Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 16
April 17, 2022
May Day Basket
Before we moved to the Heights, my brother and I went to school at LeBaron Elementary in Pontiac. Since we lived nearby on Third Street, we walked back and forth to school, down and across Joslyn to Beverly, and to the scary front doors.
Why do I mention the walk? Because of one particular lesson.
I attended Kindergarten, First, Second, and Third, yet my memories of that school are made up mainly of non-classroom images—the bookmobile, occasional elegant (to us) lunches at our great-aunt’s house across the street, the bottomless bowl of soup in the cafeteria, and stopping by a house on a corner to escort the Campbell twins, for a while, at least. (I assumed they were related to the soup company and thought they were celebrities.)
And the year my teacher taught us about May Day.
I had to have learned more than coloring and art projects, or playing with the modeling clay that was supplied to each of us at the beginning of the year with our box of crayons.
My brother can wax eloquent about the homemade buttermilk from his classroom, but I clearly remember one lesson about May Day.
I’m certain that our teacher didn’t dwell on the details of its inception, whether you begin with Beltane, first day of ancient summer, and its evening bonfires to celebrate survival of another winter on the “Day of Fire,” or the earlier fertility rites of ancient Rome.
She bypassed May Kings and Queens, and “bringing in the May” with wildflowers and greenery and hair garlands. I do recall her Maypole legend with ribbons and dancing, but what stuck in my memory was her description of May Day baskets.
From a tradition that began in the eighteen hundreds, she encouraged us to color and decorate construction paper, fold and glue the sheets into baskets, make handles, and fill our masterpieces with grass and wildflowers on the way home.
“Do not pick garden tulips,” she warned, but naturally, I did whenever I passed any.
Since we were too young for romance, we made our baskets for our mothers. The game included setting the basket on the front porch step, knocking, and running around the side of the house so that Mom would be amazed and puzzled at the gift.
Mom was a wonderful recipient and pretended surprise that fooled me in those years.
One May Day, years later, I decided to revisit the tradition, used an Easter basket, filled it with wildflowers and garden blooms, and set it on Mom’s front porch on Caroline Street. I knocked and hurried around the side of the house.
Because of her response, I treated her to a May Day basket every year after that. When she moved to Florida, I’d call a local florist who produced lovely spring flower baskets, although she was puzzled by my insistence on “Happy May Day” with no name on the tag.
"She'll know," I insisted.
And Mom always did.
Most years, Mom got Mother’s Day cards with the florist’s basket, but she knew when there was a knock on the door May First and a basket waited that my long-ago teacher’s lesson was reenacted.
Today, Easter Sunday, is a day of Resurrection, Easter baskets, flowers, candy, spring, and family. I can’t send Mom a May Day basket this year, and haven’t been able to for a while, but I had an impulse to share this tradition with you on such a glorious Day of Celebration.
For those of you who still have mothers on this side of the Holy Realm, make them a basket of flowers this year on May Day.
For the rest of us, send a moment’s gratitude for years of pretending that our handmade presents were beautiful surprises, because to them, they were.
Happy Easter, Mom.
Happy May Day.
Why do I mention the walk? Because of one particular lesson.
I attended Kindergarten, First, Second, and Third, yet my memories of that school are made up mainly of non-classroom images—the bookmobile, occasional elegant (to us) lunches at our great-aunt’s house across the street, the bottomless bowl of soup in the cafeteria, and stopping by a house on a corner to escort the Campbell twins, for a while, at least. (I assumed they were related to the soup company and thought they were celebrities.)
And the year my teacher taught us about May Day.
I had to have learned more than coloring and art projects, or playing with the modeling clay that was supplied to each of us at the beginning of the year with our box of crayons.
My brother can wax eloquent about the homemade buttermilk from his classroom, but I clearly remember one lesson about May Day.
I’m certain that our teacher didn’t dwell on the details of its inception, whether you begin with Beltane, first day of ancient summer, and its evening bonfires to celebrate survival of another winter on the “Day of Fire,” or the earlier fertility rites of ancient Rome.
She bypassed May Kings and Queens, and “bringing in the May” with wildflowers and greenery and hair garlands. I do recall her Maypole legend with ribbons and dancing, but what stuck in my memory was her description of May Day baskets.
From a tradition that began in the eighteen hundreds, she encouraged us to color and decorate construction paper, fold and glue the sheets into baskets, make handles, and fill our masterpieces with grass and wildflowers on the way home.
“Do not pick garden tulips,” she warned, but naturally, I did whenever I passed any.
Since we were too young for romance, we made our baskets for our mothers. The game included setting the basket on the front porch step, knocking, and running around the side of the house so that Mom would be amazed and puzzled at the gift.
Mom was a wonderful recipient and pretended surprise that fooled me in those years.
One May Day, years later, I decided to revisit the tradition, used an Easter basket, filled it with wildflowers and garden blooms, and set it on Mom’s front porch on Caroline Street. I knocked and hurried around the side of the house.
Because of her response, I treated her to a May Day basket every year after that. When she moved to Florida, I’d call a local florist who produced lovely spring flower baskets, although she was puzzled by my insistence on “Happy May Day” with no name on the tag.
"She'll know," I insisted.
And Mom always did.
Most years, Mom got Mother’s Day cards with the florist’s basket, but she knew when there was a knock on the door May First and a basket waited that my long-ago teacher’s lesson was reenacted.
Today, Easter Sunday, is a day of Resurrection, Easter baskets, flowers, candy, spring, and family. I can’t send Mom a May Day basket this year, and haven’t been able to for a while, but I had an impulse to share this tradition with you on such a glorious Day of Celebration.
For those of you who still have mothers on this side of the Holy Realm, make them a basket of flowers this year on May Day.
For the rest of us, send a moment’s gratitude for years of pretending that our handmade presents were beautiful surprises, because to them, they were.
Happy Easter, Mom.
Happy May Day.
April 10, 2022
Kitchen Table Stories
Charles Chips or New Era? My brother called me this week to share his memories about the delivery trucks that made regular visits to our house on Caroline Street. We compared ruminations about potato chips, based on the cans that were carried to our kitchen table.
Jewel Tea did carry Charles Chips, and I can still see that large can with its delicious contents, but New Era chips were our favorite. Turns out, the truck carried only those, which made it our favorite delivery. I can visualize the large painted mural on a Pontiac store wall that boasted the logo of the graceful silhouette.
New Era began in Detroit, with 20 other company potato chip brands (including Better Made), but was absorbed into Frito in 1958, and both into Lay in 1961. If that isn’t confusing, Better Made later offered an original New Era potato chip.
But, getting back to kitchen tables.
As a family, we ate at the table on weekends (Dad worked second shift at Pontiac Motors), and there were no interruptions allowed, including phone calls or knocks on the door. (“Tell them you’re eating dinner.”) I’d like to report that we pleasantly conversed, but our family meals consisted of tattling, interruptions with what so-and-so said at school, and plenty of “don’t do that” admonitions.
Giggling was forbidden, and any loss of serious control meant banishment to the living room.
What do I remember about family dinners? Accidently blowing out an Advent candle with the plastic catsup squeeze bottle. Grace before meals, and not the ever amusing “Over the lips and through the gums, look out stomach, here it comes,” but our “Bless us, O Lord…”
And family stories.
Dad and our neighbor (later, my father-in-law) making homemade brew, but setting the heavy crock on the table, which promptly broke in half, dripping yeasty nectar through the kitchen floor into the basement.
Mom and our neighbor (later, my mother-in-law) making Christmas cookies with apricot brandy until they were singing in happiness from finishing the unused portion.
My niece Jenny attracted family and friends around her tables over the years, where we told and retold our favorite funny events, until I’d laugh so hard, years dropped away. Jenny, in particular, could make the most difficult moments of life into amusing anecdotes, ready to be shared countless times.
Extended family members weren’t exempt. My uncle’s practical joke one Christmas Eve near my aunt’s dining room table lives on, when he dragged a sledge hammer into the room, huffing and puffing, and suddenly flung it at another uncle, who froze in shock. It bounced off his head, being foam rubber, and the there was a sound of life-threatening yells and running feet. A family favorite.
Picnic tables in the yard or on the deck were the outdoor version. Grackles dropped unwelcome surprises on a head from the sycamore tree. We spit watermelon seeds at each other. The sound, through open windows, of spoons clanking in a bowl which signified raspberry steam pudding, so that we ran next door for our share.
Family stories.
One of my favorite authors, Rachel Naomi Remen, says, “We carry with us every story we have ever heard and every story we have ever lived, filed away at some deep place in our memory.”
Those of us from the Heights have the largest kitchen table for sharing our stories. Even across the distances—over 500 miles between my daughter and me, 1,160 miles for me and my brother or Jenny, and we won’t even count the miles between the Heights and Niki in Mexico—our stories are offered, shared, laughed over, wept over, revived, and savored.
The Heights has the most diverse and most entertaining selection of kitchen table stories of any extended family.
May they continue to “bless us, every one!” (Thank you, Mr. Dickens, for the perfect quote.)
Jewel Tea did carry Charles Chips, and I can still see that large can with its delicious contents, but New Era chips were our favorite. Turns out, the truck carried only those, which made it our favorite delivery. I can visualize the large painted mural on a Pontiac store wall that boasted the logo of the graceful silhouette.
New Era began in Detroit, with 20 other company potato chip brands (including Better Made), but was absorbed into Frito in 1958, and both into Lay in 1961. If that isn’t confusing, Better Made later offered an original New Era potato chip.
But, getting back to kitchen tables.
As a family, we ate at the table on weekends (Dad worked second shift at Pontiac Motors), and there were no interruptions allowed, including phone calls or knocks on the door. (“Tell them you’re eating dinner.”) I’d like to report that we pleasantly conversed, but our family meals consisted of tattling, interruptions with what so-and-so said at school, and plenty of “don’t do that” admonitions.
Giggling was forbidden, and any loss of serious control meant banishment to the living room.
What do I remember about family dinners? Accidently blowing out an Advent candle with the plastic catsup squeeze bottle. Grace before meals, and not the ever amusing “Over the lips and through the gums, look out stomach, here it comes,” but our “Bless us, O Lord…”
And family stories.
Dad and our neighbor (later, my father-in-law) making homemade brew, but setting the heavy crock on the table, which promptly broke in half, dripping yeasty nectar through the kitchen floor into the basement.
Mom and our neighbor (later, my mother-in-law) making Christmas cookies with apricot brandy until they were singing in happiness from finishing the unused portion.
My niece Jenny attracted family and friends around her tables over the years, where we told and retold our favorite funny events, until I’d laugh so hard, years dropped away. Jenny, in particular, could make the most difficult moments of life into amusing anecdotes, ready to be shared countless times.
Extended family members weren’t exempt. My uncle’s practical joke one Christmas Eve near my aunt’s dining room table lives on, when he dragged a sledge hammer into the room, huffing and puffing, and suddenly flung it at another uncle, who froze in shock. It bounced off his head, being foam rubber, and the there was a sound of life-threatening yells and running feet. A family favorite.
Picnic tables in the yard or on the deck were the outdoor version. Grackles dropped unwelcome surprises on a head from the sycamore tree. We spit watermelon seeds at each other. The sound, through open windows, of spoons clanking in a bowl which signified raspberry steam pudding, so that we ran next door for our share.
Family stories.
One of my favorite authors, Rachel Naomi Remen, says, “We carry with us every story we have ever heard and every story we have ever lived, filed away at some deep place in our memory.”
Those of us from the Heights have the largest kitchen table for sharing our stories. Even across the distances—over 500 miles between my daughter and me, 1,160 miles for me and my brother or Jenny, and we won’t even count the miles between the Heights and Niki in Mexico—our stories are offered, shared, laughed over, wept over, revived, and savored.
The Heights has the most diverse and most entertaining selection of kitchen table stories of any extended family.
May they continue to “bless us, every one!” (Thank you, Mr. Dickens, for the perfect quote.)
April 3, 2022
All the World to Our Door
In 1962, Harold Holdcroft designed a china pattern for Royal Albert, a pottery company in England. Old Country Roses represented a summer English country garden in bloom, made of fine bone china, and one of the most popular patterns in the world.
I saw my first piece at Pontiac Pottery, a cup and saucer that drew me to a table stacked with bone china cups and saucers. I drooled over it long enough to return and buy it, and used it from then on for tea and coffee.
In 1991, Mannheim Steamroller produced a compilation of music called Sunday Morning Coffee, with my cup and saucer displayed on the cover. Turns out to be the favorite of producer Chip Davis’s grandmother for her Sunday morning coffee.
Over the years, my brother Dave has gifted me with an entire set of plates, bowls, teaware, cups, saucers, mugs, and assorted accessories of the gorgeous Old Country Roses china, so when I inherited Mom’s Autumn Leaf dishes, I gave them to him.
Mom had an impressive set, if somewhat chipped from years of use.
The familiar Autumn Leaf pattern began in 1933 by the Hall China Company for the Jewel Tea Company until the pattern was discontinued late 1970.
Why is this important?
Because one of the highlights of my childhood was a visit by the Jewel Tea man in his truck, filled with dishes, tea, dish soap, and shampoo. Mom ordered her dinnerware, piece by piece, including a gravy boat, serving dishes, custard cups, casserole dishes, milk jugs, and of course, plates.
They were our Sunday and holiday dinnerware, and I can still see the largest serving bowl topped with mashed potatoes.
Even more popular to us were the Taystee Bread truck and Borden’s Milk truck.
Besides loaves of fresh bread, Taystee also delivered large cans of Charles Chips. Like our New Era potato chips, the bags held crisp, salty heaven.
Our loyalties leaned toward Twin Pines Dairy because of Milky the Clown, but our Borden’s Milk was delivered in glass bottles with cream collected on the top.
In our day, everyone knew Elsie the Cow, Borden’s icon.
She was an actual Jersey cow from the Elm Hill Farm in Brookfield, Massachusetts, seven years old at the time of her discovery, with the original name of You’ll do Lobelia. She was gentle and didn’t mind being paraded with the trademark daisy chain around her neck for appearances. (Rumor has it that her husband, Elmer, is pictured on glue bottles.)
Mom and Dad loved cream in their coffee, but occasionally we got a taste. In a family of eight, we must have gone through a lot of glass milk bottles, a lot of loaves of bread.
I can still hear the clink, clink of the milk bottles in their carrier being dropped off, and the empties picked up.
The squeak of brakes as the trucks pulled into our driveway to drop off treats.
The smiles and crisp uniforms of our regular drivers.
Only the Good Humor truck was more anticipated.
But that’s another story.
I saw my first piece at Pontiac Pottery, a cup and saucer that drew me to a table stacked with bone china cups and saucers. I drooled over it long enough to return and buy it, and used it from then on for tea and coffee.
In 1991, Mannheim Steamroller produced a compilation of music called Sunday Morning Coffee, with my cup and saucer displayed on the cover. Turns out to be the favorite of producer Chip Davis’s grandmother for her Sunday morning coffee.
Over the years, my brother Dave has gifted me with an entire set of plates, bowls, teaware, cups, saucers, mugs, and assorted accessories of the gorgeous Old Country Roses china, so when I inherited Mom’s Autumn Leaf dishes, I gave them to him.
Mom had an impressive set, if somewhat chipped from years of use.
The familiar Autumn Leaf pattern began in 1933 by the Hall China Company for the Jewel Tea Company until the pattern was discontinued late 1970.
Why is this important?
Because one of the highlights of my childhood was a visit by the Jewel Tea man in his truck, filled with dishes, tea, dish soap, and shampoo. Mom ordered her dinnerware, piece by piece, including a gravy boat, serving dishes, custard cups, casserole dishes, milk jugs, and of course, plates.
They were our Sunday and holiday dinnerware, and I can still see the largest serving bowl topped with mashed potatoes.
Even more popular to us were the Taystee Bread truck and Borden’s Milk truck.
Besides loaves of fresh bread, Taystee also delivered large cans of Charles Chips. Like our New Era potato chips, the bags held crisp, salty heaven.
Our loyalties leaned toward Twin Pines Dairy because of Milky the Clown, but our Borden’s Milk was delivered in glass bottles with cream collected on the top.
In our day, everyone knew Elsie the Cow, Borden’s icon.
She was an actual Jersey cow from the Elm Hill Farm in Brookfield, Massachusetts, seven years old at the time of her discovery, with the original name of You’ll do Lobelia. She was gentle and didn’t mind being paraded with the trademark daisy chain around her neck for appearances. (Rumor has it that her husband, Elmer, is pictured on glue bottles.)
Mom and Dad loved cream in their coffee, but occasionally we got a taste. In a family of eight, we must have gone through a lot of glass milk bottles, a lot of loaves of bread.
I can still hear the clink, clink of the milk bottles in their carrier being dropped off, and the empties picked up.
The squeak of brakes as the trucks pulled into our driveway to drop off treats.
The smiles and crisp uniforms of our regular drivers.
Only the Good Humor truck was more anticipated.
But that’s another story.
March 27, 2022
We Share the Same Generation
“I have the power!” (He-Man and the Masters of the Universe)
“Go, Gadget, go!” (Inspector Gadget)
Yes, I remember those, but they were from my sisters’ generation. In our family of six children, spanning 12 years, my brother and I, the oldest siblings, were from another time, with different weekday evening, once-a-week shows. Different Saturday morning cartoons with favorite cereals.
“Meet George Jetson, his boy Elroy, daughter Judy…”
Bugs Bunny. Crusader Rabbit. Clutch Cargo. Beany and Cecil, (where I thought Cecil was a brontosaurus sea creature, but was a giant serpent in “a Bob Clampett car-too-ooon!”
We watched Howdy Doody, Milky’s Movie Party with the puppet show Gee Wizzer, which fascinated us and seems to be unknown to the rest of the world, Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, The Real McCoys. We knew what a Peanut Gallery was, and my brother witnessed a live audience for Bozo where a rude child told him to “Cram it, clownie!”
Superman. Fess Parker’s Davy Crockett, with the coveted coonskin cap. Roy Rogers. The Lone Ranger. Rocky and Bullwinkle, with Mr. Peabody and his boy Sherman, Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties, and Boris Badenov.
Huckleberry Hound and Yogi, “smarter than the average bear,” Tom and Jerry, Deputy Dawg. Quickdraw McGraw. Mickey Mouse Club.
“Flintstones, meet the Flintstones, they’re the modern stone-age family…” which was also enjoyed on Friday nights by adults who remembered the Honeymooners, and a zillion Americans who watched on the night Pebbles was born.
We ate enough cereal to keep the companies in business for decades. Does anyone remember (Quaker Oats) Wheat Puffs and Rice Puffs, which were so airy, it took a box to fill you up? What about the short-lived (General Mills) Jets? Or my favorite, (Post) Oat Flakes?
I’m sure we must have tried (General Mills) Twinkles cereal because of Twinkles the Elephant commercials. “Nose, nose, anything goes, turn my nose into a fire hose,” which I use every time I have a cold.
We had air-raid drills at school where we either ran to the hallways for “duck and tuck,” or worse, hid under our desks.
We loved Topper and his sometimes-invisible ghosts, George and Marian Kirby.
I still have my Zippy doll, a chimpanzee toy based on Zip the Monkey.
We spent Thanksgivings at home and invited Mom’s family, Christmas Eves with my father’s side. I can still see Aunt Patsy’s luscious house decked out with linen, china, treats, and candles.
We made up games in Grandma Schaffer’s backyard. “Winter, winter, summer” as the electric meter revolved, or bending Grandpa’s pipe cleaners into stick men or horses. I picked Grandma’s morning glories and turned them upside down for beautiful ladies, even when they wilted in minutes.
Popeye and Pals brought us hours of retold classics and a love for spinach, where the good guys always won, with Captain Jolly (Toby David) and Poopdeck Paul (Paul Schultz). And to think that our cherished Vernor’s endorsed those shows.
I had “Lunch with Soupy Sales,” and later, my brother and I inhaled his “words of wisdom” (puns…Show me a man helping an orchestra and I’ll show you a band aid), with our favorite sidekick Pookie, or White Fang and Black Tooth. We could all do the Soupy Shuffle.
Who else remembers (Bristol-Myers) Ipana Toothpaste with Bucky the Beaver? We saw a skywriting ad for it when we lived in Pontiac.
We read Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon, and Hardy Boys (my brothers), while my brother snuck out my copies of Nancy Drew to loan them to our friend Rebecca without my knowing all those years.
Mom used the same Easter baskets each year so we knew which one was ours. We attended Easter Vigil service and Mass on Sunday mornings, visited our aunts and uncles and cousins, hated powdered milk and Spam, loved camping and going to the Detroit Zoo,
swimming in area lakes, running through the sprinkler, watermelon, Kool-Aid, Popsicles, summer vacation, apple cider, Halloween, and traditional Christmas mornings.
The older I get, the crisper some of those memories become.
Reading the backs of cereal boxes while we ate breakfast. Hoping Disney had cartoons on Sunday nights, especially Goofy, or Chip and Dale, and not animal documentaries.
I decided to share a few moments of happy memories from Saturday mornings and after-dinner regular programs, family gatherings, and bowls of cereal, in a time that will never come again. Gone like the Lone Ranger, “Hi-ho, Silver! Away!”
Or maybe not.
Not as long as we remember and share.
“Go, Gadget, go!” (Inspector Gadget)
Yes, I remember those, but they were from my sisters’ generation. In our family of six children, spanning 12 years, my brother and I, the oldest siblings, were from another time, with different weekday evening, once-a-week shows. Different Saturday morning cartoons with favorite cereals.
“Meet George Jetson, his boy Elroy, daughter Judy…”
Bugs Bunny. Crusader Rabbit. Clutch Cargo. Beany and Cecil, (where I thought Cecil was a brontosaurus sea creature, but was a giant serpent in “a Bob Clampett car-too-ooon!”
We watched Howdy Doody, Milky’s Movie Party with the puppet show Gee Wizzer, which fascinated us and seems to be unknown to the rest of the world, Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, The Real McCoys. We knew what a Peanut Gallery was, and my brother witnessed a live audience for Bozo where a rude child told him to “Cram it, clownie!”
Superman. Fess Parker’s Davy Crockett, with the coveted coonskin cap. Roy Rogers. The Lone Ranger. Rocky and Bullwinkle, with Mr. Peabody and his boy Sherman, Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties, and Boris Badenov.
Huckleberry Hound and Yogi, “smarter than the average bear,” Tom and Jerry, Deputy Dawg. Quickdraw McGraw. Mickey Mouse Club.
“Flintstones, meet the Flintstones, they’re the modern stone-age family…” which was also enjoyed on Friday nights by adults who remembered the Honeymooners, and a zillion Americans who watched on the night Pebbles was born.
We ate enough cereal to keep the companies in business for decades. Does anyone remember (Quaker Oats) Wheat Puffs and Rice Puffs, which were so airy, it took a box to fill you up? What about the short-lived (General Mills) Jets? Or my favorite, (Post) Oat Flakes?
I’m sure we must have tried (General Mills) Twinkles cereal because of Twinkles the Elephant commercials. “Nose, nose, anything goes, turn my nose into a fire hose,” which I use every time I have a cold.
We had air-raid drills at school where we either ran to the hallways for “duck and tuck,” or worse, hid under our desks.
We loved Topper and his sometimes-invisible ghosts, George and Marian Kirby.
I still have my Zippy doll, a chimpanzee toy based on Zip the Monkey.
We spent Thanksgivings at home and invited Mom’s family, Christmas Eves with my father’s side. I can still see Aunt Patsy’s luscious house decked out with linen, china, treats, and candles.
We made up games in Grandma Schaffer’s backyard. “Winter, winter, summer” as the electric meter revolved, or bending Grandpa’s pipe cleaners into stick men or horses. I picked Grandma’s morning glories and turned them upside down for beautiful ladies, even when they wilted in minutes.
Popeye and Pals brought us hours of retold classics and a love for spinach, where the good guys always won, with Captain Jolly (Toby David) and Poopdeck Paul (Paul Schultz). And to think that our cherished Vernor’s endorsed those shows.
I had “Lunch with Soupy Sales,” and later, my brother and I inhaled his “words of wisdom” (puns…Show me a man helping an orchestra and I’ll show you a band aid), with our favorite sidekick Pookie, or White Fang and Black Tooth. We could all do the Soupy Shuffle.
Who else remembers (Bristol-Myers) Ipana Toothpaste with Bucky the Beaver? We saw a skywriting ad for it when we lived in Pontiac.
We read Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon, and Hardy Boys (my brothers), while my brother snuck out my copies of Nancy Drew to loan them to our friend Rebecca without my knowing all those years.
Mom used the same Easter baskets each year so we knew which one was ours. We attended Easter Vigil service and Mass on Sunday mornings, visited our aunts and uncles and cousins, hated powdered milk and Spam, loved camping and going to the Detroit Zoo,
swimming in area lakes, running through the sprinkler, watermelon, Kool-Aid, Popsicles, summer vacation, apple cider, Halloween, and traditional Christmas mornings.
The older I get, the crisper some of those memories become.
Reading the backs of cereal boxes while we ate breakfast. Hoping Disney had cartoons on Sunday nights, especially Goofy, or Chip and Dale, and not animal documentaries.
I decided to share a few moments of happy memories from Saturday mornings and after-dinner regular programs, family gatherings, and bowls of cereal, in a time that will never come again. Gone like the Lone Ranger, “Hi-ho, Silver! Away!”
Or maybe not.
Not as long as we remember and share.
March 20, 2022
The Night I Was Psychic
High school. That subject could go in any direction, tragedy or comedy.
In a sense, the theater masks are appropriate. Living through high school was like being part of a great drama, with roles determined by financial status, interests, neighborhood, and older siblings. Were you into sports or academics or trouble? Did you write poetry or tinker with muscle car engines or twirl a baton?
Every generation has names for the groups, and I doubt cliques have disappeared from our children’s schools.
I was certainly into poetry and languages and surviving. Dave could identify an engine one street away. My sisters were in the band and played basketball.
I doubt any of us would willingly go back. I know I wouldn’t. Each of us has a book full of stories of friends, betrayal, fear, triumph, wins and losses, and the excitement of graduation into a waiting world, jobs or college.
Tragedy and comedy. In elementary school, the challenge was fought on the playground. In middle and high school, the cafeteria. If your friends weren’t available, where did you sit?
Sharing our memories now can smooth over those long-ago fears. Our differences are fascinating from this end of the play. The more variety, the better, the more interesting, the richer the experience in sharing.
The famous theater masks, by the way, are more than 2,500 years old, from the Greeks who wore masks in their performances to identify characters.
Athens, 535 B.C., Theater of Dionysus, with 44 masks just for comedy. Actors in tragic roles wore a boot called a buskin, and those expressing comedy wore a thin sole called a sock. Sock and buskin. Comedy and drama, otherwise known as high school.
Still, there was nothing like pitting one school against another to bind every classmate into a unified whole, whether it was sports or something else.
My friend convinced me to join Junior Achievement to learn business skills. Why I agreed is a mystery, since my interest in profits and joining clubs was lower than wanting to change a tire. She waved a brochure at me and assured me it would be fun to get out and do something constructive.
According to Junior Achievement, they would be “giving students the tools they need to succeed through financial literacy, work readiness, and entrepreneurship programs.”
What happened was a weekly meeting downtown Pontiac with other high school students, a goal to produce something worth selling, and working out a way to sell this masterpiece for profit.
Oil and water. We didn’t mix. After sniffing around like unknown dogs, and murmuring about the superiority of our particular school and neighborhood, we attempted to manufacture something of worth.
The building where we met was old and empty at night, other than our often-absent leaders and other suspicious teens, yet that was the setting for my one night of magic.
I was never outgoing and confident at that age, although my friend was, so I let her do all the talking and suggestions. One night, as we took a break from our planning, one of the Pontiac girls stood and announced that she was getting a Coke from the vending machine in the hall.
“It doesn’t take 1952 D nickels,” I told her, as she headed for the door.
Naturally, she stopped and turned such a look of disgust on me, I should have shriveled.
“What?” she said.
Foolishly, I repeated my inane statement. She left the room, muttering about nutcases. My friend turned to me and I shrugged. I had no idea where that came from or why I said it. Since there’d be no living down such a ridiculous moment, my hope was to ignore it and let it be forgotten.
Nope. A few minutes later, we heard the wail of a girl’s voice moving in our direction. The Coke drinker stormed up to me.
“Witch!” she screeched. “How did you know?”
She opened her fist to show two nickels.
“The machine wouldn’t take these, no matter how many times I tried, and guess what they are?” she said.
1952 D nickels.
Now, I didn’t know that currency even had printed codes, let alone what they meant. I couldn’t explain my outburst then and can’t now. The rest of the evening was spent in mind games of guessing birthdays and “what am I thinking about now?”
Never happened again.
Oh, by the way, we made a pitiful permanent calendar thing which only sold to people who felt sorry for a group of teens or wanted to get rid of us.
Definitely comedy.
And no, I didn’t go on to become famous for my psychic abilities and assist the police force in crime. Still can’t explain it.
If it had happened at Avondale, maybe I’d have garnered a reputation for being clever.
No, thinking it over, weird is probably what I’d have earned.
Comedy and drama.
In a sense, the theater masks are appropriate. Living through high school was like being part of a great drama, with roles determined by financial status, interests, neighborhood, and older siblings. Were you into sports or academics or trouble? Did you write poetry or tinker with muscle car engines or twirl a baton?
Every generation has names for the groups, and I doubt cliques have disappeared from our children’s schools.
I was certainly into poetry and languages and surviving. Dave could identify an engine one street away. My sisters were in the band and played basketball.
I doubt any of us would willingly go back. I know I wouldn’t. Each of us has a book full of stories of friends, betrayal, fear, triumph, wins and losses, and the excitement of graduation into a waiting world, jobs or college.
Tragedy and comedy. In elementary school, the challenge was fought on the playground. In middle and high school, the cafeteria. If your friends weren’t available, where did you sit?
Sharing our memories now can smooth over those long-ago fears. Our differences are fascinating from this end of the play. The more variety, the better, the more interesting, the richer the experience in sharing.
The famous theater masks, by the way, are more than 2,500 years old, from the Greeks who wore masks in their performances to identify characters.
Athens, 535 B.C., Theater of Dionysus, with 44 masks just for comedy. Actors in tragic roles wore a boot called a buskin, and those expressing comedy wore a thin sole called a sock. Sock and buskin. Comedy and drama, otherwise known as high school.
Still, there was nothing like pitting one school against another to bind every classmate into a unified whole, whether it was sports or something else.
My friend convinced me to join Junior Achievement to learn business skills. Why I agreed is a mystery, since my interest in profits and joining clubs was lower than wanting to change a tire. She waved a brochure at me and assured me it would be fun to get out and do something constructive.
According to Junior Achievement, they would be “giving students the tools they need to succeed through financial literacy, work readiness, and entrepreneurship programs.”
What happened was a weekly meeting downtown Pontiac with other high school students, a goal to produce something worth selling, and working out a way to sell this masterpiece for profit.
Oil and water. We didn’t mix. After sniffing around like unknown dogs, and murmuring about the superiority of our particular school and neighborhood, we attempted to manufacture something of worth.
The building where we met was old and empty at night, other than our often-absent leaders and other suspicious teens, yet that was the setting for my one night of magic.
I was never outgoing and confident at that age, although my friend was, so I let her do all the talking and suggestions. One night, as we took a break from our planning, one of the Pontiac girls stood and announced that she was getting a Coke from the vending machine in the hall.
“It doesn’t take 1952 D nickels,” I told her, as she headed for the door.
Naturally, she stopped and turned such a look of disgust on me, I should have shriveled.
“What?” she said.
Foolishly, I repeated my inane statement. She left the room, muttering about nutcases. My friend turned to me and I shrugged. I had no idea where that came from or why I said it. Since there’d be no living down such a ridiculous moment, my hope was to ignore it and let it be forgotten.
Nope. A few minutes later, we heard the wail of a girl’s voice moving in our direction. The Coke drinker stormed up to me.
“Witch!” she screeched. “How did you know?”
She opened her fist to show two nickels.
“The machine wouldn’t take these, no matter how many times I tried, and guess what they are?” she said.
1952 D nickels.
Now, I didn’t know that currency even had printed codes, let alone what they meant. I couldn’t explain my outburst then and can’t now. The rest of the evening was spent in mind games of guessing birthdays and “what am I thinking about now?”
Never happened again.
Oh, by the way, we made a pitiful permanent calendar thing which only sold to people who felt sorry for a group of teens or wanted to get rid of us.
Definitely comedy.
And no, I didn’t go on to become famous for my psychic abilities and assist the police force in crime. Still can’t explain it.
If it had happened at Avondale, maybe I’d have garnered a reputation for being clever.
No, thinking it over, weird is probably what I’d have earned.
Comedy and drama.
March 13, 2022
Tomato Jam and the Day We Were Invaded
The time to talk about gardens is during winter weather, when the thought of lush green plants and succulent tomatoes don’t require any work to produce.
We had fruit trees, berry bushes, and flowers when I was growing up in the Heights, but no vegetable garden, so I was unprepared for my part of the labor involved.
Of course, the bulk of the work went to Dave who rented the rototiller, and pushed his way through the backyard to produce rows of (sandy) dirt waiting for seeds and seedlings.
He was ambitious and hard-working, so planted tomatoes, green beans, squash, green peppers, and corn. The yard where my brothers and I played a form of baseball, and where we raked squashed pears, was a small farm of delights.
Summertime with fresh corn, grilled chicken, potato salad, and beefsteak tomatoes was a glimpse into the heavenly realm.
But the tomatoes and green beans kept coming, and coming. What to do with them? Well, of course, can and freeze them.
I dutifully bought canning jars and lids, and learned how to boil and blanch and store the harvest for later. Got pretty cocky about it, too, proud of the jars that lined our cupboards and fruit cellar shelves.
I made Grandma Ward’s famous bread-and-butter pickles, jams, apple butter, and out of desperation, tomato jam.
That was surprisingly good, similar to apple butter, and delicious on toast. In fact, my enthusiasm stretched to a Christmas idea of homemade jams and jellies and preserves for my father, brothers, and Dave. I pressed grapes and squeezed the juice through clean, worn pillowcases for delicious jelly. I picked raspberries and blackberries for jam, and made homemade orange and lemon marmalade. Tomato jam went into the small, pretty jars, but I wasn’t done.
More vegetables came in from the garden, more than we could consume at meals. I reminded myself that we’d be grateful for the hard work in mid-winter.
Except for the zucchini. Bushels came into the back door and stacked around the kitchen floor. A pan of sautéed summer squash, tomatoes, and onions was a delicious side dish to any main course, but that didn’t put a dent in the zucchini. I made loaf after loaf of zucchini bread, froze it, gave it away, and we ate it until we couldn’t squeeze down one more bite.
Finally got rid of the last basket when my father-in-law from next door proudly delivered his excess of…. zucchini.
Still, I felt proud of my accomplishments and boasted to my family.
Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall (Proverbs 16:18).
My friend Mary, down the street, heard about my delight in producing rows of canned tomatoes, and sent up a basket from her garden. The tomatoes were ripe, round, and juicy, and I decided to get right to work on them.
We’d planned a party that night, and I thought that a freshly-canned line of tomatoes would impress our friends (who considered me, rightfully so, more of a dreamer than a doer).
I dug out my kettle and sterilized the jars, cleaned and cut tomatoes, and started their journey to a pantry shelf.
Snacks and meal items, housecleaning, and any preparation for a party was done throughout the day, and I was pleased to fill the jars and seal them with time to spare. I changed my mind about displaying them, though, and shoved them into any available space in the overhead cabinets to make room for plates of savories.
By late afternoon, we were ready for guests. Or so I thought.
I stepped into the kitchen to set up the coffeemaker when the perfume of something dead a week slammed into my face. I ran to the windows to see what had perished, but it was inside the kitchen.
At first, I couldn’t see anything, but a pale ooze dripped out of the cabinets and crawled down the cupboard doors.
The hot, sealed tomatoes had fermented and burst their lids, and the creatures from the garden lagoon were escaping from every jar.
The smell was unbelievable. We had to find every jar, clean the cupboards, open every window, spray, and use every fan.
By the time our company arrived, there was a faint odor of distant skunk in the kitchen, but no one left screaming and running for their lives.
Mary had forgotten to tell me she grew low-acid tomatoes.
I stopped bragging about my garden prowess, although I shared the night of the living almost-dead with amusement.
And so, I’m sharing it with you.
Gardens are wonderful, beautiful, hard work, and rewarding, and every gardener, cook, weeder, planter, and harvester can tell adventure stories to equal Indiana Jones.
What are some of yours?
We had fruit trees, berry bushes, and flowers when I was growing up in the Heights, but no vegetable garden, so I was unprepared for my part of the labor involved.
Of course, the bulk of the work went to Dave who rented the rototiller, and pushed his way through the backyard to produce rows of (sandy) dirt waiting for seeds and seedlings.
He was ambitious and hard-working, so planted tomatoes, green beans, squash, green peppers, and corn. The yard where my brothers and I played a form of baseball, and where we raked squashed pears, was a small farm of delights.
Summertime with fresh corn, grilled chicken, potato salad, and beefsteak tomatoes was a glimpse into the heavenly realm.
But the tomatoes and green beans kept coming, and coming. What to do with them? Well, of course, can and freeze them.
I dutifully bought canning jars and lids, and learned how to boil and blanch and store the harvest for later. Got pretty cocky about it, too, proud of the jars that lined our cupboards and fruit cellar shelves.
I made Grandma Ward’s famous bread-and-butter pickles, jams, apple butter, and out of desperation, tomato jam.
That was surprisingly good, similar to apple butter, and delicious on toast. In fact, my enthusiasm stretched to a Christmas idea of homemade jams and jellies and preserves for my father, brothers, and Dave. I pressed grapes and squeezed the juice through clean, worn pillowcases for delicious jelly. I picked raspberries and blackberries for jam, and made homemade orange and lemon marmalade. Tomato jam went into the small, pretty jars, but I wasn’t done.
More vegetables came in from the garden, more than we could consume at meals. I reminded myself that we’d be grateful for the hard work in mid-winter.
Except for the zucchini. Bushels came into the back door and stacked around the kitchen floor. A pan of sautéed summer squash, tomatoes, and onions was a delicious side dish to any main course, but that didn’t put a dent in the zucchini. I made loaf after loaf of zucchini bread, froze it, gave it away, and we ate it until we couldn’t squeeze down one more bite.
Finally got rid of the last basket when my father-in-law from next door proudly delivered his excess of…. zucchini.
Still, I felt proud of my accomplishments and boasted to my family.
Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall (Proverbs 16:18).
My friend Mary, down the street, heard about my delight in producing rows of canned tomatoes, and sent up a basket from her garden. The tomatoes were ripe, round, and juicy, and I decided to get right to work on them.
We’d planned a party that night, and I thought that a freshly-canned line of tomatoes would impress our friends (who considered me, rightfully so, more of a dreamer than a doer).
I dug out my kettle and sterilized the jars, cleaned and cut tomatoes, and started their journey to a pantry shelf.
Snacks and meal items, housecleaning, and any preparation for a party was done throughout the day, and I was pleased to fill the jars and seal them with time to spare. I changed my mind about displaying them, though, and shoved them into any available space in the overhead cabinets to make room for plates of savories.
By late afternoon, we were ready for guests. Or so I thought.
I stepped into the kitchen to set up the coffeemaker when the perfume of something dead a week slammed into my face. I ran to the windows to see what had perished, but it was inside the kitchen.
At first, I couldn’t see anything, but a pale ooze dripped out of the cabinets and crawled down the cupboard doors.
The hot, sealed tomatoes had fermented and burst their lids, and the creatures from the garden lagoon were escaping from every jar.
The smell was unbelievable. We had to find every jar, clean the cupboards, open every window, spray, and use every fan.
By the time our company arrived, there was a faint odor of distant skunk in the kitchen, but no one left screaming and running for their lives.
Mary had forgotten to tell me she grew low-acid tomatoes.
I stopped bragging about my garden prowess, although I shared the night of the living almost-dead with amusement.
And so, I’m sharing it with you.
Gardens are wonderful, beautiful, hard work, and rewarding, and every gardener, cook, weeder, planter, and harvester can tell adventure stories to equal Indiana Jones.
What are some of yours?
March 5, 2022
Time Travel and Sassafras
The Heights we knew was a magic place in a long-ago time. No, life then wasn’t perfect, and just like today there were challenges and hardships, griefs and difficulties, but there was also a sense of community and shared celebrations, events that we share on this site, back and forth, with pleasure and happiness from all ages.
I can’t drive you to my favorite spots and show you remembered scenery along roads that no longer exist, yet we can still visit those places.
And do.
We share memories, and that’s the greatest time travel machine invented.
I spent early spring rediscovering the faint trail into the Second Woods, drawn by spring peepers and the lure of an exotic setting, marshy and full of singing voices, as if it was a world away from the end of Caroline Street.
In the summertime, my best friend Kay and I tracked down a patch of sassafras saplings in the middle of our section of the First Woods, and chewed on leaves to marvel at the unique flavor.
Yes, we knew that chewing sassafras leaves was toxic and we’d probably be poisoned, but we weren’t. (Just as we knew that if you unraveled a tennis ball, you could make an explosive.) Sassafras scent and taste meant childhood summers in the woods.
Sassafras root is a primary ingredient in root beer, and the leaves have a sharp, tangy taste. Besides stealing hickory nuts from each other when we sat under the old hickory tree between the First and Second Woods, we made treks to the sassafras patch to try another leaf and sniff the branches.
The Second Woods was a mysterious, watery place in the late spring to late summer. The First Woods was a Bambi forest. My brothers caught frogs and snakes. Squirrels were at risk from other boys. I followed paths through the woods to the other streets off Squirrel Road. A sassafras stick from Cracker Barrel can take me back to that magic time after one taste.
After years of stuck-to-the-hip adventures, Kay and I lost sight of each other. So many childhood friends are gone, one way or another, yet I can retrieve them in a flash, at least, in my mind.
And my favorite teachers. They live again, young and feisty. As do my classmates. You can have a birthday with a scary and unbelievable number, but ask me, you’re still young and supple.
Adams Road led into woods and curves. “The Heights” (downtown) offered our favorite five-and-dime stores, ice cream, lunch, dinner, haircuts.
Corner stores offered the treasure of comic books and penny candy. We shared the same junior and senior high schools, for a time. And our elementary school identified which part of the Heights we were from.
Every kid rode bikes, played outside until dark, and on our street, the fire whistle meant dinner time.
There were income differences, family traditions weren’t the same, yet looking back, we’re more alike than different. I thought that when Barber Bob and I were sharing memories over lunch.
We chewed on clover flowers, picked rhubarb from against basement walls, broke up the year into school, Halloween, summer vacation, Christmas, sledding, fireworks, parades, and the Fall Festival. When our children were growing up in the same neighborhood, they did the same.
Go on sharing your favorite memories. This keeps our time machine in working order.
The Heights we knew was a magic place, but it doesn’t have to stay in a long-ago time.
Thank you, Joanie, for this site, and Tyson, for keeping pictures and souvenirs of a special place and time.
And I’m curious, did you chew sassafras leaves?
I can’t drive you to my favorite spots and show you remembered scenery along roads that no longer exist, yet we can still visit those places.
And do.
We share memories, and that’s the greatest time travel machine invented.
I spent early spring rediscovering the faint trail into the Second Woods, drawn by spring peepers and the lure of an exotic setting, marshy and full of singing voices, as if it was a world away from the end of Caroline Street.
In the summertime, my best friend Kay and I tracked down a patch of sassafras saplings in the middle of our section of the First Woods, and chewed on leaves to marvel at the unique flavor.
Yes, we knew that chewing sassafras leaves was toxic and we’d probably be poisoned, but we weren’t. (Just as we knew that if you unraveled a tennis ball, you could make an explosive.) Sassafras scent and taste meant childhood summers in the woods.
Sassafras root is a primary ingredient in root beer, and the leaves have a sharp, tangy taste. Besides stealing hickory nuts from each other when we sat under the old hickory tree between the First and Second Woods, we made treks to the sassafras patch to try another leaf and sniff the branches.
The Second Woods was a mysterious, watery place in the late spring to late summer. The First Woods was a Bambi forest. My brothers caught frogs and snakes. Squirrels were at risk from other boys. I followed paths through the woods to the other streets off Squirrel Road. A sassafras stick from Cracker Barrel can take me back to that magic time after one taste.
After years of stuck-to-the-hip adventures, Kay and I lost sight of each other. So many childhood friends are gone, one way or another, yet I can retrieve them in a flash, at least, in my mind.
And my favorite teachers. They live again, young and feisty. As do my classmates. You can have a birthday with a scary and unbelievable number, but ask me, you’re still young and supple.
Adams Road led into woods and curves. “The Heights” (downtown) offered our favorite five-and-dime stores, ice cream, lunch, dinner, haircuts.
Corner stores offered the treasure of comic books and penny candy. We shared the same junior and senior high schools, for a time. And our elementary school identified which part of the Heights we were from.
Every kid rode bikes, played outside until dark, and on our street, the fire whistle meant dinner time.
There were income differences, family traditions weren’t the same, yet looking back, we’re more alike than different. I thought that when Barber Bob and I were sharing memories over lunch.
We chewed on clover flowers, picked rhubarb from against basement walls, broke up the year into school, Halloween, summer vacation, Christmas, sledding, fireworks, parades, and the Fall Festival. When our children were growing up in the same neighborhood, they did the same.
Go on sharing your favorite memories. This keeps our time machine in working order.
The Heights we knew was a magic place, but it doesn’t have to stay in a long-ago time.
Thank you, Joanie, for this site, and Tyson, for keeping pictures and souvenirs of a special place and time.
And I’m curious, did you chew sassafras leaves?
February 27, 2022
Sisters and Daffodil Hill
I always wanted to be a twin. In particular, have a twin brother to defend and advise me.
I thought it would be a bonus to have a built-in friend to share everything with—bedroom, clothes, interests.
Not sure my sisters would have agreed in their childhood. JoAnn was so neat, she lined up her shoes in the closet and knew where every belonging was. Janet was lively and sociable, too busy to worry about constant order.
I was nine when my sisters were born, the cutest babies on the planet, and my friends oohed and aahed over them. When they shared a stroller and admirers would stop Mom with the inevitable, “Are they twins?”, Mom got so tired of it, her response was, “No, they have different fathers.”
Mom never dressed them alike, insisting that they were two different people.
Wow, was she right.
JoAnn was studious in school, Janet more interested in friends’ drama. Both were brilliant and creative, and more alike than could be seen or guessed.
We were invited to take part, as a family, in a twin study in Detroit at a major hospital. My sisters weren’t fraternal and weren’t identical, although they’d been announced identical at birth (one placenta). Before they came home from the nursery, it was obvious they weren’t. Blond and blue eyed. Dark hair and hazel eyes. It was like Mom and Dad’s heritage had been split down the middle, yet their IQ was identical, their fingerprints mirror images, and they had a mind bond. No kidding.
As toddlers, if Janet bumped her head in the kitchen, JoAnn rubbed hers and cried. As teens, JoAnn would stand up, leave her book, and make a sandwich for Janet, insisting that Janet had asked for it. The rest of us in the room could attest that she’d said nothing aloud.
Janet knew when JoAnn was in trouble, states apart. And when JoAnn died of multiple sclerosis, she left a loss and emptiness in Janet that hasn’t been filled by anything else.
For me, JoAnn was my closest friend and music partner, at church and in songwriting. When I hired into an elementary school here in Florida, Janet was principal’s secretary and bookkeeper, and literally ran every detail in the school. And well.
My sisters have always been my friends. I could tell them anything, and they could trust me.
Both talented in music and sports, quilt-making and sewing (Janet), mathematics (JoAnn). Janet was quick and JoAnn accurate on the basketball team in high school, and opposing teams accused them of cheating, since Janet could pass the ball from behind her and JoAnn loft it into the basket without touching the net or looking back at Janet.
They didn’t share the same friends, and in one large class, when Mom went to open house, after hearing about JoAnn, she asked the teacher about Janet.
“Why do you want to know about her?” the teacher said.
“She’s my daughter, too. They’re twins,” Mom said.
The teacher was shocked. Even the same last name hadn’t clued her into sisters.
So why the accolades about my awesome sisters?
In remembering my life in the Heights, I can flow from childhood to teen years to adulthood, growing up on Caroline, raising our children on Caroline and Henrydale, school, contract work at GM, Lawrence Tech, shopping at Crabtree & Evelyn or the Meadowbrook Mall, dreaming about living at Meadowbrook Hall. Spending hours at Cranbrook House and Gardens and museums.
A lifetime that circles around a magic place, as any one of us from the Heights can attest.
And my sisters?
I introduced JoAnn to the magic of Daffodil Hill at Cranbrook Gardens, where the green slope we ran down in the summertime was covered with jonquils and daffodils early spring.
Janet and I shared more glasses of iced tea and gossip and hardships than any library could hold.
When I moved to Florida, where they both lived, the three of us shared outings that still make me laugh. I’m sure we left memories behind us since everything was funny when we were together.
I miss JoAnn, too.
Janet and I have a sisters’ bond that no time or distance can shake.
Springtime is coming, in spite of the cold and awful weather. I don’t know if Cranbrook still offers the magic of daffodils on the green grass, and I can’t take JoAnn there again. Janet and I are both retired and although she struggles with health issues and I can’t believe the age this birthday will bring me, we are still the three sisters who talked, laughed, shared jokes and family memories, hopes, and supported each other in every way.
Once, playing a card game with JoAnn, she looked up at me and said, “The Oggs wonk.” I stared at her. “What? The Oggs wonk?” She blinked at me. “What did you say?” “You said it first.” “No, I didn’t. You did.”
I never did learn what she really said, but for years afterward, anytime there was mischief or something to laugh at, the Oggs wonked again.
Janet, I love you. You’re still here to tell, and you are my greatest support system.
And, by the way, the Oggs still wonk!
I thought it would be a bonus to have a built-in friend to share everything with—bedroom, clothes, interests.
Not sure my sisters would have agreed in their childhood. JoAnn was so neat, she lined up her shoes in the closet and knew where every belonging was. Janet was lively and sociable, too busy to worry about constant order.
I was nine when my sisters were born, the cutest babies on the planet, and my friends oohed and aahed over them. When they shared a stroller and admirers would stop Mom with the inevitable, “Are they twins?”, Mom got so tired of it, her response was, “No, they have different fathers.”
Mom never dressed them alike, insisting that they were two different people.
Wow, was she right.
JoAnn was studious in school, Janet more interested in friends’ drama. Both were brilliant and creative, and more alike than could be seen or guessed.
We were invited to take part, as a family, in a twin study in Detroit at a major hospital. My sisters weren’t fraternal and weren’t identical, although they’d been announced identical at birth (one placenta). Before they came home from the nursery, it was obvious they weren’t. Blond and blue eyed. Dark hair and hazel eyes. It was like Mom and Dad’s heritage had been split down the middle, yet their IQ was identical, their fingerprints mirror images, and they had a mind bond. No kidding.
As toddlers, if Janet bumped her head in the kitchen, JoAnn rubbed hers and cried. As teens, JoAnn would stand up, leave her book, and make a sandwich for Janet, insisting that Janet had asked for it. The rest of us in the room could attest that she’d said nothing aloud.
Janet knew when JoAnn was in trouble, states apart. And when JoAnn died of multiple sclerosis, she left a loss and emptiness in Janet that hasn’t been filled by anything else.
For me, JoAnn was my closest friend and music partner, at church and in songwriting. When I hired into an elementary school here in Florida, Janet was principal’s secretary and bookkeeper, and literally ran every detail in the school. And well.
My sisters have always been my friends. I could tell them anything, and they could trust me.
Both talented in music and sports, quilt-making and sewing (Janet), mathematics (JoAnn). Janet was quick and JoAnn accurate on the basketball team in high school, and opposing teams accused them of cheating, since Janet could pass the ball from behind her and JoAnn loft it into the basket without touching the net or looking back at Janet.
They didn’t share the same friends, and in one large class, when Mom went to open house, after hearing about JoAnn, she asked the teacher about Janet.
“Why do you want to know about her?” the teacher said.
“She’s my daughter, too. They’re twins,” Mom said.
The teacher was shocked. Even the same last name hadn’t clued her into sisters.
So why the accolades about my awesome sisters?
In remembering my life in the Heights, I can flow from childhood to teen years to adulthood, growing up on Caroline, raising our children on Caroline and Henrydale, school, contract work at GM, Lawrence Tech, shopping at Crabtree & Evelyn or the Meadowbrook Mall, dreaming about living at Meadowbrook Hall. Spending hours at Cranbrook House and Gardens and museums.
A lifetime that circles around a magic place, as any one of us from the Heights can attest.
And my sisters?
I introduced JoAnn to the magic of Daffodil Hill at Cranbrook Gardens, where the green slope we ran down in the summertime was covered with jonquils and daffodils early spring.
Janet and I shared more glasses of iced tea and gossip and hardships than any library could hold.
When I moved to Florida, where they both lived, the three of us shared outings that still make me laugh. I’m sure we left memories behind us since everything was funny when we were together.
I miss JoAnn, too.
Janet and I have a sisters’ bond that no time or distance can shake.
Springtime is coming, in spite of the cold and awful weather. I don’t know if Cranbrook still offers the magic of daffodils on the green grass, and I can’t take JoAnn there again. Janet and I are both retired and although she struggles with health issues and I can’t believe the age this birthday will bring me, we are still the three sisters who talked, laughed, shared jokes and family memories, hopes, and supported each other in every way.
Once, playing a card game with JoAnn, she looked up at me and said, “The Oggs wonk.” I stared at her. “What? The Oggs wonk?” She blinked at me. “What did you say?” “You said it first.” “No, I didn’t. You did.”
I never did learn what she really said, but for years afterward, anytime there was mischief or something to laugh at, the Oggs wonked again.
Janet, I love you. You’re still here to tell, and you are my greatest support system.
And, by the way, the Oggs still wonk!
February 20, 2022
Foot-Long or Charburger?
Mr K’s Karry Out had excellent pizza, and we ordered it many times, even had it delivered on a Friday or Saturday night. Dave would tell me stories of his delivery days there in his teens, so we always tipped well.
Yet, I was more often torn between their foot-long hot dogs or a charburger. Mmmm, I can still taste either, both. Glen toasted the hot dog buns and buttered them, which made them hard to resist, yet his charburgers were thick and juicy.
I miss Mr K’s Karry Out.
In our family, food was a big issue, from the “Yuck, I can’t eat THAT” to rubbing our hands in delight over precious treats. I confess, when I was a kid, pop and chips-and-dip and cheese-and-crackers and popcorn (which we had for home movies, when we’d beg Dad to make things run backward) were special occasions.
Eating out was almost unheard of in our family, a bit beyond our finances. I remember coming back from the Detroit Zoo one time, as a family, hungry and tired, and Dad pulled into a hamburger carry-out (not McDonald’s, since I don’t think they existed in our area yet). We each got one hot, single hamburger, and nothing has ever tasted so good, then or since.
Years later, my sister JoAnn and I discovered the best hash browns ever in a Clock restaurant on Opdyke in, at that time, Pontiac Township. We went back several times to keep checking, and yes, they were.
When Dave and I married, our reception was in my parents’ backyard. Mom made my dress, and our moms planned and made the menu. It was a perfect late June day, and the reception a family affair. Unfortunately, there were too many baked beans left over.
“You didn’t have to eat baked beans at every meal,” my sisters moaned. “You got to move away.”
They even talked about going to our family trailer on 10 acres in Kalkaska (near Grayling), and going for a picnic-walk. The sandwiches? You guessed it, baked bean!
In a family with six children, 12 years apart, it was hard to have individual attention (unless you were in trouble), except for birthdays, but one year, Mom and Dad announced that each of us could pick one outing, our choice, that would consist of Mom, Dad, and us.
I chose ballet in Detroit.
My youngest brother chose a pancake dinner.
Miniature golf, a Tigers’ game—we each picked a special favorite.
My brother Dave chose dinner at Susie Q on Woodward. Those of us in the Heights and neighboring areas remember Susie Q. Fish-n-chips, chicken-n-chips. That was a real treat.
I had to be world’s pickiest eater, but my friend Rebecca introduced me to Chinese restaurants and Mideastern cuisine, and later, Greek restaurants were added to my “yes” list. The world of food welcomed me.
Still couldn’t handle hot and spicy.
My brother invited me to try a new family Thai restaurant in Pontiac. We went at lunchtime, as soon as it opened, and the family was eager to please. I carefully chose a main course that wasn’t fire in the mouth, and we were brought soup.
That was one of the best bowls of soup I ever tasted, but the peppers in it ignited my hair. I tried sipping water, but wouldn’t stop eating the soup. My eyes and nose ran. My eye makeup ran.
The family huddled in the kitchen doorway and watched me coughing and choking, and sent the oldest daughter to offer more water or something on the house. They didn’t speak English and I couldn’t communicate that I was enjoying their delicious soup.
I breathed clearly for the first time in years after we finished.
So, why all this talk about food?
I have a hankering for a charburger, or a foot-long from Mr K’s. Still can’t decide.
We need a time machine. You build it and I’ll treat you.
Yet, I was more often torn between their foot-long hot dogs or a charburger. Mmmm, I can still taste either, both. Glen toasted the hot dog buns and buttered them, which made them hard to resist, yet his charburgers were thick and juicy.
I miss Mr K’s Karry Out.
In our family, food was a big issue, from the “Yuck, I can’t eat THAT” to rubbing our hands in delight over precious treats. I confess, when I was a kid, pop and chips-and-dip and cheese-and-crackers and popcorn (which we had for home movies, when we’d beg Dad to make things run backward) were special occasions.
Eating out was almost unheard of in our family, a bit beyond our finances. I remember coming back from the Detroit Zoo one time, as a family, hungry and tired, and Dad pulled into a hamburger carry-out (not McDonald’s, since I don’t think they existed in our area yet). We each got one hot, single hamburger, and nothing has ever tasted so good, then or since.
Years later, my sister JoAnn and I discovered the best hash browns ever in a Clock restaurant on Opdyke in, at that time, Pontiac Township. We went back several times to keep checking, and yes, they were.
When Dave and I married, our reception was in my parents’ backyard. Mom made my dress, and our moms planned and made the menu. It was a perfect late June day, and the reception a family affair. Unfortunately, there were too many baked beans left over.
“You didn’t have to eat baked beans at every meal,” my sisters moaned. “You got to move away.”
They even talked about going to our family trailer on 10 acres in Kalkaska (near Grayling), and going for a picnic-walk. The sandwiches? You guessed it, baked bean!
In a family with six children, 12 years apart, it was hard to have individual attention (unless you were in trouble), except for birthdays, but one year, Mom and Dad announced that each of us could pick one outing, our choice, that would consist of Mom, Dad, and us.
I chose ballet in Detroit.
My youngest brother chose a pancake dinner.
Miniature golf, a Tigers’ game—we each picked a special favorite.
My brother Dave chose dinner at Susie Q on Woodward. Those of us in the Heights and neighboring areas remember Susie Q. Fish-n-chips, chicken-n-chips. That was a real treat.
I had to be world’s pickiest eater, but my friend Rebecca introduced me to Chinese restaurants and Mideastern cuisine, and later, Greek restaurants were added to my “yes” list. The world of food welcomed me.
Still couldn’t handle hot and spicy.
My brother invited me to try a new family Thai restaurant in Pontiac. We went at lunchtime, as soon as it opened, and the family was eager to please. I carefully chose a main course that wasn’t fire in the mouth, and we were brought soup.
That was one of the best bowls of soup I ever tasted, but the peppers in it ignited my hair. I tried sipping water, but wouldn’t stop eating the soup. My eyes and nose ran. My eye makeup ran.
The family huddled in the kitchen doorway and watched me coughing and choking, and sent the oldest daughter to offer more water or something on the house. They didn’t speak English and I couldn’t communicate that I was enjoying their delicious soup.
I breathed clearly for the first time in years after we finished.
So, why all this talk about food?
I have a hankering for a charburger, or a foot-long from Mr K’s. Still can’t decide.
We need a time machine. You build it and I’ll treat you.
February 13, 2022
Sweetest Song of Promise
“Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice.”
“If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.”
Michigan’s motto.
And since 1931, the state bird is the American Robin, the sign of spring and the song of summer.
“Cheerily-cheer-up-cheerio!” The male’s courting song is the sign that winter is ending and the time of lilacs and green grass and summer are coming.
And happens every year, no matter how cold and miserable the winter has been. Or is.
They’re easily recognized by the hopping and head-tipping as each bird listens for the sound of earthworms, and by their rust-red shirts. Not related to the English robin, our spring and summer visitor is actually a thrush.
During all my years in the Heights, I looked forward to the first sign of robins returning from their winters in the south—Texas, Florida, or as far south as Guatemala.
They must be tougher than they look to fly so far to court and raise fledglings in the north, as far as Canada. I’ve read that they can live in Michigan year-round, but never saw any until very early spring.
When they appear in Florida, they don’t sing, but land in yards as a flock, gobbling and moving on, much too early, I tell them every year, but they’re in a hurry to get to their real homes, even if they have to pick through snow for their meals.
By February and March, they’re looking for bugs, seeds, fruit, mates, and material for nests. The males return first, duke out their nesting places, and practice their tunes to impress the ladies. Like the rest of us, females choose their mates based on looks, home location, and song.
Oh, that song.
To my ears, the robins’ cheerful tune is fresh and sweet and makes me homesick for my childhood summers, for raising our children in the same house, sending them to the same schools, sometimes to the same teachers.
When our parents bought the house on Caroline Street, the yard bloomed with fruit trees and tea roses, a black walnut, a catalpa, and a long backyard lined with rhubarb, catnip, and sumac. They planted a Scotch pine tree in the middle of the backyard, near the garage. We kids would jump over it on our way to the backyard, in spite of Mom’s reprimands.
Since the Scotch pine (or Scots pine or Baltic pine) can grow one- to two-feet a year, and reach 60 feet high and 20 feet wide, there came a season when none of us could jump over it. In fact, when our children were young, Dave had to cut off the bottom branches in order to see the backyard.
Children grow and change. Pine trees grow and change.
But the robin’s song is as fresh and familiar as my childhood days, when I heard them from my bedroom window, from the kitchen windows, from running up and down the street, or later, planting ferns and flowers around the house.
Cardinals announce morning. Mourning doves catch the imagination. Red-winged blackbirds have a water music I never tire of, but the robin’s song is summer.
Ernie Harwell.
Lawn mowing.
Robins.
So, look past the 15-20 degrees, with the low of 2 degrees tonight, the 70% chance of snow, to the promise of spring and green summer.
It’s mid-February. The song of the robins will uplift you any time now.
They promise.
“If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.”
Michigan’s motto.
And since 1931, the state bird is the American Robin, the sign of spring and the song of summer.
“Cheerily-cheer-up-cheerio!” The male’s courting song is the sign that winter is ending and the time of lilacs and green grass and summer are coming.
And happens every year, no matter how cold and miserable the winter has been. Or is.
They’re easily recognized by the hopping and head-tipping as each bird listens for the sound of earthworms, and by their rust-red shirts. Not related to the English robin, our spring and summer visitor is actually a thrush.
During all my years in the Heights, I looked forward to the first sign of robins returning from their winters in the south—Texas, Florida, or as far south as Guatemala.
They must be tougher than they look to fly so far to court and raise fledglings in the north, as far as Canada. I’ve read that they can live in Michigan year-round, but never saw any until very early spring.
When they appear in Florida, they don’t sing, but land in yards as a flock, gobbling and moving on, much too early, I tell them every year, but they’re in a hurry to get to their real homes, even if they have to pick through snow for their meals.
By February and March, they’re looking for bugs, seeds, fruit, mates, and material for nests. The males return first, duke out their nesting places, and practice their tunes to impress the ladies. Like the rest of us, females choose their mates based on looks, home location, and song.
Oh, that song.
To my ears, the robins’ cheerful tune is fresh and sweet and makes me homesick for my childhood summers, for raising our children in the same house, sending them to the same schools, sometimes to the same teachers.
When our parents bought the house on Caroline Street, the yard bloomed with fruit trees and tea roses, a black walnut, a catalpa, and a long backyard lined with rhubarb, catnip, and sumac. They planted a Scotch pine tree in the middle of the backyard, near the garage. We kids would jump over it on our way to the backyard, in spite of Mom’s reprimands.
Since the Scotch pine (or Scots pine or Baltic pine) can grow one- to two-feet a year, and reach 60 feet high and 20 feet wide, there came a season when none of us could jump over it. In fact, when our children were young, Dave had to cut off the bottom branches in order to see the backyard.
Children grow and change. Pine trees grow and change.
But the robin’s song is as fresh and familiar as my childhood days, when I heard them from my bedroom window, from the kitchen windows, from running up and down the street, or later, planting ferns and flowers around the house.
Cardinals announce morning. Mourning doves catch the imagination. Red-winged blackbirds have a water music I never tire of, but the robin’s song is summer.
Ernie Harwell.
Lawn mowing.
Robins.
So, look past the 15-20 degrees, with the low of 2 degrees tonight, the 70% chance of snow, to the promise of spring and green summer.
It’s mid-February. The song of the robins will uplift you any time now.
They promise.
Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life
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