it was iron. The second time the part fit and the binder started. The field was finished that day.
I cannot dispute that this happened. My father was not a tall man, but his hands were huge and his strength was well known. He swore he could not budge that metal part.
March 9, 2013
A Visit From Relatives
It was the first day of summer and light was streaming into my bedroom. It was daylight! Mama’s sister, Agnes, husband, George, and their daughter, Marlys, would arrive this morning. They were motoring down from Waterloo, almost two hundred miles away. I was ten, almost eleven that summer and had not seen them since I was seven when Mama had taken my youngest brother and me with her when she went to help care for Grandma. The excitement was almost too much to bear.
Aunt Agnes and Uncle George always sent the most expensive Christmas gifts and the hand-me-down clothes from my cousin were from Mays Company where my aunt worked. They weren’t made from feed sacks like all of my clothes. There was sure to be another box coming with them as Marny (as we called her) was two years older than I.
Breakfast was a hurried affair with a flurry of last minute cleaning and preparations for a midmorning coffee and dinner. Keep in mind midmorning coffee meant sandwiches, yeast rolls, and/or cake and cookies. Dinner meant what today is called lunch. There would be chicken, fresh corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, gravy, tomatoes, lettuce, and cucumbers from the garden. Bread, jams, jellies, butter, canned fruit (all put up or made by Mama), and dessert. Yes, we churned our own butter.
At nine or nine thirty they drove up the lane, the car horn honking away and my cousin leaning out the window waving. Papa had taken some time away from the fields and everyone hugged, kissed, asked about the trip, and went inside. Mama finished putting out the makings for sandwiches, the men brought in a box which I knew had to be for me, but politeness dictated we wait with seeing what was in there until after everyone had their “coffee.” Of course, the children had milk, water, or Kool-Aid. At least for company Mama had used the right amount of sugar instead of cutting it in half as she normally would.
Everyone talked at once and we children were finished more rapidly than adults that lingered over coffee and conversation. We asked permission to leave and headed outside.
Marny was the kind of cousin it should have been easy to hate. She was an elfin creature with beautiful blonde curls. All Agnes had to do was wash Marny’s hair and wrap the tresses around her finger. The Shirley Temple curls would remain all week. Instead of the blue, grey, or green eyes that most of us possessed, Marny’s eyes were brown like her father’s. She wanted to see everything about the farm.
The biggest draw was the lambs. The one ewe had thrown twins and one was a runt. Unlike the other lambs instead of white with black stockings, he was grey. He was too small to sell and his wool was the wrong color for selling. We named him Shorty even though we knew full well he was destined for our table later that fall.
Marny fell for the lamb that followed us and scampered around us. We didn’t have the heart to tell her the other sheep didn’t really want him around. He was different. Marny held that lamb when they tired of playing until we were called in for the noon meal.
For once I did not need to help with the preparation or cleanup. Aunt Agnes was doing that and we were shooed outside again. The adults wanted to talk. Of course, we went back to where the sheep were kept.
It must have been about two or three o’clock when the call came for us to return as they were preparing to leave. Mama had fresh eggs packed in a box for them to take, plus a supply of cookies to sustain them on their way. Marny hugged Shorty one more time telling him goodbye and how she would come back to play with him.
My brother was one year younger than I and blurted out, “But he’ll grow.” I shook my head at him not to say anything more. We were farm children. Cattle, hogs, and sheep were livestock; a fact we always knew. Horses worked, but they could be viewed as pets just like our dogs.
Marny smiled at us and replied, “I know, but I’ll still play with him when I come back. Promise you’ll take good care of him.”
My brother was red-faced and sputtering. Of course, we would take good care of him and feed him quite well, but our reason was different from her reason.
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “I’ll make sure he gets extras when I feed him.”
Marny looked relieved and hugged him one more time before running to their car. Uncle George was beating on the horn as he was impatient to start the long drive home.
I did not see Marny again until I was almost seventeen and one of my older brothers drove us up to Waterloo. I had long outgrown her and her lovely clothes had not fit me for years. It was the time of the poodle cut for women and all she did was wash her hair and scrunch it. My hair was long as there was no way my hair would hold a curl that long. She did not ask about Shorty as she was into Gene Kelly at the time. I thought that quite silly as I was into Science-Fiction and history books. We never told her that Shorty had been our dinner for quite a few meals.
Aunt Agnes and Uncle George always sent the most expensive Christmas gifts and the hand-me-down clothes from my cousin were from Mays Company where my aunt worked. They weren’t made from feed sacks like all of my clothes. There was sure to be another box coming with them as Marny (as we called her) was two years older than I.
Breakfast was a hurried affair with a flurry of last minute cleaning and preparations for a midmorning coffee and dinner. Keep in mind midmorning coffee meant sandwiches, yeast rolls, and/or cake and cookies. Dinner meant what today is called lunch. There would be chicken, fresh corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, gravy, tomatoes, lettuce, and cucumbers from the garden. Bread, jams, jellies, butter, canned fruit (all put up or made by Mama), and dessert. Yes, we churned our own butter.
At nine or nine thirty they drove up the lane, the car horn honking away and my cousin leaning out the window waving. Papa had taken some time away from the fields and everyone hugged, kissed, asked about the trip, and went inside. Mama finished putting out the makings for sandwiches, the men brought in a box which I knew had to be for me, but politeness dictated we wait with seeing what was in there until after everyone had their “coffee.” Of course, the children had milk, water, or Kool-Aid. At least for company Mama had used the right amount of sugar instead of cutting it in half as she normally would.
Everyone talked at once and we children were finished more rapidly than adults that lingered over coffee and conversation. We asked permission to leave and headed outside.
Marny was the kind of cousin it should have been easy to hate. She was an elfin creature with beautiful blonde curls. All Agnes had to do was wash Marny’s hair and wrap the tresses around her finger. The Shirley Temple curls would remain all week. Instead of the blue, grey, or green eyes that most of us possessed, Marny’s eyes were brown like her father’s. She wanted to see everything about the farm.
The biggest draw was the lambs. The one ewe had thrown twins and one was a runt. Unlike the other lambs instead of white with black stockings, he was grey. He was too small to sell and his wool was the wrong color for selling. We named him Shorty even though we knew full well he was destined for our table later that fall.
Marny fell for the lamb that followed us and scampered around us. We didn’t have the heart to tell her the other sheep didn’t really want him around. He was different. Marny held that lamb when they tired of playing until we were called in for the noon meal.
For once I did not need to help with the preparation or cleanup. Aunt Agnes was doing that and we were shooed outside again. The adults wanted to talk. Of course, we went back to where the sheep were kept.
It must have been about two or three o’clock when the call came for us to return as they were preparing to leave. Mama had fresh eggs packed in a box for them to take, plus a supply of cookies to sustain them on their way. Marny hugged Shorty one more time telling him goodbye and how she would come back to play with him.
My brother was one year younger than I and blurted out, “But he’ll grow.” I shook my head at him not to say anything more. We were farm children. Cattle, hogs, and sheep were livestock; a fact we always knew. Horses worked, but they could be viewed as pets just like our dogs.
Marny smiled at us and replied, “I know, but I’ll still play with him when I come back. Promise you’ll take good care of him.”
My brother was red-faced and sputtering. Of course, we would take good care of him and feed him quite well, but our reason was different from her reason.
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “I’ll make sure he gets extras when I feed him.”
Marny looked relieved and hugged him one more time before running to their car. Uncle George was beating on the horn as he was impatient to start the long drive home.
I did not see Marny again until I was almost seventeen and one of my older brothers drove us up to Waterloo. I had long outgrown her and her lovely clothes had not fit me for years. It was the time of the poodle cut for women and all she did was wash her hair and scrunch it. My hair was long as there was no way my hair would hold a curl that long. She did not ask about Shorty as she was into Gene Kelly at the time. I thought that quite silly as I was into Science-Fiction and history books. We never told her that Shorty had been our dinner for quite a few meals.
March 2, 2013
A Special Place
The memories of Trinity Lutheran Church are bound by the Word of God, family, and friends. It’s where I was baptized, went to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School, learned Luther’s Small Catechism (under the excellent tutelage of Pastor Kaning), and was confirmed. Grandmother's farm was but a short distance to the East. If Papa stayed at church for some reason, we could walk down to her house for Sunday dinner or catch a ride with one of our Uncle’s if they had attended.
Who can forget those wonderful church bells ringing on a clear, frosty morning? The sound would float for miles. As a child I marveled at the stained glass windows and the beautiful altar with the soaring spires. The balcony held special mysteries, reserved for the younger people who had been confirmed and released from their parental control.
I could not have been more than three when I remember sitting besides my mother. My younger brother was kept firmly between her and Papa. I would try to read the hymnal and the liturgy. I was so proud when I recognized the word Amen and excitedly pointed it out. This induced a, “shhh,” and a nudge from Mother.
The Childhood’s Golden Dawn, a Christmas gift from my Sunday School teacher given in 1944, Luther’s Small Catechism (well-worn), and The March of Faith (a little tattered, but serviceable), given to me by Pastor Kaning during our catechism lessons are in Trinity Lutheran’s museum.
We usually attended church at least twice a month and once a month father would enter the sacristy to sign for him and mother to take communion. By the late forties Mother would express her discontent that women couldn't sign for themselves.
Pastor Kaning’s sermons were tremendous. The man could make you see the dust rise off the roads of the desert landscape; hear the crowds as they shouted on Christ’s arrival in Jerusalem on a donkey. To underline a point he would burst into reciting a hymn in German (I couldn't understand many words, but loved the sound of it), or pound the lectern.
Christmas Eve always meant the Children’s Program. Oh, how I loved it. The church would blaze with light and our congregation would sing the Christmas carols with joy and volume unmatched anywhere. My father and Cy or Sy (I’m unsure of the nickname spelling) Borkowski had powerful tenor voices and they blended well. They were boyhood friends and often managed to seat our families near each other.
I remember how grateful my great-uncle and other older congregants were that Pastor Kaning would preach a special German sermon for them. There were undoubtedly many more that appreciated the extra work and concern he showed.
The best years were the catechism classes. Pastor Kaning not only covered everything in Luther’s Small Catechism, but he taught the church history and the history surrounding it. His descriptions of Luther’s time still ring in my ears. Because of the interest he aroused, I’ve suffered a live-long love of history and still buy history books to fill my shelves. I can’t say that Pastor taught me about Christ as my parents did that all of their lives. He gave the background to understand the trials of the apostles and later the people of the Reformation, and he always, always underlined the fact that the words of others or the “wisdom” of the wise be tested against God’s Word.
The basement was a wonderful addition and I remember the wonderful meals that would be served there. The women of the congregation would watch to see if their dish was chosen. Often they would flush with pleasure when it was or glare at the member who dared pass it by. It didn't really matter for farming families ate heartily.
Over the years Trinity Lutheran Church dwindled in numbers and the church was closed. A dedicated group started to raise funds to move it to Manning, Iowa to be placed alongside a Hausbarn from Germany and a German restaurant. Somehow the funds were raised. You can go to David Kusel’s website and find a video of the church and the move. I thank God that the church did not fall to the wrecking ball, but will continue to be viewed as part of their historic park and used for special occasions and weddings.
Who can forget those wonderful church bells ringing on a clear, frosty morning? The sound would float for miles. As a child I marveled at the stained glass windows and the beautiful altar with the soaring spires. The balcony held special mysteries, reserved for the younger people who had been confirmed and released from their parental control.
I could not have been more than three when I remember sitting besides my mother. My younger brother was kept firmly between her and Papa. I would try to read the hymnal and the liturgy. I was so proud when I recognized the word Amen and excitedly pointed it out. This induced a, “shhh,” and a nudge from Mother.
The Childhood’s Golden Dawn, a Christmas gift from my Sunday School teacher given in 1944, Luther’s Small Catechism (well-worn), and The March of Faith (a little tattered, but serviceable), given to me by Pastor Kaning during our catechism lessons are in Trinity Lutheran’s museum.
We usually attended church at least twice a month and once a month father would enter the sacristy to sign for him and mother to take communion. By the late forties Mother would express her discontent that women couldn't sign for themselves.
Pastor Kaning’s sermons were tremendous. The man could make you see the dust rise off the roads of the desert landscape; hear the crowds as they shouted on Christ’s arrival in Jerusalem on a donkey. To underline a point he would burst into reciting a hymn in German (I couldn't understand many words, but loved the sound of it), or pound the lectern.
Christmas Eve always meant the Children’s Program. Oh, how I loved it. The church would blaze with light and our congregation would sing the Christmas carols with joy and volume unmatched anywhere. My father and Cy or Sy (I’m unsure of the nickname spelling) Borkowski had powerful tenor voices and they blended well. They were boyhood friends and often managed to seat our families near each other.
I remember how grateful my great-uncle and other older congregants were that Pastor Kaning would preach a special German sermon for them. There were undoubtedly many more that appreciated the extra work and concern he showed.
The best years were the catechism classes. Pastor Kaning not only covered everything in Luther’s Small Catechism, but he taught the church history and the history surrounding it. His descriptions of Luther’s time still ring in my ears. Because of the interest he aroused, I’ve suffered a live-long love of history and still buy history books to fill my shelves. I can’t say that Pastor taught me about Christ as my parents did that all of their lives. He gave the background to understand the trials of the apostles and later the people of the Reformation, and he always, always underlined the fact that the words of others or the “wisdom” of the wise be tested against God’s Word.
The basement was a wonderful addition and I remember the wonderful meals that would be served there. The women of the congregation would watch to see if their dish was chosen. Often they would flush with pleasure when it was or glare at the member who dared pass it by. It didn't really matter for farming families ate heartily.
Over the years Trinity Lutheran Church dwindled in numbers and the church was closed. A dedicated group started to raise funds to move it to Manning, Iowa to be placed alongside a Hausbarn from Germany and a German restaurant. Somehow the funds were raised. You can go to David Kusel’s website and find a video of the church and the move. I thank God that the church did not fall to the wrecking ball, but will continue to be viewed as part of their historic park and used for special occasions and weddings.
February 26, 2013
Iowa in a time ago
Spring is but a few weeks away. I keep waiting for the warm, warm days of the desert. A blog by a friend and fellow writer stirred my memories of spring in Iowa. Here is one more blog about my Iowa days.
Every year Papa and Mama would make a trip into town to order corn, wheat, and oat seeds for planting. They would also go to the “nursery” part and order two hundred or more baby chickens. Every little town in our rural community had the feed stores. One little town near the last farm we lived on had a population of forty, but they had a feed store. Of course, it also had a working blacksmith. The other business was the trucking firm.
Some of these stores were called Nursery, but those were usually in larger communities as they were the ones that incubated the eggs and culled the baby chicks for sex. A certain percent of the roosters would be destroyed. It was hens the farmers wanted, not roosters at least not more than one or two. The nurseries like the feed stores, would stock seeds, hog, chicken, and other livestock food, and a smattering of farm tools.
Then the telephone spread throughout the countryside. The farmer could sit at home, work out his order and call it in. He would receive a call back about cost and delivery and then go in and pay the bill or send his check. This eliminated wasted time from the fields and the store usually needed one less clerk. Farms gradually diminished in number as the land holders became larger and specialized. Instead of three farmers from either side of a mile of road calling in, it would be one. Wives went to work in town rather than garden or tend chickens. The need for the old fashion center of ordering and socializing became less and less. These stores evolved into places that carried hay and developed a connection with a veterinary. Most of the stores just disappeared. Technology had struck a blow, but it went unnoticed.
The feed stores were still in existence when my brothers with their wives and my daughter and I visited our retired parents in 1976. They had sold their small farm to a larger farmer and bought a small home in a nearby town. Relatives and friends kept dropping by for a visit.
One day a woman of about forty-five came to visit my parents and brothers. Her family had been neighbors thirty years before. She had returned from California and was complaining about how she always hated chickens. She used about twenty minutes recounting horror tales of caring for chickens that could develop a disease, acquire fleas, escape from the pen, etc. She then told how she still ordered two hundred chickens every spring.
My uncle looked at her, and I saw the corner of his mouth twitching. “You hate chickens that much?”
“Yes,” and she shuddered. “They are such nasty creatures.”
“I don’t believe you,” said my uncle and started to laugh.
She sat there a minute. “You know, you’re right, but they do make a great story.”
Every year Papa and Mama would make a trip into town to order corn, wheat, and oat seeds for planting. They would also go to the “nursery” part and order two hundred or more baby chickens. Every little town in our rural community had the feed stores. One little town near the last farm we lived on had a population of forty, but they had a feed store. Of course, it also had a working blacksmith. The other business was the trucking firm.
Some of these stores were called Nursery, but those were usually in larger communities as they were the ones that incubated the eggs and culled the baby chicks for sex. A certain percent of the roosters would be destroyed. It was hens the farmers wanted, not roosters at least not more than one or two. The nurseries like the feed stores, would stock seeds, hog, chicken, and other livestock food, and a smattering of farm tools.
Then the telephone spread throughout the countryside. The farmer could sit at home, work out his order and call it in. He would receive a call back about cost and delivery and then go in and pay the bill or send his check. This eliminated wasted time from the fields and the store usually needed one less clerk. Farms gradually diminished in number as the land holders became larger and specialized. Instead of three farmers from either side of a mile of road calling in, it would be one. Wives went to work in town rather than garden or tend chickens. The need for the old fashion center of ordering and socializing became less and less. These stores evolved into places that carried hay and developed a connection with a veterinary. Most of the stores just disappeared. Technology had struck a blow, but it went unnoticed.
The feed stores were still in existence when my brothers with their wives and my daughter and I visited our retired parents in 1976. They had sold their small farm to a larger farmer and bought a small home in a nearby town. Relatives and friends kept dropping by for a visit.
One day a woman of about forty-five came to visit my parents and brothers. Her family had been neighbors thirty years before. She had returned from California and was complaining about how she always hated chickens. She used about twenty minutes recounting horror tales of caring for chickens that could develop a disease, acquire fleas, escape from the pen, etc. She then told how she still ordered two hundred chickens every spring.
My uncle looked at her, and I saw the corner of his mouth twitching. “You hate chickens that much?”
“Yes,” and she shuddered. “They are such nasty creatures.”
“I don’t believe you,” said my uncle and started to laugh.
She sat there a minute. “You know, you’re right, but they do make a great story.”
February 16, 2013
Publishing A Book
It’s finally happened. My latest novel is published. dMon Publishing, LLC, a small press company accepted Earthbound. I did not realize it would be such a long time; nor that it would be so intense.. Janie Monares, the editor, kept feeding me reviewed chapters to edit and review. It was a totally new experience and took up a great deal of my writing. Each time a new chapter or two would arrive, I had to convince myself that this was writing time and drag myself away from the story I was already immersed in writing.
After the edits/reviews were done there was one more step. The publisher sent me the print proof copy by express mail. I had just spent months doing edits and reviews over all fifty-nine chapters in the book. This meant I had to read everyone again. I think I had it memorized by the time I finished, but I am so thankful for that process. There were about three small errors, but somehow a stray sentence was there. By reviewing it, the sentence was eliminated. Someone had told me if I was lucky enough to find an editor like Janie Monares, to follow every suggestion made. I did. I can’t thank her enough for all the time and effort she put into making Earthbound possible.
Some of the stories I started during that time are in the saved file. My blogs were few or based on items I had stored away in my Personal File for my family if some day they wanted to share those experiences. Thanks to all for your kind words during those months.
Like all authors, the next one is in the process of being written. Mine seems to be different from most. They write their stories and are satisfied with the third or fourth draft. I am not, at least not with my writing. When I write, I am in the world of my characters. I see them. I hear them speaking and the timbre of their voices. I see their clothes and smell the odors that surround them. I’ll even write down their history as they tell it to me. Later I need to return and put those sentences in my notes. If I realize what they are doing, the family history enters the notes before it hits the pages of the story. When I type those it’s like auto typing and the basic story is down and done, but it is not in any form to submit to anyone.
Once when reading about Rudyard Kipling, I read that he felt all stories should be set aside for two years before returning to do the polishing. The setting aside has been a good policy for me. That means when I return, I can be more objective. I’ve cut out entire chapters. A few times instead of deleting the chapter, it will be saved as a “future” chapter for that person.
If anyone is interested in Earthbound, Volume 1, here is the Link:
http://www.amazon.com/Earthbound-Volu...
After the edits/reviews were done there was one more step. The publisher sent me the print proof copy by express mail. I had just spent months doing edits and reviews over all fifty-nine chapters in the book. This meant I had to read everyone again. I think I had it memorized by the time I finished, but I am so thankful for that process. There were about three small errors, but somehow a stray sentence was there. By reviewing it, the sentence was eliminated. Someone had told me if I was lucky enough to find an editor like Janie Monares, to follow every suggestion made. I did. I can’t thank her enough for all the time and effort she put into making Earthbound possible.
Some of the stories I started during that time are in the saved file. My blogs were few or based on items I had stored away in my Personal File for my family if some day they wanted to share those experiences. Thanks to all for your kind words during those months.
Like all authors, the next one is in the process of being written. Mine seems to be different from most. They write their stories and are satisfied with the third or fourth draft. I am not, at least not with my writing. When I write, I am in the world of my characters. I see them. I hear them speaking and the timbre of their voices. I see their clothes and smell the odors that surround them. I’ll even write down their history as they tell it to me. Later I need to return and put those sentences in my notes. If I realize what they are doing, the family history enters the notes before it hits the pages of the story. When I type those it’s like auto typing and the basic story is down and done, but it is not in any form to submit to anyone.
Once when reading about Rudyard Kipling, I read that he felt all stories should be set aside for two years before returning to do the polishing. The setting aside has been a good policy for me. That means when I return, I can be more objective. I’ve cut out entire chapters. A few times instead of deleting the chapter, it will be saved as a “future” chapter for that person.
If anyone is interested in Earthbound, Volume 1, here is the Link:
http://www.amazon.com/Earthbound-Volu...
February 7, 2013
Family
My apologies for not blogging, but I had an edit/review to do. dMon Publishing says it will be live before the end of the month. To compensate for my absence I've chosen something longer.
My parents had two families. No, they never divorced or remarried, but my two older brothers were born prior to the depression and the dry years. Contrary to what many tell you, there are effective ways to prevent childbirth during childbearing years. I am not, however, going into the “folk medicine” that Mama taught me. When I went the modern way with controlling a birth, my mother sniffed. “Waste of money.”
We all grew up on a farm in Iowa. My parents rented and we were on two different farms until I was eight years old and they purchased their own farm. All farm children work, either in the garden, house, or fields, from the time they are five or six until they leave the household. It was how a family survived. The neighbors had children that one would see in school or at church, but to have an afternoon playing with each other was rare. At times we would see them at PTA functions, Farm Bureau meetings, church picnics, carnivals, dances, or family gatherings. If there was playtime during the week, it would be with your own siblings. I didn’t realize until I was older how close my two older brothers were as they were so different.
The oldest was dark haired and blue eyed, quick and graceful in physical movements. He broke our Morgan/mustang farm workhorse to ride without a saddle. He could tap dance down the stairs, jump on a chair, and down without missing a beat. The other one was blond and blue eyed, but was physically handicapped and did not have his brother’s strength. He became the scholar and earned the nickname of professor while in high school.
Mama realized her biological clock (not the words they used then) was running out if she were to ever use the little girl’s name she had picked out for her little girl before she was even married. She surprised Papa when she told him she was expecting. Papa had thought there would not be anymore children and asked her is she had used certain procedures. Mama couldn’t lie and told him the truth. “No, I want my little girl.”
He did not speak to her for three weeks. Of course, once I was there, I became his little princess and could do no wrong. Mother, however, was much more realistic about my capabilities. Her surprise was becoming pregnant again. My youngest brother was born eleven months and three weeks later. I once told my mother, “I’ll never have a baby less than a year apart.” God must have laughed uproariously at the statement, but that is another story.
My youngest brother was the only one to posses brown eyes and dark hair like my mother. He had rheumatic fever prior to starting school and it took him years to recover. I was the one who protected him at school or walking home. He, of course, had to follow my lead and help re-enact the stories I made up at home. That lasted until we were nearly teenagers and his recovery was complete.
The semi-isolation of living on a farm meant that your siblings were your playmates and developed a family closeness and protective attitude that seems to have vanished over the generations. Bringing a boyfriend home when all were present could present a real challenge. One evening, when I was seventeen, I learned just how close my two older brothers were.
My date arrived in a fairly new model auto. Since he was from a local farm, manners dictated that he come in and say, “hello,” to the family before we left. I’m not going into the part about having to secure up one of the dogs. That left the young man rather leery as the dog meant to protect me from this interloper.
I was excited about being home again and explained that he would need to meet the rest of my family. My oldest brother, his wife, and two children had come up from Council Bluffs to spend the weekend. My other older brother had brought me with him from California.
Papa was in the rocking chair by the radio, regaling my sister-in-law with all the jokes he had memorized. She was seated on one of the dining chairs laughing and clapping. Mama was busy with scissors cutting out paper pirate hats, paper vests, and making paper swords for my six-year-old niece and eight-year-old nephew. The two older brothers were seated at the dining room table with their beers and involved in a political argument, they didn’t notice my younger brother moving around the table and taking long drinks from their cans.
“Just because it is printed in the Reader’s Digest, doesn’t make it true!” My college educated brother was adamant. He slammed his fist on the table and lifted the beer can to his mouth, certain that he had won that point. His eyes widened and he realized it was an empty can.
“He’s been drinking our beer!” He shouted.
My oldest brother picked up his empty can, rose from the chair, and said, “Let’s get him.”
The youngest brother broke for the door and my date and I moved out of the way as the two older brothers were already in pursuit. They banged out the front door and then the door of the front porch.
“What was that about?” My sister-in-law stopped laughing at Papa’s jokes long enough to ask.
“He drank their beer.” I replied.
Papa smiled benignly. Mama sniffed, “That was foolish,” and went back to work with her scissors. My niece and nephew were wide-eyed and giggly.
At that point, we heard my youngest brother screaming from the front yard. We all ignored it while I introduced my date to my sister-in-law, and we turned to go after Papa said, “Don’t be too late,” and went back to telling jokes.
My older brothers were returning to the house, slapping each other on the back, and congratulating each other.
“Let’s see if there is another beer left,” said one.
The youngest was following behind brushing off the grass and dirt. He veered around the other direction to go into the other door to hide his embarrassment.
“Uh, your family is a little different,” was all my date said. He was probably wondering if that was staged for his benefit should anything happen to me.
My parents had two families. No, they never divorced or remarried, but my two older brothers were born prior to the depression and the dry years. Contrary to what many tell you, there are effective ways to prevent childbirth during childbearing years. I am not, however, going into the “folk medicine” that Mama taught me. When I went the modern way with controlling a birth, my mother sniffed. “Waste of money.”
We all grew up on a farm in Iowa. My parents rented and we were on two different farms until I was eight years old and they purchased their own farm. All farm children work, either in the garden, house, or fields, from the time they are five or six until they leave the household. It was how a family survived. The neighbors had children that one would see in school or at church, but to have an afternoon playing with each other was rare. At times we would see them at PTA functions, Farm Bureau meetings, church picnics, carnivals, dances, or family gatherings. If there was playtime during the week, it would be with your own siblings. I didn’t realize until I was older how close my two older brothers were as they were so different.
The oldest was dark haired and blue eyed, quick and graceful in physical movements. He broke our Morgan/mustang farm workhorse to ride without a saddle. He could tap dance down the stairs, jump on a chair, and down without missing a beat. The other one was blond and blue eyed, but was physically handicapped and did not have his brother’s strength. He became the scholar and earned the nickname of professor while in high school.
Mama realized her biological clock (not the words they used then) was running out if she were to ever use the little girl’s name she had picked out for her little girl before she was even married. She surprised Papa when she told him she was expecting. Papa had thought there would not be anymore children and asked her is she had used certain procedures. Mama couldn’t lie and told him the truth. “No, I want my little girl.”
He did not speak to her for three weeks. Of course, once I was there, I became his little princess and could do no wrong. Mother, however, was much more realistic about my capabilities. Her surprise was becoming pregnant again. My youngest brother was born eleven months and three weeks later. I once told my mother, “I’ll never have a baby less than a year apart.” God must have laughed uproariously at the statement, but that is another story.
My youngest brother was the only one to posses brown eyes and dark hair like my mother. He had rheumatic fever prior to starting school and it took him years to recover. I was the one who protected him at school or walking home. He, of course, had to follow my lead and help re-enact the stories I made up at home. That lasted until we were nearly teenagers and his recovery was complete.
The semi-isolation of living on a farm meant that your siblings were your playmates and developed a family closeness and protective attitude that seems to have vanished over the generations. Bringing a boyfriend home when all were present could present a real challenge. One evening, when I was seventeen, I learned just how close my two older brothers were.
My date arrived in a fairly new model auto. Since he was from a local farm, manners dictated that he come in and say, “hello,” to the family before we left. I’m not going into the part about having to secure up one of the dogs. That left the young man rather leery as the dog meant to protect me from this interloper.
I was excited about being home again and explained that he would need to meet the rest of my family. My oldest brother, his wife, and two children had come up from Council Bluffs to spend the weekend. My other older brother had brought me with him from California.
Papa was in the rocking chair by the radio, regaling my sister-in-law with all the jokes he had memorized. She was seated on one of the dining chairs laughing and clapping. Mama was busy with scissors cutting out paper pirate hats, paper vests, and making paper swords for my six-year-old niece and eight-year-old nephew. The two older brothers were seated at the dining room table with their beers and involved in a political argument, they didn’t notice my younger brother moving around the table and taking long drinks from their cans.
“Just because it is printed in the Reader’s Digest, doesn’t make it true!” My college educated brother was adamant. He slammed his fist on the table and lifted the beer can to his mouth, certain that he had won that point. His eyes widened and he realized it was an empty can.
“He’s been drinking our beer!” He shouted.
My oldest brother picked up his empty can, rose from the chair, and said, “Let’s get him.”
The youngest brother broke for the door and my date and I moved out of the way as the two older brothers were already in pursuit. They banged out the front door and then the door of the front porch.
“What was that about?” My sister-in-law stopped laughing at Papa’s jokes long enough to ask.
“He drank their beer.” I replied.
Papa smiled benignly. Mama sniffed, “That was foolish,” and went back to work with her scissors. My niece and nephew were wide-eyed and giggly.
At that point, we heard my youngest brother screaming from the front yard. We all ignored it while I introduced my date to my sister-in-law, and we turned to go after Papa said, “Don’t be too late,” and went back to telling jokes.
My older brothers were returning to the house, slapping each other on the back, and congratulating each other.
“Let’s see if there is another beer left,” said one.
The youngest was following behind brushing off the grass and dirt. He veered around the other direction to go into the other door to hide his embarrassment.
“Uh, your family is a little different,” was all my date said. He was probably wondering if that was staged for his benefit should anything happen to me.
January 18, 2013
The Graduation
People have told me how much they enjoy my growing up memories. Here's another.
Are the walls of the University of Iowa ivy covered? I don’t really remember. It all started when my mother awakened me one bitterly cold Iowa morning in January at 2:00 p.m. when I was 12. It was so cold there was ice inside of the north window at least ½ inch thick. There was no heat register in my room to permit the flow of warm air from the stove below. That room belonged to my youngest brother who had had rheumatic fever.
Two p.m. is not my waking hour. If she hadn’t pulled the feather bed off of me and lit the lamp, I would have remained there. She trudged down the hall and woke my eleven-year-old brother.
It was a special day as we were going to Iowa City to watch my middle brother graduate from the University of Iowa. The year was 1950 in the state of Iowa.
My brother awoke rapidly. The thought of driving all the way to Iowa City and eating breakfast in a restaurant was all he needed to be wide-awake. Somehow I pulled on my clothes and made a mad dash for the little house outside. The suitcase with our good clothes was already in the trunk of the car.
By 2:30 a.m. we were all in the 1940 Chevrolet going down our rutted, dirt road to Highway 30. It was only five miles away. At least this car had a heater unlike the 1932 Chevrolet my father had all the other years I can remember. Just try traveling on a freezing day winter day and the windows are frozen shut, any blanket inadequate and one’s father smoking a cigar.
Papa had sold the cattle and must have received a decent price to buy another car, but the speedometer wasn’t working. Mama used a clock to time our speed. On the pavement, we hit sixty miles an hour.
“We’ll be in Iowa City at least and hour before we told Norman,” my father boasted.
We stopped at some small restaurant for breakfast. Papa order the least expensive breakfast on the menu: oatmeal for all. I hate oatmeal and still do, but he had promised hot chocolate for all. The hot chocolate was covered with tiny marshmallows. The waitress had put on extra for the children. This was turning into a disaster. I detested marshmallows and still do. The chocolate was hot and scalded my tongue. I consoled myself with the thought we would be eating lunch at the Tea Room where my brother had worked while attending the University. There was no restaurant in our little farm town other than a hamburger and malt shop. Nothing else was really on the menu and Papa did not believe in dinners out when Mama cooked so well.
The roads were in surprisingly good shape until Iowa City. To pass the time we read Burma Shave signs, sang hymns, and listened to Mama and Papa do their own strange Can You Top this bickering. As we neared Iowa City the ice began to coat the landscape. In Iowa City, Papa had to watch the streets for ice and Mama looked at the signs. The parking lot was a sheet of ice. Since we all wore overshoes, this should have been no problem. Papa got out and went to check the numbers on the doors to make sure we had followed directions. He returned with a huge grin.
“This is it. Everybody out.”
Mother opened the door, stepped out, and froze, too fearful to take another step. Papa grabbed her by the arm and slid her along.
To me the whole city thing was a disappointment. We really hadn’t seen much except grey lead skies, gray pavement, and grayish looking buildings in the morning’s grey light.
We crossed the parking lot and walked up the sidewalk to my bother’s door and Papa knocked. There was no response. This was puzzling as we would have all been up on the farm by this time. Papa closed his fist and banged on door. From inside came a muffled sound that could have been. “I’m coming.”
The door opened partially to reveal my brother trying to stay out of the cold.
All that came out of his mouth was a gargle of sounds. “Uh, ah, oh, uh, ah.” This was from an English major, graduating magna cum laude. I considered it odd.
“It’s cold out here,” said my father. “And your Mother is having trouble standing.”
“Uh, I, uh, we didn’t expect you so early,” said my brother as he stepped back and swung the door wider allowing us to enter the stuffy, smoke laden room.
That they hadn’t expected us so early was obvious even to my twelve-year-old eyes. Ashtrays overflowed, empty lipstick smeared glasses, empty wine and beer bottles, dirty plates, and bowls were strewn about on every available flat space. The apartment was a studio. Norman and his roommate slept on daybeds and one daybed still held a snoring man. On the wall were various prints. Two were by Picasso pink lady with misplaced body parts and a blue man with guitar. One of Toulouse LaTrek’s cancan dancers, and a print of one of Rueben’s fleshy ladies; two male figures were in the latter, but I doubt if my younger brother was looking at the male figures. My father pointed at one of the Picasso’s and asked, “What is that?”
Brother Norman was trying to soothe my mother who was sniffing, wrinkling her nose (sure signs of her disproval) as she picked up dirty dishes and ashtrays while muttering under her breath.
“Those are prints of Pablo Picasso’s works.” Norman got no farther as my father was doubled up laughing. His loud voice woke up the sleeping man. The man became as red-faced as my brother. He hurriedly ran to the bathroom and upon returning offered to leave.
Mother let Norman hang our coats but she continued picking up. Wanting to know where the soap was for washing and where we were to change into our “other” clothes. Norman was becoming more coherent and offered to do the dishes after we left. This produced another loud audible sniff from my mother.
“As soon as I finish these dishes we can have an early dinner before the graduation.” Lunch was dinner to farm families.
She directed the rest of us to change and Norman improvised a sheet wall before he carried out trash or stuffed it into a box. Mother finished up some of the dishes and asked for a dishtowel. Of course, there were none.
“Why don’t you get changed, Mom,” Norman suggested.
“No, you first.”
“This is what I’m wearing.”
Mother was staring at him with a horrified expression. The shirt and black trousers had seen better days. In fact, the slacks had a couple of holes that needed mending as did the once white shirt.
“You can’t graduate in those clothes. I’ll not have my son up there with holes in his pants!”
“The black robe will cover me. No one will see my clothes.”
Mother’s face reddened and there was fire in her black eyes as she turned to Papa. “We have to buy him decent clothes.”
Papa threw up his hands. “Where? If we do, there’s no money for a restaurant.”
“We can eat here.”
My heart sank. There went the lunch in a real Tea Room and Mama’s idea of a quick, cheap lunch was sardines, pork and beans, and soda crackers. I hated everything but the sardines.
Papa turned to Norman. “Where can we buy clothes here?”
“Uh, I haven’t really shopped. J. C. Penny’s is close.”
“Good.”
Needless to say we went to Penney’s where a white shirt, dark slacks, and a tie were purchased and then to the corner market. Mother’s idea of a lunch was purchased and they bought a bottle of orange pop for my brother and me to share. I didn’t like orange pop then and still don’t. At least there’s still the graduation, I thought. I envisioned a rich, dark wooden area like a theatre with fancy, plush seats.
The graduation ceremony, however, was in the gymnasium; a cold sterile place that smelled of sweat. There was a stage with a lectern, a desk holding baskets of diplomas, chairs for the officials, a U.S. flag on one side and an Iowan State flag on the other. It seems to me there was bunting on the edge of the stage, but I do not remember the colors. We were handed a program as we entered and were directed to the left side, third tier.
Mother managed to step up the bleacher’s first tier, steadied herself, and froze. Her acrophobia won over her resolve. Papa grasped her by the arms, lifted her to the next tier, stepped up, and repeated the process. Her face was red with embarrassment, but the idea of seeing her son graduate overrode any desire to leave. Somehow his achievement was her achievement. There it was in black and white on the program: his name, magna cum laude.
The band played and the speakers spoke. Then the long (to me) line of graduates started forward. I stared with fascination at one young, petite, smiling Chinese woman hobbling along on her incredibly small feet as fast as she could trying to keep up with the long strides of the rest I had read about the Chinese binding the feet of little girls, but had never seen the results. She was the first person I had ever seen of Asian descent. In fact, it was the first time I had ever seen anyone darker than my mother and here were several people from different countries of the world. This was like the people I met in books and magazines coming alive. We applauded madly for Norman.
It was another physical exercise for my father getting Mama down from the bleachers, but once down she held her head high and her shoulders straight, any embarrassment forgotten. She did frown when she realized Norman and friends were passing around something stronger than water. My father didn’t seem to be surprised. We took what books Norman wanted to send home with us as he was staying for a few more days to earn money before coming home in February.
On the way home we sang hymns and the old favorites of my parents. By that time I realized the songs they were singing were not the songs of modern day America, but I loved the melodies.
Before he reclaimed his books, I had read The Four Georges and Vanity Fair by Thackberry, and Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence, and discovered that Thomas Wolfe was still beyond me. That was a surprise as I read every adult book that my parents had carefully hidden in the closet.
Are the walls of the University of Iowa ivy covered? I don’t really remember. It all started when my mother awakened me one bitterly cold Iowa morning in January at 2:00 p.m. when I was 12. It was so cold there was ice inside of the north window at least ½ inch thick. There was no heat register in my room to permit the flow of warm air from the stove below. That room belonged to my youngest brother who had had rheumatic fever.
Two p.m. is not my waking hour. If she hadn’t pulled the feather bed off of me and lit the lamp, I would have remained there. She trudged down the hall and woke my eleven-year-old brother.
It was a special day as we were going to Iowa City to watch my middle brother graduate from the University of Iowa. The year was 1950 in the state of Iowa.
My brother awoke rapidly. The thought of driving all the way to Iowa City and eating breakfast in a restaurant was all he needed to be wide-awake. Somehow I pulled on my clothes and made a mad dash for the little house outside. The suitcase with our good clothes was already in the trunk of the car.
By 2:30 a.m. we were all in the 1940 Chevrolet going down our rutted, dirt road to Highway 30. It was only five miles away. At least this car had a heater unlike the 1932 Chevrolet my father had all the other years I can remember. Just try traveling on a freezing day winter day and the windows are frozen shut, any blanket inadequate and one’s father smoking a cigar.
Papa had sold the cattle and must have received a decent price to buy another car, but the speedometer wasn’t working. Mama used a clock to time our speed. On the pavement, we hit sixty miles an hour.
“We’ll be in Iowa City at least and hour before we told Norman,” my father boasted.
We stopped at some small restaurant for breakfast. Papa order the least expensive breakfast on the menu: oatmeal for all. I hate oatmeal and still do, but he had promised hot chocolate for all. The hot chocolate was covered with tiny marshmallows. The waitress had put on extra for the children. This was turning into a disaster. I detested marshmallows and still do. The chocolate was hot and scalded my tongue. I consoled myself with the thought we would be eating lunch at the Tea Room where my brother had worked while attending the University. There was no restaurant in our little farm town other than a hamburger and malt shop. Nothing else was really on the menu and Papa did not believe in dinners out when Mama cooked so well.
The roads were in surprisingly good shape until Iowa City. To pass the time we read Burma Shave signs, sang hymns, and listened to Mama and Papa do their own strange Can You Top this bickering. As we neared Iowa City the ice began to coat the landscape. In Iowa City, Papa had to watch the streets for ice and Mama looked at the signs. The parking lot was a sheet of ice. Since we all wore overshoes, this should have been no problem. Papa got out and went to check the numbers on the doors to make sure we had followed directions. He returned with a huge grin.
“This is it. Everybody out.”
Mother opened the door, stepped out, and froze, too fearful to take another step. Papa grabbed her by the arm and slid her along.
To me the whole city thing was a disappointment. We really hadn’t seen much except grey lead skies, gray pavement, and grayish looking buildings in the morning’s grey light.
We crossed the parking lot and walked up the sidewalk to my bother’s door and Papa knocked. There was no response. This was puzzling as we would have all been up on the farm by this time. Papa closed his fist and banged on door. From inside came a muffled sound that could have been. “I’m coming.”
The door opened partially to reveal my brother trying to stay out of the cold.
All that came out of his mouth was a gargle of sounds. “Uh, ah, oh, uh, ah.” This was from an English major, graduating magna cum laude. I considered it odd.
“It’s cold out here,” said my father. “And your Mother is having trouble standing.”
“Uh, I, uh, we didn’t expect you so early,” said my brother as he stepped back and swung the door wider allowing us to enter the stuffy, smoke laden room.
That they hadn’t expected us so early was obvious even to my twelve-year-old eyes. Ashtrays overflowed, empty lipstick smeared glasses, empty wine and beer bottles, dirty plates, and bowls were strewn about on every available flat space. The apartment was a studio. Norman and his roommate slept on daybeds and one daybed still held a snoring man. On the wall were various prints. Two were by Picasso pink lady with misplaced body parts and a blue man with guitar. One of Toulouse LaTrek’s cancan dancers, and a print of one of Rueben’s fleshy ladies; two male figures were in the latter, but I doubt if my younger brother was looking at the male figures. My father pointed at one of the Picasso’s and asked, “What is that?”
Brother Norman was trying to soothe my mother who was sniffing, wrinkling her nose (sure signs of her disproval) as she picked up dirty dishes and ashtrays while muttering under her breath.
“Those are prints of Pablo Picasso’s works.” Norman got no farther as my father was doubled up laughing. His loud voice woke up the sleeping man. The man became as red-faced as my brother. He hurriedly ran to the bathroom and upon returning offered to leave.
Mother let Norman hang our coats but she continued picking up. Wanting to know where the soap was for washing and where we were to change into our “other” clothes. Norman was becoming more coherent and offered to do the dishes after we left. This produced another loud audible sniff from my mother.
“As soon as I finish these dishes we can have an early dinner before the graduation.” Lunch was dinner to farm families.
She directed the rest of us to change and Norman improvised a sheet wall before he carried out trash or stuffed it into a box. Mother finished up some of the dishes and asked for a dishtowel. Of course, there were none.
“Why don’t you get changed, Mom,” Norman suggested.
“No, you first.”
“This is what I’m wearing.”
Mother was staring at him with a horrified expression. The shirt and black trousers had seen better days. In fact, the slacks had a couple of holes that needed mending as did the once white shirt.
“You can’t graduate in those clothes. I’ll not have my son up there with holes in his pants!”
“The black robe will cover me. No one will see my clothes.”
Mother’s face reddened and there was fire in her black eyes as she turned to Papa. “We have to buy him decent clothes.”
Papa threw up his hands. “Where? If we do, there’s no money for a restaurant.”
“We can eat here.”
My heart sank. There went the lunch in a real Tea Room and Mama’s idea of a quick, cheap lunch was sardines, pork and beans, and soda crackers. I hated everything but the sardines.
Papa turned to Norman. “Where can we buy clothes here?”
“Uh, I haven’t really shopped. J. C. Penny’s is close.”
“Good.”
Needless to say we went to Penney’s where a white shirt, dark slacks, and a tie were purchased and then to the corner market. Mother’s idea of a lunch was purchased and they bought a bottle of orange pop for my brother and me to share. I didn’t like orange pop then and still don’t. At least there’s still the graduation, I thought. I envisioned a rich, dark wooden area like a theatre with fancy, plush seats.
The graduation ceremony, however, was in the gymnasium; a cold sterile place that smelled of sweat. There was a stage with a lectern, a desk holding baskets of diplomas, chairs for the officials, a U.S. flag on one side and an Iowan State flag on the other. It seems to me there was bunting on the edge of the stage, but I do not remember the colors. We were handed a program as we entered and were directed to the left side, third tier.
Mother managed to step up the bleacher’s first tier, steadied herself, and froze. Her acrophobia won over her resolve. Papa grasped her by the arms, lifted her to the next tier, stepped up, and repeated the process. Her face was red with embarrassment, but the idea of seeing her son graduate overrode any desire to leave. Somehow his achievement was her achievement. There it was in black and white on the program: his name, magna cum laude.
The band played and the speakers spoke. Then the long (to me) line of graduates started forward. I stared with fascination at one young, petite, smiling Chinese woman hobbling along on her incredibly small feet as fast as she could trying to keep up with the long strides of the rest I had read about the Chinese binding the feet of little girls, but had never seen the results. She was the first person I had ever seen of Asian descent. In fact, it was the first time I had ever seen anyone darker than my mother and here were several people from different countries of the world. This was like the people I met in books and magazines coming alive. We applauded madly for Norman.
It was another physical exercise for my father getting Mama down from the bleachers, but once down she held her head high and her shoulders straight, any embarrassment forgotten. She did frown when she realized Norman and friends were passing around something stronger than water. My father didn’t seem to be surprised. We took what books Norman wanted to send home with us as he was staying for a few more days to earn money before coming home in February.
On the way home we sang hymns and the old favorites of my parents. By that time I realized the songs they were singing were not the songs of modern day America, but I loved the melodies.
Before he reclaimed his books, I had read The Four Georges and Vanity Fair by Thackberry, and Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence, and discovered that Thomas Wolfe was still beyond me. That was a surprise as I read every adult book that my parents had carefully hidden in the closet.
January 12, 2013
The Next Big Thing
A writing friend, Lena Winfrey Seder, tagged me in The Next Big Thing, where someone tags a noteworthy author, who in turn tags five other authors and bloggers. It is a way for authors and bloggers to share with readers and fans exciting news about their new and upcoming projects.
Lena published The Metamorphosis of a Muslim in 2011. Her writing skills include poetry, screenplays, fiction, and, of course, blogging. Lena is the proud mother of three sons and a daughter. It really makes you wonder how she manages all of that.
Her current work-in-progress has been renamed Between Bite and Might. This will be book one of the Clara Walker series.
Lena, you've given me quite a challenge!
Here are my responses to the questions from The Next Big Thing:
What is the working title of your book?
Earthbound
Where did the idea come from for the book?
This is a book that has lived in the dark recesses of my mind since I finished Gather The Children. I swore I wouldn't write it, but the main characters kept chattering in my mind. It was as though MacDonald and Anna insisted their story be told.
What genre does your book fall under?
It is a Science Fiction, but it is also the family saga of the MacDonald family and how alien genes will be mixed with human. MacDonald is the name a stranded alien uses on Earth. The story unfolds in the western United States during 1843 through April 1861.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
The actress for Anna is an easy pick. It should be Nicole Kidman. MacDonald is far more difficult. I don’t know of any actor that could play this giant of a man.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
An alien mutant struggles to survive and find a counselor on a violent planet called Earth.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
It is being published through dMon Publishing, LLC.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
It was close to nine months as I had to make sure it agreed with the events mentioned in Gather The Children. I'd look something up and then start reading.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
That is really difficult. I suppose the closet would be the Dune series. The other one I think of is the series The People by Zenna Henderson.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
The story was there in my mind and Anna, the main character, was insistent that the tale of her missing children and love for MacDonald be told.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
This story contain the history of the western United States (you don’t want to know how many pages of notes I have), but it is also about basic emotions and how people, or beings as MacDonald names the different species, need each other. Love, friendship, and companionship are all basic needs.
My five picks for authors to meet and follow are:
Alan Place
Yezall Strongheart
Anna L. Walls
Barry Parham
Joy Johnson
All of these writers have different styles and write in different genres, and they are all excellent writers. I hope you will visit their blogs and find out more about their books.
For those I have tagged, please follow the rules for The Next Big Thing:
• Answer the 10 questions about your current WIP (work in progress).
• Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over to meet them.
• Mention the person who tagged you.
I've met so many fine writers while online and one right here in Twentynine Palms, that it was really difficult to nail it down to five. Please don’t take umbrage if you weren't selected.
Earthbound is being edited and reviewed now and should be out within the next three to four months. The cover is done. Go to http://www.maricollier.com and scroll down. I think it is fabulous!
Lena published The Metamorphosis of a Muslim in 2011. Her writing skills include poetry, screenplays, fiction, and, of course, blogging. Lena is the proud mother of three sons and a daughter. It really makes you wonder how she manages all of that.
Her current work-in-progress has been renamed Between Bite and Might. This will be book one of the Clara Walker series.
Lena, you've given me quite a challenge!
Here are my responses to the questions from The Next Big Thing:
What is the working title of your book?
Earthbound
Where did the idea come from for the book?
This is a book that has lived in the dark recesses of my mind since I finished Gather The Children. I swore I wouldn't write it, but the main characters kept chattering in my mind. It was as though MacDonald and Anna insisted their story be told.
What genre does your book fall under?
It is a Science Fiction, but it is also the family saga of the MacDonald family and how alien genes will be mixed with human. MacDonald is the name a stranded alien uses on Earth. The story unfolds in the western United States during 1843 through April 1861.
Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
The actress for Anna is an easy pick. It should be Nicole Kidman. MacDonald is far more difficult. I don’t know of any actor that could play this giant of a man.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
An alien mutant struggles to survive and find a counselor on a violent planet called Earth.
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
It is being published through dMon Publishing, LLC.
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
It was close to nine months as I had to make sure it agreed with the events mentioned in Gather The Children. I'd look something up and then start reading.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
That is really difficult. I suppose the closet would be the Dune series. The other one I think of is the series The People by Zenna Henderson.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
The story was there in my mind and Anna, the main character, was insistent that the tale of her missing children and love for MacDonald be told.
What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
This story contain the history of the western United States (you don’t want to know how many pages of notes I have), but it is also about basic emotions and how people, or beings as MacDonald names the different species, need each other. Love, friendship, and companionship are all basic needs.
My five picks for authors to meet and follow are:
Alan Place
Yezall Strongheart
Anna L. Walls
Barry Parham
Joy Johnson
All of these writers have different styles and write in different genres, and they are all excellent writers. I hope you will visit their blogs and find out more about their books.
For those I have tagged, please follow the rules for The Next Big Thing:
• Answer the 10 questions about your current WIP (work in progress).
• Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over to meet them.
• Mention the person who tagged you.
I've met so many fine writers while online and one right here in Twentynine Palms, that it was really difficult to nail it down to five. Please don’t take umbrage if you weren't selected.
Earthbound is being edited and reviewed now and should be out within the next three to four months. The cover is done. Go to http://www.maricollier.com and scroll down. I think it is fabulous!
