E is for Early

Early. Not as in arriving early (though I’ve gone through phases where that was my m.o.) but early mornings. That is also no longer part of my routine, but once upon a time it was.

Anyhow, early mornings are something that I associate with my paternal grandfather, Pap. For most of my elementary school years, I spent every Friday night at Gammy & Pap’s house. Pap and I were always the first ones up and about, well before anyone else in the neighborhood. I didn’t spend much time with him during those mornings. He’d usually disappear to the yard or the garage and I’d plant myself in front of the television. What did I watch? I don’t really remember.

However, the early mornings I really remember with Pap were during the summers when we were on vacation. For several years we rented cabins/houses in Dewey Beach. Pap was up before sunrise each day, and usually I was up and about as well. This was prime beach walking time. We’d traipse the block or two to the beach, then walk along the water as the sun rose over the ocean. We’d walk from Dewey to Rehoboth and back again.

These were our treasure hunting times. Yes, we’d come across interesting shells and pieces of driftwood and we’d stop and dig for spider crabs. But our real finds were those items that others had left on the beach. Towels, shirts, toys, even cameras and jewelry. Some days we’d find several items, some days nothing, but we’d take it all back to the cabin and wash or launder what we had found.

One year I Donnie and I took friends with us to the beach. That year I didn’t take any early morning walks with Pap. I remember that he looked very sad.

Pap had some interesting quirks. He was very OCD and somewhat of a hoarder. I guess the hoarding part was a Depression-era carryover. He’d stock up on things that were on sale, he and Gammy. And they’d save things that could be re-used: plastic bags, ice cream buckets, just about anything.

His OCD showed up in his organizational skills. Each December he’d go out and buy birthday cards for the entire year and keep them in a special drawer in the kitchen, getting out a month’s worth at a time. We always knew which card was from Gammy & Pap because on the envelope, just above the stamp, was our birthdate, lettered in Pap’s neat printing. He also put the date on the canned goods that he and Gammy bought and kept a record of what he bought and on what date on the garage wall with a Magic Marker (this was before the days of Sharpies).

I think that the way I remember Pap most is walking around his yard, in shorts and no shirt, shoes with socks, digging or raking or pulling weeds.

Toward the end, he faded in and out of understanding what was going on. He had Alzheimer’s, so he stalled out at 1999, couldn’t remember any date after that. But he still read the newspaper every day and could sit and carry on a current events conversation.

I spent this afternoon looking through photos in a box that apparently came from Gammy and Pap’s house, a box of photos and a few clippings. I scanned about half of the photos. Some of them are interspersed in this entry, from birth to not long before his death. 

D is for Donnie and Dale and . . .

In my blogging notes, I’ve indicated that today is my day to write about my brother, Don. After all, we spent a lot of time together when we were little and if I’m writing about memories, he deserves some wordage. He’s two years eight and a half months younger than I am. I imagine that we fought now and then, but mostly I think we were friends.

That being said, one of my strongest memories of my brother did not leave me feeling very loving toward him. It happened at Easter time, probably when I was in first or second grade. Okay, so for Easter we got colored peeps.

No, not marshmallow peeps. I suppose we could have found some of those in our Easter baskets but that’s not what I remember. We got PEEPS, as in baby chicks. Colored baby chicks.

I suppose that wasn’t healthy for the chicks. In fact, the practice of dying them was later halted because it was dangerous to them.

Not half as dangerous as the kids.

Okay, on with the story. I went off to school and Donnie stayed at home with Mom. And the peeps. They probably had names, but I don’t remember that. I also don’t remember what color mine was or what color his was.

Remember how I said that the real danger was the kids? Well, Donnie was playing with his peep and apparently he was a little too rough (he was only three or four years old) and accidentally killed it. I guess he squeezed it too hard or something. But he was very, very, very upset. So Mom put the dead peep in a box and when I got home from school, we dug a hole in the back yard (a real trick — most of our yard was cement) and had a funeral and buried the dead peep.

I think the funeral helped Donnie get over his grief.

In fact, he really enjoyed the funeral.

The next day while I was at school, Donnie strangled my peep. Yeah. He liked that funeral and wanted to have another one. But Mom said no more funerals and threw this dead peep in the garbage.

Donnie. So innocent looking with that little buzz cut.

Sometime later he got his. I was inside, looking out the kitchen window while Mom was cooking dinner. Outside, Donnie was playing with our neighbor, Vincie, who was a year younger than me, and a little more than a year older than Donnie. I remember saying to Mom, “Vincie and Donnie are playing cowboys and bandits.” Mom may have said yes or made some sort of sound or even asked how I knew that. At any rate, I went on to say, “Vincie’s hanging Donnie.”

I think there was a moment’s pause, just a moment, before my Mom dropped her spoon or whatever she was holding and dashed out the back door. No lasting damage, but Donnie did have a rope burn around his neck for quite a while to come.

Yep, that innocent smile and that buzz cut. When he reached high school, he let his hair grow. Really grow.

Now he’s back to the buzz cut but I’m too lazy to scan a more recent picture to include.

Early this morning the news broke that Margaret Thatcher had died. The Iron Maiden was a force to be reckoned with during a large chunk of time. Such a strong woman and one of the first female political role models. I figured that I could add “Death” as a D-word and talk about that.

A few hours later I heard that Annette Funicello had passed as well. Mickey Mouse club and beach movies — she’s was a big part of my early years. Okay, a different type of role model, but still a part of my life.

This evening I added a third name to that list (because they do always seem to come in threes). I called my Dad to ask him my question and he gave me the news that my Uncle Dale had died. He had a rough time lately — he was in chemo but had to stop because he fell and hit his head and needed surgery for that. He was my Mom’s older brother, and around when I was very young but not so much later, moving out of state.

Of course, in the past few years he and I lived in the same state. Yet we usually only saw each other at family gatherings in Pennsylvania. I did have a business trip to Waldorf a few years ago and called him and he took me out to dinner. I feel sad for the remaining brother and sisters, Jack, Kaye, and Goldie, losing two siblings in such a short time.

C is for Cats and Chips

10:45 and I’m just now getting around to this. That probably means that this will be a very short entry.

C

Of course, C is for Cats.

When I was growing up, I had no pets. My uncle Ron had a rabbit, kept outdoors in a hutch (at least, I think I remember that). My Uncle Jack and Aunt Kaye had cats. But not me. My dad really liked animals but we were never allowed to have pets. My first was during high school, when I somehow talked them into letting me have a hamster. In truth, I already had a hamster but he lived at my friend Kathy’s house. I just brought him home.

My first cat came about when I was in college. Actually, about a week before my graduation. I was living in a dorm and no animals were allowed, but I heard about someone with kittens and claimed one. So I kept it in the dorm that week, hiding it from the authorities (something for which I had developed a real talent, but I’ll tell about that some other time), and presenting it to my parents when they arrived for the ceremonies.

So Ashley went home with me, though my parents — especially Mom — were none too thrilled about it. He was a strange cat. My brother and I liked to take him for rides in the car. My dad, too. He didn’t particularly like the car wash, completely freaked out when we went through it, but we took him there anyhow. Ashley stayed with me when I married. I’d put him outside on a leash when we lived in Highspire and he’d lunge at the chihuahua who lived next door, scaring the crap out of that obese pup. He was with us when we lived in an old schoolhouse in Middletown. And he moved to Juniata County with us, ranging the countryside, stopping by to meow, “Hello” to our neighbor at 4 a.m. and scaring the crap out of him. Sixteen years with him.

Living in the country, we had several cats indoors and bunches outside. Spock was with us for a long while. He earned his name because as a kitten he had ears that we doubted he could ever grow into. He was with us into his teens. We had other indoor cats with him. Savik, Max, Gray Clyde.

Pokey. She came from my in-laws house, complete with a broken leg. She also had her picture in the newspaper when we entered her in a Clinton’s-cat-Socks-look-alike contest. She didn’t win, but we loved her.

Buckwheat. He started out as Anjee’s cat, but ended up moving with me to Mifflinburg. He was around for many years as well.

And when Buckwheat passed away, I found Slink. I mention Slink a lot and have written an entire book about him, so I’ll just include his picture.

So much for cats.

I also want to include another C: Charles Chips. I could have just used “chips” but there’s a reason for this. Last week I stopped by a local thrift shop to look for small items to inspire me for short story writing. I came across this gem.

Ninety-nine cents.

Did I need a tin? No. But I remembered that we had cans like this around when I was growing up. This one is only a one-pound can and we usually had three or five pound cans, but it was very nostalgic. We didn’t buy potato chips in bags, but in tins. So yes, Charles Chips. So far I haven’t decided on a use for this tin, but it makes me smile to have it sitting where I can see it.

B is also for Burger

Darn! B really fit yesterday’s activities, but I just checked my notes for what I want to blog this month and I already had some B-designates, ones that won’t really fit into another category, at least not if I want to group them together. So I guess we’ll proceed with a B-addendum.

So yes, B is for Burger.

When I was growing up — back in the olden days — burgers were a treat. Yes, we ate them at home — or more accurately, my grandparents’ or great aunt’s homes when they were having picnic. We sometimes ate out, but that was definitely not a weekly occurrence. We went to HoJo’s on birthdays since the birthday person could then eat for free. Or maybe another restaurant, though I can’t remember much about that. Sometimes we ordered food when we went to the drive-in (as in movie) but that stuff was expensive, so we usually took our own snacks. 

Our favorite treat places were the ones where we went for ice cream. Carvel’s for soft-serve or flying saucers. 

Local Mom & Pop stands for scoops of frozen goodness made with fresh peaches or strawberries. Or Twin Kiss. 

We may have had burgers or other sandwiches there, though not often. French fries to share if we were lucky, or a root beer float, but if not, a mug of root beer was certainly enough!

However, when I hit high school, those places met with new competition: the golden arches of McDonald’s. For a quarter we could buy a burger or a fish sandwich. And we could get it fast. And. . . This was the place that the guys from our high school found part time jobs. Not the girls, at least not that I knew of. There were some OLD ladies (I wonder how I’d see them nowadays) who worked there, especially during weekdays, but other than that, it was the guys. That really changed how often we went out and where.

Oh, we still went to Banks’ drug store. No, we didn’t buy burgers there, but we visited just about every day. You see, my best friend, Kathy, and I would skip lunch, saving the lunch money we had been given, and have the bus drop us at the corner of Union and Water Streets, and make our purchases. No, not drugs. They had a soda fountain and that’s where we bought our hot fudge sundaes made with mint chocolate chip ice cream — in cups to go — and a cherry coke and bag of Middleswarth barbecue chips. We’d tromp the two and a half blocks to Kathy’s house and devour our snack there.

Ok, Bank’s was a detour. I didn’t expect to write about that, had forgotten to add it to the list.

Back to Burger.

When I was growing up, the word “Burger” brought to mind something completely different. To me, that meant “Betty Burger.” I first ran into Mrs. Burger at church. She was probably one of my early Sunday School teachers. Maybe. Or maybe she wasn’t. She was definitely my kindergarten teacher. In those days there was no such thing as a public kindergarten. Not for many years after. Yes, the private schools offered classes. And the place to send a child for kindergarten was Phoebe Etter’s, which was only half a block from my home. But Mrs. Etter had a long waiting list and my parents didn’t get my name on the list in time.

Instead, I attended kindergarten at our church, First Church of God, which was even closer to my house than Mrs. Etter’s place. And Mrs. Burger was our teacher. I remember lots of things about kindergarten: the smell of fresh made play dough, that white paste may smell minty but tastes terrible, that the little wooden rocking boat/steps that is still used in preschools is ideal for acting out “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.” I also remember that the boys in the class — especially Eddie — were in trouble more often than the girls.

Except for me. The boys may have been in trouble more often, but I was the one who got spanked. Yes, folks, in those days it was okay to spank a child. It only happened once and years later Mrs. Burger told me that I was the only child she had ever spanked. Great. What a distinction. And what was my infraction? I kept tipping my chair back on two legs. And she kept warning me. And finally she’d had enough and I was spanked for that. I never did it again. And I never (at least not so far) tipped my chair over backwards and fell.

The other trauma I remember from kindergarten was in the big assignment that all of us had: memorizing our name, address, and phone number. We met in the children’s Sunday School rooms, but for this Mrs. Burger took us one at a time to the adult Sunday School room — a huge and imposing room located just under the sanctuary — and had us recite our information. When we got it right for the first time, she gave us a Hersey bar — a full-sized one — to take home.

I got the name. I got the address. But I couldn’t get the phone number.

My friends returned from that room proudly clutching chocolate wrapped in a silver and brown wrapper. Not me. I returned with nothing. Again and again and again. At least, that’s the way I remember it. I finally got it right, but I still have trouble remembering phone numbers.

Those may seem like negative memories of Mrs. Burger, but they really aren’t. For the most part she was very supportive of us, all of us. And she cared about us.

And she cared about others as well. A few years later it was discovered that our church had termites. The building was condemned and we met at the old high school building next door until our new church was built. And in that new church, thanks to the persistence of Mrs. Burger, there were two special education classrooms, an educable and a trainable room (yes, that’s how they were classified at that time). This was something no one else was doing, something none of the other churches had. Pretty special, eh?

So yes, B is for Burger. Not a bad thing to be.

B is for Boxes and Bags and Barbie Dolls and Bananas

This is actually yesterday’s entry. I already composed it in my head but was too lazy to move my fingers to add it to the screen. Yep, lazy. That’s me.

Boxes and bags. Yesterday I saw many of them. Yesterday I helped to fill many of them. And because of filling them yesterday, today I’ve also spent some time emptying boxes and filling boxes and bags.

You see, yesterday was the day that we (me, my sister, my sister-in-law, one of my nieces, and occasionally my dad) met to go through Mom’s clothes. It’s been two months since her funeral, so it was time. We held off until Dad started to make noise about it, waiting for him to be ready. I’m not sure whether he truly was, not as ready as what he thought, but he held up very well.

Of course, he mostly stayed out of the rooms where we were working.

First off, Mom had a whole more clothes than I suspected. We found several items that she never wore, several that she seldom wore, and others that she had worn so often that they really weren’t even suitable for the thrift shop.

Bags. Those were for the throw-aways. All of the underwear, bras, socks. That was the easy stuff, though some looked brand new.

Boxes. Originally for the items to go to the thrift shop.

Of course, we each claimed some items.

Many items.

And we also gifted one of my SIL’s coworkers with several boxes of stuff.

I should have taken a photo of all of the stuff, all of the bags and boxes from her closet and two dressers and an indeterminate number of storage containers brought from the attic. But of course, I didn’t. I took a photo here at home showing one of the boxes I brought home with me as well as an Ikea bag that I’ve filled with items that I’ll be taking to my local thrift shop — had to remove items from the closet to make space for Mom’s hand-me-downs.

I guess I should mention that there were moments of sadness and moments of laughter yesterday. There were sweaters that we remembered Mom wearing. Some of those went home with one or the other of us while others we had to let go. And there was laughter as we tried to picture one of us wearing other items.

So what did I come home with? Coats, a few shirts, shoes, bags (canvas, not trash style), puzzles, one book that looked interesting, some jewelry.

And bananas. No, not from Mom’s stuff. I stopped at Sharp Shopper on the way home (much more organized now that they’ve remodeled) and came home with bananas (what can I say, I like them), cheese, and bologna. Hmm. Bologna starts with B as well. Kutztown garlic ring bologna. Of course, I bought a chunk of it, not a whole ring.

One of those B-words in the title doesn’t really fit in with yesterday’s activities, but I’ll throw it in anyhow. When I was growing up in the 1960’s, Barbie dolls were the rage.

I didn’t have one.

*sniffle*

My Mom’s rationale was “then I’d have to buy all of the clothes for it.” Disappointing, but I survived. Besides, I really liked paper dolls better. (Oh — just found a picture of Betsy McCall paper dolls. I’d forgotten about them. I think I’ll have to talk about them later this month).

Okay, I survived. However, I was determined that my daughter would have a Barbie doll. And clothes for it. So she ended up with several of them and lots of clothes, including items that I knit or crocheted or sewed for them. I guess that was my way of getting play out of them.

Of course, though Anjee played with them, she also liked to remove their heads. And draw on them.

I’m sure that somewhere I have a photo tucked away of the most memorable Barbie head, but who knows where it is. It had blond hair. Frizzy blond hair. Frizzy beyond ever being able to be combed or brushed. And she had eye shadow. Ball point pen eye shadow/eye liner.

I’m sure that sounds bad enough, the description of the inky-eyed frizzy-haired head with no body to accompany it.

But it gets worse.

It was one of the favorite toys of the cats we had. I don’t remember which cat started it, whether it was Spock or Buckwheat or Savik or Max. But one of them decided that the Barbie head was a toy and started carrying it around the house, cat teeth gripping that frizzy blond hair and toting it from one room to another, placing it on the floor, and then batting it around like a hockey puck.

I wish I could find that picture.

But photo brings me to a bonus word: bonnet.

The other item that I brought home with me yesterday was a box of photographs. I could have brought a half dozen more, but enough’s enough. I’ve taken on the task of scanning photos so that everyone has copies of them, and believe me, Dad has lots of them.

The box I brought yesterday wasn’t with the other boxes. No, this one was tucked away in a corner of one of the bedrooms. It’s not even a big box. A Harry & David’s box with my grandparents’ address on it.

In it are treasures. My great-grandmother Swartz’s death notice. A Mother’s Day card from my dad to my grandmother. Photos of my great-grandmother Hartman and her Stark brothers and sisters. And newer photos as well. One of my favorites — and one of the first that I scanned — was in a little folio holding two photographs, one of my with my Uncle Ron and one of just me. I should have posted them last week since they’re from Easter 1955.

And I’m wearing a bonnet. Because that’s what we did. Women wore hats, and little girls wore bonnets. Of course, that doesn’t mean that we were happy about it.

A is for April & Alphabet/Alphabits & Audubon Society

I mentioned in the beginning that I’m not very good at this. I may have said that I absolutely suck at this, at maintaining a consistent presence through blogging.

I would not have been inaccurate in that assessment.

September 23rd? I haven’t written anything since September 23rd?

Okay, so I’ve written since then, but not in my blog.

I tried.

In fact, I started another blog on another site, figuring that I’d trace my Mom’s journey with cancer on that one. That failed miserably. Two entries. Two.

I suck at blogging.

During that time I did complete a novel and few short stories and did some editing.

But blogging? Not so much. In fact, not at all.

However, here it is, April, and I’ve signed on for Camp NaNoWriMo. 30 days of writing, setting my own goal, meeting it.

Right.

My goal for the month is 30,000 words, which should be easy: 1000 words per day.

And what I’m writing? Well, since I have so many novels hanging out in my apartment and on my hard drive waiting to be edited, I don’t want to go in that direction. Instead I’ve decided to write short stories. I’ve jotted down some random words and phrases and some notes to go with them and those are supposed to assemble themselves into stories.

Right.

It’s now April 4th and I’ve managed to write one story (just under 1400 words) and part of another and am struggling.

In other words, if I want to succeed at this, I’ve got to find something to get me writing, another source of wordage.

So. . . What I’ve stumbled across is the A to Z Blog Challenge. This can be found here: http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/what-is-blogging-from-to-z.html Or maybe I’ll figure out how to insert that link properly. Who knows?

Anyhow, I’ve stumbled across that challenge and though it’s already April 4th, I think I can do this. I’ll just try to blog every day (yes, I know, we all have seen how that goes) using the formula of <insert letter here> is for <insert something beginning with that letter here> as I work my way through the alphabet.

I could stop here. A is for April, when I’m doing this. A is for Alphabet, which is the basis of this challenge.

But I think I’ll throw in a couple more, just to keep in the spirit of why this blog was created: to record memories of my past that might eventually be lost.

I could just tie in to what I’ve already chosen. “April showers bring May flowers.” Okay, that’s the extent of my April memories. Move on.

Alphabet. I don’t remember when I learned the alphabet, but I know that I didn’t start reading until first grade. That’s the way it was in those days.

However, I can add a little more about alphabet: alphabet soup. 

When I had alphabet soup, it originated in that familiar red and white Campbell’s can. It was a good idea, but somehow it never worked the way it should. Yes, it was fun to have letters to play with while eating, though it kind of went against the “don’t play with your food” adage. But alphabet soup had its problems. For one thing, it was usually too hot to play with, and once it cooled, it was close to inedible. Add to that, trying to find the letters to spell anything. And the noodles became so soggy that they didn’t seem to work out.

We had an alternative: Alphabits cereal. It was sugar-coated, which really wasn’t an issue then. After all, sugar-coating was the way of the world at that time. We had Sugar Pops and Sugar Frosted Flakes and Kool-Aid. Lots of sugar. And fluoride toothpaste was just making its way to the market. But that’s not the point. The point is that Alphabits were a little more conducive to making words. After all, I could dump out a bunch of them on the table, and put the letters I wanted in my bowl and the ones I didn’t in my brother’s. Unfair? He was three years younger than I was and couldn’t spell so what difference did it make? Again, sogginess was an issue, so it was usually better to eat them plain and drink milk from a glass.

Many years later I came across something even better: alphabet pretzels. I bought them at a farm market, in bulk. My own kids were older and not really impressed but I used some of my petty cash to purchase bags of them for the kids in the class I taught. I wanted this to be a challenge but a doable one, so I also bought a box of zip-lock sandwich bags and sat at my desk sorting them by letter. Then I made separate baggies for each of the kids in the class, including the letters of the child’s name and a few extra pretzels and a name card with the child’s name lettered in capitals. It was a fun activity for them because after they had matched the letters, they could eat the pretzels. I usually had to buy several large bags of pretzels to get enough of each letter, but it was worth the cost and the time to sort them. And my assistant and I had snacks for when the kids left for the day.

Of course, nowadays we have “Let’s Move” and snacks as rewards are a no-no. Besides that, some of the cultures I’ve encountered feel that it’s disrespectful to play with food. Darn.

One more A word: Audubon. There’s a name that isn’t used as much lately. The Audubon Society is over a hundred years old and is dedicated to protecting birds and wildlife and their habitats. When I was in fourth grade, my teacher, whose name I’ll add if I think of it, was an avid bird-watcher. She belonged to the Audubon Society and thanks to her, all of us became members of the Junior Audubon Society. Basically this meant that every Friday our morning Bible reading (yes, we read the Bible in school in those days) was Psalm 8 (because it described the majesty of nature) and our afternoons included Jr. Audubon meetings. I don’t remember what we did in those meetings, but it had to be better than some of the “teaching to the test” that goes on nowadays. And I got to wear a cool button and carry over my interest with my grandparents who also were bird watchers. 

I suppose that I should also mention another A word, one that is part of my impetus to write in this blog: Alzheimer’s. Two grandparents suffered from this. So far my dad is okay, but who knows what the future holds for any of us. It’s probably best to get all of this down in readable form before I forget it.