One of my favorite pictures of Christmas morning is of my 9 year old son. He is sitting on the stairs, long legs on the step below with his knees jutting up around his ears. His head is propped on his hand and his face exhibits the most woebegone expression. We have called it the "angry grasshopper" for years. You see, I used to torture my children on Christmas morning.
The first rule of Christmas morning was that they absolutely, definitely, could not get up before 5 am. They slept upstairs and our bedroom was right below them, so it wasn't unusual for me to hear them meeting in one bedroom about 4 am. Then they would giggle, groan and check the clock for another hour. Then would come tip-toes to the head of the steps to listen. Then they would start down the steps.
Then comes the hard part. They could come to our bedroom and wake us up but they could not go into the living room. Oh, the agony of it. Knowing that all those Christmas wishes were just beyond their reach. The waiting gave me time to jump into my robe and get to the living room and turn all the Christmas lights on. Then I would grab my camera and get myself positioned so I could get the look on their faces as they came around the corner. It was one of those mornings that I caught the picture of my son waiting, in frustration, for his mom to finally get ready so he could get to the presents.
My daughter called early Christmas morning with a laugh in her voice. "I just wanted you to know that I have officially become my mother!" It seems that that she had perpetuated the same torture on her 3 year old and 5 year old this Christmas. Upon hearing their feet hit the floor she headed them off and put them in bed with their dad. "You can't come out until I tell you!" she announced firmly. "Why not?" mumbled a groggy dad dealing with the attack of two wildly excited girls. "Because I have to get the lights on and get the camera ready" she called as she tore down the hall. It must have taken a little while because she said by the time she let them know they could arrive, all three were waiting by the door with identical mutinous expressions on their faces.
All survived....and the torture just makes the Christmas excitement more appreciated. (Also the pictures are priceless!)
Monday, December 26, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
I Must be Shrinking
We always celebrate Christmas Eve with hubby's brother's family. We gather early in the afternoon, eat, drink and visit until time for Christmas Eve service. We started out at my mother-in-law's, but over the years we have migrated to our house. Each year I tend to feel like I am getting shorter and shorter. You see we managed somehow to raise a group of very large children.
My brother-in-law and his wife took their time figuring out how to make babies, but once they started they did a really thorough job. They produced three boys and a girl. He once said that he sure was delighted that the last one was a girl, because he was pretty sure his wife was going to keep on trying until she got one! They all seemed pretty normal until about junior high school, then they started growing. The three boys grew to 6'3" or 6'4". Their sister probably is close to 6' herself. Two of the boys played college football and the third choose to attend a school that didn't offer him a football scholarship. The little sister was recruited heavily by several schools as a volleyball player. They weren't just jocks either (nothing against jocks). They all did well in their studies and are now a chemist, stockbroker, marketing specialist and the oldest is a farm manager like his dad.
They all are married now and of course, all but one, married tall people. The daughter married a guy as tall (if not taller) than her brothers. I slip around refilling drinks and passing nibbles and dodging belt buckles! Especially when you add my children to the mix. My son is 6'4" and my daughter is a measly 5'7". She's the short one in the bunch. Of course, they also both married tall people. Just getting a hug from everyone can seriously compromise my back or theirs! I've considered just getting a stool and standing on it by the door when they arrive. We're a huggy, loving family but it can be hazardous and challenging.
You see hubby and I are average in height. I am 5'4" he's 5'10". His brother was slightly taller and his wife probably 5'6". Whatever the cause, I feel like I'm shrinking when I'm surrounded by all these tall children.
It must have been all the pre-natal vitamins we took.
My brother-in-law and his wife took their time figuring out how to make babies, but once they started they did a really thorough job. They produced three boys and a girl. He once said that he sure was delighted that the last one was a girl, because he was pretty sure his wife was going to keep on trying until she got one! They all seemed pretty normal until about junior high school, then they started growing. The three boys grew to 6'3" or 6'4". Their sister probably is close to 6' herself. Two of the boys played college football and the third choose to attend a school that didn't offer him a football scholarship. The little sister was recruited heavily by several schools as a volleyball player. They weren't just jocks either (nothing against jocks). They all did well in their studies and are now a chemist, stockbroker, marketing specialist and the oldest is a farm manager like his dad.
They all are married now and of course, all but one, married tall people. The daughter married a guy as tall (if not taller) than her brothers. I slip around refilling drinks and passing nibbles and dodging belt buckles! Especially when you add my children to the mix. My son is 6'4" and my daughter is a measly 5'7". She's the short one in the bunch. Of course, they also both married tall people. Just getting a hug from everyone can seriously compromise my back or theirs! I've considered just getting a stool and standing on it by the door when they arrive. We're a huggy, loving family but it can be hazardous and challenging.
You see hubby and I are average in height. I am 5'4" he's 5'10". His brother was slightly taller and his wife probably 5'6". Whatever the cause, I feel like I'm shrinking when I'm surrounded by all these tall children.
It must have been all the pre-natal vitamins we took.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Tobacco Stripping
Well, it certainly looks like we won't be needing a sled this Christmas but we may need a boat. The rain is coming down in buckets and more coming. It makes last minute errands a mess. Somehow shopping in a snow is much more fun than slopping in the rain.
On the farm rain also means something else. It means tobacco is in "case" and everyone is busy "stripping". For those of you who have followed our son's adventure into tobacco farming, I'll try to explain.
After the tobacco has grown and been cut it is "housed" or hung in the barn to air cure. Over time the tobacco becomes dry and brown and is "cured". Then it is time to take it from the barn and remove the leaves from the stalk in preparation to be sold. To do this without causing it to crumble to dust, you wait until it rains and the moisture has softened the leaves. When it is soft or in "case" the plants can be handled without damage.
So on rainy days you take down the tobacco you hung in the fall and load it onto a wagon. This is called "bulking" tobacco. ( See how much you are learning?) Now begins the process called "stripping". In this the leaves are "stripped" from the plant by hand and sorted into piles depending on their quality or location on the plant. These are then put into a large box and compressed into a bale. The bale is taken to the warehouse and sold to the tobacco companies. At least you hope they buy it.
All of this means that you spend a lot of time in a semi-heated space cornered out of a barn or shed, stripping tobacco. It's not hard work but it is tedious and tiring. You spend long hours standing and doing monotonous repetitious movements. If you are doing it by yourself it is very boring, but thankfully it is mostly done in groups. When a group of farmers get together to help in a stripping room you can bet the tales will be long, tall and frequent. Sometimes I'm not sure if they are working or partying from the sounds coming from the barn. Gales of laughter and whoops of mirth tend to drift from the door. No one is immune from being the butt of the joke or the point of their story. If you have a thin skin I would strongly advise you not to enter the space.
Believe me, spending 8 hours a day in a small space with no entertainment but each other builds a bond and closeness that rivals living in a sorority house!
I would repeat some of the stories that are being told but my computer would probably melt.
On the farm rain also means something else. It means tobacco is in "case" and everyone is busy "stripping". For those of you who have followed our son's adventure into tobacco farming, I'll try to explain.
After the tobacco has grown and been cut it is "housed" or hung in the barn to air cure. Over time the tobacco becomes dry and brown and is "cured". Then it is time to take it from the barn and remove the leaves from the stalk in preparation to be sold. To do this without causing it to crumble to dust, you wait until it rains and the moisture has softened the leaves. When it is soft or in "case" the plants can be handled without damage.
So on rainy days you take down the tobacco you hung in the fall and load it onto a wagon. This is called "bulking" tobacco. ( See how much you are learning?) Now begins the process called "stripping". In this the leaves are "stripped" from the plant by hand and sorted into piles depending on their quality or location on the plant. These are then put into a large box and compressed into a bale. The bale is taken to the warehouse and sold to the tobacco companies. At least you hope they buy it.
All of this means that you spend a lot of time in a semi-heated space cornered out of a barn or shed, stripping tobacco. It's not hard work but it is tedious and tiring. You spend long hours standing and doing monotonous repetitious movements. If you are doing it by yourself it is very boring, but thankfully it is mostly done in groups. When a group of farmers get together to help in a stripping room you can bet the tales will be long, tall and frequent. Sometimes I'm not sure if they are working or partying from the sounds coming from the barn. Gales of laughter and whoops of mirth tend to drift from the door. No one is immune from being the butt of the joke or the point of their story. If you have a thin skin I would strongly advise you not to enter the space.
Believe me, spending 8 hours a day in a small space with no entertainment but each other builds a bond and closeness that rivals living in a sorority house!
I would repeat some of the stories that are being told but my computer would probably melt.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Beaten Biscuits
An excited fourteen year old cornered me after church Sunday, "When are we making beaten biscuits? I want to help. I can come on Thursday, please!" I was a little surprised but since making beaten biscuits is a two person job I sure wasn't turning down the help. In the past he had been coerced into helping, so he knew what he was getting into. Thursday was the first day of Christmas vacation for him, but it wasn't the day I needed to be baking, so I decided to collect him after school on Wednesday.
Beaten biscuits, for the uninitiated, are a form of biscuit created by putting the dough through a device that looks a lot like an old wringer on a wringer washer. The dough is folded and squeezed through the rollers, folded and squeezed until it becomes satiny and very elastic. The resulting biscuits are a smooth, firm circle with the consistency of a 1/2 inch thick cracker. Southerners think it is Divine, especially with country ham. In our house it's a Christmas tradition. It's a labor of love and togetherness. Especially since it takes one person to turn the crank and another to feed the dough through the rollers. I can't imagine why people made them before the invention of the cranked rollers. Before rollers they were made by beating the dough until it was elastic. Usually the implement was a hatchet. The dough was given a hundred whacks with the flat side of the hatchet. Believe me, women were really determined to have beaten biscuits back then. Just shows what a southerner will do for good food.
Now, knowing that my fourteen year old grandson doesn't hold aspirations of becoming a chef, I suspected there were some ulterior motives for his enthusiastic offer of help. As I pulled out of the garage to go pick him up for our afternoon of cooking I saw his dad's truck at the barn and realized the first reason for his help. His dad is stripping tobacco, a boring, never-ending job, that grandson gets drafted into every free moment. Since helping with beaten biscuits trumps just about anything, he has become my assistant chef. Smiling to myself, that for once I get to be top dog over farm chores, I continued to town.
Soon we were home and I was elbow deep in dough. I looked around for grandson and found no one. It seems that he had decided he had a few minutes to play a video game. Finally I corralled him and got him ready to crank the machine. I start feeding the dough through and he starts cranking... fast! "Slow down!" I caution, "You're going to catch my fingers." With that the dough starts to wrap around the roller. I frantically scrape if off and gather it into a ball for the next try. Once again we start and off he goes to the races. After several passes of the dough through the rollers he is still cranking at a furious speed. "Is it about done?" He queries. "What's the rush? We've got all afternoon." "Sure" he responds, "but I've killed a bunch a men and I have to get back to finish." So much for love of grandmother, it seems it's my computer he's in love with!
On the positive side. We finished the biscuits in record time and I still have all my fingers.
Beaten biscuits, for the uninitiated, are a form of biscuit created by putting the dough through a device that looks a lot like an old wringer on a wringer washer. The dough is folded and squeezed through the rollers, folded and squeezed until it becomes satiny and very elastic. The resulting biscuits are a smooth, firm circle with the consistency of a 1/2 inch thick cracker. Southerners think it is Divine, especially with country ham. In our house it's a Christmas tradition. It's a labor of love and togetherness. Especially since it takes one person to turn the crank and another to feed the dough through the rollers. I can't imagine why people made them before the invention of the cranked rollers. Before rollers they were made by beating the dough until it was elastic. Usually the implement was a hatchet. The dough was given a hundred whacks with the flat side of the hatchet. Believe me, women were really determined to have beaten biscuits back then. Just shows what a southerner will do for good food.
Now, knowing that my fourteen year old grandson doesn't hold aspirations of becoming a chef, I suspected there were some ulterior motives for his enthusiastic offer of help. As I pulled out of the garage to go pick him up for our afternoon of cooking I saw his dad's truck at the barn and realized the first reason for his help. His dad is stripping tobacco, a boring, never-ending job, that grandson gets drafted into every free moment. Since helping with beaten biscuits trumps just about anything, he has become my assistant chef. Smiling to myself, that for once I get to be top dog over farm chores, I continued to town.
Soon we were home and I was elbow deep in dough. I looked around for grandson and found no one. It seems that he had decided he had a few minutes to play a video game. Finally I corralled him and got him ready to crank the machine. I start feeding the dough through and he starts cranking... fast! "Slow down!" I caution, "You're going to catch my fingers." With that the dough starts to wrap around the roller. I frantically scrape if off and gather it into a ball for the next try. Once again we start and off he goes to the races. After several passes of the dough through the rollers he is still cranking at a furious speed. "Is it about done?" He queries. "What's the rush? We've got all afternoon." "Sure" he responds, "but I've killed a bunch a men and I have to get back to finish." So much for love of grandmother, it seems it's my computer he's in love with!
On the positive side. We finished the biscuits in record time and I still have all my fingers.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Joy to the World
This past Sunday was our church Christmas program. This yearly event causes excitement in the children (Santa stops by to visit after lunch) and massive anxiety for the parents. It's an unwritten rule that if you take a group of children and put them in front of a group of family and friends, out of reach of their parents, you will have some embarrassing moments. Knowing my grandsons as well as I did, I knew who would be wiggling in their seats with stressful anticipation.
The children lined up across the front of the church. They were certainly an angelic looking group. The ages ranged from three to nine years old. Our wonderful Brazilian friends had worked hard with this group and seen to it that each child had an opportunity to shine in the spotlight. The five year old grandson had been practicing his solo part every night before bed for weeks. The three year old had been practicing standing still. The five year old knew his part perfectly. The three year old was still practicing.
The program began with the clear, childish voices lifted in the old familiar songs. My two were the picture of earnest devotion as they sang their hearts out. The program moved on and it was the five year old's turn to sing with the microphone. He stepped up and did a beautiful job, although maybe just a little ahead of the music. The three year old grabbed for the microphone but a quick move passed it safely on to the next child to sing. The resumed their singing, standing straight and tall.
Sometime around the ten minute mark in the program the three year old got bored. Being a brother, he did what he usually did when he was bored, he started picking on his older sibling. With no change in expression he side-stepped into his brother and gave him a little shove. The older brother just moved over and kept singing. Another step. Another shove. No response yet. After a couple of more tries with no success he decided that maybe stepping on his toes would work.
About this time grandma, in the back of the church taking pictures, started giving him the "look". That glare perfected by parents everywhere that can immobilize a child from across the room. The three year old looked slyly at a point over my head and three other kids quit singing, fearing they were the recipient of the furious glare. Toe stepping didn't work so he decided to try poking his brother. Brother is getting a little red in the face but is still determined to be "good" and trying to ignore the pest.
About this time one of the older girls leans over and tells him to quit. He's no dummy, he knows she is too young to have any real authority. Daddy is now pointing his finger and frowning mightily. Mama is using her best "glare", which is usually pretty effective. Three more children quit singing and start to look frightened. One looks like he might start to cry. Enjoying the attention totally the little boy pulls out all the stops and gives his brother a real push. Caught off guard, the older boy stumbles and falls. Everyone in church holds their breath to see what will happen. His parents and I close our eyes and pray, envisioning a retaliating tackle and free-for-all imminent. With stoic poise the older boy picks himself up and joins in the song. The audience lets out a joint sigh of relief.
Fortunately the program is soon over and the parents can wipe the sweat from their brows and relax. Until the next time.
This one may be lucky to survive until he's five.
The children lined up across the front of the church. They were certainly an angelic looking group. The ages ranged from three to nine years old. Our wonderful Brazilian friends had worked hard with this group and seen to it that each child had an opportunity to shine in the spotlight. The five year old grandson had been practicing his solo part every night before bed for weeks. The three year old had been practicing standing still. The five year old knew his part perfectly. The three year old was still practicing.
The program began with the clear, childish voices lifted in the old familiar songs. My two were the picture of earnest devotion as they sang their hearts out. The program moved on and it was the five year old's turn to sing with the microphone. He stepped up and did a beautiful job, although maybe just a little ahead of the music. The three year old grabbed for the microphone but a quick move passed it safely on to the next child to sing. The resumed their singing, standing straight and tall.
Sometime around the ten minute mark in the program the three year old got bored. Being a brother, he did what he usually did when he was bored, he started picking on his older sibling. With no change in expression he side-stepped into his brother and gave him a little shove. The older brother just moved over and kept singing. Another step. Another shove. No response yet. After a couple of more tries with no success he decided that maybe stepping on his toes would work.
About this time grandma, in the back of the church taking pictures, started giving him the "look". That glare perfected by parents everywhere that can immobilize a child from across the room. The three year old looked slyly at a point over my head and three other kids quit singing, fearing they were the recipient of the furious glare. Toe stepping didn't work so he decided to try poking his brother. Brother is getting a little red in the face but is still determined to be "good" and trying to ignore the pest.
About this time one of the older girls leans over and tells him to quit. He's no dummy, he knows she is too young to have any real authority. Daddy is now pointing his finger and frowning mightily. Mama is using her best "glare", which is usually pretty effective. Three more children quit singing and start to look frightened. One looks like he might start to cry. Enjoying the attention totally the little boy pulls out all the stops and gives his brother a real push. Caught off guard, the older boy stumbles and falls. Everyone in church holds their breath to see what will happen. His parents and I close our eyes and pray, envisioning a retaliating tackle and free-for-all imminent. With stoic poise the older boy picks himself up and joins in the song. The audience lets out a joint sigh of relief.
Fortunately the program is soon over and the parents can wipe the sweat from their brows and relax. Until the next time.
This one may be lucky to survive until he's five.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Your House or Mine
I had a wonderful mother-in-law and I loved her dearly. She was sweet, agreeable, loving and a great cook. Hidden in the middle of this delightful package was a will of steel. In all our years I never heard her complain or whine, demand or implore, or even get mad and pout. Yet, if she made up her mind about something it was a done deal.
The biggest family issue most newlyweds face is the decision of "who gets us for Christmas Day." The delicate manoeuvring to keep everyone happy and blend two family's traditions is a minefield full of potential explosions. Obviously, both families want to keep their special traditions and routines and want to keep their child involved exactly as always. Spouses are optional.
Hubby and I had discussed this months before the event and concluded that we were very fortunate since our celebrations would dove-tail perfectly. His family had always had their Christmas on Christmas Eve with everyone attending Christmas Eve services. Afterward they would all re-group at his mother's house for Weisboder and custard. In my family we celebrated on Christmas morning with a big family dinner later. The families lived in the same small town so travel wouldn't be an issue. Problem solved. We looked with pity at the other young couples in our college community who weren't so fortunate.
December arrived and we started making the final plans for our trip home over the school holiday. I outlined the plan to my mother-in-law and she smiled and said that would be fine, but to be sure and be at Aunt Elizabeth's by 12:00 for dinner. Huh? It seems the reason they celebrated their Christmas on Christmas Eve was that the family had dinner together at the aunt's house on Christmas day. I explained gently that we had decided that we would spend Christmas Eve with them but Christmas Day with my family. She smiled and nodded. "That's fine." she responded and I thought it was case closed.
Soon after during a phone call from her she gently inserted the reminder that Aunt Elizabeth would be expecting us for dinner. I again explained that we wouldn't be attending. I decided I'd better call Aunt Elizabeth and explain to her also. After calling her I was much relieved since she had assured me that she agreed with our decision. Plans were made to come by later in the afternoon for a visit, which seemed to solve the problem.
Then I received a note from my mother-in-law with a recipe I had requested. In it she again reminded us that we were expected for dinner. Each reminder was gently presented with no hint of accusation or recrimination. Just don't forget. I began to get a little stressed. "Do something! Talk to her!" I implored hubby. He just shook his head and suggested I explain it all to her again. Another phone call and gentle reassurance that of course she understood I wanted to be with my family for Christmas and they would look forward to spending Christmas Eve with us. I began to relax and think I had finally solved this dilemma. Then just as the phone call was ending she gently inserted, "We're really looking forward to seeing you for dinner at Aunt Elizabeth's."
The days were dwindling fast and I wasn't making any progress. Finally in defeat I gave in. We went to Aunt Elizabeth's for Christmas dinner.......much to her surprise!
I learned that day that water dripping on a stone will eventually wear a hole in the stone. I also learned that the art of passive resistance is an incredibly effective tool.
I also learned that my mother-in-law was an invincible opponent wrapped in warmth and love. I think I learned my lessons well from her.
My children will be home for Christmas!
The biggest family issue most newlyweds face is the decision of "who gets us for Christmas Day." The delicate manoeuvring to keep everyone happy and blend two family's traditions is a minefield full of potential explosions. Obviously, both families want to keep their special traditions and routines and want to keep their child involved exactly as always. Spouses are optional.
Hubby and I had discussed this months before the event and concluded that we were very fortunate since our celebrations would dove-tail perfectly. His family had always had their Christmas on Christmas Eve with everyone attending Christmas Eve services. Afterward they would all re-group at his mother's house for Weisboder and custard. In my family we celebrated on Christmas morning with a big family dinner later. The families lived in the same small town so travel wouldn't be an issue. Problem solved. We looked with pity at the other young couples in our college community who weren't so fortunate.
December arrived and we started making the final plans for our trip home over the school holiday. I outlined the plan to my mother-in-law and she smiled and said that would be fine, but to be sure and be at Aunt Elizabeth's by 12:00 for dinner. Huh? It seems the reason they celebrated their Christmas on Christmas Eve was that the family had dinner together at the aunt's house on Christmas day. I explained gently that we had decided that we would spend Christmas Eve with them but Christmas Day with my family. She smiled and nodded. "That's fine." she responded and I thought it was case closed.
Soon after during a phone call from her she gently inserted the reminder that Aunt Elizabeth would be expecting us for dinner. I again explained that we wouldn't be attending. I decided I'd better call Aunt Elizabeth and explain to her also. After calling her I was much relieved since she had assured me that she agreed with our decision. Plans were made to come by later in the afternoon for a visit, which seemed to solve the problem.
Then I received a note from my mother-in-law with a recipe I had requested. In it she again reminded us that we were expected for dinner. Each reminder was gently presented with no hint of accusation or recrimination. Just don't forget. I began to get a little stressed. "Do something! Talk to her!" I implored hubby. He just shook his head and suggested I explain it all to her again. Another phone call and gentle reassurance that of course she understood I wanted to be with my family for Christmas and they would look forward to spending Christmas Eve with us. I began to relax and think I had finally solved this dilemma. Then just as the phone call was ending she gently inserted, "We're really looking forward to seeing you for dinner at Aunt Elizabeth's."
The days were dwindling fast and I wasn't making any progress. Finally in defeat I gave in. We went to Aunt Elizabeth's for Christmas dinner.......much to her surprise!
I learned that day that water dripping on a stone will eventually wear a hole in the stone. I also learned that the art of passive resistance is an incredibly effective tool.
I also learned that my mother-in-law was an invincible opponent wrapped in warmth and love. I think I learned my lessons well from her.
My children will be home for Christmas!
Friday, December 16, 2011
O Christmas Tree
I confess. I love Christmas decorations. I grouse about dragging them out, the mess of putting them up, the trouble of cleaning around them, the space they take up, the torture of taking them down and packing them up, but the truth is I love it when the house is decorated. The best part is when you get a few quiet minutes, turn on the tree lights, crank up the Christmas music and just sit and enjoy it.
Don't get me wrong. My house isn't ready for a center spread in Better Homes and Gardens. In fact a lot of it is the same artificial garland in the same place, year after year. What makes it all special are the memories attached to each and every decoration. Some people decorate by theme with new decorations bought every year and everything color coded. Not me, I decorate by the things that mean the most to me, regardless of what they look like. That means using the nativity scene made by a former homemaker when I was the County Extension Agent, the garland my daughter and I found on one of our "girl" trips to Gatlinburg, TN, when she was in college, the laughing snowman that was given to my daughter after her wreck to cheer her up (no one can listen to the maniacal laughter and not join in!), and the various candle holders and gifts given to me by friends.
However, my pride and joy is my tree. Each and every ornament has a story and a memory. This year the "little boys" (my son's 3 and 5 year old) wanted to help me decorate. Now, I'm a traditionalist, but not a dummy. All the delicate glass ornaments have been packed up until a later date, but I still have lots of reasonably sturdy ornaments to fill the tree. With shouts of glee they attacked the boxes of ornaments. As each one was pulled out they placed it carefully on the tree. Their idea of balance is a little different. Each ball (their favorites and plastic) were grouped by color and placed on one branch. So now I have clusters of balls hanging like grapes about 2 feet off the floor.
Then we got to the fun ornaments. I have school ornaments from both my children, gifts from friends, ornaments bought on special trips, or commemorating special events. Even one that's a giant cigar in honor of hubby's cigar smoking. As each ornament was brought out I would tell the little boys about the event, person or story surrounding the item. Some they were interested in, some they weren't but they loved the idea that they had meaning.
The place of honor on my tree (to the horror of my daughter when she was a status conscious teen) is always given to a small group of cheap, plastic lanterns and sparkly, golden plastic bells. These were all we could afford for the tree the first year we were married. Cheap, but you got a lot of them for a small price, so at least we had something on the tree. Today they hang to remind us of the time when all we had was our love and now, the family that has grown from that love. Maybe in a small way they remind us of God's love for all of us and His gift to us.
Sunday, the oldest "little" came in after church with a foam craft they had done in Sunday school. It was a lopsided green wreath with a manger scene precariously attached in the middle. He proudly took it to the tree and hung it on a branch, adding his contribution to the tree.
You know, it looked beautifully at home there.
Don't get me wrong. My house isn't ready for a center spread in Better Homes and Gardens. In fact a lot of it is the same artificial garland in the same place, year after year. What makes it all special are the memories attached to each and every decoration. Some people decorate by theme with new decorations bought every year and everything color coded. Not me, I decorate by the things that mean the most to me, regardless of what they look like. That means using the nativity scene made by a former homemaker when I was the County Extension Agent, the garland my daughter and I found on one of our "girl" trips to Gatlinburg, TN, when she was in college, the laughing snowman that was given to my daughter after her wreck to cheer her up (no one can listen to the maniacal laughter and not join in!), and the various candle holders and gifts given to me by friends.
However, my pride and joy is my tree. Each and every ornament has a story and a memory. This year the "little boys" (my son's 3 and 5 year old) wanted to help me decorate. Now, I'm a traditionalist, but not a dummy. All the delicate glass ornaments have been packed up until a later date, but I still have lots of reasonably sturdy ornaments to fill the tree. With shouts of glee they attacked the boxes of ornaments. As each one was pulled out they placed it carefully on the tree. Their idea of balance is a little different. Each ball (their favorites and plastic) were grouped by color and placed on one branch. So now I have clusters of balls hanging like grapes about 2 feet off the floor.
Then we got to the fun ornaments. I have school ornaments from both my children, gifts from friends, ornaments bought on special trips, or commemorating special events. Even one that's a giant cigar in honor of hubby's cigar smoking. As each ornament was brought out I would tell the little boys about the event, person or story surrounding the item. Some they were interested in, some they weren't but they loved the idea that they had meaning.
The place of honor on my tree (to the horror of my daughter when she was a status conscious teen) is always given to a small group of cheap, plastic lanterns and sparkly, golden plastic bells. These were all we could afford for the tree the first year we were married. Cheap, but you got a lot of them for a small price, so at least we had something on the tree. Today they hang to remind us of the time when all we had was our love and now, the family that has grown from that love. Maybe in a small way they remind us of God's love for all of us and His gift to us.
Sunday, the oldest "little" came in after church with a foam craft they had done in Sunday school. It was a lopsided green wreath with a manger scene precariously attached in the middle. He proudly took it to the tree and hung it on a branch, adding his contribution to the tree.
You know, it looked beautifully at home there.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Lost HIstories
I'm old. I remember a time when computers were new and everyone was talking about how much time they would save us.....
Computers have made lots of tasks easier and more efficient but they have created some problems along the way. My biggest concern is that we are losing our heritage and memories with all this computer usage. Specifically our pictorial history and our written history. I'm not talking about national or world histories but the histories of our families. We store everything on zip drives, CD's, hard drives and we pride ourselves that we have eliminated whole closets full of boxes of pictures and papers.
Again, I am old. I remember when we put all of our music on 8-track tapes, then cassette tapes. How many of you can even play that music now. What about the VCR home movies we made with those huge, old cameras? Do you even know what a floppy disc is? Each of these technologies have become outdated and replaced, eliminating our ability to access that information. Now it's all on smart phones and computers, but what happens when they are outdated and upstaged by new technology? Will we be able to access those memories?
I have a box of pictures and papers that I have kept from my grandmother. In it are pictures of her parents, grandparents and siblings. There are pictures of my mother as a baby, child and young adult. Pictures of family vacations taken in funny old cars. There are scenes of family get-togethers with old fashioned clothes. These are old black and white photos but they are as clear as the day they were taken. I can look at them without special equipment and I can pass them on to my children. Will we be able to do that fifty years from now with the digital media we have now? Will our grandchildren or great-grandchildren have any way to remember us or know what our lives were like?
I shudder for the generations to come who will lose these connections to the past. If my computer crashes I will have lost many precious pictures of Christmas, birthdays, babies, trips and friends. Unless I have stored them on a zip drive or CD, that may or may not be readable in the future. My simple box of pictures has been passed down for three generations with no instructions needed. Maybe technology has moved us too far this time.
It's important to know where you came from before you can know where you are going.
Computers have made lots of tasks easier and more efficient but they have created some problems along the way. My biggest concern is that we are losing our heritage and memories with all this computer usage. Specifically our pictorial history and our written history. I'm not talking about national or world histories but the histories of our families. We store everything on zip drives, CD's, hard drives and we pride ourselves that we have eliminated whole closets full of boxes of pictures and papers.
Again, I am old. I remember when we put all of our music on 8-track tapes, then cassette tapes. How many of you can even play that music now. What about the VCR home movies we made with those huge, old cameras? Do you even know what a floppy disc is? Each of these technologies have become outdated and replaced, eliminating our ability to access that information. Now it's all on smart phones and computers, but what happens when they are outdated and upstaged by new technology? Will we be able to access those memories?
I have a box of pictures and papers that I have kept from my grandmother. In it are pictures of her parents, grandparents and siblings. There are pictures of my mother as a baby, child and young adult. Pictures of family vacations taken in funny old cars. There are scenes of family get-togethers with old fashioned clothes. These are old black and white photos but they are as clear as the day they were taken. I can look at them without special equipment and I can pass them on to my children. Will we be able to do that fifty years from now with the digital media we have now? Will our grandchildren or great-grandchildren have any way to remember us or know what our lives were like?
I shudder for the generations to come who will lose these connections to the past. If my computer crashes I will have lost many precious pictures of Christmas, birthdays, babies, trips and friends. Unless I have stored them on a zip drive or CD, that may or may not be readable in the future. My simple box of pictures has been passed down for three generations with no instructions needed. Maybe technology has moved us too far this time.
It's important to know where you came from before you can know where you are going.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Little White Kitty
Christmas memories always bring back the time when our daughter asked Santa for one thing and one thing only....then didn't get it Christmas morning.
She was about four and already an animal lover, especially cats. Unfortunately, hubby is not a cat lover, so our pets had been limited to goldfish and the rabbit that lived in the yard. (Unless you count the cat I started our marriage with, which may explain some of hubby's cat avoidance) At that time we lived in town and hadn't started the succession of dogs that were to share our lives in the years to come.
Christmas came and we took her brother and her to visit Santa Clause. Her brother approached with his list memorized and quickly rattled off all the toys in the toy catalog. Now it was her turn. She climbed on his knee and whispered her wish. He leaned closer and asked her again. She looked up and smiled, "I want a white kitty cat". Santa nodded sagely and asked what else she wanted. She patted him on the arm and said, "That's all, just a white kitty." Santa looked a little hesitant and glanced over at me. I just shrugged. It was the first I had heard of it either.
She maintained this request during all the weeks leading up to the holidays. We showed her the toy catalog, took her to stores, pointed out neat toys her friends had but she just shook her head and said all she wanted was a white kitty. We threw caution to the winds and began looking for a white kitty. My dad and his wife searched their county, we called animal shelters, friends and farmers, to no avail. There just didn't seem to be any white kitties around. Hubby grimaced but didn't put too many roadblocks in our search.
Christmas arrived and she received white kitty pillows, stuffed white kitties, a white ceramic kitty, white kitty picture books, even a white kitty puzzle, but no fuzzy little warm body. It was a quiet Christmas in our house. Hubby didn't even gloat that he didn't have to share his house with a cat.
A few weeks passed and things were beginning to be back to normal. I find that children recover and move on much faster than adults. I still was reeling from the feeling that somehow we had failed this child. However, life goes on. I was in town one morning paying our electric bill, just before we received a late notice. (That was before computers would nag you into remembering to pay!) When I proudly slapped down my payment the clerk looked up and smiled. "Lucky you! You are the 10th person to pay today so we don't have to do the paperwork to track down delinquents. So you get a prize!" I smiled back, knowing that the staff loved to tease me for my bill paying skills. With that she reached under her desk and pulled out a small, fluffy, totally white kitten.
It seems that as they were closing up the night before the linemen coming in through the back noticed this little mite in the alley. Knowing that she was too little to fend for herself they brought her in and left her in a room overnight. However, she had outstayed her welcome and a home was needed, quickly. All of the memories of the Christmas with no kitty came rushing in and I soon found myself cuddling her and agreeing to take her home. One problem remained. Hubby still hadn't openly agreed to a cat and to get to the car I had to walk in front of the large, glass windows of his office. He would see me for sure and nip this in the bud.
The office staff seeing the solution to their dilemma ravel around the edges started doing some quick thinking. They didn't have a box to put her in but one of the guys came up with a paper sack. In a wink the little ball of fluff was tucked into the sack and the top stapled shut. I picked it up and bravely marched down the street. Several people stopped and stared as I walked past carrying the wildly, wiggling sack emitting pitiful mews. Somehow I arrived at the car without being detected by hubby.
The look on my little girl's face when I presented her with her little, white kitty made the deception and upcoming discussion worth it. When her excitement had abated some I explained that daddy's allergies made him not really want a cat, especially in the house (a fact she had heard lots of times in the past months). I cautioned her to let me greet him when he came home and break the news to him gently (with a stiff bourbon). She agreed.
When hubby arrived home, tired from a long day, he was greeted at the back door by a radiant four year old and a squirming bundle of fur. "Look daddy!! I got my white kitty. Her name is Star! You want to hold her?" She soon departed to play with her new friend in the living room and hubby turned on me with a glower. "I thought we had discussed this. You know I'm allergic." (only to cats, not to cows I guess). I calmly told him that was correct and I had explained that to her in great length. All he needed to do was tell her that she couldn't keep the kitty and we would find it another home.
Star lived with us for the next 18 years.
She and hubby maintained a constant war for all 18 years.
He cried with me when we buried her in the back yard.
She was about four and already an animal lover, especially cats. Unfortunately, hubby is not a cat lover, so our pets had been limited to goldfish and the rabbit that lived in the yard. (Unless you count the cat I started our marriage with, which may explain some of hubby's cat avoidance) At that time we lived in town and hadn't started the succession of dogs that were to share our lives in the years to come.
Christmas came and we took her brother and her to visit Santa Clause. Her brother approached with his list memorized and quickly rattled off all the toys in the toy catalog. Now it was her turn. She climbed on his knee and whispered her wish. He leaned closer and asked her again. She looked up and smiled, "I want a white kitty cat". Santa nodded sagely and asked what else she wanted. She patted him on the arm and said, "That's all, just a white kitty." Santa looked a little hesitant and glanced over at me. I just shrugged. It was the first I had heard of it either.
She maintained this request during all the weeks leading up to the holidays. We showed her the toy catalog, took her to stores, pointed out neat toys her friends had but she just shook her head and said all she wanted was a white kitty. We threw caution to the winds and began looking for a white kitty. My dad and his wife searched their county, we called animal shelters, friends and farmers, to no avail. There just didn't seem to be any white kitties around. Hubby grimaced but didn't put too many roadblocks in our search.
Christmas arrived and she received white kitty pillows, stuffed white kitties, a white ceramic kitty, white kitty picture books, even a white kitty puzzle, but no fuzzy little warm body. It was a quiet Christmas in our house. Hubby didn't even gloat that he didn't have to share his house with a cat.
A few weeks passed and things were beginning to be back to normal. I find that children recover and move on much faster than adults. I still was reeling from the feeling that somehow we had failed this child. However, life goes on. I was in town one morning paying our electric bill, just before we received a late notice. (That was before computers would nag you into remembering to pay!) When I proudly slapped down my payment the clerk looked up and smiled. "Lucky you! You are the 10th person to pay today so we don't have to do the paperwork to track down delinquents. So you get a prize!" I smiled back, knowing that the staff loved to tease me for my bill paying skills. With that she reached under her desk and pulled out a small, fluffy, totally white kitten.
It seems that as they were closing up the night before the linemen coming in through the back noticed this little mite in the alley. Knowing that she was too little to fend for herself they brought her in and left her in a room overnight. However, she had outstayed her welcome and a home was needed, quickly. All of the memories of the Christmas with no kitty came rushing in and I soon found myself cuddling her and agreeing to take her home. One problem remained. Hubby still hadn't openly agreed to a cat and to get to the car I had to walk in front of the large, glass windows of his office. He would see me for sure and nip this in the bud.
The office staff seeing the solution to their dilemma ravel around the edges started doing some quick thinking. They didn't have a box to put her in but one of the guys came up with a paper sack. In a wink the little ball of fluff was tucked into the sack and the top stapled shut. I picked it up and bravely marched down the street. Several people stopped and stared as I walked past carrying the wildly, wiggling sack emitting pitiful mews. Somehow I arrived at the car without being detected by hubby.
The look on my little girl's face when I presented her with her little, white kitty made the deception and upcoming discussion worth it. When her excitement had abated some I explained that daddy's allergies made him not really want a cat, especially in the house (a fact she had heard lots of times in the past months). I cautioned her to let me greet him when he came home and break the news to him gently (with a stiff bourbon). She agreed.
When hubby arrived home, tired from a long day, he was greeted at the back door by a radiant four year old and a squirming bundle of fur. "Look daddy!! I got my white kitty. Her name is Star! You want to hold her?" She soon departed to play with her new friend in the living room and hubby turned on me with a glower. "I thought we had discussed this. You know I'm allergic." (only to cats, not to cows I guess). I calmly told him that was correct and I had explained that to her in great length. All he needed to do was tell her that she couldn't keep the kitty and we would find it another home.
Star lived with us for the next 18 years.
She and hubby maintained a constant war for all 18 years.
He cried with me when we buried her in the back yard.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Weisboder
My mother-in-law was the youngest daughter of Swiss immigrants. Although her mother arrived in the United States as a babe in arms her Swiss grandmother taught her mother many of the dishes from her home country. She in turn passed the recipes on to her daughters. One of these recipes is a Christmas cookie that no Christmas was complete without when my husband was growing up. I remember arriving home for the holidays and stepping into her shinning, warm kitchen redolent with the smells of good food, and being greeted with a cookie and a hug. To her food was the biggest expression of her love that she could offer. When you were in her house, you ate!
She was a great cook but her trademark was the delicate Weisboder cookies that her mother had taught her to make. They were thin, crisp cookies baked in a sheet, iced with a pink, slick frosting, then cut into diamond shapes. Their distinctive flavor came from the large amount of cinnamon used. We all loved them. To all of us they represented Christmas.
The time came when I decided that I needed to learn to make these cookies to carry the tradition on to my children. I actually spent one delightful day making Weisboder with my mother-in-law, with her showing me every step of the procedure. My father-in-law, definitely not a cook, supervised the whole process. It is one of my fondest memories. At the end of the day I went home with a precious tin of cookies and a recipe. I put the recipe up and continued to eat my mother-in-law's cookies every Christmas.
Then time passed and the ravages of her disease took her memories of how to cook and the precious Weisboder. I decided it was time to pick up the torch and carry on. Unfortunately, too much time had passed and my recipe couldn't be found. Over the following years I kept an eye out for her recipe in her kitchen as we cared for her, but with literally hundreds of recipes and clippings stuck into books, boxes, files, and drawers we didn't find it. We resigned ourselves to only having memories of the delightful cookie.
After her death, in clearing out her house, I was delighted to find two copies of the recipe in her distinctive hand-writing. With joy I prepared this holiday to recreate the cookies for my husband, children and grandchildren. I gathered the ingredients, followed the recipe and my faded memories and made Weisboder. Unfortunately the results were a little disappointing. They were thicker, gooier, not crisp, the frosting was sticky and too fluffy. My husband and I munched on cookies and thought. Then we started comparing memories and laughing. She never made a recipe that she didn't "tinker" with it and "improve" it. What we were missing were the changes she made to the recipe each time she made them. She knew that she liked more flour, a larger pan, to cook the frosting longer or with more sugar to get just the cookie she wanted. Unfortunately, we didn't know all her tricks.
However, as my husband said, our children don't really remember her Weisboder and these were good cookies, just not what we remembered. So these will be the wonderful Christmas cookies that our children and grandchildren will know as the Swiss Christmas Cookies. They will carry on their Swiss heritage and family traditions with this cookie and hopefully remember a lovely, little lady who made them for her children.
I, on the other hand, will probably spend a lot of time over the next few years, "tinkering" with a recipe trying to catch a memory.
She was a great cook but her trademark was the delicate Weisboder cookies that her mother had taught her to make. They were thin, crisp cookies baked in a sheet, iced with a pink, slick frosting, then cut into diamond shapes. Their distinctive flavor came from the large amount of cinnamon used. We all loved them. To all of us they represented Christmas.
The time came when I decided that I needed to learn to make these cookies to carry the tradition on to my children. I actually spent one delightful day making Weisboder with my mother-in-law, with her showing me every step of the procedure. My father-in-law, definitely not a cook, supervised the whole process. It is one of my fondest memories. At the end of the day I went home with a precious tin of cookies and a recipe. I put the recipe up and continued to eat my mother-in-law's cookies every Christmas.
Then time passed and the ravages of her disease took her memories of how to cook and the precious Weisboder. I decided it was time to pick up the torch and carry on. Unfortunately, too much time had passed and my recipe couldn't be found. Over the following years I kept an eye out for her recipe in her kitchen as we cared for her, but with literally hundreds of recipes and clippings stuck into books, boxes, files, and drawers we didn't find it. We resigned ourselves to only having memories of the delightful cookie.
After her death, in clearing out her house, I was delighted to find two copies of the recipe in her distinctive hand-writing. With joy I prepared this holiday to recreate the cookies for my husband, children and grandchildren. I gathered the ingredients, followed the recipe and my faded memories and made Weisboder. Unfortunately the results were a little disappointing. They were thicker, gooier, not crisp, the frosting was sticky and too fluffy. My husband and I munched on cookies and thought. Then we started comparing memories and laughing. She never made a recipe that she didn't "tinker" with it and "improve" it. What we were missing were the changes she made to the recipe each time she made them. She knew that she liked more flour, a larger pan, to cook the frosting longer or with more sugar to get just the cookie she wanted. Unfortunately, we didn't know all her tricks.
However, as my husband said, our children don't really remember her Weisboder and these were good cookies, just not what we remembered. So these will be the wonderful Christmas cookies that our children and grandchildren will know as the Swiss Christmas Cookies. They will carry on their Swiss heritage and family traditions with this cookie and hopefully remember a lovely, little lady who made them for her children.
I, on the other hand, will probably spend a lot of time over the next few years, "tinkering" with a recipe trying to catch a memory.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Small Towns
I grew up in a small town....I mean really small. We had maybe , 2000 people. Then I married and moved to another small town, maybe 2500 people. People that move here from cities and metropolitan areas are often quite uncomfortable until they get used to small town ways. It is a different experience from life in the city.
One of the first things that people notice is that you have to drive to get to the conveniences that they think are necessities. We don't have a mall, shopping centers, huge groceries, theaters, opera, ballet, sixteen different mega-box stores or a dozen restaurants. If we want daily necessities we go to Walmart (yes, there is a Walmart near about every small town in America!) . If we want to shop for fun then we drive, hey, it's a day out.
What we do have more than compensates.
We don't have a Arts Center but we do have a thriving and creative Children's Theater group that puts on outstanding shows. In large cities these budding artist might be lost in the crush of sheer numbers but here they are nurtured and give stellar performances that have helped earn numerous accolades. A spin-off has been an adult group that has given wonderful performances to sell out crowds. (There is nothing quite so much fun as being able to say, "I live next door to the star!")
We don't have a huge department store but we do have an outstanding Christmas Bazaar and Bake sale put on by the Homemakers Clubs and the Crafters Guild. There you can buy hand knitted hats, hand printed silk scarves, softer than clouds alpaca socks that started on the Alpaca, wooden toys, hand crafted jewelry, Christmas decorations, ornaments and gifts. You can cut your baking time by buying jam cakes, stack pies (if you don't know what they are--it's another story), coffee cakes, yeast rolls, cakes, cookies and candies. You won't find their equal in any of the fancy mall stores.
The best part of small towns is the one thing that drives people craziest when they first encounter it. Everyone knows you and all about you. It's really hard to hide or be invisible. I've had people comment that they were called by name by people they had never met. Sure, because they had met that person's daughter, cousin, neighbor, or friend and they had told them about you. It means that news travels fast because we tend to share our interest and concerns about each other. So don't be surprised when the check-out lady in the grocery congratulates you on your child's award at school. She's not being nosy just happy for the accomplishment. In the same way if you've had the flu or an illness in the family you may have the teller at the bank inquiring about everyone's recovery. She's picked it up because her sister-in-law was behind you at the drug store when you bought supplies. Don't be offended!! It's just their way of showing their concern.
You really don't appreciate this attribute until life hands you real troubles. When catastrophes come small towns turn out to help and comfort. Suddenly there is food for families, hugs for comfort, baby-sitters for children, and helping hands for any chore. You don't have to ask, it just arrives. I have seen examples that have shocked those not familiar with small towns. Prescriptions that have come due during a crisis that the pharmacist has called to see if they needed it and then delivered it himself. Cars loaned until repairs can be made, groceries delivered in snowy weather, teachers giving kids rides home from school, neighbors taking care of pets when you can't get home because of a crisis, and on and on. Small towns are best at taking care of their residents in times of need.
Yes, all this also means that if you have a falling out with your Aunt Susie over Thanksgiving dinner you might find the lady at the library asking if you have patched up your quarrel yet!! However, on a whole, it's a small price to pay for the love and kindness of living in a small town.
One of the first things that people notice is that you have to drive to get to the conveniences that they think are necessities. We don't have a mall, shopping centers, huge groceries, theaters, opera, ballet, sixteen different mega-box stores or a dozen restaurants. If we want daily necessities we go to Walmart (yes, there is a Walmart near about every small town in America!) . If we want to shop for fun then we drive, hey, it's a day out.
What we do have more than compensates.
We don't have a Arts Center but we do have a thriving and creative Children's Theater group that puts on outstanding shows. In large cities these budding artist might be lost in the crush of sheer numbers but here they are nurtured and give stellar performances that have helped earn numerous accolades. A spin-off has been an adult group that has given wonderful performances to sell out crowds. (There is nothing quite so much fun as being able to say, "I live next door to the star!")
We don't have a huge department store but we do have an outstanding Christmas Bazaar and Bake sale put on by the Homemakers Clubs and the Crafters Guild. There you can buy hand knitted hats, hand printed silk scarves, softer than clouds alpaca socks that started on the Alpaca, wooden toys, hand crafted jewelry, Christmas decorations, ornaments and gifts. You can cut your baking time by buying jam cakes, stack pies (if you don't know what they are--it's another story), coffee cakes, yeast rolls, cakes, cookies and candies. You won't find their equal in any of the fancy mall stores.
The best part of small towns is the one thing that drives people craziest when they first encounter it. Everyone knows you and all about you. It's really hard to hide or be invisible. I've had people comment that they were called by name by people they had never met. Sure, because they had met that person's daughter, cousin, neighbor, or friend and they had told them about you. It means that news travels fast because we tend to share our interest and concerns about each other. So don't be surprised when the check-out lady in the grocery congratulates you on your child's award at school. She's not being nosy just happy for the accomplishment. In the same way if you've had the flu or an illness in the family you may have the teller at the bank inquiring about everyone's recovery. She's picked it up because her sister-in-law was behind you at the drug store when you bought supplies. Don't be offended!! It's just their way of showing their concern.
You really don't appreciate this attribute until life hands you real troubles. When catastrophes come small towns turn out to help and comfort. Suddenly there is food for families, hugs for comfort, baby-sitters for children, and helping hands for any chore. You don't have to ask, it just arrives. I have seen examples that have shocked those not familiar with small towns. Prescriptions that have come due during a crisis that the pharmacist has called to see if they needed it and then delivered it himself. Cars loaned until repairs can be made, groceries delivered in snowy weather, teachers giving kids rides home from school, neighbors taking care of pets when you can't get home because of a crisis, and on and on. Small towns are best at taking care of their residents in times of need.
Yes, all this also means that if you have a falling out with your Aunt Susie over Thanksgiving dinner you might find the lady at the library asking if you have patched up your quarrel yet!! However, on a whole, it's a small price to pay for the love and kindness of living in a small town.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Thanksgiving Memories
Thanksgiving has passed. We had a small celebration this year with our son and his three sons. My daughter-in-law had taken the baby girl to visit her family in Wyoming. My heart goes out to families that are spread out so far apart. Her parents and grandparents had yet to meet this newest member of their family, so eagerly awaited the visit. In the meantime the boys stayed home to keep the Kentucky grandparents company through the holiday.
One of the highlights of Thanksgiving, even if you are small in number, is the remembrance of those who are no longer with us. The memories and tall tales flowed around the table with the gravy and the dressing. Everyone had a special memory to share, but it falls to us old ones to try to paint pictures of those relatives that they have only met in our stories.
My favorite characters are two lovely old men that were the highlight of any family gathering at my aunt's home. My aunt was a consummate hostess who loved having people in her home. Thanksgiving was especially fun because of the quiet blend of generations. We all gathered in her big dining room around the big table set with all the china, silver and crystal passed down through her family. Even the little ones were welcome at her table, although we knew even at an early age that remaining there meant we didn't make a mess or lots of noise. The sacrifice was worth it because of the entertainment.
A typical Thanksgiving would include her father, Grandaddy Pence, and her Uncle Earl. These two old gents came with spouses, but they didn't stand out in my young memory. Grandaddy Pence always carved the turkey. It was a show in itself, involving lots of knife sharpening, platters placed just so, and a turkey roasted to a crisp, golden brown. The result was a platter of perfect slices carved with lots of admiring comments from the waiting family. Uncle Earl kept the family entertained throughout the meal with a continuous supply of witty stories involving most of the family at one time or another.
After everyone was stuffed there was no rush to the television to watch football. We had television but I don't think football was the only thing on then. Instead we stayed at the table, after the last crumb of pie had been eaten, and had a story competition. It seemed everyone had a story to tell and each topped the story before it. We kids wouldn't think of leaving because through these stories we got to see a side of our elders that we never dreamed was possible. We heard stories of our grandparents in the grasp of young love. Stories of our parents as teenagers getting into scrapes and trying to hide it from their parents. Stories of kid's adventures in a time long past. Stories of our grandparents as they built their businesses and farms and the trials they faced. Stories of childhood illnesses, young deaths, haunted houses, missing relatives, and war heroes. It seemed that as the afternoon wore on the stories only got bigger and better. Who needed TVs, we had high drama in the dining room.
I'm afraid with the passing of these two lovely old gents with their twinkling eyes and gift for words the world lost some truly great story-tellers. Sometimes I think we need to spend more time talking and less time watching television. After all television is only a pale imitation of the drama of real life.
One of the highlights of Thanksgiving, even if you are small in number, is the remembrance of those who are no longer with us. The memories and tall tales flowed around the table with the gravy and the dressing. Everyone had a special memory to share, but it falls to us old ones to try to paint pictures of those relatives that they have only met in our stories.
My favorite characters are two lovely old men that were the highlight of any family gathering at my aunt's home. My aunt was a consummate hostess who loved having people in her home. Thanksgiving was especially fun because of the quiet blend of generations. We all gathered in her big dining room around the big table set with all the china, silver and crystal passed down through her family. Even the little ones were welcome at her table, although we knew even at an early age that remaining there meant we didn't make a mess or lots of noise. The sacrifice was worth it because of the entertainment.
A typical Thanksgiving would include her father, Grandaddy Pence, and her Uncle Earl. These two old gents came with spouses, but they didn't stand out in my young memory. Grandaddy Pence always carved the turkey. It was a show in itself, involving lots of knife sharpening, platters placed just so, and a turkey roasted to a crisp, golden brown. The result was a platter of perfect slices carved with lots of admiring comments from the waiting family. Uncle Earl kept the family entertained throughout the meal with a continuous supply of witty stories involving most of the family at one time or another.
After everyone was stuffed there was no rush to the television to watch football. We had television but I don't think football was the only thing on then. Instead we stayed at the table, after the last crumb of pie had been eaten, and had a story competition. It seemed everyone had a story to tell and each topped the story before it. We kids wouldn't think of leaving because through these stories we got to see a side of our elders that we never dreamed was possible. We heard stories of our grandparents in the grasp of young love. Stories of our parents as teenagers getting into scrapes and trying to hide it from their parents. Stories of kid's adventures in a time long past. Stories of our grandparents as they built their businesses and farms and the trials they faced. Stories of childhood illnesses, young deaths, haunted houses, missing relatives, and war heroes. It seemed that as the afternoon wore on the stories only got bigger and better. Who needed TVs, we had high drama in the dining room.
I'm afraid with the passing of these two lovely old gents with their twinkling eyes and gift for words the world lost some truly great story-tellers. Sometimes I think we need to spend more time talking and less time watching television. After all television is only a pale imitation of the drama of real life.
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