Grandpa and Grandma South were planning to travel after he retired. They wanted to spend a couple of months in Prague and Vienna, gathering genealogy and connecting with old friends there. Grandma was a native of Czechoslovakia and had also lived in Vienna before immigrating, with her sister, to America. Some records were made more easily available to the native-born. Bill had served as a missionary to Czechoslovakia. They had also been sent, previously, as a married couple, to check on members who could no longer worship openly, after the mission closed. This would be their first trip back since their last official church assignment in the area.
Bill had recovered from a bad case of flu but had a lingering cough. He and Jane were putting final arrangements together for their trip. One of Bill's friends at the county health department took a routine X-ray when Bill sought him out, asking for a cough suppressant to take with him on the trip to soothe that nagging cough. The X-ray revealed a malignant mass in one lung, a terrible surprise to both, the kind of mass one would more likely see in the lungs of a heavy smoker. Grandpa had never smoked. He had, however, worked in his father's asbestos mine, as a teenager. The effects of asbestos had become known in recent years. Night letters were sent to cancel arrangements with friends expecting to meet the South's at airports and train stations. Surgery was scheduled immediately.
The doctors seemed convinced that the cancer was fully contained in the lung they removed. Frank's dad suffered terribly. One stray lymph node had moved quickly to the brain following surgery. Bill had refused extraordinary life support measures. We drove to Salt Lake every weekend, Frank and I and the kids, to help in whatever way we could, once he was released from the hospital. If Frank was traveling, the kids and I would head out when the last bell had rung for the day while they were finishing their school year, arriving in the City in the wee hours of the next morning. Frank would meet us there. Within two months, Grandpa South died.
Jane was devastated. She had relished the time they'd had together since Bill had retired. Then, so quickly, he was gone. The kids and I stayed with her for a week or two, putting a few things in order, hoping to help her get her bearings a bit. She had come to rely on Bill for most things. We rehearsed simple things. I showed her how to change the bag in the vacuum. I balanced her checkbook for her, and reminded her how to write a check. The family encouraged her to reschedule and take the trip she and "Tato" had planned. Jane and her sister, Frances made the trip together. This became a healing experience for Grandma South.
Our kids felt the loss of their grandpa. He had filled a real need in their lives, particularly during times when their dad was traveling.
William T. South, President or Bishop, Elder, Bill, "Tato", or Grandpa. No matter what name he answered to, he would be remembered.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Where in the World is Sparks, Nevada?
My husband accepted an internship with Nevada's State Education Department, in Special Education, located in Carson City, Nevada. He also registered for a Ph.D program at the University of Nevada, Reno. This was an opportunity for him, personally and professionally but it would be a major change for our family. I felt I hadn't been included in this decision and wanted to be. It wouldn't have changed the outcome, so sure was my husband about his choice, but it may have eased my longing for more meaningful communication between us. Well liked among his colleagues and good at his job, Frank seemed to have no problems with communication, professionally. I hadn't found that to be true in our personal lives, together, as a couple. In retrospect, I wasn't a communicator, either, by nature. I had learned to navigate conversation and communication through performance and during my short professional life while working with the public, but my ability to do this with success, in my private life was lacking. Did I expect my wants and needs to be known without expressing them? And did my husband struggle with similar deficiencies when it came to expressing real thoughts and feelings? I don't know. I do know that I was a people-pleaser, a good one, but I was not happy, even sometimes a bit resentful, in that role. Raising kids in Nevada wasn't something I wanted to do but on the other hand, how bad could two years, there, be? The initial plan, as I understood it, was to return to Salt Lake City, once the Doctorate was complete. In the mean time, a colleague at the Resource Center rented our house.
Our daughter, Jennifer, had been planning just about forever--in her young mind--to walk to kindergarten with her pal, Steve, in a few weeks. Moving could end my going to Weston to see Mother or offer help to family there, in caring for her and lessen the connection between my children and their Grandma Morgan. The kids would miss Grandpa South's chocolate stash in his desk drawer and the hot pink peppermints in the jockey box of his car; They'd miss duck feedings at Liberty Park with Grandma South and burgers at Dee's. I knew we'd all miss meeting Grandpa at Snelgroves for ice cream and the annual whole family "Nutcracker" event. And Grandma's chicken and rice. None of us had been able to duplicate it. We'd sure miss that!
That U-haul truck looked spacious enough but filled up quickly even with our meager furnishings. I gave away many empty, Kerr jars and a whole lot of food storage, freezer jam and stuff deemed non-essential. Frank and Todd hit the road to get a head start in that rattly truck. I sat on the living room floor on the bare-to-the-backing-threads carpet where those same, split and worn out drapes still hung at the window, as they had when we moved in. I'd loved the yellow curtains I'd sewn to dress kitchen windows and the cupboards looked none the worse from my amateur paint job. I sat for what felt like the longest time, crying, memories hovering, images of a mind's recall, dancing all around me. Before I left, I wrote a note and drew a map for those coming to live in our house, telling them about surprises they could expect in the yard as seasons changed, neighborhood resources, something about the schools and church nearby, adding a list of neighbors they could get to know. There was nothing left to do, then, but kiss the Wilkins goodbye, and begin that long drive with Jennifer, across the desert. I knew I'd never return to that house.
The car overheated badly along the way, always in the middle of nowhere. There was a whole lot of nowhere between the some wheres driving across that Nevada desert. These delays--waiting by the side of the road until the car cooled--made for a very long trip for our five-year-old. I never did catch up with the truck and the rest of my family until the glow from the lights of the City of Sparks came into view. Frank and Todd were waiting for us near the first exit.
We had made a quick purchase of a one-story home in Sparks. Located on a dead-end street, 15 or 20 minutes from UNR and a short drive south to Carson City, four houses and a few fence wires separated us from irrigation ditches and pasture. To the kid's delight, this was home to several horses, a couple of cows and whatever wildlife had taken refuge, as habitats were disturbed by a building boom during the late '70's. We had less space than we'd come from but moving into a house that no one else had lived in was exciting! We showed up right on schedule, ready to empty the truck. "Sorry. Check back in a few days, maybe a week." There was little we could do but park the U-haul at a motel and wait. Frank had friends in Carson City who had agreed to help unload the truck but on the day we finally got the "all clear" no one came. The four of us went to work, unloading, despite triple digit heat. Our new neighbors--I'll call them Liz and Dick--offered help. She seemed like a woman with a kind heart but I think her curiosity must have gotten the best of her, sending her across the street, her husband in tow, before her instincts for doing a good deed kicked in. So, there was a rent-a-dent U-Haul truck parked on the street. Frank had long hair and a full beard. I don't remember, but I may have had on a long skirt, cooler in the intense heat than pants. We'd all been living, mostly in our same clothes, for a week or more, give or take a day or less, in a motel, eating fast food, something we were not use to. Our boxes were not spiffy nor sealed so some exposed their contents, bolts and folds of cloth in some. There were contraptions unrecognizable to anyone who wasn't a home-canner and empty glass jars. Books, books, and books. Painting supplies--I was a "Tole" painter; Frank, a talented sketch artist--and huge storage containers of dry goods, and one chock full of chocolate chips. No furniture, to speak of, just a couple or three, maybe four beds--just mattress and box springs, no head or foot boards, no table, chairs or couch. A piano. A washer. The windmills of her mind must have been greased and spinning at top speed, by now, as Liz wondered, "Who are these people? Gypsies? Hippies? Here to start a commune or set up some kind of strange business? Some new religion, perhaps? Have I Told You the One About Pie...
If we were making an impression on Sparks, in return, Sparks was a bit of a cultural shock for someone new to Nevada. If you felt lucky, you could find slot machines just about everywhere, without even going to a casino. That constant noise pollution--moving parts once a handle was pulled or start button pushed, lights, bells, circus music--was something to get use to. Whole sections in grocery stores were devoted to liquor. Free of inventory tax, there was a large warehousing district with Logos, some you'd expect to see only in New York, LA, or abroad. Driving through its sister city, Reno, or the one main street of Sparks, it was hard to tell night from day with everything lit up 'round the clock. Huge, roadside billboards advertised the entertainment industry's headliner shows and more, including things I considered a part of the seamier side of life. There was no ZCMI or Zims and only fledgling attempts at culture and the arts, or so it seemed to me, given that I'd come from a city with a world-class dance and ballet company, a highly acclaimed symphony orchestra, the Tabernacle Choir, for Pete's sake! And everywhere I looked, in any direction, I saw sagebrush and dry, barren hills, despite Reno's tag line, City of Trees. I found no oasis in that! However,...scenic Lake Tahoe was less than a hour's drive away. Just up a hill, at the end of a twisty, steep and winding two-lane road, heading east at the south end of the valley was Virginia City, once a boom town sitting on top of the Comstock Lode, the first major silver deposit discovered in the US. It was also considered the place where Samuel Clemens first used his famous pen name, "Mark Twain". Truckee, CA, an old town built up around the Transcontinental Railroad was up--or down--the road a piece, south and west, near Donner Lake.
There was lots of historical significance in the area. This had me opening the door of my resistance to this whole adventure, just a crack. I was still worried about my kids living in or near "Sin City", though. Waiting for the school bus with my kids that first day didn't ease my mind much. I'd never before heard the phrase, "Oh my God!" used with such frequency by those so young or the "F" word uttered as though it may be the only vocabulary some knew. While I figured that this young crowd was simply mimicking older siblings and parents without really understanding language, its power or ability to disable or what it says about an individual, I was concerned that my kids could so easily adopt the habit. I had been raised among those who peppered their personal speech at times with "Dammit", "Hell", and "Shit" as stand alone utterances or run together, with a few creative, personal twists but on my walk home that morning, after exposure to local street talk from the very young, I thought they should all have their mouths washed out with soap!
A monthly stipend or salary was part of the deal. Unlike private business, the education system moved slowly. We found out just how slowly, having no income for the first couple of months. We kept afloat, in part, by using what food storage had made it onto the moving truck--I often wished there had been room for all of it--and limiting spending for a week's groceries for a family of four to $10 or $15. Even back in the day, that was tough. There wasn't much variety. I had slipped in a few bottles of home canned dills--a kid favorite--and some bottled fruit, a case of tuna, peanut butter, pasta, and buckets of flour, sugar and chocolate chips. Lunch for the kids and their dad, all starting a new school year, was a tuna or PBJ sandwich on homemade bread. Todd had always been a skinny kid but I noticed that he was losing weight. Burned out on tuna and peanut butter, he was ditching his sandwiches, hoping there'd be something else for dinner. On the other side of the coin, I was gaining weight by eating bread and macaroni, saving milk and fresh anything, including a little meat, for the kids. Frank made out the best he could, stretching gasoline, traveling between Carson, UNR, and home. Being a little hungry, sometimes, was a new experience for the kids. Seeing an empty refrigerator was foreign to them. I remember fixing dinner one night, using the two remaining eggs, about a cup of milk, and a zucchini squash, shared from some one's garden. That pretty much emptied out the fridge, alright. Another day, another shared squash, and more. Shredded, I used the squash to stretch whatever needed stretching. Not a favorite vegetable to begin with, someone joked that maybe I had put it in a cake I'd made. Todd didn't touch cake for awhile!
My niece and her husband, BYU students living on less than a shoestring, themselves, invited us to dinner. As she brought food to the table, Todd's eyes opened big and round, then said in his excitement, "Mom, these guys are rich! They have meat!" From his tone, I feared my young son might clear the entire platter all by himself! With nudges under the table, I tried subtly to clue my family in about not eating too much. While I appreciated the generosity being shown to us, I wanted to be sure this couple had leftovers!
Our first five or six months in Sparks turned out to be delightful. We didn't have TV for awhile, nor a lot of other distractions. We could just be family, the four of us. Having Frank at home for dinner on a regular basis was great. I thought we might even add to our family. I was the only one on that page.
With more extensive travel temporarily put aside, Frank was still carrying a heavy load, with classes and the internship. Maybe an old truck to tinker with would provide some stress relief. I knew just the person to find a fixer-upper. And find one, he did, a charming, old Chevy truck with original wooden bed and tail gate name placard. Sue and Randy drove their great find, all the way from Utah to us, one weekend. Frank never did any tinkering but as a family, we had some great times together, all squeezing into that little truck to explore our new surroundings. And at home, we laughed and played with one another, something I didn't feel we'd had much opportunity to do during the times when business travel had increased and dedication to his career intensified.
It had been years since I'd driven a gears-on-the-floor truck. One night, I got stranded at a shopping center. The truck would not start. Not getting the response I'd hoped for from my distress call home at a crucial time during a football game, I found one couple still in the parking lot as stores were closing. They had jumper cables!
Necessity pushed me out into our neighborhood to organize a car pool. Sometimes, I had to drive the Chevy when my turn came to get kids to school. When it came time to leave, Jennifer would hide in her bedroom. Okay, I'll admit it. I had a gift for grinding the gears when I shifted. Pressing the clutch down in that old truck wasn't so hard but letting it out again took special talents I didn't have. So there was a bit of lurching forward, and chugging, sometimes stalling out and keeping fingers crossed that it would start up again, now that we knew it had an on again/off again short that sometimes drained the battery. Sometimes, we got a honk or three from cars lined up behind. Jennifer was beyond embarrassed.
As it turned out, my husband didn't complete a full year of school but instead applied for and accepted the job as Director of Special Education for the State of Nevada in Carson City. Another change. Not much discussion. The kids and I just tried to blend in. The family remained in Sparks. My husband resumed his frequent flyer status.
The former special ed director and his wife bought a diner in Reno. Wanting a gimmick to attract a lunchtime clientele, they enlisted me to make small, individual loaves of bread that would be served with salads and soups. So from my little kitchen, I produced 100 or so personal sized loaves of bread dough, a week's supply in the beginning, all done by hand. These went into a freezer on site and were baked, as needed.
I felt lucky to find a salesman--a teen aged boy--who knew about the leaf springs on a car because I hadn't taken that into consideration when I decided to build a front patio from cement pavers. They were on sale for 10 cents, or maybe it was 25 cents, apiece! So while we loaded them into the back of the Datsun, this kid repeatedly checked those springs to be sure we weren't adding too much weight. I had a ton of stuff to do, sewing for family and the new house, getting kids to school and running them here and there to their activities but I had a whole plot of dirt that needed something done. It took several trips to get enough pavers. With each trip the teen would say, "Take the back way and ease over bumps in the road." Bless his heart. I rigged up a soil leveler of sorts from a 2 x 4 or 4 x 4 or whatever it was I'd purchased. And measured and cut pieces to build some simple planter dividers. My neighbors still seemed curious, though I felt sure we had, by that time, established ourselves as pretty normal folks. I'd done my measuring and had made the final cut with my hand saw when the guy who had been watching ambled over to say, "You could have done that a lot quicker with my power saw." Breaking up the ribbons of clay hard-pan was hard. I learned that water and soaking wasn't the answer. Gypsum wasn't exactly a miracle cure, either. I broke a shovel handle, digging. The kids and I hauled trees and shrubs in our small car, much of it from quick-sale tables. You know, the plants that look dead, already. Most things lived, given a little water, time and sweet talk.
When I'd spent time trying to figure out the instructions for hanging a side pull drapery rod without success, I went next door to ask a neighbor. He skimmed through those instructions, handed the rod back to me, saying, "It can't be that hard!" Well, okay then. I marched myself and my stuff back home and hung that thing on the wall! Men!
Grandpa and Grandma South came to visit that first December. The Truckee Meadows was still experiencing drought conditions. It was so warm, we picnicked at Lake Tahoe, needing nothing more than a sweater.
Never did I think I would live in Sparks, Nevada. My stay here started out as a two-year proposition. Now, thirty-seven years later, it is still very much a part of who I am.
Our daughter, Jennifer, had been planning just about forever--in her young mind--to walk to kindergarten with her pal, Steve, in a few weeks. Moving could end my going to Weston to see Mother or offer help to family there, in caring for her and lessen the connection between my children and their Grandma Morgan. The kids would miss Grandpa South's chocolate stash in his desk drawer and the hot pink peppermints in the jockey box of his car; They'd miss duck feedings at Liberty Park with Grandma South and burgers at Dee's. I knew we'd all miss meeting Grandpa at Snelgroves for ice cream and the annual whole family "Nutcracker" event. And Grandma's chicken and rice. None of us had been able to duplicate it. We'd sure miss that!
That U-haul truck looked spacious enough but filled up quickly even with our meager furnishings. I gave away many empty, Kerr jars and a whole lot of food storage, freezer jam and stuff deemed non-essential. Frank and Todd hit the road to get a head start in that rattly truck. I sat on the living room floor on the bare-to-the-backing-threads carpet where those same, split and worn out drapes still hung at the window, as they had when we moved in. I'd loved the yellow curtains I'd sewn to dress kitchen windows and the cupboards looked none the worse from my amateur paint job. I sat for what felt like the longest time, crying, memories hovering, images of a mind's recall, dancing all around me. Before I left, I wrote a note and drew a map for those coming to live in our house, telling them about surprises they could expect in the yard as seasons changed, neighborhood resources, something about the schools and church nearby, adding a list of neighbors they could get to know. There was nothing left to do, then, but kiss the Wilkins goodbye, and begin that long drive with Jennifer, across the desert. I knew I'd never return to that house.
The car overheated badly along the way, always in the middle of nowhere. There was a whole lot of nowhere between the some wheres driving across that Nevada desert. These delays--waiting by the side of the road until the car cooled--made for a very long trip for our five-year-old. I never did catch up with the truck and the rest of my family until the glow from the lights of the City of Sparks came into view. Frank and Todd were waiting for us near the first exit.
We had made a quick purchase of a one-story home in Sparks. Located on a dead-end street, 15 or 20 minutes from UNR and a short drive south to Carson City, four houses and a few fence wires separated us from irrigation ditches and pasture. To the kid's delight, this was home to several horses, a couple of cows and whatever wildlife had taken refuge, as habitats were disturbed by a building boom during the late '70's. We had less space than we'd come from but moving into a house that no one else had lived in was exciting! We showed up right on schedule, ready to empty the truck. "Sorry. Check back in a few days, maybe a week." There was little we could do but park the U-haul at a motel and wait. Frank had friends in Carson City who had agreed to help unload the truck but on the day we finally got the "all clear" no one came. The four of us went to work, unloading, despite triple digit heat. Our new neighbors--I'll call them Liz and Dick--offered help. She seemed like a woman with a kind heart but I think her curiosity must have gotten the best of her, sending her across the street, her husband in tow, before her instincts for doing a good deed kicked in. So, there was a rent-a-dent U-Haul truck parked on the street. Frank had long hair and a full beard. I don't remember, but I may have had on a long skirt, cooler in the intense heat than pants. We'd all been living, mostly in our same clothes, for a week or more, give or take a day or less, in a motel, eating fast food, something we were not use to. Our boxes were not spiffy nor sealed so some exposed their contents, bolts and folds of cloth in some. There were contraptions unrecognizable to anyone who wasn't a home-canner and empty glass jars. Books, books, and books. Painting supplies--I was a "Tole" painter; Frank, a talented sketch artist--and huge storage containers of dry goods, and one chock full of chocolate chips. No furniture, to speak of, just a couple or three, maybe four beds--just mattress and box springs, no head or foot boards, no table, chairs or couch. A piano. A washer. The windmills of her mind must have been greased and spinning at top speed, by now, as Liz wondered, "Who are these people? Gypsies? Hippies? Here to start a commune or set up some kind of strange business? Some new religion, perhaps? Have I Told You the One About Pie...
If we were making an impression on Sparks, in return, Sparks was a bit of a cultural shock for someone new to Nevada. If you felt lucky, you could find slot machines just about everywhere, without even going to a casino. That constant noise pollution--moving parts once a handle was pulled or start button pushed, lights, bells, circus music--was something to get use to. Whole sections in grocery stores were devoted to liquor. Free of inventory tax, there was a large warehousing district with Logos, some you'd expect to see only in New York, LA, or abroad. Driving through its sister city, Reno, or the one main street of Sparks, it was hard to tell night from day with everything lit up 'round the clock. Huge, roadside billboards advertised the entertainment industry's headliner shows and more, including things I considered a part of the seamier side of life. There was no ZCMI or Zims and only fledgling attempts at culture and the arts, or so it seemed to me, given that I'd come from a city with a world-class dance and ballet company, a highly acclaimed symphony orchestra, the Tabernacle Choir, for Pete's sake! And everywhere I looked, in any direction, I saw sagebrush and dry, barren hills, despite Reno's tag line, City of Trees. I found no oasis in that! However,...scenic Lake Tahoe was less than a hour's drive away. Just up a hill, at the end of a twisty, steep and winding two-lane road, heading east at the south end of the valley was Virginia City, once a boom town sitting on top of the Comstock Lode, the first major silver deposit discovered in the US. It was also considered the place where Samuel Clemens first used his famous pen name, "Mark Twain". Truckee, CA, an old town built up around the Transcontinental Railroad was up--or down--the road a piece, south and west, near Donner Lake.
There was lots of historical significance in the area. This had me opening the door of my resistance to this whole adventure, just a crack. I was still worried about my kids living in or near "Sin City", though. Waiting for the school bus with my kids that first day didn't ease my mind much. I'd never before heard the phrase, "Oh my God!" used with such frequency by those so young or the "F" word uttered as though it may be the only vocabulary some knew. While I figured that this young crowd was simply mimicking older siblings and parents without really understanding language, its power or ability to disable or what it says about an individual, I was concerned that my kids could so easily adopt the habit. I had been raised among those who peppered their personal speech at times with "Dammit", "Hell", and "Shit" as stand alone utterances or run together, with a few creative, personal twists but on my walk home that morning, after exposure to local street talk from the very young, I thought they should all have their mouths washed out with soap!
A monthly stipend or salary was part of the deal. Unlike private business, the education system moved slowly. We found out just how slowly, having no income for the first couple of months. We kept afloat, in part, by using what food storage had made it onto the moving truck--I often wished there had been room for all of it--and limiting spending for a week's groceries for a family of four to $10 or $15. Even back in the day, that was tough. There wasn't much variety. I had slipped in a few bottles of home canned dills--a kid favorite--and some bottled fruit, a case of tuna, peanut butter, pasta, and buckets of flour, sugar and chocolate chips. Lunch for the kids and their dad, all starting a new school year, was a tuna or PBJ sandwich on homemade bread. Todd had always been a skinny kid but I noticed that he was losing weight. Burned out on tuna and peanut butter, he was ditching his sandwiches, hoping there'd be something else for dinner. On the other side of the coin, I was gaining weight by eating bread and macaroni, saving milk and fresh anything, including a little meat, for the kids. Frank made out the best he could, stretching gasoline, traveling between Carson, UNR, and home. Being a little hungry, sometimes, was a new experience for the kids. Seeing an empty refrigerator was foreign to them. I remember fixing dinner one night, using the two remaining eggs, about a cup of milk, and a zucchini squash, shared from some one's garden. That pretty much emptied out the fridge, alright. Another day, another shared squash, and more. Shredded, I used the squash to stretch whatever needed stretching. Not a favorite vegetable to begin with, someone joked that maybe I had put it in a cake I'd made. Todd didn't touch cake for awhile!
My niece and her husband, BYU students living on less than a shoestring, themselves, invited us to dinner. As she brought food to the table, Todd's eyes opened big and round, then said in his excitement, "Mom, these guys are rich! They have meat!" From his tone, I feared my young son might clear the entire platter all by himself! With nudges under the table, I tried subtly to clue my family in about not eating too much. While I appreciated the generosity being shown to us, I wanted to be sure this couple had leftovers!
Our first five or six months in Sparks turned out to be delightful. We didn't have TV for awhile, nor a lot of other distractions. We could just be family, the four of us. Having Frank at home for dinner on a regular basis was great. I thought we might even add to our family. I was the only one on that page.
With more extensive travel temporarily put aside, Frank was still carrying a heavy load, with classes and the internship. Maybe an old truck to tinker with would provide some stress relief. I knew just the person to find a fixer-upper. And find one, he did, a charming, old Chevy truck with original wooden bed and tail gate name placard. Sue and Randy drove their great find, all the way from Utah to us, one weekend. Frank never did any tinkering but as a family, we had some great times together, all squeezing into that little truck to explore our new surroundings. And at home, we laughed and played with one another, something I didn't feel we'd had much opportunity to do during the times when business travel had increased and dedication to his career intensified.
It had been years since I'd driven a gears-on-the-floor truck. One night, I got stranded at a shopping center. The truck would not start. Not getting the response I'd hoped for from my distress call home at a crucial time during a football game, I found one couple still in the parking lot as stores were closing. They had jumper cables!
Necessity pushed me out into our neighborhood to organize a car pool. Sometimes, I had to drive the Chevy when my turn came to get kids to school. When it came time to leave, Jennifer would hide in her bedroom. Okay, I'll admit it. I had a gift for grinding the gears when I shifted. Pressing the clutch down in that old truck wasn't so hard but letting it out again took special talents I didn't have. So there was a bit of lurching forward, and chugging, sometimes stalling out and keeping fingers crossed that it would start up again, now that we knew it had an on again/off again short that sometimes drained the battery. Sometimes, we got a honk or three from cars lined up behind. Jennifer was beyond embarrassed.
As it turned out, my husband didn't complete a full year of school but instead applied for and accepted the job as Director of Special Education for the State of Nevada in Carson City. Another change. Not much discussion. The kids and I just tried to blend in. The family remained in Sparks. My husband resumed his frequent flyer status.
The former special ed director and his wife bought a diner in Reno. Wanting a gimmick to attract a lunchtime clientele, they enlisted me to make small, individual loaves of bread that would be served with salads and soups. So from my little kitchen, I produced 100 or so personal sized loaves of bread dough, a week's supply in the beginning, all done by hand. These went into a freezer on site and were baked, as needed.
I felt lucky to find a salesman--a teen aged boy--who knew about the leaf springs on a car because I hadn't taken that into consideration when I decided to build a front patio from cement pavers. They were on sale for 10 cents, or maybe it was 25 cents, apiece! So while we loaded them into the back of the Datsun, this kid repeatedly checked those springs to be sure we weren't adding too much weight. I had a ton of stuff to do, sewing for family and the new house, getting kids to school and running them here and there to their activities but I had a whole plot of dirt that needed something done. It took several trips to get enough pavers. With each trip the teen would say, "Take the back way and ease over bumps in the road." Bless his heart. I rigged up a soil leveler of sorts from a 2 x 4 or 4 x 4 or whatever it was I'd purchased. And measured and cut pieces to build some simple planter dividers. My neighbors still seemed curious, though I felt sure we had, by that time, established ourselves as pretty normal folks. I'd done my measuring and had made the final cut with my hand saw when the guy who had been watching ambled over to say, "You could have done that a lot quicker with my power saw." Breaking up the ribbons of clay hard-pan was hard. I learned that water and soaking wasn't the answer. Gypsum wasn't exactly a miracle cure, either. I broke a shovel handle, digging. The kids and I hauled trees and shrubs in our small car, much of it from quick-sale tables. You know, the plants that look dead, already. Most things lived, given a little water, time and sweet talk.
When I'd spent time trying to figure out the instructions for hanging a side pull drapery rod without success, I went next door to ask a neighbor. He skimmed through those instructions, handed the rod back to me, saying, "It can't be that hard!" Well, okay then. I marched myself and my stuff back home and hung that thing on the wall! Men!
Grandpa and Grandma South came to visit that first December. The Truckee Meadows was still experiencing drought conditions. It was so warm, we picnicked at Lake Tahoe, needing nothing more than a sweater.
Never did I think I would live in Sparks, Nevada. My stay here started out as a two-year proposition. Now, thirty-seven years later, it is still very much a part of who I am.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Swooshing Down Utah Slopes and Other Tales
Since I was always looking for something Frank and I could do together, when he saw an ad in the paper for beginning skiing lessons, I agreed to try it. I longed for his companionship. He loved to ski and was good at it. Athletics hadn't interested me much as an adult. I felt I had performed poorly in most athletic attempts while growing up. I remembered often being the last one picked for a team of any kind. I was older than most learning to ride a bike. You've heard about my one ride on roller skates. And, I hadn't learned to swim. Any venture into water always seemed to end badly. Caught in swift current and sure I would drown in the canal down by Greene's had been just plain old scary. Downata Hot Springs in Downey, Idaho, where a brother grabbed my ankles underwater to pull me into deeper water, as if that was going to make me learn to swim, hadn't. My brother-in-law's attempt to teach me in Lake Sammamish in Washington where there was no bottom to touch further dampened my motivation for trying.
In the early morning, once a week, I would bundle both kids, nurse my baby while driving to drop them off at Judy's (my sister-in-law), then make a mad dash for the slopes. Every minute counted. I had to be back in time for the next feeding. Park City, Utah, an old, all but abandoned mining town had come alive again as a ski resort. Not exactly dressed in Resort Wear, I must have been quite a sight on the hill, in my worn out Levi's, a make-shift coat--uhg-g-gly, baby blue car coat sort of thing with a funky, plastic feel--and a beggar's assortment of unmatched, layered sweaters, scarves, and mittens. Until I put my stockinged feet into those unforgiving, stiff ski boots, I was trying to navigate on icy pavement and snow covered everything with plastic bags tied around my only pair of shoes. I got away with looking like this because the crowds that had come to show off their fancy outfits and equipment when Park City first opened had abandoned her for the more elite and newly built, Snow Bird.
I'd heard that skiing was one activity where one could completely escape the pressures of everyday life, moving silently along the slopes, wind nipping your cheeks, the rhythmic sound of edges cutting into snow. It was certainly an escape for me, from any thoughts of problems at home. The only thing I could think about while skiing was making it to the bottom of the hill, alive! I felt just shy of humiliation standing on flat ground, two boards strapped to my feet, falling flat on my face while little kids zoomed past me, having just come down the steepest slopes or having just navigated the most challenging moguls. Even worse was learning to use the tow rope or T-bar, and then the lifts and tram. My talents for falling didn't go unnoticed. Tow rope, T-bar, or lift, when I fell, I stopped traffic and the line piled up behind me while I tried to figure out how to slide or roll or pull myself and those things still attached to my feet out of the way without stabbing anyone with the poles or poppin' off a ski. Heaven forbid I should pop one off. Getting it back on was a bit of a problem, unfamiliar as I was with all the belts, buckles, and whistles, frozen hands, not to mention that it would require balancing on the other leg, also attached to a board ready to slide away no matter what I had been instructed to do.
That first pair of wooden rentals would have been killers for any one's use. Heavy, long in length, poorly waxed, and antique, they belonged in a museum. But they had been cheap to rent! And I didn't know any better! I came home after that first morning lesson and cried all the rest of the day, first about skiing--falling and fatigued, trying to get or stay upright--then about the cut on my brow from a falling ski knocked over by my baby. Before my next lesson, I exchanged those lengthy planks for a shorter, newer pair (not wood, for sure), finished the lessons and really enjoyed being on the mountain, pleasantly surprised to learn that I wasn't quite the klutz I had grown up believing I was. We had a different instructor for each lesson. That made things interesting! One of them had us ski down a very narrow and steep side slope without poles so we would learn to place our shoulders and shift our weight without crutches. Another, took us to the very top of the hill on the lift. None of the class could get off that thing without falling. Finally, our instructor said, "When I say stand up, you Stand Up! Sure enough, as each of us came up that time and heard her yell, "Stand Up", we did! And once we had experienced how that felt, the stance that occurred quite naturally when the timing was right, we could do it again and again. Even me! One of our last lessons was learning the art of traversing. The slope our instructor chose was quite a narrow area. Light snowfall became more like blizzard conditions quite quickly. That created flat visibility. No one could see the edge where the slope dropped off. One misplaced ski could have had been tragic. So he carefully led our group, snowplowing for control, all the way to the bottom.
Finally, at last, I was invited to join Frank and his friends, one ski instructor among them. We took the tram all the way up. The door kept popping open. That made me nervous. At the top, I stepped out onto a winding trail that cut through the trees, too narrow to snow plow, even. I didn't know that this would open up into the wide, open bowl that Park City was known for somewhere down the trail. Thinking I'd have to swoosh straight down the mountain, I wanted to get right back on the tram and ride to the bottom. The group, including my husband, went on down the hill. The former ski instructor stayed with me, getting me back up on the packed trail when I got off into deep powder, and coaxing me along, me traversing a little, snow plowing a whole lot more, on down and across that beautiful, wondrous bowl I'd heard everyone talk about. What a magnificent view! Still standing, I skied right up to the deck of the lodge! A couple more ski trips, one to Alta or Brighton, whichever one had just about nothing but slopes of moguls--try snow plowing on that kind of terrain--where I got high-centered a lot coming down. My husband continued skiing with his friends after work. I was encouraged to find my own group to go with but I hadn't taken on skiing just to go on Ladies Day! Lift ticket prices began to soar. More suitable clothing and/or equipment for me wasn't in our budget. My adventures on the ski slopes of Utah had come to an end.
My husband finished his Master's degree. Todd began kindergarten in the fall. Babysitting-aged girls in our new neighborhood would have paid me to let them tend Jenn, she had charmed them so. Todd would tell anyone who would listen about the fascinating stuff he was learning. Already reading a bit before he entered school, he took over story time before bed, not only reading to Jenn but acting out all the characters, providing sound effects, putting on a real one-man show! He was attempting to read everything--dictionary, encyclopedia, telephone books, cereal boxes, often succeeding early on. He almost made his sister a non-speaking child, understanding her every whimper, finger point and grunt. Why did she need to learn to talk, with her brother anticipating and fulfilling her every need? And so, she didn't...talk, as early as he had.
Frank was employed by an organization--the Resource Center--that served a four-state region developing and implementing educational programs to adhere to new federal laws guaranteeing education for all special education kids, no easy task if a kid lived beyond a city population in Alaska or out in the middle of sagebrush on a cattle ranch in Nevada and other such locals. He had faculty status at the University of Utah, but no teaching responsibilities. Some faculty wives started a reading group and asked me to join. Reading for pleasure wasn't something I'd done much of. Reading had never been problematic for me and of course, I did what was necessary for school. I read patterns and recipes and all the things one does every day. My parents read church literature. Dad had a subscription to a farm magazine, Mother had the Reader's Digest. But I don't remember seeing them sit to read a book just for the pleasure of reading. At the first light of day, farm work began. When it got dark, everybody went to bed. While Mother never sat without a crochet hook in her hand or mending in her lap, I thought reading a book that wasn't school work would have seemed to her and my dad like idle hands and wasting time.
Joining this group, professional women among them, thinking of myself as just a housewife, my feelings of inadequacy, intimidation, and inexperience were greatly heightened when I was asked right away to review a book for the group. My friend, Susan, suggested the book, The Chosen, a work of fiction, based on fact. It was the story of a Jewish boy growing up in an Orthodox home. Grandma South had talked some about her Jewish friends from childhood, many of whom perished during the war. The book fascinated me. I looked up other writings on Jewish culture at the library. One day as I sat on the floor propped up against the living room wall, intently reading in preparation for my review debut, Todd asked, "What are you doing, Mom?" He had never seen me read for myself although I had read a lot to him. That was a light bulb moment.
I used background music and filled the pool table downstairs with food associated with Jewish culture. A colleague of Frank's who had recently stayed in our home even sent me real, New York bagels, borscht, and other authentic foods to serve after my presentation. Not only did my props set the mood but the music, the food, even my review and the discussion that followed provided something for me to hide behind as I explored an entirely new avenue in my life.
Our home became the gathering place for family. Fresh lemonade and homemade ice cream were summertime staples. It also became a home away from home for college-aged nieces and nephews. It certainly wasn't the Hilton but everyone was welcome to come at any time. Wait! I'm remembering a time I arrived home to find college kids already inside. "How did you get in?" "Climbed through a window!" Some neighborhood watch we had going on there on our street. Not one person reported having seen a break-in going on at my house. That must have been when I issued keys to one and all.
The big kids taught my little kids to say things that made everyone laugh. Scott liked his pie ice cold. Sue loved pumpkin pie and would eat it until she was sick, knowing I only made it in November. She taught my kids the finer points of eating raw dough's, bread, pie crust, cookie. The Fife kids loved my cherry-cheese pie. Jon would eat anything as long as it was peanut butter. Kathy shared her mom's good recipes for spaghetti sauce and oatmeal cookies. I've heard more recently that Anna Kare loved my taco salad!
The phone rang late one night. It was Sue. Would I come and get her? "Where are you?" "At the police station." Her blind date had not gone well. Having car problems miles from Provo was the final straw. With both of them at my house, Sue called a roommate to come and rescue her while her date was stuck sleeping on the floor, waiting until some car repair place opened the next morning. My little kids thought this was all kinds of exciting.
Sue returned the favor many times over, showing up at the house at times when I desperately needed help. Had my husband been coming home every night after work, I might have included "clean up" on my to-do list more often but since he was a frequent flier and I had tons of projects and activities going on all the time, I became very good at making a mess and adding to it. Laundry had to be at the top of my list. When Frank did arrive home with a suitcase of dirty clothes, he often needed those same items washed, dried, and ironed, sometimes overnight, in order to get back out on the road. With clothes lines my only drying resource, a quick laundry turn around was often tricky and everything else had to wait. Relief Society work day projects or sewing deadlines, getting Tole pieces ready to sell, making salt dough pieces for mounting, crafting on the cheap by collecting dried weeds and flowers. I always had a mess of some kind going on. And because I cooked and baked a lot and often used every dish I owned to do it, I always had dirty dishes in the sink! Sue usually started dishes the minute she came but besides the dishes, my kids wanted her attention. They adored her. Jenn called her "Wonder Woman" because her hair style resembled the TV show character. I don't think Sue ever got to relax when she came for a weekend.
On my way to the airport, with little time to spare, I came upon an accident at a busy downtown intersection. As my lane of traffic was routed past the fender bender that was tying up traffic, I did a double take. "Kathy?" Sure enough. My niece was one of the drivers involved! What could I do but put the airport trip on hold, momentarily, and whip around the block to rescue another of "my" kids!
Anna Kare lived in our downstairs bedroom for a couple of months. I had already forgotten about the on-again, off-again, soap opera cycles of dating and I acted too much like a parent, taking my brother's request to heart when he asked me to look out for his daughter. That made her uncomfortable. Remembering this now, how could I have so quickly forgotten my own strong, youthful feelings and desire for independence. So sorry, AK, for imposing my smothering attempts to mother, on you.
Jon wowed my kids by giving them rides in the yellow Mustang he shared with his brothers. "Jennifer" was a popular tune at that time. He'd sing that when my Jennifer was along for a ride. She felt as though she was in the presence of a rock star!
I was asked to come back to work in a beauty salon. Childcare was an issue. While I felt that my husband would have considered me more an asset if I had continued to work--I sensed a bit of resentment in him about having to accept the obligation and responsibility alone--and would have welcomed help to support our family, he also had strong feelings about leaving the kids with sitters, even for short periods. Despite the isolation I sometimes felt and the insecurities about my parenting abilities, I, too, did not want to have someone else raise my kids while I worked away from home. Looking back, I did not appreciate nearly enough the gift and blessing that was, to stay at home with my children and the challenge it was for my husband. I had no idea, of course, that this issue would come up for me to struggle with again.
Distinctive linings became my trademark in sewing Frank's sport coats. I made his dress slacks and his ties. I had earned enough from my sewing for others to buy a new machine, a Viking. I sewed a little for the South parents, and kept their hair trimmed. On occasion, Grandpa South took me shopping with him. He always ran into people he knew as we walked city streets, often a general authority. He knew a lot of people through his work and his church callings as well as those he had worked with when he and Jane had been called to travel into Czechoslovakia to check on church members there. He always introduced me. And I was a bit in awe. He liked me to help him pick out shirts and ties. He always chose well, but Jane had a habit of bursting his bubble a bit when we returned home, telling him he must remember to act his age and not dress like a younger man. He would laugh and laugh and say, "Now, Mommie." During one of our shopping excursions, an off-white sport coat caught his eye and he tried it on. It was love at first sight! It fit him as though it had been tailor made just for him. He took it off and put if back on several times but left the store without it, saying Jane would really be uncomfortable if he wore it. She was use to seeing him in dark navy, black or brown, colors that seemed fitting to her, for a man of his age and dignified stature. He died before another year went by, without having enjoyed that little bit of indulgence for himself. That was one time I wished he had not listened to her.
Grandpa South always took my side when Grandma interfered with the kids. She interfered often. There were two grandchildren older than Todd. When he was a baby, Grandma would call at night to see if I had put him to bed at a reasonable hour. I thought the calls might be fewer by the time Jennifer was born and more grandchildren joined the family. But still, there were calls to ask if I had put coats on the kids because the wind was blowing. Grandpa would often remind her that I was the mother and she must let me do what I thought was best. One day, Todd, who had been cruisin' for a bruisin' all day, sassed me once too often and I paddled him right there and then. Jane immediately scooped him up and validated his naughtiness. This had happened so often that I could no longer control my tongue and blurted out that she must stop interfering in front of my child. Grandma was crushed. I felt terrible. A few days passed. Grandpa had, in the mean time, pointed out to her what she was doing and how it created problems between mother and child. We made up, both with apologies, hugs, and a few tears. After that, she took me aside if she thought I was wrong rather than stepping in while I felt it necessary to discipline.
Grandpa didn't often show affection to people he clearly loved. I remember answering my doorbell one day while we lived in Ogden, and there stood Bill South, my father-in-law, holding a most beautiful long-stemmed red rose out to me, just because. He had driven from South Salt Lake to Ogden, to deliver it.
Grandma South loved her hybrid iris garden. The blooms were spectacular, large and fragrant. She loved classical music. Not only was her father a concert violinist but she had spent years living in Vienna, frequenting the great Opera House there. Once, while Mother was visiting us in Salt Lake, Jane invited Mother and I to go to an opera matinee that combined ballet sequences with arias. Mother had never attended anything like it before, I'm quite sure. We found our seats in the middle of the theater. Folks already seated and those still coming in were "dressed" for the occasion even though it was an afternoon performance, and were probably regular patrons of the opera. The lights would go down soon, and no one would notice that Mother and I stuck out like sore thumbs or so I felt. The music was beautiful, different to Mother's ear but she seemed to be enjoying the whole experience. Jane was comfortable and caught up in the story and the music, all very familiar to her. When the male dancer came on stage, in his flesh-colored tights and waist-length jacket, Mother gasped, certainly loud enough to my ear for everyone in that theater to hear her, and then blurted out, "Oh my, he's naked!" I was sure everyone heard that! I wanted to crawl under my seat and crawl all the way back to the theater exit. My mother didn't know enough about the whole thing to even be embarrassed. And she certainly wondered what kind of musical we had taken her to see.
I sewed a lot for my immediate family and for my extended family, and kept every one's hair trimmed and stylish. And while my kids were young, I went home to Weston every couple of months to help Mother clean. Todd was still a toddler when on one of these trips home, I experienced the terror of a house fire.
The family had moved Mother from the big, old Olsen house into a mobile home, parked across from the church on Uncle Wells' property. Most of Mother's things had been discarded, the downsizing intended to help her keep a smaller space tidy and be more comfortable. She never adjusted to this move and took no interest in her new living space. Uncle Wells came every day to have lunch with Mother. They argued and complained to and about each other, just as they might have done as kids growing up. Uncle Wells' wife had died so this mealtime was a blessing for him and Mother must have enjoyed some company, too, but they found something to argue about at every meal they shared. Sitting there, eating home-canned peaches with Wells and Mother, having already heard how his wife use to do them and Mother's rebuttal, I noticed a puff of smoke pass by the kitchen window. When I went to investigate, the whole back end of the trailer was smoldering. Hay bales taking the place of skirting hadn't yet been removed when winter became spring and then summer. During lawn and garden watering, those bales had sucked up water and spontaneous combustion was taking place. Uncle Wells grabbed his hose. I grabbed at the straw and as I did so, the wooden frame ignited. The phone connection had not yet burned through. Marion had just come in from the fields, for lunch, too. I called him and although he was a mile or more away, he seemed to be on the doorstep as I put the phone down. Uncle Wells could get no water pressure. Marion, a former fireman, ripped off the metal sheeting, forcing what water he had to work with everywhere he could get it, hoping to halt the fire's advance. I scooped up my toddler, placed him in my mother's arms and led her out of the trailer and across the street, away from the smoke, telling her to stay there with my baby. I rushed back to see what help I could be in the attempt to save the trailer. Per my brother's instruction, I was to go back inside and pull everything out of the closet that stretched across the back wall that was burning, outside. Running back to Mother's bedroom, I found her standing there, disoriented and in shock, her hands filled with red-hot, empty glass, canning bottles she had stored on her closet floor. She couldn't tell me where my baby was! I pulled her back out of the trailer and went in search of my child. Very uncharacteristic of him, Todd had stayed right where she put him, in the street in front of the church.
Marion worked hard to save that trailer and except for smoke and water damage, the loss was confined to the back end. Mother and I and Todd spent that night there, in the fire damaged trailer. Mother fought for every breath, all night, her asthma raging from the day's excitement and the smoke she was still smelling. I spent the entire night sniffing and checking for fresh smoke, terribly afraid that one spark might have been missed. I kept Todd with me and went over and over my plan in my mind, for getting Mother and my baby out, should fire erupt again. How was I going to save my sewing machine, too? Another brother, Sylvan, recovering from back surgery, drove from Pocatello or Chubbuck to clean up the damage and reconnect telephone and electricity, rebuilding that burned-out back end.
Hopefully, each of my kids will write their own personal story one day. In the mean time, I've mentioned things I remember, and will no doubt mention more, like seeing my kids climb into my mother's lap, anxious for a story or a song. They would beg her to ruffle up her curly hair, take off her glasses and take out her false teeth, if the story called for it. She was happy to oblige them. The stories might be a memory from her own childhood or something she made up as she went along, featuring Todd and Jennifer as the central characters. Her cookie jar was never empty. She no longer baked but I think she spent whatever money she might have had to be sure she always had store-bought cookie favorites for her grand-kids. Jenn loved the coconut, caramel, chocolate ones. Mother had quite a sweet tooth herself and ate many a cookie with her grand-kids. Sometimes she'd give them a nickle to go to Jerry's--what use to be Archie Lott's store--for candy. She loved it when Todd and Jennifer--or anyone else who came to visit--would play checker marbles with her or do jigsaw puzzles. She'd let them comb her hair and pull out the whiskers from her chin. Our visits always included a drive in the countryside, a stop at A&W for a fish sandwich, a Root Bear and ice cream.
Big Raggedy Ann and Andy cookies replaced paper Valentines, for my kids to take to school and pass out to the neighborhood kids. Each cookie figure held a heart, the perfect spot for me to write a recipients' name in frosting. Store-bought Halloween costumes were not in our budget so I had to get creative. The kids and I did all sorts of crafts like the Jack-o-Lantern candles, Easter sugar eggs. I room mothered for each of them, played catch, rode bikes, and built that first snowman each winter season. They learned to use a needle and thread, making doll clothes or sewing on buttons while I sewed. When I took up Tole painting, they painted with water colors, crayons and markers and never touched my wet oil paint. It was Grandpa South who ran his finger across newly painted strawberries, asking, "Is this still wet?" Both of them learned to help in the kitchen quite young. Jennifer didn't like that she was most often asked to toss the salad. "Your brother is older." That didn't make it fair in her young mind that he got to cut with a knife or stir a hot pot and she didn't.
Pat enrolled my kids for swimming lessons right along with her kids at a private swim club she had access to and provided transportation. My kids took to the water right away. We'd arrived home after a lesson, one day and I got busy preparing lunch or something. Jennifer didn't come when called. Once I'd called her name several times, I went looking for her. She was nowhere to be found. It wasn't a normal day if I hadn't lost Todd at least once as a little boy but Jennifer wasn't quite as adventuresome as her brother had been and usually stayed close by. I checked the bathrooms, the bedrooms and all through the house. It also wasn't like her to cross the street or go to the neighbors without permission or my knowledge but I checked front and back yards. Still no Jennifer. I retraced my steps, checking everywhere, again. I walked our street, calling her name. Pat and her kids joined in. It seemed like a long time had passed without finding any trace of her. I went back through the house again, this time picking up every article of clothing, moving anything that could be moved and though I'd checked her bed and covers before, this time I totally removed everything. In doing that, I spied a little bare bottom and found her laying in the crack between her bed and the wall. It seemed too small a place for her, even tiny as she was, but she must have crawled up on her bed and tired from all the swimming, fell immediately asleep, perhaps rolling over just enough to reach the crack, the weight of her little body moving the mattress away from the wall, letting her slip down in-between until the box spring stopped her momentum. Relieved? An understatement!
Family trips were almost always connected in some way with Frank's business travel. These trips gave the kids a chance to see lots of the US, the deserts of New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, and Nevada, wide expanses of blooming cactus in the springtime and spectacular, blazing summer sunsets. We were introduced to Mexican Sopapilla. We'd arrive at our destination often at night, We couldn't afford the price of extra hours in a hotel so we were out long before check-out time. Frank would drop the kids and I off at local zoos and parks on his way to his business meeting. I remember one museum located in a park where the kids were allowed to touch everything. A kid's dream, right? They rode old, antique, life-sized wooden rocking horses, enjoyed a precursor to View Master, decided that the horse-hair cushioned chairs were not all that comfortable. And of course they were excited about the real, live, constantly purring, huge cat! Their dad's love for history surfaced when we toured sites such as the Indian Cave Dwellings and visited some of the spectacular canyons of the "Four Corners" region. We made the loop to see family in Idaho, Washington State, Oregon, and California, taking in such sights as Crater Lake and playing on the beaches of the Pacific along the way. Frank and I spend a day in Canada. At home in Utah, we hiked backpacking trails through Millcreek Canyon and searched for topaz in the desert. Jennifer learned to drink fresh, clear water from a stream using a licorice straw.
I joined Frank in New York City and Boston--a few years after our original plan to do so when returning from our summer in Europe--near the end of a business trip. Broadway shows, Ballet, The New York Philharmonic Orchestra, Lincoln Center, hot smokey pretzels with mustard purchased from street vendors, Central Park by carriage at night, and historic Boston were all a part of my New York Experience. The kids were to stay with Wilkins but unaccustomed to being left in someone's care, Todd tearfully said goodbye asking me, "Who will kiss us goodnight?" Years later, alone with two kids to raise, great financial instability, debilitating health problems, and more fear than I knew how to overcome, I lay on the couch, feeling totally beaten and ready to give up. I heard Todd say, "You can't give up, Mom." Looking up at this tall, almost-a-teenager, I could hear from memory his childhood voice saying, "Who would kiss us goodnight?"
In the early morning, once a week, I would bundle both kids, nurse my baby while driving to drop them off at Judy's (my sister-in-law), then make a mad dash for the slopes. Every minute counted. I had to be back in time for the next feeding. Park City, Utah, an old, all but abandoned mining town had come alive again as a ski resort. Not exactly dressed in Resort Wear, I must have been quite a sight on the hill, in my worn out Levi's, a make-shift coat--uhg-g-gly, baby blue car coat sort of thing with a funky, plastic feel--and a beggar's assortment of unmatched, layered sweaters, scarves, and mittens. Until I put my stockinged feet into those unforgiving, stiff ski boots, I was trying to navigate on icy pavement and snow covered everything with plastic bags tied around my only pair of shoes. I got away with looking like this because the crowds that had come to show off their fancy outfits and equipment when Park City first opened had abandoned her for the more elite and newly built, Snow Bird.
I'd heard that skiing was one activity where one could completely escape the pressures of everyday life, moving silently along the slopes, wind nipping your cheeks, the rhythmic sound of edges cutting into snow. It was certainly an escape for me, from any thoughts of problems at home. The only thing I could think about while skiing was making it to the bottom of the hill, alive! I felt just shy of humiliation standing on flat ground, two boards strapped to my feet, falling flat on my face while little kids zoomed past me, having just come down the steepest slopes or having just navigated the most challenging moguls. Even worse was learning to use the tow rope or T-bar, and then the lifts and tram. My talents for falling didn't go unnoticed. Tow rope, T-bar, or lift, when I fell, I stopped traffic and the line piled up behind me while I tried to figure out how to slide or roll or pull myself and those things still attached to my feet out of the way without stabbing anyone with the poles or poppin' off a ski. Heaven forbid I should pop one off. Getting it back on was a bit of a problem, unfamiliar as I was with all the belts, buckles, and whistles, frozen hands, not to mention that it would require balancing on the other leg, also attached to a board ready to slide away no matter what I had been instructed to do.
That first pair of wooden rentals would have been killers for any one's use. Heavy, long in length, poorly waxed, and antique, they belonged in a museum. But they had been cheap to rent! And I didn't know any better! I came home after that first morning lesson and cried all the rest of the day, first about skiing--falling and fatigued, trying to get or stay upright--then about the cut on my brow from a falling ski knocked over by my baby. Before my next lesson, I exchanged those lengthy planks for a shorter, newer pair (not wood, for sure), finished the lessons and really enjoyed being on the mountain, pleasantly surprised to learn that I wasn't quite the klutz I had grown up believing I was. We had a different instructor for each lesson. That made things interesting! One of them had us ski down a very narrow and steep side slope without poles so we would learn to place our shoulders and shift our weight without crutches. Another, took us to the very top of the hill on the lift. None of the class could get off that thing without falling. Finally, our instructor said, "When I say stand up, you Stand Up! Sure enough, as each of us came up that time and heard her yell, "Stand Up", we did! And once we had experienced how that felt, the stance that occurred quite naturally when the timing was right, we could do it again and again. Even me! One of our last lessons was learning the art of traversing. The slope our instructor chose was quite a narrow area. Light snowfall became more like blizzard conditions quite quickly. That created flat visibility. No one could see the edge where the slope dropped off. One misplaced ski could have had been tragic. So he carefully led our group, snowplowing for control, all the way to the bottom.
Finally, at last, I was invited to join Frank and his friends, one ski instructor among them. We took the tram all the way up. The door kept popping open. That made me nervous. At the top, I stepped out onto a winding trail that cut through the trees, too narrow to snow plow, even. I didn't know that this would open up into the wide, open bowl that Park City was known for somewhere down the trail. Thinking I'd have to swoosh straight down the mountain, I wanted to get right back on the tram and ride to the bottom. The group, including my husband, went on down the hill. The former ski instructor stayed with me, getting me back up on the packed trail when I got off into deep powder, and coaxing me along, me traversing a little, snow plowing a whole lot more, on down and across that beautiful, wondrous bowl I'd heard everyone talk about. What a magnificent view! Still standing, I skied right up to the deck of the lodge! A couple more ski trips, one to Alta or Brighton, whichever one had just about nothing but slopes of moguls--try snow plowing on that kind of terrain--where I got high-centered a lot coming down. My husband continued skiing with his friends after work. I was encouraged to find my own group to go with but I hadn't taken on skiing just to go on Ladies Day! Lift ticket prices began to soar. More suitable clothing and/or equipment for me wasn't in our budget. My adventures on the ski slopes of Utah had come to an end.
My husband finished his Master's degree. Todd began kindergarten in the fall. Babysitting-aged girls in our new neighborhood would have paid me to let them tend Jenn, she had charmed them so. Todd would tell anyone who would listen about the fascinating stuff he was learning. Already reading a bit before he entered school, he took over story time before bed, not only reading to Jenn but acting out all the characters, providing sound effects, putting on a real one-man show! He was attempting to read everything--dictionary, encyclopedia, telephone books, cereal boxes, often succeeding early on. He almost made his sister a non-speaking child, understanding her every whimper, finger point and grunt. Why did she need to learn to talk, with her brother anticipating and fulfilling her every need? And so, she didn't...talk, as early as he had.
Frank was employed by an organization--the Resource Center--that served a four-state region developing and implementing educational programs to adhere to new federal laws guaranteeing education for all special education kids, no easy task if a kid lived beyond a city population in Alaska or out in the middle of sagebrush on a cattle ranch in Nevada and other such locals. He had faculty status at the University of Utah, but no teaching responsibilities. Some faculty wives started a reading group and asked me to join. Reading for pleasure wasn't something I'd done much of. Reading had never been problematic for me and of course, I did what was necessary for school. I read patterns and recipes and all the things one does every day. My parents read church literature. Dad had a subscription to a farm magazine, Mother had the Reader's Digest. But I don't remember seeing them sit to read a book just for the pleasure of reading. At the first light of day, farm work began. When it got dark, everybody went to bed. While Mother never sat without a crochet hook in her hand or mending in her lap, I thought reading a book that wasn't school work would have seemed to her and my dad like idle hands and wasting time.
Joining this group, professional women among them, thinking of myself as just a housewife, my feelings of inadequacy, intimidation, and inexperience were greatly heightened when I was asked right away to review a book for the group. My friend, Susan, suggested the book, The Chosen, a work of fiction, based on fact. It was the story of a Jewish boy growing up in an Orthodox home. Grandma South had talked some about her Jewish friends from childhood, many of whom perished during the war. The book fascinated me. I looked up other writings on Jewish culture at the library. One day as I sat on the floor propped up against the living room wall, intently reading in preparation for my review debut, Todd asked, "What are you doing, Mom?" He had never seen me read for myself although I had read a lot to him. That was a light bulb moment.
I used background music and filled the pool table downstairs with food associated with Jewish culture. A colleague of Frank's who had recently stayed in our home even sent me real, New York bagels, borscht, and other authentic foods to serve after my presentation. Not only did my props set the mood but the music, the food, even my review and the discussion that followed provided something for me to hide behind as I explored an entirely new avenue in my life.
Our home became the gathering place for family. Fresh lemonade and homemade ice cream were summertime staples. It also became a home away from home for college-aged nieces and nephews. It certainly wasn't the Hilton but everyone was welcome to come at any time. Wait! I'm remembering a time I arrived home to find college kids already inside. "How did you get in?" "Climbed through a window!" Some neighborhood watch we had going on there on our street. Not one person reported having seen a break-in going on at my house. That must have been when I issued keys to one and all.
The big kids taught my little kids to say things that made everyone laugh. Scott liked his pie ice cold. Sue loved pumpkin pie and would eat it until she was sick, knowing I only made it in November. She taught my kids the finer points of eating raw dough's, bread, pie crust, cookie. The Fife kids loved my cherry-cheese pie. Jon would eat anything as long as it was peanut butter. Kathy shared her mom's good recipes for spaghetti sauce and oatmeal cookies. I've heard more recently that Anna Kare loved my taco salad!
The phone rang late one night. It was Sue. Would I come and get her? "Where are you?" "At the police station." Her blind date had not gone well. Having car problems miles from Provo was the final straw. With both of them at my house, Sue called a roommate to come and rescue her while her date was stuck sleeping on the floor, waiting until some car repair place opened the next morning. My little kids thought this was all kinds of exciting.
Sue returned the favor many times over, showing up at the house at times when I desperately needed help. Had my husband been coming home every night after work, I might have included "clean up" on my to-do list more often but since he was a frequent flier and I had tons of projects and activities going on all the time, I became very good at making a mess and adding to it. Laundry had to be at the top of my list. When Frank did arrive home with a suitcase of dirty clothes, he often needed those same items washed, dried, and ironed, sometimes overnight, in order to get back out on the road. With clothes lines my only drying resource, a quick laundry turn around was often tricky and everything else had to wait. Relief Society work day projects or sewing deadlines, getting Tole pieces ready to sell, making salt dough pieces for mounting, crafting on the cheap by collecting dried weeds and flowers. I always had a mess of some kind going on. And because I cooked and baked a lot and often used every dish I owned to do it, I always had dirty dishes in the sink! Sue usually started dishes the minute she came but besides the dishes, my kids wanted her attention. They adored her. Jenn called her "Wonder Woman" because her hair style resembled the TV show character. I don't think Sue ever got to relax when she came for a weekend.
On my way to the airport, with little time to spare, I came upon an accident at a busy downtown intersection. As my lane of traffic was routed past the fender bender that was tying up traffic, I did a double take. "Kathy?" Sure enough. My niece was one of the drivers involved! What could I do but put the airport trip on hold, momentarily, and whip around the block to rescue another of "my" kids!
Anna Kare lived in our downstairs bedroom for a couple of months. I had already forgotten about the on-again, off-again, soap opera cycles of dating and I acted too much like a parent, taking my brother's request to heart when he asked me to look out for his daughter. That made her uncomfortable. Remembering this now, how could I have so quickly forgotten my own strong, youthful feelings and desire for independence. So sorry, AK, for imposing my smothering attempts to mother, on you.
Jon wowed my kids by giving them rides in the yellow Mustang he shared with his brothers. "Jennifer" was a popular tune at that time. He'd sing that when my Jennifer was along for a ride. She felt as though she was in the presence of a rock star!
I was asked to come back to work in a beauty salon. Childcare was an issue. While I felt that my husband would have considered me more an asset if I had continued to work--I sensed a bit of resentment in him about having to accept the obligation and responsibility alone--and would have welcomed help to support our family, he also had strong feelings about leaving the kids with sitters, even for short periods. Despite the isolation I sometimes felt and the insecurities about my parenting abilities, I, too, did not want to have someone else raise my kids while I worked away from home. Looking back, I did not appreciate nearly enough the gift and blessing that was, to stay at home with my children and the challenge it was for my husband. I had no idea, of course, that this issue would come up for me to struggle with again.
Distinctive linings became my trademark in sewing Frank's sport coats. I made his dress slacks and his ties. I had earned enough from my sewing for others to buy a new machine, a Viking. I sewed a little for the South parents, and kept their hair trimmed. On occasion, Grandpa South took me shopping with him. He always ran into people he knew as we walked city streets, often a general authority. He knew a lot of people through his work and his church callings as well as those he had worked with when he and Jane had been called to travel into Czechoslovakia to check on church members there. He always introduced me. And I was a bit in awe. He liked me to help him pick out shirts and ties. He always chose well, but Jane had a habit of bursting his bubble a bit when we returned home, telling him he must remember to act his age and not dress like a younger man. He would laugh and laugh and say, "Now, Mommie." During one of our shopping excursions, an off-white sport coat caught his eye and he tried it on. It was love at first sight! It fit him as though it had been tailor made just for him. He took it off and put if back on several times but left the store without it, saying Jane would really be uncomfortable if he wore it. She was use to seeing him in dark navy, black or brown, colors that seemed fitting to her, for a man of his age and dignified stature. He died before another year went by, without having enjoyed that little bit of indulgence for himself. That was one time I wished he had not listened to her.
Grandpa South always took my side when Grandma interfered with the kids. She interfered often. There were two grandchildren older than Todd. When he was a baby, Grandma would call at night to see if I had put him to bed at a reasonable hour. I thought the calls might be fewer by the time Jennifer was born and more grandchildren joined the family. But still, there were calls to ask if I had put coats on the kids because the wind was blowing. Grandpa would often remind her that I was the mother and she must let me do what I thought was best. One day, Todd, who had been cruisin' for a bruisin' all day, sassed me once too often and I paddled him right there and then. Jane immediately scooped him up and validated his naughtiness. This had happened so often that I could no longer control my tongue and blurted out that she must stop interfering in front of my child. Grandma was crushed. I felt terrible. A few days passed. Grandpa had, in the mean time, pointed out to her what she was doing and how it created problems between mother and child. We made up, both with apologies, hugs, and a few tears. After that, she took me aside if she thought I was wrong rather than stepping in while I felt it necessary to discipline.
Grandpa didn't often show affection to people he clearly loved. I remember answering my doorbell one day while we lived in Ogden, and there stood Bill South, my father-in-law, holding a most beautiful long-stemmed red rose out to me, just because. He had driven from South Salt Lake to Ogden, to deliver it.
Grandma South loved her hybrid iris garden. The blooms were spectacular, large and fragrant. She loved classical music. Not only was her father a concert violinist but she had spent years living in Vienna, frequenting the great Opera House there. Once, while Mother was visiting us in Salt Lake, Jane invited Mother and I to go to an opera matinee that combined ballet sequences with arias. Mother had never attended anything like it before, I'm quite sure. We found our seats in the middle of the theater. Folks already seated and those still coming in were "dressed" for the occasion even though it was an afternoon performance, and were probably regular patrons of the opera. The lights would go down soon, and no one would notice that Mother and I stuck out like sore thumbs or so I felt. The music was beautiful, different to Mother's ear but she seemed to be enjoying the whole experience. Jane was comfortable and caught up in the story and the music, all very familiar to her. When the male dancer came on stage, in his flesh-colored tights and waist-length jacket, Mother gasped, certainly loud enough to my ear for everyone in that theater to hear her, and then blurted out, "Oh my, he's naked!" I was sure everyone heard that! I wanted to crawl under my seat and crawl all the way back to the theater exit. My mother didn't know enough about the whole thing to even be embarrassed. And she certainly wondered what kind of musical we had taken her to see.
I sewed a lot for my immediate family and for my extended family, and kept every one's hair trimmed and stylish. And while my kids were young, I went home to Weston every couple of months to help Mother clean. Todd was still a toddler when on one of these trips home, I experienced the terror of a house fire.
The family had moved Mother from the big, old Olsen house into a mobile home, parked across from the church on Uncle Wells' property. Most of Mother's things had been discarded, the downsizing intended to help her keep a smaller space tidy and be more comfortable. She never adjusted to this move and took no interest in her new living space. Uncle Wells came every day to have lunch with Mother. They argued and complained to and about each other, just as they might have done as kids growing up. Uncle Wells' wife had died so this mealtime was a blessing for him and Mother must have enjoyed some company, too, but they found something to argue about at every meal they shared. Sitting there, eating home-canned peaches with Wells and Mother, having already heard how his wife use to do them and Mother's rebuttal, I noticed a puff of smoke pass by the kitchen window. When I went to investigate, the whole back end of the trailer was smoldering. Hay bales taking the place of skirting hadn't yet been removed when winter became spring and then summer. During lawn and garden watering, those bales had sucked up water and spontaneous combustion was taking place. Uncle Wells grabbed his hose. I grabbed at the straw and as I did so, the wooden frame ignited. The phone connection had not yet burned through. Marion had just come in from the fields, for lunch, too. I called him and although he was a mile or more away, he seemed to be on the doorstep as I put the phone down. Uncle Wells could get no water pressure. Marion, a former fireman, ripped off the metal sheeting, forcing what water he had to work with everywhere he could get it, hoping to halt the fire's advance. I scooped up my toddler, placed him in my mother's arms and led her out of the trailer and across the street, away from the smoke, telling her to stay there with my baby. I rushed back to see what help I could be in the attempt to save the trailer. Per my brother's instruction, I was to go back inside and pull everything out of the closet that stretched across the back wall that was burning, outside. Running back to Mother's bedroom, I found her standing there, disoriented and in shock, her hands filled with red-hot, empty glass, canning bottles she had stored on her closet floor. She couldn't tell me where my baby was! I pulled her back out of the trailer and went in search of my child. Very uncharacteristic of him, Todd had stayed right where she put him, in the street in front of the church.
Marion worked hard to save that trailer and except for smoke and water damage, the loss was confined to the back end. Mother and I and Todd spent that night there, in the fire damaged trailer. Mother fought for every breath, all night, her asthma raging from the day's excitement and the smoke she was still smelling. I spent the entire night sniffing and checking for fresh smoke, terribly afraid that one spark might have been missed. I kept Todd with me and went over and over my plan in my mind, for getting Mother and my baby out, should fire erupt again. How was I going to save my sewing machine, too? Another brother, Sylvan, recovering from back surgery, drove from Pocatello or Chubbuck to clean up the damage and reconnect telephone and electricity, rebuilding that burned-out back end.
Hopefully, each of my kids will write their own personal story one day. In the mean time, I've mentioned things I remember, and will no doubt mention more, like seeing my kids climb into my mother's lap, anxious for a story or a song. They would beg her to ruffle up her curly hair, take off her glasses and take out her false teeth, if the story called for it. She was happy to oblige them. The stories might be a memory from her own childhood or something she made up as she went along, featuring Todd and Jennifer as the central characters. Her cookie jar was never empty. She no longer baked but I think she spent whatever money she might have had to be sure she always had store-bought cookie favorites for her grand-kids. Jenn loved the coconut, caramel, chocolate ones. Mother had quite a sweet tooth herself and ate many a cookie with her grand-kids. Sometimes she'd give them a nickle to go to Jerry's--what use to be Archie Lott's store--for candy. She loved it when Todd and Jennifer--or anyone else who came to visit--would play checker marbles with her or do jigsaw puzzles. She'd let them comb her hair and pull out the whiskers from her chin. Our visits always included a drive in the countryside, a stop at A&W for a fish sandwich, a Root Bear and ice cream.
Big Raggedy Ann and Andy cookies replaced paper Valentines, for my kids to take to school and pass out to the neighborhood kids. Each cookie figure held a heart, the perfect spot for me to write a recipients' name in frosting. Store-bought Halloween costumes were not in our budget so I had to get creative. The kids and I did all sorts of crafts like the Jack-o-Lantern candles, Easter sugar eggs. I room mothered for each of them, played catch, rode bikes, and built that first snowman each winter season. They learned to use a needle and thread, making doll clothes or sewing on buttons while I sewed. When I took up Tole painting, they painted with water colors, crayons and markers and never touched my wet oil paint. It was Grandpa South who ran his finger across newly painted strawberries, asking, "Is this still wet?" Both of them learned to help in the kitchen quite young. Jennifer didn't like that she was most often asked to toss the salad. "Your brother is older." That didn't make it fair in her young mind that he got to cut with a knife or stir a hot pot and she didn't.
Pat enrolled my kids for swimming lessons right along with her kids at a private swim club she had access to and provided transportation. My kids took to the water right away. We'd arrived home after a lesson, one day and I got busy preparing lunch or something. Jennifer didn't come when called. Once I'd called her name several times, I went looking for her. She was nowhere to be found. It wasn't a normal day if I hadn't lost Todd at least once as a little boy but Jennifer wasn't quite as adventuresome as her brother had been and usually stayed close by. I checked the bathrooms, the bedrooms and all through the house. It also wasn't like her to cross the street or go to the neighbors without permission or my knowledge but I checked front and back yards. Still no Jennifer. I retraced my steps, checking everywhere, again. I walked our street, calling her name. Pat and her kids joined in. It seemed like a long time had passed without finding any trace of her. I went back through the house again, this time picking up every article of clothing, moving anything that could be moved and though I'd checked her bed and covers before, this time I totally removed everything. In doing that, I spied a little bare bottom and found her laying in the crack between her bed and the wall. It seemed too small a place for her, even tiny as she was, but she must have crawled up on her bed and tired from all the swimming, fell immediately asleep, perhaps rolling over just enough to reach the crack, the weight of her little body moving the mattress away from the wall, letting her slip down in-between until the box spring stopped her momentum. Relieved? An understatement!
Family trips were almost always connected in some way with Frank's business travel. These trips gave the kids a chance to see lots of the US, the deserts of New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, and Nevada, wide expanses of blooming cactus in the springtime and spectacular, blazing summer sunsets. We were introduced to Mexican Sopapilla. We'd arrive at our destination often at night, We couldn't afford the price of extra hours in a hotel so we were out long before check-out time. Frank would drop the kids and I off at local zoos and parks on his way to his business meeting. I remember one museum located in a park where the kids were allowed to touch everything. A kid's dream, right? They rode old, antique, life-sized wooden rocking horses, enjoyed a precursor to View Master, decided that the horse-hair cushioned chairs were not all that comfortable. And of course they were excited about the real, live, constantly purring, huge cat! Their dad's love for history surfaced when we toured sites such as the Indian Cave Dwellings and visited some of the spectacular canyons of the "Four Corners" region. We made the loop to see family in Idaho, Washington State, Oregon, and California, taking in such sights as Crater Lake and playing on the beaches of the Pacific along the way. Frank and I spend a day in Canada. At home in Utah, we hiked backpacking trails through Millcreek Canyon and searched for topaz in the desert. Jennifer learned to drink fresh, clear water from a stream using a licorice straw.
I joined Frank in New York City and Boston--a few years after our original plan to do so when returning from our summer in Europe--near the end of a business trip. Broadway shows, Ballet, The New York Philharmonic Orchestra, Lincoln Center, hot smokey pretzels with mustard purchased from street vendors, Central Park by carriage at night, and historic Boston were all a part of my New York Experience. The kids were to stay with Wilkins but unaccustomed to being left in someone's care, Todd tearfully said goodbye asking me, "Who will kiss us goodnight?" Years later, alone with two kids to raise, great financial instability, debilitating health problems, and more fear than I knew how to overcome, I lay on the couch, feeling totally beaten and ready to give up. I heard Todd say, "You can't give up, Mom." Looking up at this tall, almost-a-teenager, I could hear from memory his childhood voice saying, "Who would kiss us goodnight?"
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Nesting
We hadn't been in our new house but a few days until my husband was off to St. Lewis on business for a week, my nephews arrived to stay a few days, and I had a miscarriage. In the midst of all the stresses of change, our new neighbors--the Wilkins--came from across the street to introduce themselves. This was the beginning of a wonderful friendship.
Adjusting to separate bedrooms took time. Each night, my kids went to bed in their own room but in the morning, I'd find them both in one room. I used the empty living room to spread out materials for creating Relief Society work day packets or cutting out patterns or laying out, then stacking, layered components for quilt making. It was a "Great Room" where I could set up quilting frames or fill it with borrowed card tables and chairs to seat relatives and business associates for holiday meals or just because. That's how I learned to cook. My plan became one of always trying out at least one new recipe on guests or extended family. That, in my own mind, justified the expense of ingredients different from my regular, limited list and limited cash for such things. I figured that nothing would go to waste. What guest would refuse to eat something I'd made and served! I'm sure the man who ate my first attempt at Chocolate Silk Pie wished he'd declined. I used a recipe given to me by someone who had copied it incorrectly, doubling the butter and halving something else. I was too inexperienced to know that the proportions could not possibly be correct so I made and served it, as written. If my own indigestion was any indication...Oh, that poor, poor man.
My school days friend and former roommate was at the house one evening, working on a project. Sitting there on the floor, there was no mistaking that strange, rolling sort of feeling, similar to something I remembered from a day at beauty school when empty chairs had rolled across the floor and slatted window blinds swayed back and forth. I'd also watched, as a kid, power lines leading from the house to the barn, dance and spark, hitting against each other as the earth moved under my feet. Ruth Ann asked, "What is that?" "Earthquake", I said. "Well, make it stop!" came her answer. Remembering that I had kids in the bathtub, I made a mad dash to save them. They didn't care what was making the water swish back and forth rhythmically. They were splashing and having great fun!
Corner kitchen windows in our first home brought the out-of-doors inside. That first year of seasons held wonderful surprises as vegetation sprang from the soil or changed color. Houses on the street were terraced. One next door neighbor, whose house sat slightly higher than our own, had added a cover over his side porch. My, my what a surprise I got when summer rains came that first year, sometimes sudden and flash-flood like, quickly overflowing street gutters, forming an instant river that swelled up on mounded lawns on either side of the street. Of course, a good amount of water was funneled right down off that slanted porch cover, overwhelming our window well, beyond its capacity to drain. As the well filled, water poured in around the closed window, down the paneled wall inside and out the closed cabinet doors and drawers, soaking everything stored inside and the carpet, all the way to the center of the room. The first time it happened, Frank was traveling out of town. Gene and Pat came immediately, Gene with shop vac in hand, and Pat with her arms filled with towels to soak up as much water as quickly as possible. The mop-up seemed endless but they worked side by side with me. Then Pat ran her washer as long as I ran my own. We hung endless towels on clotheslines at each house. Lifesavers! Unfortunately, it happened more than once during the time we lived there, although we tried several options to correct the problem.
Pat got me started on food storage. I got her family hooked on gingerbread houses. I'd bake the pieces for her, then her family would put it together. Her youngest child was about a year older than my oldest child. Pat had returned to work the year we moved to the neighborhood so her young daughter came to our house after school. Sometimes, my kids and I went with the Wilkins to their family cabin near Provo, Utah. Her baked beans were the Best! We saw fireworks together at Liberty Park. On New Year's Eve, Pat made delicious lasagna and pizza, things I did not cook, making it a real treat for my family. Not one of us could ever resist one of her from-scratch brownies. My daughter still makes Pat's cranberry salad for our Thanksgiving meal.
The Wilkins kids had Wonder Bread at their house. According to my kids, that just wasn't fair. Were we really that poor, they said, that they had to be deprived like that and made to eat homemade bread every day? And so began the trade. I'd walk a nice, hot loaf or two of bread, straight out of the oven, over to Pat's house, something her family didn't have often, and she would hand me a loaf of Wonder Bread to take back to my kids!
Pat's son was older, with activities of his own but the oldest of the Wilkins' girls became my babysitter. She was "My Edie" to each of them. Her sister, Margaret, always had a new cheer to teach Jenn. Lucy and Todd became best buds for a time. Pat and Gene always seemed to know when I was getting overwhelmed, a young mother with two active kids and a husband forever traveling on business, and often without access to a car. Wilkins seemed to sense when my cabin fever was reaching a fevered pitch and would just appear, unannounced, babysitter in hand, and whisk me off to Baskin-Robbins for a half-pint of as many flavors as she or Gene or I could cram into our own carton. Having uninterrupted, adult conversation and the refreshing indulgence of an "all mine" sweet treat gave me the break I needed. It helped make me a better and more patient Mom when I returned home. There was always a bit of humor, too, when Gene was involved. I could not believe how many flavors he packed into that relatively small ice cream carton my first time out with the two of them! Pat was also in a state of disbelief!
Let's be honest here. I had few social or conversational skills. I had sat on a piano or organ bench just about forever. I had only a high school education plus Cosmetology School. That didn't count for much to anyone unless they needed a free haircut. I had lived a clean life, and had, for the most part, been obedient to the teachings of my parents, and our religion, and figured I'd done exactly as I'd been taught, by marrying a returned missionary, the son of my stake president, and the grandson of an LDS church president, John Taylor, for heaven's sake, and in the Temple! Surely, this must have counted for something, and perhaps in my mind, even a guarantee of sorts for a "Happily Ever After". Looking back, I was ill prepared for marriage or motherhood and was certainly unprepared to cook for, host and entertain high mucky-mucks. Yet, I hosted endless dinners for my husband's business associates, often with little advance notice. I'd get a phone call, maybe, "There will be # coming for dinner in about 30 minutes."
Whether it had actually been said or not, my understanding of the expectation put upon me was that of being on call, to present myself and our home in the best way possible at any time--I didn't have much to work with in that regard--and have the kids (and myself) spit polished so we'd reflect favorably on my husband as a successful family man. Again, my interpretation of that had me scrubbing my kitchen floor sometimes at 2:00 in the morning, after kids were in bed. It was that old, awful tile stuff that required hand and knees scrubbing, then a good waxing. You could have eaten off that floor when I was done with it. A long time passed before I realized that no one had, and that I could back off the need for perfection in the floor, a bit. I learned quickly to prioritize in order to have all elements of the meal ready to serve at the same time, at the correct temperature, kids still clean with hair in place, and myself...well, I really didn't have much to work with there, either! The last thing on my "Do At The LAST Minute" list was polishing that big, picture window in the empty living room. I mean, it was right there, unguarded by furniture or drapes still in one piece, and was a perfect spot for little fingers--my kids and their friends--and lots of nose and lips pressed to shiny glass smudges. I also learned to serve hot, homemade bread with homemade jam and roll the butter into balls, Or offer homemade dill pickles--Pat's recipe made with grape leaves, a crowd and family favorite--with other tidbits I learned to make, as appetizers. If guests had something bite-sized in their hands while they socialized--mostly business talk, actually--or a cold glass of homemade lemonade or yummy slush punch, they didn't seem to mind the absence of booze, not that I was aware of, anyway. I was still attempting to have my house remain alcohol free. There were still some who met me for the first time, in my own home or at business socials I sometimes attended with my husband, whose opening line was nearly always, "And where did you get your degree?" I, of course, was already sensitive about my country bumpkinness so I undoubtedly felt that their noses were lifted a little higher skyward than may actually have been the case. There were times where being an introvert was difficult, as was being young and inexperienced, having differing opinions about what marriage, family, and home was suppose to be, already showing up, but going mostly unnoticed or recognized, as such.
I feel sure I've mentioned somewhere previous that my precocious son had a knack for asking questions of our guests--perhaps some that others wanted to ask but never would have--like asking our guest who was the victim of early onset baldness, "Um-m-m, did you know that you don't have enough hair to cover your head?" Or sitting down on the fireplace hearth beside our Japanese guest, my small son getting right in her face to say, "Your eyes are different than mine. Why?" And I'll slip in another here that happened while I was driving a city street in Salt Lake City near the old part of the city occupied by residents with some wealth who liked to put that on display. I stopped for a light, car windows down for air, kids untethered as was legal in those days. An elderly woman sat on a bench, waiting for a bus. She was dressed beautifully and around her neck, a piece made of mink fur, with head and tail still attached. The light changed to green and as I passed by, slowly, my child leaned his head out the window and shouted, "Hey, is that thing dead or alive?"
There were times when the kids and I spent odd hours of the day and night at the airport either dropping off or picking up their dad or providing taxi service for his visiting colleagues. I was driving one of those businessmen to the airport. Todd was not yet five but was teaching himself to read, as he'd been doing for some time. He kept up a conversation with my passenger, reading signs along the way, then explaining, in quite some detail for one his age, how the airport radar worked, how the planes flew and on and on. Judging by this man's quizzical expression, I think he wondered if Todd were really a young child or an adult in a small body.
Frank sometimes took his kids--sometimes me, too--to functions for the handicapped. It was undoubtedly hard for him to take care of business with the distraction of family along, but this exposure gave our kids an opportunity for learning acceptance and tolerance, understanding and compassion, even at such a young age. One speaker was a man born without arms. He demonstrated how he dressed himself and accomplished other daily tasks we took for granted. There was awe and laughter as he related his story of traveling by train all night. Come morning, he went to freshen up in the men's room. As the porter came into the room, he was visibly shaken at the sight of this man, balancing on one foot as the train car swayed back and forth, while shaving his face and throat with the other foot, using a regular, non-electric razor. Another speaker, a woman also born without arms, told her story via video, demonstrating how she learned to make fresh bread, chop vegetables, curl her hair, and drive a specially equipped car. We attended Special Education events. Our kids learned to support and encourage those with challenges and to appreciate their own circumstance. Frank did a great service for his kids by exposing them to another way of life, early on.
With all that basement storage space, I canned at least 100 jars at a time of whatever was in season. Living near prime growing areas, Provo to the south, Brigham City and beyond to the north, and local, inexpensive produce aplenty, food preservation for winter months or hard times came naturally. This was also a part of my personal heritage--self sufficiency and sharing--and a big part of the code my church and my parents and relatives lived by.
Gladine Bullough, my neighbor from across the street and just about the only other mother still at home during the day, heard that the church had opened up the tomato fields of the Stake Farm Project for that year, to anyone who wanted to glean the vines. Gladine had access to their family car that day, a big--really big--station wagon. We gathered up everything we had to put our pickin's in and headed out, early in the morning while the dew would still be on the fruit and vines.
The farm had filled it's quota for Deseret Foods--one of the LDS church's answer to helping and supporting the needy, members or not--for the season but the vines were still loaded. There had been a light freeze that had taken some vines exposing some fruit to frost but with unstaked vines, there were layers and layers underneath with viable tomatoes, both perfectly ripe and not-yet-ripe green ones. We gathered both kinds, filling all our boxes, and then some. It was hard to tell how many tomatoes we'd need for what we anticipated doing with them. Surely, we should have been able to notice that the entire vehicle from the driver's seat on back was a sea of red and green, many layers deep. We kept on picking, thinking that we'd be able to share what we couldn't use ourselves, in the neighborhood.
We made it home with our stash, only realizing how overdone our picking had been as we began to unload. Now, Gladine was married to a persnickety man, a type "A" personality, perhaps. Is that the "Perfection" one? Even I knew that we had to totally rid that car of any evidence that it had ever met a tomato before he got home from work. You know how impossible it is to get a tomato or two home even from the grocery store without a little squish here or there. And tomatoes and vines are VERY fragrant! I thought we had completed the job but my friend knew her husband well and knew she still had work to do to pass his white glove test so I went on home, to try to make a path into my kitchen. It was a perfect week for Frank to be out of town! So I began. Whole tomatoes bottled and cold pack canned. Tomato juice, the same. Green tomato mince meat--Pat's recipe--so, so good, unless you have smelled it for umpteen many hours. Green tomato relish, another absolute favorite until your entire house smells like pungent tomatoes, onions, carrots, and vinegar. There were extra trips to the store, both kids in tow, to find more canning bottles. You can't cold pack can in just any empty glass container. It was a year where everyone had tomatoes, from local farms or in their own gardens. Trying to give some away seemed almost more impossible than trying to pawn off zucchini on a hundred of your best friends, neighbors, relatives, and strangers. And once that dilemma was solved, there was a need for a thorough cleaning of my kitchen, top to bottom, ceiling to floor and everything in-between plus the little feet tracks found elsewhere in the house as kiddies ventured into my space for a "Mamma" moment or two. When all was said and done, I'd slip downstairs often just to look at all those beautiful, filled bottles on my storage shelves.
I probably did all the stereotypical housewifey things but I grew weary of living in the house as we'd found it when we bought it. There wasn't money to do much about that. I'd been sewing for my family, a lot of what my kids wore until my oldest kid put holes through the knees of his jeans--with matching jean jacket--in too short a time. I was making Frank's dress slacks and sport coats, and had my little home-sewing business up and running again, this time saving all my earnings to buy a new sewing machine. My sister, MerLyn, came to visit for a weekend. She said she knew how to afford paint for a bedroom so off to Sear's we went. And sure enough, by bringing home look-alike colored cans, then mixing it all together in one bucket, we had paint enough for an entire room, spending almost nothing. We painted like fools to get it done in the shortest time, while my husband was out on the road, again. I'd already put together a twin-sized quilt top from scraps and mill end fabric--red, white, and blue--of print and plain blocks so between the two of us, we tied that quilt top before she went home to Washington. The carpet was threadbare throughout the house and this room was no different. Todd loved Hot Wheel cars but they would get caught in the fraying rug. Some local carpet dealer was having a close-out sale on remnants of in-door/out-door/kitchen type carpeting. I figured I could swing the cost out of grocery money and my meager sewing earnings but how would I get it home? Totally out of character for me, I called Frank's brother, John, and asked if I could borrow his station wagon. And he said yes! Off I went with two little kids to find the store and truck home a piece of floor covering. Once I got that awkward thing in the house, I didn't dare just pull up the old carpet so I cut the new stuff to size with enough all the way around so I could tuck in under the molding, using a butter knife and stretching it as I went. It was a snug fit so everything stayed in place. MerLyn may have helped me paint a hand-me-down chest before she left--red, white, and blue--or I had done that, I don't remember, but all I had left to do was to replace the closet doors. They were heavy when I'd removed them but found it impossible to lift them back on the track. I made it a point not to bother my father-in-law unless I was having a real emergency so naturally when I called him, saying I needed help, he asked, "What have you done?"
I think the last time I'd called Grandpa South, we were still living in the Vidas apartment. I had come home from my first ever ski lesson, propped my skis next to the bed and flopped down on what we called a bed, at that time. My baby, Jenn, maybe already walking by that time, but crawling at least, bumped a ski trying to get to me on the bed. It fell and sliced my head just above one eyebrow. I figured the profuse bleeding that followed was emergency enough to call Grandpa. Three stitches later, I was almost as good as new. I'd always had a natural arch in my brows. Those stitches adjusted the arch just a tad. Hey, that was a big deal to me, at the time! My eyes were my one good feature that I could play up. For the other parts of me, I always figured I had gotten in the wrong line when I was being created and someone else was walking around in the body that was really meant to be mine!
Well, Grandpa South did come again, when I called and together, we got the closet doors back in place. Then he took a look around the room. New paint, looked-like-new chest of drawers, new quilt, new carpet--red, white, and blue tweed--that Todd could run his cars on. Before he'd listened to my explanation and heard that I hadn't spent his son into debt, he said again, "What have you been up to?" then smiled and giggled in his familiar laughing way, as he did when he was tickled about something.
Stayed tuned for more, if you'd care to...
Adjusting to separate bedrooms took time. Each night, my kids went to bed in their own room but in the morning, I'd find them both in one room. I used the empty living room to spread out materials for creating Relief Society work day packets or cutting out patterns or laying out, then stacking, layered components for quilt making. It was a "Great Room" where I could set up quilting frames or fill it with borrowed card tables and chairs to seat relatives and business associates for holiday meals or just because. That's how I learned to cook. My plan became one of always trying out at least one new recipe on guests or extended family. That, in my own mind, justified the expense of ingredients different from my regular, limited list and limited cash for such things. I figured that nothing would go to waste. What guest would refuse to eat something I'd made and served! I'm sure the man who ate my first attempt at Chocolate Silk Pie wished he'd declined. I used a recipe given to me by someone who had copied it incorrectly, doubling the butter and halving something else. I was too inexperienced to know that the proportions could not possibly be correct so I made and served it, as written. If my own indigestion was any indication...Oh, that poor, poor man.
My school days friend and former roommate was at the house one evening, working on a project. Sitting there on the floor, there was no mistaking that strange, rolling sort of feeling, similar to something I remembered from a day at beauty school when empty chairs had rolled across the floor and slatted window blinds swayed back and forth. I'd also watched, as a kid, power lines leading from the house to the barn, dance and spark, hitting against each other as the earth moved under my feet. Ruth Ann asked, "What is that?" "Earthquake", I said. "Well, make it stop!" came her answer. Remembering that I had kids in the bathtub, I made a mad dash to save them. They didn't care what was making the water swish back and forth rhythmically. They were splashing and having great fun!
Pat got me started on food storage. I got her family hooked on gingerbread houses. I'd bake the pieces for her, then her family would put it together. Her youngest child was about a year older than my oldest child. Pat had returned to work the year we moved to the neighborhood so her young daughter came to our house after school. Sometimes, my kids and I went with the Wilkins to their family cabin near Provo, Utah. Her baked beans were the Best! We saw fireworks together at Liberty Park. On New Year's Eve, Pat made delicious lasagna and pizza, things I did not cook, making it a real treat for my family. Not one of us could ever resist one of her from-scratch brownies. My daughter still makes Pat's cranberry salad for our Thanksgiving meal.
The Wilkins kids had Wonder Bread at their house. According to my kids, that just wasn't fair. Were we really that poor, they said, that they had to be deprived like that and made to eat homemade bread every day? And so began the trade. I'd walk a nice, hot loaf or two of bread, straight out of the oven, over to Pat's house, something her family didn't have often, and she would hand me a loaf of Wonder Bread to take back to my kids!
Pat's son was older, with activities of his own but the oldest of the Wilkins' girls became my babysitter. She was "My Edie" to each of them. Her sister, Margaret, always had a new cheer to teach Jenn. Lucy and Todd became best buds for a time. Pat and Gene always seemed to know when I was getting overwhelmed, a young mother with two active kids and a husband forever traveling on business, and often without access to a car. Wilkins seemed to sense when my cabin fever was reaching a fevered pitch and would just appear, unannounced, babysitter in hand, and whisk me off to Baskin-Robbins for a half-pint of as many flavors as she or Gene or I could cram into our own carton. Having uninterrupted, adult conversation and the refreshing indulgence of an "all mine" sweet treat gave me the break I needed. It helped make me a better and more patient Mom when I returned home. There was always a bit of humor, too, when Gene was involved. I could not believe how many flavors he packed into that relatively small ice cream carton my first time out with the two of them! Pat was also in a state of disbelief!
Let's be honest here. I had few social or conversational skills. I had sat on a piano or organ bench just about forever. I had only a high school education plus Cosmetology School. That didn't count for much to anyone unless they needed a free haircut. I had lived a clean life, and had, for the most part, been obedient to the teachings of my parents, and our religion, and figured I'd done exactly as I'd been taught, by marrying a returned missionary, the son of my stake president, and the grandson of an LDS church president, John Taylor, for heaven's sake, and in the Temple! Surely, this must have counted for something, and perhaps in my mind, even a guarantee of sorts for a "Happily Ever After". Looking back, I was ill prepared for marriage or motherhood and was certainly unprepared to cook for, host and entertain high mucky-mucks. Yet, I hosted endless dinners for my husband's business associates, often with little advance notice. I'd get a phone call, maybe, "There will be # coming for dinner in about 30 minutes."
Whether it had actually been said or not, my understanding of the expectation put upon me was that of being on call, to present myself and our home in the best way possible at any time--I didn't have much to work with in that regard--and have the kids (and myself) spit polished so we'd reflect favorably on my husband as a successful family man. Again, my interpretation of that had me scrubbing my kitchen floor sometimes at 2:00 in the morning, after kids were in bed. It was that old, awful tile stuff that required hand and knees scrubbing, then a good waxing. You could have eaten off that floor when I was done with it. A long time passed before I realized that no one had, and that I could back off the need for perfection in the floor, a bit. I learned quickly to prioritize in order to have all elements of the meal ready to serve at the same time, at the correct temperature, kids still clean with hair in place, and myself...well, I really didn't have much to work with there, either! The last thing on my "Do At The LAST Minute" list was polishing that big, picture window in the empty living room. I mean, it was right there, unguarded by furniture or drapes still in one piece, and was a perfect spot for little fingers--my kids and their friends--and lots of nose and lips pressed to shiny glass smudges. I also learned to serve hot, homemade bread with homemade jam and roll the butter into balls, Or offer homemade dill pickles--Pat's recipe made with grape leaves, a crowd and family favorite--with other tidbits I learned to make, as appetizers. If guests had something bite-sized in their hands while they socialized--mostly business talk, actually--or a cold glass of homemade lemonade or yummy slush punch, they didn't seem to mind the absence of booze, not that I was aware of, anyway. I was still attempting to have my house remain alcohol free. There were still some who met me for the first time, in my own home or at business socials I sometimes attended with my husband, whose opening line was nearly always, "And where did you get your degree?" I, of course, was already sensitive about my country bumpkinness so I undoubtedly felt that their noses were lifted a little higher skyward than may actually have been the case. There were times where being an introvert was difficult, as was being young and inexperienced, having differing opinions about what marriage, family, and home was suppose to be, already showing up, but going mostly unnoticed or recognized, as such.
I feel sure I've mentioned somewhere previous that my precocious son had a knack for asking questions of our guests--perhaps some that others wanted to ask but never would have--like asking our guest who was the victim of early onset baldness, "Um-m-m, did you know that you don't have enough hair to cover your head?" Or sitting down on the fireplace hearth beside our Japanese guest, my small son getting right in her face to say, "Your eyes are different than mine. Why?" And I'll slip in another here that happened while I was driving a city street in Salt Lake City near the old part of the city occupied by residents with some wealth who liked to put that on display. I stopped for a light, car windows down for air, kids untethered as was legal in those days. An elderly woman sat on a bench, waiting for a bus. She was dressed beautifully and around her neck, a piece made of mink fur, with head and tail still attached. The light changed to green and as I passed by, slowly, my child leaned his head out the window and shouted, "Hey, is that thing dead or alive?"
There were times when the kids and I spent odd hours of the day and night at the airport either dropping off or picking up their dad or providing taxi service for his visiting colleagues. I was driving one of those businessmen to the airport. Todd was not yet five but was teaching himself to read, as he'd been doing for some time. He kept up a conversation with my passenger, reading signs along the way, then explaining, in quite some detail for one his age, how the airport radar worked, how the planes flew and on and on. Judging by this man's quizzical expression, I think he wondered if Todd were really a young child or an adult in a small body.
Frank sometimes took his kids--sometimes me, too--to functions for the handicapped. It was undoubtedly hard for him to take care of business with the distraction of family along, but this exposure gave our kids an opportunity for learning acceptance and tolerance, understanding and compassion, even at such a young age. One speaker was a man born without arms. He demonstrated how he dressed himself and accomplished other daily tasks we took for granted. There was awe and laughter as he related his story of traveling by train all night. Come morning, he went to freshen up in the men's room. As the porter came into the room, he was visibly shaken at the sight of this man, balancing on one foot as the train car swayed back and forth, while shaving his face and throat with the other foot, using a regular, non-electric razor. Another speaker, a woman also born without arms, told her story via video, demonstrating how she learned to make fresh bread, chop vegetables, curl her hair, and drive a specially equipped car. We attended Special Education events. Our kids learned to support and encourage those with challenges and to appreciate their own circumstance. Frank did a great service for his kids by exposing them to another way of life, early on.
With all that basement storage space, I canned at least 100 jars at a time of whatever was in season. Living near prime growing areas, Provo to the south, Brigham City and beyond to the north, and local, inexpensive produce aplenty, food preservation for winter months or hard times came naturally. This was also a part of my personal heritage--self sufficiency and sharing--and a big part of the code my church and my parents and relatives lived by.
Gladine Bullough, my neighbor from across the street and just about the only other mother still at home during the day, heard that the church had opened up the tomato fields of the Stake Farm Project for that year, to anyone who wanted to glean the vines. Gladine had access to their family car that day, a big--really big--station wagon. We gathered up everything we had to put our pickin's in and headed out, early in the morning while the dew would still be on the fruit and vines.
The farm had filled it's quota for Deseret Foods--one of the LDS church's answer to helping and supporting the needy, members or not--for the season but the vines were still loaded. There had been a light freeze that had taken some vines exposing some fruit to frost but with unstaked vines, there were layers and layers underneath with viable tomatoes, both perfectly ripe and not-yet-ripe green ones. We gathered both kinds, filling all our boxes, and then some. It was hard to tell how many tomatoes we'd need for what we anticipated doing with them. Surely, we should have been able to notice that the entire vehicle from the driver's seat on back was a sea of red and green, many layers deep. We kept on picking, thinking that we'd be able to share what we couldn't use ourselves, in the neighborhood.
We made it home with our stash, only realizing how overdone our picking had been as we began to unload. Now, Gladine was married to a persnickety man, a type "A" personality, perhaps. Is that the "Perfection" one? Even I knew that we had to totally rid that car of any evidence that it had ever met a tomato before he got home from work. You know how impossible it is to get a tomato or two home even from the grocery store without a little squish here or there. And tomatoes and vines are VERY fragrant! I thought we had completed the job but my friend knew her husband well and knew she still had work to do to pass his white glove test so I went on home, to try to make a path into my kitchen. It was a perfect week for Frank to be out of town! So I began. Whole tomatoes bottled and cold pack canned. Tomato juice, the same. Green tomato mince meat--Pat's recipe--so, so good, unless you have smelled it for umpteen many hours. Green tomato relish, another absolute favorite until your entire house smells like pungent tomatoes, onions, carrots, and vinegar. There were extra trips to the store, both kids in tow, to find more canning bottles. You can't cold pack can in just any empty glass container. It was a year where everyone had tomatoes, from local farms or in their own gardens. Trying to give some away seemed almost more impossible than trying to pawn off zucchini on a hundred of your best friends, neighbors, relatives, and strangers. And once that dilemma was solved, there was a need for a thorough cleaning of my kitchen, top to bottom, ceiling to floor and everything in-between plus the little feet tracks found elsewhere in the house as kiddies ventured into my space for a "Mamma" moment or two. When all was said and done, I'd slip downstairs often just to look at all those beautiful, filled bottles on my storage shelves.
I probably did all the stereotypical housewifey things but I grew weary of living in the house as we'd found it when we bought it. There wasn't money to do much about that. I'd been sewing for my family, a lot of what my kids wore until my oldest kid put holes through the knees of his jeans--with matching jean jacket--in too short a time. I was making Frank's dress slacks and sport coats, and had my little home-sewing business up and running again, this time saving all my earnings to buy a new sewing machine. My sister, MerLyn, came to visit for a weekend. She said she knew how to afford paint for a bedroom so off to Sear's we went. And sure enough, by bringing home look-alike colored cans, then mixing it all together in one bucket, we had paint enough for an entire room, spending almost nothing. We painted like fools to get it done in the shortest time, while my husband was out on the road, again. I'd already put together a twin-sized quilt top from scraps and mill end fabric--red, white, and blue--of print and plain blocks so between the two of us, we tied that quilt top before she went home to Washington. The carpet was threadbare throughout the house and this room was no different. Todd loved Hot Wheel cars but they would get caught in the fraying rug. Some local carpet dealer was having a close-out sale on remnants of in-door/out-door/kitchen type carpeting. I figured I could swing the cost out of grocery money and my meager sewing earnings but how would I get it home? Totally out of character for me, I called Frank's brother, John, and asked if I could borrow his station wagon. And he said yes! Off I went with two little kids to find the store and truck home a piece of floor covering. Once I got that awkward thing in the house, I didn't dare just pull up the old carpet so I cut the new stuff to size with enough all the way around so I could tuck in under the molding, using a butter knife and stretching it as I went. It was a snug fit so everything stayed in place. MerLyn may have helped me paint a hand-me-down chest before she left--red, white, and blue--or I had done that, I don't remember, but all I had left to do was to replace the closet doors. They were heavy when I'd removed them but found it impossible to lift them back on the track. I made it a point not to bother my father-in-law unless I was having a real emergency so naturally when I called him, saying I needed help, he asked, "What have you done?"
I think the last time I'd called Grandpa South, we were still living in the Vidas apartment. I had come home from my first ever ski lesson, propped my skis next to the bed and flopped down on what we called a bed, at that time. My baby, Jenn, maybe already walking by that time, but crawling at least, bumped a ski trying to get to me on the bed. It fell and sliced my head just above one eyebrow. I figured the profuse bleeding that followed was emergency enough to call Grandpa. Three stitches later, I was almost as good as new. I'd always had a natural arch in my brows. Those stitches adjusted the arch just a tad. Hey, that was a big deal to me, at the time! My eyes were my one good feature that I could play up. For the other parts of me, I always figured I had gotten in the wrong line when I was being created and someone else was walking around in the body that was really meant to be mine!
Well, Grandpa South did come again, when I called and together, we got the closet doors back in place. Then he took a look around the room. New paint, looked-like-new chest of drawers, new quilt, new carpet--red, white, and blue tweed--that Todd could run his cars on. Before he'd listened to my explanation and heard that I hadn't spent his son into debt, he said again, "What have you been up to?" then smiled and giggled in his familiar laughing way, as he did when he was tickled about something.
Stayed tuned for more, if you'd care to...
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Miracle of Miracles...Gettin' to the Beach at Lake Tahoe, July 2013
Ok. Living with roommates can be the pits, especially if those constant companions are Arthur and Ritis. I mean, com'on, three-digit outside heat--feels like four-digit inside my house--is no cause to get all testy, making feet and legs and other body parts of mine all swollen and painful and unsightly. Hardly recognizable as feet, is a more accurate description. I had places to go, people to see, things to do!
My first try at putting on my one pair of shoes--4-E's, wide toe depth--that usually work, proved fruitless. Maybe loosening the laces ALL the way was the answer. Nope! Drank lots of water, hoping that pee-pee-pee-ing would help. Nope! Just as the body can't be told nor relied on to lose fat in a particular spot of choice, the pee-pee-pee doesn't necessarily end up reducing the swollen condition of feet and certainly not on command!
Shoes on all the way this try, laces flapping, lose and untied. A few minutes pass, or maybe even 10 or 15, considering that I have an extremely well-developed tolerance for pain--over more than 30 years--but despite that lengthy delay of time, the pain finally registered in my brain and off came the shoes, both of them, fast, like pulling a finger away from something hot. The sensation of hot? That also takes a while for me to notice, given the nerve damage that those joint wreckers, Arthur and Ritis, have inflicted. But that's another story.
"Well, I've got fingers that work." Sort of, since they are not all pointing in the same direction anymore, have knobs and bumps that get pinched and caught and cut somewhat regularly. My thumbs? Oh, the thumbs are way off track! But yes, it was always a GOOD morning when I could unbend my fingers from a night's clench. And I had already successfully showered. Didn't need shoes for that! However, in my case, shoes might have provided a little protection, as I'd caught a wayward toe on the lip of the shower door frame a couple of days previous. And oh my, how that toe bled. Like a scene for a Hitchcock movie. Blood, lots of it, is a little startling on a white shower floor. I must have popped the toe that bends down, having little of the first joint left to hold it up in place--yup, another of the great works of brothers, A & R--and in the process, I'd split, torn, or cut the skin under what was once a joint.
I'm thinking of re-naming those devilish twins of disease, Ruema and Toid, but the cousin, Osteo, might feel left out, given no mention. That's another story, too.
Dressing. "I should try that" I decided, just something big, the fewer buttons or other closures, the better. And something cool, not only because of nature's heat of the day but anything that cools inflammation, even from the outside, was a good thing.
Shoes were staring up at me. "Another try?" they seemed to say. First, several tries with an ankle brace. "Yes, I know you don't like to wear this," I said. Was I really talking to my ankle and it's corset? Well, it has been said that to really help yourself when faced with health issues, you have to REALLY get to know yourself! The brace was on and had been adjusted a couple of times, an operation that was not as easy as it sounds considering my knees, one real and real damaged, the other fake. I've stopped calling it "Bionic" because it still hurts and isn't always 'there' for me when I most need it, like stepping down or stepping up, and there is sometimes conflict between the two. The socks even went on without a major cramp. Did I mention those? Down the backs of my legs, with the grip of some giant on my calves, and the feet and toes. It happens without warning. And if it happens in the feet, as it often does, the minute I try to put socks--or shoes--on, the toe on my left foot stands at attention, even doing a little back bend, just for flair, the BIG show-off, and it takes concentration and mind-over-matter relaxation to get that darn toe to lie down in place again. You know the old get-to-sleep trick of consciously relaxing each part of your body, working your way down? I take a short cut, starting at the ankles. Sometimes I can talk that toe down off its ledge of sorts.
Progress! Showered, fully dressed, shoes and socks and brace ON for keeps! Yeah, it hurt. I'm use to that. Took my cane for a walk to the car and got on with my day. Even followed a cart through the grocery store to get stuff to make Krispy Treats. It isn't the 3rd of July at Lake Tahoe without those and I intended to make and take some along to share.
It was a beautiful drive along I-80, taking the cut-off on HWY 28 I think it is, through that lovely meadowland stretching out to reach stately pines. I LOVE that drive. I LOVE the first sighting of BLUE water through the pines. A wave and a 'Hello' to the large, standing wooden bear, past the golf course, one more left turn and there we were. King's Beach, Lake Tahoe, lots of real-sand beach. And here's where it happened, the MIRACLE OF MIRACLES. After devouring four, beyond delicious pizza's at Steamers--not all by myself, I feel the need to make clear--I had time to sit outside alone, while family and friends secured a spot on the beach for our group, setting out blankets, setting up chairs. So nice to have a moment, remembering the many times we've repeated this scenario. The smell of pine, the sight and sound of water lapping at the sand, happy exchanges from locals and others, pure glee of children excited about the celebration. And then, taking an arm, with my cane in hand, both just for balance, I WALKED through the SAND, quite a distance from pavement to chair. Yes, I did! And after the last explosion of beauty slowly fell from the sky--fabulous as ever, spectacular visions of light and color shot from a huge barge anchored off the beach with a flotilla of water craft, lit up just enough to mark that they were in the area--I WALKED, again holding an arm and my cane for balance, yes, Walked along the SANDY BEACH, many, many steps, to reach the community center parking lot for the ride home.
I'm tooting my own horn on this one. This was HUGE, for an old, arthritic Gramma! HUGE! And so delightful! Thanks, to Jenn and Tom for making it possible. Thanks to family and friends who joined us.
My first try at putting on my one pair of shoes--4-E's, wide toe depth--that usually work, proved fruitless. Maybe loosening the laces ALL the way was the answer. Nope! Drank lots of water, hoping that pee-pee-pee-ing would help. Nope! Just as the body can't be told nor relied on to lose fat in a particular spot of choice, the pee-pee-pee doesn't necessarily end up reducing the swollen condition of feet and certainly not on command!
Shoes on all the way this try, laces flapping, lose and untied. A few minutes pass, or maybe even 10 or 15, considering that I have an extremely well-developed tolerance for pain--over more than 30 years--but despite that lengthy delay of time, the pain finally registered in my brain and off came the shoes, both of them, fast, like pulling a finger away from something hot. The sensation of hot? That also takes a while for me to notice, given the nerve damage that those joint wreckers, Arthur and Ritis, have inflicted. But that's another story.
"Well, I've got fingers that work." Sort of, since they are not all pointing in the same direction anymore, have knobs and bumps that get pinched and caught and cut somewhat regularly. My thumbs? Oh, the thumbs are way off track! But yes, it was always a GOOD morning when I could unbend my fingers from a night's clench. And I had already successfully showered. Didn't need shoes for that! However, in my case, shoes might have provided a little protection, as I'd caught a wayward toe on the lip of the shower door frame a couple of days previous. And oh my, how that toe bled. Like a scene for a Hitchcock movie. Blood, lots of it, is a little startling on a white shower floor. I must have popped the toe that bends down, having little of the first joint left to hold it up in place--yup, another of the great works of brothers, A & R--and in the process, I'd split, torn, or cut the skin under what was once a joint.
I'm thinking of re-naming those devilish twins of disease, Ruema and Toid, but the cousin, Osteo, might feel left out, given no mention. That's another story, too.
Dressing. "I should try that" I decided, just something big, the fewer buttons or other closures, the better. And something cool, not only because of nature's heat of the day but anything that cools inflammation, even from the outside, was a good thing.
Shoes were staring up at me. "Another try?" they seemed to say. First, several tries with an ankle brace. "Yes, I know you don't like to wear this," I said. Was I really talking to my ankle and it's corset? Well, it has been said that to really help yourself when faced with health issues, you have to REALLY get to know yourself! The brace was on and had been adjusted a couple of times, an operation that was not as easy as it sounds considering my knees, one real and real damaged, the other fake. I've stopped calling it "Bionic" because it still hurts and isn't always 'there' for me when I most need it, like stepping down or stepping up, and there is sometimes conflict between the two. The socks even went on without a major cramp. Did I mention those? Down the backs of my legs, with the grip of some giant on my calves, and the feet and toes. It happens without warning. And if it happens in the feet, as it often does, the minute I try to put socks--or shoes--on, the toe on my left foot stands at attention, even doing a little back bend, just for flair, the BIG show-off, and it takes concentration and mind-over-matter relaxation to get that darn toe to lie down in place again. You know the old get-to-sleep trick of consciously relaxing each part of your body, working your way down? I take a short cut, starting at the ankles. Sometimes I can talk that toe down off its ledge of sorts.
Progress! Showered, fully dressed, shoes and socks and brace ON for keeps! Yeah, it hurt. I'm use to that. Took my cane for a walk to the car and got on with my day. Even followed a cart through the grocery store to get stuff to make Krispy Treats. It isn't the 3rd of July at Lake Tahoe without those and I intended to make and take some along to share.
It was a beautiful drive along I-80, taking the cut-off on HWY 28 I think it is, through that lovely meadowland stretching out to reach stately pines. I LOVE that drive. I LOVE the first sighting of BLUE water through the pines. A wave and a 'Hello' to the large, standing wooden bear, past the golf course, one more left turn and there we were. King's Beach, Lake Tahoe, lots of real-sand beach. And here's where it happened, the MIRACLE OF MIRACLES. After devouring four, beyond delicious pizza's at Steamers--not all by myself, I feel the need to make clear--I had time to sit outside alone, while family and friends secured a spot on the beach for our group, setting out blankets, setting up chairs. So nice to have a moment, remembering the many times we've repeated this scenario. The smell of pine, the sight and sound of water lapping at the sand, happy exchanges from locals and others, pure glee of children excited about the celebration. And then, taking an arm, with my cane in hand, both just for balance, I WALKED through the SAND, quite a distance from pavement to chair. Yes, I did! And after the last explosion of beauty slowly fell from the sky--fabulous as ever, spectacular visions of light and color shot from a huge barge anchored off the beach with a flotilla of water craft, lit up just enough to mark that they were in the area--I WALKED, again holding an arm and my cane for balance, yes, Walked along the SANDY BEACH, many, many steps, to reach the community center parking lot for the ride home.
I'm tooting my own horn on this one. This was HUGE, for an old, arthritic Gramma! HUGE! And so delightful! Thanks, to Jenn and Tom for making it possible. Thanks to family and friends who joined us.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
From Sardine Squeeze to Home by Degrees
The four of us squeezed back into three, small rooms on Vidas Avenue in South Salt Lake. This was to be our last apartment. We were saving to buy a house! We didn't own much so we left everything but the barest essentials packed and lived cooped up with our boxes stacked around us for most of a year, saving every penny we could for a down payment. One might think that the ambience created by stacked boxes and the Sardine squeeze could have helped my home business a bit. As I had done in Ogden, I set up shop wherever I could in our cramped living space, to sew again on consignment and supplement our cash flow. I did make a lot of bridesmaid dresses even in cramped quarters but home-sewers--I use that word loosely--often brought their botched projects to me. "Can you fix it?" Some things could be fixed though this wasn't something I liked to do but when a customer stood there, yardage in one hand, a size 8 pattern in the other, I sometimes had to wonder, "Are they mixing up their shoe size with their dress size?" Sure, I knew how to fit a pattern, but even multi-sized Simplicity, McCall's, and Butterick had limits on how much larger a pre-determined-sized pattern could be made. And if it was a Vogue, forget altering that pattern, much. Can't say that customers found my skilled sewing any more worthy of the price it should have commanded in my new location than they had in my previous one. Most folks considered custom sewing a way to clothe themselves on the CHEAP. True, if a person sewed for themselves. Not true or fair to expect that of someone trained and capable of sewing a beautiful finished product for you. Still, those small earnings helped buy groceries.
We had purchased a simple Maytag washer--On/Off, Hot/Cold--soon after the arrival of our first child for $264. Our only other belongings were a child's twin bed, a baby's crib, and a Chevelle, the only close-to-new-car we ever owned. We'd inherited an old bed frame that had to be propped up on National Geographic magazines and "How to Adjust to Married Life" self-help books. When you sat down on one corner of the mattress, the opposite corner popped up, dumping you on the floor if you weren't prepared for it. The rest of our furniture was just as classy. We got someone's green couch, already used up and ready for the dump. It had no arms and the seat sank down permanently in places that had supported its most weighty occupants at some time. I thought I could make it look a little more presentable so I recovered it in cheap, sale material, a big, just plain awful, flower print but pinching pennies, I could not be choosy about fabric. Looking better? Not so much! Our table was an old weather-beaten wooden one that my father-in-law had used as a ladder to trim trees and shrubs or to paint his house. It really had an "Early Junkyard" finish--chipped paint revealing about a thousand previous coats and colors, a variety of paint spatters and splotches-- and raised nails sticking out or missing altogether. I just covered it with one of my lovely, trousseau linens I'd made, a beige, coarse-weaved fabric, fringed instead of hemmed. That bit of handy work even came with milk chocolate colored, same fabric-same fringed edge napkins. I was just doing the best I could and makin' do or makin' it up as I went along, then, but today, my "Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Or do without" decor might show up on Pinterest!
Days were filled with sewing deadlines, keeping track of the older sibling, and running interference for the younger one who, like her brother, was learning to walk early. About a month before our daughter's first birthday, we bought our first house on Bon View Drive for $26,950 at 8% with $2033 down and monthly payments of $211. We thought those were mighty steep payments. That left us with only $500 dollars in the bank. The house was sound but the carpets were threadbare and the drapes hung with slits along the folds, some places, tattered from sun rot. Our furniture fit right in!
Wow! Three upstairs bedrooms? We splurged on a bed for ourselves, a Queen-size for $114.90. The ancient electric stove in the house still worked, though I was sure it must have fallen from a Pic and Pull truck that had hauled if off a Columbus ship before they set sail. Have you ever tried to "clean" the oven of such an old beast? I thought "Easy Off" was my friend but even duded up in long, rubber gloves, with all the windows and doors opened to ensure I'd come out of that project still breathing, the end result didn't support the sales pitch! There was a small--I'm talking small--refrigerator in the basement that the previous family had used for party drinks and snacks. It stayed in the basement. Do you know how many trips up and down those stairs I made in a day, making meals and getting milk for kids, as a result of that decision? There was unfinished utility space to plunk our washer down. In that same area, generous, floor to ceiling shelves would be used for food storage and jars of home-canned foods.
The basement had been divided in half, lengthwise, then professionally finished with cabinetry, closets, cupboards, counter and desk space at one end, while the other end was dedicated to a fireplace and wall-to-wall raised hearth for sitting, room for couches, a game table and in the center of the room, a regulation-sized pool table. The remaining space at the end of the house, on the other side of the utility room had been finished as a bedroom.
The back yard had garden space, two mature peach trees, an apple tree, clothes lines on a side yard. Just a car port and no garage meant a whole lot more snow to shovel, living there on the East bench, close to the mouths of Big and Little Cottonwood and Millcreek Canyons. Perhaps the view of Mt. Olympus through the almost full wall, living room window was the biggest plus. We were the only house on the street with a view, at that time.
As prized a possession as it was, one would think I would remember every detail about my reunion with my beloved piano and when it came from my mother's home to reside again with me. I don't. I feel sure, though, that it happened in this home. Otherwise, the living room remained empty of furniture for the years I lived in that house. The drapes and carpet were never replaced until the house went on the market, more than a year after I had said goodbye to Salt Lake City. I loved the formal, white fireplace in that room. Those were the days when I could sit comfortably on the floor, and then, get up again, on my own! I spent quite a bit of time in that room, free of decoration and distraction. There was always the wondrous view of the mountains. There was always a quiet, peacefulness about the room.
We had purchased a simple Maytag washer--On/Off, Hot/Cold--soon after the arrival of our first child for $264. Our only other belongings were a child's twin bed, a baby's crib, and a Chevelle, the only close-to-new-car we ever owned. We'd inherited an old bed frame that had to be propped up on National Geographic magazines and "How to Adjust to Married Life" self-help books. When you sat down on one corner of the mattress, the opposite corner popped up, dumping you on the floor if you weren't prepared for it. The rest of our furniture was just as classy. We got someone's green couch, already used up and ready for the dump. It had no arms and the seat sank down permanently in places that had supported its most weighty occupants at some time. I thought I could make it look a little more presentable so I recovered it in cheap, sale material, a big, just plain awful, flower print but pinching pennies, I could not be choosy about fabric. Looking better? Not so much! Our table was an old weather-beaten wooden one that my father-in-law had used as a ladder to trim trees and shrubs or to paint his house. It really had an "Early Junkyard" finish--chipped paint revealing about a thousand previous coats and colors, a variety of paint spatters and splotches-- and raised nails sticking out or missing altogether. I just covered it with one of my lovely, trousseau linens I'd made, a beige, coarse-weaved fabric, fringed instead of hemmed. That bit of handy work even came with milk chocolate colored, same fabric-same fringed edge napkins. I was just doing the best I could and makin' do or makin' it up as I went along, then, but today, my "Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Or do without" decor might show up on Pinterest!
Days were filled with sewing deadlines, keeping track of the older sibling, and running interference for the younger one who, like her brother, was learning to walk early. About a month before our daughter's first birthday, we bought our first house on Bon View Drive for $26,950 at 8% with $2033 down and monthly payments of $211. We thought those were mighty steep payments. That left us with only $500 dollars in the bank. The house was sound but the carpets were threadbare and the drapes hung with slits along the folds, some places, tattered from sun rot. Our furniture fit right in!
Wow! Three upstairs bedrooms? We splurged on a bed for ourselves, a Queen-size for $114.90. The ancient electric stove in the house still worked, though I was sure it must have fallen from a Pic and Pull truck that had hauled if off a Columbus ship before they set sail. Have you ever tried to "clean" the oven of such an old beast? I thought "Easy Off" was my friend but even duded up in long, rubber gloves, with all the windows and doors opened to ensure I'd come out of that project still breathing, the end result didn't support the sales pitch! There was a small--I'm talking small--refrigerator in the basement that the previous family had used for party drinks and snacks. It stayed in the basement. Do you know how many trips up and down those stairs I made in a day, making meals and getting milk for kids, as a result of that decision? There was unfinished utility space to plunk our washer down. In that same area, generous, floor to ceiling shelves would be used for food storage and jars of home-canned foods.
The basement had been divided in half, lengthwise, then professionally finished with cabinetry, closets, cupboards, counter and desk space at one end, while the other end was dedicated to a fireplace and wall-to-wall raised hearth for sitting, room for couches, a game table and in the center of the room, a regulation-sized pool table. The remaining space at the end of the house, on the other side of the utility room had been finished as a bedroom.
The back yard had garden space, two mature peach trees, an apple tree, clothes lines on a side yard. Just a car port and no garage meant a whole lot more snow to shovel, living there on the East bench, close to the mouths of Big and Little Cottonwood and Millcreek Canyons. Perhaps the view of Mt. Olympus through the almost full wall, living room window was the biggest plus. We were the only house on the street with a view, at that time.
As prized a possession as it was, one would think I would remember every detail about my reunion with my beloved piano and when it came from my mother's home to reside again with me. I don't. I feel sure, though, that it happened in this home. Otherwise, the living room remained empty of furniture for the years I lived in that house. The drapes and carpet were never replaced until the house went on the market, more than a year after I had said goodbye to Salt Lake City. I loved the formal, white fireplace in that room. Those were the days when I could sit comfortably on the floor, and then, get up again, on my own! I spent quite a bit of time in that room, free of decoration and distraction. There was always the wondrous view of the mountains. There was always a quiet, peacefulness about the room.
Birthday Wishes for Jenn
It's the first week of July, a week important to my personal story, a week that ended with the birth of my daughter, in my mid-20's. From the beginning, Jennifer was a sweetheart.
My daughter somehow finds her way through the rigors of employment and a busy household while finishing a college degree, and being a go-to person for her nieces and nephews and her mom.
Some things I love about Jenn are her beautiful, brown eyes, her ready smile, laughter that comes easily, and her compassionate spirit for those around her. She takes delight in simple things, is a dedicated, loving mother, a supportive wife. She's a talented problem solver and organizer who can make things happen. She's a doer, generous to a fault, a hard worker, and my daughter.
Happy Birthday.
My daughter somehow finds her way through the rigors of employment and a busy household while finishing a college degree, and being a go-to person for her nieces and nephews and her mom.
Some things I love about Jenn are her beautiful, brown eyes, her ready smile, laughter that comes easily, and her compassionate spirit for those around her. She takes delight in simple things, is a dedicated, loving mother, a supportive wife. She's a talented problem solver and organizer who can make things happen. She's a doer, generous to a fault, a hard worker, and my daughter.
Happy Birthday.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Be It Ever So Humble, It's Home
For less than a hundred dollars, my husband and I rented a furnished home southeast of downtown Ogden, Utah in the fall of 1967. I was pregnant with our first child. He had accepted employment at the Utah State Industrial School and was also working on his Master's Degree. A spacious place for the two of us, this home had a finished half basement bedroom and bath that his brother and a cousin used when they were between apartments, college semesters, or marriages. I heard our elderly neighbor's voice one day, getting louder and quite animated. Looking out my kitchen window, I could see her standing in the driveway talking with our landlord. I listened a little closer and heard her informing him about all the "goin's on" in his house, men coming and going at all hours and she just didn't think that was right, considering that I was pregnant! "I just thought you should know," she said. The landlord never said a word about it, to me. I suspect she had been his neighbor when he lived in the house and had kept him informed about his neighbors, then, too. I found a way to let him know who the "traffic" in and out of his house was, just a couple of family members who needed a temporary place to sleep now and then.
This home on Porter Avenue wasn't far from a home where the South family had once lived. Now one of those children was absorbed and busy 24/7, establishing a special education program at the school and attending classes at U of U in Salt Lake. I didn't know a soul in Ogden and had made no effort to meet people. My pregnancy was difficult and I was without a car during the day and into evening. From birth, my first child was a baby who didn't sleep so I did a lot of walking, often with him in a stroller. By the time he was a toddler, I ventured out to go to church to meet some people. This child also wasn't a quiet sort who could be entertained and coaxed to be quiet at appropriate times, not even with Cheerios, so when the meeting began and the music started, he was just so tickled that he stood up on the bench and sang right out, loud, making up some words as he went, all the while leading the music right along with the chorister but not necessarily stopping when and where she did! He caused quite a commotion in a short time. I was a young mother, sleep deprived, with absolutely no experience, and was easily embarrassed. When a well-meaning member suggested that I should wait until he was older to bring him again, I did just that but never went back to that ward.
When this home was sold, we moved a little further south, to Brinker Street into a newly built, four-plex apartment. It was a great place with a spacious kitchen and more cupboard and bedroom closet space than I'd ever seen before. Here, I decided to hire myself out as a seamstress. With a fabric store within walking distance just off the main street, through a gully and dry ditch, then across an open field, walking there with my kid in a stoller became a way for me to cope with spending almost all 24 hours of every day alone with a very active toddler. Willows still grew along the ditch so we'd stop in the shade there, going and coming.
The stairs inside the apartment, leading to the lower level, were a problem. It was an open stairwell without a door. Coming in that back door, you either stepped up one step directly into the kitchen or stepped down a flight of stairs to reach the laundry and storage area assigned to our apartment. My toddler had already taken a tumble, like a Saturday morning cartoon character, bouncing off each step to the next, just a smidgen beyond my reach, all the way down. On this morning, I was sorting laundry when I heard a racket behind me. Thinking it was my child who'd followed me, head first, down those steps yet again, I whirled around and started for the door, hoping to get to the bottom of those stairs before he did. But instead of my kid, I came face to face with the young woman who lived in that apartment. There she stood, just outside her open doorway, stark naked! It was summertime and very hot. She had just finished scrubbing her kitchen floor and was putting her mop and bucket in the utility room. That was the noise I'd heard. What does one say when you meet someone for the first time under those circumstances?
Another morning, I had just put my biggest pot on the stove, filled to the brim with tomatoes, to stew. The big butcher knife I had used to cut them up was still on the counter. "I'll just run down and put a batch of clothes in the washer while this water gets hot," since my child was entertained and content for the moment, or so I thought. I had barely gotten the laundry going when I heard rattling on those darn stairs and rushed to the door. I'd left it open a bit. Now it was closed. The rattling I'd heard was not a child falling down the stairs. No, it was my child playing with the lock, the kind you slide across to engage. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, he made the right connection, sliding the bold into place. I talked to him through the door, trying to coax him to push the shiny knob back the other way. He tired of that game quickly and went back upstairs. Oh grief! The top lock was not on the back door. It was early morning but I'd already been in and out taking garbage. And the pot must be boiling by now. That knife! He wouldn't be able to reach it unless he spied it and pushed a chair up to the counter. The couple in that apartment--yes, the naked mop lady--usually worked nights and slept all day. I knocked. No answer. Knocked again, with a little more urgency. Still no answer. I checked the window to see if I could possibly go out that way. What was I thinking? I took a couple of runs from the washer across the room, throwing myself at the locked door, thinking maybe I could rattle it enough to dislodge that bold so I could force it open. Wow! That hurt! I abandoned that idea, luckily before I broke any bones, and went back to pounding on my neighbor's door and yelling until I finally woke her up. The minute she opened her door a crack, her eyes still half closed, I pushed past her, dashed through her apartment, not stopping to explain, and ran out around the building and in through my unlocked back door. Everything was okay. My curious toddler hadn't escaped out the back door. If he had, the busy street, the gully and willows and field were within sight and he'd been there many times with me. That was my fear, that he'd try to go to the place I took him to play on some hot days. The pot was just beginning to bubble a little around the edges. And the knife wasn't where he could have reached it. Whew! And my neighbor? I guess we were even, on the strange meeting's score.
Fearless and curious about everything, my little boy heard kids laughing and playing while I was hanging clothes out to dry. It was a bright, sunny, summer day. He had new red Keds on his feet and had been running back and forth from the apartment front door, then across the parking pavement at the back of the complex, to the clothes lines. He wasn't yet three but already had about a million allergies and his nose was running so I turned my back on him only the few seconds it took me to take a couple or three steps up to reach a Kleenex from the table just inside the door. When I turned back around, he was gone! He had heard the kids voices again but couldn't see them so he followed the sound, putting those tiny, rubber soled toes in each space of the chain link fence, all the way to the top and over, into the adjoining yard. Panicked and pregnant, I had quite a walk, going around the block, searching and calling his name before I found him, still in that back yard just across our fence, happily playing away.
The father in one of the other units was hauled off to jail for selling porno movies. You just never know what goes on behind closed doors. The rest of us who lived there were about to find out. His teenage sons, left to their own devices, hooked up a hose and had a water fight inside their apartment, flooding it while punching holes in the walls and tearing down the inside doors. This was pretty unexpected behavior and activity in this lovely apartment building in a nice neighborhood. When our new baby was about a month old, we moved back to Salt Lake City. It was the end of a five-year cycle, something that would seem to repeat itself.
This home on Porter Avenue wasn't far from a home where the South family had once lived. Now one of those children was absorbed and busy 24/7, establishing a special education program at the school and attending classes at U of U in Salt Lake. I didn't know a soul in Ogden and had made no effort to meet people. My pregnancy was difficult and I was without a car during the day and into evening. From birth, my first child was a baby who didn't sleep so I did a lot of walking, often with him in a stroller. By the time he was a toddler, I ventured out to go to church to meet some people. This child also wasn't a quiet sort who could be entertained and coaxed to be quiet at appropriate times, not even with Cheerios, so when the meeting began and the music started, he was just so tickled that he stood up on the bench and sang right out, loud, making up some words as he went, all the while leading the music right along with the chorister but not necessarily stopping when and where she did! He caused quite a commotion in a short time. I was a young mother, sleep deprived, with absolutely no experience, and was easily embarrassed. When a well-meaning member suggested that I should wait until he was older to bring him again, I did just that but never went back to that ward.
When this home was sold, we moved a little further south, to Brinker Street into a newly built, four-plex apartment. It was a great place with a spacious kitchen and more cupboard and bedroom closet space than I'd ever seen before. Here, I decided to hire myself out as a seamstress. With a fabric store within walking distance just off the main street, through a gully and dry ditch, then across an open field, walking there with my kid in a stoller became a way for me to cope with spending almost all 24 hours of every day alone with a very active toddler. Willows still grew along the ditch so we'd stop in the shade there, going and coming.
The stairs inside the apartment, leading to the lower level, were a problem. It was an open stairwell without a door. Coming in that back door, you either stepped up one step directly into the kitchen or stepped down a flight of stairs to reach the laundry and storage area assigned to our apartment. My toddler had already taken a tumble, like a Saturday morning cartoon character, bouncing off each step to the next, just a smidgen beyond my reach, all the way down. On this morning, I was sorting laundry when I heard a racket behind me. Thinking it was my child who'd followed me, head first, down those steps yet again, I whirled around and started for the door, hoping to get to the bottom of those stairs before he did. But instead of my kid, I came face to face with the young woman who lived in that apartment. There she stood, just outside her open doorway, stark naked! It was summertime and very hot. She had just finished scrubbing her kitchen floor and was putting her mop and bucket in the utility room. That was the noise I'd heard. What does one say when you meet someone for the first time under those circumstances?
Another morning, I had just put my biggest pot on the stove, filled to the brim with tomatoes, to stew. The big butcher knife I had used to cut them up was still on the counter. "I'll just run down and put a batch of clothes in the washer while this water gets hot," since my child was entertained and content for the moment, or so I thought. I had barely gotten the laundry going when I heard rattling on those darn stairs and rushed to the door. I'd left it open a bit. Now it was closed. The rattling I'd heard was not a child falling down the stairs. No, it was my child playing with the lock, the kind you slide across to engage. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob, he made the right connection, sliding the bold into place. I talked to him through the door, trying to coax him to push the shiny knob back the other way. He tired of that game quickly and went back upstairs. Oh grief! The top lock was not on the back door. It was early morning but I'd already been in and out taking garbage. And the pot must be boiling by now. That knife! He wouldn't be able to reach it unless he spied it and pushed a chair up to the counter. The couple in that apartment--yes, the naked mop lady--usually worked nights and slept all day. I knocked. No answer. Knocked again, with a little more urgency. Still no answer. I checked the window to see if I could possibly go out that way. What was I thinking? I took a couple of runs from the washer across the room, throwing myself at the locked door, thinking maybe I could rattle it enough to dislodge that bold so I could force it open. Wow! That hurt! I abandoned that idea, luckily before I broke any bones, and went back to pounding on my neighbor's door and yelling until I finally woke her up. The minute she opened her door a crack, her eyes still half closed, I pushed past her, dashed through her apartment, not stopping to explain, and ran out around the building and in through my unlocked back door. Everything was okay. My curious toddler hadn't escaped out the back door. If he had, the busy street, the gully and willows and field were within sight and he'd been there many times with me. That was my fear, that he'd try to go to the place I took him to play on some hot days. The pot was just beginning to bubble a little around the edges. And the knife wasn't where he could have reached it. Whew! And my neighbor? I guess we were even, on the strange meeting's score.
Fearless and curious about everything, my little boy heard kids laughing and playing while I was hanging clothes out to dry. It was a bright, sunny, summer day. He had new red Keds on his feet and had been running back and forth from the apartment front door, then across the parking pavement at the back of the complex, to the clothes lines. He wasn't yet three but already had about a million allergies and his nose was running so I turned my back on him only the few seconds it took me to take a couple or three steps up to reach a Kleenex from the table just inside the door. When I turned back around, he was gone! He had heard the kids voices again but couldn't see them so he followed the sound, putting those tiny, rubber soled toes in each space of the chain link fence, all the way to the top and over, into the adjoining yard. Panicked and pregnant, I had quite a walk, going around the block, searching and calling his name before I found him, still in that back yard just across our fence, happily playing away.
The father in one of the other units was hauled off to jail for selling porno movies. You just never know what goes on behind closed doors. The rest of us who lived there were about to find out. His teenage sons, left to their own devices, hooked up a hose and had a water fight inside their apartment, flooding it while punching holes in the walls and tearing down the inside doors. This was pretty unexpected behavior and activity in this lovely apartment building in a nice neighborhood. When our new baby was about a month old, we moved back to Salt Lake City. It was the end of a five-year cycle, something that would seem to repeat itself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)