All Hearts Go Home for Christmas

“All hearts go home for Christmas, for love is always there”


The year that my husband, Bob, joined the Army, our four year old daughter, Gayle, and I joined him at Fort Hood, Texas, shortly after he finished training in November. Ohio had always been home, and I had had no desire to leave. The recession of 1974 had forced Bob out of work, and after almost two years without a job, Bob was glad for the opportunities the Army offered.

We had sold most of our furniture and stored our belongings in our home in Toledo, which was rented to friends. My sister, Kathie, drove with Gayle and me to our new home, a small furnished apartment in the booming military metropolis of Killeen in central Texas. A day or two later when I watched her plane leave from Austin airport, I felt very much alone. Thanksgiving, a holiday which we had celebrated exactly the same every year for as long as I could remember, was three short weeks away. Facing the holidays in a new place without our extended families and no friends was a bleak thought indeed.

Fortunately, Bob did not share my dampened spirit about this new life of ours. His enthusiasm and Gayle’s natural cheerfulness were my lifeline those first months away. We made the best of Thanksgiving. We ate at the Holiday Inn. It certainly wasn’t Aunty Mary’s perennial feast, and having three at the table instead of our usual 10 or 12 was a change, but we had deliberately chosen to make it as different as possible so there would be no comparison.

As Christmas approached, we decided to make the best of that as well. A tiny tree decorated with homemade ornaments stood in one corner of our living room. We purchased a few small gifts for Gayle -- we didn’t have much to spend. It wasn’t so much that we wouldn’t have the usual pile of presents under the tree that bothered me, but that we would be away from “home”.

Bob was a medical lab technician and worked in the blood bank at the post hospital. Just three days before Christmas, he came home with the wonderful news that the chief had arranged work schedules so that everyone in their section would have either Christmas or New Year’s off, and a few extra days besides. Bob was fortunate to have been given Christmas, beginning at 4 PM on the 23rd. It takes 24 hours of driving, including minimal time for fueling, eating, and rest stops. The drive wouldn’t be a problem. Bob has always been an endurance driver. I would help out when he got tired. We could do it…weather permitting. We would do it! We packed the back of our station wagon, tucking Gayle into a sleeping bag between suitcases, and left Killeen just 24 hours before the Christmas festivities would start at my sister’s home in Ohio. We told Kathie we were coming, but she decided not to tell the rest of the family. It would be a surprise. The excitement was delicious.

But perhaps the most memorable part of that Christmas happened very quietly and unexpectedly in the middle of the night somewhere in Arkansas or Missouri. Have you ever had a moment in your life that was etched permanently into your soul? Gayle was asleep in the back of the car, and Bob dozed in the passenger seat as I drove. The night was cold and black, but thousands of stars were twinkling in the heavens. Christmas hymns were playing on the radio. I thought about Christmas -- about what we are really celebrating: the birth of Jesus Christ, the Savior of the world. For the first time in my life, I pondered the meaning of Christmas. An indescribable peace settled over me. I will never forget that feeling.

Joyful tears and hugs were plentiful as Bob, Gayle and I surprised our family at 6:00 on Christmas Eve. Since that Christmas years ago, we have spent many away from Toledo, but we have learned that home is where we are. And our family is whoever is with us. The best part of Christmas for me is the part I found that night -- the peace that comes from knowing.

* * * * * * *

I'm so grateful for the Savior, for his life and for his sacrifice that makes it possible for each of us to repent and to return to our Heavenly Father. Wishing you, your family, and all of those you love a joyful and blessed Christmas and a healthy and happy 2008.

Pam

Winter Solstice

According to Wikipedia, "the winter solstice occurs at the instant when the sun's position in the sky is at its greatest angular distance on the other side of the equitorial plane as the observer". Evidently, it was/is a pagan "holiday" or time of festivals, rituals and celebrations. I've just always known it as the shortest day of the year.

I didn't give much thought to the term "winter solstice" until a few years ago when my eccentric cousin sent me a Winter Solstice card. I didn't know such greeting cards existed. Silly me. Her beliefs contrasted with mine would line up in a similar manner to the Winter and Summer Solstices. I shake my head, and realize that in recognizing our differences, I probably am in need of repentance. Sometimes, it's hard not to judge.

Over the years I have found myself starting to look forward to this midwinter event pretty much beginning the day when we switch back from Daylight Savings Time to standard time. I yearn for longer days, more light. But to get there, we have to get past the shortest day. Hence, today marks the beginning of longer days. Each day between now and June 21, will be just a little longer than the one before it. And on that day, I will revel in the light and try not to think that the days will then be getting shorter.

Several years ago, my husband Bob expressed the desire to be at one of his very favorite places on the Summer Solstice, June 21, to see how long it would be light there. We were living in Maryland at the time, but made the trek to northern Michigan, near Traverse City. Pyramid Point is now part of the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore (check out Picture #13 which is nearby) which overlooks beautiful blue Lake Michigan, but Bob and his family discovered Pyramid Point long before the federal government did, before there was even a clear path to the top of the dune. With our extended families, we have climbed up that sandy peak on many occasions over three decades. Now, not only is a parking lot provided at the road, but a restroom as well, and the path is graded and marked. Progress. Unfortunately. In the "olden days" we could count on enjoying the serene solitude of the place. Most times we visit now, we will meet others on the path and will have to share the view.

That night in 1997 was no different. We hiked up the trail through the beech and maple trees and arrived at thetop of Pyramid Point probably around 8 PM. It was a beautiful clear warm evening, and the sun was setting over Lake Michigan at the western end of the horizon. Near the other end, we could see a hint of the Manitou Islands, according to legend, representing the cubs of the mama bear (now the sand dunes) who had swam across Lake Michigan to escape a raging forest fire. In front of us the bluff dropped steeply to the water 450 feet below. We took pictures of the sinking sun and the deep blue water. Then we sat in the cooling sand, awaiting the demise of the sun on that longest day of the year. Other vacationers came and left while we kept vigil. One young couple was there to celebrate their anniversary; I took their picture, memorized their address, and mailed it to them later. The firey globe slowly sank behind the horizon as we watched. For a long time after the sun disappeared, its light glowed in the sky. It was almost 11 PM before we felt we could declare the end of day. Mission accomplished. Many times since then Bob and I have talked about the magic of that evening.



Today's winter solstice holds no such magic. This cold dark winter night finds me holed up in the house with a computer in front of me. The sun disappeared approximately 5 PM this evening. But the comforting thought is that each day will be just a little longer now, and we have June 21st to look forward to.

Buns

I thought my friend, Lynne, would write about this on her blog, but she didn't, so I will.

On Saturday, I was at my daughter's house doing some bookwork for her and checked my email. Lynne had written to see if I wanted to go to J-Dawg's, one of our favorite spur-of-the-moment getaways. I emailed back to say that I would be awhile, and not to wait for me, but that I would call her when I got home.

Being the true, loyal, devoted friend that she is, she didn't go without me, and when I called her an hour later, she laughed and said she hadn't had lunch yet, and that she was definitely ready for a J-Dawg. That's one of the things I like about Lynne: she likes to go. At the drop of a hat.

"Pick you up in a few minutes," I told her.

"Ok, I'm ready."

My mouth was watering. Mmmmmm. I could almost smell the grilled Polish sausage with special sauce, sauerkraut, dill pickle, onions, and banana peppers. Oooooo, I couldn't wait! It was almost 2 and I hadn't had anything to eat since my Dee's cereal breakfast. I was hungry. And the thought of that juicy J-Dawg got the digestive juices flowing.

I picked Lynne up and we headed toward BYU. I mentioned to her that Sheri Dew was at the Deseret Book store at our local mall signing her latest book, God Wants a Powerful People, and that it was 50% off today only. It didn't take us long to put our carnal appetites on hold for more spiritual things, and we decided to take a short detour to the mall. To save time, I dropped Lynne off at the door and drove around the parking lot until she came out. There was no parking. None. I'm sure half of Utah was at that mall on Saturday. She got the books, and despite the long checkout line, was out of the mall in about 15 minutes, maybe less.

Then we headed back over to J-Dawg's, got up to the window and were told THEY WERE OUT OF BUNS!!!

Lynne asked, "Well, did you send someone out for some?"

No, they hadn't. Talk about disappointment!

I suddenly realized that we had missed the last bun by mere seconds. The guy ahead of us was getting his dawg, bun and all. Maybe if we hadn't gone to the mall, I thought. But I quickly checked that thought, knowing we had "chosen the better part".

After we gathered our wits about us after such a horrific shock, we decided to try a hot dog place Lynne had seen in Orem. The menu showed promise -- probably 30 different varieties of hotdog combinations (four basic kinds of individual dogs with all manner of toppings). The proprietor was a hoot -- calling out to us from behind the counter to greet us when we walked in and accommodating us as only a small business owner can. A bit of a character. The price for a hot dog and drink was about $5.00, a dollar and a quarter more than the same thing at J-Dawg. And the dogs weren't really so great.

But that's ok, I'm stashing a package of hot dog buns in my car for our next trip to J-Dawg, just to be sure.

Oh, for a Tony Packo hot dog...

Another story for another time.

Marina's Story...Think about it

Because I started this as a draft, it was published under the date I began the draft, December 4. Please scroll down, to read as Paul Harvey would say, "the rest of the story".

Sunday Snow, or What a Difference a Day Makes

Saturday Snow

Winter Storm Warning

I haven't forgotten that I have yet to post the "rest of the (earlier) story" -- it's in draft form waiting for me to finish. In the meantime, the forecasters are promising a nice winter storm here -- 6 to 12 inches on the benches (the area between the valley and the mountains) and up to three feet in the mountains. Ooooooooo, I can't wait! I just came home from running errands to be sure we have all the necessities (milk, bread, eggs) that we tend to run out of. We have plenty of other food in the freezer and on the shelves in the basement. But, if I know my husband -- and I think I do after being married for eons -- I'm sure we will go out in the snow, into the canyons, just to watch it come down. But at least we won't have to go to the grocery store.

Maybe while we're just hanging around here, snuggled up with hot chocolate in front of the fire watching White Christmas or It's a Wonderful Life, I'll take a break and see if I can't finish "Marina's Story".

Marina's Story...Think about it.

Seeing my country through the eyes of Marina had been enlightening, somewhat a paradigm shift, so to speak. The things I take for granted each day, without thought, were novel for her. Something as simple as a piece of gum. But the real eye-opener for me was that freedom, so natural to my family and all (U.S.) Americans, was challenging for her family. They had to learn how to live in a free society.

I lost track of Marina when one of us left the company we had worked for. But over the years I have thought of her many times, usually as I think about what I sometimes take for granted as a citizen of this unique country we live in.

A few years after the USSR dissolved and the people of the individual countries struggled to transition from their communist form of goverment to something more like democracies in which the free market has a place, I thought of Marina. Her former countrymen didn't know how to live in a system where they had choices to make. For many generations, the government had taken care of their basic needs and they didn't have the luxury of thinking beyond that. All of a sudden, the "system" changed, and they had the opportunity to create, to innovate, to strive, to work and to think for themselves. I know this is over-simplified. There were many issues which affected the people of the USSR in their individual countries during this transition. But hearing of the difficulties these countries had after the breakup of Soviet Union, I thought back to the things Marina had told me -- how difficult it was to adjust to having the freedom to do for oneself -- and it seemed to me that the newly free people of the USSR were also learning that hard lesson.

Fast forward. September 11, 2001: the World Trade Center buildings fall at the hands of terrorists who are acting out their disdain for us, for our way of life, for our capitalistic and democratic government. Wait, you say. What does this have to do with Marina? Well, generally, nothing directly. But please stay with me here.

A little bit of my story

Until this time, I had been only obliquely interested in news and politics. Yes, I listened to the evening news. Yes, I read the newspapers. I voted. I considered myself a good citizen. I remember a pollster calling me in the early 1970's with questions about the then-current political atmosphere in our country -- these were the days of Vietnam, Watergate scandal, and Roe vs. Wade. One of the pollster's questions was "How much influence do you feel that you have on these issues?" On a scale of one to ten, I probably selected "one". I honestly felt I had little or no influence on what was happening in the whole scheme of politics and important issues in our country. I was about 25 years old at the time. I had just had a baby, and my life revolved around taking care of her. While I recognized that these other things were important, I didn't feel there was a thing I could do that would make a difference. Even my single meager vote in any election seemed meaningless.

On September 11, 2001, I went to the computer to check email before I left to tend my grandchildren for the day. I saw the report of the first plane crashing into the WTC. My immediate thought was that some pilot made a wrong turn over New York City. I turned on the television for a more thorough report. A few moments later, the second plane hit. My heart sank. I knew immediately this was no accident. With the rest of America, I was glued to the television for the remainder of that day, and for many more after that. This event began my new relationship with the news and my interest in what is going on in the world.

I've only been blogging for a short time. I've read many blogs, most of them the work of women approximately the age that I was in the mid-1970's. I may be "old" in their (your) eyes, and I understand your lives are filled with all the same things my life was at your age. But I hope you will keep reading because I have learned some really important things that I would like to share.

Marina's lesson is -- when we are not "allowed" to take care of ourselves and be responsible, we forget how to be responsible. We become complacent. We become willing to let others do things for us that we, being endowed by our Creator with the freedom to act for ourselves, should be doing. We relinquish our freedom to that entity (be it an individual or a government), and in the process, we become subservient to that entity which is "taking care" of us. We become enslaved.

Aunty Mary's story



My great-Aunty Mary lived to be 101 years old. After she married at the age of 27, she became a homemaker and did not work outside of their home after that, despite never having children. My great uncle worked for an engineering firm and made decent wages. They put money into savings for their retirement (no 401-K's in those days). When the time came, he retired and they lived well within their means on Social Security. Uncle Gordon passed away in 1981; Aunty Mary lived another 21 years. She continued to receive social security benefits but she also had her "nest-egg" to provide a safety-net for unexpected emergencies.



Aunty Mary's emergency came when she was 99 years old. She was still living in a second story apartment by herself, extremely self sufficient. In fact, she shoveled snow for her landlord until she was into her 90's, and planted flowers in the back yard until she was 99. On Christmas Eve when she was 99, she fell from a stepladder in her kitchen and broke her hip. With the loving encouragement of our family, she went -- figuratively speaking, but almost not figuratively -- kicking and screaming into a wonderful assisted living home operated by the Masons.



I took her to the home to see it, to meet the people who ran it and the staff who would be helping her. She was concerned about the expense, and what would happen when her savings ran out, althought she certainly didn't expect to live long enough for that to happen. They assured her she would cared for regardless of her financial situation. She did not have to pay them anything "up front". Almost two years later, she beat the actuarial odds, and outlived her savings. She was absolutely horrified that she would be living "on charity". That almost killed her. A few months later, she fell again, and died as a result of a broken hip.

I have to add here that the people of the Masonic organization treated each person in that community with dignity and respect. None of the other residents ever knew Aunty Mary's situation, and of course, she did not know theirs either. I have the highest regard for the Masons, though neither I nor any of my immediate family have had membership in their organizations.

Self sufficiency has been ingrained in me by the example of my family. Not just Aunty Mary, but all of my family.


Why am I telling you this?

As I've watched and pondered the politics of our country, I see that many people feel that the government is there to "take care" of us. In the name of "compassion", many feel that the government is the instrument through which "poor people" should be helped -- i.e., given money, health care, housing, whatever else they "need". I, too, believe there are many people who genuinely need help, and that I have a moral obligation to help them. But there are many ways to do that, that don't put a goverment bureaucracy in the position of being the caretaker.

Families come first. We should take care of our own. Churches and charities also provide assistance to members who are in need. The church to which I belong teaches provident living, and also provides assistance to those in need while offering them the opportunity to serve others. The basic premise of church welfare is and should be to help people help themselves. Giving someone something for nothing is not helpful, with very few exceptions.

I'm not eloquent, and I don't have an advanced education in economics, politics, government, or social order. But I'm also a thinking person, and I've given much thought to what I have heard in the news and have seen happening to our country over several decades. We're losing our freedom. It's that simple. And if today's generation of young adults doesn't give some serious thought to the things that are happening around them, and consider the ultimate consequences, and then get involved, their children will be like Marina. But they will have nowhere to go.

While the boiling frog allegory has no basis in reality, it paints the picture that what we would never buy into in one giant leap, we may accept one tiny step at a time until it is too late to extricate ourselves from the mess we've landed in.

Here's what you can do

We don't have time to wait for this generation to finish raising their children before they open their eyes to what is happening to our country. The time is now. The person to make a difference is you, and me. The way to do it is to listen to the news and commentary -- a variety of it from many sources. I've linked a few good websites that offer other individuals' viewpoints. You won't agree with everyone you listen to or read. But you will begin to see a pattern. You'll begin to understand why I am writing this blog entry.

Vote. But not unless you really understand what or who it is that you're voting for. Don't be like another woman I worked with who voted for Bill Clinton because -- and this is a direct quote -- "He's soooooo cute!" You only have to listen to the "man in the street" type of interviews on the Glenn Beck program or Jay Leno to see how really uninformed a large percentage of the population is about our government.

Find out who your representatives are in Congress, then hold their feet to the fire on important issues. Make sure they know who you are. It really doesn't take too much time to zip off an email or letter to them. Yours added to many others who do the same does influence them. I've seen it happen. I'll post links.

Set an example and teach your children. Teach them to respect their country, its flag, and its leaders. Peaceful, respectful disagreement is part of the process. Dissing our country is not. There's a right way and a wrong way to get things done. Be part of the right way.

Encourage your friends to get involved.

If you love the life you're living, please take time to consider these things carefully. What Marina gained by coming to the United States we stand to lose if we continue to give up our freedom by putting the government in charge of the details of our lives. They'll take the money we've worked hard for and give it to people who are capable of doing the same, but who just don't want to and are using government-provided loopholes to avoid it. They'll make laws to tell you how to raise your children, and if you don't obey those laws, they will take your children from you.


Think about it.

Marina's Story

Marina came to work with me in a small office back East in the mid-1980's. She was young, perhaps 20, short brown curls framing her cherubic face. She spoke with a very slight accent. Marina was a Russian Jew who had moved to the United States with her family-- father, mother, and a brother-- about a year before. She told me her story. Her father felt it was time for them to leave Russia. Knowing they would not be granted permission to leave, they made plans to "visit" her uncle in Israel. They took only what they would need for such a trip, leaving behind treasured family mementos and all other personal possessions, knowing that taking even such things as family pictures would arouse the suspicion of authorities and would likely jeopardize their plans. They did go to Israel, but spent only the time necessary to get visas to come to America. They left behind their former lives, family, friends and all but two weeks worth of clothing to come here. I was in awe.

I was also impressed with Marina's ability to speak and understand English. She had taken English in her Russian school, but said that most of her language skills had come as a result of signing up for classes at the local community college there in Maryland. Wasn't it hard, I asked her, to take classes having only a very basic understanding of our language. Well, yes, she said, it was, but she caught on quickly. And she was getting good grades, despite this handicap. Each new revelation about what she had been through amazed me further.

I asked her what some of the things were that she enjoyed here that she didn't have in Russia.

Gum.

Gum?

Yes, gum.

Didn't you have gum in Russia?

No.

Why not?

Well, the government didn't think it was necessary.

Strange, I thought. Something that I wouldn't even think of as significant, this girl thought was a treat. And what's up with that -- the government didn't think it was necessary?

What has been the hardest thing to get used to in the United States, I asked her.

The freedom, she replied without hesitation.

She went on to explain that her father had taken a job in another community when they first arrived here. After a short time, he realized that the job was not a good match for him. He wanted to change jobs. In Russia, she explained, they had little, if any, choice where they worked or where they lived. If they wanted to change jobs, they applied to the government which, if it decided was a valid request, would find the individual a new job and different living arrangements if the job was in a different area. Here, her father had to apply to various companies, go for interviews, decide which job to take, find a new place to live when he accepted a position with a large company in our area, make arrangements to move his family, and follow through. It was a daunting process to one who had never experienced this way of doing things.

I don't remember the rest of our conversation on these lines. I do know the things I've just written gave me much reason for thought and consideration for a long time.

More later...

American Fork Canyon

Hi, How Are You Today?

Hi, How Are You Today?
Jeff Moss

I'm feeling very horrible,
And low and mean and mad,
And dreadful and deplorable,
And rotten, sick, and sad,
And nasty and unbearable,
And hateful, vile, and blue
But thanks a lot for asking,
And please tell me. . .
How are you?

****************************

Found that cute little ditty on a website and it hit home. Sometimes I just feel like that.

Hearty/Hardy Souls Snow Camping

We had our first "big" snow last night -- that is, enough to cover the ground and then a little more. My husband talked me out of my nice warm bed at 6:30 to go to the canyon to see it up close. We thought we'd be the first ones there...not so. These folks came last night and stayed over. I was envious, for about three seconds, when I came to my senses. They had slept in tents.

Do you notice anything strange in this picture?

Confessions of a Mall Walker

First, I have to confess that I’m not sure that is an original title. It just popped into my head this morning while I was walking in the mall with the other early-morning-before-the-stores-open-walkers, contemplating the meaning of life. I may have read it somewhere, heard it somewhere, or maybe I just thought it before on an earlier walk.

Lest you be misled by the title, I’m only in my third day of Mall Walking -- this time. I’ve done it before. One winter I was a faithful daily mall walker. Other times, sporadic.

Then I have to confess that I hate walking. Today I hated walking. I hate getting out of bed and facing an hour of my time melting away doing something unproductive and somewhat uncomfortable. But, on the up side of that, I know that after I have a few more days under my belt I will actually look forward to walking. Not necessarily at the mall, but just walking because it will feel good. So I’ll drag myself out each morning and do it -- just because.

I confess: the mall is not my favorite place to walk. Obviously. Who would choose to walk in a mall if one could walk elsewhere. I’m not a shopper. I rarely read the shopping ads, and I never go to the mall just to browse. Never. My place of choice to walk is Provo Canyon. It’s just around the corner from where I live, and there is a nice paved trail which meanders along the river between the mountains on a reasonably level plane. Miles are marked off and the terrain has become so familiar that I know exactly where I am in the whole scheme of things, a rather comfortable feeling. At certain times of the year there are lots and lots of fellow walkers, runners, skaters, bicyclers, hikers, and long-boarders to share the experience. This time of the year, not so much, and that is a part of the reason I don’t walk there now. A few months ago a young woman disappeared from the nearby BYU campus, and there was much speculation whether she had fallen victim to a predator in Provo Canyon where she was known to ride her bike. Made me stop to think. (My grandmother always used to say, “They’d drop you under the first streetlight,” but that is little comfort in the daylight. ) As it turned out, the innocent coed was found at the foot of a high trail by Bridal Veil Falls where she had gotten too close to the edge. No foul play. But I still feel that it is wise not to walk unaccompanied in remote areas when you are not likely to see a fair number of other people along the way. So this time of the year, I resort to the mall. Though it seems a horrible incongruity to use the words “resort” and “mall” in the same sentence.

If you’ve never walked the mall before business hours, you might be surprised to learn how many people use the facilities. Many are senior citizens -- gray haired ladies in sweatpants and sweatshirts, balding men in plaid shirts partially covered by worn out sweaters, people inching their way along on metal walkers with wheels following doctors’ orders to “get some exercise”. There are new -- and not so new -- mothers recovering from pregnancy rushing behind strollers with tiny babies smothered in flannel blankets. There are the warm weather "athletes" with their expensive walking shoes and headbands, who have chosen the mall over the canyon trail. I see familiar faces almost every morning. Faye, my friend, neighbor, and writing group companion walks here regularly with her sister. A native American man with his long dark hair hanging down his back ambles along with less determination than most. A lady in her 30’s or 40’s shows up daily in a muu muu with her blond hair falling from its failing anchor on the top of her head. And there are the mall workers, the men who ride little yellow fork lifts or other interesting vehicles around replacing burnt out lights, hauling boxes of who-knows-what to who-knows-where. Store clerks arrive early letting themselves into their places of employment via roll-down metal gates which they quickly pull back down almost to the floor and relock in place, half inviting, half forbidding to outsiders. They are there to tidy shops, hang blouses, dresses and pants on racks or clothe naked mannequins, and count out the day‘s beginning till.

I have a brisk step and a long stride and it takes me about 17 minutes to make one round of the whole mall, including each and every little niche along the way. Right now I’m settled for two rounds, but will need to increase that soon or I’ll think myself lazy. And besides, 34 minutes isn’t really exercise, is it?

My mind wanders while I walk. Sometimes I look at the stuff in the windows and wonder how we’ve gotten to be such a consumer-oriented society. Usually, I just let thoughts float thru my mind at their leisure, like I’m supposed to be writing longhand on three pages of paper each morning. "Morning pages” are suggested by Julia Cameron in her book the Artist’s Way as a means of unblocking our creativity. Thinking the thoughts and letting them float isn’t the whole key. Writing them longhand seems to be. But I’m on a schedule here -- I can either exercise and let the thoughts just float around up there, or I can stay home and sit at my kitchen table spilling them out onto a lined tablet. For the time being, I’m opting for letting them float. I really need exercise more than I need to be “unblocked”.

Which brings me to my last “confession”. I hate being overweight. I could write a book about this, but it would be a very depressing book and I’m not into spreading my depression to others. I’m overweight more than the acceptable limit (in my own mind, and on the doctor’s Acceptable Weight charts). Maybe that’s part of the reason I hate to shop. I see cute clothes. But in my size, they cease to be “cute”. Being fat (ok, there, I said the word, fat), I still have trouble accepting that fat could possibly apply to me who was skinny most of my life. I grew up with parents worried that I was too thin. I was. My mom took me to the doctor to see if I was ok. I stood behind a funny x-ray type screen where he could look at my whole body in one glance, and he didn’t see anything unusual. He could just see my bones a little better with the x-ray vision than without. Although he could probably have counted many of my bones without the x-ray. I had a high metabolism and lots and lots of energy. I could eat anything I wanted, and as much as I wanted and never gained an ounce more than was necessary to support the added height of my years. Once a well-meaning family member paid me to sit still. A teen age neighbor boy nicknamed 7-year-old-me "Bones". All that movement kept me thin. I gained just enough through my teen years to lose the label “skinny”.

When I was 25 and married, I weighed 125 lbs (5’7”) before I became pregnant with my daughter. I gained the allowable 20 pounds with my pregnancy. The morning after she was born, I weighed 125 pounds again. I still needed to exercise to get things back in place, but I didn’t have to worry about losing pounds. When my daughter was two, I started losing weight again. I thought I was sick. I went to the doctor. I weighed 105 pounds. I wasn't sick, just stressed. I had to try to gain weight. (Oh, for those days!)

Now I have to get serious about losing lots of extra weight. I’m tired of hauling it around with me, and it slows me down, and even worse, it depresses me. So I will walk the mall (and in the spring, Provo Canyon) until I lose every single unwanted ugly ounce.

I confess, it won’t be easy.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Is everybody out shopping today?

I just got home. Fortunately I only have to fix a fruit salad for Thanksgiving, but I had to go to the market to get some of the ingredients. Normally I would probaby have gone to Day's, our little neighborhood market, or Harmon's up on 8th North because those are the closest grocery stores. Today was different.

A few weeks ago, a lady doing a survey called me to ask about my shopping experience at Macey's (grocery store) in Provo. Well, I had to be honest with her. I really don't shop there very often, but I'd be glad to answer the questions for what limited experience I had had there. I don't remember any of the questions. She was cordial but businesslike, and when the survey was finished, I hung up and immediately dismissed it from my mind.

A few evenings ago I was sitting here at my computer minding my own business when the phone rang. It was a guy named Steve who identified himself as the manager of the Macey's grocery store in Provo. He was just calling to say hi and to follow up on the survey. I told him that in general I love Macey's, but usually do my shopping at the one up on 8th North or the one in Pleasant Grove because what little shopping I do, I do on the fly (between our house and work) and his store is in the wrong direction. I extolled the virtues of Macey's in general to him. He was really a nice guy and in the end, suggested that when I shop at Macey's I should be sure to stop in and see the store manager (at whichever store I'm at) because they enjoy hearing from customers.

So today when I needed more than just a few items, I started out for the store. Because of the phone call made to me to just say hi and follow up on a simple survey, I decided to go to the Macey's in Provo -- a little further than my usual stores and definitely a higher traffic area .The first thing I did was go to the Service Desk and ask for the Store Manager. The girl paged him with a simple "Steve to the Service Desk. Steve to the Service Desk, please." A very few moments later I see a man approaching from the other end of the store. He is looking right at me, and has a big smile on his face. Remember, I hadn't told the girl at the Service Desk why I wanted to see him, and all she did was page him on the overhead speaker.

As he approached, I said, "I know you must be Steve because of your smile." I told him my name and that I was shopping in his store today because he took the time to call me. We had a brief chat, with him broadcasting a beaming smile the entire time. Then I went on to do my shopping. I was about halfway through when Steve approached me in the Dairy aisle with a young man by his side.

"This is Ryan," he said. "He's in charge of our fresh foods and meats, and if you need help in those areas, he's the one to look for. Of course, any of our people can help you, but I wanted you to meet Ryan." Another smiling guy. Genuine. He shook my hand and nodded. A few more words, then they were off.

Wow, is that service or what? You can bet that not only will I go back there, but I will tell all my friends about Steve & Ryan and the Macey's in Provo. They made my day! Service like this will make them the #1 Macey's store in Utah. And my #1 place to shop.

I Did it.

Just reporting back that I finally did finish my piece on Gem Beach for my Personal History Writer's Group this week. It was just the first part, but I'm patting myself on the back for getting anything written. I don't know why that is so hard, but it is. And, while I'm confessing, I'll tell you that I think blogging is hard work too. The real truth is that baring my soul to a bunch of strangers doesn't come that easy. If you were sitting in front of me, face to face, I'd happily tell you my life story -- probably way more than you would every want to know. But to sit here at the computer and just "put it out there" for the whole world to read....hmmm, not so much.

I love visiting your blogs -- have added links to some of my favorites over there on the right side of the page. There are more to add, so if yours isn't there yet, it probably will be soon. Lots and lots of great writers out there, and lots of interesting lives being lived. To somewhat anonymously peek into other people's lives has convinced me that we really all do have much in common, regardless of how different our situations are. We love our families. We're traipsing through life trying to be the best we can be. We all have our own personal "issues" and struggles. We all want to be loved and valued for who we are. We may never meet face to face, but I'm enjoying getting to know you through your blogs. Keep up the good work.

Seven Weird and Random Things

I have been tagged with this meme.
Here it goes….....First, the rules:

1. Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
3. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4. Let each person know that they’ve been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Ok, here goes:

1. Oh, yikes! Maria tagged me a few days ago (Oct 30) and I never got around to doing this. I'm sorry, Maria! I hope this will count for you, too, and I'm tagging you back :-)

2. Probably the most out-of-character thing I can think of about myself -- that is, if you met me, you would never guess -- is that I played drums in our high school band. I discovered in my 8th grade year that I wanted to be in the band in the very worst way and it was far to late to learn how to play a real instrument, so I took drum lessons because they needed drummers. I was not good, but I was a warm body. The other drummers were really great guys and they put up with me and helped me tremendously. Band was the very best part of high school.

3. I'm a cat person. That's not really a "weird" thing, but it is a part of who I am. I'm convinced I was born loving cats although my family didn't have one until we moved to the country when I was 9. Since then I have had too many to count. I like cats because they are genuine. You never have to wonder where you stand with them. We have three cats now, Daisy and Oreo, who I mentioned an earlier blog, and MamaCat who lives indoors because she only has three legs and wouldn't be safe outside. She is my very best (non-human) friend.

4. I don't lead a very exciting life. But that's ok with me. I'm pretty happy with keeping things low-key and safe. I'm not a risk taker, and my daughter (lovingly, I hope) calls me "Psafety Psycho".

5. My husband and I were both born and raised in Toledo, Ohio, and had no intention of ever leaving there. Fortunately (because of the way things turned out), he lost his job and after two years of being unemployed, he joined the Army. I went kicking and screaming to Killeen, Texas, and eventually learned to love our new way of life. Since then we have lived in Jacksonville, Florida; San Francisco, Maryland, and now Utah. I think Barbara Streisand had a song many years ago called, "Anywhere I Hang My Hat is Home". That's me. I've loved moving around and meeting so many wonderful people.

6. I only have one sibling, my sister Kathie. You will probably read about her much on my blog because she's a very important part of my life. Always has been. We live thousands of miles apart, but there are very few weeks that go by that we don't talk on the phone, and sometimes it's several times in one day.

7. I only have one child, my daughter Gayle. I probably won't write too much about her, to protect her privacy. She's the greatest and has brought more joy into my life than I could ever describe. She's the antithesis of an only child -- generous and outgoing, and definitely not spoiled. (....a little pampered, maybe, but definitely not spoiled)

Well, there you have it. Now I'll have to find someone to tag, and hope that I can figure out how to post links to their blogs.
I was tagged by Cathy

I have tagged Lynne, Maria, Heidi, Cindy. Aprilyn , Janet, and On the Edge

Procrastination

I fully intended to get my piece written before 10 p,m. on Sunday night for our 9:30 a.m. Personal History Writers' Group on Monday morning. Grandma Baker always said "the road to hell is paved with good intentions" and every week I have the best of intentions not to be up all night writing. But once again this week, I sat down in front of my computer at 7:00 p.m. on Sunday. At least this week I was armed with a topic and some ideas to develop. No sweat. I'll whip this thing out in no time.

The topic was the fun my sister, Kathie, and I had with friends for about four summers of our teen years at a Lake Erie "resort" called Gem Beach. The word "resort" is used loosely here, very loosely. Gem Beach was a community of beach cottages with amenities such as a dance hall, penny arcade, skating rink, and marina located on Catawba Island east of Port Clinton, Ohio, by maybe twenty miles. It was neither new nor fancy, but it was surely a great place to have fun. After our having spent all of our growing up vacations fishing in Canada, going to the beach for a week was like dying and going to heaven for teenage girls. Lots of sun, sand, and of course, boys.

I launched into my first paragraph, the topic sentence of which had been rolling around in my mind for a few weeks. Hmmmm. Didn't jump off the page like I had expected. A little flat, to say the least. No worries, I'll come up with something else as I spew the rest of the fun onto the computer screen.

Second paragraph. The old player piano that sat on the front jalousied porch -- we had some of the most fun with three or more of us squeezed onto the rickety piano bench, clinging tightly to the piano as we pumped the pedals and sang "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" and other old songs at the top of our lungs. As I started to write about the player piano, the names of a few of the old songs came back to me -- Walkin' My Baby Back Home, It Had to be You, Singin' in the Rain, and our all time favorite, The Ben Hur Chariot Race -- but there had been a whole closetful of piano rolls. What were the other songs we sang? Not that that was important to what I was writing, but it really bugged me that I couldn't think of more. So I automatically reached for my cell phone to call the other half of my collective memory, my sister Kathie, who lives two time zones to the east.

"Kathie, I'm writing my thing for tomorrow and I need your help. It's on Gem Beach and I'm trying to think of some of the other songs we played on the player piano. Which ones do you remember?"

Fortunately, she really is the other half of my brain, and the ones she came up with were totally different than the ones that I had thought of: Yes, We Have No Bananas, Red Wing, Carolina in the Morning, Bye Bye Blackbird. Great! Maybe a little brainstorming might help here with the rest of this story.

"Remember the year all the guys from school came up? That was your senior year."

"No it was my junior year because my senior year everyone had jobs."

"Kathie, I'm sure it was the year you graduated. That was the year that all the kids from Waite High School came up, too."

"Pam, the guys came up two years."

"Gee, Kathie, I don't remember that. They only rented that cottage down the road your senior year."

And so the conversation continued until we were both very confused about what happened when. Not that it was important, but golly, you think you'll never forget something so important and here you are many years later a little confused. A lot confused.

Suddenly I remembered a photo album -- the kind that has black pages and the photos are affixed by black photo corners -- buried in a box somewhere in the basement that had mostly the pictures of our Gem Beach adventures. Brilliant! That would solve the mystery. Carrying Kathie with me on the cell phone as I dug in the bowels of our storage shelves for the right box, I found the album. It was in the first box I opened.

I marveled that I had been so doggone smart to put these specific photos into an album, labeled with people's names and the dates of our weeks of vacation there, when I had been a mere babe and had no clue that many years down the road I would need this information. Feeling pretty smug gave way to humility when I realized my older sister had remembered the sequence of events those summers better than I had. I described the pictures to her and we chuckled together at some of the memories. I wished she could be browsing the album with me.

Almost an hour after our conversation began, it ended with me sitting at the computer, a paragraph and a half written. Heck, it was only 8 PM, I would scan a few of these pictures and email them to her. If I hurried, she could see them yet tonight -- remembering the two hour time difference. I was only going to scan a few of the better ones, but then I thought as long as I was scanning a few, I really ought to do them all in order.

Out came the pictures one by one, and placed on the scanner, scanned, cropped, adjusted, named and saved. There weren't really that many, maybe 35 or 36, but each step took a few minutes. And of course I got alittle off track when I remembered specifically two pictures taken at Gem Beach that weren't in the album. Hmmmm. Where were they?

Now you have to understand that I am a "family history packrat". I have filing cabinets full of "stuff" about our family -- birth and death certificates of long dead grandparents, aunts and uncles; locks of hair tied in faded ribbon; funeral record books, old drivers' licenses; pedigreee charts and family group sheets; cemetery maps and plot numbers; old letters; newspaper clippings, and oh, so much more. And then there are the pictures. I have a bookcase filled with photo albums. I have thousands more pictures in shoeboxes in chronological order (some of them anyway) that haven't yet gotten into albums. And I have other boxes of our older family photos. That may make it sound like I should be able to put my hands on any picture because I'm so organized. I'm not organized. It just sounds like it.

Fortunately, once again I lucked out and went right to a photo-organizer box that I had bought at Costco a year or so ago and within about 10 minutes I had found the two pictures I had been looking for, along with one that would make good blackmail material against Kathie. Well, not really. We didn't do anything that was that bad. But it was a photo of her wrestling with a guy that used to hang out at our house -- presumably because he liked our Mom, but really because he had a secret crush on Kathie. Anyway, they really were just horsing around.

Laughing, I quickly redialed Kathie to tell her about my "find". I asked her tauntingly if she wanted me to post the incriminating snapshot to our MyFamily.com website so she could see it or if she'd rather that I email it to her privately. A wicked-sister snicker erupted from my throat. She opted for the email. What else could she do? Her reputation was at stake.

I scanned, cropped, adjusted, named and saved the photo. Then emailed it to her with glee and a few more chuckles.

While I waited for her to call me back in hysteria, I continued to scan the Gem Beach pictures.
It was now after 9 PM. My story for Monday was hanging on the page at one and a half paragraphs. Bad paragraphs. Ones that most certainly had to be rewritten, fleshed out, plumped up and added to. Twenty minutes went by. No call back. Did she go to bed? Was she mad at me? Nah, she's never mad at me. But why didn't she call? Well, I'd just keep scanning until I heard from her. Ten more minutes. Finally the phone rang.

"Pam, aren't you going to send me that picture?"

"Kathie, I did. Didn't you get it?"

"No, it's not here."

"Uh-oh. I bet I sent it to the wrong email address."

"You better not have!"

"No, I didn't send it to anyone else, but I bet I mis-typed your email address."

I went to my email and sure enough, the email and infamous picture had bounced back to me. I re-sent. Ten minutes later, Kathie called again.

"Pam, that's not me. You can't see my face. It's not me!"

"Kathie, I remember taking that picture, and it is you!"

After a brief discussion, the "other half of my collective memory" dismissed me. It was not her, she insisted, and even if it was, she did not believe it because she didn't remember it and could not see her own face in the picture. Period. Discussion over. We laughed and called it a night. Past her bedtime for sure, and certainly creeping up on mine.

The first batch of Gem Beach pictures was scanned and saved to electronic media for our posterity. Not that they will care too much about the fun we had many years ago with people they will never know. Those two short paragraphs are still hanging on an otherwise blank page. The story that goes with the pictures is still floating around inside my head from which it has yet to escape in any meaningful way. I had nothing to read in our Writers' Group this morning. Maybe I can start now for next week's meeting...

Nah, it's too early.

Fall Cleanup

My least favorite outdoor job is done. Well, at least the front yard part. We enjoyed the flowers all summer -- poppies, Siberian iris, yarrow, lavender, daisies, amaryllis, black-eyed Susans, and others whose names I’ve forgotten. But other than one small stalk of dainty white amaryllis and a tiny determined black-eyed Susan, they have quit blooming and are succumbing to our periodic light frosts. It was time. So I went out this morning with my clippers and rake, and did the deed. So sad.

I was about three minutes into the job when who should show up but Daisy, one of our bookend cats. We have two, a brother and sister, who are both mostly white with ears, tails, and spots of a different color -- Daisy’s alternate color is yellow, and Oreo’s is black. They are outside cats now, since MamaCat came to live with us -- a story for another time -- and claim most of the neighborhood as their own. If my husband or I am outside, they seem to instinctively know, and come wandering home. Which Daisy did quickly this morning. She hung around supervising the job until it was time for the bagging and cleanup. A girl after my own heart, Daisy doesn’t like that part either. So she wandered over to inspect the bags of leaves that 80-something year old neighbor Bernice put out at the curb. She stayed away until the cleanup was done, then like a naughty 8 year old caught avoiding work, sheepishly wandered back. Daisy talks to me while I work. I say, “Daisy?” and she replies, “Meow.”

My friend, Lynne, was over a week or so ago and walked home. As she went around the corner from our house, she saw Daisy sitting on the steps of our neighbor’s house. Lynne asked her what she was doing there, and Daisy replied, “Meow.” Lynne spoke to her again, and Daisy responded appropriately. Lynne called me later to tell me of the conversation. A day or two later, I saw Daisy was walking home from the other side of our cul-de-sac past little Maia, a neighbor girl who was playing at the curb. Daisy paused, turned and looked at Maia and said, “Meow.” Then continued home.

Oreo doesn’t talk. He is the strong silent type, rubbing his white fur all over whatever dark pants you are wearing. If you sit down, he insists on being on your lap. If you push him off, he’ll wait a minute and try again, just to be sure the push wasn’t an accident. I don’t know where Oreo was this morning, but he didn’t join Daisy and me in our fall yard duties. He seems to prefer the winter snow-shoveling chores. He’s very easily “lost” in the snow, and sometimes I just see his black spots skipping across the latest shovel full of snow I’ve tossed. He chases it.

So the front flower bed is harvested of its dead debris. I’ll tackle the back yard part of the cleanup with a little more enthusiasm knowing that Daisy, and maybe even Oreo, will come around to supervise.

Pet Peeve

If someone were to ask me, off the cuff, what my pet peeve is, I might hesitate, squint my eyes in thoughtful reflection, and eventually come up with "Utah Drivers". That answer would only pop out because of my poor short term memory, which could be Pet Peeve Number 2. Each morning I am reminded anew of my Number One Pet Peeve, which is chin hairs.

No matter how often you pluck them, you can count on new ones to take the place of those which have been yanked mercilessly the day before. The Chin Hair Fairy must sprinkle Chin Hair Fertilizer on me each night to assure a healthy new crop in the morning. Just this morning I plucked one that was 1 1/8 inch long, Well it wasn't a chin hair exactly; it was on my neck. Really!! An inch and an eighth! I measured it in disbelief. Had there been two more, I could have braided them! I had just plucked every visible chin and neck hair yesterday morning, same time, same place, as has become part of my morning grooming ritual. How in the world can a single hair grow that fast?

As we were growing up, Mom warned Kathie and me not to shave or pluck any hair on our body that we did not want to return with a vengeance. Now, some fifty years later, I find she was right (once again), and wish I had taken her advice. Kathie told me recently that Mom tried to convince us not to shave our legs at the onset of puberty. Well, part of the fun (there is so little of it) of being pubescent is to be able to take razor in hand, and slide it up an down one's legs, even if there is nothing to remove except skin. Never mind. The bristly stub of leg hair would come. And, of course, it did. But we were sure it was inevitable. Which presents another question for you "Chicken or the Egg" philosophers: Which came first, the leg hair or the razor? Leg hair is to be expected. Mom forgot to warn me about chin hairs.

My mother had a faint, light peach fuzz on her face, which I seem to have inherited. In my youth, my fuzz was not a concern to me. But I fear that now, given the diminishing feminine hormones, and aggressive male hormones which we're left with as soon-to-be dowagers, that the hithertofore harmless fuzz could burst forth as a man's beard with the Chin Hair Fairy's overzealous help. Had I been born a boy, and not heeded my mother's warnings about the effects of shaving upon body hair, I'm certain I would have grown into a man with an obvious five o'clock shadow. As a woman entering those twilight years, my "five o'clock shadow" manifests itself as chin hairs.

Do chin hairs come because we harmlessly plucked "just one" that seemed a little longer and darker amongst its peach fuzz sisters? Or would those that we plucked have gotten bolder and continued to grow until they reached waist length and invited their friends to join them? I don't know the answer to that. I just know I'm not willing to find out.

Tender Mercies

I recently read a definition of "tender mercies" of the Lord, but can't remember the exact wording. I think of them as those subtle miracles that happen to us, often daily, when the Lord reaches out his hand to bless us in some special way.

Yesterday, I witnessed what I'm sure was the Lord's hand in blessing my grandson, Carter, and blessing me to witness it. Bob and I took the kids, Brody, Kennedy and Carter, camping at Snow Canyon near St. George this weekend. We had arrived just before dark on Friday and got the last available site with hookups. In the morning I noticed two plants that were growing right next to the drive we were parked in, and cautioned the children strongly that coming in contact with either would cause them great pain and possibly serious injury. They had to walk between the car and these two plants each time they left the camper and came back to it. You can imagine how many times that was in two days. One was a Joshua tree -- I think -- and one branch of the spiny leaves reached out like thin daggers at face height for all three of the kids. The other plant was a large prickly pear cactus possibly two or two and a half feet in diameter and about two feet high, and covered with thousands of large needles sticking every which way. Just to be there for two days with the kids walking/running/skipping/tripping by there many times without incident is in itself a tender mercy, but the one that I speak of was even more specific.

After our last hike on Sunday before we returned home, the kids ran back to the camper -- Brody... Kennedy... and little Carter tagging behind trying to keep up. Brody and Kennedy passed these monster plants without incident. Carter tripped immediately in front of, and was headed into the cactus. He fell on his knees and, had his trajectory continued, he'd have landed face-first in that cactus. What happened was that for some unseen reason, his upper body swerved suddenly to the right and he missed the cactus completely. I'm certain there was an angel there, or the hand of God reached out to protect His little one. There's simply no other explanation.

Adele

A few years ago, Adele called me to say that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Then quickly she reassured me, "Don't worry, Pam. I'm going to beat this. My grandmother did, and I can, too." That was Adele: positive and upbeat. Always.

We met when Adele, her husband, George, and son, Tom, moved into the Gaitherburg Ward in the 1980's. I don't remember that we worked together in any organization that led to our long friendship. I think she just drew people to her with her warmth and kindness. She was easy to know, and easier to love.

Once in a casual conversation about something, she mentioned having chosen a doctor when her family lived in Florida because his last name was Redd, her grandmother's maiden name. Her mentioning that was one of those "little miracles" that often happens when one is interested in genealogy. I told her my maiden name is Redd, and we immediately set about to find the connection -- the connection we have believed from that day exists, although we have not been able to document it.

Adele was married to George Swift for almost 50 years. They have three sons, Herb, Tom and Jon, and seven grandchildren, all of whom have been the loves of her life. She was so proud of all of her family. She was a gifted homemaker, taught Home Economics in several cities, and she loved to cook and sew.

The quality I most admired in Adele, and the one I will always remember, is her ability not to just remember people, but to remember everything about them. She could find connections between people whom she knew in different parts of the country. It was an amazing gift. She truly loved everyone she knew and wanted them all to know and love each other. She was a gatherer.

I have lost a dear friend. She passed away on September 20, but I know she never gave up.

Trouble in the Kitchen

Well, not trouble really. I just got de-railed and sidetracked from my original plans for the day. Since having moderate success with my plum jam the other evening, and because two plum trees still hang heavy with fruit in the far corner of our yard, I decided to make a plum pie today. Yes. You read right: I decided to make a pie. Amazing. I don't even really LIKE pie. But I found a 5-star-out-of-5-star by 16 readers recipe on the internet for a plum pie, whose ingredients I just happen to have all of in my house.

So this morning I put plum pie on my list of Things To Do. Well, misery loves company, so I called my friend Lynne to see if she would like to come over and play in the kitchen with me. Being the good sport that she is, she said yes, and 10 minutes later was knocking on my kitchen door -- back door friends are the best.

I had already picked the plums, was standing at the sink (zink, per Grandma Baker) slicing them, talking with Kathie on the phone, when Lynne arrived. She dived in, making the topping while I finished plum prep. Just a few moments later, we had two pies ready for the oven.

Ah, but I digress. The real topic here is my detour. As Lynne was getting ready to leave -- she had a previous engagement with her daughter, but was kind enough to slip by my kitchen for a few minutes -- we were talking about old recipes or something that triggered my memory of three old books that I have, one of which dates back to Maggie Pamelia Shaw Redd (above picture). I ran down to pull them off the shelf to share them quickly with my friend.

Maggie's book, The Heart of the World, the copyright page missing so I have no idea when or where or by whom it was published, was inscribed inside the front cover in Maggie’s hand, “Presented to Maggie (Shaw) Redd by her pastor, Rev. D.F. (C)ender as a wedding present. June 25th 1885". This two and a half inch thick “how to” book is precariously held together by now-failing black cloth tape down the spine of both covers. If memory serves me, Uncle Dick generously gave it to me during one of my visits to his home in Pennsylvania, possibly with the explanation that since I was named after Maggie (Pamelia), I should have this book. I treasure it. It is the kind of book all modern brides -- and also those of us who have been married a long time -- should read and ponder. From the preface: “(This book’s) aim is to be a brother-book to American homes, to open them to the sunshine of the best life, to make them the seeding ground of all good principles, the nurseries of noble character and harmonious and happy society….It believes in God implicitly, in men a great deal, in character as of infinite value, in the Divine ordainment of Home and Society as its legitimate outgrowth. It goes out with a great faith, a warm heart and a willing hand, to do what it can in everybody’s behalf. In its aim, author and publisher are agreed, and with earnest cooperation join in their home-improving and world-helping endeavor.” What a noble cause!

A similar "how to” book entitled Safe Counsel - Searchlights on Health - The Science of Eugenics published in 1920 by J. L. Nichols & Company of Naperville, Illinois, has been one of my favorites for many years. I don’t remember for sure where it came from, but I think possibly from Aunty Mary’s bookcase on Victoria Place when she was downsizing to their new apartment on Douglas Road. Covering such topics as “Knowledge is Safety,” “Influence of Associates,” “Self Control,” “Rules on Etiquette,” “What Women Love in Men,” (and vice-versa), “Purity of Character,” “History of Marriage,” hints on courtship, advice to newly weds, how to perpetuate the honeymoon, how to care for children, and so much more, this book promises to help women through every possible circumstance that may confront them in courtship and marriage. The first time I opened and read parts of it -- I was probably in my late 20’s at the time -- I laughed and thought about how “outdated” it was. Well, the language is. But the principles, however fraught with flowery language, still hold true. What a treasure this book is!

Lynne and I briefly perused Safe Counsel before she left. Then I continued: the book that became my detour and de-railing for the day is one that had belonged to Grandma Redd, another two and a half inch thick red book held together by tape. These books were not placed on a shelf somewhere to collect dust. My grandmother and great-grandmother used them often as testified by the worn pages and failing covers. This one is entitled, Household Discoveries - An Encyclopaedia of Practical Recipes and Processes by Sidney Morse, and was published by Success Company in 1908. Today, it wasn’t the book itself that held me captive, but the stack of loose papers tucked into the front.

I carefully inspected each fragile yellowing sheet -- some were merely recipes torn from the local newspaper, which in some cases could be identified as the Toledo Blade, but others not. Some were handwritten recipes on paper that I recognized had come from a desk-set-type of pad that had had a place on Grandma’s or Aunty Mary’s telephone stand. Still others were hastily scribbled unidentified recipes on scraps of whatever paper was handy at the moment. The handwriting of most was recognizable as either Grandma’s or Aunty Mary’s. Some other contributors were given credit for their recipes: “Irene” (probably Kotecki); “Edna”, (no doubt Hoover, who had been Grandma’s friend for almost all of her life); “Grandma” (Fassett. This I know because it was a recipe for Chicken Pie, an heirloom recipe from Maryett DeKay Fassett); and one attributed to “David Wojnarowski”, for French Vanilla Custard Pie. It was like walking into the past.

I must have spent an hour browsing. It was time originally meant for other mundane daily tasks. But it was a delightful detour. I love seeing the handwriting of loved ones who have moved on. I am intoxicated by the musty smell of old paper and crumbling newsprint. Grandma must have been looking over my shoulder, remembering the occasions for which she prepared some of these dishes or shrugging off the ones she never got to. I could almost feel her there.

(written Tuesday, September 18, 2007)