Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 3
December 1, 2024
Advent Candles and Visiting Santa
Advent, meaning arrival. On the First Sunday of Advent, we arranged the wreath and candle centerpiece on our kitchen table, and on Sundays, Dad lit the appropriate candles and recited that week’s Advent prayer.
The First Sunday of Advent began the Christmas season in our house with Dad praying, “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people…” as he lit the first purple candle.
Mom put together ingredients for plum pudding and each of us stirred in our wish for the year, adding extra stirs for those not present. The mixture steamed for hours before being stored for Christmas Day.
Advent meant anticipation for us kids. Our nativity set was arranged around the living room as Mary and Joseph began their journey to Bethlehem (on their knees, since our figures were designed for the stable, a pose that my brothers and I imitated, giggling, as we pretended to travel across the room).
We had a new Advent calendar every year, taking turns to open the flaps and see the pictures beneath. It was a hardship not to peak at Christmas morning’s Baby Jesus. Some years he was aired several times as we tried to tuck the flap back in and pretend we’d waited to see Him.
And our annual visit to Santa was planned.
There was a time, long ago, when I never doubted Santa’s role at Christmas. In fact, one year on First Street in Pontiac, when I was about seven or eight, my brothers and I heard sleigh bells. This cemented our belief, which, no doubt, was Dad’s purpose.
When my children were young, we took them to the Pontiac Mall (Summit Place) to see Santa. The mall was the first enclosed shopping center in Michigan, opened 1962 and offering Hudson’s, Sear’s, J.C. Penney’s, and Montgomery Ward’s, as well as many stores accessible from the inside. (Bought my first Beatles records at Grinnell’s there.)
Before the years of indoor malls, we Russell kids saw Santa in downtown Pontiac, and later, at the Miracle Mile shopping center on Telegraph. Always received a tiny candy cane after whispering our Christmas gift wish.
One year, my daughter Anne refused to tell me what she was asking for. “You don’t need to know,” she insisted, and after she was escorted away from Santa, I rushed up to learn what she’d said.
When asking Mom about the many Santas on street corners collecting money, or at various stores and settings, she assured us that he had many helpers. We were satisfied with that explanation.
Anticipation is the biggest part of Christmas for children. From the First Sunday of Advent to the thrill of Christmas morning, every wish and tradition build a sense of excitement and joy.
Hanging the same stockings every year on our staircase banister. Driving out to choose a tree from one of the lots, waiting a day for the branches to drop, the house fragrant with pine scent, and decorating it with familiar ornaments.
Christmas carols. Christmas specials—Charlie Brown’s Christmas, Rudolph, Grinch, versions of A Christmas Carol, including Mister Magoo. Christmas lists. Taunting TV ads of perfect toys. Decorated cookies, candy canes, all part of the reality of Christmas, including the magic of Santa.
Advent candles have names—Prophecy (purple), Bethlehem (purple), Shepherds (pink), Angels (purple), and on Christmas Day, the Birth of Jesus (white). That encompasses Christmas with rich history, meaning, ceremonies, celebrations, family, friends, peace and joy.
And it all begins today, the First Sunday of Advent.
One year, we rang sleigh bells for our children, too, after they’d gone to bed, since Christmas is a season of traditions.
A season we wish lasted all year long.
The First Sunday of Advent began the Christmas season in our house with Dad praying, “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people…” as he lit the first purple candle.
Mom put together ingredients for plum pudding and each of us stirred in our wish for the year, adding extra stirs for those not present. The mixture steamed for hours before being stored for Christmas Day.
Advent meant anticipation for us kids. Our nativity set was arranged around the living room as Mary and Joseph began their journey to Bethlehem (on their knees, since our figures were designed for the stable, a pose that my brothers and I imitated, giggling, as we pretended to travel across the room).
We had a new Advent calendar every year, taking turns to open the flaps and see the pictures beneath. It was a hardship not to peak at Christmas morning’s Baby Jesus. Some years he was aired several times as we tried to tuck the flap back in and pretend we’d waited to see Him.
And our annual visit to Santa was planned.
There was a time, long ago, when I never doubted Santa’s role at Christmas. In fact, one year on First Street in Pontiac, when I was about seven or eight, my brothers and I heard sleigh bells. This cemented our belief, which, no doubt, was Dad’s purpose.
When my children were young, we took them to the Pontiac Mall (Summit Place) to see Santa. The mall was the first enclosed shopping center in Michigan, opened 1962 and offering Hudson’s, Sear’s, J.C. Penney’s, and Montgomery Ward’s, as well as many stores accessible from the inside. (Bought my first Beatles records at Grinnell’s there.)
Before the years of indoor malls, we Russell kids saw Santa in downtown Pontiac, and later, at the Miracle Mile shopping center on Telegraph. Always received a tiny candy cane after whispering our Christmas gift wish.
One year, my daughter Anne refused to tell me what she was asking for. “You don’t need to know,” she insisted, and after she was escorted away from Santa, I rushed up to learn what she’d said.
When asking Mom about the many Santas on street corners collecting money, or at various stores and settings, she assured us that he had many helpers. We were satisfied with that explanation.
Anticipation is the biggest part of Christmas for children. From the First Sunday of Advent to the thrill of Christmas morning, every wish and tradition build a sense of excitement and joy.
Hanging the same stockings every year on our staircase banister. Driving out to choose a tree from one of the lots, waiting a day for the branches to drop, the house fragrant with pine scent, and decorating it with familiar ornaments.
Christmas carols. Christmas specials—Charlie Brown’s Christmas, Rudolph, Grinch, versions of A Christmas Carol, including Mister Magoo. Christmas lists. Taunting TV ads of perfect toys. Decorated cookies, candy canes, all part of the reality of Christmas, including the magic of Santa.
Advent candles have names—Prophecy (purple), Bethlehem (purple), Shepherds (pink), Angels (purple), and on Christmas Day, the Birth of Jesus (white). That encompasses Christmas with rich history, meaning, ceremonies, celebrations, family, friends, peace and joy.
And it all begins today, the First Sunday of Advent.
One year, we rang sleigh bells for our children, too, after they’d gone to bed, since Christmas is a season of traditions.
A season we wish lasted all year long.
November 24, 2024
Thanksgiving Through the Years
“Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go...”
I’ve always associated that song with Thanksgiving family dinners, and no wonder. When I looked up background about the verses, I learned they were written by Lydia Maria Child and called “The New-England Boy’s Song About Thanksgiving Day.” Published in 1844 in a children’s poetry book (Flowers for Children, Volume 2), it was later set to music by an unknown composer.
We didn’t go to grandmother’s house. Instead, my mother’s parents and grandma came to us. Mom was the only girl in her family, as my Aunt Patsy was on Dad’s side, so it was assumed they’d host family Thanksgivings.
Mom started days earlier, baking pumpkin and mincemeat pies, and thawing the enormous (to my eyes) turkey. The day before, she made stuffing from scratch that included simmered turkey “innards” and spices. We knew to stay out of the kitchen after breakfast since she’d be preparing mashed potatoes, vegetables, bread dough for rolls, sweet potatoes, and sometimes Jello salad.
Ah, the perfume of a slowly-roasting, stuffed turkey as the morning slid into afternoon. We amused ourselves with two parades on TV—Macy Day Parade and our beloved Detroit Thanksgiving Parade, comparing floats, announcers, lined-up crowds, and of course, Santa. The best Santa floats had real reindeer walking on a moving base behind an Edmund Gwenn-Kris Kringle (from 1947’s Miracle on 34th Street).
Santa met mayors and received ornate keys to the city, often accompanied by Christmas Carol in her short red-and-white Santa-like dress. Other than the name, we’d have preferred to see elves from his workshop.
Lunch was a quick sandwich, but nothing could satisfy with the nearly done turkey. My brothers and I slipped into the kitchen anytime it was unguarded, to open the oven and snitch a chunk of stuffing. Delicious!
Van Johnson’s “The Pied Piper of Hamelin” (1957) movie aired early afternoon, a perennial favorite. We knew all the songs, melodies from classical composer Grieg. I was in love with the piper and would have followed him when he left for the last time. It was the beginning of my fascination with the (Wise) Fool, who showed up in my poems and stories years later. Thank you, Mr. Van Johnson. “Flim flam floo, the world is full of wonderment and magic..”
Dinner was always a feast. Dad would pick up Great-Grandma Miller, and Grandma and Grandpa Schaffer drove themselves to join us around our large table. Both grandmothers stayed at the table afterward and kept Mom company while she managed cleanup on her own. Once I got old enough to be helpful, she and I managed it.
Food coma, TV, slow conversations until my grandparents went home, and later that night, turkey sandwiches and more pie with “The Wizard of Oz.”
Those are the Thanksgivings I remember the best. A year finally came with children of my own and living in the same house, when I took over Thanksgiving dinners. I realized then how much labor was involved and how quickly food disappeared once it hit the table.
I miss those dinners. I miss Mom, my family, our holiday routine. When Mom was in the nursing home, the facility offered Thanksgiving Lunch with white tablecloths, candles, stemmed glassware, and the traditional meal. I joined Mom and we relived every Thanksgiving memory we could pull up, savoring the anticipation and pleasure of those long-ago times.
Now she’s gone, too, and Thanksgiving is not the same. Yes, we’ll have the traditional dinner with available family, but only two of us from that generation have those memories to share.
To every family, here or gone, distant or close on this holiday, may you enjoy a moment or two of warm memories, family stories, favorite dishes, and late-night pie.
Happy Thanksgiving.
I’ve always associated that song with Thanksgiving family dinners, and no wonder. When I looked up background about the verses, I learned they were written by Lydia Maria Child and called “The New-England Boy’s Song About Thanksgiving Day.” Published in 1844 in a children’s poetry book (Flowers for Children, Volume 2), it was later set to music by an unknown composer.
We didn’t go to grandmother’s house. Instead, my mother’s parents and grandma came to us. Mom was the only girl in her family, as my Aunt Patsy was on Dad’s side, so it was assumed they’d host family Thanksgivings.
Mom started days earlier, baking pumpkin and mincemeat pies, and thawing the enormous (to my eyes) turkey. The day before, she made stuffing from scratch that included simmered turkey “innards” and spices. We knew to stay out of the kitchen after breakfast since she’d be preparing mashed potatoes, vegetables, bread dough for rolls, sweet potatoes, and sometimes Jello salad.
Ah, the perfume of a slowly-roasting, stuffed turkey as the morning slid into afternoon. We amused ourselves with two parades on TV—Macy Day Parade and our beloved Detroit Thanksgiving Parade, comparing floats, announcers, lined-up crowds, and of course, Santa. The best Santa floats had real reindeer walking on a moving base behind an Edmund Gwenn-Kris Kringle (from 1947’s Miracle on 34th Street).
Santa met mayors and received ornate keys to the city, often accompanied by Christmas Carol in her short red-and-white Santa-like dress. Other than the name, we’d have preferred to see elves from his workshop.
Lunch was a quick sandwich, but nothing could satisfy with the nearly done turkey. My brothers and I slipped into the kitchen anytime it was unguarded, to open the oven and snitch a chunk of stuffing. Delicious!
Van Johnson’s “The Pied Piper of Hamelin” (1957) movie aired early afternoon, a perennial favorite. We knew all the songs, melodies from classical composer Grieg. I was in love with the piper and would have followed him when he left for the last time. It was the beginning of my fascination with the (Wise) Fool, who showed up in my poems and stories years later. Thank you, Mr. Van Johnson. “Flim flam floo, the world is full of wonderment and magic..”
Dinner was always a feast. Dad would pick up Great-Grandma Miller, and Grandma and Grandpa Schaffer drove themselves to join us around our large table. Both grandmothers stayed at the table afterward and kept Mom company while she managed cleanup on her own. Once I got old enough to be helpful, she and I managed it.
Food coma, TV, slow conversations until my grandparents went home, and later that night, turkey sandwiches and more pie with “The Wizard of Oz.”
Those are the Thanksgivings I remember the best. A year finally came with children of my own and living in the same house, when I took over Thanksgiving dinners. I realized then how much labor was involved and how quickly food disappeared once it hit the table.
I miss those dinners. I miss Mom, my family, our holiday routine. When Mom was in the nursing home, the facility offered Thanksgiving Lunch with white tablecloths, candles, stemmed glassware, and the traditional meal. I joined Mom and we relived every Thanksgiving memory we could pull up, savoring the anticipation and pleasure of those long-ago times.
Now she’s gone, too, and Thanksgiving is not the same. Yes, we’ll have the traditional dinner with available family, but only two of us from that generation have those memories to share.
To every family, here or gone, distant or close on this holiday, may you enjoy a moment or two of warm memories, family stories, favorite dishes, and late-night pie.
Happy Thanksgiving.
November 17, 2024
A NOVEMBER WALK IN THE HEIGHTS
“I think Michigan keeps you sane and on an even keel through the ups and downs. In Michigan, I do fireworks, shovel snow and live life.” - Jeff Daniels
Halloween’s over and the month of November stretches ahead toward Thanksgiving (which began the Christmas season in our house). Frosty nights are common, snow flurries possible, rain expected. The bright fall colors are fading to gold, yellow, and brown, yet this was one of my favorite times of the year.
Holiday anticipation ahead, busy year behind.
Will you join me for another walk? This time we’ll stroll down Caroline Street where I lived as a child and with children of my own, and savor this season between fall and winter.
I’m wearing my favorite zip-up sweatshirt jacket with hood. I have wool gloves shoved in each pocket. Jeans, flannel shirt, tennis shoes—one of my favorite outfits—to keep me warm and comfortable.
As we head down the street toward the oak-beech First Woods, I study each house we pass. Childhood memories wind together with adult experiences so that I see families who lived in the houses all those years ago, along with those who raised children with mine. A few changes and renovations, yet most of the houses seem the same.
Childhood friends have grown and moved away. The once steep hill down Caroline was smoothed out when the retaining ditches were filled, so no more exciting “look, no hands” bicycle rides to the end. Dogs and bikes still populate yards, along with leaf piles. Smoke from chimneys show working furnaces. Any lingering green is dull in color and attention is caught by the crackle of falling leaves.
The last house on the left side of the street was the childhood home of my best friend Kay, as well as future husband. House is now gone, replaced by larger home, but I can see the original, as well as the rooms inside as clearly as though they still existed.
We’ll ignore the apartment complex on the far side of the fence that runs along the dead-end street. The walk we’re on is in the past, so the woods are thick past Detroit Edison’s right-of-way, where I once saw a glorious red fox.
A path leads into the First Woods branching left and right. If we turn left, we follow the woods to Bessie Street. To the right, the junior high and Margaret Street, although I remember the field offering a small pond and wild strawberries.
If we continue straight, we pass through the First Woods to another field with a road that passes a hickory nut tree to the swampy Second Woods. No spring peepers there in November, so we’ll turn right, cross the football field of the junior high, and head down Bessie.
The air is chilly with a hint of possible rain. November clouds are flattened puffs of gray and white, and a cold breeze rattles overhead leaves.
I didn’t know many Bessie neighbors, but my friend Vicki lived fourth from the end on the left, and most of us went to Avondale schools. There’s a sense of community and family in these streets, felt in childhood and through my years of raising a family.
At the top of the street is the corner store where I spent countless pennies and nickels on candy choices behind the glass counter. We turn right on Squirrel Road where the houses are beautifully individual. Across the street oak trees are huge, shading front lawns in the summertime and home to countless squirrels, where I suspect, the road got its name.
Cars go by, make and model determined by the year, but of course, there'll be a scattering of muscle cars. Kids pass riding bikes or walking—to the store, to friends’ houses, to the Heights’ downtown, maybe, where Kay and I spent hours browsing in Shovels or Thomas Variety.
My thoughts rush ahead to fresh, hot coffee (or cocoa) when I get back home. Plans for Thanksgiving surface as I go over the menu again with who will be bringing what.
But in the moment, the air is crisp, busy holiday seasons are ahead, summer and apple cider-fall behind. There’s a quiet contentment in this November day, a month of cold sometimes, snow sometimes, leaves to be raked, plans to be made for holidays, but time for everything.
I’ll pour coffee for you when we get back and offer oatmeal cookies, baked this morning. We can share your Heights memories from various years and seasons, but especially family Thanksgiving dinners, school projects, Christmas hopes, and pleasure in our much-cherished community.
Thank you for the walk and the memories.
Halloween’s over and the month of November stretches ahead toward Thanksgiving (which began the Christmas season in our house). Frosty nights are common, snow flurries possible, rain expected. The bright fall colors are fading to gold, yellow, and brown, yet this was one of my favorite times of the year.
Holiday anticipation ahead, busy year behind.
Will you join me for another walk? This time we’ll stroll down Caroline Street where I lived as a child and with children of my own, and savor this season between fall and winter.
I’m wearing my favorite zip-up sweatshirt jacket with hood. I have wool gloves shoved in each pocket. Jeans, flannel shirt, tennis shoes—one of my favorite outfits—to keep me warm and comfortable.
As we head down the street toward the oak-beech First Woods, I study each house we pass. Childhood memories wind together with adult experiences so that I see families who lived in the houses all those years ago, along with those who raised children with mine. A few changes and renovations, yet most of the houses seem the same.
Childhood friends have grown and moved away. The once steep hill down Caroline was smoothed out when the retaining ditches were filled, so no more exciting “look, no hands” bicycle rides to the end. Dogs and bikes still populate yards, along with leaf piles. Smoke from chimneys show working furnaces. Any lingering green is dull in color and attention is caught by the crackle of falling leaves.
The last house on the left side of the street was the childhood home of my best friend Kay, as well as future husband. House is now gone, replaced by larger home, but I can see the original, as well as the rooms inside as clearly as though they still existed.
We’ll ignore the apartment complex on the far side of the fence that runs along the dead-end street. The walk we’re on is in the past, so the woods are thick past Detroit Edison’s right-of-way, where I once saw a glorious red fox.
A path leads into the First Woods branching left and right. If we turn left, we follow the woods to Bessie Street. To the right, the junior high and Margaret Street, although I remember the field offering a small pond and wild strawberries.
If we continue straight, we pass through the First Woods to another field with a road that passes a hickory nut tree to the swampy Second Woods. No spring peepers there in November, so we’ll turn right, cross the football field of the junior high, and head down Bessie.
The air is chilly with a hint of possible rain. November clouds are flattened puffs of gray and white, and a cold breeze rattles overhead leaves.
I didn’t know many Bessie neighbors, but my friend Vicki lived fourth from the end on the left, and most of us went to Avondale schools. There’s a sense of community and family in these streets, felt in childhood and through my years of raising a family.
At the top of the street is the corner store where I spent countless pennies and nickels on candy choices behind the glass counter. We turn right on Squirrel Road where the houses are beautifully individual. Across the street oak trees are huge, shading front lawns in the summertime and home to countless squirrels, where I suspect, the road got its name.
Cars go by, make and model determined by the year, but of course, there'll be a scattering of muscle cars. Kids pass riding bikes or walking—to the store, to friends’ houses, to the Heights’ downtown, maybe, where Kay and I spent hours browsing in Shovels or Thomas Variety.
My thoughts rush ahead to fresh, hot coffee (or cocoa) when I get back home. Plans for Thanksgiving surface as I go over the menu again with who will be bringing what.
But in the moment, the air is crisp, busy holiday seasons are ahead, summer and apple cider-fall behind. There’s a quiet contentment in this November day, a month of cold sometimes, snow sometimes, leaves to be raked, plans to be made for holidays, but time for everything.
I’ll pour coffee for you when we get back and offer oatmeal cookies, baked this morning. We can share your Heights memories from various years and seasons, but especially family Thanksgiving dinners, school projects, Christmas hopes, and pleasure in our much-cherished community.
Thank you for the walk and the memories.
November 9, 2024
The Magic of Leaf Piles
Join me for a leisurely walk in the Heights in early November. Any neighborhood will do, but I’ve chosen Caroline Street since I’m familiar with the yards and houses.
We’re wandering into the past.
By now, there’ve been a few frosty nights, maybe even the threat of snow flurries. We’ve swapped our summer wardrobe for jackets, sweatshirts, wool sweaters, and depending on the decade, corduroy pants. The familiar swishing sound was made from the ridges of additional fiber called wales. Did they ever wear out? We only got rid of ours when the ridges wore down and became smooth.
Funny thing about corduroy. The material’s been used since the 18th century and made a comeback in the 1970s, but I can’t recall the last time I saw anyone wearing pants made from corduroy.
But, back to our ramble.
Some yards will be raked until there are few leaves on the dry lawns. Some may be ankle deep in fallen leaves, predominantly oak and maple. Many yards will boast tall piles of autumn color, ready for leaf bags (sadness), the mulch pile, or best of all, jumping children.
Our yard boasted a black walnut tree in the front corner, the last tree to produce tropical-looking summer leaves. By October, the walnuts have fallen and been claimed by squirrels and my brother. He considered the work of removing the green casing and the hard, oily shell worth the unique taste of the nuts. The squirrels had no difficulty reaching nutmeats, but left the sharp shells for us to step on or rake.
The backyard was our small orchard—two Mcintosh apples, two Bartlett pears, two Montmorency (sour) cherries, one Anjou (hard) pear, and a yellow cherry. I learned that the yellow cherry is a cross between Bing and Van, called Rainier after Mount Rainier, since it was developed at Washington State University in 1952. Ours were sweet and juicy, ready to eat when they blushed pink.
Fruit tree leaves were small, hardly worth raking, and never made a jumping pile. We were sent with rakes to collect the mushy, fallen fruit, instead, a disagreeable job that triggered whining and grumbling. Picking up soggy, yellow jacket-covered pears was the worst task.
Ah, but the middle yard behind the house. There autumn was captured in a small area. Three trees dumped leaves, and raking those was as much fun as work, since they made enormous piles for leaping afterward.
The sycamore maple had huge yellow leaves, three to seven inches across, easy to rake. The black locust dropped tiny golden leaves, and while the box elder maple had small leaves, they were plentiful for the resulting mountains.
We owned two garden rakes and one leaf rake, so competition was vocal trying to claim the easiest rake for the job.
Smoke from burning leaves drifted around the neighborhood in those days, adding a woodsy, sharp fragrance to autumn.
How to describe that unique, seasonal perfume? Earthy incense? Musky, sweet, acrid, roasted acorns?
The answer is easier than that.
Burning autumn leaves is the smell of home.
Enjoy your walk.
We’re wandering into the past.
By now, there’ve been a few frosty nights, maybe even the threat of snow flurries. We’ve swapped our summer wardrobe for jackets, sweatshirts, wool sweaters, and depending on the decade, corduroy pants. The familiar swishing sound was made from the ridges of additional fiber called wales. Did they ever wear out? We only got rid of ours when the ridges wore down and became smooth.
Funny thing about corduroy. The material’s been used since the 18th century and made a comeback in the 1970s, but I can’t recall the last time I saw anyone wearing pants made from corduroy.
But, back to our ramble.
Some yards will be raked until there are few leaves on the dry lawns. Some may be ankle deep in fallen leaves, predominantly oak and maple. Many yards will boast tall piles of autumn color, ready for leaf bags (sadness), the mulch pile, or best of all, jumping children.
Our yard boasted a black walnut tree in the front corner, the last tree to produce tropical-looking summer leaves. By October, the walnuts have fallen and been claimed by squirrels and my brother. He considered the work of removing the green casing and the hard, oily shell worth the unique taste of the nuts. The squirrels had no difficulty reaching nutmeats, but left the sharp shells for us to step on or rake.
The backyard was our small orchard—two Mcintosh apples, two Bartlett pears, two Montmorency (sour) cherries, one Anjou (hard) pear, and a yellow cherry. I learned that the yellow cherry is a cross between Bing and Van, called Rainier after Mount Rainier, since it was developed at Washington State University in 1952. Ours were sweet and juicy, ready to eat when they blushed pink.
Fruit tree leaves were small, hardly worth raking, and never made a jumping pile. We were sent with rakes to collect the mushy, fallen fruit, instead, a disagreeable job that triggered whining and grumbling. Picking up soggy, yellow jacket-covered pears was the worst task.
Ah, but the middle yard behind the house. There autumn was captured in a small area. Three trees dumped leaves, and raking those was as much fun as work, since they made enormous piles for leaping afterward.
The sycamore maple had huge yellow leaves, three to seven inches across, easy to rake. The black locust dropped tiny golden leaves, and while the box elder maple had small leaves, they were plentiful for the resulting mountains.
We owned two garden rakes and one leaf rake, so competition was vocal trying to claim the easiest rake for the job.
Smoke from burning leaves drifted around the neighborhood in those days, adding a woodsy, sharp fragrance to autumn.
How to describe that unique, seasonal perfume? Earthy incense? Musky, sweet, acrid, roasted acorns?
The answer is easier than that.
Burning autumn leaves is the smell of home.
Enjoy your walk.
October 26, 2024
One Nation, Under God
The result of two days of Hurricane Milton led to flooding in my neighborhood that continues to destroy homes and daily lives. My small town, actually a “census designated place,” since we have no post office or downtown, has been hit hard by this tragedy.
How does that connect to memories of the Heights? Because growing up and living in Auburn Heights is where I learned about community.
Why was this flooding so much worse than anything I’ve seen in my years here?
Heavy rains earlier this season saturated the Green Swamp, 110 miles and 560,000 acres of swamps, creeks, and wetlands that feed rivers and Florida’s aquifer system for drinking water. That water filled four major rivers, including the Withlacoochee River that runs through my neighborhood on its 157-mile journey.
Sixteen inches of water added to the Green Swamp swelled those rivers, flooding areas around them, and even when the rising crested, has continued to push groundwater into yards and streets far from the banks.
Now, for community.
In our area, neighbors offered boats to collect belongings, navigate homeowners to see the damage. County sheriffs used boats to evacuate residents trapped in homes from a river that rose within hours, blocked roads posing danger.
Volunteers filled the community center and local park with food, restrooms. shower and laundry facilities, fresh water, and have continued this service, even offering to transport those still trapped by flooding.
My grandson’s school set up a food, clothing, water pickup center. A county library closed to the public for FEMA representation. The State is offering travel trailers for those who lost homes as they determine the next stage. Churches are preparing hot meals and delivering them to the park and community center.
And the Heights?
I’m reminded of my childhood community because of the number of neighbors who’ve reached out with supplies, transportation, labor in removing trees and debris.
When there was illness or death in our Heights neighborhood, word was passed, and hot meals, casseroles, desserts, rides, and in-house help appeared from those who lived nearby. I never heard a complaint from anyone about what was needed. No one said, “Oh, somebody will do it" or "They have family.”
There was no question about service and aid. They were our neighbors, our community.
For the first time since I moved here, I’m seeing that same spirit, multiplied by the number in need and those willing to help, who continue to help. The Ridge Manor Facebook page is filled with gratitude and offers.
At a time when our nation seems divided by political matters, it’s a relief to see a community rise to help others in need, with no care of differences.
One nation, under God.
That’s what our forefathers, foremothers, and God intended, after all.
What a blessing to see it in action.
How does that connect to memories of the Heights? Because growing up and living in Auburn Heights is where I learned about community.
Why was this flooding so much worse than anything I’ve seen in my years here?
Heavy rains earlier this season saturated the Green Swamp, 110 miles and 560,000 acres of swamps, creeks, and wetlands that feed rivers and Florida’s aquifer system for drinking water. That water filled four major rivers, including the Withlacoochee River that runs through my neighborhood on its 157-mile journey.
Sixteen inches of water added to the Green Swamp swelled those rivers, flooding areas around them, and even when the rising crested, has continued to push groundwater into yards and streets far from the banks.
Now, for community.
In our area, neighbors offered boats to collect belongings, navigate homeowners to see the damage. County sheriffs used boats to evacuate residents trapped in homes from a river that rose within hours, blocked roads posing danger.
Volunteers filled the community center and local park with food, restrooms. shower and laundry facilities, fresh water, and have continued this service, even offering to transport those still trapped by flooding.
My grandson’s school set up a food, clothing, water pickup center. A county library closed to the public for FEMA representation. The State is offering travel trailers for those who lost homes as they determine the next stage. Churches are preparing hot meals and delivering them to the park and community center.
And the Heights?
I’m reminded of my childhood community because of the number of neighbors who’ve reached out with supplies, transportation, labor in removing trees and debris.
When there was illness or death in our Heights neighborhood, word was passed, and hot meals, casseroles, desserts, rides, and in-house help appeared from those who lived nearby. I never heard a complaint from anyone about what was needed. No one said, “Oh, somebody will do it" or "They have family.”
There was no question about service and aid. They were our neighbors, our community.
For the first time since I moved here, I’m seeing that same spirit, multiplied by the number in need and those willing to help, who continue to help. The Ridge Manor Facebook page is filled with gratitude and offers.
At a time when our nation seems divided by political matters, it’s a relief to see a community rise to help others in need, with no care of differences.
One nation, under God.
That’s what our forefathers, foremothers, and God intended, after all.
What a blessing to see it in action.
October 6, 2024
Try When Your Arms Are Too Weary
To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
And to run where the brave dare not go
The last two weeks have been a nightmare, especially for those in the path of Hurricane Helene. Such unbelievable destruction, loss, life-changing devastation. Hundreds of lives lost, homes and businesses demolished, thousands affected—all in a few hours’ storm.
There are no words to describe the shock and sorrow. A light-hearted post seemed insensitive, and I can’t imagine how it feels to be faced with the aftermath of that reality. Every time I see pictures of the damage in North Carolina, I’m stunned and speechless.
My heart hurts for every family.
And from my home, I’m looking out at another hurricane headed straight for us.
To right the unrightable wrong
And to love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star
What came to mind this past week, more than once after prayer for those affected by Helene, was gratitude for simple pleasures in daily life.
The first sips of freshly-brewed morning coffee.
Family and household route—in all its noise and mess.
Being able to sweep, mop, dust. Having a house to clean.
Even having to fix my dryer—twice—this week made me stop my moaning and remember those who’ve lost everything.
Memories—daffodils in early spring at Cranbrook, spring peepers in the Second Woods, riding bikes to the Heights to buy embroidery thread at Thomas’ Variety, watching Mom’s sheets snap in the wind from her clothesline, bread fresh from the oven, walking to school.
That list goes on to infinity. The more memories I recall, the more scents, sights, people, houses, and seasons pour in.
This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far
To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march into Hell
For a Heavenly cause
To remember that life is worth getting up in the morning for. That family and friends are worth preserving. That each one of us belongs to a family, home, community, nation, and that we need to look out for each other. That even if I can’t change the tragedies after Helene, I can pray and take a moment to allow myself to see them as my family.
I write fantasy for fun and inspiration, and stories can raise our spirits and lead us into heroic choices, but nothing I can say will change the anguish and grief felt by those who’ve lost families, friends, homes, livelihoods.
I can at least acknowledge that loss.
For I know if I’ll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I’m laid to my rest – “The Impossible Dream” (words by Joe Darion)
God bless all of us, and He does.
And suffers with us.
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
And to run where the brave dare not go
The last two weeks have been a nightmare, especially for those in the path of Hurricane Helene. Such unbelievable destruction, loss, life-changing devastation. Hundreds of lives lost, homes and businesses demolished, thousands affected—all in a few hours’ storm.
There are no words to describe the shock and sorrow. A light-hearted post seemed insensitive, and I can’t imagine how it feels to be faced with the aftermath of that reality. Every time I see pictures of the damage in North Carolina, I’m stunned and speechless.
My heart hurts for every family.
And from my home, I’m looking out at another hurricane headed straight for us.
To right the unrightable wrong
And to love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star
What came to mind this past week, more than once after prayer for those affected by Helene, was gratitude for simple pleasures in daily life.
The first sips of freshly-brewed morning coffee.
Family and household route—in all its noise and mess.
Being able to sweep, mop, dust. Having a house to clean.
Even having to fix my dryer—twice—this week made me stop my moaning and remember those who’ve lost everything.
Memories—daffodils in early spring at Cranbrook, spring peepers in the Second Woods, riding bikes to the Heights to buy embroidery thread at Thomas’ Variety, watching Mom’s sheets snap in the wind from her clothesline, bread fresh from the oven, walking to school.
That list goes on to infinity. The more memories I recall, the more scents, sights, people, houses, and seasons pour in.
This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far
To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march into Hell
For a Heavenly cause
To remember that life is worth getting up in the morning for. That family and friends are worth preserving. That each one of us belongs to a family, home, community, nation, and that we need to look out for each other. That even if I can’t change the tragedies after Helene, I can pray and take a moment to allow myself to see them as my family.
I write fantasy for fun and inspiration, and stories can raise our spirits and lead us into heroic choices, but nothing I can say will change the anguish and grief felt by those who’ve lost families, friends, homes, livelihoods.
I can at least acknowledge that loss.
For I know if I’ll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I’m laid to my rest – “The Impossible Dream” (words by Joe Darion)
God bless all of us, and He does.
And suffers with us.
September 21, 2024
Afternoon Walk in Autumn Woods
A mild afternoon with the hint of a crisp breeze whispers about a walk in the woods.
I’m leaving my back door and stepping across 339 leagues and decades into the past to relish the sights and perfume of a Michigan autumn. The familiar wine-cidery scent of fallen leaves, the crackle of beech and poplar, the palette of gold, orange, brown, and red around me.
The scent of fall woods is due to bacteria and fungi breaking down the fallen leaves and releasing terpenes, an organic compound that gives pines their fresh scent. On dry days, the aroma is more noticeable, adding to the pleasure of our walk through the woods.
In Japan, residents are encouraged to enjoy “forest bathing”—breathing in the scent of the woods on relaxing walks. Relieves stress and increases well-being due to terpenes produced by pines, cedars, larches, junipers, and fir trees.
Explains the peacefulness of our sauntering hike.
I couldn’t identify every tree, shrub, vine, and weed outside the path. I noticed the crimson sumac, winding bramble vines, goldenrod and ironweed at the edges, but the overall three-dimensional painting of rust, gold, and brown created a nostalgia that made fall a favorite season for many.
The woods at the end of Caroline were mainly oak-hickory, with gold and orange autumn colors, splashed by the red of sumac and sassafras.
Occasional yards sported sugar maples with their fiery red leaves, or you could visit the Troy nature center (Stage) for a walk around the Sugar Maple Loop for brighter color.
To see maples in all their fall glory, you’d drive farther north to the hardwood stands of sugar maples, more glorious the farther north you went.
Some trees, like maples, trap sugars in their leaves after the green photosynthesis ends. Cool nights and sunny days turn those sugars into anthocyanins, making the leaves orange and red.
Over centuries, landscapes produced weeds and shrubs; pines, cedars, and juniper; ash, oak, black walnut, and hickory; and finally, maple, beech, white and red oak forests. Most of the oak-hickory woods are in the lower half of Michigan, which accounts for the trips north to see maple colors.
In the Heights area, we enjoyed some of every forest patch. Kay and I chewed on sassafras leaves in the summertime in the First Woods at the end of Caroline. Sugar maples in the area were tapped early spring for maple syrup.
The huge maple in front of Key’s house blazed its brilliant scarlet coloring every year up and down the street. I could admire it through the kitchen windows as I washed dinner dishes.
We played with maple helicopter seeds every fall. Cracked hickory nuts in the field between the First and Second Woods.
Oaks towered over the First Woods. Caroline Street offered a variety of maples—red, silver, sugar, sycamore, and boxelder (as long as those lasted, since they tended to fall on garages, porches, and yards in heavy winds).
Late fall belonged to Halloween, when the only leaves left were crackly oaks and the trees looked bare. Early fall was apple cider time, with bushels of McIntosh and Jonathan, fresh cider with doughnuts, caramel apples, apple pie and cobbler.
Those long-ago walks in early autumn are triggered by the scent of stepping on fallen leaves, crisp post-summer air, bright blue skies, and the crunch of feet on a winding path.
Tall weeds have produced seeds, squirrels are busy burying acorns, lawn mowing is over for the year, and wardrobes are changing with the reappearance of jackets and sweaters.
But in the woods, there's a sense of tranquility with a perfume as unique as orange blossoms or lilacs—the balsam, loamy, crisp whiff of Michigan fall.
I’m leaving my back door and stepping across 339 leagues and decades into the past to relish the sights and perfume of a Michigan autumn. The familiar wine-cidery scent of fallen leaves, the crackle of beech and poplar, the palette of gold, orange, brown, and red around me.
The scent of fall woods is due to bacteria and fungi breaking down the fallen leaves and releasing terpenes, an organic compound that gives pines their fresh scent. On dry days, the aroma is more noticeable, adding to the pleasure of our walk through the woods.
In Japan, residents are encouraged to enjoy “forest bathing”—breathing in the scent of the woods on relaxing walks. Relieves stress and increases well-being due to terpenes produced by pines, cedars, larches, junipers, and fir trees.
Explains the peacefulness of our sauntering hike.
I couldn’t identify every tree, shrub, vine, and weed outside the path. I noticed the crimson sumac, winding bramble vines, goldenrod and ironweed at the edges, but the overall three-dimensional painting of rust, gold, and brown created a nostalgia that made fall a favorite season for many.
The woods at the end of Caroline were mainly oak-hickory, with gold and orange autumn colors, splashed by the red of sumac and sassafras.
Occasional yards sported sugar maples with their fiery red leaves, or you could visit the Troy nature center (Stage) for a walk around the Sugar Maple Loop for brighter color.
To see maples in all their fall glory, you’d drive farther north to the hardwood stands of sugar maples, more glorious the farther north you went.
Some trees, like maples, trap sugars in their leaves after the green photosynthesis ends. Cool nights and sunny days turn those sugars into anthocyanins, making the leaves orange and red.
Over centuries, landscapes produced weeds and shrubs; pines, cedars, and juniper; ash, oak, black walnut, and hickory; and finally, maple, beech, white and red oak forests. Most of the oak-hickory woods are in the lower half of Michigan, which accounts for the trips north to see maple colors.
In the Heights area, we enjoyed some of every forest patch. Kay and I chewed on sassafras leaves in the summertime in the First Woods at the end of Caroline. Sugar maples in the area were tapped early spring for maple syrup.
The huge maple in front of Key’s house blazed its brilliant scarlet coloring every year up and down the street. I could admire it through the kitchen windows as I washed dinner dishes.
We played with maple helicopter seeds every fall. Cracked hickory nuts in the field between the First and Second Woods.
Oaks towered over the First Woods. Caroline Street offered a variety of maples—red, silver, sugar, sycamore, and boxelder (as long as those lasted, since they tended to fall on garages, porches, and yards in heavy winds).
Late fall belonged to Halloween, when the only leaves left were crackly oaks and the trees looked bare. Early fall was apple cider time, with bushels of McIntosh and Jonathan, fresh cider with doughnuts, caramel apples, apple pie and cobbler.
Those long-ago walks in early autumn are triggered by the scent of stepping on fallen leaves, crisp post-summer air, bright blue skies, and the crunch of feet on a winding path.
Tall weeds have produced seeds, squirrels are busy burying acorns, lawn mowing is over for the year, and wardrobes are changing with the reappearance of jackets and sweaters.
But in the woods, there's a sense of tranquility with a perfume as unique as orange blossoms or lilacs—the balsam, loamy, crisp whiff of Michigan fall.
September 7, 2024
Clinton River and Yates Cider Mill
At this time of year, Sundays after Mass meant a drive from Adams Road to Avon for cider and doughnuts at Yates Cider Mill. Yes, we visited other cider mills, but the creaking, dripping water wheel was a draw.
And so were the banks of the Clinton River.
Dad worked second shift and overtime at Pontiac Motors, so outings as a family were special—the zoo, museums, visiting relatives, and, in season, cider and doughnuts.
Yates Cider Mill is the oldest working water-powered mill in Michigan, a family business since 1883. An existing dam and mill building were improved to offer a sawmill and grist mill. In 1876, because of numerous apple orchards in the area, apple pressing was added, and by 1900’s, Yates was strictly a cider mill.
Imagine William and Caroline Yates buying 80 acres of property on the Clinton River in Avon Township when Abraham Lincoln was President.
The original mill was rebuilt in 1894 with a water turbine for power, and in the 1930's grandson Harry Yates offered doughnuts. Those plain or cinnamon were the perfect accompaniment to fresh cider all those Sundays ago, and the tradition continued with our children.
In those days, we strolled across Dequindre Road to stand at the edge of the Clinton River and gaze into clear, bubbling water over rocks and gravel. Such a peaceful sight and sound, with the busy cider mill behind us, and a gallon of cider in the car to take home.
The Clinton River, formed from the melting ice of glaciers 20,000 years ago. Camp site of Ottawa, Ojibwe, and Potawatomi tribes in Pontiac (Saginaw and Water Streets). Named after DeWitt Clinton, New York governor early 1800’s, 83 miles long (Macomb and Oakland Counties), beginning northwest of Pontiac and ending at Lake St. Clair.
Once the most polluted U.S. river, it was pronounced clean by 2020 due to the Clinton River Watershed Council.
Pontiac mills on the Clinton River produced lumber, flour, and eventually, carriages, leading to the motor vehicles that made Pontiac famous.
In the 1940’s and 50’s, downtown Pontiac was frequently flooded, so a concrete conduit was constructed in 1963 to force the river underground, beneath the Woodward loop, Mill and Huron Street, reappearing near Union and East Huron Streets.
The Clinton River continues to offer enchantment. I’d be pleased to walk along the river in the Heights downtown area at the Riverside Park (yes, yes, I know, Auburn Hills) or picnic with my family on warm, mild days.
But at this moment, in my imagination, I’m brushing away yellow jackets from my glass of cider, watching drops fall from the Yates water wheel, and swallowing the last bite of my doughnut. In a few minutes, I’ll scurry across Dequindre to daydream into the Clinton River.
Join me? Cinnamon sugar or plain?
And so were the banks of the Clinton River.
Dad worked second shift and overtime at Pontiac Motors, so outings as a family were special—the zoo, museums, visiting relatives, and, in season, cider and doughnuts.
Yates Cider Mill is the oldest working water-powered mill in Michigan, a family business since 1883. An existing dam and mill building were improved to offer a sawmill and grist mill. In 1876, because of numerous apple orchards in the area, apple pressing was added, and by 1900’s, Yates was strictly a cider mill.
Imagine William and Caroline Yates buying 80 acres of property on the Clinton River in Avon Township when Abraham Lincoln was President.
The original mill was rebuilt in 1894 with a water turbine for power, and in the 1930's grandson Harry Yates offered doughnuts. Those plain or cinnamon were the perfect accompaniment to fresh cider all those Sundays ago, and the tradition continued with our children.
In those days, we strolled across Dequindre Road to stand at the edge of the Clinton River and gaze into clear, bubbling water over rocks and gravel. Such a peaceful sight and sound, with the busy cider mill behind us, and a gallon of cider in the car to take home.
The Clinton River, formed from the melting ice of glaciers 20,000 years ago. Camp site of Ottawa, Ojibwe, and Potawatomi tribes in Pontiac (Saginaw and Water Streets). Named after DeWitt Clinton, New York governor early 1800’s, 83 miles long (Macomb and Oakland Counties), beginning northwest of Pontiac and ending at Lake St. Clair.
Once the most polluted U.S. river, it was pronounced clean by 2020 due to the Clinton River Watershed Council.
Pontiac mills on the Clinton River produced lumber, flour, and eventually, carriages, leading to the motor vehicles that made Pontiac famous.
In the 1940’s and 50’s, downtown Pontiac was frequently flooded, so a concrete conduit was constructed in 1963 to force the river underground, beneath the Woodward loop, Mill and Huron Street, reappearing near Union and East Huron Streets.
The Clinton River continues to offer enchantment. I’d be pleased to walk along the river in the Heights downtown area at the Riverside Park (yes, yes, I know, Auburn Hills) or picnic with my family on warm, mild days.
But at this moment, in my imagination, I’m brushing away yellow jackets from my glass of cider, watching drops fall from the Yates water wheel, and swallowing the last bite of my doughnut. In a few minutes, I’ll scurry across Dequindre to daydream into the Clinton River.
Join me? Cinnamon sugar or plain?
August 31, 2024
And They Lived Happily Ever After
Once upon a time…
Once upon a time there was a small town in southeast Michigan—Amy, Auburn Heights, Auburn Hills—that created a community who lived forever.
In the days of the Heights, children and adults celebrated holidays with parades and ceremonies at the cemetery or fire station.
Halloween crammed magic into one hour each year, starting with the fire whistle at six, and ending at the elementary school for cider and doughnuts at seven, with children skipping home past streets lit by orange flares to commemorate the night and hint about Fourth of July fireworks.
In the fall, an elementary school held their annual Fall Festival with classrooms set up for cake walks, white elephant sales, fishing for plastic ducks and prizes, hot dogs and cotton candy.
Residents gathered in the hills across from the elementary school—known, of course, as the School Hills—for Independence Day fireworks, shot off by our fire department, with the National Anthem and glowing flag at the end of the show.
Children pulled sleds to those slopes for wintertime play, from the easy runs to the dangerous, death-defying twists and chasms with dead trees in the path.
Our friends lived on our streets and in our neighborhoods. We attended the same high school, so every name became familiar.
Neighbors took up collections for illness, death, March of Dimes, and delivered cakes and casseroles.
Corner stores sold pop and penny candy. Mothers sent children for bread, milk, even cigarettes.
You could believe that there were many small towns around America like the Heights, but that would not be accurate. Our sense of community was an enchantment that followed us through the years, across the state and country, and even outside U.S. borders. (Right, Niki?)
A clever wizard created a way for us to overcome age and distance, and relive those memories with each other, triggering more. So many families from different income levels and backgrounds were gathered in one memorable community, and as the years went by, our common bond kept us close.
I am one of many grateful for the opportunity to keep this community alive and thriving, thanks to Joanie, and to every one of us who read, share, and remember our hometown.
Once a resident of the Heights, always part of that community, no matter how many miles and changes can come between us. Over the years, we’ve all experienced loss, grief, joy, and challenges.
But one thing is true.
And they lived happily ever after…
Once upon a time there was a small town in southeast Michigan—Amy, Auburn Heights, Auburn Hills—that created a community who lived forever.
In the days of the Heights, children and adults celebrated holidays with parades and ceremonies at the cemetery or fire station.
Halloween crammed magic into one hour each year, starting with the fire whistle at six, and ending at the elementary school for cider and doughnuts at seven, with children skipping home past streets lit by orange flares to commemorate the night and hint about Fourth of July fireworks.
In the fall, an elementary school held their annual Fall Festival with classrooms set up for cake walks, white elephant sales, fishing for plastic ducks and prizes, hot dogs and cotton candy.
Residents gathered in the hills across from the elementary school—known, of course, as the School Hills—for Independence Day fireworks, shot off by our fire department, with the National Anthem and glowing flag at the end of the show.
Children pulled sleds to those slopes for wintertime play, from the easy runs to the dangerous, death-defying twists and chasms with dead trees in the path.
Our friends lived on our streets and in our neighborhoods. We attended the same high school, so every name became familiar.
Neighbors took up collections for illness, death, March of Dimes, and delivered cakes and casseroles.
Corner stores sold pop and penny candy. Mothers sent children for bread, milk, even cigarettes.
You could believe that there were many small towns around America like the Heights, but that would not be accurate. Our sense of community was an enchantment that followed us through the years, across the state and country, and even outside U.S. borders. (Right, Niki?)
A clever wizard created a way for us to overcome age and distance, and relive those memories with each other, triggering more. So many families from different income levels and backgrounds were gathered in one memorable community, and as the years went by, our common bond kept us close.
I am one of many grateful for the opportunity to keep this community alive and thriving, thanks to Joanie, and to every one of us who read, share, and remember our hometown.
Once a resident of the Heights, always part of that community, no matter how many miles and changes can come between us. Over the years, we’ve all experienced loss, grief, joy, and challenges.
But one thing is true.
And they lived happily ever after…
August 25, 2024
Did Mom Ever Sit Down?
Came across a snapshot of Mom this week, walking home from her job in the kitchen at Avondale junior high, looking young and crisp as she headed up the sidewalk to our driveway.
I was in high school during those years, and never considered how hard she worked, or how many hours a day she gave to family, house, and job.
By that time, she and Dad had six children, from elementary to high school, requiring a great deal of funds and time for clothing, meetings, holidays, washing, meals, bills, and care, not to mention the occasional emergencies that are part of being a family.
When did she relax and sit down? She must have. She was an insatiable reader, played the piano, invited and visited friends with Dad on the weekends.
But she also sewed, baked, cooked, knitted and crocheted, did laundry, ironed, shopped, planned outings, went to every school activity, drove us to appointments and friends’ houses, allowed overnights for my friends, joined Twins’ Club (with my future mother-in-law, Mom Shank, who moved from the end of the street to the house next door), waited for Dad on second shift, yet made sure she was up to help us get ready for school in the mornings.
Whew.
She was a young mother, married at 17 and starting a large family at 18. When we moved to Caroline Street to take advantage of four bedrooms, she was 27 with five children, from fourth grade to infant twins.
I’d like to say I was a big help to her, but I doubt I was. We all thought she was capable of anything and everything. She did teach me how to clean house, how to bake, how to do laundry with a wringer washer, a clothesline, and wooden pegs, how to iron, set the table, wash dishes, and tried to teach me to sew, knit, and crochet, but I didn’t have her flair for those.
Once I had my own family, I relied on everything I learned, including dedication and sacrifice, although I never saw myself as competent as she was.
She balanced enormous Thanksgiving dinners with flair and outward calm. I don’t know how she and Dad managed to give us children every Christmas and birthday gift we asked for. We visited the Detroit zoo, art and historical museums, camped, attended friends’ birthday parties with wrapped gifts and the right clothes…and there were a lot of those. We knew our family income was limited, yet never lacked anything important and necessary.
Mom came from a small and sad family setting, but taught herself how to be a mother, housekeeper, musician. How to cook, bake homemade bread, sew, knit, and create a home.
I look at that snapshot, Mom walking home from a busy day at work—making and serving school meals, and scrubbing pans and dishes—to face the same work at home for her family.
I don’t recall her complaining about it.
I don’t remember her sitting down.
Mom, I commend you.
And thank you.
I was in high school during those years, and never considered how hard she worked, or how many hours a day she gave to family, house, and job.
By that time, she and Dad had six children, from elementary to high school, requiring a great deal of funds and time for clothing, meetings, holidays, washing, meals, bills, and care, not to mention the occasional emergencies that are part of being a family.
When did she relax and sit down? She must have. She was an insatiable reader, played the piano, invited and visited friends with Dad on the weekends.
But she also sewed, baked, cooked, knitted and crocheted, did laundry, ironed, shopped, planned outings, went to every school activity, drove us to appointments and friends’ houses, allowed overnights for my friends, joined Twins’ Club (with my future mother-in-law, Mom Shank, who moved from the end of the street to the house next door), waited for Dad on second shift, yet made sure she was up to help us get ready for school in the mornings.
Whew.
She was a young mother, married at 17 and starting a large family at 18. When we moved to Caroline Street to take advantage of four bedrooms, she was 27 with five children, from fourth grade to infant twins.
I’d like to say I was a big help to her, but I doubt I was. We all thought she was capable of anything and everything. She did teach me how to clean house, how to bake, how to do laundry with a wringer washer, a clothesline, and wooden pegs, how to iron, set the table, wash dishes, and tried to teach me to sew, knit, and crochet, but I didn’t have her flair for those.
Once I had my own family, I relied on everything I learned, including dedication and sacrifice, although I never saw myself as competent as she was.
She balanced enormous Thanksgiving dinners with flair and outward calm. I don’t know how she and Dad managed to give us children every Christmas and birthday gift we asked for. We visited the Detroit zoo, art and historical museums, camped, attended friends’ birthday parties with wrapped gifts and the right clothes…and there were a lot of those. We knew our family income was limited, yet never lacked anything important and necessary.
Mom came from a small and sad family setting, but taught herself how to be a mother, housekeeper, musician. How to cook, bake homemade bread, sew, knit, and create a home.
I look at that snapshot, Mom walking home from a busy day at work—making and serving school meals, and scrubbing pans and dishes—to face the same work at home for her family.
I don’t recall her complaining about it.
I don’t remember her sitting down.
Mom, I commend you.
And thank you.
Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life
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