Mari Collier's Blog, page 9
July 27, 2013
Free on Smashwords
You can pick up Once A Frog Always A Frog free on Smashwords.com
It's a funny, twisted tale. https://www.smashwords.com/books/sear...
It's a funny, twisted tale. https://www.smashwords.com/books/sear...
July 20, 2013
My Town Remembered
Our farm was seven miles from the town that held the county courthouse. This was the town that had a jail, sheriff’s office, Library, Memorial Building, and a park. The Library was part of the park area. When you came up the main street (from Highway 30) it branched around the park in a huge circle of pavement. There was a grandstand for the band to play on summer evenings and a (to me) huge brass cannon as a Civil War tribute to the Union veterans.
The Courthouse which housed the sheriff’s office and jail, County Recorder and files, County Superintendent of Public Schools, and a small exhibit area. It was set in the middle of the block. The street then curved downward and across from the Library was the Memorial Building. The fire station was part of the Memorial Building. It had a fantastic wood floor and stage area. It could be used for banquets, Farm Bureau meetings, and dances. I can remember my parents teaching me the polka and the schottische there. Since our farm had nothing but an outhouse, I was really impressed with their wonderful public toilet. It was tiled, brightly lit and the counter was marble. It had a real soap dispenser, and, of course, paper towels.
I remember being there one evening as the Farm Bureau was holding a countywide meeting. First there was the potluck meal. You can only imagine the food so many farm wives could bring in.
Keep in mind, my father never permitted Mama to make (what my husband called Gringo chili) with garlic or chili spices. If we wanted a spicier taste, we had to add the chili powder at the table. Trust me, it is not the same as simmering chilies in Colorado Chili, Chili Verde, Tex-Mex (chili with beans), or the casserole tamale pie. Papa ate someone’s well chili seasoned tamale pie that evening and in his loud voice (neither Papa nor I required a microphone to be heard) asked Mama, “Why don’t you make something like that?” If looks could have killed, he surely would have dropped dead that evening instead of more than forty years later.
One year the city held a Centennial. Papa even bought a half-dollar commemorative coin for each of his children from the bank. Mama made the costumes for my younger brother and me. We were to be dressed as pioneers. My brother wanted to be a cowboy. It didn't matter that we were on the prairies and ranches were in the West. The only cattlemen around us were farmers or stockyard people.
To create the vest and chaps, Mama took an old leather jacket of my older brother that had never been thrown away. For the trim, she used soda pop lids from the glass bottles. There were no cans at that time. She took rawhide, punched holes up and down the front of the vest and the sides of the chaps, and threaded the rawhide through hole, then through the cap, and tied it down. The rawhide hung down from the bottle caps about three inches. I still wonder how Mama managed to make them so even.
She made a long skirt for me and a blouse (that I was to wear later to school) with puffy, long sleeves. I was allowed to wear a cowboy hat too. I would have preferred my brother’s outfit, but saying so horrified my mother. Of course, we did not win any prizes although several women told mother she should have been given something for originality. They all oohed and aahed over my brother’s vest and chaps.
When I was a teenager, I would walk around the park with my friends and the young men who had cars would circle the park and honk. No, we did not get into the cars with them. We weren't old enough as none of us were allowed to date until we turned sixteen. That didn't mean we didn't have boyfriends, it meant we could not get in a car with someone old enough to drive. We knew if we did, someone would tell our parents. That someone was always a sibling. Of course, they could pull into a parking space and we could talk. We just couldn't get into the car.
The last time I visited my home town, the bandstand was gone as were the elm trees that once ringed the park. The Dutch elm disease had killed them all. Even the grass looked a tad neglected. The County Court House was still there, but a new office for the Sheriff and his jail facilities had been built. I put the Court House I remembered into my short story, Once A Frog Always A Frog. You’ll find it here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...
Many of the stores I remembered where gone. At least the movie theater was still there. I may write about that next time.
The Courthouse which housed the sheriff’s office and jail, County Recorder and files, County Superintendent of Public Schools, and a small exhibit area. It was set in the middle of the block. The street then curved downward and across from the Library was the Memorial Building. The fire station was part of the Memorial Building. It had a fantastic wood floor and stage area. It could be used for banquets, Farm Bureau meetings, and dances. I can remember my parents teaching me the polka and the schottische there. Since our farm had nothing but an outhouse, I was really impressed with their wonderful public toilet. It was tiled, brightly lit and the counter was marble. It had a real soap dispenser, and, of course, paper towels.
I remember being there one evening as the Farm Bureau was holding a countywide meeting. First there was the potluck meal. You can only imagine the food so many farm wives could bring in.
Keep in mind, my father never permitted Mama to make (what my husband called Gringo chili) with garlic or chili spices. If we wanted a spicier taste, we had to add the chili powder at the table. Trust me, it is not the same as simmering chilies in Colorado Chili, Chili Verde, Tex-Mex (chili with beans), or the casserole tamale pie. Papa ate someone’s well chili seasoned tamale pie that evening and in his loud voice (neither Papa nor I required a microphone to be heard) asked Mama, “Why don’t you make something like that?” If looks could have killed, he surely would have dropped dead that evening instead of more than forty years later.
One year the city held a Centennial. Papa even bought a half-dollar commemorative coin for each of his children from the bank. Mama made the costumes for my younger brother and me. We were to be dressed as pioneers. My brother wanted to be a cowboy. It didn't matter that we were on the prairies and ranches were in the West. The only cattlemen around us were farmers or stockyard people.
To create the vest and chaps, Mama took an old leather jacket of my older brother that had never been thrown away. For the trim, she used soda pop lids from the glass bottles. There were no cans at that time. She took rawhide, punched holes up and down the front of the vest and the sides of the chaps, and threaded the rawhide through hole, then through the cap, and tied it down. The rawhide hung down from the bottle caps about three inches. I still wonder how Mama managed to make them so even.
She made a long skirt for me and a blouse (that I was to wear later to school) with puffy, long sleeves. I was allowed to wear a cowboy hat too. I would have preferred my brother’s outfit, but saying so horrified my mother. Of course, we did not win any prizes although several women told mother she should have been given something for originality. They all oohed and aahed over my brother’s vest and chaps.
When I was a teenager, I would walk around the park with my friends and the young men who had cars would circle the park and honk. No, we did not get into the cars with them. We weren't old enough as none of us were allowed to date until we turned sixteen. That didn't mean we didn't have boyfriends, it meant we could not get in a car with someone old enough to drive. We knew if we did, someone would tell our parents. That someone was always a sibling. Of course, they could pull into a parking space and we could talk. We just couldn't get into the car.
The last time I visited my home town, the bandstand was gone as were the elm trees that once ringed the park. The Dutch elm disease had killed them all. Even the grass looked a tad neglected. The County Court House was still there, but a new office for the Sheriff and his jail facilities had been built. I put the Court House I remembered into my short story, Once A Frog Always A Frog. You’ll find it here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...
Many of the stores I remembered where gone. At least the movie theater was still there. I may write about that next time.
July 12, 2013
Papa
I know I've described Mama in these Blogs, but I haven’t really told about my father. He was an Iowa farmer in the days before the huge machinery and mega farms they have now. Even though he had a modern tractor, he still used horses to plant corn. “The rows are straighter,” was his reasoning.
He was born before 1900. He never exceeded five foot seven. Mama always complained that she couldn't wear fashionable high heels as they would have made her taller than him.
Yes, he short according to today’s statures, but he was a solid, well built man of exceptional strength and his hands were huge. His hair when a child was blond, as a young man dark blond, and when I remember him it was salt and pepper. His eyes were a deep blue. He lifted weights and had the ability to sling a corn knife into any target he picked out. Other than Mama and his family, his biggest love was the land. I remember him running his hands through the black Iowa loam and sniffing it. “See, that’s good dirt!” he exclaimed. “Smell it.” My brother and I dutifully did. I do not remember smelling any earth like that again.
Grandma did not believe in children playing. He was two years old when he found an abandoned revolver. He had a fine time playing with it until he was discovered. Grandma threw the offending article down the privy. In retaliation, he ran away. My grandparents went after him in a buggy. His memory was phenomenal. He not only remembered those incidents, but he remembered the fires on top of the hills in 1900 when people who believed the end of the world was at hand. He still laughed about that when I was a child.
Papa’s schooling ended after the third grade. He came down with rheumatic fever and was in bed for over one year. It took another year for him to recover. By that time, he was twelve years old; big enough to work in the fields. Later, he would teach himself to read and write English by reading the Chicago Herald American. His spelling remained atrocious, but readable. He read classic English novels and classic German novels.
As a young man he worked on the threshing crews that traveled the Midwest and earned (for that time) a fabulous amount. Of course, the check didn't go to him. It went to his father until Papa was twenty-one. Papa always resented that and he did not take any salary that his sons or his daughter earned.
My grandfather was a pacifist and he prevented Papa from enlisting in WWI when it started. It wasn't until after the harvest season of 1918 that he and his friend were able to enter the office to enlist. The war was over.
In 1919 his appendix burst and he crawled up to the house from the barnyard. Somehow he survived that, but it weakened him. Both he and my grandfather (I do not know why Grandpa was there) were admitted to the hospital where my mother was in training. Papa was smitten by her trim figure, black hair, and black eyes. His maternal cousin was also in training and he wrangled an introduction. They were married in 1920, a union that lasted fifty-nine years until Mama’s death.
What I remember most about Papa while growing up was that he loved to tell us (my youngest brother and me) bedtime stories. Some were Aesop’s Fables and some he made up. His blue eyes always lit up when he saw me and, yes, I was his little princess. I could do no wrong. He was horrified when he discovered that I had understood their conversations in German and told my little brother what we were getting for Christmas. That ended all their conversations in German within my earshot.
Mama insisted that my brother and I be permitted play time. As we grew older, Papa taught us checkers, but he showed no mercy. I think I was at least fourteen before I ever beat him in a game. They also taught us pinochle. Once again, Papa would show no mercy and the man remembered every card that was ever melded or played. Mama would be quite upset with him, but he would just grin.
He also loved all the old songs and would belt them out in that beautiful tenor voice. Mama would play the piano. When my oldest brother was home he would add the piano accordion or guitar. Mama had a lovely soprano. It would be quite a production and tears would appear in Papa’s eyes.
One incident I must relate. My allergies made it impossible for me to live in Iowa. The desert gave me back my health. Mama and I returned that first summer and Papa almost fainted at the change in me. He really hadn't believed Mama’s letters. By the end of summer I was back to hacking, sneezing, and vomiting. It was but a week before we left when Papa appeared at the back door.
“Can you come out for awhile? I have something for you.”
I nodded and followed him outside with my Kleenex clutched in hand. Outside he grabbed the ladder and said, “Wait here.”
He was back in a few minutes holding something behind his back. His face was red, but his blue eyes were beaming at me.
“I've saved this just for you.” He handed me the largest, most perfectly shaped and colored peach I have ever seen. “It’s a perfect peach for a perfect daughter.”
Stunned I cradled it in my hands, wishing I could really smell it, but I wanted to keep it, to savor that wonderful moment. I remember how some neighbors thought he was crazy for planting a peach tree in our orchid.
Papa looked at me, disappointment growing on his face. “Aren't you going to eat it?”
I knew I could not keep the peach and bit down. It was the most wonderful peach I have ever eaten. Anything they have in the store is a pale imitation.
He was born before 1900. He never exceeded five foot seven. Mama always complained that she couldn't wear fashionable high heels as they would have made her taller than him.
Yes, he short according to today’s statures, but he was a solid, well built man of exceptional strength and his hands were huge. His hair when a child was blond, as a young man dark blond, and when I remember him it was salt and pepper. His eyes were a deep blue. He lifted weights and had the ability to sling a corn knife into any target he picked out. Other than Mama and his family, his biggest love was the land. I remember him running his hands through the black Iowa loam and sniffing it. “See, that’s good dirt!” he exclaimed. “Smell it.” My brother and I dutifully did. I do not remember smelling any earth like that again.
Grandma did not believe in children playing. He was two years old when he found an abandoned revolver. He had a fine time playing with it until he was discovered. Grandma threw the offending article down the privy. In retaliation, he ran away. My grandparents went after him in a buggy. His memory was phenomenal. He not only remembered those incidents, but he remembered the fires on top of the hills in 1900 when people who believed the end of the world was at hand. He still laughed about that when I was a child.
Papa’s schooling ended after the third grade. He came down with rheumatic fever and was in bed for over one year. It took another year for him to recover. By that time, he was twelve years old; big enough to work in the fields. Later, he would teach himself to read and write English by reading the Chicago Herald American. His spelling remained atrocious, but readable. He read classic English novels and classic German novels.
As a young man he worked on the threshing crews that traveled the Midwest and earned (for that time) a fabulous amount. Of course, the check didn't go to him. It went to his father until Papa was twenty-one. Papa always resented that and he did not take any salary that his sons or his daughter earned.
My grandfather was a pacifist and he prevented Papa from enlisting in WWI when it started. It wasn't until after the harvest season of 1918 that he and his friend were able to enter the office to enlist. The war was over.
In 1919 his appendix burst and he crawled up to the house from the barnyard. Somehow he survived that, but it weakened him. Both he and my grandfather (I do not know why Grandpa was there) were admitted to the hospital where my mother was in training. Papa was smitten by her trim figure, black hair, and black eyes. His maternal cousin was also in training and he wrangled an introduction. They were married in 1920, a union that lasted fifty-nine years until Mama’s death.
What I remember most about Papa while growing up was that he loved to tell us (my youngest brother and me) bedtime stories. Some were Aesop’s Fables and some he made up. His blue eyes always lit up when he saw me and, yes, I was his little princess. I could do no wrong. He was horrified when he discovered that I had understood their conversations in German and told my little brother what we were getting for Christmas. That ended all their conversations in German within my earshot.
Mama insisted that my brother and I be permitted play time. As we grew older, Papa taught us checkers, but he showed no mercy. I think I was at least fourteen before I ever beat him in a game. They also taught us pinochle. Once again, Papa would show no mercy and the man remembered every card that was ever melded or played. Mama would be quite upset with him, but he would just grin.
He also loved all the old songs and would belt them out in that beautiful tenor voice. Mama would play the piano. When my oldest brother was home he would add the piano accordion or guitar. Mama had a lovely soprano. It would be quite a production and tears would appear in Papa’s eyes.
One incident I must relate. My allergies made it impossible for me to live in Iowa. The desert gave me back my health. Mama and I returned that first summer and Papa almost fainted at the change in me. He really hadn't believed Mama’s letters. By the end of summer I was back to hacking, sneezing, and vomiting. It was but a week before we left when Papa appeared at the back door.
“Can you come out for awhile? I have something for you.”
I nodded and followed him outside with my Kleenex clutched in hand. Outside he grabbed the ladder and said, “Wait here.”
He was back in a few minutes holding something behind his back. His face was red, but his blue eyes were beaming at me.
“I've saved this just for you.” He handed me the largest, most perfectly shaped and colored peach I have ever seen. “It’s a perfect peach for a perfect daughter.”
Stunned I cradled it in my hands, wishing I could really smell it, but I wanted to keep it, to savor that wonderful moment. I remember how some neighbors thought he was crazy for planting a peach tree in our orchid.
Papa looked at me, disappointment growing on his face. “Aren't you going to eat it?”
I knew I could not keep the peach and bit down. It was the most wonderful peach I have ever eaten. Anything they have in the store is a pale imitation.
July 1, 2013
Trilogy Review
Review of Mari Collier's Science Fiction Trilogy
By Greg Gilbert, Trustee and Professor Emeritus, Copper Mountain College
Mari Collier's science fiction trilogy, Earthbound, then Gather the Children, and Before We Leave, is original and compelling literature. Published long before the debut of the film Cowboys and Aliens, this is an epic work that transcends such shot-em-up entertainment by offering the reader generations of fully developed characters, rich sub-plots, and a captivating central story that brings American history to life and reaches into the cultures of interstellar civilizations. Collier's depictions of alien civilizations are as groundbreaking as her original concept of stranding extraterrestrials in 19th Century America. In the tradition of Roddenberry, Asimov, and Heinlein each culture represents facets of her characters and turns an insightful mirror toward our own human foibles - while presenting some rituals that Roddenberry could never have gotten past the television censors.
Of great interest is how Collier's characters are revealed by the day-to-day circumstances of 19th and 20th Century life. In her work we live with German and Lutheran immigrants, witness the development of small frontier towns, visit American cities on the eve of the Civil War, are kidnapped by Comanche warriors, experience frontier childbirths, herd cattle to distant markets, attend hard pew Lutheran church services, survive brawls with knives, fists, and guns, become consumed by the sweetness of courtship and enduring love, and suffer the premature losses of children and spouses to childbirth, influenza, and sudden violence.
Chief among Collier's accomplishments, though, is the towering figure of McDonald, a six-foot-nine interstellar half-breed with an insatiable sexual drive, two hearts, and a principled nobility that steadies the rudder of the entire ensemble. In the annuals of fictional characters, McDonald's figure towers both physically and in the hearts of those who read Collier's trilogy. A titled warrior who was abducted from his homeland, he comes into his own on Earth and devotes himself to a nearly century long process of learning how to navigate the Golden One, an enormous spacecraft that he has hidden beneath a hill adjacent to his ranch. McDonald will live hundreds of years, will marry an extraordinary earth woman and build a life; he'll father children and tell them about his homeland and his warrior mother, a statuesque woman whose legacy has shaped his life - and he'll contend with other entities from the stars, bronze eyed interstellar beings who walk among unsuspecting humans.
From the prairies of 19th Century Texas to the bordellos of Civil War New Orleans, from the 1920's Prohibition era and 1930's Great Depression to the vastness of space, Mari Collier immerses her readers into a thoroughly imagined and sweeping science fiction epic that provides us with characters who will remain in our memories long after we've closed her books.
By Greg Gilbert, Trustee and Professor Emeritus, Copper Mountain College
Mari Collier's science fiction trilogy, Earthbound, then Gather the Children, and Before We Leave, is original and compelling literature. Published long before the debut of the film Cowboys and Aliens, this is an epic work that transcends such shot-em-up entertainment by offering the reader generations of fully developed characters, rich sub-plots, and a captivating central story that brings American history to life and reaches into the cultures of interstellar civilizations. Collier's depictions of alien civilizations are as groundbreaking as her original concept of stranding extraterrestrials in 19th Century America. In the tradition of Roddenberry, Asimov, and Heinlein each culture represents facets of her characters and turns an insightful mirror toward our own human foibles - while presenting some rituals that Roddenberry could never have gotten past the television censors.
Of great interest is how Collier's characters are revealed by the day-to-day circumstances of 19th and 20th Century life. In her work we live with German and Lutheran immigrants, witness the development of small frontier towns, visit American cities on the eve of the Civil War, are kidnapped by Comanche warriors, experience frontier childbirths, herd cattle to distant markets, attend hard pew Lutheran church services, survive brawls with knives, fists, and guns, become consumed by the sweetness of courtship and enduring love, and suffer the premature losses of children and spouses to childbirth, influenza, and sudden violence.
Chief among Collier's accomplishments, though, is the towering figure of McDonald, a six-foot-nine interstellar half-breed with an insatiable sexual drive, two hearts, and a principled nobility that steadies the rudder of the entire ensemble. In the annuals of fictional characters, McDonald's figure towers both physically and in the hearts of those who read Collier's trilogy. A titled warrior who was abducted from his homeland, he comes into his own on Earth and devotes himself to a nearly century long process of learning how to navigate the Golden One, an enormous spacecraft that he has hidden beneath a hill adjacent to his ranch. McDonald will live hundreds of years, will marry an extraordinary earth woman and build a life; he'll father children and tell them about his homeland and his warrior mother, a statuesque woman whose legacy has shaped his life - and he'll contend with other entities from the stars, bronze eyed interstellar beings who walk among unsuspecting humans.
From the prairies of 19th Century Texas to the bordellos of Civil War New Orleans, from the 1920's Prohibition era and 1930's Great Depression to the vastness of space, Mari Collier immerses her readers into a thoroughly imagined and sweeping science fiction epic that provides us with characters who will remain in our memories long after we've closed her books.
June 24, 2013
Lessons From My Mother
Mama loved creating things. Her forte was crocheting. In our farm community, 99.9% of the women crocheted. Mother’s handiwork was so good that the local stores would buy hers for resale. As the only daughter she was determined that I learn that craft as well as embroidering and sewing.
My parents saved everything for reuse. It was their way of life. What one could re-use, adapt, or remake meant that money was not spent. Mama even saved the paper and string the stores would use to wrap the packages. The paper was put together as a booklet for my brother and I to color our own drawings. She would use it to cover the table surface for different tasks. When she made homemade noodles, she would put out the paper, then the wax paper, then the flour and place the pastry on top of the flour to roll out, let set, and cut before drying.
I had to wonder why she was saving the string. She would attach the string to the previous saved string and begin to roll them into a ball. Very little of the string would be the same size in diameter. By the time I was twelve she had amassed a shoe box or more of rolled balls of string. I should have known something evil was planned.
By the time I was twelve I was receiving lessons in embroidering and sewing on her treadle sewing machine. All of it was a chore to me as it took time away from reading. I really didn't enjoy any of it, but was becoming rather proficient at the simpler steps. I had not graduated to petit fours in embroidering, but could at least do more than outline. Sewing I hated, but endured.
One summer afternoon she announced. “Now it is time for you to learn to crochet.” She did not use the colorful crochet thread she purchased. She took out one of the string-filled boxes from her closet, and then she patted the spot on the sofa next to her.
My protests simply raised her ire and she glared at me with those black eyes. “You will learn. Now pay attention.” She began to chain.
“Now it’s your turn. Put the thread over your index finger like this and hold the crotchet needle thus.” And so it went. First the chain and then the different sized posts until she decided I was proficient enough to attempt making a dishrag. Of course, it was still the balls of different colored string of different diameters knotted at wherever they had ended that is was to use.
You cannot imagine the looks of that dishrag when my inept attempt was finished. It had to be the most miss-shaped, lumpy rag ever produced. I cringed inside when I handed it to her as a finished product and waited for her critique. None came.
Tears gathered in Mama’s eyes and she held that lumpy rag to her chest and started for their bedroom.
“Where are you going with that?” I assumed she would throw it away, but her response was quite different.
“It goes into my cedar chest. It is the first thing my daughter has ever crocheted.”
My parents saved everything for reuse. It was their way of life. What one could re-use, adapt, or remake meant that money was not spent. Mama even saved the paper and string the stores would use to wrap the packages. The paper was put together as a booklet for my brother and I to color our own drawings. She would use it to cover the table surface for different tasks. When she made homemade noodles, she would put out the paper, then the wax paper, then the flour and place the pastry on top of the flour to roll out, let set, and cut before drying.
I had to wonder why she was saving the string. She would attach the string to the previous saved string and begin to roll them into a ball. Very little of the string would be the same size in diameter. By the time I was twelve she had amassed a shoe box or more of rolled balls of string. I should have known something evil was planned.
By the time I was twelve I was receiving lessons in embroidering and sewing on her treadle sewing machine. All of it was a chore to me as it took time away from reading. I really didn't enjoy any of it, but was becoming rather proficient at the simpler steps. I had not graduated to petit fours in embroidering, but could at least do more than outline. Sewing I hated, but endured.
One summer afternoon she announced. “Now it is time for you to learn to crochet.” She did not use the colorful crochet thread she purchased. She took out one of the string-filled boxes from her closet, and then she patted the spot on the sofa next to her.
My protests simply raised her ire and she glared at me with those black eyes. “You will learn. Now pay attention.” She began to chain.
“Now it’s your turn. Put the thread over your index finger like this and hold the crotchet needle thus.” And so it went. First the chain and then the different sized posts until she decided I was proficient enough to attempt making a dishrag. Of course, it was still the balls of different colored string of different diameters knotted at wherever they had ended that is was to use.
You cannot imagine the looks of that dishrag when my inept attempt was finished. It had to be the most miss-shaped, lumpy rag ever produced. I cringed inside when I handed it to her as a finished product and waited for her critique. None came.
Tears gathered in Mama’s eyes and she held that lumpy rag to her chest and started for their bedroom.
“Where are you going with that?” I assumed she would throw it away, but her response was quite different.
“It goes into my cedar chest. It is the first thing my daughter has ever crocheted.”
June 2, 2013
Family Rituals
Farm life has rituals that change with the seasons. The rituals between a married couple take on a life of their own and they transcend the seasons. My parents were married in 1920. That was long before the advent of television. The only electronic media was the radio and the movies and news reels presented in the nearest town movie theater, if there was a movie theater. Both were considered expensive by the frugal farm couple. There was no electricity and the radio required a battery. The more the radio was used, the faster it would drain the battery.
To fill up the empty time during the evenings and meal times, my parents would discuss everything. They also fell into a habit of bickering. It was their version of Can You Top This, an old radio show featuring comics telling jokes. One cousin said they would argue about anything. If it was raining, one would claim it wasn't and the “argument” would begin until both were laughing. At times their discussion could become quite heated. If you have ever heard an old Fibber McGee and Molly radio broadcast it would give you some idea of their banter. The three things I never heard them argue about were religion, politics, and the rearing of the children.
By the time I was growing up, the trip into the nearest town every Saturday when the weather allowed was a ritual. Church every other Sunday was also a ritual. The Saturday trip into town would change with the season. In good weather we went at night. In the winter time, we usually went in the afternoon and would be home within three hours, sooner if the weather worsened. It depended on the road conditions. During harvest season one of the trips to town or church might be put on hold. If hail or heavy rain was predicted and if the oats, wheat, corn, or hay needed to be reaped, picked, or harvested in some manner that was done before anyone thought of pleasure.
Our house had neither electricity nor indoor plumbing other than the line of cold water to the kitchen sink. That meant we had to take a basin of warm water to the stand in the bedroom to do a spit bath before dressing. Mama always made sure that I went first, then it was her turn, and then my younger brother. She would then finish her makeup before we would all climb in the car for the trip to town. Papa, of course, was always ready first as he would use the washhouse and he was not washing or dressing us. Nor did he do any supervising later as we grew older. Mama would wait for us to finish. Papa would delight in going out to the car and beeping the horn to urge us to hurry. Mother would grit her teeth every time the horn sounded.
Then there came the day when I had departed earlier with friends and my younger brother with his friends. Mama was ready before Papa had brought in the milk. She must have been plotting for that day for years.
She went out to the car and settled herself in the driver’s seat and watched through the rearview mirror. When she saw my father approaching, she laid on the horn. Papa threw both buckets and went running for the house. She never told me how long it took him to change into his “Saturday” clothes, but she chuckled every time she told the story.
To fill up the empty time during the evenings and meal times, my parents would discuss everything. They also fell into a habit of bickering. It was their version of Can You Top This, an old radio show featuring comics telling jokes. One cousin said they would argue about anything. If it was raining, one would claim it wasn't and the “argument” would begin until both were laughing. At times their discussion could become quite heated. If you have ever heard an old Fibber McGee and Molly radio broadcast it would give you some idea of their banter. The three things I never heard them argue about were religion, politics, and the rearing of the children.
By the time I was growing up, the trip into the nearest town every Saturday when the weather allowed was a ritual. Church every other Sunday was also a ritual. The Saturday trip into town would change with the season. In good weather we went at night. In the winter time, we usually went in the afternoon and would be home within three hours, sooner if the weather worsened. It depended on the road conditions. During harvest season one of the trips to town or church might be put on hold. If hail or heavy rain was predicted and if the oats, wheat, corn, or hay needed to be reaped, picked, or harvested in some manner that was done before anyone thought of pleasure.
Our house had neither electricity nor indoor plumbing other than the line of cold water to the kitchen sink. That meant we had to take a basin of warm water to the stand in the bedroom to do a spit bath before dressing. Mama always made sure that I went first, then it was her turn, and then my younger brother. She would then finish her makeup before we would all climb in the car for the trip to town. Papa, of course, was always ready first as he would use the washhouse and he was not washing or dressing us. Nor did he do any supervising later as we grew older. Mama would wait for us to finish. Papa would delight in going out to the car and beeping the horn to urge us to hurry. Mother would grit her teeth every time the horn sounded.
Then there came the day when I had departed earlier with friends and my younger brother with his friends. Mama was ready before Papa had brought in the milk. She must have been plotting for that day for years.
She went out to the car and settled herself in the driver’s seat and watched through the rearview mirror. When she saw my father approaching, she laid on the horn. Papa threw both buckets and went running for the house. She never told me how long it took him to change into his “Saturday” clothes, but she chuckled every time she told the story.
May 19, 2013
My Sister
I meant to post this on my sister’s birthday, but felt I should leave the other Blog for a week since it was part of a Blog Hop
Farm families have always supported each other by working together and playing together. There was a closeness between siblings that is often missing in many of the young people I see today and even when my children were growing up. There were friends right next door or at school. Friends they could see, play with, and share secrets.
When I was growing up, I did see others at school, church, or the rare community gatherings we would attend. It seemed as though all the girls at school or church would have a sister, sometimes older, sometimes younger, but they did have a sister. I had three brothers. Two were fifteen and thirteen-years-old when I was born. The other one was born eleven months and three weeks after my birth.
For some reason, I decided having a sister like my Sunday School teacher or like one of my friends in school would be wonderful. I knew that the chances of my parents having another child were slim.
My parents belonged to a group of pinochle players. The games would be held at rotating homes. Our neighbors that lived just to the West of us had two daughters and two sons and the parents were part of the group. All of their children were older than me, but Papa and Mama would take us with them when the pinochle games were played as there was no one at home to watch us. The neighbor's youngest son was just young enough that he still had tinker toys and a Lincoln Log set. The daughters were kind, but they were into the older teenage years.
Both of the daughters were good looking, but the oldest, Edna, was beautiful. She had blonde hair, green eyes, and an infectious laugh. She was also kind and considerate no matter how young or old you were. I was in awe.
When we went to town on Saturday night, she would notice if Mama was loaded with groceries or my little brother was giving problems with trying to run or get into things, and she would grab my hand and say, “I’ll take her with me for awhile.”
That meant I was walking with the prettiest woman in Lincoln Township and her teenage friends. We would walk around the main street. What young men weren't in the army and had cars were cruising. They’d beep their horns, whistle, and wave. The other girls all waved back. Of course, I did too. I could listen to their conversations about the lack of nylons, the movies, and the movie stars, the high school events, and who was going with whom. All these were exotic conversational tidbits to my ears.
You can imagine my joy when I found out that my oldest brother and Edna were to be married. As I said families were closer then. If she married my brother that meant that she would be my sister.
When they returned to our home after the wedding before leaving for Omaha, I had to ask her, “Are you really my sister now?”
She gave that wonderful laugh and bent down to hug me. “Of course, I am.”
Over the years, I learned just how thoughtful she is of others and how strong she could be. She was also one of the wickedest pinochle players I've ever played against. She could remember every card melded or played.
We have remained fast friends and sisters over the years. When my brother was dying I went to be with her. I had to. She was swamped with taking care of him and trying to arrange every thing. They had been married for almost fifty years.
She’s in her eighties now, but she still sews and quilts beautifully. She still volunteers. Edna did remarry after several years of being a widow, but she needs people around her and she has a need to take care of people. In my eyes, she is still a beautiful woman with a beautiful attitude.
We stay in touch with telephone calls, emails, and Facebook. She is still my sister.
I tried to include her picture of now, but it seems I don't have the skills to do so. If you want to see what she looked like as a young woman, click on this Link
http://www.davidkusel.com/manning1/tr...
Then go down one to Norman Rudnick and click.
By the way, that is a terrific website. You can see the town that I mentioned as it is now: A rural community that still cares about each other.
Farm families have always supported each other by working together and playing together. There was a closeness between siblings that is often missing in many of the young people I see today and even when my children were growing up. There were friends right next door or at school. Friends they could see, play with, and share secrets.
When I was growing up, I did see others at school, church, or the rare community gatherings we would attend. It seemed as though all the girls at school or church would have a sister, sometimes older, sometimes younger, but they did have a sister. I had three brothers. Two were fifteen and thirteen-years-old when I was born. The other one was born eleven months and three weeks after my birth.
For some reason, I decided having a sister like my Sunday School teacher or like one of my friends in school would be wonderful. I knew that the chances of my parents having another child were slim.
My parents belonged to a group of pinochle players. The games would be held at rotating homes. Our neighbors that lived just to the West of us had two daughters and two sons and the parents were part of the group. All of their children were older than me, but Papa and Mama would take us with them when the pinochle games were played as there was no one at home to watch us. The neighbor's youngest son was just young enough that he still had tinker toys and a Lincoln Log set. The daughters were kind, but they were into the older teenage years.
Both of the daughters were good looking, but the oldest, Edna, was beautiful. She had blonde hair, green eyes, and an infectious laugh. She was also kind and considerate no matter how young or old you were. I was in awe.
When we went to town on Saturday night, she would notice if Mama was loaded with groceries or my little brother was giving problems with trying to run or get into things, and she would grab my hand and say, “I’ll take her with me for awhile.”
That meant I was walking with the prettiest woman in Lincoln Township and her teenage friends. We would walk around the main street. What young men weren't in the army and had cars were cruising. They’d beep their horns, whistle, and wave. The other girls all waved back. Of course, I did too. I could listen to their conversations about the lack of nylons, the movies, and the movie stars, the high school events, and who was going with whom. All these were exotic conversational tidbits to my ears.
You can imagine my joy when I found out that my oldest brother and Edna were to be married. As I said families were closer then. If she married my brother that meant that she would be my sister.
When they returned to our home after the wedding before leaving for Omaha, I had to ask her, “Are you really my sister now?”
She gave that wonderful laugh and bent down to hug me. “Of course, I am.”
Over the years, I learned just how thoughtful she is of others and how strong she could be. She was also one of the wickedest pinochle players I've ever played against. She could remember every card melded or played.
We have remained fast friends and sisters over the years. When my brother was dying I went to be with her. I had to. She was swamped with taking care of him and trying to arrange every thing. They had been married for almost fifty years.
She’s in her eighties now, but she still sews and quilts beautifully. She still volunteers. Edna did remarry after several years of being a widow, but she needs people around her and she has a need to take care of people. In my eyes, she is still a beautiful woman with a beautiful attitude.
We stay in touch with telephone calls, emails, and Facebook. She is still my sister.
I tried to include her picture of now, but it seems I don't have the skills to do so. If you want to see what she looked like as a young woman, click on this Link
http://www.davidkusel.com/manning1/tr...
Then go down one to Norman Rudnick and click.
By the way, that is a terrific website. You can see the town that I mentioned as it is now: A rural community that still cares about each other.
May 11, 2013
The Next Big Thing
I’m participating in a Blog Hop. To fulfill my obligations, I have a guest blogger today. She is articulate and a fun person to know. Please welcome Victoria Adams.
My writer friend, Mari Collier, recently tagged me for one of those interesting and pervasive creatures of the blogs-o-sphere, a blog hop. This one is entitled “The Next Big Thing”. This particular event focuses on an author’s work in progress. This is nice, since many of us are rather shy about details on our not-yet-formed creations. I rather pleased to be invited into this stream since I write nonfiction and most of my friends in the writing industry focus on fiction of all over the genre map. Mari’s answers to the same questions can be found on her blog here. My “victim” is Stacey Brewer, and her blog can be found here: http://staceyhaggardbrewer.com/2013/0...
1. What is the working title of your next book?
Is, and shall remain, Why Me: Come Let Us Reason with Job
2. Where did the idea come from for the book?
I read and sit and think. The library I share with my husband contains over 2,000 volumes and a number of those are on archeology, anthropology, philosophy, religion and science. When I first met my husband I had taken on the task of compiling several “chapters” which included my thoughts on a number of focal points in scripture, history and philosophy. After reading many of my bits and pieces, the man that would later become my husband told me that I should publish some of these jottings. I started with Job because it gives me an opportunity to present some of my most basic philosophical ideas and their impact on how we live our lives.
3. What genre does your book fall under?
It is nonfiction philosophy/religion.
4. What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?
Well, now, that is an interesting question. I think rather than a movie version of the book I would like to manage an “Ode” in the last chapter that clarifies the three main points I wish to make. I have a delightful artistic friend with a knack of developing Celtic-like music. She has agreed to set such a thing to music for a trailer.
5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
A study on the history of the interpretation of the book and what I feel are the important lessons: who we are in the universe as a whole, how we each relate to evil, how we respond to suffering whether it be our own or that of others.
6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I have contracted with a small independent press who is quite anxious to receive the completed manuscript.
7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
I’m afraid I’m still at it. Even though I do have developed ideas on the subject, there is a lot of research from an historical aspect and I have to check what I think someone said or did. I have learned quite a bit myself in building the manuscript.
8. What other books would you compare this work to within your genre?
My hope is that the manuscript is done well enough that it can generate the same sort of attention that authors such as Dr. Bart Ehrman. He has written on the subject of evil in the world with a completely different conclusion. His writing is easy to read and very informative and I enjoy him even when we don’t agree.
9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?
I have always loved digging around in the human thought process, how we think, why we think, how that impacts the way we relate to the world around us. As mentioned, it was my husband that provided the most encouragement – which is nice; he has a Ph.D. in Philosophy from the University of South Carolina.
10. What else about the book might pique the reader's interest?
It is my cherished belief that wisdom is found in many, many forms and the scriptures handed down to us from various sources have something to say to everyone. Yes, I consider the Christian scriptures to be sacred and I would look to them as an authority. I think they have a great deal to say about what it means to be a human in search of a path to become something more than we are. But I also think you don’t have to be a Christian, or a Jew, or a Muslim to take something of great value from its verses. This book is a way of introducing my readers to my sense of wonder and exploration.
Cyn Bagley tagged Mari Collier. Here is the post before me was for you to look at: http://scrambledsage.blogspot.com
Cyn Bagley was tagged by Zteve T Evans: http://ztevetevans.wordpress.com/
Here’s another fun post to check out:
Diane Jackson http://dianamj.wordpress.com/2013/04/...
My writer friend, Mari Collier, recently tagged me for one of those interesting and pervasive creatures of the blogs-o-sphere, a blog hop. This one is entitled “The Next Big Thing”. This particular event focuses on an author’s work in progress. This is nice, since many of us are rather shy about details on our not-yet-formed creations. I rather pleased to be invited into this stream since I write nonfiction and most of my friends in the writing industry focus on fiction of all over the genre map. Mari’s answers to the same questions can be found on her blog here. My “victim” is Stacey Brewer, and her blog can be found here: http://staceyhaggardbrewer.com/2013/0...
1. What is the working title of your next book?
Is, and shall remain, Why Me: Come Let Us Reason with Job
2. Where did the idea come from for the book?
I read and sit and think. The library I share with my husband contains over 2,000 volumes and a number of those are on archeology, anthropology, philosophy, religion and science. When I first met my husband I had taken on the task of compiling several “chapters” which included my thoughts on a number of focal points in scripture, history and philosophy. After reading many of my bits and pieces, the man that would later become my husband told me that I should publish some of these jottings. I started with Job because it gives me an opportunity to present some of my most basic philosophical ideas and their impact on how we live our lives.
3. What genre does your book fall under?
It is nonfiction philosophy/religion.
4. What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?
Well, now, that is an interesting question. I think rather than a movie version of the book I would like to manage an “Ode” in the last chapter that clarifies the three main points I wish to make. I have a delightful artistic friend with a knack of developing Celtic-like music. She has agreed to set such a thing to music for a trailer.
5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
A study on the history of the interpretation of the book and what I feel are the important lessons: who we are in the universe as a whole, how we each relate to evil, how we respond to suffering whether it be our own or that of others.
6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I have contracted with a small independent press who is quite anxious to receive the completed manuscript.
7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
I’m afraid I’m still at it. Even though I do have developed ideas on the subject, there is a lot of research from an historical aspect and I have to check what I think someone said or did. I have learned quite a bit myself in building the manuscript.
8. What other books would you compare this work to within your genre?
My hope is that the manuscript is done well enough that it can generate the same sort of attention that authors such as Dr. Bart Ehrman. He has written on the subject of evil in the world with a completely different conclusion. His writing is easy to read and very informative and I enjoy him even when we don’t agree.
9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?
I have always loved digging around in the human thought process, how we think, why we think, how that impacts the way we relate to the world around us. As mentioned, it was my husband that provided the most encouragement – which is nice; he has a Ph.D. in Philosophy from the University of South Carolina.
10. What else about the book might pique the reader's interest?
It is my cherished belief that wisdom is found in many, many forms and the scriptures handed down to us from various sources have something to say to everyone. Yes, I consider the Christian scriptures to be sacred and I would look to them as an authority. I think they have a great deal to say about what it means to be a human in search of a path to become something more than we are. But I also think you don’t have to be a Christian, or a Jew, or a Muslim to take something of great value from its verses. This book is a way of introducing my readers to my sense of wonder and exploration.
Cyn Bagley tagged Mari Collier. Here is the post before me was for you to look at: http://scrambledsage.blogspot.com
Cyn Bagley was tagged by Zteve T Evans: http://ztevetevans.wordpress.com/
Here’s another fun post to check out:
Diane Jackson http://dianamj.wordpress.com/2013/04/...
April 21, 2013
Entertainment Choices
Media entertainment on the farm when I was young consisted of the radio and a wind up record player. Our farm had no electricity which meant the radio was our entertainment at night if we weren't playing pinochle or Mama played the organ and later the piano. The radio was run by a lead battery. That cost money which meant the radio was used for specific things: the news at midday and the livestock reports. Mama did listen to one soap opera called Stella Dallas. It ran for fifteen minutes.
At night we listened to the news, The Lone Ranger, Can You Top This, The Jack Benny Show, Fibber McGee and Molly, The Burns and Allen show, and sometimes The Shadow. I do not know why those were the choices except for Can You Top This. Papa would memorize the jokes which he would retell with great effect. I don’t know if the man ever forgot any of them.
There were other forms of entertainment also. Gray, Iowa had free Friday night movies. These were shown on a wall of one of the brick buildings. People brought their own chairs, but there was a popcorn vendor at times. The movies were the old classic, black and white films. I saw Blondie and Dagwood, The Dead End Kids, Cabin in the Sky, Abbot and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, and other movies made prior to WWII. I remember one of the shorts had Duke Ellington and his band.
Papa and Mama belonged to the Farm Bureau. There was always entertainment after the meeting. One meeting that I remember was held in the Gray Consolidated School gymnasium. The one room schoolhouses were closing and this school taught kindergarten through high school. The high school was on the upper level and those students were able to slide down the big tubing whenever we had a fire drill. I was so envious. We had to march out. As usual, I've digressed.
That particular Farm Bureau meeting it was Mama’s turn to arrange the entertainment. She enlisted my oldest brother to play his piano accordion and his guitar and sing. I begged to be part of it. I was five-years-old. For some reason they relented when I proved I had memorized the words to When My Blue Moon Turns To Gold Again. Both of them were certain I would freeze once on the stage and all the people in front of us. I forget what other song my brother did, but when he picked up the guitar I joined him on stage. Have I ever mentioned, I’m a ham? I sang my heart out that night. It was probably off key, but I didn't care.
Papa and Mama kept their membership in the Farm Bureau and some nights they would hold dances. The two of them would polka, waltz, and do the schottische, a polka round dance. They paid no attention to the games the children were playing.
Mama did not forget my ability to memorize and perform. By the time I was ten-years-old, and she was providing entertainment for the Farm Bureau or the PTA, she would volunteer me to do a skit. She had these old time monologues and would dress me appropriately for the part. I still have two of them. Where or how she procured them, I’ll never know as they cost $.35 each and were called Denison’s Monologues and Readings and written by different people. The one I regret not being able to find was from the Marx Brothers.
Both Manning and Audubon had real cinema theaters. It was a treat to go to them. I remember seeing Snow White and the Seven Dwarves in Manning and Bambi in Audubon. Later when my parents purchased a farm closer to Audubon we were able to go the movies more frequently. WWII was over and there seemed to be more money from farming your own land then when they were renters. My youngest brother and usually went to the matinees in the winter months as going into town on Saturday during the winter was rare. Your auto might freeze up while you were shopping or visiting.
Manning, Iowa always had a great carnival that we would go to. I loved the carousel and the Ferris wheel. The rest of it really didn't matter. Audubon was the county seat and where the county fair was held. Of course, we went to that also once WWII ended.
Of course, there were family reunion picnics and the festivals at church. After Christmas, the Harvest Festival was my favorite. After service there would be games for children while the ladies set up the food buffet style. You cannot imagine the array of food from that small congregation. Everything from fried chicken, roasts, meat loafs, potato salad, green salads (from the garden), pickled beets, pickled cucumbers and onions, relish, jello salads, cakes, pies, crumbles, puddings, and cookies. I loved watching the food line at church. The dear ladies would eye each person as they started down the buffet line, their eyes daring you not to take their delectable offering and declaring it superb. The cast is smaller in Gather The Children, but it is the same scene.
At night we listened to the news, The Lone Ranger, Can You Top This, The Jack Benny Show, Fibber McGee and Molly, The Burns and Allen show, and sometimes The Shadow. I do not know why those were the choices except for Can You Top This. Papa would memorize the jokes which he would retell with great effect. I don’t know if the man ever forgot any of them.
There were other forms of entertainment also. Gray, Iowa had free Friday night movies. These were shown on a wall of one of the brick buildings. People brought their own chairs, but there was a popcorn vendor at times. The movies were the old classic, black and white films. I saw Blondie and Dagwood, The Dead End Kids, Cabin in the Sky, Abbot and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Barney Google and Snuffy Smith, and other movies made prior to WWII. I remember one of the shorts had Duke Ellington and his band.
Papa and Mama belonged to the Farm Bureau. There was always entertainment after the meeting. One meeting that I remember was held in the Gray Consolidated School gymnasium. The one room schoolhouses were closing and this school taught kindergarten through high school. The high school was on the upper level and those students were able to slide down the big tubing whenever we had a fire drill. I was so envious. We had to march out. As usual, I've digressed.
That particular Farm Bureau meeting it was Mama’s turn to arrange the entertainment. She enlisted my oldest brother to play his piano accordion and his guitar and sing. I begged to be part of it. I was five-years-old. For some reason they relented when I proved I had memorized the words to When My Blue Moon Turns To Gold Again. Both of them were certain I would freeze once on the stage and all the people in front of us. I forget what other song my brother did, but when he picked up the guitar I joined him on stage. Have I ever mentioned, I’m a ham? I sang my heart out that night. It was probably off key, but I didn't care.
Papa and Mama kept their membership in the Farm Bureau and some nights they would hold dances. The two of them would polka, waltz, and do the schottische, a polka round dance. They paid no attention to the games the children were playing.
Mama did not forget my ability to memorize and perform. By the time I was ten-years-old, and she was providing entertainment for the Farm Bureau or the PTA, she would volunteer me to do a skit. She had these old time monologues and would dress me appropriately for the part. I still have two of them. Where or how she procured them, I’ll never know as they cost $.35 each and were called Denison’s Monologues and Readings and written by different people. The one I regret not being able to find was from the Marx Brothers.
Both Manning and Audubon had real cinema theaters. It was a treat to go to them. I remember seeing Snow White and the Seven Dwarves in Manning and Bambi in Audubon. Later when my parents purchased a farm closer to Audubon we were able to go the movies more frequently. WWII was over and there seemed to be more money from farming your own land then when they were renters. My youngest brother and usually went to the matinees in the winter months as going into town on Saturday during the winter was rare. Your auto might freeze up while you were shopping or visiting.
Manning, Iowa always had a great carnival that we would go to. I loved the carousel and the Ferris wheel. The rest of it really didn't matter. Audubon was the county seat and where the county fair was held. Of course, we went to that also once WWII ended.
Of course, there were family reunion picnics and the festivals at church. After Christmas, the Harvest Festival was my favorite. After service there would be games for children while the ladies set up the food buffet style. You cannot imagine the array of food from that small congregation. Everything from fried chicken, roasts, meat loafs, potato salad, green salads (from the garden), pickled beets, pickled cucumbers and onions, relish, jello salads, cakes, pies, crumbles, puddings, and cookies. I loved watching the food line at church. The dear ladies would eye each person as they started down the buffet line, their eyes daring you not to take their delectable offering and declaring it superb. The cast is smaller in Gather The Children, but it is the same scene.
April 13, 2013
Second Attempt
Maternal Grandparents
Both of my maternal grandparents were born in Germany in the year of 1864. They were first cousins and rode in the baby carriage together.
My great-grandfather was a Master Carpenter. That meant he was entitled to wear the leather trousers of the Carpenters’ Guild, draw blue prints, and do all the carpentry work on a house. He passed this knowledge down to his son. I do not have the date they immigrated, but my grandfather and grandmother did correspond when possible.
I've left out the trauma suffered by my grandmother as a child and as a teen in respect for the rest of the family. Later Grandfather paid for my Grandmother’s passage to this country. She had a three-year-old daughter and wore Widow’s Weeds and a gold ring with a black mark on it. No, she had not been married or widowed.
She went to work in this country and the child was left in the care of my Great-grandmother. She infected the child with tuberculosis. Grandmother looked out the window of the room she was cleaning and saw her child walking in the snow coming toward her. Grandmother collapsed on the stairs. This is where they found her when my Grandfather arrived with the sad news. He took her home with him, paid for the funeral and grave plot and planted a sapling at the head of the grave. He and grandmother were married shortly afterward.
I’ll save the much longer history for another time. My Mother was the middle child of their marriage. She was independent enough to leave home and attend nursing school. That is where she met my father. He was there with his father who they said had lung problems, a dangerous condition in 1918.
My father’s home was two hundred miles from the town where Mama had lived. My grandparents did visit the farm periodically, but that was before I was born. They visited once when I was a baby. We rarely traveled the two hundred miles. Mother told me that Grandfather loved me, and called me “fiddlesticks” for the finger games he would play with me. Mama did take my youngest brother and I that distance when Grandfather was dying.
On his deathbed, Grandfather insisted on seeing the baby. My youngest brother was the only one still considered a baby and he was taken into the bedroom.
“No, no, the baby,” my grandfather insisted.
Next they took in my youngest cousin who was eighteen months older than I on the theory this was the baby of the household. Once again, the same result. My other cousin was led into his room and Grandpa insisted of seeing, “the baby.”
I was thirteen months old at the time, so Mama carried me into him (I was walking at the age, but not rapidly). Grandfather beamed and held out his arms. Did he know I was going to marry a carpenter? I've always wondered.
He died that month and was buried in the same plot he and his father had purchased so long ago. Mama always insisted that a storm of thunder and lightening erupted that evening and took down the huge tree he planted as a sapling so long ago.
My Grandmother remained in my Aunt’s home. I really do not remember her as a healthy woman interacting with the family. I had to rely on the tales my older brothers would relate such as Grandmother claiming she was so blind she couldn't see them, yet could look across the street and call their dog home.
When Grandmother became ill, my Aunt put out a call for help to my Mother. This was the norm. Mama was the nurse of the family. She was known for her skills and for her ability to “make” people feel better. She took my younger brother and I to the big city to help my Aunt. This was in the fall of 1944 and World War II was still raging. Grandmother was so ill that children were not allowed into the room. By this time, Grandmother was almost blind and could not recognize or remember who the children were. It was too upsetting for her.
There was one good development in that visit. My youngest brother and I were able to attend the same parochial school as my cousin. They expected us to read from real books. I was overjoyed! I hated the Dick and Jane series and didn't know how to tell my teacher at the school I attended that I was reading my brothers’ books at home.
Our sojourn was cut short as my youngest brother became ill after two months. The doctors told Mama that he could not tolerate the water and that she must take him home. We stayed long enough for them to transfer Grandmother to a nursing home. That is what a care facility was called back then. My Aunt was not strong enough to care for Grandmother by herself as her husband, a railroad man, was gone most of the week.
Grandmother died the next spring. I've always regretted never knowing that side of my family.
Both of my maternal grandparents were born in Germany in the year of 1864. They were first cousins and rode in the baby carriage together.
My great-grandfather was a Master Carpenter. That meant he was entitled to wear the leather trousers of the Carpenters’ Guild, draw blue prints, and do all the carpentry work on a house. He passed this knowledge down to his son. I do not have the date they immigrated, but my grandfather and grandmother did correspond when possible.
I've left out the trauma suffered by my grandmother as a child and as a teen in respect for the rest of the family. Later Grandfather paid for my Grandmother’s passage to this country. She had a three-year-old daughter and wore Widow’s Weeds and a gold ring with a black mark on it. No, she had not been married or widowed.
She went to work in this country and the child was left in the care of my Great-grandmother. She infected the child with tuberculosis. Grandmother looked out the window of the room she was cleaning and saw her child walking in the snow coming toward her. Grandmother collapsed on the stairs. This is where they found her when my Grandfather arrived with the sad news. He took her home with him, paid for the funeral and grave plot and planted a sapling at the head of the grave. He and grandmother were married shortly afterward.
I’ll save the much longer history for another time. My Mother was the middle child of their marriage. She was independent enough to leave home and attend nursing school. That is where she met my father. He was there with his father who they said had lung problems, a dangerous condition in 1918.
My father’s home was two hundred miles from the town where Mama had lived. My grandparents did visit the farm periodically, but that was before I was born. They visited once when I was a baby. We rarely traveled the two hundred miles. Mother told me that Grandfather loved me, and called me “fiddlesticks” for the finger games he would play with me. Mama did take my youngest brother and I that distance when Grandfather was dying.
On his deathbed, Grandfather insisted on seeing the baby. My youngest brother was the only one still considered a baby and he was taken into the bedroom.
“No, no, the baby,” my grandfather insisted.
Next they took in my youngest cousin who was eighteen months older than I on the theory this was the baby of the household. Once again, the same result. My other cousin was led into his room and Grandpa insisted of seeing, “the baby.”
I was thirteen months old at the time, so Mama carried me into him (I was walking at the age, but not rapidly). Grandfather beamed and held out his arms. Did he know I was going to marry a carpenter? I've always wondered.
He died that month and was buried in the same plot he and his father had purchased so long ago. Mama always insisted that a storm of thunder and lightening erupted that evening and took down the huge tree he planted as a sapling so long ago.
My Grandmother remained in my Aunt’s home. I really do not remember her as a healthy woman interacting with the family. I had to rely on the tales my older brothers would relate such as Grandmother claiming she was so blind she couldn't see them, yet could look across the street and call their dog home.
When Grandmother became ill, my Aunt put out a call for help to my Mother. This was the norm. Mama was the nurse of the family. She was known for her skills and for her ability to “make” people feel better. She took my younger brother and I to the big city to help my Aunt. This was in the fall of 1944 and World War II was still raging. Grandmother was so ill that children were not allowed into the room. By this time, Grandmother was almost blind and could not recognize or remember who the children were. It was too upsetting for her.
There was one good development in that visit. My youngest brother and I were able to attend the same parochial school as my cousin. They expected us to read from real books. I was overjoyed! I hated the Dick and Jane series and didn't know how to tell my teacher at the school I attended that I was reading my brothers’ books at home.
Our sojourn was cut short as my youngest brother became ill after two months. The doctors told Mama that he could not tolerate the water and that she must take him home. We stayed long enough for them to transfer Grandmother to a nursing home. That is what a care facility was called back then. My Aunt was not strong enough to care for Grandmother by herself as her husband, a railroad man, was gone most of the week.
Grandmother died the next spring. I've always regretted never knowing that side of my family.
