Eight to Five? It's a Living.

Today's youth have nothing on me, earbuds hanging out their ears, always tuned in to something! My boss wasn't the only one in the Ag. office trying out Dictaphone equipment. Those tapes coming into the secretarial pool ended up on my desk. Jack's tapes always came with the real twangy, cowboy heart-breaker, music stuff playing in the background. He was often eating at the same time he was dictating, by the sounds of it. He'd be talking along, then, "Go back a couple of pages and add this...", he'd say. Allen, a post doc., made "Mission Impossible" tapes. With theme music playing, I'd hear, "Good morning, Mrs. South. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is ...". I knew I was finished when I heard, "Please dispose of this recording in the usual manner!"

It was the late 70's, remember. The Pool typed everything for everyone, including graduate students. Unlike other Ag. college departments whose product involved animals, crops, or bio-chemical labs, our product was whatever could be put on paper.

Dr. Ching was a master of dictation. He provided everything a transcriber might need, even spelling unfamiliar words. But what was an AUM? What did 'ith' (rhymes with eyeth) mean? I needed to understand just enough about the complex model formulas to know how to put on paper what I heard being described on tape. A misplaced symbol, cap or lower case, a line here or there could change everything! I'm talking IBM Selectric symbol element workout, in combination with the regular keyboard characters!

It wasn't unusual to be asked to re-type the same manuscript rough draft five times, all done from hand-written copy, before the final camera-ready copy was prepared. Class work and exams had to be error-free, understandably. A new hire, (could I call her a "Poolie"?) the one who appeared to have been pulled off a bar stool during rush hour and plopped down at a desk in our office, skirt slit to upper thigh, a blouse showing heaving masses yearning to be free, received John's beautifully hand-printed pages to type. When she finished typing, she gave it back to him. He returned it to her, errors marked for correction. Again, she gave him her finished work. He brought it back, this time with new errors circled, ones she had created while trying to correct the others. He made one more attempt. She gave it back to him, saying, "That's good enough!" She had a temper, that one. She beat up the Xerox machine--yes, real kicks and punches, then used her hair brush on it! She also took on a coin operated snack machine! The three-month first evaluation for new hires? Nope, she didn't make that.

Cut-and-paste, correction fluid, gentle scraping with an X-acto knife, were all a means to an end. When a piece of paper got too thick from making corrections, those layers were cut out from the back of the page so it would lay flat again on the copier glass. Everything was two-person proofed, by a reader and a listener following the copy; Everything was proofed by the author and by the typist. Even so, there was that call from our dean. He had counted the line spacing in correspondence sent to him from our office. Where there should have been six lines of spacing, by his count, between the date and the inside address, there appeared only five. He sent the letter back!

The previous dean's focus, in his sometimes unconventional way, had more to do with bridging the gap between counties and college. His secretary, a buxom, older woman, wore ill-fitting bras that earned her a nickname I can't, in good conscience, put into print. It was rumored that the women's restroom wasn't a place to talk shop because she had a habit of hiding in a stall, her legs up out of sight, to listen and report back to her boss. Ah-h-h, we could-a-been in the movie! ("Nine to Five")

Our department was one of the first on campus to have a dedicated word processor, an improvement in some ways but in the time it took to figure out how to get the equipment to do what was needed, I could have typed a document five times on a typewriter. Even with the Linear, I think it was, I still had to hand-draw or copy symbols and notations from the author's notes and paste those into the document by hand. For Extension periodicals, an old Gestetner was still being used. Preparing those stencils was a killer! The odor of the fluid used in those machines was enough to make a person pass out. No one in the Pool liked using that old relic.

You never really know what you are getting after the interview. One young thing looked good on paper and perfectly normal during her meeting with the hiring committee but on her first day, she was almost unrecognizable, hair dyed some awful color and wigged out all over the place, dressed not for the office but maybe a wild party after work? She rearranged her space at the front desk to accommodate a BIG boom-box, first thing. The department head wanted no music and no clutter on any of those front desks--a 'work hard but show no evidence of such on or about your desk area'--kind of guy. Gordon did not ask her to remove the noise maker, immediately. She started out sort of okay first thing in the morning. Then, with a caller on the line we heard, "Huh, I can't hear you!", while turning up the volume during song parts she REALLY liked! Calls came in from people passing in the hallway, asking about our "Disco Dolly". Complaints, ya', we had quite a few and it was curtains, for her. It didn't help that she drove to San Francisco one weekend to be there when the sailors docked, and didn't contact the office until our Monday was almost complete!

One of the Pool's best was a former ballerina but she didn't stay long. She considered herself to be "Executive" material. Our office manager had been in the position awhile, despite her use of vulgar language. She loved to tell dirty jokes in the office. Another, a middle-aged woman and a graduate of a prestigious women's college, burned out as a social worker and ended up in Nevada working as a shill in a local casino.

Perhaps because of her education and social work history, Barb thought it was beneath her to type and work as a secretary. She still maintained that belief but needed work badly enough that she taught herself to type. In our office, she proved to be a top notch editor. Surely faculty realized that a PhD does not a writer make, but it took a little time for them to accept her adamant recitation of rules for proper use of English. Once they embraced her skills for writing and editing, she made them all look real good on paper! On days when she wanted company for lunch, we'd walk to a small eatery a couple of blocks from the office. She was the original, "Have it Your Way" customer, always ordering half a tuna sandwich--exactly half--, cut on the diagonal, bread toasted, and a cup of soup, winter or summer, always a cup of soup. When she returned to her desk after lunch she ate six raw almonds. Just that many. Every day. Before I knew her, she had been married, twice, to the same man, first to have a child, and then, again, to have a second child. She loved being a Mom. For Mother's Day she sent each of them a special music box each year and a card to say thank you, for making her a mother. When her former mate became terminally ill, she took care of him until his death. Everyone has a story...

The Pool changed regularly. The department's faculty mix turned over a few times, giving a different office feel to the operation. Some department heads lasted almost 10 years, others were gone in less time, one lasting not quite six months! The college seemed to be in a reorganization process regularly. During the year-long process of testing for a diagnosis and the first years of learning to live with RA, and other changes in my personal life, it was in part, support from the Pool that kept me going.  My will to overcome adversity and a sense of responsibility played a big part, as well. 

 I had kids to drop off at school and mountains to climb, literally. It was a short distance from my car to my office but some mornings, it took me 20 minutes to walk it. On days when I couldn't lift the receiver of my desk phone, someone in the pool took my calls. When copies were being made on a big, commercial machine in the Extension publication center one floor down, across the breeze-way outside, and into another wing of the building or in the Ag. Library one floor above us, someone always took my to-be-copied file to do with theirs on days when I couldn't make the climb or decent. It was more difficult to have my symptoms go unnoticed while I worked in the front office. As the Pool dynamic changed and I had a private office, my locked door meant I was either wiped out from some drug or treatment given that day but trying to make it through or I needed to work without interruption. Most respected that. Oh, there was one--there's always one--faculty member who would stand at my door, calling my name and knocking, repeatedly, as a child does the minute Mom gets on the phone! The women of the Pool helped me fight the fight in many ways. I did what I could do each day and a little more; They did what I could not.

Amazingly, I missed very little work because of RA but I woke up in bad shape one morning. I had a Master's student thesis to finish. It took me all day. The paper was filled with algebraic equations and modeling formulas. Each time I needed to change from the symbol element and back to the regular keyboard character one, I had to lift the small latch at the top of the ball, pull it all the way back in order to release the element, then reverse the process, engaging the latch until it clicked, to replace it. At this time, I was sleeping with Popsicle sticks taped to each of my fingers so they would at least be extended and not clenched into a tight fist-like ball by morning. On this day, I couldn't open or close that little latch on the element balls but under pressure to meet a deadline, I discovered that I could hold my letter opener, then use it to pry open that little latch without breaking it. I remember this as a painstaking day but a triumphant one. The deadline was met.

"Come, come ye Saints, no toil or labor fear, But with joy wend your way. ... All is well." Hymns, LDS.

In addition to secretarial help from the Pool, I acknowledge those things that sustain me, unseen. It's a part of who I am.

Off to College at 40-WPM

In the work-a-day world, my qualifications appeared glaringly inadequate when I needed more than supplemental income.  My kids were too young to be at home alone, too old for traditional day-care. I had no way to pay for that anyway, nor could I afford summer or after-school day camps. A trucking company offered me a graveyard shift at $20,000 annual starting salary. That sounded like $millions$ to me but I couldn't leave my kids alone all night! If they went on strike, I would have no income for the duration. Western Union offered me a 4:00 p.m. to midnight shift at a good starting salary and benefits but it was not a family-friendly job.  I would be totally unavailable during the hours of my shift, even for emergency calls.  I had maxed out at the flower shop at $4/hr. with no benefits. (Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore) My Utah cosmetology license was not covered by the law of reciprocity because I had not worked in a salon within five years. Re-licensing meant time and money plus meager earnings while building a clientele from scratch. (Hair Today-Gone Tomorrow)

Forty words a minute? Pa-shaw! I had speeds higher than that in high school on old, rackety, clackety typewriters. Surely I could meet the Nevada State Personnel's requirement. But I hadn't used those skills much in 16 years. Reno Business School to the rescue for a short brush-up course. I was still a disaster on a 10-key. No shorthand, either. I hoped it wouldn't matter.

It was late summer. August 1979, in fact. After all my attempts at self-employment and part-time, short-time, day-time, night-time, all-the-darn-time jobs, often keeping more than one going at a time, I applied, tested, interviewed and was hired for a 'real' job with benefits for me and my kids and a regular paycheck! They were looking for a typist. I now had a little white card stating that I could type 80-WPM error free, down some from my 100-WPM in high school, but good enough to get my foot in the door! My starting salary of $4.09/hr. wasn't enough to pay my bills but there was opportunity to advance. I hoped I could keep some part-time work going at night from home, in the meantime. With a couple of weeks left until the school year began for my kids, there was still the worry about them being safe at home alone. So began more than twenty years of employment with the University of Nevada, Reno, the College of Agriculture, the Department of Agricultural and Resource Economics.

Office attire? Good grief. I had none of that. I showed up for work on my first day wearing what I had, a wrap around, crinkle cotton, navy blue (Making Peace with Blue) skirt and a plain white top, a beat up pair of shoes that a good scrubbing in the sink and polish helped some but not much. I washed my clothes out in the bathroom sink every night, ironed them every morning and wore them again, every day until I could justify spending for something more.

The first day was hectic. I was marched down the hall to meet the dean of the College. He greeted me with, "So I hear you can type?" The first of the faculty I met came through the office door, leaned on the divider separating four of the front office work stations and asked, "Well, can she type?" During that week, I had plenty of opportunity to prove that, indeed, I could!

Someone needed data entry done so they sat me down in front of a main-frame computer-center-connected drone thing-a-ma-jig, not quite a free-standing PC but as close as I'd ever been to a computer before. That was pretty monotonous. The Linear word processor was, again, something new to me. There were no PCs yet for department use, mostly Selectric's in the office plus a couple of electronic, limited-memory typewriters. One of the faculty was building the department's first PC in the back room. When that was up and running, it was a shared machine. To aid in the 'sharing', another secretary and I were writing a manual for using Word Star, I think it was called. I finished doing my little bit on the PC one day, stood up and flipped the off switch, as I'd been instructed to do. Behind me, the most awful gasp filled the room! One of our grad students sitting at another data-dog machine, connected it to the same bar plug as me and whoosh...! Two hours of data entry were lost with my one flip of the switch! Like I've always said, "Sharing is highly over-rated!"

Near the end of my first week on the job, my 7-year old called me, hysterical the minute she heard my voice on the phone. Someone was hurt at home. I did just what you don't do in the first week of a new job, unless you're a mom. Rushing the drive home, I wondered if I'd have a job to go back to the next day. Who was hurt? How bad? "How will I pay for a trip to the ER?", talking out loud to myself. Those blessed benefits I had cheered about having were not available, yet. Then the guilt settled in to mess with my mind, for not being at home with my kids. But I had to work. We wanted food served with our meals, right? And a roof over our heads? When I opened the front door, I saw blood spattered on the walls, the ceiling, down the hallway! My son, the ten-year-old, was fixing cold drinks for himself and his sister. He caught his finger in the ice crusher, panicked and ran through the house waving his blood-spurting finger in the air, leaving a spotted path as he went. Several stitches put his finger back together and I had my first class in: Mothers at the Office 101--How to Keep Your Job While Saving Your Child.

The phone rang at my desk. My daughter was calling to report that two strange men had been parked in front of our house for some time. They were throwing empty beer bottles on our lawn. Her brother was out, delivering papers on his route. She was scared. At the risk of having a social worker pay me a visit with questions of why my child, under 12 years old, was at home alone and unsupervised, I called our local police. "We'll check it out." Time passed. Back on the phone with my daughter. No police car. And thankfully, no social worker. As soon as my neighbor came home, she rescued my child. The drunks? They had the wrong house. They had their baseball bat ready and were laying in wait for a guy in the next block--a domestic dispute.

Crime seemed far removed from our middle-class neighborhood, I would say. We lived on a dead-end street newly built in '76. Lots of families. Kids played free and safely outside, rode bikes, skated and were back and forth between houses. We knew the adults who belonged to the kids. Yet. returning from work one day, I was blocked from entering my subdivision by police cars everywhere, a bullet-riddled Volkswagen left parked in the middle of the street just a couple of blocks from my house. Another domestic dispute. Once I was given the go-ahead, I couldn't get in the house fast enough. Everyone was SAFE!

Everyone on campus knew Dr. Champney. He was 'the' advisor for all incoming freshman. He became a lifeline for many at school, a reference after graduation. His office was just a small cubicle. The records he kept had outgrown his storage space. Stacks, some piled as tall as he could reach, filled the room leaving space for a small desk, his chair and one for a student. He knew exactly where to put his finger on every piece of paper, every file. He loved cherry pie. It was always a gamble whether or not I could bake a good one. He'd chuckle, pick up a spoon and say, "Just the way I like it!" when my filling had not set up. Licking his finger, he made sure to get every crumb of crust!

Chauncey, in the office, Dr. Ching to others, was professionally prolific. He was completing a text book when I met him. He was the department chair, taught semester classes and always had a line of students waiting in the front office to talk with him. Faculty submitted work to our supervisor to be prioritized, and shared by the pool.  Our supervisor was weary of office tedium and bored so instead of including herself in the work sharing, she distributed it all to the pool. She kept up the social end of things, department, college, and campus-wide. Once Chauncey discovered I could transcribe from tape quickly with accuracy, producing a final copy on the first draft most of the time, I arrived each morning to find his stack of tapes at my desk. I'd complete those plus whatever he produced during the day, and come back to a fresh stack the next morning! I assumed the man never slept!

Dr. Ching invited me and my kids to join his family for dinner and the stage show, "Annie". I had worked hard on a special project. He had no way to compensate me financially via the State system. This was his way of acknowledging my extra effort. I had a dress I'd used to attend a function while working at the flower shop. Awful dress! I'd have to make it do. Jennifer had school dresses. There must have been something there to work with but Todd had only ragged tennis shoes and holey, high-water jeans, at the time. Then the mail came. Jean, my brother's wife, had sent us a care package--a box of returns from Sears shoe department. And miracle of miracle's, there was a size 12 EEE+ pair--a high-top work boot. Close enough! I polished them and had Todd wear his least ragged jeans, pulling them down as far as possible to cover some of the boot. We must have looked like rag-a-muffins or kin of Jed Klampet, out on the town. I was a bundle of nerves. The Chings and I had a good laugh over that night when it was over. I found out that they had been as nervous as I was, hoping we would enjoy their company and have a good time.

Michael was the kind of man who came into the office, shook your hand, looked you in the eyes and spoke to you, then waited for your response, and listened.  Not everyone we worked with or for treated secretaries with that kind of respect. Mr. Mooney was an Extension faculty member, whose office was in Las Vegas. He came to our office now and then to work on joint projects with other department faculty. One winter morning, there was a long, white box, I mean BIG, tied with a beautiful red bow sitting on my desk when I walked into the office. No card. It wasn't my birthday. I got quite a surprise when I opened it. There, folded in white tissue wrapping, was a beautiful, shades of gray and stylish, wool winter coat. He had noticed me coming and going in winter weather, without a coat on. I didn't have a coat. Thanks, to that sweet man!

Working in this big office was quite a leap for me--18 professors, not quite a dozen grads on assistantship, a few post graduates--Research Associates, numbers of undergrad student workers, sometimes five or more secretaries and Extension personnel, in the field. It was exposure to the world, for me as well, having many international students on campus, hearing English as a second language and lots of varied handwriting to get use to. I had been a stay-at-home working mom for 14 years. I felt the need for something to hide behind as I acclimated to my new surroundings. Birthday cake seemed like a good idea.

Chauncey was delighted to find out I could bake. He even mentioned it in my evaluation. In full support, he insisted that everyone take a few minutes of their busy day to join together in the conference room, have a slice, and chat. His only rule was: "No shop talk." He suggested these few minutes be used to get to know one another as individuals. Cake? Pie? No one had to be asked twice. And the work still got done. Dr. Garrett asked for recipes. He was a candy maker, himself. Anything chocolate got rave reviews. Homemade ice cream was a real hit in the middle of a work day! Mr. Shane got his boob cake! Yes, you read that correctly! He was having his year-forty life crisis? What else could I do? Folks from the dean's office wandered down if there was pie. The Ag College community seemed to enjoy my commercial-sized from-scratch pound cake with cream cheese frosting and a fruit filling, served at the gathering to say goodbye to Chauncey when he returned to Hawaii.

We came together to celebrate--promotions, graduations, new arrivals, departures. The secretaries hosted themed parties, annually. Faculty played hand-ball and racket ball during lunch. The department formed a baseball team. We got to know their families at our annual 'Back to School' picnic in the fall and at orientation, held for new grads coming in on assistantship. Students came back after graduation to say hello. Dr. Champney kept track of almost everyone and knew where they were on their career paths. I think he and Dr. Garrett flipped burgers for every student function ever held on UNR's campus!

The department was very good to me in those first years. I was often invited to lunch, a real treat for me. Dr. Garrett bought me my first microwave counter top oven, a thank you for all the department baking. I took my first computer class from him in the lab he was instrumental in acquiring for the College. Jenn and I were hostesses running the kitchen for his daughter's wedding. And from Dick, I received one of my most unusual gifts--clogging shoes and classes! It was surprisingly fun!

I worked for six different department chairmen and for the Nevada State Extension Horticultural Specialist during my years on campus. I got along with most and learned to endure others. I sat in every chair and held every position. Typing was no longer the only skill I could list on a resume'.

One stormy morning on my drive to work, I stopped for a red light at an intersection. I usually drove with my car doors locked but I had just let Todd out at school and hadn't re-locked the passenger door. A little old lady in bright blue tennis shoes, waiting on the corner for a bus, flung open my car door and was inside in a flash. I was speechless! The light changed. There was no where to pull over or stop. Cars were sliding off the streets, visibility was poor. As I moved with the traffic, she began talking a mile a minute, telling how she'd once been a wealthy woman living in San Francisco. She said she was just too cold to wait any longer for the bus but when I asked her where she wanted to go, she was vague. She kept telling me that she had a job downtown but as I mentioned the major streets where I could take her, she would just say, "Oh, anywhere, just anywhere," and then go on with her story, more eccentric and mysterious by the minute. It was very cold for this little old woman to be out without gloves and only a light coat, wearing bright blue cloth shoes but finally I let her out on a corner in Reno's casino district. She offered me a quarter for my trouble and went right on with her babbling as she got out of the car. I was late to work but had a good story to tell.

Life-changing events during my stint at UNR? I became single again, got the RA diagnosis (Arthur and Ritis), was an empty nester, then the grandkids moved in, all things that became a part of who I was then and who I have become, now.

There is certainly more to tell about life in the office. There was the time that ... well, I'll save that for later.

Specialist for Hire...Any Job Will Do

My grandmother, Edna, was a skilled seamstress, and my mother, too. I've heard stories about the skirt Mother made for my sister using men's ties and how it became the talk of the town! Except for some mending, her treadle sewing machine, an old Singer, hadn't been used in a long time until I joined a 4-H club in summer 1955 to learn to sew, myself. When my brother, Keith, heard I was making my own clothes, he gave me a Morse electric. By my third summer of 4-H, having completed several learn-to-sew-a-straight-stitch projects and a dress and slip, Mother taught me to crochet so I could make slippers to go with the duster and PJ's I'd constructed--set-in sleeves, attached collar, buttonholes, pipping trim, the works! Mother was right-handed but she crocheted left-handed. Despite this oddity, she was able to show me how to hold the hook and thread right-handed. I won blue ribbons in sewing and styling at the Franklin County Fair. Some red ones, too. At the Idaho State Fair in Blackfoot, number 157 in line, with many more 4-Hers behind me, it was a long wait to model, standing on cold cement. Another blue ribbon! Al-right!

As a young mother, looking for some way to be at home with my kids and still earn a little 'pin' money, a home sewing business seemed like the thing to do. With 4-H and high school home economics training under my belt, I could be a 'Sewing Specialist for Hire'. I learned early on that customers viewed home sewing as a 'cheap' way to go. The notion that personal tailoring could cost more than off-the-rack was not popular. Still, I pursued my little home-based business while we lived in Ogden, and again, in Salt Lake City. I was spending too much time hand sewing. That meant I was making next to nothing. What little I made, I saved, hoping to upgrade to a machine with finishing features that could save me some time. The day I retired my beloved Morse for a new Viking was a time of mixed feelings. It had seen me through countless projects--bridesmaid dresses, back-to-school clothes, problem projects that came in from other less-skilled home sewers, and much more.

Ever shop at ZCMI in Salt Lake City? An entire top floor the size of a city block with nothing but fabric. What's not to love about that if you're a specialist for hire!  One of my customers loved Vogue patterns.  She had made her selection from my stash of books, and described to me the fabrics and colors she envisioned for the item(s) on her list.  So, with her credit card in my hand, I was off to ZCMI, two kids in tow.  My young daughter could be confined in a stroller. Her older brother presented more of a challenge.  I was aware that he was no longer beside me at about the same time the announcement of a missing child crackled over the store's loud speaker. The announcer gave an unusual amount of detail about this 'missing' kid. As I looked across the store's field of cloth bolts, I could see him sitting on a counter, happily eating something sweet he'd been given and spilling the beans about every detail of his own and the entire family's story. Lost? Hardly! He loved hearing his name being spoken over a microphone.

For someone who found drawing stick figures a challenge, Tole painting was a specialty perfect for me. I fell in love! I took some classes, taught a few beginning sessions by request, sold a few pieces on consignment--SLC department store and a specialty shop in the Park City Ski Resort shopping district. I was relieved to retrieve unsold pieces when we moved. The paintings had become like my children.  I wasn't likely to make much money from this specialty if I couldn't part with the finished work.

Sparks, Nevada was a huge disappointment in the late 70's compared to what I had been use to so far as arts and crafts were concerned but I found a Tole class offered in a beautiful, old Victorian home in what was once the railroad district. It was being restored. What a divine place to paint. It was like hitting a jackpot, finding a small local shop and a Hallmark Card and Gift willing to sell consignment pieces. It was at Tink's that I learned of the weekend painting seminar in Oakland, California. Some of the best Tole specialists were there, conducting classes and painting with us nearly 'round the clock.

Still looking for my personal specialty and a way to earn cash while raising kids, I typed manuscripts, term papers, thesis rough drafts and final, camera-ready copy. Remember, office computers were just coming onto the scene and PC's were still very expensive. IBM Selectric's ruled. There was still a market for a fast and accurate typist. An older man approached me about typing for a book he was writing--a murder mystery. I agreed to do a couple of chapters but found him odd, his writing becoming too graphic. So I raised my price high enough to be beyond his reach. Cre-e-epy! My name was dropped as someone who could do transcription from tape, final copy ready. An insurance adjuster hired me to transcribe depositions for admission in court cases. He supplied me with everything I needed, including supplies and equipment. I was working a full-time job already, so I transcribed late into the night and in my spare time. The adjuster had a partner, his college-aged son. I had spoken with the son several times on the phone scheduling drop-off and pick-up times for his dad. One day he came in person to pick up the transcription, never having done so before. What a surprise he got! I could tell by the expression on his face and his hasty departure that he was expecting someone younger, a pick-up or date prospect but found instead a middle-aged woman with a good phone voice, able to make conversation, and with more padding than just being a little curvy! Poor guy!

So many odd jobs, a specialist for hire using what skills I had.  Those experiences became a part of me.

Coming soon: Off to College at 40-WPM

Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore

My love for baking bread came in handy with our move from Utah to Nevada. Friends, Smoky and Dee, opened a little diner on Kietzke Lane in Reno. Serving small loaves of bread with soup or salad was all the rage and they wanted to add that to their menu. They supplied the ingredients. I supplied the labor, mixing dough enough for 100 small loaves at a time, all by hand, in my kitchen. With the first rise complete, the dough shaped and resting in small, individual foil pans, the batch was transported to the diner to be stored in the freezer, proofed and baked a few at a time. Divorce fouled the friendship that began as a couple. My bread baking career was short-lived.

Simmy and I met in a floral arranging class at the community college. She opened a shop in Sparks when classes ended and offered me a job. Foreign born, she was a woman once caught in an abusive, arranged marriage. Children born of such a union became the property of the husband, as was custom. Escaping meant leaving alone. Once in the states, she fought for her daughter tirelessly and finally won the battle. She re-married and built a new life for her family. She worked hard. In the shop, she worked me hard. She wanted her money's worth, and a little more. I was officially on her payroll; my kids worked for McDonald's food, a real treat to them at that time.

We piled into Simmy's truck one weekend. "Where did this woman learn to drive?"  She brought us along to collect as many pine cones as possible to use in the shop. She taught my kids how to wrap wires with floral tape and how to make ribbon bows. The kids, mine and her's, camped out in the back room with snacks and TV if we were working during high production times--holidays, proms, graduations. With just we two, in the beginning, it was a challenge to keep up with orders and if the truck carrying fresh flowers from the California markets was held at Donnor pass, we were finished when we were finished, if and when the flowers showed up no matter what time of the day or night it might be.

During my first week as a florist, Simmy left me in charge while she went to California to buy a few gift items for the shop. I had little experience using a cash register during my salon days. By mid-morning, the register locked, quickly making that an 'exact change only' day. Among the 'treasures' from her trip was the most horrible, gruesome looking, teeth-bared-monkey hanging planter. "That will never sell!" I blurted out as she unpacked her wares. She just smiled. With more customers every day, shoplifting was an issue so she used my son as her security person. He could make conversation, walk among prospective customers, point out merchandise, and keep an eye on the sales floor. Then one day, the unthinkable happened. She and I saw him talking with a woman, browsing as she waited for her flower order. Before leaving the shop, she purchased that hideous planter. Simmy just smiled.

Bessie, another student from our original floral class, came on board as Simmy's partner. The business was growing. I learned to use Tele-Flora and FTD. Through these services, a gentleman located somewhere in the US was a happy customer when I was able to have several dozen red roses delivered to a leading lady as she finished her performance on a stage in Paris, France. We often received orders from men, a bouquet for the wife, one for the mistress. Simmy and Bessie joked about switching the gift cards.

I loved doing detailed work--wedding and corsage pieces, especially. Perhaps it was the influence of her Asian background that gave Simmy such a good eye for big pieces or simple, Oriental designs. We made a good team. Harrah's Casino in Reno hosted a show for florists and designers. She jumped at the chance to show what a small shop could do so we made several designs for display. There was a banquet, convention-like speakers and entertainment. She insisted I attend with her. Panic attack! I felt my kids were at that in-between stage--too young to be at home alone at night, yet too old for a sitter. I had been making do with the same few pieces of clothing forever, none of it anything I could wear to an event of this kind. I knew she would show up in elegant, full-length brocade, maybe a short fur cape, and jewelry. Penney's Outlet to my rescue so I could "Fake it 'til you make it!", as a friend use to tell me. I remember walking through my front door after mid-night, totally drained by the experience and with a headache so bad I wished I could just die right there on the couch, and then was afraid I might. But I couldn't die just yet. I had Valentine cookies still to bake and decorate and make ready for the morning, enough for two school classes--complete with a classmate's name written on each of them.

We had a big order for a wedding, for the daughter of a prominent, local, Italian Catholic family. Bridal bouquets had become something of a specialty for me. I loved designing these and was good at it. "Dress comfortably. You'll be on the floor tacking down white paper carpet for the bride to walk over." The camper shell was again put into service. Simmy situated me where I could balance the big, chapel baskets with outstretched legs, steady pew trims with one hand and hold onto the bouquet and other wedding party flowers, with the other. Again, she drove like something you'd see in a movie, the camper leaning this way and that, driving too fast I thought, then stopping on a dime when she didn't quite make the light! The business could not yet support a delivery van purchase, but after this trip, I prayed she'd give this more thought.

The chapel looked beautiful. Dressed in our 'work' clothes, we were out of there before guests began to arrive. Simmy was tutoring the bride's father on the finer points of walking his daughter down the aisle. It was time to pin flowers on the wedding party and give the bride her bouquet. There was drama brewing between Momma and her daughter. "You've had several fittings, adjustments each time, the last one just last week so why won't your dress zip? Let me try..." Oops! Broken zipper. Time was running short, now. The bride was pinned into her dress. Now Momma insisted that we had forgotten a flower for one groomsman. Guess who made the long walk down the chapel isle, totally under dressed for this occasion, to pluck a carnation from the back of a basket, turn to face the seated guests in the now full-to-capacity room and make that long walk back to the staging area, as though this had been planned all along. In the meantime, what was thought to be lost had been found. Simmy held onto the father's arm until just that perfect moment when the door opened, oohs and aahs were heard from the crowd, then step one, toe pointed to the front, a little kick of the dress... "So after the ceremony, did the bride break the news to her momma?"

Finally, Simmy hired someone to make deliveries, a young guy--long stringy, blond hair, waif-like, thin.  Not finding most residents at home, he simply left each order on a doorstep. Next day, we replaced about a dozen frozen bouquets that had been sent out the previous day. Gave the guy one more chance. Flowers could still be delivered right to a hospital room. Our guy delivered, took a few steps back, then burst into song. Think Tiny Tim. No worse than that. Think Lisa Kudrow of Friends,  no real guitar cords, no tune, made-up words. Worse than that! Our delivery boy had forgotten to mention his intent of using flower delivery to break into show biz! The patient called the shop. "PLEASE, ... don't send me flowers anymore!"

It's an Anytime, Rhyme Time Syndrome

How did I ever find the time
To go to work each day?
And often, I worked extra hours,
Plus traveled miles each way.

Twelve ho-urs on my feet, sometimes,
Not quite a fairy tale.
Roll a perm, twist a curl or paint
Some locks or fingernails.

Married? Me? That's a full-time job,
What with birth-in' babies,
Cooking, cleaning, washing, and more,
There's sewing, fix-it pleas.

Tole painting, arts, and handicrafts,
Hosting family and friends,
Turn in the road led to Simmy's,
And Washoe High, end-to-end

Moving along, hit the big-time,
U N of R hired me? !
First prof I met asked the question,
"Can she type? Let me see!"

Typing, transcription, and phone calls,
Contracts, travel, textbooks,
Job searches and office parties,
I signed for the check book!

Twenty-some years passed by quickly,
One more fork in the road,
TMCC came a-calling,
Still had kids--my zip code.

Me, be an office Girl-Friday?
'Course! I'd done it before.
So many students, at my desk,
Always more coming, in the door.

They came with the darnedest questions,
And all wanted an answer,
I'd say, "I'm the new girl in town",
"So just ask him or her!"

It's been more than thirty some years,
Retirement? Too soon!
Can't possibly be that ag-ed.
Mirrored face, Me? Or a prune!
----------

I have these 'Anytime, Sing-song Rhyme Time Syndrome' symptoms come over me, when I sit in my new computer chair. I thought they might subside, given that frontal lobe deterioration, yours and mine, begins after age thirty, but sitting here, my every thought begins like, "What rhymes with ...?" Do you think my chair is defective?

Number of years worked: Almost 32 . That's what my retirement papers listed. I got to thinking about all the jobs I've done, salaried or not, over the last 67 years and decided there was more to my work history story.

My first job from birth and one I took seriously, was just being so darn cute! My mother wrote about all the fine stuff folks brought to me when I arrived. Keith introduced me to teddy bears. Burns brought a 'baby book'. Being forward thinking, Mother filled it with notes and a few pictures from the earliest years. She understood the difficulty of my job--being cute, knew it couldn't last forever and would need documentation. Aunt Vera crocheted a tiny doll with clothes, a treasure I take out to marvel at the making, now and then. Marion brought slippers from the Philippines, MerLyn, a soft, blue shawl. My job duties included smiling a lot and looking at the world with big, brown eyes so everyone would notice them. According to Mother, everyone did. Dr. Wheeler is credited with saying, "Christie's eyes know all the answers." Being cute's a tough job! I had to learn to talk early to say things that got attention, like: "Oh, a mighty, that hurts!" Or, "Charley Bye Bye? Why?" MerLyn was sure she heard me say, "Oh, dear!", before my first birthday.

Mother was right. A job like that doesn't last forever. When 'Being Cute' ended, I had farm chores to do like everyone else. There was the hair-raising, risking life and limb, nightly chicken coop assignment ( Doolittle's Farm? ). And that quarter acre of beets I thinned ( In Praise of Fathers ). Mother and I picked beans one summer, at a nickle (or less) per pound. We earned about $6, ... total. The both of us. Green string beans don't weigh much.

I worked during one fall potato harvest--must have been at the Tingey farm. I'm unsure if I was paid by number of sacks filled or by sack weight or whether I did enough to be paid at all. A big, ole' 50-pound gunny sack filled with Idaho Russets was tough to manage. Once a sack was full, I had to drag or carry it to a designated space between rows, a sort of staging area where a truck would drive through the field to be loaded with sacks of potatoes from both sides. I'm sure the process has been modernized, using equipment to complete the harvest. So what do farm kids do now, to work off steam and raging hormones, to learn to put in a full day of labor, starting at the bottom and make a few bucks?

As a high school grad, and after months of specialized training, I was licensed to work in Utah hair salons ( Hair Today-Gone Tomorrow ). I married and spent a summer traveling. I didn't return to salon work. I would soon take on the hardest, nonsalaried job I'd ever loved--being a mom.

In retrospect, I didn't always love the job or the title, 'Mom'. Long hours, poor working conditions, a real overworked and under appreciated kind of a job, I thought. I felt at times that I'd lost my individual identity. I had 'Momitis'. Surely, I'm not the only one to have wished for someone to just call me by my given name, 'Christie', instead of the endless cries of, "Mom, where's my...?" "Mom, I want..." "Mom, I can't..." "Mom, I need..." "MOM!". Instead, I was always Mom, or M-o-t-h-e-r, used for effect if the child was angry, frustrated or whatever. My job, as I understood it, was to take care of family needs, wants, and comforts even if it meant putting my own--putting ME--aside. I was introduced and referred to as Frank's wife or Mrs. South, a daughter or sister-in-law (better than an outlaw, I guess), mother-in-law ("If it's not one thing, it's your mother!") someone's aunt, somebody's daughter, Grandma or Grandmother, if drama was on the play list.  I'd been called 'Chris', at some salaried jobs, and it took me awhile to answer, never having been nicknamed before. My name was a nickname already, my grandmother Christina Morgan's.

As my rough edges have been smoothed a bit with time, experience, the learned art of appreciation and a little wisdom, I've come to love all the titles I can claim including the most recent one, Oomah, with one exception. That one is, EX-. From my perspective, I have never been, and am not an Ex- anything. Yes, once married, once divorced, but never an Ex. The term to me is demeaning. It devalues--invalidates--what came before. In reference, I've preferred, "Former Roommate."

Washoe High School was an experiment, an alternative for students unable to attend a traditional high school. As an aide working for one teacher, I continued my own 'Education by Degrees'. These were some pretty tough kids to deal with, at times, some with learning disabilities, poor or no family life or support, teen pregnancy, their idea of life and a good time based on addictive and often illegal substances. The instructor was an interesting sort, herself. A former show girl/dancer, she had performed in local and LasVegas casinos. Interesting woman, she was, who worked well with these kids. So many couldn't read. Working with non-readers one-on-one was my main assignment. While classroom studies, without the distraction of regular high school activities, were the emphasis, 'she' (I've lost her name in the passing of time) felt field trips were essential. Just she and I and a bus driver with this bunch of unpredictables. Steamboat Springs, its mineral baths and geothermal energy possibilities caught everyone's attention. And the pig farm! S-t-i-n-k-y! Those off-track teens relaxed. I always hoped the thought had been planted in their minds that a good time could be had without being drunk or high, and that they could be some body if they wanted to invest the time and effort in themselves and help each other. I spent the last couple of weeks of that semester in Washoe's office. Except for running copies off on an old mimeograph machine at my brother's fabric and sewing machine store in Oregon one summer, I had no actual office experience, just high school typing and bookkeeping classes. Thinking back to that rickety, clickety typewriter at my desk, the best I could manage was to waste a lot of paper trying to produce a flier template. The worst thing I did was to waste a lot of paper trying to make fliers. But bless my boss, John. That semester at Washoe and a few weeks in the office ensured my kids food with their meals and gave me more experience than I had when I walked in the door!

Simmy and I met in a floral arranging class at the community college. I had to develop an ear for her heavy accent in order to understand her. She opened a shop in Sparks when classes ended and offered me a job. To learn more about this workplace adventure, watch for the blog:  Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore .

Sanchez

Ever ride in a rattle-y truck...
All dented and old and dusty?
Outfitted with sand bags,
A big tool box in back,
Paint missing or worn, and rusty?


He was once the new truck on the block,
Now sputters and coughs...turns over.
Wears snow tires in summer,
The roof leaks when it's wet,
True work of art in the mirror.


What great tale has he, could he tell us?
Where has he been-kind of story?
A drive with the older,
Or quick spin with a youth
At work, for a college degree?


Could last night's ride home have been better,
Than most he has given before?
Gram parked the ole' Caddy,
Said, "No need!", to the Dodge,
"I choose Sanchez, Si', Si', Senor!"

Happy Birthday, Jennifer--July 7, 2012

Dear daughter mine...

I've searched Internet archives and have found that nothing remarkable happened in the world on July 7, 1971, ...  until you were born!

On the day you were born,
In the month of July,
Wednesday, an early morn,
Heard the tiniest cry.

All were as excited as
if the Fourth of July.
Was day seven, instead,
Simply to clarify.

Many boy births, surely...
Word quickly spread.
"It's a beautiful girlie!"
Pink bow on your head.

Big brother, awaiting
News of the arrival,
A sister?  No plaything?
Where's the monkey?  How dull!

"She's a keeper," we said.
"She'll grow and get bigger,
And have hair on her head,
Laugh, play and have vigor."

So keep her, we chose to,
And so glad that we did.
Birthday wishes for you,
My Remarkable Kid!.

Love, Mom--July 7, 2012

Fifty Years Ago

The 50th reunion for the graduating class of 1962 from West Side High School is penciled in on my July calendar for 2012. Fifty years? Really? Then, I was just seventeen, "A sweet, young thing." Now I ask myself who the old woman is who looks back at me in the mirror.

Freshman Initiation. That's how high school began for me. "Wear a dress made from a gunny sack with pink ribbon bows, lots of tiny braids in your hair, onions strung as a necklace around your neck, one high-heeled shoe, and one bare foot," the instructions read. Furthermore, I was told to carry shoe polish with me everywhere I went at school that day, then kneel down while singing the school song, to shine the shoes of any 'Senior' I happened upon.

Farrel Austin was elected freshman class president, I was class secretary and Kent Tingey, my childhood playmate, was chosen as vice president. His grandmother lived next door, where my grandpa Morgan's house had once stood. Mother said I came home at the end of my first day at school, upset that my first grade teacher, Mrs. Johnson, would not let me share a desk with Kent.  She, instead, had separated us!

Clint Buttars was my first date! I remember only how anxious I was all evening, dressed in a horrible, two-piece thing, looking like I was wearing my grandmother's dress and feeling the pressure of singing the theme song for the dance. After the dance, Clint's car had barely stopped in front of the old Olsen place where Mother and I were living when I opened the car door and lit out running for the front door. My social skills have not improved much over fifty years! I'm still that awkward teen.

Music became my identity. I was the accompanist for the high school choir, played my sister's flute in the band, and accompanied the music teacher, Mr. Smith, when he performed. I remember being called out of class and out of an audience at school and at church if someone needed an accompanist.  Wasn't it lucky that sight-reading came easy for me!  I sat on lots of piano and organ benches.  "Moonlight" was the annual operetta. I was the 'orchestra'. Marlow Viehweg, a senior, was the leading man.  Such a crush I had on that handsome guy! I was 'that' girl, the one who often had a crush but got little attention from the opposite sex. "She sure can play the piano!"  "She's got a great personality!"  But not someone to ask on a date.  That gave me lots of time to become very busy, for quiet as I was by nature, I was a joiner.

Ruth Ann Powell and I, though part of a foursome that included Marianne Winward and Lorraine Rice, joined the Pep Club. We always managed to cheer ourselves hoarse. Ruth Ann and I traveled home from an away game during a bad snowstorm one night. By midnight, the school bus had made it only as far as Clifton. She and I were left to tromp through snow at least two feet deep that last mile to get to her house. I spent the weekend there, and had a great time until snow plows could clear the roads.

Writer Mary Gordon said, "Where do you start when you talk about the sixties? ...the horror and the playfulness, the sense of helplessness, the sense of freedom, all true in that decade?" By the mid-sixties, parents had lost their credibility. Generations were split. The sexual revolution was on. Church was out, women's lib was in. The U.S. launched its first manned space flight. My mother always believed it was a hoax. Americans looking for some escape from this roller-coaster decade went for Mary Poppins and 'Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini'. Color TV became popular, the first microwave counter top oven was introduced.  Barbara Steisand became a household name and Billie Jean King won almost every American and International tennis match open to women. My little corner of the world went on in much the same way, with little evidence of impact from events that made the news.

Active each year in FHA, as a sophomore I chaired a Christmas assembly planning committee, working with others to script the entire assembly in rhyme. For stage decorations, we hauled in real pines and decorated them, as my mother did our tree at home, using Lux soap flakes beaten with water to a whipped cream consistency, then spread on the tree branches by hand. 'Santa Snow' was sprinkled over each tree while they were still damp, making the twinkly effect of real snow. It was also that year that I won two short story contests, one that came with a twenty-five dollar prize!

Small high schools such as ours seemed to be a post graduate training ground for music majors fresh out of college. We had a new one almost every year--Mr. Smith, Mr. Worthen, Mr. Hardesty. Mr. Smith was so good looking! Mr. Worthen nudged me out of my comfort zone and into opportunities for growth in music I hadn't experienced before. He was also a real-life Mr. McDreamy! Mr. Hardesty required a high level of expertise and although I had little formal training, comparatively, I did some of my best piano work under his direction. He and I also played trumpet duets. Near the end of the piece, I would put my trumpet down and the audience would discover that he was the only one playing, using a difficult horn technique called 'triple tonguing', that has listeners thinking the sound is coming from more than one instrument.

The girl's choice 'Buddy Dance' was an annual event. Girl friends were to make arrangements for these 'blind' dates. I had such a crush on Robert Wood who of course, didn't know I existed. Every girl in school wanted to date him. I don't remember much about the date. Having school mates know that I went out with the guy they all wanted to go out with, was the fun of it.

West Side's basketball team always did well. I never understood football but I loved basketball. As student body reporter, it was my job to call local newspapers to give them the stats following every sports activity. The Logan Herald reporter knew from the start that I did not have a clue what I was saying. "Just call me with the numbers and I'll make a story of it," he said.

The only trouble I ever got into at school was for cutting class. Mother was sick. Aunt Flo and Uncle Les agreed to take me and Ruth Ann to Pocatello to shop for prom formals. We had a grand time! When the principal threatened to cut our grades one full grade in all classes and assigned us a theme paper telling why we were not to cut school to shop, Mother was livid! She wrote both papers herself, saying we would do it again if the need arose! Our grades were never cut and we went on, putting lots of time and effort into dance preparations--the false ceiling made entirely of woven crepe paper was impressive! Picture this--girls of our junior class dressed in floor-length white formals being presented in promenade style to receive our class rings.

The 'in' girls wore Jansen's and school letter sweaters. My wardrobe in high school was not that of an 'in' girl, though I did have the big petticoats.  My mother spent hours starching those things, then hanging them upside down on the clothes line until they were stiff as a board!  In my Senior year, I earned a music letter.  Ah-h-h. Sort of an 'in' girl at last!  I remember how it felt to appear at school, wearing that white school sweater complete with the letter and pins I had worked so hard to earn. I remember also, that one of my first paycheck purchases after high school was, ... a black, Jansen sweater.

Seniors at last! I had a crush on a 'college' man, Gary Porter. We performed together often, sometimes singing duets or I accompanied his vocals. I always fell for the one with a beautiful voice! That year was filled with school and club activities, music performances, travel, leadership roles, and making decisions about, 'What's Next?' I've kept a note about being a fast typist on those old, non-electric machines. And an 'A' and 'B' student, something that surprises me, given that I missed so much class time for music rehearsals.  At seventeen, I didn't know what I didn't know!

I thank LeArta Hammond and my 4-H leaders for sewing skills I've used my entire adult life. Utah State University Agathon sponsored a high school fashion show for graduating Seniors where I modeled the tailored, black coat, with bound buttonholes and flashy lining I had made in Home Ec. With pure silk material from my brother's sewing shop, I made a 'little black dress', to wear with the coat. Peeling carrots was something else that LeArta taught me. On the farm, carrots came from the garden, tops on, most of the dirt knocked off and were served after a quick rinse at the sink. In Home Ec., Mrs. Hammond seemed horrified seeing carrots I had prepared, there in neat sticks on the plate but unpeeled! She made me peel each of those carrot sicks, individually, before returning them to the table! Yup, it comes to mind still where carrots are concerned.

Peeling carrots, and all the rest, friendships made and kept, ... 50 years ago.  All are a part of me.

Celebrate! Parades and Fireworks

July 4th in South Salt Lake in the early 70's meant a kid's parade, with fun games, snow cones and cotton candy at the Madison School afterward with Grandpa and Grandma South. One year, Grandpa boosted his grandkids, Todd and Jennifer, atop an old fire engine to ride through the parade. I had made costumes for them--Todd as George Washington and Jenn as Betsy Ross. The cute factor was very high that day! When Grandpa finished showing them off, Grandma was in charge of games and treats. She loved that as much as the kids did!

One 4th of July, I took my kids to see fireworks at UNR's football stadium. It was a great show but as we tried to leave, half of the exit gate closed on the crowd. It became a scary situation as I tried to hang onto Jenn and keep us both from being trampled or crushed. Todd had made it out ahead of us, on his own. I've been wary of large crowds ever since.

When at last, I broke through traffic gridlock and was driving home from a 4th celebration on another occasion, I saw smoke rising in the sky some distance ahead of us. Continuing to watch that plume as we drove, I couldn't place its location. I drove out of Reno and into Sparks, with smoke still rising ahead of us. Closer to home. "The fire must be on the East side of Sparks," I reasoned. Another mile or so. "Could be in the dry hills just beyond our neighborhood."  I turned off Baring, 'rounded the last corner onto Waterfield. The smoke ... The fire ... looks like ... Could be ... OUR HOUSE! No flames were visible at the front. Todd was out of the car before it completely stopped, with his key in the front door in a flash, running straight through to the back door before I could stop him. Across the back lawn and up over the back fence he went, like someone running hurdles, tearing towards Shadow Mountain, behind our house, towards the flames and smoke. Hot embers were now swirling low in the sky around the house. With Jenn on a ladder, hose in hand and sobbing, flames coming up over the hill and burning toward my back fence, Todd cleared the fence again, grabbed a rake and started clearing dry stuff along the fence. It would have made little difference had the flames reached the fence--chain link but with wooden slats all across it. Flames jumped two service roads encircling that hill, stopping short of our fence. We kept spraying water all the while, wetting down the roof, the house, the yard. Neighbors had congregated by now, thinking it was our house in flames. Seeing those firetrucks lined up on the hill, silhouetted against the night sky, was a welcome sight. We've come to expect a July 4th fire of some sort on this hill, sometimes sparked by bikers riding through dry cheetgrass or fools who think the 'No Fireworks' rules are for somebody else. There have been a few, but none as dramatic as the first, thankfully.

I saw our neighborhood empty out for holiday weekends, almost everyone in some sort of 4-wheel drive something.  I decided we should not be the only ones left at home. Todd and Jenn helped load up the Datsun, including Digit, our getting-bigger-all-the-time Golden Retriever. I headed for Lake Tahoe, my first trip up the mountain on my own. We explored a couple of areas that we could get to without paying money. Climbing rocks at one location, the 'nuddie' beach came into view. That was a sightseeing extra we hadn't planned! I heard from others that there would be fireworks around the Lake come sunset and decided to stay. They were beautiful. Back in the car, I drove around a bit. I didn't know the area in the daytime and I sure didn't know how to get off the mountain in the dark safely amidst traffic jams and rowdy crowds of people. Digit had loved playing all day, occasionally being tied to a prominent "No Dogs Allowed" sign with plenty of leash to still roam a bit. He didn't much like being confined again in our small car. I parked behind a building in an otherwise almost empty parking lot. I had no money for a motel, even if I could have found lodging for the night. Todd called the passenger seat and moved it back as far as it would go to accomodate his growing legs, then laid the back of the seat down. Jenn thought she could still stretch out on the back seat and put the dog on the floor.  Instead, she and Digit wrestled for space. I sat straight up, hands still on the steering wheel keeping watch, I thought.  Sometime during the night, I must have dozed off and was awakened by a scream. Evidently, I had parked behind a bar. Some drunk tried to peer through the fogged up window and came face to face with Digit's face, nose, full smile showing all his teeth, pressed against the glass!  That beastly vision must have sobered the guy up in a hurry!

Regular trips to see Lake Tahoe fireworks began while Jenn lived at the Lake. I drove there with my grandkids--four babies, a 4-year old, a 2-year old, and toddler twins about 17 months old. They were so cute enjoying the sand and water but were fearless.  It took three adults to manage that bunch! When Jenn rented an apartment on King's Beach, above a wonderful bakery, across from Steamers Pizza, I made the trek again, this time to spend the night.  After that, I rented a motel for several years and spent a night or two at King's Beach, taking in the annual arts and craft fair, discovering kid-friendly Mexican food and black beans I loved, and of course, watching fireworks sitting on the beach. Fun, a lot of work, but a fun tradition. The first year, I cooked for a week before and packed most of the house up to make the trip. As the kids got older and I grew wiser, I found other ways to do it.

I loved the Lake Tahoe projects. I hope the kids remember them as fun, too. One year, I provided stuff to paint their own beach hats. Then it was sun pictures and treasure hunts, walks and critter catching. The first year, I dressed the kids in matching outfits including stars and stripes shorts. I only got away with that for a season or two when they were too small to protest.  After that it was a requirement to have matching 4th of July T-shirts for all of us. The pictures of our arrivals at the beach each year still make me laugh. I insisted on a photo op, different poses, different spots along the beach. We had to stop most years going or coming home to take a group picture with the tall, wood-carved bear, his paw in the air in a welcoming gesture. When Tom joined Jenn and I and the kids, I'm not sure he knew what he was getting into but he was a good sport. Even on vacation at such a beautiful place in the world, kids can still be a real pain in the butt, at times! Tom took it all in stride.

Early mornings were my favorite during our stays at Tahoe. With a warm strawberry-filled croissant in my hand, an old log to sit on, sand just warming up on my bare toes, the air still a bit crisp from the night just passed, and hardly a ripple on the water, I loved to watch workers on the barge set up or take down the fireworks rigging. It was so sad the year I had to canceled the plans we had made a year in advance. I had been phased out of my job at UNR and felt the need to 'circle the wagons' to prepare for whatever came next, reserving and reclaiming every penny I could. I haven't been able to re-orchestrate our annual trek again, in quite the same way. Things change. A more recent and fun way to see Tahoe fireworks happened with no pre-planning, whatsoever.  Walking through Target with Jenn's family and the four, Jenn said, "Let's go!"  "Now?"  "We can just make it!"  We all piled into the Excursion and despite heavy construction almost all the way, arrived with time to share a pizza sitting outside on Steamer's patio not far from the sands of our much loved and familiar space on the beach! Great fireworks! Hot chocolate to warm up a bit and yummy frozen yogurt, just because!

Fourth of July and family traditions. They're a part of who I am.

July 4th

July 4th in my memory was a quiet affair in Weston when I was growing up.  Celebrate freedom, we did, but remembering those who lost their lives fighting for and keeping it was also on the minds of townsfolk.  My brother, Elvour, known in the family as Charley and called Chuck in the service, was stationed in Hawaii with the U.S. Navy in 1942 when Mother penned this:

To my son-
I'm thinking of you today, my dear, my boy so far away.
My thoughts span the distance between us, son, you seem so very near.
Your voice, with its ringing laughter, I seem to hear.  And you call -
I answer you sometimes, out loud, in my joy, Then it isn't you at all.
But I've had my moment with you and the joy I feel is lasting,
May God protect and ever bless you, and your commrads, is all I'm asking.
------

Mother wrote again when she received word that Chuck had left the U.S.

Part of her poem, "O Lonely Heart"

......and our soldier boy is serving his country
As best he can; Both of our boys are so very young,
Each enlisted at twenty-one. They ask me
Not to weep while they're away, So I count
The hours and hope and pray. And wait
For the mail. I'm praying for your boys too--
Praying - Hoping - Waiting, Is all we mother's can do.
------

Mother passed on to me a beautiful, perfectly stitched doily, sent to her by a sailor, Gus J. Pizzuto, after she wrote:

If He Only Would (1943)

There's a lad in the service of Uncle Sam -
Yes, he's a gob, overseas. He counts each golden
Minute of time, Counts them more precious
Than pennies or dimes. For while his buddies
Play cards and such, He merrily crochets -
To beat the dutch!

Down through the ages, The story's been told -
How the maiden will sew a fine seam.
But here's to the sailor boy, brawny and bold
Who, with deft fingers, makes his crochet hook gleam.
You've guessed it! Of course it's for Christmas -
Those beautiful doilies he's making.

Now tell me - There isn't a Santa - who keeps
Young maiden's hearts from breaking.
I see a fair maiden, me thinks -
Employed in a war-plant job;
Many hours - She's toiling and waiting -
Her heart's with her sailor gob!

For hasn't he promised her a lovely trousseau -
Of hand-work so fine, and so dainty?
With love and precious thoughts, crocheted in -
With stitches he counts so truly. Oh me! Were I
Young and charming, just a maid in my teens -
I'd see if I could win, not the war, not the bond drive.

But a lad over seas. I'd write him and send my picture.
The charmingest picture of me. Then I'd hint
In a cute bashful fashion - He'd send me a doilie!
Oh, Gee! Well - even tho' I'm past forty
I've a birthday coming - real soon,
I can't think of a thing - I'd rather have
Than a man-made doilie in my home.
------

Mother wrote to many servicemen during war times, to keep their spirits up. For the many who didn't make it home, there are pages among Mother's writings of notes she wrote during funerals and memorials and poems, all written and sent to families, hoping to provide some comfort. The rejoicing our family felt when all four sons returned home safely may also have come with some burden of 'survival guilt', living in that small community where many families lost so much.

My parents expressed their gratitude for and honored their heritage, in the way they lived their lives. Living a life using 'gratitude' and 'honor' as verbs is a part of who I want to be, also.

What's to Love About a Kitchen

If you were asked, "What do you love most about your kitchen," you may say as others have, "My cookbooks are like diaries," "I learned my mother's recipes," "I love my grandmother's old cutting board." When I think of the kitchen where I spent my early childhood, it's the red counter top and the smells that I loved--the aroma of home-baked bread or Hubbard squash baking with brown sugar and butter oozing in the center, fresh-from-the-garden stewed tomatoes with lots of pepper as an after school snack, and the pungent odor of homemade soap used in the open tub wringer washer that was wheeled into the kitchen on wash day. Some of the farm kitchen's signature scent archived in my memory, came from the wood stove Mother used until sometime in the 50's.  The kitchen table, dark brown with defined wood grain, made by one of my brothers, had a center base section and extra leaves that folded out to make the table top bigger. That table saw a lot of meals served for family, relatives, and crews working the fields. It was Daddy's desk when he need one and Mother's space to spread out lots of genealogy papers.

There wasn't much to love about the kitchen in the 100-year-old, two-story house in Weston where Mother and I lived when we left the farm. We cooked in an old fashioned popcorn popper that first summer. 'One-eyed Eagles', Mother called our mainstay hot meal of each day--butter melted in the hot popper, a slice of bread with the center removed dropped into the hot pan to sizzle, a raw egg plopped into the open center of the bread, to complete the dish.

The kitchens at my elementary, junior and senior high schools were real working spaces with food made from scratch and served by cooks students knew like family. May Jensen made such good casseroles. Ruth Powell's pie and chili were favorites. Hot breads were served in each of the kitchens. I think everyone looked forward to 'school lunch'.

The apartment kitchens I remember when I left Weston in '62 were small but sufficient to heat, eat, and run, given busy schedules at school, work, and play.

As a new bride, I lived in the basement of a beautiful, old home on the avenues in Salt Lake City. The kitchen was a laundry room with a deep sink and a landlady who checked regularly to be sure I had washed my dishes and cleaned my oven. A fridge and stove had been set down in the room but there was no counter top. One small cupboard hung on the wall. The old woman insisted on having her cleaning lady clean and polish the tile floor to a brilliance brighter than a new car and would then send me the bill! I was offended.  Did she think I didn't know how to mop a floor? Looking back, that may be what I loved most about that kitchen. What a deal for a few bucks! It was in this make-shift kitchen that I first tried my wings hosting, an after-the-wedding party in early spring, a Christmas open house for about 50 people that same year, and a few of the South cousin couples monthly parties, preparing all the food and drink served in that funny kitchen.

Frank and I gave up that apartment in late spring-early summer, traveled in the states and in Europe, returning to his parent's home in South Salt Lake at the end of the summer of '67. His mother became ill so I was expected to run the kitchen. I had morning sickness almost 24/7 so I don't remember doing any cooking. I don't know how Jane managed the high cupboards in that room. Mostly, we kept groceries in the fridge and it was every man for himself for the weeks we were there.  Our move to Ogden, Utah that fall blessed me with a kitchen filled with sunlight streaming through bay windows surrounding the breakfast nook. I 'nested' in that cozy space, sewing blankets and sleepers and crocheting booties in anticipation of the birth of our son.

It was the spaciousness of the kitchen that I loved, in the second Ogden location we called 'home'. Never had I, before, nor have I since, had so much cupboard and drawer space. I loved the peace that kind of order--everything has a place, everything in its place,--brought to everyday life. Our daughter was born while we lived here. In this kitchen, I learned to make menswear and had a home sewing business. It was in this kitchen that the toddler discovered his hand-eye coordination and cut through the bottom of a bridesmaid dress in the making. Fortunately, the dress was hung high on the door, the 'tailor' was a short, little tot, and the woman, also on the short side, didn't need much of a hem!

What was there to love about the tiny kitchen in the two-room apartment in South Salt Lake? The washer, even though it was a real squeeze to fit it in. Somehow, we always had space enough and food enough to host weekly taco feeds with friends in that 'Squeeze Inn' kitchen. Living there made it possible to save a down-payment to purchase a home.

I learned to scrub my own kitchen tile floor so we could have eaten off it in our first home on Bonneview Drive in Salt Lake. My new neighbor, Pat, came knocking at my door at 2:00 a.m. finding me on hand and knees. She thought I must be up with sick kids. We did 'picnic' when Frank traveled until I hauled a small, rickety table from Grandpa South's back yard, the one he used to stand on to paint his house, hammered in a few strategically placed nails, gave it a good scrubbing and covered it with a homespun tablecloth.  The tiny fridge left behind by the previous owner was located in the basement. The stove was 30 years old. Limited counter space and storage was confined to one corner of the kitchen, two large windows at the opposite corner.   The blending of oils for Tole painting was made easier in the grand light streaming in from those kitchen windows.

A neighbor invited me to join her in gleaning fresh tomatoes from the Stake Church Farm project fields. When two women fill a big, old station wagon with very ripe tomatoes, the canning goes on for a long time. Then, the real work begins, cleaning the spatters off the ceiling.  One new neighbor was a bit too friendly.  She seemed to pop through my kitchen door just when I was stirring something up, and quick as a flash, she'd dip her finger in the mix for a taste! If the smell of baking bread escaped the kitchen and wafted out into the neighborhood, I could count on kids filling my front steps, hoping for a slice with melting butter and dripping honey. They also liked to be invited in to bake cookies, something they said they could not do at home because of the mess they'd create. 

"There will be X number of people for dinner and we'll be there in about 30-minutes."  Times like these provided a perfect opportunity to experiment, and to serve the result--cheese souffle, chicken parmesan, ... oh, there was that one chocolate silk pie with double the butter (my mistake), and the poor gentleman who ate it without saying a word, then popped Tums the rest of the evening but I did become somewhat of a cook in this kitchen. The kids learned very early to eat with grownups and to use stemware glasses like pros.  Todd asked one dinner guest if he knew he didn't have enough hair to cover his head, and wondered aloud with another guest why their eyes looked different.  Not happy about something, Jenn announced she was running away from home and going to Steve's house. With her bag packed, she stood just outside the door for some time before asking, "Could you walk me across the street? You know I'm not allowed to cross alone!"  A Thanksgiving dinner was served out of my bare kitchen. We had no furniture, just two hand-me-down beds and a baby's crib so with borrowed card tables arranged in our empty living room, both South's and Morgan's could be seated. College kids and little people filled the steps leading to the basement.

From my kitchen window in Sparks, Nevada, I can see Mt. Rose, despite all the development that has occurred in the past 35 years. I loved my first and am just as thrilled with my second red, Kitchenaide mixer but it is the kitchen table I love, simple and inexpensive, but with more than 30 years of family history.  Oh, that I had thought to keep a written log on the underside of this table of the traditions and events that have transpired here. We've gathered to create campaign slogans during Jenn's runs for school offices. Todd and Jenn brought their friends, their dates, their spouses, and their children to this table for meals, for treats, just to talk, for board game night, to make pinatas, candy cards, countless crafts, endless homework. Pine Wood Derby cars representing two generations got their start at my table. Homely, garden pumpkins became Halloween masterpieces and then pie. Sometimes I remembered the sugar. Sometimes not. Prom formals and corsages, before-the-dance candlelight dinners were created here. The table was designed to seat six but it has more often been stretched to exceed that number. It has been a staging area for costuming, make-up, hair cuts, bringing characters to life for book reports. This kitchen has become the final check point before leaving the house, for school and work, for dances, dates, graduations, marriages, the arrival of grandbabies, the homecoming of some. 

How many gingerbread houses have we built here? I made my first one for Todd's class when he started school in Salt Lake. That was the start of a great, family tradition. Many little hands have learned to cut cookies and master the making of the famous holiday crescent dinner rolls. We've sat at my table to pray. Giggles have bounced back and forth from person to person like a ping pong ball across this table; its surface has also been splashed with tears. It has held firm amidst raised voices, heavy hands, moving feet and flaring tempers through two generations. Serious thoughts have been shared aloud or have sometimes gone unspoken. This kitchen is the room we are likely to leave, last and return to, first.

I've spent many hours of my life in the kitchen.  No longer doing the things I've become known for, I blogg endlessly about some of those things that are, after all, a part of who I am.