What about Thanksgiving?

I follow a few blogs and one thing that just came up for discussion by The Midnight Carver was Thanksgiving.

His post titled:  2020, The Year's Saddest Thanksgiving? Is a pretty good read. It makes one think. 

I can recall the year my boys and I had hotdogs for Thanksgiving. Their father was on duty and the boys and I thought it would be fun to have hotdogs and create our own picnic. Of course my ex gave me a dressing down for that. The kids and dogs didn't mind that we didn't have turkey and all the other crap that went along with it.

Thanksgiving.

I can recall as a child travelling 12 hours by car in the 60's...mind you, that was before the interstate was built...going to my Grandparents cottage to spend Thanksgiving with the Up North Family. My sister and I slept on the couch, I have no recollection of where my brother slept, or where my parents slept. 
We ended up at my Aunt's house where gobs of the family showed up. My Aunt also had indoor plumbing which was really nice.

We cousins were put in the entryway to the house at a couple of card tables and left with dishes that our mom's made up for us to eat. I can recall that we decided to take the squash [which was not up to our tastes] and stack it in a pile in the center of the table. We added things to our squash sculpture, like green beans, chunks of bread, toothpicks, and anything else we could think of.

We were having a grand time until The Moms came to check on us. Then all Hell Broke Loose. We kid cousins abandoned the table and went out to play in the snow on the hillside. Never mind the deer hunters. We escaped to the hill and used boxes as sleds. 

The Parents stayed inside the house and did whatever parents and family did on Thanksgiving. We kids had a blast. Playing dangerous games with our cousins was just about as fun as making Squash Sculptures. 

I don't recall many Big Family Thanksgivings after that year. The Sisters had a falling out and soon after we stopped the long trek to the North Land. 

I tried as a parent to participate in a family Thanksgiving with my Mom and Her Boyfriend and my Dad...sister...and her husband. It was awkward. My ex wasn't well liked so they berated me about him. Mom and Her Boyfriend got drunk a lot and my kids didn't like squash any more than I did at their age. My sister's husband was an Ass, but the cousin kids did get to play together and have fun. My poor Dad was there because he was included, but my Mom and Her Boyfriend couldn't help but take opportunities to pick on him also.

I stayed with my Dad at this house and truthfully, I think we could have had hotdogs and chips and been very happy.

This year?
It will be us. Charlie, Rich, and I. 

Thanksgiving doesn't bring about fond and warm fuzzy memories. 

To bring my mother's side of the family back together would require all relatives to leave weapons and attitudes at the door.

There won't be hotdogs, but we will have a nice quiet little meal. And it won't be a sad Thanksgiving as we are happy and thankful to be here for each other.

That is good enough for me.

Lucky me

I am pretty grateful for having such an interesting upbringing. All summer we stayed at a  small cottage. No TV, no hot water, we did have a toilet that flushed but weren't allowed to use it during the day.

Grandpa wanted to conserve electricity and not burden the pump. I think he was under the impression that we kids would flush for fun? I have no idea. 

My Grandparents had a tiny house not far from where we stayed. Our tiny house had two halves. One half was a room that was the kitchen and everything else room. The other part of the tiny house had 2 sets of bunk beds shoved together to sleep in. And the toilet with a curtain for privacy. It was built for Grandmother's parents to live out their lives in. The floor was wavy, uneven, and fun to play marbles on. 

We spent the summer surrounded by my Grandparents' huge garden. Only now am I coming to realize that they didn't just raise items for themselves and to sell, but they also raised enough food for to always have extra. I can recall their cellar be lined with home canned goods. The floor was dirt and there was a 'cold' room.

My own family had rows upon rows of home canned goods also. I never ate any jelly or jam that was factory made unless it was at a restaurant. I actually still don't as I've only once purchased grape jelly for grandkids when they all visited for a week during the summer and they all wanted grape jelly and peanut butter for snacks.

So why am I so lucky? I learned how to preserve and garden as a kid. A skill I was sure I would never use, ever. After all, we are the land of plenty right? I mean I can go to the store and pick up whatever I want when I want.

After swearing off vegetable gardening for many years, but growing flowers, I decided to experiment and mix it up. Flowers and green beans along with leaf lettuce.

Soon the garden grew larger and included all the basic veggies that Rich and I both loved. I had continued all along to make jellies and jams from foraging in the woods and picking blackberries, raspberries, and seeking out the wild apple trees to make apple jelly.

I went to the store after the Covid-19 #SafeAtHome order came to our state. Imagine my surprise in March when the land of plenty became the land of empty shelves. 

I dug back into my childhood and decided the prepare for this coming fall and winter. I planted another vegetable garden with the foods I knew that we would use all year to make stews, soups, and meals.

This is the third batch of tomatoes. The other two batches yielded 8 pints of Pasta Sauce to use for Lasagna and of course spaghetti this winter. I used to hate canning tomatoes, especially the peeling part.

Not so much any more. I use a food mill that separates the skins and most of the cores from the tomato. Easy Peasy.

It all comes somewhat naturally to me as I reach back in the memory banks to kid-hood. Grandpa's habit of saving things that could be useful in case of a shortage must have stemmed from living through WWI, the pandemic, the depression, and the rationing of WWII. Now I get it.

My Grandparents weren't idiots, they'd seen a world they hoped I would never see.

Yes I am Lucky.

Vanessa

From pre 1960 to 1964 we lived just outside Chicago in a town called Evanston. We rented the lower floor of a huge house. 

I started school at Oakton Elementary School and recall walking to school. It wasn't far I guess from where we rented lived. 

Apparently I liked Kindergarten. I know I went to school there until 3rd grade when we moved to Northbrook.

It was in that Evanston house that I met Vanessa. She was hired by the upstairs landlord to be a housekeeper I think. I'm not exactly sure. All I know, is that she was there weekly in our house. 

She was black and I went to school with black kids. Though, at the time, none of that really mattered much to a kid my age.

Vanessa was like having a cool Auntie around the house. She always took time with us. She would be there and then not there. 

My school was black and white also, but I'm not even sure that I noticed. 

My young life was all about school, staying out of trouble with mom, and playing.

The crabby man next door liked to yell at us if we played to close to his house or if we stepped on his lawn.

There was the lonely lady right across the street. We would go visit her and have juice and treats. Once a huge storm toppled a tree in her back yard and she let us come over and climb all over it until the tree trimmers came to clean it up.

She had neat juice glasses with bunnies on it. 

I know my life at the time was busy and confusing. I had to have eye surgery. I was constantly causing a ruckus at school. I was a little rebel of sorts.

At one point in time my mom disappeared for a while. We were told she was sick and in the hospital. 

All I know is that Vanessa stepped in and took care of us.

I think she came during the day and got us off to school. She prepared breakfasts for us and was there to feed us supper. I don't really recall much about it. Just that she was there and full of love while the other adults were busy.

I do recall her making Fried Bologna Sandwiches for lunch one day. It was the most divine sandwich ever! It smoked up the house.

Her oatmeal sucked. But then we had to instruct her how mom would make it. We found it completely odd that Vanessa didn't know how to make oatmeal. I recall we told her she had to put some salt in the water. We ended up with some vile tasting oatmeal. It didn't matter. We laughed about it and off to school we went with lunches packed by Vanessa.

Vanessa was free with hugs and had an endless patience for 3 kids. 

One day my parents announced that we were moving. The new place we were renting was out in the country. Mom and Dad had taken us to several places they'd looked at. I was hoping they had picked a place where we could have a pony.

It was in a small town called Northbrook. Indeed the street we would live on had a farm house across the street and fields behind it.

Vanessa came to help us clean and move our items.

Vanessa worked all day scrubbing and cleaning as we moved in. I was so happy to have her around. I would take any opportunity possible to take her hand and receive a loving embrace. She had gazillions of warm hugs.

Done.

We had moved in.

At the end of the day we had to take Vanessa back home. We piled into our car and took a long drive to somewhere deep in Chicago. We pulled up in front of a rather dull looking bunch of buildings and Vanessa gathered her things. 

I'd been sitting in the back seat with her and played with her shiny pin that she always wore. 

As my parents talked with Vanessa, I realized that she wouldn't be seeing us any more. 

This was the end. I was horrified and threw a fit. I cried and clung to her. Vanessa consoled me. Why couldn't she still be in our lives?

Why couldn't she just live with us?

Vanessa shocked me then. She quietly explained that she did have a family and children of her own that lived in the housing complex we were at.  

I was stunned. How could she have a family. We were her family. 

Vanessa untangled herself from me and pulled her shiny pin off from her jacket.

"Here, to remember me by." 

Tears blurred my eyes as I watched her walk away and out of my life.

I clutched the pin.

I implored my parents to let Vanessa and her family to come live with us.

It wasn't possible they said.

And Vanessa couldn't take the bus to our house anymore because we had moved so far away.

I was crushed.

I asked my parents if I could go live with Vanessa.

A resounding ... No.

I have never forgotten Vanessa. I may have forgotten the names of children I played with, I may have forgotten so many things.

But I have never forgotten Vanessa.

And when I see a pin like the one above, I can't help but to think about that night when Vanessa pulled the pin off her jacket and handed it to me in the back seat of my parents' car.

As I child I never understood why Vanessa had to live with her family in public housing and we could live in a nice house nearly out in the country. Oh for the innocence of being a young child.

Vanessa made such an impression on my life that I don't think I could ever forget her.

Once upon a time...

This is a story of a memory which may or may not be very accurate.

When I was very young I seem to recall going to Art Class and the teacher asked us to draw a scene.
Being a typical kindergartner [or first grader?] I took the beautiful array of colorful crayons and began to make my picture.

I colored grasses and trees, skies and clouds with a flourish of colors. The world would be as I deemed it in my child's eye. The clouds would be purple, the sky would be orange, the leaves would be wild colors of green, yellow, blue, ...anything my heart desired.

I put the sun in the upper right corner with multicolored rays emitting from it.

The Art Teacher came around and told me that the sky was blue. The grass is green and so were leaves on the trees. I was told to do my picture over.

I recall telling this to my father. I was very heartbroken that I had to color things the way the teacher saw it. My world was brilliant and imaginative [I didn't have the vocabulary at the time to express this to her] and her world was dull and unexciting.

I want to believe that my father talked to the teacher. But I do know that he did talk to me about it. He told me it was perfectly okay to draw the world in any color I wished, and if I wanted to the sky to be orange or purple, that was fine.

And so I bring you to my next photography experimentation. The Infared Converted camera.

It allows me to giggle and smile at a world not seen by many.

Magical.

Wild.
Where skies can be odd colored, where trees can be white or pink at my choosing.

Infrared photography is best done in the summer, but being who I am, I couldn't help but try it out in the brilliant snow.

And if I want purple clouds?

I sure can have them!

Who says dreams don't come true?

Once upon a time long ago

I guess I've grown up and now have had equines in my life for the past 20+ years. In fact, 27 years.
As a kid I'd wait in the summer time and get all of the chores done on the summer place and hope for my Aunt to call.

She'd call my Grandparent's house and ask if we could come and play. The moms would get together and the cousins would play.
[We had no phone at our cottage. Talk about being Unplugged!]

On the drive to my Aunt's house we'd huddle in the back seat, my sister and I. Would we get to ride? Would our cousins want to ride?
My uncle had horses and a pony. He'd started us riding when we were very small. We'd caught the riding/horse bug of course. We'd try to act nonchalant around our cousins when we got there.
We'd try not to stare at the horses and beg with our eyes. We'd try not to nag that we wanted to ride.

My Aunt sometimes had some work that had to be done. Pick cucumbers, or strawberries, or...something. We'd dive right into it, if we got those chores done, ... perhaps someone would let us ride.

I can recall how much I wanted to ride. My heart ached inside and felt like it was hurting. My inside burned with desire to be on a horse. I didn't even mind if it was the pony, Thunder. I needed to ride.
Because when riding [even the pony], I felt free. I felt so incredible. It was as if I'd grown wings and the world lay at my feet. My heart sang and my head was clear. It was like being high in a way.

Then I grew up and life didn't let me have any equine. Not until later in life. Suddenly there was a red horse in my life. Then there were two.

Over the years I have become a mule person. But the feeling is still there. The ache and the desire.
My husband used to complain that I loved my mule more than him. 
Well.
How could I even discuss that?

I haven't ridden as much in the past few years. But the itch has always been there. I promise to scratch that itch this year.

Once upon a time long ago my heart ached and fluttered when I go around horses. Even while riding the pony and getting dumped was better than anything else in the world.

I swore one day that I would have a horse of my very own. And I would soar with the eagles and feel the freedom.

No longer is it once upon a time.

Badger is gone, but I have Siera, Sunshine, and Fred.
And I need to pass on the burning desire.

Photo from 2008

So another young rider can get the itch and the burn.

Once upon a Time

My trip "North" was all about going to a wedding for one of my cousin's sons. Well the second reason I was compelled to go was to meet up with my cousins that I had not seen in 42 years. That is right, 42 years we'd been apart.

It had been ages since I'd been back to this part of the country.  I'd made a quick trip in 2000 when my Grandmother had passed away.
Before that?

Well it gets complicated a bit and I am not going to go into all of that.

But the last time I'd set foot on the place photographed above was 1980.  I'd taken my first born son to see his great grandmother who was living with my Aunt.

This was my Aunt and Uncle's place. This was a gathering place for the cousins. We usually only saw my cousins in the summer and we had to go back to the Chicago suburbs for the school year.
To me leaving this area at the end of each summer always brought me heartache.

I would sit in the back seat as a child and think of all the reasons I should be allowed to just stay with all my cousins. I didn't like the 'city'. I always longed for the end of the school year and the long trip north each summer.

Sunday morning I left my cousin Sharon's place. We'd had such a great time visit.  The boys, Aaron and John had asked if I'd gone past their mom's place.  I hadn't and wasn't sure I would.
But just north of Luck, I turned down the road I thought I recognized.

I recognized the train bridge that we used to go under. As a kid I can recall my Grandfather sitting in the the front seat and hollering out "Duck!" as we passed underneath.
His ball cap would flip off and land in the back seat. He'd exclaim, "I didn't duck in time!"
It would never fail and we would always laugh.

When I got close to the Larson place. I slowed down. The roads were no longer gravel like they used to be. I pulled over and tried to peer up the driveway.
The large hill behind the house was now grown up in magnificent pine trees.

The urge to pull in and wander around was very strong. However I knew that the boys had a tenant and I couldn't see myself just pulling in on a Sunday morning and saying..."Hey I used to play here as a kid."

Memories however did flood over me in huge waves. It was like seeing a movie reel in my mind. Here is where I learned to shoot .BB guns, .22's, slingshots, we climbed trees, rode horses, fell off from the pony called Thunder, did garden work,...and spent countless hours doing kid stuff. I wanted to see if the 'Tarzan Rope' was still there.
In my mind I could hear the laughter and snippets of words just beyond my reach. I could hear our mothers calling to us. I could remember the guinea hens and the chickens, the swamp muck, frogs, snakes, and our hands getting sticky from climbing pine trees with sap.
There were nights were we would try and watch TV with our Uncle and we watched static.

As cousins we plotted out our lives and dreams.
And each summer I'd loath returning to the suburbs and school.

This was one of the places that shaped my love for the outdoors and adventure. My other Aunt and Uncle had a farm which played another part in my love of the outdoors.

But both my Uncle Lyle and now Aunt Myrtle were gone. But the memories of them and our childhood still lingered now even stronger than it had in a very long time.

I felt such strong raw emotion as I peered at the pond and the barn off in the distance.

I longed to relive just for a few moments those days long ago ... and Once Upon a Time.

MugWumps and Knobbin' Knockers.

Just before the snows started I decided to go out and take a walk to find some 'knobbin' knockers.

What on earth are knobbin' knockers? Well they are those beautiful dried stems of golden rod that have a bump in them from some worm that the stem grows around in the summer.

My Grandmother used to gather these along with milkweed pods and other dried 'weeds' to make a winter bouquet.

They may not look like much, but put them together in a bouquet and add a bit of glitter and it looks quite nice.
I added a them to my old wash pitcher with some fox tail and got a nice 'free' natural bouquet.

Grandma used to paint her knobbin' knockers and milkweed pods in silver and gold if I recall correctly. I think her wild bouquets were her Christmas decorations.

I think mine turned out beautiful and I was ready to go collect some more wild things when the first snow storm hit.

I think still may make good use of my cross country skis and go find some more on the ridge this week.

I mentioned Knobbin' Knockers on FB and one of my cousins replied that she recalled them also.
Then she told me not to forget about the MugWumps.

Indeed I had forgotten that term. MugWumps!
She reminded me...
Those were those things that sat on phone lines with their Mugs on one side and their Wumps on the other. One should not walk under MugWumps back side.

It brought back such fond memories of being a kid in a time and place where we had our own language.
Oh.
Knobbin' Knockers?

We used to grab them and knock each other on the noggin' with them as kids.
Thus that name.

Kid Memories

I swung back and forth, back and forth.  The old swing set creaked and it was a warm summer afternoon.

I was waiting for our Dad.  I know that each swing forward allowed me to see around the corner of the little house and look north along the blue gravel driveway.

I think my sister was with me in the other swing.  We were quiet, not talking much.  Just swinging and waiting. Glancing up the driveway with each forward swing.  
We were barefoot and had old jean cut offs on.  It was hot and sometime in the mid summer.

I'm pretty sure that my mom and Grandma were in the little house. Our two room cottage that we lived in each summer.  We had no TV and no hot water.  But we had what I thought was the neatest place on earth.

Creak.
Creak.

No one yet.

We heard a car coming down the gravel road and increased our swings.  We could hear vehicles a long way off as we were so remote and it was so quiet.

The car slowed, but went on past the driveway. It made the sharp bend and headed off towards Halfmoon Lake.

It was not the one we were looking for.  I think my sister asked something about how long did it take Dad to drive to our cottage.
I didn't know, but we knew he was coming and we hadn't seen him since school let out.
We were watching for a yellow Dodge convertible.  Dad's car.

And we kept swinging.  The drive from the Chicago area to where took at least 8 or more hours to drive.  I don't recall if the interstate had been built yet.

My sister and I conversed quietly.  Grandpa was taking a nap and Grandma and my mom were doing something in the cottage.  Maybe they were doing the crossword puzzle on the linoleum table.

Birds sang over head and time kept passing.  Time. 

We kept swinging.

Off in the distance we heard a car horn.  We jumped from our swings and stood in the grass.  That was Dad's horn. He usually honked when he was still a half mile or so from the cottage.

I recall that he had hooked up extra horns in his car to make it sound like a train.  

Dust rose in the distance.  I don't know what my sister felt exactly.  But I was excited.  I hadn't seen dad in what seemed like ages.  But he was coming to see us and he was having a vacation with us.

And I was excited.

Soon the banana colored rag-top slowed at the end of the blue driveway and slowly turned in.  

I stood still.  Dad.
My Dad.   

Funny how I thought of this tonight on such a cold and chilly winter evening.
But it was a nice warm thought.

I miss my dad.
Still miss you.

Lip Sewer

I'll be you are wondering what the heck that is?


photo: From the blog, Hilton Pond

These insects called cicadas make an interesting noise. It almost would sound like an odd sewing machine.  Unless it is a hatching of the Periodical Cicadas which are positively annoying and incredibly loud.  I recall one such time when we visited Illinois during one 'hatching'.  The boys were young and we visited Great Grandpa Ed.  He provided the boys with bags and the boys gathered cicadas to feed to their chickens on the farm.
That year the noise in Northbrook was deafening.  You couldn't walk through the yard without stepping on them and they even plugged up lawn mowers.


The ones I hear in the woods now are called Dog Day Cicadas or Summer Cicadas.

The point is, you can hear them but rarely see them especially in my wooded area.  As a kid my Grandmother would point out the buzzing of the Cicada and quietly say to us as if sharing a huge secret.

"Those are Lip Sewers," she'd day.  "If you are caught cussing within their ear shot, they will come flying out of the woods and immediately sew your lips shut."

Well, I certainly wasn't going to come to the supper table after playing outside with my lips sewed shut.  Grandma would know I was cussing. 

I grew older and maybe a bit wiser.  I realized that Grandma had pulled a fast one over on me.

Yesterday afternoon while out with Morris we listened to the Cicadas.  I wagged my finger at the dog sternly and told him, "Morris! No cussing!"  He simply tipped his head and gave me that Jack Russell grin of his.

Of course, at the time he was sitting on his beloved Allis Chalmers Tractor.