"Every shade of Autumn"... As I came upon that phrase in my reading, it really struck a cord with me. Those are my colors--the ones that result, months later, from new spring growth, survive sometimes scorching heat and drought of summers, unveiling themselves once touched in Fall by colder night air, or nipped by a bit of frost. An Autumn palette is one I am most comfortable with, the hues my eyes and soul relate to beyond surface beauty.
In my memory, my mother dressed me in lots of brown. She nixed red saying it would clash with the red in my hair. I've had a strong attraction to particular hues for a long time but I didn't get to indulge myself in that direction until I was an adult. As a sweet, young thing, working and living in Salt Lake City in the early 60's, I purchased ... did you guess? ... a RED, brushed wool. winter coat. On layaway! I remember well the day I made the last payment and put that precious wrap on. It was finally MINE! Oh, how I loved that coat. I loved everything about it. I'd had so little exposure to shopping. This was the first time in my life I'd had money to spend on myself. Without even knowing what I didn't know yet about color and fashion, I picked the perfect shade of red for me--one with warm undertones--and since I had a figure at that time, the slender cut of the coat with its slash side pockets and lapel collar was becoming on me. I could have fashionably worn that coat in any decade. That was to become my fashion ID--traditional cuts and styling, Autumn colors. And I did cloak myself in my red coat until the sleeves and all the edges frayed and the lining literally shredded and fell out!
Remember the 80's, when it was all the rage to have your "colors" done? I served as a model once for Edna Burt, who owned Edna Skin Care. Once a Los Angeles cosmetics company, she moved the operation to Sparks and hosted workshops at her studio, instructing woman in the use of her products and how to put their best foot forward with color. We met at church. One of Edna's granddaughters was in my Laurel class. "You are a 'true' Autumn," she said. "There are few who are naturally so. It is the tiny, golden flecks in your eyes that determine this." And so, I agreed to sit on an artist's stool while Edna and her assistant draped fabric over my shoulders and around my face for one of her session groups. Her philosophy was that of non-restrictive use of color. "There is no color a person cannot wear," she said, "if used in the right shade and intensity!" Then she would demonstrate combinations that made color complimentary winners if you were thought to be an Autumn, a Winter, or a Spring or Summer as determined by skin tone, hair and eye color. I received a jar of foot cream, for my services. I always found that funny.
Every shade of Autumn. I take comfort in them. They reflect my moods, my thoughts, my insights, and have become a part of who I am.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Trick or Treat
When I was a girl, October meant the end of the harvest season. It also meant there'd be big Hubbard and Banana squash roasting in Mother's wood-stove and pots of soup as the weather cooled. It wasn't unusual to have the first snow fall sometime during the month. For Halloween, there were church and school parties. My mother was always involved, if her health permitted it.
My brothers could probably tell some stories of Halloween tricks and pranks they've been a part of but by the time I came along, the day was more about the treats and the costumes.
Mother liked to re-tell her stories about how she helped my siblings--six of them--get dressed up to go to the Halloween party. I remember a few ward family affairs. There was always tons of food, lots of homemade treats, a program, dancing and a spooky alley to pass through. But before my time, as Mother would tell her story, she made some excuse about not going to the party with her family. After her kids had left our house, she would rat up her natural curly hair to greatly increase the volume, take out her false teeth, put on her worn-out duds, apply a bit of make-up in all the right places and tune up her best cackle, then slip into the crowd, unannounced. Sometimes, she'd been ask by the party planners to assume the role of an old witch. Other times, she would be a fortune teller and work the crowd. As the party wound down, Mother would slip out silently into the night. As the family returned home, they'd tell her what a good time she had missed. Her kids had not recognized their own mother at the party!
Halloween was a fun time when I was a kid. We didn't give thought to or dwell on its history. It was a time to get dressed up silly in whatever you could find at home. We didn't buy costumes or special masks. We used our mother's lipstick if she had any. And we weren't afraid of our neighbors. We could have eaten anything they gave us. If we had any candy, we could have eaten as much as we wanted without having it X-rayed. If we made ourselves sick? Well, there was a remedy for that, too. And you didn't get to miss school or get out of doing your chores, either! When Mother and I moved off the farm up into greater downtown Weston, we had kids come to the door. We didn't buy candy to hand out but she always had a pot of chili or soup or hot chocolate made and maybe homemade donuts or her molasses taffy, popcorn balls or raisin-filled cookies. Before they could enjoy a treat, Mother insisted on a "trick"! That to her meant, "Tell me a joke, sing me a song, recite a poem, do a little dance." Then they got their treat.
Going house to house has never been my thing. My kids were not allowed to roam neighborhoods with pillow cases to beg or cause a commotion. We were busy with church and school parties. Sometimes, a friend would host a home party, as the kids got older. We did visit homes of close friends or nearby neighbors. I often went in costume, too. On one such occasion, I remodeled Todd's old astronaut costume to fit me, attached a couple of pointed ears to my own, donned a bald cap and joined my costumed kids on Bessie Wegman's front porch. She co-owned Simmy's Flower Shop. Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore We rang the doorbell. Bessie answered. As she turned her back to us to retrieve her candy bowl, I could hear her muttering, "I don't mind the little kids but when the BIG kids come to the door.....". She didn't realize we could hear her every word and this made me laugh. She whirled around, recognizing my voice. I had fooled her, big-time, and it was great!
Todd was a showman from day one. He loved to be costumed. He loved the make-up. He loved a little gimmick, if I could come up with one. He loved magic and had a kid's starter set of props so of course, I made him a magician's costume, complete with a fabulous cape with red lining. At his elementary school, it was custom to form a parade, starting the lineup in one classroom, adding the next and the next, ending in a parade around the gym before returning to their rooms for class parties. Todd had perfected one trick, as a first grader, I think it was. Oh, he worked the room when the parading was done, using his cape, removing his white gloves, one finger at a time, making sure everyone appreciated his top hat and wand. Then he performed the 'Broken Toothpick Magically Made Whole Again' slight of hand...perfectly!
Jenn was such a charmer that in any costume I created for her, she looked just so cute. Her witch costume, for example, was made from Mother's quilting scraps--bright yellow with black pock-a-dots and black silky something. I made her a hat, added springs of real wheat and perched a wee birdie in the bow. By adding a tiny cape, a little apron and a smaller-than-kid-sized broom, she was Jenn-Jenn, the adorable! She got to go to all Todd's class parties because I room-mothered, his first few years of elementary school. She was quite the crowd-pleaser and often, to her brother's dismay, stole the show.
Frank carved the best pumpkins! Although he traveled often, if he was at home near Halloween, I could count on a masterpiece. I kept those until the pumpkin flesh fell in on itself and had grown a whole other Eco system inside--just too artsy to toss sooner.
My grandkids have submitted themselves to years of costuming, too. That has been great fun, to do them as a group theme, as in Toy Story, Popeye, George of the Jungle, A Bug's Life, King Arthur's Court, The Peanut's Gang, to name a few. Morgan's Face Book Page costume she made for herself drew lots of attention as did Topher's creepy clown. He also created quite a stir, as a blond. Jessi loved being a princess. Zach, what was your favorite? Gage loved being a Transformer. He has loved whatever his costume was, every year, I think. Max was the cutest elephant when he was little but I hear he has moved on to Captain America, for this year.
Todd and his wife, Lisa created haunting scenes and alleys at their house that became a tradition in their neighborhood for a time. The kids had fun acting out roles in these dramas. It was 'Lights, Cue Sound Effects, Action', for days leading up to Halloween, then food for all who stopped by, once they had been sufficiently scared and dared to come to the themed eats and drink table.
Tom, Jenn's husband, a real pro when it comes to house decoration for holidays, has made such fun for their boys and the rest of us with his special lighting and effects. And you know if you are at Jenn's, she is gonna feed you well. As our family outgrew my house, the Bailies hosted our annual 'Halloween Cookie Bake and Decorate', and the 'Great Pumpkin Carving' event. When you get a dozen or more grownups and kids wielding carving tools, it's quite a party!
Because I hadn't changed my mind about kids out scavenging neighborhoods on Halloween, making pinatas in the weeks before the holiday, to be enjoyed on that day, became an almost annual tradition. After attending school and church parties, the whole lot of us--parents, steps, grands, aunties and uncs and wannabes--would party at home, the grandkids breaking open the pinatas, the adults hoping to score some of that candy, and everyone enjoying homemade caramel apples and popcorn balls.
Todd and Jenn may remember making pumpkin candles as kids. I haven't tried that with the grandkids. Nor have I pulled taffy with them as I did with my mother at this time of the year. Still, we've had a lot of fun, made lots of memories, continued old traditions, and established new ones. I love traditions. They are a big part of who I am.
My brothers could probably tell some stories of Halloween tricks and pranks they've been a part of but by the time I came along, the day was more about the treats and the costumes.
Mother liked to re-tell her stories about how she helped my siblings--six of them--get dressed up to go to the Halloween party. I remember a few ward family affairs. There was always tons of food, lots of homemade treats, a program, dancing and a spooky alley to pass through. But before my time, as Mother would tell her story, she made some excuse about not going to the party with her family. After her kids had left our house, she would rat up her natural curly hair to greatly increase the volume, take out her false teeth, put on her worn-out duds, apply a bit of make-up in all the right places and tune up her best cackle, then slip into the crowd, unannounced. Sometimes, she'd been ask by the party planners to assume the role of an old witch. Other times, she would be a fortune teller and work the crowd. As the party wound down, Mother would slip out silently into the night. As the family returned home, they'd tell her what a good time she had missed. Her kids had not recognized their own mother at the party!
Halloween was a fun time when I was a kid. We didn't give thought to or dwell on its history. It was a time to get dressed up silly in whatever you could find at home. We didn't buy costumes or special masks. We used our mother's lipstick if she had any. And we weren't afraid of our neighbors. We could have eaten anything they gave us. If we had any candy, we could have eaten as much as we wanted without having it X-rayed. If we made ourselves sick? Well, there was a remedy for that, too. And you didn't get to miss school or get out of doing your chores, either! When Mother and I moved off the farm up into greater downtown Weston, we had kids come to the door. We didn't buy candy to hand out but she always had a pot of chili or soup or hot chocolate made and maybe homemade donuts or her molasses taffy, popcorn balls or raisin-filled cookies. Before they could enjoy a treat, Mother insisted on a "trick"! That to her meant, "Tell me a joke, sing me a song, recite a poem, do a little dance." Then they got their treat.
Going house to house has never been my thing. My kids were not allowed to roam neighborhoods with pillow cases to beg or cause a commotion. We were busy with church and school parties. Sometimes, a friend would host a home party, as the kids got older. We did visit homes of close friends or nearby neighbors. I often went in costume, too. On one such occasion, I remodeled Todd's old astronaut costume to fit me, attached a couple of pointed ears to my own, donned a bald cap and joined my costumed kids on Bessie Wegman's front porch. She co-owned Simmy's Flower Shop. Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore We rang the doorbell. Bessie answered. As she turned her back to us to retrieve her candy bowl, I could hear her muttering, "I don't mind the little kids but when the BIG kids come to the door.....". She didn't realize we could hear her every word and this made me laugh. She whirled around, recognizing my voice. I had fooled her, big-time, and it was great!
Todd was a showman from day one. He loved to be costumed. He loved the make-up. He loved a little gimmick, if I could come up with one. He loved magic and had a kid's starter set of props so of course, I made him a magician's costume, complete with a fabulous cape with red lining. At his elementary school, it was custom to form a parade, starting the lineup in one classroom, adding the next and the next, ending in a parade around the gym before returning to their rooms for class parties. Todd had perfected one trick, as a first grader, I think it was. Oh, he worked the room when the parading was done, using his cape, removing his white gloves, one finger at a time, making sure everyone appreciated his top hat and wand. Then he performed the 'Broken Toothpick Magically Made Whole Again' slight of hand...perfectly!
Jenn was such a charmer that in any costume I created for her, she looked just so cute. Her witch costume, for example, was made from Mother's quilting scraps--bright yellow with black pock-a-dots and black silky something. I made her a hat, added springs of real wheat and perched a wee birdie in the bow. By adding a tiny cape, a little apron and a smaller-than-kid-sized broom, she was Jenn-Jenn, the adorable! She got to go to all Todd's class parties because I room-mothered, his first few years of elementary school. She was quite the crowd-pleaser and often, to her brother's dismay, stole the show.
Frank carved the best pumpkins! Although he traveled often, if he was at home near Halloween, I could count on a masterpiece. I kept those until the pumpkin flesh fell in on itself and had grown a whole other Eco system inside--just too artsy to toss sooner.
My grandkids have submitted themselves to years of costuming, too. That has been great fun, to do them as a group theme, as in Toy Story, Popeye, George of the Jungle, A Bug's Life, King Arthur's Court, The Peanut's Gang, to name a few. Morgan's Face Book Page costume she made for herself drew lots of attention as did Topher's creepy clown. He also created quite a stir, as a blond. Jessi loved being a princess. Zach, what was your favorite? Gage loved being a Transformer. He has loved whatever his costume was, every year, I think. Max was the cutest elephant when he was little but I hear he has moved on to Captain America, for this year.
Todd and his wife, Lisa created haunting scenes and alleys at their house that became a tradition in their neighborhood for a time. The kids had fun acting out roles in these dramas. It was 'Lights, Cue Sound Effects, Action', for days leading up to Halloween, then food for all who stopped by, once they had been sufficiently scared and dared to come to the themed eats and drink table.
Tom, Jenn's husband, a real pro when it comes to house decoration for holidays, has made such fun for their boys and the rest of us with his special lighting and effects. And you know if you are at Jenn's, she is gonna feed you well. As our family outgrew my house, the Bailies hosted our annual 'Halloween Cookie Bake and Decorate', and the 'Great Pumpkin Carving' event. When you get a dozen or more grownups and kids wielding carving tools, it's quite a party!
Because I hadn't changed my mind about kids out scavenging neighborhoods on Halloween, making pinatas in the weeks before the holiday, to be enjoyed on that day, became an almost annual tradition. After attending school and church parties, the whole lot of us--parents, steps, grands, aunties and uncs and wannabes--would party at home, the grandkids breaking open the pinatas, the adults hoping to score some of that candy, and everyone enjoying homemade caramel apples and popcorn balls.
Todd and Jenn may remember making pumpkin candles as kids. I haven't tried that with the grandkids. Nor have I pulled taffy with them as I did with my mother at this time of the year. Still, we've had a lot of fun, made lots of memories, continued old traditions, and established new ones. I love traditions. They are a big part of who I am.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Have I Told You the One About Pie...
... Pumpkin Pie made from Halloween pumpkins? Have I told you that story? I've told all my stories many times and yet, each time I post something, someone in my immediate family says, "I've never heard that story before!"
Well, back in the days of what I call my Molly Mormon, sweet-young-thing period, I was convinced that in order to belong to the flock and earn my Suzy Homemaker Award, it was necessary to know how to do a little bit of everything and make everything from scratch. It was okay to purchase pumpkins for Halloween decorating if I hadn't grown my own but a real crime to just toss them once the harvest celebrations were over. So I baked the pumpkins and made pie with the pulp.
My husband and I and our two kids moved ourselves and our meager belongings from Salt Lake City to Sparks, NV in early fall, 1976. Arrangements had been made for help to move into a house but the house wasn't available on the day we finally drove off the desert and back into civilization so the plan to have help fell through. After days of being cooped up in a tiny room at the Holiday Inn, our stuff in a U-Haul in the Inn's parking lot, Frank and I finally got the go-ahead and began moving our rag-tag belongings into the house, ourselves. Neighbors across the street must have been curious, watching us and came to offer help carrying in such things as bolts of cloth, big commercial-sized canisters of staples like sugar and flour and chocolate chips, quart bottles of home-canned stuff.
When we finished, I asked them to join us for pie in a few days when we got settled a bit. Liz and Dick came. My pumpkin pies looked fabulous. She asked how I made them. When I explained that I had baked pumpkins to use for the filling, she said she'd never heard of doing that, while exchanging looks with her husband, as though to confirm that indeed, they found us odd and hippie-like. Frank did have facial hair and longer locks and to satisfy their curiosity about some of the stuff they'd helped carry in that moving day, I'd told them I sewed my family's clothes, made bread routinely, and canned food for storage. Liz and Dick. Each of them took a big bite of pie. There was silence. I quickly took a bite. The pie had NO SUGAR in it!
Now, when I serve pumpkin pie, and because I've told them this story, my family always asks, "Does the pie have sugar in it?" Could this be why I always cut a sliver (sometimes a little bit more) of pie to taste the minute it comes out of the oven? It could!
I love making pie, even and especially pumpkin pie in fall and winter months. And I confess. I left the sugar out one other time but making sugarless pumpkin pie is not a part of me, on a regular basis.
Well, back in the days of what I call my Molly Mormon, sweet-young-thing period, I was convinced that in order to belong to the flock and earn my Suzy Homemaker Award, it was necessary to know how to do a little bit of everything and make everything from scratch. It was okay to purchase pumpkins for Halloween decorating if I hadn't grown my own but a real crime to just toss them once the harvest celebrations were over. So I baked the pumpkins and made pie with the pulp.
My husband and I and our two kids moved ourselves and our meager belongings from Salt Lake City to Sparks, NV in early fall, 1976. Arrangements had been made for help to move into a house but the house wasn't available on the day we finally drove off the desert and back into civilization so the plan to have help fell through. After days of being cooped up in a tiny room at the Holiday Inn, our stuff in a U-Haul in the Inn's parking lot, Frank and I finally got the go-ahead and began moving our rag-tag belongings into the house, ourselves. Neighbors across the street must have been curious, watching us and came to offer help carrying in such things as bolts of cloth, big commercial-sized canisters of staples like sugar and flour and chocolate chips, quart bottles of home-canned stuff.
When we finished, I asked them to join us for pie in a few days when we got settled a bit. Liz and Dick came. My pumpkin pies looked fabulous. She asked how I made them. When I explained that I had baked pumpkins to use for the filling, she said she'd never heard of doing that, while exchanging looks with her husband, as though to confirm that indeed, they found us odd and hippie-like. Frank did have facial hair and longer locks and to satisfy their curiosity about some of the stuff they'd helped carry in that moving day, I'd told them I sewed my family's clothes, made bread routinely, and canned food for storage. Liz and Dick. Each of them took a big bite of pie. There was silence. I quickly took a bite. The pie had NO SUGAR in it!
Now, when I serve pumpkin pie, and because I've told them this story, my family always asks, "Does the pie have sugar in it?" Could this be why I always cut a sliver (sometimes a little bit more) of pie to taste the minute it comes out of the oven? It could!
I love making pie, even and especially pumpkin pie in fall and winter months. And I confess. I left the sugar out one other time but making sugarless pumpkin pie is not a part of me, on a regular basis.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Who Wants to Know?
Who Wants to Know
- by Berton Braley
When people ask "How are you?"
It's just a salutation,
And common sense should bar you
From lengthy explanation.
It's not the kind of query
Requesting diagnosis
Of each and every dreary
Reaction and neurosis.
It doesn't mean devising
An answer to the question,
In which you're itemizing
What's wrong with your digestion.
If operations scar you,
Don't analyze and spell 'em,
And when folks ask "How are you?"
For heaven's sake don't tell 'em!
-----
These words of wisdom are a reminder to myself... I had friends I hadn't seen in a long time stop by the house, unannounced, recently. I had unusually loose lips (for me) that evening, and my response to their asking how I had been was far too long. Now that I'm not at the office to have that question ask of me many times daily, I'm a bit out of practice with my quick and ready response: "I am better than I would be if I wasn't as good as I am!" Doggone frontal lobe deterioration! I'm losing my grip on long-held inhibitions during face-to-face conversation. Still an introvert...but evidently, that's only a part of who I am.
- by Berton Braley
When people ask "How are you?"
It's just a salutation,
And common sense should bar you
From lengthy explanation.
It's not the kind of query
Requesting diagnosis
Of each and every dreary
Reaction and neurosis.
It doesn't mean devising
An answer to the question,
In which you're itemizing
What's wrong with your digestion.
If operations scar you,
Don't analyze and spell 'em,
And when folks ask "How are you?"
For heaven's sake don't tell 'em!
-----
These words of wisdom are a reminder to myself... I had friends I hadn't seen in a long time stop by the house, unannounced, recently. I had unusually loose lips (for me) that evening, and my response to their asking how I had been was far too long. Now that I'm not at the office to have that question ask of me many times daily, I'm a bit out of practice with my quick and ready response: "I am better than I would be if I wasn't as good as I am!" Doggone frontal lobe deterioration! I'm losing my grip on long-held inhibitions during face-to-face conversation. Still an introvert...but evidently, that's only a part of who I am.
A Message For My Grandkids
The Watcher
- Margaret Widdemer
She always leaned to watch for us,
Anxious if we were late,
In winter at the window,
In summer by the gate.
And though we mocked her tenderly,
Who had such foolish care,
This long way home would seem more safe
Because she waited there.
Her thoughts were all so full of us--
She never could forget--
And so I think that where she is
She must be waiting yet.
Waiting 'till we come home to her,
Anxious if we are late--
Watching from heaven's window,
Leaning from heaven's gate.
- Margaret Widdemer
She always leaned to watch for us,
Anxious if we were late,
In winter at the window,
In summer by the gate.
And though we mocked her tenderly,
Who had such foolish care,
This long way home would seem more safe
Because she waited there.
Her thoughts were all so full of us--
She never could forget--
And so I think that where she is
She must be waiting yet.
Waiting 'till we come home to her,
Anxious if we are late--
Watching from heaven's window,
Leaning from heaven's gate.
How to Kiss a Girl
According to my mother, this song was a favorite of Grandpa Peg Leg Sam's--her grandfather:
How to Kiss a Girl
O' the girls in all creation loves a lover's loving kiss.
And the girls in every nation love to share this heavenly bliss.
But there is an art in kissing, That's what the girls all say.
For the fun you won't be missing, If you kiss a girl this way.
First you put your loving arms around her,
And you hold her in a fond embrace.
Then she rests her head upon your shoulder,
And you look down into her face.
Hug her just as tight as you can squeeze her,
And while your heart's all in a whirl,
Let your lips to hers be pressed...
And she will do the rest...
Now that's the way to kiss a girl!
January 5, 1964. I began teaching a new Sunday School class for eleven-year-olds in Haven Ward in South Salt Lake. But this is not why I remember this day. My group of friends were making plans for the Gold and Green Ball. We listened to records and ate goodies. Frank asked to drive me home. We'd met, maybe even dated a bit, the first time the previous summer or fall, attending a surprise birthday party for his friend. The friend had a car accident and never arrived at the party. All of the invited guests knew the friend but none of the guests knew each other, so we all hung around for a time, played ping pong--my first time--then left when news came that the friend was okay.
Frank walked me to the front door of my apartment. He and I stood in the front hallway, talking about nothing, really, and then he kissed me! Others had tried but I had been wary. Didn't see that coming! I can't speak for him, but in my own head I heard, "First kiss! Is that all there is to it? Big deal!"
Since early June of '62, I'd been living in Salt Lake City on "The Avenues" with roommates, first on "B" Street and then at the Caithness up on the hill, North of the Catholic Cathedral in the northeast part of the City. Once we completed school, we moved to Commonwealth Avenue, sharing the apartment at my Aunt's house, in a neighborhood of older homes. My cousin, Leone, lived in the house, also. Fitts' Novelty Shop was at one end of the street, a tiny grocery store at the other, a bakery just beyond that and the county hospital behind us on 21st South and State Street. The church was within walking distance; my stake president lived just down the street. His daughter was talking with Leone about a make-over for Carol, who had been "waiting" for one of Mary Jane's brothers--a missionary serving in Austria but due home in June of '63. I thought their conversation was so silly. Just before his homecoming, he got a "Dear Frank" letter. I guess someone closer to home had taken a liking to the "make-over"!
In high school, I dated very little but found fun in the 'Real World', with the likes of Rulon, the dancer and Robbie, the sailor. There was the octopus whose name I can't remember. Being with him was an aerobic experience! He didn't seem to know where his hands and arms belonged. That pairing didn't last. Cousin Leone then made it her mission to match Frank and I up. My roommate really liked Frank. I was more interested in his brother, John. John had his eye on their sister's friend, Judy, so my interest turned to one of the South cousins, Tom. Mike and Mark were very persistent in their attempts to arrange a date with me. No chemistry there! So Mark resorted to trickery. He played an instrument--violin, trumpet, something. I did tons of piano accompanying and had been his accompanist a couple of times for ward functions. He fed me a line, asking me to accompany him at some work-related meeting, in the early evening. "Not more than an hour", he said. Although Frank and I had plans for later that evening, it seemed that I could do both.
When Mark headed out of town, I knew I had been played. As it turned out, this evening had been planned in advance, required tickets, was a full-blown office holiday party featuring a formal sit-down dinner at Log Haven, 20 minutes up Millcreek Canyon, a fancy, dressed-up affair. I was in a casual, turquoise blue wool skirt and sweater with flats. I was so angry and wanted to leave but I was stranded, with no other way to get home, and no way to let anyone know where I was. My misery didn't end in an hour, nor even after the event was over. The night had turned stormy. Getting back down the canyon was treacherous at best. Mark wasn't a skilled driver. It was a scary time. I had been gone for hours. And I had no coat! And wet feet. At my apartment, discussion was in progress among my roommates, my cousin, and Frank about filing a missing person report.
So why am I thinking of events of summer and winters past tonight, after a warm fall day in October? I'm unsure. Great-Grandpa's song has been replaying in my head, though I only remember parts of the tune. I never knew him but I can hear my mother's voice, singing it, then laughing at it's silliness. Only pieces of the melody come through. I think of Mother in the fall. She participated fully, when her health permitted, in the events and activities of this season.
I grew quite fond of kissing after my introduction to it. And I love the little details of the fall season...they are a part of me.
How to Kiss a Girl
O' the girls in all creation loves a lover's loving kiss.
And the girls in every nation love to share this heavenly bliss.
But there is an art in kissing, That's what the girls all say.
For the fun you won't be missing, If you kiss a girl this way.
First you put your loving arms around her,
And you hold her in a fond embrace.
Then she rests her head upon your shoulder,
And you look down into her face.
Hug her just as tight as you can squeeze her,
And while your heart's all in a whirl,
Let your lips to hers be pressed...
And she will do the rest...
Now that's the way to kiss a girl!
January 5, 1964. I began teaching a new Sunday School class for eleven-year-olds in Haven Ward in South Salt Lake. But this is not why I remember this day. My group of friends were making plans for the Gold and Green Ball. We listened to records and ate goodies. Frank asked to drive me home. We'd met, maybe even dated a bit, the first time the previous summer or fall, attending a surprise birthday party for his friend. The friend had a car accident and never arrived at the party. All of the invited guests knew the friend but none of the guests knew each other, so we all hung around for a time, played ping pong--my first time--then left when news came that the friend was okay.
Frank walked me to the front door of my apartment. He and I stood in the front hallway, talking about nothing, really, and then he kissed me! Others had tried but I had been wary. Didn't see that coming! I can't speak for him, but in my own head I heard, "First kiss! Is that all there is to it? Big deal!"
Since early June of '62, I'd been living in Salt Lake City on "The Avenues" with roommates, first on "B" Street and then at the Caithness up on the hill, North of the Catholic Cathedral in the northeast part of the City. Once we completed school, we moved to Commonwealth Avenue, sharing the apartment at my Aunt's house, in a neighborhood of older homes. My cousin, Leone, lived in the house, also. Fitts' Novelty Shop was at one end of the street, a tiny grocery store at the other, a bakery just beyond that and the county hospital behind us on 21st South and State Street. The church was within walking distance; my stake president lived just down the street. His daughter was talking with Leone about a make-over for Carol, who had been "waiting" for one of Mary Jane's brothers--a missionary serving in Austria but due home in June of '63. I thought their conversation was so silly. Just before his homecoming, he got a "Dear Frank" letter. I guess someone closer to home had taken a liking to the "make-over"!
In high school, I dated very little but found fun in the 'Real World', with the likes of Rulon, the dancer and Robbie, the sailor. There was the octopus whose name I can't remember. Being with him was an aerobic experience! He didn't seem to know where his hands and arms belonged. That pairing didn't last. Cousin Leone then made it her mission to match Frank and I up. My roommate really liked Frank. I was more interested in his brother, John. John had his eye on their sister's friend, Judy, so my interest turned to one of the South cousins, Tom. Mike and Mark were very persistent in their attempts to arrange a date with me. No chemistry there! So Mark resorted to trickery. He played an instrument--violin, trumpet, something. I did tons of piano accompanying and had been his accompanist a couple of times for ward functions. He fed me a line, asking me to accompany him at some work-related meeting, in the early evening. "Not more than an hour", he said. Although Frank and I had plans for later that evening, it seemed that I could do both.
When Mark headed out of town, I knew I had been played. As it turned out, this evening had been planned in advance, required tickets, was a full-blown office holiday party featuring a formal sit-down dinner at Log Haven, 20 minutes up Millcreek Canyon, a fancy, dressed-up affair. I was in a casual, turquoise blue wool skirt and sweater with flats. I was so angry and wanted to leave but I was stranded, with no other way to get home, and no way to let anyone know where I was. My misery didn't end in an hour, nor even after the event was over. The night had turned stormy. Getting back down the canyon was treacherous at best. Mark wasn't a skilled driver. It was a scary time. I had been gone for hours. And I had no coat! And wet feet. At my apartment, discussion was in progress among my roommates, my cousin, and Frank about filing a missing person report.
So why am I thinking of events of summer and winters past tonight, after a warm fall day in October? I'm unsure. Great-Grandpa's song has been replaying in my head, though I only remember parts of the tune. I never knew him but I can hear my mother's voice, singing it, then laughing at it's silliness. Only pieces of the melody come through. I think of Mother in the fall. She participated fully, when her health permitted, in the events and activities of this season.
I grew quite fond of kissing after my introduction to it. And I love the little details of the fall season...they are a part of me.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Havertapes and Apple Hill
It's October. Fall has come to the Truckee Meadows, though here in Nevada the blue of mostly-cloudless sky contrasts with bright sunshine and temperatures rise to comfortable levels by mid-day. One could consider it still summertime. There are unmistakable cues, however, that fall is being ushered in. Early morning air is cool, even nippy. Garden vegetables have passed their peak of productivity though there are still tomatoes on the vines in my backyard raised boxes, a few green beans, one little crook neck squash. Bush cucumbers are in bloom as are the marigolds. Those two didn't get the memo about the need to bloom in mid-summer. Not only did the marigolds not come up in the planters and bloom on schedule, though so carefully planted among edibles as a deterrent to pests, a few specimens are now tall and awash with blossoms...in the pathways between the boxes!
It was just such an Indian summer-like fall when friends, the Havertapes, invited me and my two kids to join them and their three for a trek to Apple Hill, located about an hour outside Sacramento, in Placerville, CA. We piled into Jack and MaryJo's VW bus, kids and adults dressed for a summer's day of fun in T-tops, shorts and sandals.
The scenery along our drive was spectacular, with foliage color changes unfolding as far as our eyes could see. Apple Hill refers to an area comprised of 55 ranchers, a group spawned from the plight of 16 pear farmers who had been hit some 36 years ago by a terrible pear blight. In a fight to survive, they formed an association and together, reasoned that with the rich soil all around and a longer growing season than Washington, they could compete in the market by growing apples. Marketing strategies included inviting the public to tour the area, drive from farm to farm, and be entertained in a variety of ways including good old fashioned fun for kids and adults alike. Everything that could be made to eat from apples was also readily available, as well as recipes and cooking demonstrations. We had a great time playing and eating.
It was late afternoon when we started the trip home. It wasn't a long drive. We'd all be home by dinnertime. The skies clouded over. The temperature cooled. It happened quickly and unexpectedly. By the time we neared Donnor Pass, we found ourselves in the middle of a raging snow storm, a real blizzard. The Pass was closed for a time. The kids were excited by the sight of snow and quickly hopped out to see if it would pack for snow balls and a little action. Three adults quickly herded the five back into the vehicle. Consider that those old VW buses only produced inside heat when the vehicle was moving. Parked there on the top of the Sierras, even with the engine and the heater running, we were all freezing! Everyone was hungry. We sat there atop the mountain into the night. Once the plows had made a pass, Caltrans opened the road but only to those with chains, snow tires, and such. VW buses were never meant to drive through snow in such depths as were quickly accumulating all around us.
Poor Jack. I felt so bad for him that night. He had chains but had great difficulty getting them put on. Again and again, he would leave the driver's seat inside and lay in the snow beside the tires, a light summer shirt, shorts, and sandals his only protection from the wet and the cold, trying to get those blasted chains to work. I mean, really! Frozen fingers! Chains that didn't seem the right size! Darker than dark all around! Then, at last--success! I don't know how he did it, considering the extreme conditions and our unpreparedness for such. Slowly, we were allowed to join those who had chosen not to return to Placerville or go on to Sacramento to wait out the storm, in a brave and slow creep down the mountain into Reno.
Years later, each time I prepared to make my once-a-month drive over Donnor to Oakland for my scheduled time at the organ in the Temple, I always packed the trunk with food and water, blankets, jumper cables, and chains plus enough cash to pay a Caltrans staffer to put the chains on at the top and take them off at the bottom. In my almost-four-year assignment in Oakland, I had to ask for their assistance only once. Lesson learned, and...memories of friends...all a part of who I am.
It was just such an Indian summer-like fall when friends, the Havertapes, invited me and my two kids to join them and their three for a trek to Apple Hill, located about an hour outside Sacramento, in Placerville, CA. We piled into Jack and MaryJo's VW bus, kids and adults dressed for a summer's day of fun in T-tops, shorts and sandals.
The scenery along our drive was spectacular, with foliage color changes unfolding as far as our eyes could see. Apple Hill refers to an area comprised of 55 ranchers, a group spawned from the plight of 16 pear farmers who had been hit some 36 years ago by a terrible pear blight. In a fight to survive, they formed an association and together, reasoned that with the rich soil all around and a longer growing season than Washington, they could compete in the market by growing apples. Marketing strategies included inviting the public to tour the area, drive from farm to farm, and be entertained in a variety of ways including good old fashioned fun for kids and adults alike. Everything that could be made to eat from apples was also readily available, as well as recipes and cooking demonstrations. We had a great time playing and eating.
It was late afternoon when we started the trip home. It wasn't a long drive. We'd all be home by dinnertime. The skies clouded over. The temperature cooled. It happened quickly and unexpectedly. By the time we neared Donnor Pass, we found ourselves in the middle of a raging snow storm, a real blizzard. The Pass was closed for a time. The kids were excited by the sight of snow and quickly hopped out to see if it would pack for snow balls and a little action. Three adults quickly herded the five back into the vehicle. Consider that those old VW buses only produced inside heat when the vehicle was moving. Parked there on the top of the Sierras, even with the engine and the heater running, we were all freezing! Everyone was hungry. We sat there atop the mountain into the night. Once the plows had made a pass, Caltrans opened the road but only to those with chains, snow tires, and such. VW buses were never meant to drive through snow in such depths as were quickly accumulating all around us.
Poor Jack. I felt so bad for him that night. He had chains but had great difficulty getting them put on. Again and again, he would leave the driver's seat inside and lay in the snow beside the tires, a light summer shirt, shorts, and sandals his only protection from the wet and the cold, trying to get those blasted chains to work. I mean, really! Frozen fingers! Chains that didn't seem the right size! Darker than dark all around! Then, at last--success! I don't know how he did it, considering the extreme conditions and our unpreparedness for such. Slowly, we were allowed to join those who had chosen not to return to Placerville or go on to Sacramento to wait out the storm, in a brave and slow creep down the mountain into Reno.
Years later, each time I prepared to make my once-a-month drive over Donnor to Oakland for my scheduled time at the organ in the Temple, I always packed the trunk with food and water, blankets, jumper cables, and chains plus enough cash to pay a Caltrans staffer to put the chains on at the top and take them off at the bottom. In my almost-four-year assignment in Oakland, I had to ask for their assistance only once. Lesson learned, and...memories of friends...all a part of who I am.
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