Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 5
June 1, 2024
Great-Grandma's Kitchen Hand Pump
Life before the internet? Before cell phones and personal messaging? My grandchildren can’t imagine such a world.
We may be the last generation who remembers great-grandparents’ homes before hot running water in the kitchen. Or in-house bathrooms. Or refrigerators.
One of Dad’s grandmothers had an icebox in her kitchen. Dad would buy large blocks of ice from Pontiac Ice Company, and deliver them, packed in straw.
Mom’s grandmother, my Great-Grandma (Anna Elizabeth McDonald) Miller, was born in 1886 in Illinois. In 1925 she and my Great-grandpa Miller moved to Pontiac, and by 1940 they lived in Avon Township on North Grant Street (now Grant Road), west of Crooks Road.
Originally one-room, a lean-to kitchen was built onto the back, and a lean-to bedroom off that. Grandma had electricity but no running water. A Franklin stove in the corner of the living room kept her warm in winter…at least, when in the living room.
Her two acres included a shed (once a chicken coop) and an outhouse. The large garden Mom recalls was an endless field to my eyes. We visited many times in my childhood, but I only have faint memories of Grandpa Miller.
My brother and I were fascinated with the cottage. We walked on her hens-and-chicks (houseleeks) to hear them squeak under our shoes. Ran around the house ducking wasps, and tried to avoid the outhouse as long as possible.
The kitchen was child-sized with a small refrigerator and a freezer section large enough for ice cube trays or ice cream. The stove had an on-off oven dial, and the glass-fronted dish cupboard displayed plates and bowls, with shelves underneath for canned goods and cast-iron pans.
Grandma’s enamel sink had a minuscule countertop, cotton curtains hiding pipes, and a hand pump. When water froze in the wintertime, she’d prime the pump—pour in water to push out air and start the flow. I tried to pump water for her, but it was hard work for my arms.
She made jam and jellies, and stored them in her root cellar behind the house. I was fascinated with the wooden doors in the ground and the darkness behind them—dirt floor, wooden shelves, bushels of apples, potatoes, onions.
When Mom was a little girl, Grandma maintained a garden for canning vegetables and berries. She raised and cooked chickens, and sent Mom to collect eggs. The timid hands of a frightened child were no match for determined hens, though, and Mom couldn’t manage it.
The chickens were gone by the time we visited, although the chicken run and wire were still in place. The shed held her rotary mower and garden tools, although my brother and I were convinced it was also the home of “ghoulies and ghosties, and long-leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night.” We’d dare each other to open the door and peer into dark corners, or even step inside. Grandma warned us away from the shed to keep us from getting hurt, but we were convinced she knew there were monsters.
When she finally got a faucet for cold running water, she was thrilled. She never did have an indoor bathroom.
Mom was devoted to her grandmother, and brought her to our house for meals and holidays. She took her to the movies, and Grandma sobbed at the end of one when the hero died. A week later, she called Mom, frantic.
“I saw him,” she kept saying. “He’s alive. But we watched him die.”
She couldn’t fathom the idea of actors playing roles and had believed it was all real.
She agreed to overnights for me, although she was convinced I’d get bored. Her house was quiet with only the sound of ticking clocks. She never watched the TV Mom got her when I was there, although she was devoted to her favorite soaps, Guiding Light and As the World Turns.
Looking back, I’m amazed at how she managed to cook, bake, and can in that tiny kitchen. She made clothing, and used scraps to design and sew quilts. I’m fortunate enough to have one in my room.
She saw more changes in her lifetime than I could imagine—oil lamps to electricity, cars, running water and bathrooms, shopping centers. As a young girl, one of her chores was to make soap from lye and lard, while family clothes were scrubbed on washboards.
Grandma suffered difficulties and tragedies in her early years, yet never said an unkind word about anyone, at any time. Her faith was strong and she knew her Bible. On one visit she showed me a photograph of herself at 19 and told me that when she went to heaven, she’d look like that again.
And I’m sure she does.
That generation was made up of hard workers, with none of the shortcuts and household appliances we accept as routine, not to mention our technology. Items from their houses are now considered museum pieces.
The good old days?
I’m not sure if Grandma would agree, but her life was rich and full of purpose, busy with daily tasks and a strong faith in the goodness of God.
Family was everything.
She was poor financially, so every year on our birthdays we’d receive our own jar of homemade jam, with an apology we didn't understand at the time.
What I wouldn’t give for one of those jars today, her handwriting on the label, her love in the labor. Whenever I spread blackberry jam on toast, I think of her. Or see a hand pump, smell lavender, or hear the ticking of a clock in a quiet room. Our country has changed tremendously since 1886 when she was born.
Great-grandma Miller was a time traveler.
We may be the last generation who remembers great-grandparents’ homes before hot running water in the kitchen. Or in-house bathrooms. Or refrigerators.
One of Dad’s grandmothers had an icebox in her kitchen. Dad would buy large blocks of ice from Pontiac Ice Company, and deliver them, packed in straw.
Mom’s grandmother, my Great-Grandma (Anna Elizabeth McDonald) Miller, was born in 1886 in Illinois. In 1925 she and my Great-grandpa Miller moved to Pontiac, and by 1940 they lived in Avon Township on North Grant Street (now Grant Road), west of Crooks Road.
Originally one-room, a lean-to kitchen was built onto the back, and a lean-to bedroom off that. Grandma had electricity but no running water. A Franklin stove in the corner of the living room kept her warm in winter…at least, when in the living room.
Her two acres included a shed (once a chicken coop) and an outhouse. The large garden Mom recalls was an endless field to my eyes. We visited many times in my childhood, but I only have faint memories of Grandpa Miller.
My brother and I were fascinated with the cottage. We walked on her hens-and-chicks (houseleeks) to hear them squeak under our shoes. Ran around the house ducking wasps, and tried to avoid the outhouse as long as possible.
The kitchen was child-sized with a small refrigerator and a freezer section large enough for ice cube trays or ice cream. The stove had an on-off oven dial, and the glass-fronted dish cupboard displayed plates and bowls, with shelves underneath for canned goods and cast-iron pans.
Grandma’s enamel sink had a minuscule countertop, cotton curtains hiding pipes, and a hand pump. When water froze in the wintertime, she’d prime the pump—pour in water to push out air and start the flow. I tried to pump water for her, but it was hard work for my arms.
She made jam and jellies, and stored them in her root cellar behind the house. I was fascinated with the wooden doors in the ground and the darkness behind them—dirt floor, wooden shelves, bushels of apples, potatoes, onions.
When Mom was a little girl, Grandma maintained a garden for canning vegetables and berries. She raised and cooked chickens, and sent Mom to collect eggs. The timid hands of a frightened child were no match for determined hens, though, and Mom couldn’t manage it.
The chickens were gone by the time we visited, although the chicken run and wire were still in place. The shed held her rotary mower and garden tools, although my brother and I were convinced it was also the home of “ghoulies and ghosties, and long-leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night.” We’d dare each other to open the door and peer into dark corners, or even step inside. Grandma warned us away from the shed to keep us from getting hurt, but we were convinced she knew there were monsters.
When she finally got a faucet for cold running water, she was thrilled. She never did have an indoor bathroom.
Mom was devoted to her grandmother, and brought her to our house for meals and holidays. She took her to the movies, and Grandma sobbed at the end of one when the hero died. A week later, she called Mom, frantic.
“I saw him,” she kept saying. “He’s alive. But we watched him die.”
She couldn’t fathom the idea of actors playing roles and had believed it was all real.
She agreed to overnights for me, although she was convinced I’d get bored. Her house was quiet with only the sound of ticking clocks. She never watched the TV Mom got her when I was there, although she was devoted to her favorite soaps, Guiding Light and As the World Turns.
Looking back, I’m amazed at how she managed to cook, bake, and can in that tiny kitchen. She made clothing, and used scraps to design and sew quilts. I’m fortunate enough to have one in my room.
She saw more changes in her lifetime than I could imagine—oil lamps to electricity, cars, running water and bathrooms, shopping centers. As a young girl, one of her chores was to make soap from lye and lard, while family clothes were scrubbed on washboards.
Grandma suffered difficulties and tragedies in her early years, yet never said an unkind word about anyone, at any time. Her faith was strong and she knew her Bible. On one visit she showed me a photograph of herself at 19 and told me that when she went to heaven, she’d look like that again.
And I’m sure she does.
That generation was made up of hard workers, with none of the shortcuts and household appliances we accept as routine, not to mention our technology. Items from their houses are now considered museum pieces.
The good old days?
I’m not sure if Grandma would agree, but her life was rich and full of purpose, busy with daily tasks and a strong faith in the goodness of God.
Family was everything.
She was poor financially, so every year on our birthdays we’d receive our own jar of homemade jam, with an apology we didn't understand at the time.
What I wouldn’t give for one of those jars today, her handwriting on the label, her love in the labor. Whenever I spread blackberry jam on toast, I think of her. Or see a hand pump, smell lavender, or hear the ticking of a clock in a quiet room. Our country has changed tremendously since 1886 when she was born.
Great-grandma Miller was a time traveler.
May 25, 2024
Walking Home on the Last Day of School
Last day of the school year with summer vacation ahead.
Who doesn’t remember the joy of that?
Every year, as schools let out for the summer, I relive my last walk home from Auburn Heights Elementary, summer delights ahead, school work finished for the year.
The first house I’d pass would be the Potbury’s, built in 1862 as the tenant home for the Adams’ farm, property that included the four dead-end streets of my neighborhood. We kids knew Mrs. Potbury as the kind Bible storyteller, with a front porch lined in potted plants. She sold them for pittance to be gifts for mothers, from seedlings to African violets.
Across the road, the Silkwoods lived next to the School Hills, which my family considered a “lucky bum” house, since they had access to the bike and sled hills anytime, as well as front row seats to the annual fireworks.
McDonald’s lived on the corner of Squirrel and Margaret, another lucky bum family, since they were next door to Shovel’s Market, the local go-to corner store. My best friend’s mother sent us for bread and milk. For me, it was a candy store, from candy bars to endless penny candy choices behind a glass display.
On the other side of Squirrel Road, houses boasted long front yards of satiny grass, shaded by enormous oaks filled with squirrels. (Which I believed gave the road its name.)
Jimmy Dennison was usually outside the garage in his wheelchair surrounded by faithful friends. Rose lived next door, on the corner of Nichols, with its own neighborhood of elegant houses and green yards, where my friend Jeanette lived.
After admiring the shaded lawns and oak trees, I imagined the inside of each house I passed on my side of the road. Large picture windows, flowers along fences, neat and inviting. Uhan’s had a double lot, fenced, with a lovely house, and next door, on the corner, Gibbs’ house was as neat and welcoming outside as inside. (Later I babysat occasionally, taking my guitar for entertainment.)
Caroline Street. The First Woods began at the end of our street, and there was a slope halfway down that made riding bicycles no-handed a death-defying feat. Some of the houses had ditches or culverts between the sidewalk and street, where we played in the clear, rushing water early in the spring.
Vicki’s house was a beauty on its double lot, and across the street, Marilyn’s had a long sunny front yard, lined by maples, with a round brick front porch. Linnea and Larry lived two doors up from us, the Turners were next door, and I was home. Home for the summer.
I always paused to admire the Hall’s house across from ours. Stately sugar oak in the front, dignified frame house with front porch, and on the adjoining lot, a garage apartment over the garage. I dreamed of renting it when I was grown and working. Mrs. Hall’s garden could be glimpsed behind the house with a white arbor and flowers. Always a lovely sight, in any season.
But home. Busy family with six children, Mom who could do anything, and Dad who knew everything. We’d buzz around Mom, telling her about our teacher and school day, beg to go swimming as soon as possible, listen for the ice cream truck, and relax into the joy of eternal summer, Kool-Aid, and neighborhood friends.
Funny. I only attended Auburn Heights Elementary one year, fourth grade. We came from Pontiac where I was at LeBaron Elementary from kindergarten to third. In fifth grade, I took a bus to Stone School, and afterward, the Junior High.
I could walk there, too, since we’d go down the street, through the woods, and across the football field. High school was on Auburn Road between Crooks and Livernois in those days, where my last day of school didn’t include walking home, but planning jobs.
Yet every year when schools remind parents of the last official day, I’m back in the Heights, humming to myself as I head home for summer vacation from Auburn Heights Elementary.
Yes, the school remained part of my life for years—the annual fall festival with its White Elephant room, cake walk, and duck pond; the close of Halloween, when we headed there, after the seven o’clock fire station whistle, for cider and doughnuts.
But I still see it as I left on that early June afternoon with all summer ahead for riding bikes to the Heights downtown, swimming in local lakes, family camping trips, and playing until dark in our neighborhood.
Doesn’t matter that the building is officially, sadly gone.
It lives on in my memories.
Happy summer vacation to all.
Who doesn’t remember the joy of that?
Every year, as schools let out for the summer, I relive my last walk home from Auburn Heights Elementary, summer delights ahead, school work finished for the year.
The first house I’d pass would be the Potbury’s, built in 1862 as the tenant home for the Adams’ farm, property that included the four dead-end streets of my neighborhood. We kids knew Mrs. Potbury as the kind Bible storyteller, with a front porch lined in potted plants. She sold them for pittance to be gifts for mothers, from seedlings to African violets.
Across the road, the Silkwoods lived next to the School Hills, which my family considered a “lucky bum” house, since they had access to the bike and sled hills anytime, as well as front row seats to the annual fireworks.
McDonald’s lived on the corner of Squirrel and Margaret, another lucky bum family, since they were next door to Shovel’s Market, the local go-to corner store. My best friend’s mother sent us for bread and milk. For me, it was a candy store, from candy bars to endless penny candy choices behind a glass display.
On the other side of Squirrel Road, houses boasted long front yards of satiny grass, shaded by enormous oaks filled with squirrels. (Which I believed gave the road its name.)
Jimmy Dennison was usually outside the garage in his wheelchair surrounded by faithful friends. Rose lived next door, on the corner of Nichols, with its own neighborhood of elegant houses and green yards, where my friend Jeanette lived.
After admiring the shaded lawns and oak trees, I imagined the inside of each house I passed on my side of the road. Large picture windows, flowers along fences, neat and inviting. Uhan’s had a double lot, fenced, with a lovely house, and next door, on the corner, Gibbs’ house was as neat and welcoming outside as inside. (Later I babysat occasionally, taking my guitar for entertainment.)
Caroline Street. The First Woods began at the end of our street, and there was a slope halfway down that made riding bicycles no-handed a death-defying feat. Some of the houses had ditches or culverts between the sidewalk and street, where we played in the clear, rushing water early in the spring.
Vicki’s house was a beauty on its double lot, and across the street, Marilyn’s had a long sunny front yard, lined by maples, with a round brick front porch. Linnea and Larry lived two doors up from us, the Turners were next door, and I was home. Home for the summer.
I always paused to admire the Hall’s house across from ours. Stately sugar oak in the front, dignified frame house with front porch, and on the adjoining lot, a garage apartment over the garage. I dreamed of renting it when I was grown and working. Mrs. Hall’s garden could be glimpsed behind the house with a white arbor and flowers. Always a lovely sight, in any season.
But home. Busy family with six children, Mom who could do anything, and Dad who knew everything. We’d buzz around Mom, telling her about our teacher and school day, beg to go swimming as soon as possible, listen for the ice cream truck, and relax into the joy of eternal summer, Kool-Aid, and neighborhood friends.
Funny. I only attended Auburn Heights Elementary one year, fourth grade. We came from Pontiac where I was at LeBaron Elementary from kindergarten to third. In fifth grade, I took a bus to Stone School, and afterward, the Junior High.
I could walk there, too, since we’d go down the street, through the woods, and across the football field. High school was on Auburn Road between Crooks and Livernois in those days, where my last day of school didn’t include walking home, but planning jobs.
Yet every year when schools remind parents of the last official day, I’m back in the Heights, humming to myself as I head home for summer vacation from Auburn Heights Elementary.
Yes, the school remained part of my life for years—the annual fall festival with its White Elephant room, cake walk, and duck pond; the close of Halloween, when we headed there, after the seven o’clock fire station whistle, for cider and doughnuts.
But I still see it as I left on that early June afternoon with all summer ahead for riding bikes to the Heights downtown, swimming in local lakes, family camping trips, and playing until dark in our neighborhood.
Doesn’t matter that the building is officially, sadly gone.
It lives on in my memories.
Happy summer vacation to all.
May 18, 2024
Home Brew and the Kitchen Table
Dad and our next-door neighbor (my future father-in-law) shared a love of family and country, a healthy work ethic, cars…
And a good beer.
Malted grains, hops, yeast, blended to perfection.
They were known to pop a cold one and discuss engines, chassis, make and model, or discuss quality beer, domestic and imported.
One year, they decided to try their hand at home brew.
I don’t recall who claimed which ingredients, or who produced the Stoneware fermentation crock and cooking pots. Since each was a believer in “the right tools for the job,” they checked off everything they’d need, including the ingredients.
They were pleased with their first attempt, if yeasty, and announced that it had “a kick,” so decided to continue.
I remember seeing the dark brown bottles with snap lids stored on shelves in the basement, and the aroma of hops and malt on cooking days.
Keep everything clean, rinse, set out ingredients. Steep grains, add malt and boil, chill liquid (wort) in sink or bathtub with ice, pour cooled wort into fermenter, bottle, age, drink.
Equipment and the surrounding area had to be spotless, which I noticed, as a child, in Milwaukee. On a visit to my great aunts, my brothers and I accompanied Mom and Dad one afternoon to the Blatz, Pabst, Miller, and Schlitz (“the beer that made Milwaukee famous”) breweries.
I can still see the clean, wet, constantly-mopped floors; the huge vats; the various, huge rooms used for the process. Even more, the smell of yeast, grains, and hops, that last a memorable fragrance, announcing the presence of a brewery long before you reached it.
Hops is a climbing perennial, the Humulus lupulus, with a green cone-shaped flower that keeps beer fresh longer, gives it a head of foam, and adds scent and the bitter flavor. They have a unique, never-forgotten aroma.
Dad and Delos were proud of their brewing results and made several batches, until one fateful afternoon.
The fermentation crock was large and heavy, especially filled with liquid ready to ferment. I don’t know why they thought to haul the crock to table level, or to trust our family-sized Formica table with the weight, but the result was immediate.
Crack! The table split in two, the crock hit the floor, smashed, and the precious blend poured to and through the floor.
There was nothing to save in the kitchen.
They raced to the basement and stood, watching their hard labor drip through the floor.
“Do you think we could save…?”
No, fermenting wood and cement brew wasn’t an option, even for that frantic moment. They did catch what they could in bowls and pots, but not to finish and drink.
That was the last time they made home brew, since the crock was too expensive to replace for either or both.
The end of a beautiful friendship—home brew and its two devotees.
Our parish priest was due for dinner the next day, and our house reeked of hops and yeast for some time after the tragedy.
Homemade brew can be stored for months in a cool, dark place (like our basement), but between batches, there weren’t any rows left of waiting bottles.
“Do we cry or laugh?” Delos said.
They did both.
Nor was Mom pleased with the kitchen table.
Sometimes minor calamities make funny family stories.
Dad and Delos would rather have had the beer.
And a good beer.
Malted grains, hops, yeast, blended to perfection.
They were known to pop a cold one and discuss engines, chassis, make and model, or discuss quality beer, domestic and imported.
One year, they decided to try their hand at home brew.
I don’t recall who claimed which ingredients, or who produced the Stoneware fermentation crock and cooking pots. Since each was a believer in “the right tools for the job,” they checked off everything they’d need, including the ingredients.
They were pleased with their first attempt, if yeasty, and announced that it had “a kick,” so decided to continue.
I remember seeing the dark brown bottles with snap lids stored on shelves in the basement, and the aroma of hops and malt on cooking days.
Keep everything clean, rinse, set out ingredients. Steep grains, add malt and boil, chill liquid (wort) in sink or bathtub with ice, pour cooled wort into fermenter, bottle, age, drink.
Equipment and the surrounding area had to be spotless, which I noticed, as a child, in Milwaukee. On a visit to my great aunts, my brothers and I accompanied Mom and Dad one afternoon to the Blatz, Pabst, Miller, and Schlitz (“the beer that made Milwaukee famous”) breweries.
I can still see the clean, wet, constantly-mopped floors; the huge vats; the various, huge rooms used for the process. Even more, the smell of yeast, grains, and hops, that last a memorable fragrance, announcing the presence of a brewery long before you reached it.
Hops is a climbing perennial, the Humulus lupulus, with a green cone-shaped flower that keeps beer fresh longer, gives it a head of foam, and adds scent and the bitter flavor. They have a unique, never-forgotten aroma.
Dad and Delos were proud of their brewing results and made several batches, until one fateful afternoon.
The fermentation crock was large and heavy, especially filled with liquid ready to ferment. I don’t know why they thought to haul the crock to table level, or to trust our family-sized Formica table with the weight, but the result was immediate.
Crack! The table split in two, the crock hit the floor, smashed, and the precious blend poured to and through the floor.
There was nothing to save in the kitchen.
They raced to the basement and stood, watching their hard labor drip through the floor.
“Do you think we could save…?”
No, fermenting wood and cement brew wasn’t an option, even for that frantic moment. They did catch what they could in bowls and pots, but not to finish and drink.
That was the last time they made home brew, since the crock was too expensive to replace for either or both.
The end of a beautiful friendship—home brew and its two devotees.
Our parish priest was due for dinner the next day, and our house reeked of hops and yeast for some time after the tragedy.
Homemade brew can be stored for months in a cool, dark place (like our basement), but between batches, there weren’t any rows left of waiting bottles.
“Do we cry or laugh?” Delos said.
They did both.
Nor was Mom pleased with the kitchen table.
Sometimes minor calamities make funny family stories.
Dad and Delos would rather have had the beer.
May 11, 2024
The Devotion and Courage of a Mom
Mom—self-sacrificing and loyal, loving unconditionally, a well of renewing patience.
Daughter, mother, grandmother…generations of gifts passed on and lessons learned.
From my great-grandma, who never said an unkind word about anyone, ever, and whose faith in God was quiet and steady. She treasured a ceramic crucifix that hung on the wall of her tiny cottage and knew her Bible.
From my grandma, lover of flowers and gardens, who taught me how to make chicken and dumplings.
From Mom, whose heroism and sacrifices I accepted as a child, but only understood when I became a mother and grandmother, and owe endless gratitude.
Those gifts were inherited by my spitfire, compassionate, bold, and loving daughter, Anne. On Mother’s Day, I decided to celebrate her as a mother.
I’ve shared memories of Mom on other Mother’s Day holidays, or when a memory triggered her hard work and talents, so what better way to commemorate her lessons than to demonstrate her gifts in another generation.
Mom was timid and sweet as a child, and developed courage on behalf of her husband and children.
Anne was born with a fierce desire to live well and fully. She charged into this world from a difficult birth and never looked back. As a baby, she tasted everything we ate and developed an appetite for fine cuisine. Sociable by nature, she was willing to go anywhere, meet everyone, and absorbed the world around her with that adventurous spirit.
On her first day of kindergarten, she marched into the classroom with a backward wave to her sobbing mother, ready to experience the new setting.
She brought that spirit into every choice she made, and taught it to her daughter.
Anne’s heart is as encompassing as her determination. Kind and faithful to friends, animals, and anyone in need, she’s a source of wisdom and encouragement. Her children adore her. Ask them. Mom knows everything and can do anything.
She does. And can.
She taught herself to cook, knit, crochet, sew, and stood out on every job. Like my mother. Went back to school as an adult, earning a Bachelor’s from Clemson University to work with neglected and abused children, and troubled families. Her compassion and courage made a difference to countless.
She's available to her children and grandchildren without hesitation. They stay with her, thrive in her company, learn from her actions, bloom in her devotion.
I believe Anne can do anything, too.
She grew up in the Heights, in the same house where I was a child. Celebrated the same Halloween customs and fall festivals. Loved our community as I did and surpassed me in courage and accomplishments.
If a mother is defined as a loving, unselfish woman willing to sacrifice personal wants and needs for her children, who works hard to pass on knowledge and abilities to children for fulfilling lives, each one deserves more than one day a year to be honored.
Anne is all of that, and Mom would be even more proud of her now.
As I am.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Happy Mother’s Day, Anne.
And I won’t forget my spirited, loving granddaughter—Happy Mother’s Day, Katie.
And to all mothers everywhere, here or beyond.
You define heroism and devotion.
Blessings on you all.
Daughter, mother, grandmother…generations of gifts passed on and lessons learned.
From my great-grandma, who never said an unkind word about anyone, ever, and whose faith in God was quiet and steady. She treasured a ceramic crucifix that hung on the wall of her tiny cottage and knew her Bible.
From my grandma, lover of flowers and gardens, who taught me how to make chicken and dumplings.
From Mom, whose heroism and sacrifices I accepted as a child, but only understood when I became a mother and grandmother, and owe endless gratitude.
Those gifts were inherited by my spitfire, compassionate, bold, and loving daughter, Anne. On Mother’s Day, I decided to celebrate her as a mother.
I’ve shared memories of Mom on other Mother’s Day holidays, or when a memory triggered her hard work and talents, so what better way to commemorate her lessons than to demonstrate her gifts in another generation.
Mom was timid and sweet as a child, and developed courage on behalf of her husband and children.
Anne was born with a fierce desire to live well and fully. She charged into this world from a difficult birth and never looked back. As a baby, she tasted everything we ate and developed an appetite for fine cuisine. Sociable by nature, she was willing to go anywhere, meet everyone, and absorbed the world around her with that adventurous spirit.
On her first day of kindergarten, she marched into the classroom with a backward wave to her sobbing mother, ready to experience the new setting.
She brought that spirit into every choice she made, and taught it to her daughter.
Anne’s heart is as encompassing as her determination. Kind and faithful to friends, animals, and anyone in need, she’s a source of wisdom and encouragement. Her children adore her. Ask them. Mom knows everything and can do anything.
She does. And can.
She taught herself to cook, knit, crochet, sew, and stood out on every job. Like my mother. Went back to school as an adult, earning a Bachelor’s from Clemson University to work with neglected and abused children, and troubled families. Her compassion and courage made a difference to countless.
She's available to her children and grandchildren without hesitation. They stay with her, thrive in her company, learn from her actions, bloom in her devotion.
I believe Anne can do anything, too.
She grew up in the Heights, in the same house where I was a child. Celebrated the same Halloween customs and fall festivals. Loved our community as I did and surpassed me in courage and accomplishments.
If a mother is defined as a loving, unselfish woman willing to sacrifice personal wants and needs for her children, who works hard to pass on knowledge and abilities to children for fulfilling lives, each one deserves more than one day a year to be honored.
Anne is all of that, and Mom would be even more proud of her now.
As I am.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Happy Mother’s Day, Anne.
And I won’t forget my spirited, loving granddaughter—Happy Mother’s Day, Katie.
And to all mothers everywhere, here or beyond.
You define heroism and devotion.
Blessings on you all.
May 4, 2024
There's No Other Spring Like Michigan's
Are daffodils still blooming on the hill at Cranbrook Gardens?
Are trilliums appearing in Michigan woods?
Have the spring peepers begun their magic music?
There’s no spring like Michigan’s.
First, it’s shy. Shows up one day, promising warm weather and green grass, and hides the next, sometimes under snow. Buries itself in gray, cold mornings when you can see your breath, but ends in early summer with fragrant afternoons and blossoms everywhere.
Official last day of frost is May First, May Day.
For many years, I ordered a basket of spring flowers to be delivered to my mother in honor of May Day. My daughter Anne does the same for me now that Mom is gone. Our celebration of springtime.
Spring is made up of three distinct months—March, April, May. The spring equinox means that daytime hours increase until the summer solstice on June 21st. The tilt of the Earth to the Sun changes daylight hours and warmth, so that the season causes new plant growth to “spring forth,” as the poets say.
March threatens snow in the Heights. April produces cold mornings, some below freezing, but afternoons hint at melting and new grass, and heavy coats are traded for jackets.
By May, frosts are gone and flowers appear. Tulips, trilliums, dandelions, lilacs, apple and cherry blossoms—from late April through May.
Mushroom picking. My brother knew of patches at Bald Mountain and farther north, and became an expert at finding his favorite kinds.
Holland, Michigan puts on magnificent tulip displays.
Other places around the world share Michigan’s climate—the Japanese island of Hokkaido; Frankfort, Germany; Ireland, but only seven percent of the U.S. shares the climate around Detroit and the Heights, eight percent of the Ukraine, and five percent of Korea.
Our weather is unique due to the Great Lakes with their thunderstorms, snowstorms, wind and humidity levels, freezing winters and divine summers.
After a cold, lingering winter, spring is welcome. By May, winter has finally been overcome. Days may be rainy, nights chilly, but blooming and growth pops up in the natural world, in yards, gardens, and in the spirits of Michiganders.
I miss lilac season. Dandelions covering yards. Violets in the lawn. Tiger lilies along fences.
I miss the bright green of weeping willows and the sight of trilliums in the wooded ponds. The delicate scent of apple blossoms from the back yard.
Years ago, it was a spring tradition for me to visit Cranbrook Gardens and head for the grassy hill near the white pines, to wander with care through the daffodils, their annual appearance magical. I wonder if they still show up on that hill?
The more lilacs I picked, the better it was for the bushes in coming years, and it was a pleasure to fill vases and jars with their perfume. Fern fronds uncurled overnight. Robins filled the mornings and afternoons with their distinctive melodies.
I miss Michigan spring.
I miss springtime in the Heights.
I miss the song of the spring peepers in the Second Woods.
I miss the robin songs, the scent of lilacs, the sight of bright green grass and new leaves.
If I pause and close my eyes, I can almost be there again. Almost.
Wishing you a happy, fragrant spring.
Are trilliums appearing in Michigan woods?
Have the spring peepers begun their magic music?
There’s no spring like Michigan’s.
First, it’s shy. Shows up one day, promising warm weather and green grass, and hides the next, sometimes under snow. Buries itself in gray, cold mornings when you can see your breath, but ends in early summer with fragrant afternoons and blossoms everywhere.
Official last day of frost is May First, May Day.
For many years, I ordered a basket of spring flowers to be delivered to my mother in honor of May Day. My daughter Anne does the same for me now that Mom is gone. Our celebration of springtime.
Spring is made up of three distinct months—March, April, May. The spring equinox means that daytime hours increase until the summer solstice on June 21st. The tilt of the Earth to the Sun changes daylight hours and warmth, so that the season causes new plant growth to “spring forth,” as the poets say.
March threatens snow in the Heights. April produces cold mornings, some below freezing, but afternoons hint at melting and new grass, and heavy coats are traded for jackets.
By May, frosts are gone and flowers appear. Tulips, trilliums, dandelions, lilacs, apple and cherry blossoms—from late April through May.
Mushroom picking. My brother knew of patches at Bald Mountain and farther north, and became an expert at finding his favorite kinds.
Holland, Michigan puts on magnificent tulip displays.
Other places around the world share Michigan’s climate—the Japanese island of Hokkaido; Frankfort, Germany; Ireland, but only seven percent of the U.S. shares the climate around Detroit and the Heights, eight percent of the Ukraine, and five percent of Korea.
Our weather is unique due to the Great Lakes with their thunderstorms, snowstorms, wind and humidity levels, freezing winters and divine summers.
After a cold, lingering winter, spring is welcome. By May, winter has finally been overcome. Days may be rainy, nights chilly, but blooming and growth pops up in the natural world, in yards, gardens, and in the spirits of Michiganders.
I miss lilac season. Dandelions covering yards. Violets in the lawn. Tiger lilies along fences.
I miss the bright green of weeping willows and the sight of trilliums in the wooded ponds. The delicate scent of apple blossoms from the back yard.
Years ago, it was a spring tradition for me to visit Cranbrook Gardens and head for the grassy hill near the white pines, to wander with care through the daffodils, their annual appearance magical. I wonder if they still show up on that hill?
The more lilacs I picked, the better it was for the bushes in coming years, and it was a pleasure to fill vases and jars with their perfume. Fern fronds uncurled overnight. Robins filled the mornings and afternoons with their distinctive melodies.
I miss Michigan spring.
I miss springtime in the Heights.
I miss the song of the spring peepers in the Second Woods.
I miss the robin songs, the scent of lilacs, the sight of bright green grass and new leaves.
If I pause and close my eyes, I can almost be there again. Almost.
Wishing you a happy, fragrant spring.
April 27, 2024
A Tour of One Childhood Home
I’d like to show you around our house on Caroline Street, but we’ll be stepping back a few years. Over sixty, actually, when it claimed a busy household of seven, then eight.
Over the years, the interior and front porch changed as Dad opened the living room onto the porch (to fit the grand piano), or closed the living room wall for an open front porch, removing rows of windows.
Changed the downstairs bedroom closet into a second, and much needed, bathroom. Painted. Built a dark room in the basement for my brothers. Covered wooden plank floors.
Every house in our neighborhood was unique. Ours was built in 1928, and in 1969, when we moved in, there was a coal furnace with a coal cellar at the back of the basement. We used coal the first winter and had a gas furnace installed before the second.
In the front corner, next to Turner’s house, was a tall, straight black walnut tree that produced nuts every two years. My brother battled the squirrels for the walnuts—their pungent flavor was not a favorite with me—and the squirrels came out ahead since they could crack away the green shell and get to the nut meats sooner, and eat faster.
On the opposite front corner was another tree when we moved in, but I don’t recall if it was a catalpa (“umbrella”) tree or if that was across the street. I do remember long green beans growing from the branches.
On either side of the concrete front porch were two cedars which vanished eventually.
The original front porch was enclosed with rows of tiny windows, and opened onto the living room. (We had Dutch modern furniture.) An arch led to the dining room on the left. Far right was the staircase to the upper level, and a door led to the kitchen, on the other side of a narrow entranceway.
The first things Dad removed were the heavy wooden doors off the living room and kitchen, each with tall metal locks for a skeleton key. The doors were so close together, you couldn’t open one without banging into another.
Past the dining room was the downstairs bedroom, next to an enormous kitchen. Our large table held any number of family and guests, and never have I seen another kitchen with more cupboards than you could use. Windows over the sink looked out to Bullock’s house, (later the Wilsons’, and finally, the Shanks’). The back kitchen window overlooked the backyard.
We started out with a party line telephone until we had our own number (which I still remember), and a wall phone in the kitchen with a cord that stretched across the house.
We never ate in the dining room, so it was used as the go-through room, playroom, or temporary bedroom. With no furnace duct, but only a cold-air return, ferns flourished near the window.
There were worn wooden plank floors throughout the house except for the autumn leaf tile in the kitchen. When Mom and Dad redid the living room, they choose dark green carpeting, pale blue walls, and white ceiling, creating a room of eternal summer.
Stairs to the second level had a wooden banister and turned halfway. Since the house was a bungalow, only the two middle upper rooms—bedroom and bathroom—had straight walls.
The front and back bedroom ceilings slanted on one side, with “toy closets” on the other, created by closing walls. Not as useful as it sounds for storage, since each of us was afraid of being locked inside if we crawled too far, certain of being forgotten until our bones bleached. Besides, we knew the toy closets were inhabited by creepy crawlies waiting for any over-bold child.
A tiny cottage in the backyard was torn down for safety reasons, although we kids begged to keep it for a playhouse, and a Scotch pine tree planted in the spot. We jumped over it on our way to the backyard until it grew too tall.
Tea roses grew on a lattice attached to the garage. Wild catnip thrived behind it, a draw for every neighborhood cat. Mom planted bleeding hearts and white peonies, and the backyard was a miniature orchard with plum, sour (Montmorency) cherries, McIntosh apples, a banana cherry, Bartlett pears, and a pickling pear. The Garden of Eden. (Until we had to rake up smashed pears, covered in hornets, or pick endless cherries.)
Lots in our neighborhood were a third of an acre, long and narrow, so that backyards weren’t visible from the street. Every backyard was different. Every house varied. We harvested rhubarb along neighboring houses.
Other homes boasted backyard gardens, cultivated flowerbeds, patches of wild tiger lilies, grape arbors. Our street alone had enough tree species to earn an “A” on annual leaf collection projects.
Naturally, our childhood stomping grounds stretched to the Heights (downtown), the woods, the School Hills, and other friends and neighborhoods.
There have been changes over the years, from childhood to marriage, and later, in the same house, raising children, but I can close my eyes and see it as it first welcomed our family.
Thought you might enjoy a visit with me to my past.
And maybe yours.
Over the years, the interior and front porch changed as Dad opened the living room onto the porch (to fit the grand piano), or closed the living room wall for an open front porch, removing rows of windows.
Changed the downstairs bedroom closet into a second, and much needed, bathroom. Painted. Built a dark room in the basement for my brothers. Covered wooden plank floors.
Every house in our neighborhood was unique. Ours was built in 1928, and in 1969, when we moved in, there was a coal furnace with a coal cellar at the back of the basement. We used coal the first winter and had a gas furnace installed before the second.
In the front corner, next to Turner’s house, was a tall, straight black walnut tree that produced nuts every two years. My brother battled the squirrels for the walnuts—their pungent flavor was not a favorite with me—and the squirrels came out ahead since they could crack away the green shell and get to the nut meats sooner, and eat faster.
On the opposite front corner was another tree when we moved in, but I don’t recall if it was a catalpa (“umbrella”) tree or if that was across the street. I do remember long green beans growing from the branches.
On either side of the concrete front porch were two cedars which vanished eventually.
The original front porch was enclosed with rows of tiny windows, and opened onto the living room. (We had Dutch modern furniture.) An arch led to the dining room on the left. Far right was the staircase to the upper level, and a door led to the kitchen, on the other side of a narrow entranceway.
The first things Dad removed were the heavy wooden doors off the living room and kitchen, each with tall metal locks for a skeleton key. The doors were so close together, you couldn’t open one without banging into another.
Past the dining room was the downstairs bedroom, next to an enormous kitchen. Our large table held any number of family and guests, and never have I seen another kitchen with more cupboards than you could use. Windows over the sink looked out to Bullock’s house, (later the Wilsons’, and finally, the Shanks’). The back kitchen window overlooked the backyard.
We started out with a party line telephone until we had our own number (which I still remember), and a wall phone in the kitchen with a cord that stretched across the house.
We never ate in the dining room, so it was used as the go-through room, playroom, or temporary bedroom. With no furnace duct, but only a cold-air return, ferns flourished near the window.
There were worn wooden plank floors throughout the house except for the autumn leaf tile in the kitchen. When Mom and Dad redid the living room, they choose dark green carpeting, pale blue walls, and white ceiling, creating a room of eternal summer.
Stairs to the second level had a wooden banister and turned halfway. Since the house was a bungalow, only the two middle upper rooms—bedroom and bathroom—had straight walls.
The front and back bedroom ceilings slanted on one side, with “toy closets” on the other, created by closing walls. Not as useful as it sounds for storage, since each of us was afraid of being locked inside if we crawled too far, certain of being forgotten until our bones bleached. Besides, we knew the toy closets were inhabited by creepy crawlies waiting for any over-bold child.
A tiny cottage in the backyard was torn down for safety reasons, although we kids begged to keep it for a playhouse, and a Scotch pine tree planted in the spot. We jumped over it on our way to the backyard until it grew too tall.
Tea roses grew on a lattice attached to the garage. Wild catnip thrived behind it, a draw for every neighborhood cat. Mom planted bleeding hearts and white peonies, and the backyard was a miniature orchard with plum, sour (Montmorency) cherries, McIntosh apples, a banana cherry, Bartlett pears, and a pickling pear. The Garden of Eden. (Until we had to rake up smashed pears, covered in hornets, or pick endless cherries.)
Lots in our neighborhood were a third of an acre, long and narrow, so that backyards weren’t visible from the street. Every backyard was different. Every house varied. We harvested rhubarb along neighboring houses.
Other homes boasted backyard gardens, cultivated flowerbeds, patches of wild tiger lilies, grape arbors. Our street alone had enough tree species to earn an “A” on annual leaf collection projects.
Naturally, our childhood stomping grounds stretched to the Heights (downtown), the woods, the School Hills, and other friends and neighborhoods.
There have been changes over the years, from childhood to marriage, and later, in the same house, raising children, but I can close my eyes and see it as it first welcomed our family.
Thought you might enjoy a visit with me to my past.
And maybe yours.
April 20, 2024
The Wilderness Next Door
When I was ten, our family moved from Pontiac to Auburn Heights. My life on Caroline Street lasted until my own children were grown.
In spite of the small town being separated from Pontiac only by the area called Pontiac Township (later incorporated into Auburn Hills), the new world I found myself in was filled with constant wonders to explore.
When I was 16, Hall Road, running from Utica west toward Pontiac where it became Huron Street, was widened into the M-59 highway, but in my childhood, Opdyke Road ran through Pontiac Township, with local landmarks on either side like Motorcycle Hill and Chuck’s Shack.
And a view of Bald Mountain.
As a child, I was fascinated with the flat-topped hill in the distance, not sure what it was. When Dad turned right onto Opdyke from Auburn Road, I watched for the sight of the unexpected hill before we reached Featherstone Road. Within a short time, the mountain grew smaller until it disappeared. Years later, I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamed it.
Bald Mountain Recreation Area is a state park of over 4,600 acres near Lake Orion. Rugged and wild, part of the park remains undeveloped forest and fields. There is a beach for swimming and a boat launch on Lower Trout Lake, and across Orion Road, in a different section, you can rent a rustic cabin on Tamarack Lake, one of several small lakes in that segment.
There are trout streams, hunting, fishing, hiking on steep hills, cross-country skiing, mountain biking, and snowmobiling in the protected Michigan wilderness.
As well as weekend parties when I was in high school.
And there was once a ski area with lift equipment from a hill later leveled for businesses. I hadn’t dreamed the view from Opdyke Road.
You can share hikes with deer, rabbits, squirrels, Canadian geese, woodchucks, ducks, raccoons, woodcocks, and mushrooms. My brother was an avid mushroom hunter and made annual excursions. Lakes offer bass, pike, trout, and bluegill.
There’s no camping now, but when my son was a toddler, we camped at Bald Mountain with our three-room canvas tent, lanterns, and Coleman stove. His sister was pre-school age, and both children loved playing outside in the dirt. I remember bathing them in the ice chest between replacing ice.
The campground was rustic. Outhouses. Water pump. Fire pits. Mosquitos.
We closed up the tent and sprayed before the children’s bedtimes. Once it was safe, they were tucked into sleeping bags and it was time for parents to sit around the fire.
There was a nearby lake and beach for outings, plenty of fresh air, green, and nature.
We only made one camping trip. Maybe the campground closed afterward, or the lure of Holly and Algoe Lake were too strong to resist.
There are no more Motorcycle Hills off Opdyke or view of Bald Mountain, but the wild park still exists. I’d love to see the hills, woods, lakes, and pond views of the Bald Mountain park again.
And a salute to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources for recognizing the true treasures of our state.
In spite of the small town being separated from Pontiac only by the area called Pontiac Township (later incorporated into Auburn Hills), the new world I found myself in was filled with constant wonders to explore.
When I was 16, Hall Road, running from Utica west toward Pontiac where it became Huron Street, was widened into the M-59 highway, but in my childhood, Opdyke Road ran through Pontiac Township, with local landmarks on either side like Motorcycle Hill and Chuck’s Shack.
And a view of Bald Mountain.
As a child, I was fascinated with the flat-topped hill in the distance, not sure what it was. When Dad turned right onto Opdyke from Auburn Road, I watched for the sight of the unexpected hill before we reached Featherstone Road. Within a short time, the mountain grew smaller until it disappeared. Years later, I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamed it.
Bald Mountain Recreation Area is a state park of over 4,600 acres near Lake Orion. Rugged and wild, part of the park remains undeveloped forest and fields. There is a beach for swimming and a boat launch on Lower Trout Lake, and across Orion Road, in a different section, you can rent a rustic cabin on Tamarack Lake, one of several small lakes in that segment.
There are trout streams, hunting, fishing, hiking on steep hills, cross-country skiing, mountain biking, and snowmobiling in the protected Michigan wilderness.
As well as weekend parties when I was in high school.
And there was once a ski area with lift equipment from a hill later leveled for businesses. I hadn’t dreamed the view from Opdyke Road.
You can share hikes with deer, rabbits, squirrels, Canadian geese, woodchucks, ducks, raccoons, woodcocks, and mushrooms. My brother was an avid mushroom hunter and made annual excursions. Lakes offer bass, pike, trout, and bluegill.
There’s no camping now, but when my son was a toddler, we camped at Bald Mountain with our three-room canvas tent, lanterns, and Coleman stove. His sister was pre-school age, and both children loved playing outside in the dirt. I remember bathing them in the ice chest between replacing ice.
The campground was rustic. Outhouses. Water pump. Fire pits. Mosquitos.
We closed up the tent and sprayed before the children’s bedtimes. Once it was safe, they were tucked into sleeping bags and it was time for parents to sit around the fire.
There was a nearby lake and beach for outings, plenty of fresh air, green, and nature.
We only made one camping trip. Maybe the campground closed afterward, or the lure of Holly and Algoe Lake were too strong to resist.
There are no more Motorcycle Hills off Opdyke or view of Bald Mountain, but the wild park still exists. I’d love to see the hills, woods, lakes, and pond views of the Bald Mountain park again.
And a salute to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources for recognizing the true treasures of our state.
April 13, 2024
My Zippy and Howdy Doody
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you when a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become REAL.” – Margery Williams
For me, it’s Zippy, my own worn and ragged Velveteen Rabbit of a chimpanzee toy.
Zippy was never relegated to a box, but lived everywhere I did. He’s retired now, in his own toy high chair in a corner of my writing room, original red and yellow clothing long tattered and gone. He wears crocheted shorts with suspenders and a jacket presented to me by Anne many Mother’s Days ago. She tucked them inside a new purse and when I pulled them out, I squealed, “For Zippy!”
“See?” she told my son-in-law Bernie. “I told you she’d know.”
Zippy was a real chimpanzee, made famous on the Howdy Doody show. Toy companies cashed in on his popularity with many variations through the 1970’s, including the blond girl chimp Tippy.
My Zippy was new in 1957, a store window display of a hardware shop downtown Pontiac. I was enamored with him and begged for him every time I saw him, so Mom asked the store owner where she could find one.
“I don’t know,” the owner said. “Mine’s not for sale. I just put him there for an eye-catching display. Here, take him.”
That Christmas, Zippy waited for me in a toy high chair, holding a banana, in all his bright red and yellow glory.
The real Zippy earned his name from “zipping” around in roller skates, and was a regular on variety shows—Jackie Gleason, Ed Sullivan, Captain Kangaroo, and Howdy Doody.
In fact, Buffalo Bob (Bob Smith) had discovered Zippy in New Orleans and offered his owner (Carole Womack) a five-year contract on his show.
Many of us remember the Howdy Doody Show and dreamed of being one of the Peanut Gallery.
Broadcast from December 1947 until September 1960, Howdy Doody was the longest running TV show of its time with 2,343 episodes, many filmed live. In fact, Captain Kangaroo (Bob Keeshan) was once part of that team where western frontier met the circus with marionettes and costumed characters.
Phineas T. Bluster. Dilly Dally. Flub-A-Dub. Clarabell. Many others, all living in amusing disharmony in Doodyville where 40 lucky spectator kids got to answer Buffalo Bob’s “What time is it?” with “It’s Howdy Doody Time!"
We could all sing Eddie Kean’s words (to the tune of Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay):
“It’s Howdy Doody time, it’s Howdy Doody time, Bob Smith and Howdy, too, say Howdy Do to you. Let’s give a rousing cheer ‘cause Howdy Doody’s here. It’s time to start the show, so kids, let’s go!”
And (my) Zippy was part of that excitement.
Years later, other chimpanzees would carry on the Zippy name and be guests of Johnny Carson and David Letterman, but for me, there’s only one Zippy, designed by a mother-daughter team, the Rushton Toy Company out of Atlanta—black plush with rubber hands, face, and shoes. Created from the young chimpanzee who stole a cherry from Buffalo Bob’s drink while he was on vacation in New Orleans and earned fame as a result.
By the way, there was a court battle in 1999 for ownership of the original Howdy Doody marionette, and the Detroit Institute of Arts won.
At age seven, I was unaware of Zippy’s history or fame. He’d caught my eye and I was sure I couldn’t survive without him. Years later, my brother Dave found a Rand McNally Tip-Top Elf book about him, which I also treasure.
As for my well-worn, sagging treasure, he’s been my companion for over three score years and earned his retirement to another toy high chair.
And since he has been really loved, as the Skin Horse told the Velveteen Rabbit, he must be real.
Thank you, Buffalo Bob, for Howdy Doody and Zippy. And thank you, hardware store owner in Pontiac, for giving me my best possession.
The original Zippy’s owner would be pleased.
And if my Zippy’s not real, he should be. He once was.
For me, it’s Zippy, my own worn and ragged Velveteen Rabbit of a chimpanzee toy.
Zippy was never relegated to a box, but lived everywhere I did. He’s retired now, in his own toy high chair in a corner of my writing room, original red and yellow clothing long tattered and gone. He wears crocheted shorts with suspenders and a jacket presented to me by Anne many Mother’s Days ago. She tucked them inside a new purse and when I pulled them out, I squealed, “For Zippy!”
“See?” she told my son-in-law Bernie. “I told you she’d know.”
Zippy was a real chimpanzee, made famous on the Howdy Doody show. Toy companies cashed in on his popularity with many variations through the 1970’s, including the blond girl chimp Tippy.
My Zippy was new in 1957, a store window display of a hardware shop downtown Pontiac. I was enamored with him and begged for him every time I saw him, so Mom asked the store owner where she could find one.
“I don’t know,” the owner said. “Mine’s not for sale. I just put him there for an eye-catching display. Here, take him.”
That Christmas, Zippy waited for me in a toy high chair, holding a banana, in all his bright red and yellow glory.
The real Zippy earned his name from “zipping” around in roller skates, and was a regular on variety shows—Jackie Gleason, Ed Sullivan, Captain Kangaroo, and Howdy Doody.
In fact, Buffalo Bob (Bob Smith) had discovered Zippy in New Orleans and offered his owner (Carole Womack) a five-year contract on his show.
Many of us remember the Howdy Doody Show and dreamed of being one of the Peanut Gallery.
Broadcast from December 1947 until September 1960, Howdy Doody was the longest running TV show of its time with 2,343 episodes, many filmed live. In fact, Captain Kangaroo (Bob Keeshan) was once part of that team where western frontier met the circus with marionettes and costumed characters.
Phineas T. Bluster. Dilly Dally. Flub-A-Dub. Clarabell. Many others, all living in amusing disharmony in Doodyville where 40 lucky spectator kids got to answer Buffalo Bob’s “What time is it?” with “It’s Howdy Doody Time!"
We could all sing Eddie Kean’s words (to the tune of Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay):
“It’s Howdy Doody time, it’s Howdy Doody time, Bob Smith and Howdy, too, say Howdy Do to you. Let’s give a rousing cheer ‘cause Howdy Doody’s here. It’s time to start the show, so kids, let’s go!”
And (my) Zippy was part of that excitement.
Years later, other chimpanzees would carry on the Zippy name and be guests of Johnny Carson and David Letterman, but for me, there’s only one Zippy, designed by a mother-daughter team, the Rushton Toy Company out of Atlanta—black plush with rubber hands, face, and shoes. Created from the young chimpanzee who stole a cherry from Buffalo Bob’s drink while he was on vacation in New Orleans and earned fame as a result.
By the way, there was a court battle in 1999 for ownership of the original Howdy Doody marionette, and the Detroit Institute of Arts won.
At age seven, I was unaware of Zippy’s history or fame. He’d caught my eye and I was sure I couldn’t survive without him. Years later, my brother Dave found a Rand McNally Tip-Top Elf book about him, which I also treasure.
As for my well-worn, sagging treasure, he’s been my companion for over three score years and earned his retirement to another toy high chair.
And since he has been really loved, as the Skin Horse told the Velveteen Rabbit, he must be real.
Thank you, Buffalo Bob, for Howdy Doody and Zippy. And thank you, hardware store owner in Pontiac, for giving me my best possession.
The original Zippy’s owner would be pleased.
And if my Zippy’s not real, he should be. He once was.
April 5, 2024
Walking in Long-Ago Woods
“When we are young,” Kathryn Aalto says, “tramping through forests also leaves footprints on paths well into our adulthood.”
Author of The Natural World of Winnie-the-Pooh: A walk through the forest that inspired the Hundred Acre Wood, she reminds me of my own childhood adventures.
I was lucky enough to grow up in the Heights, our small town, and on Caroline Street, which dead-ended at the First Woods, as we named it.
The oak-hickory forest included more recent growths of beech-maple. My friend Kay and I would make excursions for sassafras leaves, since there was a stand of small trees off the main path.
That footpath branched left toward Bessie, straight through the Bambi-forest, or right to the junior high (now a pre-school). On summer afternoons, I headed for a field with its lone, enormous hickory tree. When Kay and I went, we stopped there for hickory nuts. We weren’t above stealing from each other, either, since it was a time-consuming process to get a fistful to savor.
A one-lane road led to the Second Woods—water-oak, swampy wetlands of young trees, countless frogs and mosquitos, and ponds that drew children in the summer to catch crayfish and frogs, and skate in the winter.
I visited every spring as soon as the sound of spring peepers could be heard on Caroline Street. The music lured me onto a narrow trail along a brook where I perched on a branch with a view of marsh, pond, dancing leaves, and green.
It’s been three score years since I ambled through those woods. The forests in my current neighborhood include live oaks, palmetto, sword ferns, and ponds with resident gators, while the northern Second Woods are gone, replaced by townhouses.
There’s still a remnant of the First Woods with maples, undergrowth, and the path I followed to school or to adventure, past the dead-end sign.
I remember when ground was cleared for the junior high. Our tadpole ponds were filled and wild strawberry patches vanished into the football field.
I attended school there for three years—7th through 9th grades—yet can still envision the field and water where my brothers, Kay, and I carried Tupperware bowls for sweet, tiny strawberries (although few made it home).
Displaced tadpoles (pollywogs) grew in murky water in my brothers’ room until legs appeared, when Mom insisted they be returned to their wild home.
I walked to school in the 4th grade to Auburn Heights Elementary (also gone, a heartbreaking loss. No more fall festivals?) and to the junior high through woods and across the football field.
In the fall, when the leaves were falling and the woods smelled like cider and Halloween. In the winter, when bare branches touched gray skies, and the path crunched with snow or frozen twigs. In early summer, when you could taste summer vacation, and the woods rang with bird songs and coming adventures.
I remember those walks as clearly as if they were at the end of my road today. Sunlight dappling leaves and wind blowing treetops. Squirrels barking and the sound of neighborhood friends calling from their bicycles behind me. I can still taste the sassafras leaves and hickory nuts.
Any sound of spring peepers carries me back to my excursion through the First Woods along the path to the Second, searching the narrow, overgrown trail to my lookout branch near the swampy pond.
In those years I wondered if magic was real as I listened to the non-stop trill of wild music from spring peepers and frogs.
It was real there.
Author of The Natural World of Winnie-the-Pooh: A walk through the forest that inspired the Hundred Acre Wood, she reminds me of my own childhood adventures.
I was lucky enough to grow up in the Heights, our small town, and on Caroline Street, which dead-ended at the First Woods, as we named it.
The oak-hickory forest included more recent growths of beech-maple. My friend Kay and I would make excursions for sassafras leaves, since there was a stand of small trees off the main path.
That footpath branched left toward Bessie, straight through the Bambi-forest, or right to the junior high (now a pre-school). On summer afternoons, I headed for a field with its lone, enormous hickory tree. When Kay and I went, we stopped there for hickory nuts. We weren’t above stealing from each other, either, since it was a time-consuming process to get a fistful to savor.
A one-lane road led to the Second Woods—water-oak, swampy wetlands of young trees, countless frogs and mosquitos, and ponds that drew children in the summer to catch crayfish and frogs, and skate in the winter.
I visited every spring as soon as the sound of spring peepers could be heard on Caroline Street. The music lured me onto a narrow trail along a brook where I perched on a branch with a view of marsh, pond, dancing leaves, and green.
It’s been three score years since I ambled through those woods. The forests in my current neighborhood include live oaks, palmetto, sword ferns, and ponds with resident gators, while the northern Second Woods are gone, replaced by townhouses.
There’s still a remnant of the First Woods with maples, undergrowth, and the path I followed to school or to adventure, past the dead-end sign.
I remember when ground was cleared for the junior high. Our tadpole ponds were filled and wild strawberry patches vanished into the football field.
I attended school there for three years—7th through 9th grades—yet can still envision the field and water where my brothers, Kay, and I carried Tupperware bowls for sweet, tiny strawberries (although few made it home).
Displaced tadpoles (pollywogs) grew in murky water in my brothers’ room until legs appeared, when Mom insisted they be returned to their wild home.
I walked to school in the 4th grade to Auburn Heights Elementary (also gone, a heartbreaking loss. No more fall festivals?) and to the junior high through woods and across the football field.
In the fall, when the leaves were falling and the woods smelled like cider and Halloween. In the winter, when bare branches touched gray skies, and the path crunched with snow or frozen twigs. In early summer, when you could taste summer vacation, and the woods rang with bird songs and coming adventures.
I remember those walks as clearly as if they were at the end of my road today. Sunlight dappling leaves and wind blowing treetops. Squirrels barking and the sound of neighborhood friends calling from their bicycles behind me. I can still taste the sassafras leaves and hickory nuts.
Any sound of spring peepers carries me back to my excursion through the First Woods along the path to the Second, searching the narrow, overgrown trail to my lookout branch near the swampy pond.
In those years I wondered if magic was real as I listened to the non-stop trill of wild music from spring peepers and frogs.
It was real there.
March 31, 2024
Easter Baskets Must Have Jelly Beans
Decorated eggs are part of the Easter tradition, along with baskets, chocolate bunnies, and jelly beans. Grass, eggs, flowers—signs of the new season, spring.
And the favorite candy at Easter? In most states, it's Reese’s peanut butter eggs.
But there’s another familiar appearance with 16 billion sold every Easter.
Jelly beans.
Now, I’d never heard of jelly babies until Doctor Who, or jelly bellies until I was grown, so jelly beans had expected, traditional flavors in our Easter baskets—cherry, lemon, lime, grape, pineapple (white), raspberry (pink), orange, and the dreaded licorice, which I gave to Mom who actually liked the anise flavor.
Even learning that the two oldest candies on our planet are ginger and licorice (which was eaten by pharaohs) never changed my mind.
If every jelly bean sold at Easter was lined up, they’d encircle Earth almost three times.
That’s a lot of jelly beans.
Ours came in Easter baskets, hiding in the bright grass, so that a few were the last to find before returning baskets for the next year.
Easter is second only to Halloween for a candy-consumption holiday. Chocolate bunnies—90 million. Marshmallow Peeps—700 million.
In 1861 Boston, William Schrafft suggested sending jelly beans to soldiers in the Union Army, and by the 1930’s the candy joined the Easter Parade. They take one to two weeks to produce by panning, a process that creates the outer shell and gummy interior.
This was first done in 17th century France to make Jordan Almonds for royalty, where almonds were shaken in a pan of sugar and syrup until coated. Castle servants have been replaced by rotating drums, but confectioners still oversee the process for the perfect jelly bean shell.
Jelly beans became a favorite penny candy in general stores, sold by weight, carried home in paper bags.
Sugar, corn syrup, pectin or starch, with a variety of other ingredients for flavor and texture make up the tiny candy.
We didn’t care how they were made, or what went into the recipe. We all had our favorite colors and flavors. I ate purple, pink, and white first, red, orange, and yellow next, and green last. Black? Never.
Easter baskets, a tradition from the 14th century (for carrying Easter dinner to church for blessings), are not complete without jelly beans hiding in the grass.
Of course, Easter is far greater than baskets, bunnies, candy, and jelly beans, and the true celebration is more momentous, so have a glorious, blessed, and happy Easter.
And by the way, in case you missed these holidays, national jelly beans days are April 22nd and July 24th.
And the favorite candy at Easter? In most states, it's Reese’s peanut butter eggs.
But there’s another familiar appearance with 16 billion sold every Easter.
Jelly beans.
Now, I’d never heard of jelly babies until Doctor Who, or jelly bellies until I was grown, so jelly beans had expected, traditional flavors in our Easter baskets—cherry, lemon, lime, grape, pineapple (white), raspberry (pink), orange, and the dreaded licorice, which I gave to Mom who actually liked the anise flavor.
Even learning that the two oldest candies on our planet are ginger and licorice (which was eaten by pharaohs) never changed my mind.
If every jelly bean sold at Easter was lined up, they’d encircle Earth almost three times.
That’s a lot of jelly beans.
Ours came in Easter baskets, hiding in the bright grass, so that a few were the last to find before returning baskets for the next year.
Easter is second only to Halloween for a candy-consumption holiday. Chocolate bunnies—90 million. Marshmallow Peeps—700 million.
In 1861 Boston, William Schrafft suggested sending jelly beans to soldiers in the Union Army, and by the 1930’s the candy joined the Easter Parade. They take one to two weeks to produce by panning, a process that creates the outer shell and gummy interior.
This was first done in 17th century France to make Jordan Almonds for royalty, where almonds were shaken in a pan of sugar and syrup until coated. Castle servants have been replaced by rotating drums, but confectioners still oversee the process for the perfect jelly bean shell.
Jelly beans became a favorite penny candy in general stores, sold by weight, carried home in paper bags.
Sugar, corn syrup, pectin or starch, with a variety of other ingredients for flavor and texture make up the tiny candy.
We didn’t care how they were made, or what went into the recipe. We all had our favorite colors and flavors. I ate purple, pink, and white first, red, orange, and yellow next, and green last. Black? Never.
Easter baskets, a tradition from the 14th century (for carrying Easter dinner to church for blessings), are not complete without jelly beans hiding in the grass.
Of course, Easter is far greater than baskets, bunnies, candy, and jelly beans, and the true celebration is more momentous, so have a glorious, blessed, and happy Easter.
And by the way, in case you missed these holidays, national jelly beans days are April 22nd and July 24th.
Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life
We love books, love to read, love to share.
- Judy Shank Cyg's profile
- 10 followers
