How did I ever find the time
To go to work each day?
And often, I worked extra hours,
Plus traveled miles each way.
Twelve ho-urs on my feet, sometimes,
Not quite a fairy tale.
Roll a perm, twist a curl or paint
Some locks or fingernails.
Married? Me? That's a full-time job,
What with birth-in' babies,
Cooking, cleaning, washing, and more,
There's sewing, fix-it pleas.
Tole painting, arts, and handicrafts,
Hosting family and friends,
Turn in the road led to Simmy's,
And Washoe High, end-to-end
Moving along, hit the big-time,
U N of R hired me? !
First prof I met asked the question,
"Can she type? Let me see!"
Typing, transcription, and phone calls,
Contracts, travel, textbooks,
Job searches and office parties,
I signed for the check book!
Twenty-some years passed by quickly,
One more fork in the road,
TMCC came a-calling,
Still had kids--my zip code.
Me, be an office Girl-Friday?
'Course! I'd done it before.
So many students, at my desk,
Always more coming, in the door.
They came with the darnedest questions,
And all wanted an answer,
I'd say, "I'm the new girl in town",
"So just ask him or her!"
It's been more than thirty some years,
Retirement? Too soon!
Can't possibly be that ag-ed.
Mirrored face, Me? Or a prune!
----------
I have these 'Anytime, Sing-song Rhyme Time Syndrome' symptoms come over me, when I sit in my new computer chair. I thought they might subside, given that frontal lobe deterioration, yours and mine, begins after age thirty, but sitting here, my every thought begins like, "What rhymes with ...?" Do you think my chair is defective?
Number of years worked: Almost 32 . That's what my retirement papers listed. I got to thinking about all the jobs I've done, salaried or not, over the last 67 years and decided there was more to my work history story.
My first job from birth and one I took seriously, was just being so darn cute! My mother wrote about all the fine stuff folks brought to me when I arrived. Keith introduced me to teddy bears. Burns brought a 'baby book'. Being forward thinking, Mother filled it with notes and a few pictures from the earliest years. She understood the difficulty of my job--being cute, knew it couldn't last forever and would need documentation. Aunt Vera crocheted a tiny doll with clothes, a treasure I take out to marvel at the making, now and then. Marion brought slippers from the Philippines, MerLyn, a soft, blue shawl. My job duties included smiling a lot and looking at the world with big, brown eyes so everyone would notice them. According to Mother, everyone did. Dr. Wheeler is credited with saying, "Christie's eyes know all the answers." Being cute's a tough job! I had to learn to talk early to say things that got attention, like: "Oh, a mighty, that hurts!" Or, "Charley Bye Bye? Why?" MerLyn was sure she heard me say, "Oh, dear!", before my first birthday.
Mother was right. A job like that doesn't last forever. When 'Being Cute' ended, I had farm chores to do like everyone else. There was the hair-raising, risking life and limb, nightly chicken coop assignment ( Doolittle's Farm? ). And that quarter acre of beets I thinned ( In Praise of Fathers ). Mother and I picked beans one summer, at a nickle (or less) per pound. We earned about $6, ... total. The both of us. Green string beans don't weigh much.
I worked during one fall potato harvest--must have been at the Tingey farm. I'm unsure if I was paid by number of sacks filled or by sack weight or whether I did enough to be paid at all. A big, ole' 50-pound gunny sack filled with Idaho Russets was tough to manage. Once a sack was full, I had to drag or carry it to a designated space between rows, a sort of staging area where a truck would drive through the field to be loaded with sacks of potatoes from both sides. I'm sure the process has been modernized, using equipment to complete the harvest. So what do farm kids do now, to work off steam and raging hormones, to learn to put in a full day of labor, starting at the bottom and make a few bucks?
As a high school grad, and after months of specialized training, I was licensed to work in Utah hair salons ( Hair Today-Gone Tomorrow ). I married and spent a summer traveling. I didn't return to salon work. I would soon take on the hardest, nonsalaried job I'd ever loved--being a mom.
In retrospect, I didn't always love the job or the title, 'Mom'. Long hours, poor working conditions, a real overworked and under appreciated kind of a job, I thought. I felt at times that I'd lost my individual identity. I had 'Momitis'. Surely, I'm not the only one to have wished for someone to just call me by my given name, 'Christie', instead of the endless cries of, "Mom, where's my...?" "Mom, I want..." "Mom, I can't..." "Mom, I need..." "MOM!". Instead, I was always Mom, or M-o-t-h-e-r, used for effect if the child was angry, frustrated or whatever. My job, as I understood it, was to take care of family needs, wants, and comforts even if it meant putting my own--putting ME--aside. I was introduced and referred to as Frank's wife or Mrs. South, a daughter or sister-in-law (better than an outlaw, I guess), mother-in-law ("If it's not one thing, it's your mother!") someone's aunt, somebody's daughter, Grandma or Grandmother, if drama was on the play list. I'd been called 'Chris', at some salaried jobs, and it took me awhile to answer, never having been nicknamed before. My name was a nickname already, my grandmother Christina Morgan's.
As my rough edges have been smoothed a bit with time, experience, the learned art of appreciation and a little wisdom, I've come to love all the titles I can claim including the most recent one, Oomah, with one exception. That one is, EX-. From my perspective, I have never been, and am not an Ex- anything. Yes, once married, once divorced, but never an Ex. The term to me is demeaning. It devalues--invalidates--what came before. In reference, I've preferred, "Former Roommate."
Washoe High School was an experiment, an alternative for students unable to attend a traditional high school. As an aide working for one teacher, I continued my own 'Education by Degrees'. These were some pretty tough kids to deal with, at times, some with learning disabilities, poor or no family life or support, teen pregnancy, their idea of life and a good time based on addictive and often illegal substances. The instructor was an interesting sort, herself. A former show girl/dancer, she had performed in local and LasVegas casinos. Interesting woman, she was, who worked well with these kids. So many couldn't read. Working with non-readers one-on-one was my main assignment. While classroom studies, without the distraction of regular high school activities, were the emphasis, 'she' (I've lost her name in the passing of time) felt field trips were essential. Just she and I and a bus driver with this bunch of unpredictables. Steamboat Springs, its mineral baths and geothermal energy possibilities caught everyone's attention. And the pig farm! S-t-i-n-k-y! Those off-track teens relaxed. I always hoped the thought had been planted in their minds that a good time could be had without being drunk or high, and that they could be some body if they wanted to invest the time and effort in themselves and help each other. I spent the last couple of weeks of that semester in Washoe's office. Except for running copies off on an old mimeograph machine at my brother's fabric and sewing machine store in Oregon one summer, I had no actual office experience, just high school typing and bookkeeping classes. Thinking back to that rickety, clickety typewriter at my desk, the best I could manage was to waste a lot of paper trying to produce a flier template. The worst thing I did was to waste a lot of paper trying to make fliers. But bless my boss, John. That semester at Washoe and a few weeks in the office ensured my kids food with their meals and gave me more experience than I had when I walked in the door!
Simmy and I met in a floral arranging class at the community college. I had to develop an ear for her heavy accent in order to understand her. She opened a shop in Sparks when classes ended and offered me a job. To learn more about this workplace adventure, watch for the blog: Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore .
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Sanchez
Ever ride in a rattle-y truck...
All dented and old and dusty?
Outfitted with sand bags,
A big tool box in back,
Paint missing or worn, and rusty?
He was once the new truck on the block,
Now sputters and coughs...turns over.
Wears snow tires in summer,
The roof leaks when it's wet,
True work of art in the mirror.
What great tale has he, could he tell us?
Where has he been-kind of story?
A drive with the older,
Or quick spin with a youth
At work, for a college degree?
Could last night's ride home have been better,
Than most he has given before?
Gram parked the ole' Caddy,
Said, "No need!", to the Dodge,
"I choose Sanchez, Si', Si', Senor!"
All dented and old and dusty?
Outfitted with sand bags,
A big tool box in back,
Paint missing or worn, and rusty?
He was once the new truck on the block,
Now sputters and coughs...turns over.
Wears snow tires in summer,
The roof leaks when it's wet,
True work of art in the mirror.
What great tale has he, could he tell us?
Where has he been-kind of story?
A drive with the older,
Or quick spin with a youth
At work, for a college degree?
Could last night's ride home have been better,
Than most he has given before?
Gram parked the ole' Caddy,
Said, "No need!", to the Dodge,
"I choose Sanchez, Si', Si', Senor!"
Friday, July 6, 2012
Happy Birthday, Jennifer--July 7, 2012
Dear daughter mine...
I've searched Internet archives and have found that nothing remarkable happened in the world on July 7, 1971, ... until you were born!
On the day you were born,
In the month of July,
Wednesday, an early morn,
Heard the tiniest cry.
All were as excited as
if the Fourth of July.
Was day seven, instead,
Simply to clarify.
Many boy births, surely...
Word quickly spread.
"It's a beautiful girlie!"
Pink bow on your head.
Big brother, awaiting
News of the arrival,
A sister? No plaything?
Where's the monkey? How dull!
"She's a keeper," we said.
"She'll grow and get bigger,
And have hair on her head,
Laugh, play and have vigor."
So keep her, we chose to,
And so glad that we did.
Birthday wishes for you,
My Remarkable Kid!.
Love, Mom--July 7, 2012
I've searched Internet archives and have found that nothing remarkable happened in the world on July 7, 1971, ... until you were born!
On the day you were born,
In the month of July,
Wednesday, an early morn,
Heard the tiniest cry.
All were as excited as
if the Fourth of July.
Was day seven, instead,
Simply to clarify.
Many boy births, surely...
Word quickly spread.
"It's a beautiful girlie!"
Pink bow on your head.
Big brother, awaiting
News of the arrival,
A sister? No plaything?
Where's the monkey? How dull!
"She's a keeper," we said.
"She'll grow and get bigger,
And have hair on her head,
Laugh, play and have vigor."
So keep her, we chose to,
And so glad that we did.
Birthday wishes for you,
My Remarkable Kid!.
Love, Mom--July 7, 2012
Fifty Years Ago
The 50th reunion for the graduating class of 1962 from West Side High School is penciled in on my July calendar for 2012. Fifty years? Really? Then, I was just seventeen, "A sweet, young thing." Now I ask myself who the old woman is who looks back at me in the mirror.
Freshman Initiation. That's how high school began for me. "Wear a dress made from a gunny sack with pink ribbon bows, lots of tiny braids in your hair, onions strung as a necklace around your neck, one high-heeled shoe, and one bare foot," the instructions read. Furthermore, I was told to carry shoe polish with me everywhere I went at school that day, then kneel down while singing the school song, to shine the shoes of any 'Senior' I happened upon.
Farrel Austin was elected freshman class president, I was class secretary and Kent Tingey, my childhood playmate, was chosen as vice president. His grandmother lived next door, where my grandpa Morgan's house had once stood. Mother said I came home at the end of my first day at school, upset that my first grade teacher, Mrs. Johnson, would not let me share a desk with Kent. She, instead, had separated us!
Clint Buttars was my first date! I remember only how anxious I was all evening, dressed in a horrible, two-piece thing, looking like I was wearing my grandmother's dress and feeling the pressure of singing the theme song for the dance. After the dance, Clint's car had barely stopped in front of the old Olsen place where Mother and I were living when I opened the car door and lit out running for the front door. My social skills have not improved much over fifty years! I'm still that awkward teen.
Music became my identity. I was the accompanist for the high school choir, played my sister's flute in the band, and accompanied the music teacher, Mr. Smith, when he performed. I remember being called out of class and out of an audience at school and at church if someone needed an accompanist. Wasn't it lucky that sight-reading came easy for me! I sat on lots of piano and organ benches. "Moonlight" was the annual operetta. I was the 'orchestra'. Marlow Viehweg, a senior, was the leading man. Such a crush I had on that handsome guy! I was 'that' girl, the one who often had a crush but got little attention from the opposite sex. "She sure can play the piano!" "She's got a great personality!" But not someone to ask on a date. That gave me lots of time to become very busy, for quiet as I was by nature, I was a joiner.
Freshman Initiation. That's how high school began for me. "Wear a dress made from a gunny sack with pink ribbon bows, lots of tiny braids in your hair, onions strung as a necklace around your neck, one high-heeled shoe, and one bare foot," the instructions read. Furthermore, I was told to carry shoe polish with me everywhere I went at school that day, then kneel down while singing the school song, to shine the shoes of any 'Senior' I happened upon.
Farrel Austin was elected freshman class president, I was class secretary and Kent Tingey, my childhood playmate, was chosen as vice president. His grandmother lived next door, where my grandpa Morgan's house had once stood. Mother said I came home at the end of my first day at school, upset that my first grade teacher, Mrs. Johnson, would not let me share a desk with Kent. She, instead, had separated us!
Clint Buttars was my first date! I remember only how anxious I was all evening, dressed in a horrible, two-piece thing, looking like I was wearing my grandmother's dress and feeling the pressure of singing the theme song for the dance. After the dance, Clint's car had barely stopped in front of the old Olsen place where Mother and I were living when I opened the car door and lit out running for the front door. My social skills have not improved much over fifty years! I'm still that awkward teen.
Music became my identity. I was the accompanist for the high school choir, played my sister's flute in the band, and accompanied the music teacher, Mr. Smith, when he performed. I remember being called out of class and out of an audience at school and at church if someone needed an accompanist. Wasn't it lucky that sight-reading came easy for me! I sat on lots of piano and organ benches. "Moonlight" was the annual operetta. I was the 'orchestra'. Marlow Viehweg, a senior, was the leading man. Such a crush I had on that handsome guy! I was 'that' girl, the one who often had a crush but got little attention from the opposite sex. "She sure can play the piano!" "She's got a great personality!" But not someone to ask on a date. That gave me lots of time to become very busy, for quiet as I was by nature, I was a joiner.
Ruth Ann Powell and I, though part of a foursome that included Marianne Winward and Lorraine Rice, joined the Pep Club. We always managed to cheer ourselves hoarse. Ruth Ann and I traveled home from an away game during a bad snowstorm one night. By midnight, the school bus had made it only as far as Clifton. She and I were left to tromp through snow at least two feet deep that last mile to get to her house. I spent the weekend there, and had a great time until snow plows could clear the roads.
Writer Mary Gordon said, "Where do you start when you talk about the sixties? ...the horror and the playfulness, the sense of helplessness, the sense of freedom, all true in that decade?" By the mid-sixties, parents had lost their credibility. Generations were split. The sexual revolution was on. Church was out, women's lib was in. The U.S. launched its first manned space flight. My mother always believed it was a hoax. Americans looking for some escape from this roller-coaster decade went for Mary Poppins and 'Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini'. Color TV became popular, the first microwave counter top oven was introduced. Barbara Steisand became a household name and Billie Jean King won almost every American and International tennis match open to women. My little corner of the world went on in much the same way, with little evidence of impact from events that made the news.
Active each year in FHA, as a sophomore I chaired a Christmas assembly planning committee, working with others to script the entire assembly in rhyme. For stage decorations, we hauled in real pines and decorated them, as my mother did our tree at home, using Lux soap flakes beaten with water to a whipped cream consistency, then spread on the tree branches by hand. 'Santa Snow' was sprinkled over each tree while they were still damp, making the twinkly effect of real snow. It was also that year that I won two short story contests, one that came with a twenty-five dollar prize!
Small high schools such as ours seemed to be a post graduate training ground for music majors fresh out of college. We had a new one almost every year--Mr. Smith, Mr. Worthen, Mr. Hardesty. Mr. Smith was so good looking! Mr. Worthen nudged me out of my comfort zone and into opportunities for growth in music I hadn't experienced before. He was also a real-life Mr. McDreamy! Mr. Hardesty required a high level of expertise and although I had little formal training, comparatively, I did some of my best piano work under his direction. He and I also played trumpet duets. Near the end of the piece, I would put my trumpet down and the audience would discover that he was the only one playing, using a difficult horn technique called 'triple tonguing', that has listeners thinking the sound is coming from more than one instrument.
The girl's choice 'Buddy Dance' was an annual event. Girl friends were to make arrangements for these 'blind' dates. I had such a crush on Robert Wood who of course, didn't know I existed. Every girl in school wanted to date him. I don't remember much about the date. Having school mates know that I went out with the guy they all wanted to go out with, was the fun of it.
West Side's basketball team always did well. I never understood football but I loved basketball. As student body reporter, it was my job to call local newspapers to give them the stats following every sports activity. The Logan Herald reporter knew from the start that I did not have a clue what I was saying. "Just call me with the numbers and I'll make a story of it," he said.
The only trouble I ever got into at school was for cutting class. Mother was sick. Aunt Flo and Uncle Les agreed to take me and Ruth Ann to Pocatello to shop for prom formals. We had a grand time! When the principal threatened to cut our grades one full grade in all classes and assigned us a theme paper telling why we were not to cut school to shop, Mother was livid! She wrote both papers herself, saying we would do it again if the need arose! Our grades were never cut and we went on, putting lots of time and effort into dance preparations--the false ceiling made entirely of woven crepe paper was impressive! Picture this--girls of our junior class dressed in floor-length white formals being presented in promenade style to receive our class rings.
The 'in' girls wore Jansen's and school letter sweaters. My wardrobe in high school was not that of an 'in' girl, though I did have the big petticoats. My mother spent hours starching those things, then hanging them upside down on the clothes line until they were stiff as a board! In my Senior year, I earned a music letter. Ah-h-h. Sort of an 'in' girl at last! I remember how it felt to appear at school, wearing that white school sweater complete with the letter and pins I had worked so hard to earn. I remember also, that one of my first paycheck purchases after high school was, ... a black, Jansen sweater.
Seniors at last! I had a crush on a 'college' man, Gary Porter. We performed together often, sometimes singing duets or I accompanied his vocals. I always fell for the one with a beautiful voice! That year was filled with school and club activities, music performances, travel, leadership roles, and making decisions about, 'What's Next?' I've kept a note about being a fast typist on those old, non-electric machines. And an 'A' and 'B' student, something that surprises me, given that I missed so much class time for music rehearsals. At seventeen, I didn't know what I didn't know!
I thank LeArta Hammond and my 4-H leaders for sewing skills I've used my entire adult life. Utah State University Agathon sponsored a high school fashion show for graduating Seniors where I modeled the tailored, black coat, with bound buttonholes and flashy lining I had made in Home Ec. With pure silk material from my brother's sewing shop, I made a 'little black dress', to wear with the coat. Peeling carrots was something else that LeArta taught me. On the farm, carrots came from the garden, tops on, most of the dirt knocked off and were served after a quick rinse at the sink. In Home Ec., Mrs. Hammond seemed horrified seeing carrots I had prepared, there in neat sticks on the plate but unpeeled! She made me peel each of those carrot sicks, individually, before returning them to the table! Yup, it comes to mind still where carrots are concerned.
Writer Mary Gordon said, "Where do you start when you talk about the sixties? ...the horror and the playfulness, the sense of helplessness, the sense of freedom, all true in that decade?" By the mid-sixties, parents had lost their credibility. Generations were split. The sexual revolution was on. Church was out, women's lib was in. The U.S. launched its first manned space flight. My mother always believed it was a hoax. Americans looking for some escape from this roller-coaster decade went for Mary Poppins and 'Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini'. Color TV became popular, the first microwave counter top oven was introduced. Barbara Steisand became a household name and Billie Jean King won almost every American and International tennis match open to women. My little corner of the world went on in much the same way, with little evidence of impact from events that made the news.
Active each year in FHA, as a sophomore I chaired a Christmas assembly planning committee, working with others to script the entire assembly in rhyme. For stage decorations, we hauled in real pines and decorated them, as my mother did our tree at home, using Lux soap flakes beaten with water to a whipped cream consistency, then spread on the tree branches by hand. 'Santa Snow' was sprinkled over each tree while they were still damp, making the twinkly effect of real snow. It was also that year that I won two short story contests, one that came with a twenty-five dollar prize!
Small high schools such as ours seemed to be a post graduate training ground for music majors fresh out of college. We had a new one almost every year--Mr. Smith, Mr. Worthen, Mr. Hardesty. Mr. Smith was so good looking! Mr. Worthen nudged me out of my comfort zone and into opportunities for growth in music I hadn't experienced before. He was also a real-life Mr. McDreamy! Mr. Hardesty required a high level of expertise and although I had little formal training, comparatively, I did some of my best piano work under his direction. He and I also played trumpet duets. Near the end of the piece, I would put my trumpet down and the audience would discover that he was the only one playing, using a difficult horn technique called 'triple tonguing', that has listeners thinking the sound is coming from more than one instrument.
The girl's choice 'Buddy Dance' was an annual event. Girl friends were to make arrangements for these 'blind' dates. I had such a crush on Robert Wood who of course, didn't know I existed. Every girl in school wanted to date him. I don't remember much about the date. Having school mates know that I went out with the guy they all wanted to go out with, was the fun of it.
West Side's basketball team always did well. I never understood football but I loved basketball. As student body reporter, it was my job to call local newspapers to give them the stats following every sports activity. The Logan Herald reporter knew from the start that I did not have a clue what I was saying. "Just call me with the numbers and I'll make a story of it," he said.
The only trouble I ever got into at school was for cutting class. Mother was sick. Aunt Flo and Uncle Les agreed to take me and Ruth Ann to Pocatello to shop for prom formals. We had a grand time! When the principal threatened to cut our grades one full grade in all classes and assigned us a theme paper telling why we were not to cut school to shop, Mother was livid! She wrote both papers herself, saying we would do it again if the need arose! Our grades were never cut and we went on, putting lots of time and effort into dance preparations--the false ceiling made entirely of woven crepe paper was impressive! Picture this--girls of our junior class dressed in floor-length white formals being presented in promenade style to receive our class rings.
The 'in' girls wore Jansen's and school letter sweaters. My wardrobe in high school was not that of an 'in' girl, though I did have the big petticoats. My mother spent hours starching those things, then hanging them upside down on the clothes line until they were stiff as a board! In my Senior year, I earned a music letter. Ah-h-h. Sort of an 'in' girl at last! I remember how it felt to appear at school, wearing that white school sweater complete with the letter and pins I had worked so hard to earn. I remember also, that one of my first paycheck purchases after high school was, ... a black, Jansen sweater.
Seniors at last! I had a crush on a 'college' man, Gary Porter. We performed together often, sometimes singing duets or I accompanied his vocals. I always fell for the one with a beautiful voice! That year was filled with school and club activities, music performances, travel, leadership roles, and making decisions about, 'What's Next?' I've kept a note about being a fast typist on those old, non-electric machines. And an 'A' and 'B' student, something that surprises me, given that I missed so much class time for music rehearsals. At seventeen, I didn't know what I didn't know!
I thank LeArta Hammond and my 4-H leaders for sewing skills I've used my entire adult life. Utah State University Agathon sponsored a high school fashion show for graduating Seniors where I modeled the tailored, black coat, with bound buttonholes and flashy lining I had made in Home Ec. With pure silk material from my brother's sewing shop, I made a 'little black dress', to wear with the coat. Peeling carrots was something else that LeArta taught me. On the farm, carrots came from the garden, tops on, most of the dirt knocked off and were served after a quick rinse at the sink. In Home Ec., Mrs. Hammond seemed horrified seeing carrots I had prepared, there in neat sticks on the plate but unpeeled! She made me peel each of those carrot sicks, individually, before returning them to the table! Yup, it comes to mind still where carrots are concerned.
Peeling carrots, and all the rest, friendships made and kept, ... 50 years ago. All are a part of me.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Celebrate! Parades and Fireworks
July 4th in South Salt Lake in the early 70's meant a kid's parade, with fun games, snow cones and cotton candy at the Madison School afterward with Grandpa and Grandma South. One year, Grandpa boosted his grandkids, Todd and Jennifer, atop an old fire engine to ride through the parade. I had made costumes for them--Todd as George Washington and Jenn as Betsy Ross. The cute factor was very high that day! When Grandpa finished showing them off, Grandma was in charge of games and treats. She loved that as much as the kids did!
One 4th of July, I took my kids to see fireworks at UNR's football stadium. It was a great show but as we tried to leave, half of the exit gate closed on the crowd. It became a scary situation as I tried to hang onto Jenn and keep us both from being trampled or crushed. Todd had made it out ahead of us, on his own. I've been wary of large crowds ever since.
When at last, I broke through traffic gridlock and was driving home from a 4th celebration on another occasion, I saw smoke rising in the sky some distance ahead of us. Continuing to watch that plume as we drove, I couldn't place its location. I drove out of Reno and into Sparks, with smoke still rising ahead of us. Closer to home. "The fire must be on the East side of Sparks," I reasoned. Another mile or so. "Could be in the dry hills just beyond our neighborhood." I turned off Baring, 'rounded the last corner onto Waterfield. The smoke ... The fire ... looks like ... Could be ... OUR HOUSE! No flames were visible at the front. Todd was out of the car before it completely stopped, with his key in the front door in a flash, running straight through to the back door before I could stop him. Across the back lawn and up over the back fence he went, like someone running hurdles, tearing towards Shadow Mountain, behind our house, towards the flames and smoke. Hot embers were now swirling low in the sky around the house. With Jenn on a ladder, hose in hand and sobbing, flames coming up over the hill and burning toward my back fence, Todd cleared the fence again, grabbed a rake and started clearing dry stuff along the fence. It would have made little difference had the flames reached the fence--chain link but with wooden slats all across it. Flames jumped two service roads encircling that hill, stopping short of our fence. We kept spraying water all the while, wetting down the roof, the house, the yard. Neighbors had congregated by now, thinking it was our house in flames. Seeing those firetrucks lined up on the hill, silhouetted against the night sky, was a welcome sight. We've come to expect a July 4th fire of some sort on this hill, sometimes sparked by bikers riding through dry cheetgrass or fools who think the 'No Fireworks' rules are for somebody else. There have been a few, but none as dramatic as the first, thankfully.
I saw our neighborhood empty out for holiday weekends, almost everyone in some sort of 4-wheel drive something. I decided we should not be the only ones left at home. Todd and Jenn helped load up the Datsun, including Digit, our getting-bigger-all-the-time Golden Retriever. I headed for Lake Tahoe, my first trip up the mountain on my own. We explored a couple of areas that we could get to without paying money. Climbing rocks at one location, the 'nuddie' beach came into view. That was a sightseeing extra we hadn't planned! I heard from others that there would be fireworks around the Lake come sunset and decided to stay. They were beautiful. Back in the car, I drove around a bit. I didn't know the area in the daytime and I sure didn't know how to get off the mountain in the dark safely amidst traffic jams and rowdy crowds of people. Digit had loved playing all day, occasionally being tied to a prominent "No Dogs Allowed" sign with plenty of leash to still roam a bit. He didn't much like being confined again in our small car. I parked behind a building in an otherwise almost empty parking lot. I had no money for a motel, even if I could have found lodging for the night. Todd called the passenger seat and moved it back as far as it would go to accomodate his growing legs, then laid the back of the seat down. Jenn thought she could still stretch out on the back seat and put the dog on the floor. Instead, she and Digit wrestled for space. I sat straight up, hands still on the steering wheel keeping watch, I thought. Sometime during the night, I must have dozed off and was awakened by a scream. Evidently, I had parked behind a bar. Some drunk tried to peer through the fogged up window and came face to face with Digit's face, nose, full smile showing all his teeth, pressed against the glass! That beastly vision must have sobered the guy up in a hurry!
Regular trips to see Lake Tahoe fireworks began while Jenn lived at the Lake. I drove there with my grandkids--four babies, a 4-year old, a 2-year old, and toddler twins about 17 months old. They were so cute enjoying the sand and water but were fearless. It took three adults to manage that bunch! When Jenn rented an apartment on King's Beach, above a wonderful bakery, across from Steamers Pizza, I made the trek again, this time to spend the night. After that, I rented a motel for several years and spent a night or two at King's Beach, taking in the annual arts and craft fair, discovering kid-friendly Mexican food and black beans I loved, and of course, watching fireworks sitting on the beach. Fun, a lot of work, but a fun tradition. The first year, I cooked for a week before and packed most of the house up to make the trip. As the kids got older and I grew wiser, I found other ways to do it.
I loved the Lake Tahoe projects. I hope the kids remember them as fun, too. One year, I provided stuff to paint their own beach hats. Then it was sun pictures and treasure hunts, walks and critter catching. The first year, I dressed the kids in matching outfits including stars and stripes shorts. I only got away with that for a season or two when they were too small to protest. After that it was a requirement to have matching 4th of July T-shirts for all of us. The pictures of our arrivals at the beach each year still make me laugh. I insisted on a photo op, different poses, different spots along the beach. We had to stop most years going or coming home to take a group picture with the tall, wood-carved bear, his paw in the air in a welcoming gesture. When Tom joined Jenn and I and the kids, I'm not sure he knew what he was getting into but he was a good sport. Even on vacation at such a beautiful place in the world, kids can still be a real pain in the butt, at times! Tom took it all in stride.
Early mornings were my favorite during our stays at Tahoe. With a warm strawberry-filled croissant in my hand, an old log to sit on, sand just warming up on my bare toes, the air still a bit crisp from the night just passed, and hardly a ripple on the water, I loved to watch workers on the barge set up or take down the fireworks rigging. It was so sad the year I had to canceled the plans we had made a year in advance. I had been phased out of my job at UNR and felt the need to 'circle the wagons' to prepare for whatever came next, reserving and reclaiming every penny I could. I haven't been able to re-orchestrate our annual trek again, in quite the same way. Things change. A more recent and fun way to see Tahoe fireworks happened with no pre-planning, whatsoever. Walking through Target with Jenn's family and the four, Jenn said, "Let's go!" "Now?" "We can just make it!" We all piled into the Excursion and despite heavy construction almost all the way, arrived with time to share a pizza sitting outside on Steamer's patio not far from the sands of our much loved and familiar space on the beach! Great fireworks! Hot chocolate to warm up a bit and yummy frozen yogurt, just because!
Fourth of July and family traditions. They're a part of who I am.
One 4th of July, I took my kids to see fireworks at UNR's football stadium. It was a great show but as we tried to leave, half of the exit gate closed on the crowd. It became a scary situation as I tried to hang onto Jenn and keep us both from being trampled or crushed. Todd had made it out ahead of us, on his own. I've been wary of large crowds ever since.
When at last, I broke through traffic gridlock and was driving home from a 4th celebration on another occasion, I saw smoke rising in the sky some distance ahead of us. Continuing to watch that plume as we drove, I couldn't place its location. I drove out of Reno and into Sparks, with smoke still rising ahead of us. Closer to home. "The fire must be on the East side of Sparks," I reasoned. Another mile or so. "Could be in the dry hills just beyond our neighborhood." I turned off Baring, 'rounded the last corner onto Waterfield. The smoke ... The fire ... looks like ... Could be ... OUR HOUSE! No flames were visible at the front. Todd was out of the car before it completely stopped, with his key in the front door in a flash, running straight through to the back door before I could stop him. Across the back lawn and up over the back fence he went, like someone running hurdles, tearing towards Shadow Mountain, behind our house, towards the flames and smoke. Hot embers were now swirling low in the sky around the house. With Jenn on a ladder, hose in hand and sobbing, flames coming up over the hill and burning toward my back fence, Todd cleared the fence again, grabbed a rake and started clearing dry stuff along the fence. It would have made little difference had the flames reached the fence--chain link but with wooden slats all across it. Flames jumped two service roads encircling that hill, stopping short of our fence. We kept spraying water all the while, wetting down the roof, the house, the yard. Neighbors had congregated by now, thinking it was our house in flames. Seeing those firetrucks lined up on the hill, silhouetted against the night sky, was a welcome sight. We've come to expect a July 4th fire of some sort on this hill, sometimes sparked by bikers riding through dry cheetgrass or fools who think the 'No Fireworks' rules are for somebody else. There have been a few, but none as dramatic as the first, thankfully.
I saw our neighborhood empty out for holiday weekends, almost everyone in some sort of 4-wheel drive something. I decided we should not be the only ones left at home. Todd and Jenn helped load up the Datsun, including Digit, our getting-bigger-all-the-time Golden Retriever. I headed for Lake Tahoe, my first trip up the mountain on my own. We explored a couple of areas that we could get to without paying money. Climbing rocks at one location, the 'nuddie' beach came into view. That was a sightseeing extra we hadn't planned! I heard from others that there would be fireworks around the Lake come sunset and decided to stay. They were beautiful. Back in the car, I drove around a bit. I didn't know the area in the daytime and I sure didn't know how to get off the mountain in the dark safely amidst traffic jams and rowdy crowds of people. Digit had loved playing all day, occasionally being tied to a prominent "No Dogs Allowed" sign with plenty of leash to still roam a bit. He didn't much like being confined again in our small car. I parked behind a building in an otherwise almost empty parking lot. I had no money for a motel, even if I could have found lodging for the night. Todd called the passenger seat and moved it back as far as it would go to accomodate his growing legs, then laid the back of the seat down. Jenn thought she could still stretch out on the back seat and put the dog on the floor. Instead, she and Digit wrestled for space. I sat straight up, hands still on the steering wheel keeping watch, I thought. Sometime during the night, I must have dozed off and was awakened by a scream. Evidently, I had parked behind a bar. Some drunk tried to peer through the fogged up window and came face to face with Digit's face, nose, full smile showing all his teeth, pressed against the glass! That beastly vision must have sobered the guy up in a hurry!
Regular trips to see Lake Tahoe fireworks began while Jenn lived at the Lake. I drove there with my grandkids--four babies, a 4-year old, a 2-year old, and toddler twins about 17 months old. They were so cute enjoying the sand and water but were fearless. It took three adults to manage that bunch! When Jenn rented an apartment on King's Beach, above a wonderful bakery, across from Steamers Pizza, I made the trek again, this time to spend the night. After that, I rented a motel for several years and spent a night or two at King's Beach, taking in the annual arts and craft fair, discovering kid-friendly Mexican food and black beans I loved, and of course, watching fireworks sitting on the beach. Fun, a lot of work, but a fun tradition. The first year, I cooked for a week before and packed most of the house up to make the trip. As the kids got older and I grew wiser, I found other ways to do it.
I loved the Lake Tahoe projects. I hope the kids remember them as fun, too. One year, I provided stuff to paint their own beach hats. Then it was sun pictures and treasure hunts, walks and critter catching. The first year, I dressed the kids in matching outfits including stars and stripes shorts. I only got away with that for a season or two when they were too small to protest. After that it was a requirement to have matching 4th of July T-shirts for all of us. The pictures of our arrivals at the beach each year still make me laugh. I insisted on a photo op, different poses, different spots along the beach. We had to stop most years going or coming home to take a group picture with the tall, wood-carved bear, his paw in the air in a welcoming gesture. When Tom joined Jenn and I and the kids, I'm not sure he knew what he was getting into but he was a good sport. Even on vacation at such a beautiful place in the world, kids can still be a real pain in the butt, at times! Tom took it all in stride.
Early mornings were my favorite during our stays at Tahoe. With a warm strawberry-filled croissant in my hand, an old log to sit on, sand just warming up on my bare toes, the air still a bit crisp from the night just passed, and hardly a ripple on the water, I loved to watch workers on the barge set up or take down the fireworks rigging. It was so sad the year I had to canceled the plans we had made a year in advance. I had been phased out of my job at UNR and felt the need to 'circle the wagons' to prepare for whatever came next, reserving and reclaiming every penny I could. I haven't been able to re-orchestrate our annual trek again, in quite the same way. Things change. A more recent and fun way to see Tahoe fireworks happened with no pre-planning, whatsoever. Walking through Target with Jenn's family and the four, Jenn said, "Let's go!" "Now?" "We can just make it!" We all piled into the Excursion and despite heavy construction almost all the way, arrived with time to share a pizza sitting outside on Steamer's patio not far from the sands of our much loved and familiar space on the beach! Great fireworks! Hot chocolate to warm up a bit and yummy frozen yogurt, just because!
Fourth of July and family traditions. They're a part of who I am.
July 4th
July 4th in my memory was a quiet affair in Weston when I was growing up. Celebrate freedom, we did, but remembering those who lost their lives fighting for and keeping it was also on the minds of townsfolk. My brother, Elvour, known in the family as Charley and called Chuck in the service, was stationed in Hawaii with the U.S. Navy in 1942 when Mother penned this:
To my son-
I'm thinking of you today, my dear, my boy so far away.
My thoughts span the distance between us, son, you seem so very near.
Your voice, with its ringing laughter, I seem to hear. And you call -
I answer you sometimes, out loud, in my joy, Then it isn't you at all.
But I've had my moment with you and the joy I feel is lasting,
May God protect and ever bless you, and your commrads, is all I'm asking.
------
Mother wrote again when she received word that Chuck had left the U.S.
Part of her poem, "O Lonely Heart"
......and our soldier boy is serving his country
As best he can; Both of our boys are so very young,
Each enlisted at twenty-one. They ask me
Not to weep while they're away, So I count
The hours and hope and pray. And wait
For the mail. I'm praying for your boys too--
Praying - Hoping - Waiting, Is all we mother's can do.
------
Mother passed on to me a beautiful, perfectly stitched doily, sent to her by a sailor, Gus J. Pizzuto, after she wrote:
If He Only Would (1943)
There's a lad in the service of Uncle Sam -
Yes, he's a gob, overseas. He counts each golden
Minute of time, Counts them more precious
Than pennies or dimes. For while his buddies
Play cards and such, He merrily crochets -
To beat the dutch!
Down through the ages, The story's been told -
How the maiden will sew a fine seam.
But here's to the sailor boy, brawny and bold
Who, with deft fingers, makes his crochet hook gleam.
You've guessed it! Of course it's for Christmas -
Those beautiful doilies he's making.
Now tell me - There isn't a Santa - who keeps
Young maiden's hearts from breaking.
I see a fair maiden, me thinks -
Employed in a war-plant job;
Many hours - She's toiling and waiting -
Her heart's with her sailor gob!
For hasn't he promised her a lovely trousseau -
Of hand-work so fine, and so dainty?
With love and precious thoughts, crocheted in -
With stitches he counts so truly. Oh me! Were I
Young and charming, just a maid in my teens -
I'd see if I could win, not the war, not the bond drive.
But a lad over seas. I'd write him and send my picture.
The charmingest picture of me. Then I'd hint
In a cute bashful fashion - He'd send me a doilie!
Oh, Gee! Well - even tho' I'm past forty
I've a birthday coming - real soon,
I can't think of a thing - I'd rather have
Than a man-made doilie in my home.
------
Mother wrote to many servicemen during war times, to keep their spirits up. For the many who didn't make it home, there are pages among Mother's writings of notes she wrote during funerals and memorials and poems, all written and sent to families, hoping to provide some comfort. The rejoicing our family felt when all four sons returned home safely may also have come with some burden of 'survival guilt', living in that small community where many families lost so much.
My parents expressed their gratitude for and honored their heritage, in the way they lived their lives. Living a life using 'gratitude' and 'honor' as verbs is a part of who I want to be, also.
To my son-
I'm thinking of you today, my dear, my boy so far away.
My thoughts span the distance between us, son, you seem so very near.
Your voice, with its ringing laughter, I seem to hear. And you call -
I answer you sometimes, out loud, in my joy, Then it isn't you at all.
But I've had my moment with you and the joy I feel is lasting,
May God protect and ever bless you, and your commrads, is all I'm asking.
------
Mother wrote again when she received word that Chuck had left the U.S.
Part of her poem, "O Lonely Heart"
......and our soldier boy is serving his country
As best he can; Both of our boys are so very young,
Each enlisted at twenty-one. They ask me
Not to weep while they're away, So I count
The hours and hope and pray. And wait
For the mail. I'm praying for your boys too--
Praying - Hoping - Waiting, Is all we mother's can do.
------
Mother passed on to me a beautiful, perfectly stitched doily, sent to her by a sailor, Gus J. Pizzuto, after she wrote:
If He Only Would (1943)
There's a lad in the service of Uncle Sam -
Yes, he's a gob, overseas. He counts each golden
Minute of time, Counts them more precious
Than pennies or dimes. For while his buddies
Play cards and such, He merrily crochets -
To beat the dutch!
Down through the ages, The story's been told -
How the maiden will sew a fine seam.
But here's to the sailor boy, brawny and bold
Who, with deft fingers, makes his crochet hook gleam.
You've guessed it! Of course it's for Christmas -
Those beautiful doilies he's making.
Now tell me - There isn't a Santa - who keeps
Young maiden's hearts from breaking.
I see a fair maiden, me thinks -
Employed in a war-plant job;
Many hours - She's toiling and waiting -
Her heart's with her sailor gob!
For hasn't he promised her a lovely trousseau -
Of hand-work so fine, and so dainty?
With love and precious thoughts, crocheted in -
With stitches he counts so truly. Oh me! Were I
Young and charming, just a maid in my teens -
I'd see if I could win, not the war, not the bond drive.
But a lad over seas. I'd write him and send my picture.
The charmingest picture of me. Then I'd hint
In a cute bashful fashion - He'd send me a doilie!
Oh, Gee! Well - even tho' I'm past forty
I've a birthday coming - real soon,
I can't think of a thing - I'd rather have
Than a man-made doilie in my home.
------
Mother wrote to many servicemen during war times, to keep their spirits up. For the many who didn't make it home, there are pages among Mother's writings of notes she wrote during funerals and memorials and poems, all written and sent to families, hoping to provide some comfort. The rejoicing our family felt when all four sons returned home safely may also have come with some burden of 'survival guilt', living in that small community where many families lost so much.
My parents expressed their gratitude for and honored their heritage, in the way they lived their lives. Living a life using 'gratitude' and 'honor' as verbs is a part of who I want to be, also.
Monday, July 2, 2012
What's to Love About a Kitchen
If you were asked, "What do you love most about your kitchen," you may say as others have, "My cookbooks are like diaries," "I learned my mother's recipes," "I love my grandmother's old cutting board." When I think of the kitchen where I spent my early childhood, it's the red counter top and the smells that I loved--the aroma of home-baked bread or Hubbard squash baking with brown sugar and butter oozing in the center, fresh-from-the-garden stewed tomatoes with lots of pepper as an after school snack, and the pungent odor of homemade soap used in the open tub wringer washer that was wheeled into the kitchen on wash day. Some of the farm kitchen's signature scent archived in my memory, came from the wood stove Mother used until sometime in the 50's. The kitchen table, dark brown with defined wood grain, made by one of my brothers, had a center base section and extra leaves that folded out to make the table top bigger. That table saw a lot of meals served for family, relatives, and crews working the fields. It was Daddy's desk when he need one and Mother's space to spread out lots of genealogy papers.
There wasn't much to love about the kitchen in the 100-year-old, two-story house in Weston where Mother and I lived when we left the farm. We cooked in an old fashioned popcorn popper that first summer. 'One-eyed Eagles', Mother called our mainstay hot meal of each day--butter melted in the hot popper, a slice of bread with the center removed dropped into the hot pan to sizzle, a raw egg plopped into the open center of the bread, to complete the dish.
The kitchens at my elementary, junior and senior high schools were real working spaces with food made from scratch and served by cooks students knew like family. May Jensen made such good casseroles. Ruth Powell's pie and chili were favorites. Hot breads were served in each of the kitchens. I think everyone looked forward to 'school lunch'.
The apartment kitchens I remember when I left Weston in '62 were small but sufficient to heat, eat, and run, given busy schedules at school, work, and play.
As a new bride, I lived in the basement of a beautiful, old home on the avenues in Salt Lake City. The kitchen was a laundry room with a deep sink and a landlady who checked regularly to be sure I had washed my dishes and cleaned my oven. A fridge and stove had been set down in the room but there was no counter top. One small cupboard hung on the wall. The old woman insisted on having her cleaning lady clean and polish the tile floor to a brilliance brighter than a new car and would then send me the bill! I was offended. Did she think I didn't know how to mop a floor? Looking back, that may be what I loved most about that kitchen. What a deal for a few bucks! It was in this make-shift kitchen that I first tried my wings hosting, an after-the-wedding party in early spring, a Christmas open house for about 50 people that same year, and a few of the South cousin couples monthly parties, preparing all the food and drink served in that funny kitchen.
Frank and I gave up that apartment in late spring-early summer, traveled in the states and in Europe, returning to his parent's home in South Salt Lake at the end of the summer of '67. His mother became ill so I was expected to run the kitchen. I had morning sickness almost 24/7 so I don't remember doing any cooking. I don't know how Jane managed the high cupboards in that room. Mostly, we kept groceries in the fridge and it was every man for himself for the weeks we were there. Our move to Ogden, Utah that fall blessed me with a kitchen filled with sunlight streaming through bay windows surrounding the breakfast nook. I 'nested' in that cozy space, sewing blankets and sleepers and crocheting booties in anticipation of the birth of our son.
It was the spaciousness of the kitchen that I loved, in the second Ogden location we called 'home'. Never had I, before, nor have I since, had so much cupboard and drawer space. I loved the peace that kind of order--everything has a place, everything in its place,--brought to everyday life. Our daughter was born while we lived here. In this kitchen, I learned to make menswear and had a home sewing business. It was in this kitchen that the toddler discovered his hand-eye coordination and cut through the bottom of a bridesmaid dress in the making. Fortunately, the dress was hung high on the door, the 'tailor' was a short, little tot, and the woman, also on the short side, didn't need much of a hem!
What was there to love about the tiny kitchen in the two-room apartment in South Salt Lake? The washer, even though it was a real squeeze to fit it in. Somehow, we always had space enough and food enough to host weekly taco feeds with friends in that 'Squeeze Inn' kitchen. Living there made it possible to save a down-payment to purchase a home.
I learned to scrub my own kitchen tile floor so we could have eaten off it in our first home on Bonneview Drive in Salt Lake. My new neighbor, Pat, came knocking at my door at 2:00 a.m. finding me on hand and knees. She thought I must be up with sick kids. We did 'picnic' when Frank traveled until I hauled a small, rickety table from Grandpa South's back yard, the one he used to stand on to paint his house, hammered in a few strategically placed nails, gave it a good scrubbing and covered it with a homespun tablecloth. The tiny fridge left behind by the previous owner was located in the basement. The stove was 30 years old. Limited counter space and storage was confined to one corner of the kitchen, two large windows at the opposite corner. The blending of oils for Tole painting was made easier in the grand light streaming in from those kitchen windows.
How many gingerbread houses have we built here? I made my first one for Todd's class when he started school in Salt Lake. That was the start of a great, family tradition. Many little hands have learned to cut cookies and master the making of the famous holiday crescent dinner rolls. We've sat at my table to pray. Giggles have bounced back and forth from person to person like a ping pong ball across this table; its surface has also been splashed with tears. It has held firm amidst raised voices, heavy hands, moving feet and flaring tempers through two generations. Serious thoughts have been shared aloud or have sometimes gone unspoken. This kitchen is the room we are likely to leave, last and return to, first.
I've spent many hours of my life in the kitchen. No longer doing the things I've become known for, I blogg endlessly about some of those things that are, after all, a part of who I am.
There wasn't much to love about the kitchen in the 100-year-old, two-story house in Weston where Mother and I lived when we left the farm. We cooked in an old fashioned popcorn popper that first summer. 'One-eyed Eagles', Mother called our mainstay hot meal of each day--butter melted in the hot popper, a slice of bread with the center removed dropped into the hot pan to sizzle, a raw egg plopped into the open center of the bread, to complete the dish.
The kitchens at my elementary, junior and senior high schools were real working spaces with food made from scratch and served by cooks students knew like family. May Jensen made such good casseroles. Ruth Powell's pie and chili were favorites. Hot breads were served in each of the kitchens. I think everyone looked forward to 'school lunch'.
The apartment kitchens I remember when I left Weston in '62 were small but sufficient to heat, eat, and run, given busy schedules at school, work, and play.
As a new bride, I lived in the basement of a beautiful, old home on the avenues in Salt Lake City. The kitchen was a laundry room with a deep sink and a landlady who checked regularly to be sure I had washed my dishes and cleaned my oven. A fridge and stove had been set down in the room but there was no counter top. One small cupboard hung on the wall. The old woman insisted on having her cleaning lady clean and polish the tile floor to a brilliance brighter than a new car and would then send me the bill! I was offended. Did she think I didn't know how to mop a floor? Looking back, that may be what I loved most about that kitchen. What a deal for a few bucks! It was in this make-shift kitchen that I first tried my wings hosting, an after-the-wedding party in early spring, a Christmas open house for about 50 people that same year, and a few of the South cousin couples monthly parties, preparing all the food and drink served in that funny kitchen.
Frank and I gave up that apartment in late spring-early summer, traveled in the states and in Europe, returning to his parent's home in South Salt Lake at the end of the summer of '67. His mother became ill so I was expected to run the kitchen. I had morning sickness almost 24/7 so I don't remember doing any cooking. I don't know how Jane managed the high cupboards in that room. Mostly, we kept groceries in the fridge and it was every man for himself for the weeks we were there. Our move to Ogden, Utah that fall blessed me with a kitchen filled with sunlight streaming through bay windows surrounding the breakfast nook. I 'nested' in that cozy space, sewing blankets and sleepers and crocheting booties in anticipation of the birth of our son.
It was the spaciousness of the kitchen that I loved, in the second Ogden location we called 'home'. Never had I, before, nor have I since, had so much cupboard and drawer space. I loved the peace that kind of order--everything has a place, everything in its place,--brought to everyday life. Our daughter was born while we lived here. In this kitchen, I learned to make menswear and had a home sewing business. It was in this kitchen that the toddler discovered his hand-eye coordination and cut through the bottom of a bridesmaid dress in the making. Fortunately, the dress was hung high on the door, the 'tailor' was a short, little tot, and the woman, also on the short side, didn't need much of a hem!
What was there to love about the tiny kitchen in the two-room apartment in South Salt Lake? The washer, even though it was a real squeeze to fit it in. Somehow, we always had space enough and food enough to host weekly taco feeds with friends in that 'Squeeze Inn' kitchen. Living there made it possible to save a down-payment to purchase a home.
I learned to scrub my own kitchen tile floor so we could have eaten off it in our first home on Bonneview Drive in Salt Lake. My new neighbor, Pat, came knocking at my door at 2:00 a.m. finding me on hand and knees. She thought I must be up with sick kids. We did 'picnic' when Frank traveled until I hauled a small, rickety table from Grandpa South's back yard, the one he used to stand on to paint his house, hammered in a few strategically placed nails, gave it a good scrubbing and covered it with a homespun tablecloth. The tiny fridge left behind by the previous owner was located in the basement. The stove was 30 years old. Limited counter space and storage was confined to one corner of the kitchen, two large windows at the opposite corner. The blending of oils for Tole painting was made easier in the grand light streaming in from those kitchen windows.
A neighbor invited me to join her in gleaning fresh tomatoes from the Stake Church Farm project fields. When two women fill a big, old station wagon with very ripe tomatoes, the canning goes on for a long time. Then, the real work begins, cleaning the spatters off the ceiling. One new neighbor was a bit too friendly. She seemed to pop through my kitchen door just when I was stirring something up, and quick as a flash, she'd dip her finger in the mix for a taste! If the smell of baking bread escaped the kitchen and wafted out into the neighborhood, I could count on kids filling my front steps, hoping for a slice with melting butter and dripping honey. They also liked to be invited in to bake cookies, something they said they could not do at home because of the mess they'd create.
"There will be X number of people for dinner and we'll be there in about 30-minutes." Times like these provided a perfect opportunity to experiment, and to serve the result--cheese souffle, chicken parmesan, ... oh, there was that one chocolate silk pie with double the butter (my mistake), and the poor gentleman who ate it without saying a word, then popped Tums the rest of the evening but I did become somewhat of a cook in this kitchen. The kids learned very early to eat with grownups and to use stemware glasses like pros. Todd asked one dinner guest if he knew he didn't have enough hair to cover his head, and wondered aloud with another guest why their eyes looked different. Not happy about something, Jenn announced she was running away from home and going to Steve's house. With her bag packed, she stood just outside the door for some time before asking, "Could you walk me across the street? You know I'm not allowed to cross alone!" A Thanksgiving dinner was served out of my bare kitchen. We had no furniture, just two hand-me-down beds and a baby's crib so with borrowed card tables arranged in our empty living room, both South's and Morgan's could be seated. College kids and little people filled the steps leading to the basement.
From my kitchen window in Sparks, Nevada, I can see Mt. Rose, despite all the development that has occurred in the past 35 years. I loved my first and am just as thrilled with my second red, Kitchenaide mixer but it is the kitchen table I love, simple and inexpensive, but with more than 30 years of family history. Oh, that I had thought to keep a written log on the underside of this table of the traditions and events that have transpired here. We've gathered to create campaign slogans during Jenn's runs for school offices. Todd and Jenn brought their friends, their dates, their spouses, and their children to this table for meals, for treats, just to talk, for board game night, to make pinatas, candy cards, countless crafts, endless homework. Pine Wood Derby cars representing two generations got their start at my table. Homely, garden pumpkins became Halloween masterpieces and then pie. Sometimes I remembered the sugar. Sometimes not. Prom formals and corsages, before-the-dance candlelight dinners were created here. The table was designed to seat six but it has more often been stretched to exceed that number. It has been a staging area for costuming, make-up, hair cuts, bringing characters to life for book reports. This kitchen has become the final check point before leaving the house, for school and work, for dances, dates, graduations, marriages, the arrival of grandbabies, the homecoming of some.
From my kitchen window in Sparks, Nevada, I can see Mt. Rose, despite all the development that has occurred in the past 35 years. I loved my first and am just as thrilled with my second red, Kitchenaide mixer but it is the kitchen table I love, simple and inexpensive, but with more than 30 years of family history. Oh, that I had thought to keep a written log on the underside of this table of the traditions and events that have transpired here. We've gathered to create campaign slogans during Jenn's runs for school offices. Todd and Jenn brought their friends, their dates, their spouses, and their children to this table for meals, for treats, just to talk, for board game night, to make pinatas, candy cards, countless crafts, endless homework. Pine Wood Derby cars representing two generations got their start at my table. Homely, garden pumpkins became Halloween masterpieces and then pie. Sometimes I remembered the sugar. Sometimes not. Prom formals and corsages, before-the-dance candlelight dinners were created here. The table was designed to seat six but it has more often been stretched to exceed that number. It has been a staging area for costuming, make-up, hair cuts, bringing characters to life for book reports. This kitchen has become the final check point before leaving the house, for school and work, for dances, dates, graduations, marriages, the arrival of grandbabies, the homecoming of some.
I've spent many hours of my life in the kitchen. No longer doing the things I've become known for, I blogg endlessly about some of those things that are, after all, a part of who I am.
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