Just having a flashback, brought on by the bright early spring morning we are having. When we were kids we lived back a very long lane. Easily a quarter mile long. We always walked the lane to the bus, the three of us, my brother Brian and Margaret and I. At the end of the lane sat a small building with windows so we could see the bus coming when it was cold or rainy. I rarely remember getting a ride to the end of the lane, but maybe on the worst days.
Spring mornings were my favorite for walking to the bus. It was bright, new, fresh and we wore sweaters instead of winter coats, we carried our books and our lunch boxes. The sun was glowing and new grass was damp from the morning dew, the birds were singing. When we were older, we would often ride our bikes to the end of the lane, we'd lay them in the grass along the drive and retrieve them in the afternoon when we were dropped off again. We never worried that our bikes would be gone, it just didn't happen in the country in those days.
We were the first to get on the bus and the first to be dropped off. Our ride in the morning was usually about forty minutes long. I never really minded that, I always sat with the same friend and we were happy with each others company. I loved our bus driver too, I see him still in my mind, he was always smiling and said, "Good Morning" to everyone that stepped on the bus. And in the afternoon, he always said, "Good night".
When I was older, being the first to get on, I would request the job of opening the door for each stop. It was fun to stand at the front of the bus and be the door person. I never got the job at night being the first off. I don't ever remember if my brother or sister got to do this or even if they wanted to, it seemed to be my job.
One of the other things I remember is going home from school with a friend, all I needed was a note from my Mom to tell the friends bus driver that I had permission. These days my grandchildren have to get off the same spot every night, no changes allowed. If they have somewhere else to go they have to be picked up at the school by the parent in charge. And there is no way they would be allowed to stand at the front of the bus and open the door, they might fall out or something. Seriously, it is a wonder I have lived as long as I have with all the safety things out there now. Could I ride my bike to the end of the lane without a helmet, or would my bike be found when I returned in the afternoon?
It is good to remember the simpler times when we walked our lane on a warm spring morning.
Meandering Thoughts
Summer
Showing posts with label When I was a kid. Show all posts
Showing posts with label When I was a kid. Show all posts
Sunday, February 2, 2020
Baking Bread
Lately I've been craving homemade bread. I love the yeasty aroma of bread baking in the oven. I have watched the beautiful dough filled pans turn a golden color as they mound above the pan edges. Pulling them out and rubbing them with butter to keep the crust from getting too hard. The knife is waiting for it to cool enough to cut, that first bite is the most wonderful mouthwatering flavor in the world.
I learned in 4-H long ago how to make yeast bread and rolls. I had the most amazing 4-H advisor, Mary Mott and our club was called "Happy Workers". She taught us to make bread in her own farmhouse kitchen. Several 4-H'ers would gather at her house on a summer morning and begin the process. It was often messy and flour was everywhere and I don't recall she ever seemed to mind the mess. Our reward was watching the dough rise in those towel covered bowls all in a row. As soon as it had risen enough it was punched down and kneaded to eliminate air pockets and then formed and placed into the waiting greased bread pans. Another hour of waiting for it to rise before it went into the oven. Oh, it was the most wonderful moment when we pulled them hot from the oven.
Of course we made yeast rolls too, they were perfect cloverleaf rolls in 4-H. They were the best, fresh gathered eggs and real butter was used, giving them the most amazing golden color. When rolls were made at our house when I was growing up, I always made a double recipe. Everyone love the homemade rolls. My grandmother also made yeast rolls, she would flatten out a ball of dough and the swish it around in melted butter, fold it in half and place it in the rectangular shaped pan. I will never forget the smell and taste of her yeast rolls at the Christmas table.
I still made bread and rolls when my children were growing up. I'd roll the dough out on our old butcher block in the center of the kitchen, flour everywhere and then turn it into a great yellow crock bowl with a towel over the top to rise. That bowl was then placed inside a cupboard to rise. You see we had hotwater heat during those days and the person who installed that system in the kitchen ran the heater lines inside the cupboards, they were always toasty warm and in the winter, we'd have to leave the cupboard doors open to have a warm kitchen. It did make the most perfect place for yeast dough to rise. Those cupboards also made the most wonderful place for our cat Polly to take a winter nap.
I then remember getting a bread making machine. All the ingredients were placed inside a "bucket" and it was mixed, allowed to rise a couple times and then baked. In three hours the entire house smelled of fresh baked bread. As soon as the timer went off the "bucket" was pulled from the machine so it could cool faster and then be cut and slathered with butter and jam. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
Might be just the thing to do today!
I learned in 4-H long ago how to make yeast bread and rolls. I had the most amazing 4-H advisor, Mary Mott and our club was called "Happy Workers". She taught us to make bread in her own farmhouse kitchen. Several 4-H'ers would gather at her house on a summer morning and begin the process. It was often messy and flour was everywhere and I don't recall she ever seemed to mind the mess. Our reward was watching the dough rise in those towel covered bowls all in a row. As soon as it had risen enough it was punched down and kneaded to eliminate air pockets and then formed and placed into the waiting greased bread pans. Another hour of waiting for it to rise before it went into the oven. Oh, it was the most wonderful moment when we pulled them hot from the oven.
Of course we made yeast rolls too, they were perfect cloverleaf rolls in 4-H. They were the best, fresh gathered eggs and real butter was used, giving them the most amazing golden color. When rolls were made at our house when I was growing up, I always made a double recipe. Everyone love the homemade rolls. My grandmother also made yeast rolls, she would flatten out a ball of dough and the swish it around in melted butter, fold it in half and place it in the rectangular shaped pan. I will never forget the smell and taste of her yeast rolls at the Christmas table.
I still made bread and rolls when my children were growing up. I'd roll the dough out on our old butcher block in the center of the kitchen, flour everywhere and then turn it into a great yellow crock bowl with a towel over the top to rise. That bowl was then placed inside a cupboard to rise. You see we had hotwater heat during those days and the person who installed that system in the kitchen ran the heater lines inside the cupboards, they were always toasty warm and in the winter, we'd have to leave the cupboard doors open to have a warm kitchen. It did make the most perfect place for yeast dough to rise. Those cupboards also made the most wonderful place for our cat Polly to take a winter nap.
I then remember getting a bread making machine. All the ingredients were placed inside a "bucket" and it was mixed, allowed to rise a couple times and then baked. In three hours the entire house smelled of fresh baked bread. As soon as the timer went off the "bucket" was pulled from the machine so it could cool faster and then be cut and slathered with butter and jam. My mouth waters just thinking about it.
Might be just the thing to do today!
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Losing A Part Of My Past
You probably know how sentimental I tend to be, if you read my blogs. I struggle with changing times, not wanting to forget the past, my need to remember things that are a part of me and who I am today.
A couple years ago I learned that someone new purchased the home my family lived in for most of my life. A place we called Hidden Acres, nestled in the woods and built by my step-father and my mother. Shaded by trees, off the road a quarter of a mile, and it was a home to my parents, my sister and my brother and me. The entire open back basement was the living quarters in the beginning and then slowly but surely the split level was built and then the upstairs was added on.
There I learned to play in the woods, climb trees, ride bikes, take care of our animals and grow up thinking that everyone wore sweatshirts most to the summer. I shared a room with my sister for years and eventually we had our own bedrooms when the upstairs was built. I had wonderful slumber parties with my friends in the big room up-stairs, it was where my brother recovered from a broken leg and for a couple years it was even a pre-school classroom. More memories there that I can possibly take time to acknowledge.
Two years ago was the first time I'd visited our old home in over thirty years. I still lived just a field away from the house I grew up in. One day I went exploring, I walked around, marveling at the changes. Trees were bigger, the chicken houses gone, a big ugly garage had been built that distorted the view of the house when you drove up the long lane. I took pictures and reached back in my memory and enjoyed the innocence of growing up in the 50's and 60's. I took my girls and my grandchildren to see the house I grew up in.
The house had been abandon by the third owners, they just couldn't take care of it properly, it was pretty much a hoarding mess. They picked up and left everything. Vandals broke windows and animals called it home. And then the most recent owners started cleaning it up, hoping to restore it to it's original beauty. But living in a woods and trees growing close to the house caused damage to the foundation, the expense of fixing it would be great. So it sat empty another year.
It was decided, the house must come down. My parents sweat and labor of so many years was going to be destroyed in a day. I had sense enough to ask about the two old doors I remember going in and out of all those years. Those heavy old handmade doors my step-Dad made, were solid wood, bolts holding it together, and black hardware hinges. A very small part of the solid and well built house we called home. There were two such doors that stood the test of years and I ask if I could have them.
I came home one Saturday night and found them leaning against a wall in our barn, the only part left of the home we grew up in. Yes, sometimes it is just hard to lose something that held so many memories.
A couple years ago I learned that someone new purchased the home my family lived in for most of my life. A place we called Hidden Acres, nestled in the woods and built by my step-father and my mother. Shaded by trees, off the road a quarter of a mile, and it was a home to my parents, my sister and my brother and me. The entire open back basement was the living quarters in the beginning and then slowly but surely the split level was built and then the upstairs was added on.
There I learned to play in the woods, climb trees, ride bikes, take care of our animals and grow up thinking that everyone wore sweatshirts most to the summer. I shared a room with my sister for years and eventually we had our own bedrooms when the upstairs was built. I had wonderful slumber parties with my friends in the big room up-stairs, it was where my brother recovered from a broken leg and for a couple years it was even a pre-school classroom. More memories there that I can possibly take time to acknowledge.
Two years ago was the first time I'd visited our old home in over thirty years. I still lived just a field away from the house I grew up in. One day I went exploring, I walked around, marveling at the changes. Trees were bigger, the chicken houses gone, a big ugly garage had been built that distorted the view of the house when you drove up the long lane. I took pictures and reached back in my memory and enjoyed the innocence of growing up in the 50's and 60's. I took my girls and my grandchildren to see the house I grew up in.
The house had been abandon by the third owners, they just couldn't take care of it properly, it was pretty much a hoarding mess. They picked up and left everything. Vandals broke windows and animals called it home. And then the most recent owners started cleaning it up, hoping to restore it to it's original beauty. But living in a woods and trees growing close to the house caused damage to the foundation, the expense of fixing it would be great. So it sat empty another year.
I came home one Saturday night and found them leaning against a wall in our barn, the only part left of the home we grew up in. Yes, sometimes it is just hard to lose something that held so many memories.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Old Recipes
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| Some memories from the recipe box...... |
I love that this generation of young brides want to cook. They seem excited about organic vegetables and making things from scratch. Our sweet young bride to-be seemed delighted at all the kitchen things she received for gifts.
As for the recipes she received, I don't know if she will try them or not. What I most loved about the idea, she has a little piece of who we are on that recipe card. Lovingly hand written. One recipe was hand written, it belonged to her Grandmother, who passed long ago. Just having her handwriting on a recipe card is a special gift. I also have in my recipe box hand written cards that were shared at my bridal shower forty three years ago. These recipe cards remind me of Thanksgiving or Christmas dinners as a family long ago. They remind me of people who are no longer with us. They remind me of family times together, sitting around a big table, laughing and talking. Little memory jogs are kept in my old recipe box.
 |
| Emily and Trisha baking cookies, 80's |
The funny story about this cake and me learning to bake was shared on the back of the recipe card too. When I was learning to cook, everything required salt and pepper. Well, why would it be different for a cake? Haha! I invented what the family called the "Pepper Cake"! Oh, I only made it once, but it didn't go to waste, I'm sure my brother Brian was the only one who finished the first ever Pepper Cake.
WARTIME CAKE - 300* oven - 50 to 60 min. (don't over bake)
1 cup of raisins
1 cup brown sugar (packed)
1 cup water
1/2 cup shortening
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. nutmeg
1 tsp. cloves
Combine these ingredients in a saucepan, heat to boil, simmer 2 min. Cool
Sift together
2 cups of all purpose flour
1 tsp. soda
1 tsp. salt
Add dry ingredients to cool raisin mixture. Pour into greased 9" cake pan and bake 300* for 50 to 60 minutes. Test with tooth pick for doneness, do not over bake.
From kitchen of - Cynthia (DeRemer) McDonald
Saturday, January 22, 2011
This May Surprise You
I write this to share a little about how I was raised. This was my intended purpose of starting this blog, so that my family would know who I was and who I am.
I was raised in a very small town of Cedarville, Ohio. I have spent my entire life as a resident here, graduating from a class of fifty-two fellow seniors. To say we were sheltered from the world is putting it lightly. Oh, don't get me wrong, I got to do things and go places, and yet today, I would call it a sheltered life.
Funny now how closed minded we were brought up to be. Our town is very small and yet there are five churches in our little town. Also, a Baptist College. It hasn't been that many years ago that the girls from this college were still required to wear dresses or skirts unless they were involved in an athletic event. There are no judgements here, just trying to explain the influence of the community I grew up in.
I am almost embarrassed to write about this and please know my education about life and living has changed greatly since I was in high school. I remember graduating and going to a local community college and in my class were other students from other communities. I was involved in the secretarial program, in those days that was about the only option for girls who didn't go on to a four year college. The other girls in my class seemed so worldly, they seemed to understand things I'd never heard discussed before and many of them smoked! I'd never been exposed to a smoking culture and if the kids at my high school smoked, I didn't know them or they were "labeled" as hoods. (I'm just telling how it was.) We didn't see it in the high school but if people had tattoos I would certainly know I was in danger. I'm not sure what kind of danger I was suppose to be in, I was very cautious.
I know much of this thinking carried with me throughout my young adulthood. I didn't stray far from my upbringing. I was part of the Hippie Generation, although I wasn't a hippie. I wasn't a part of drug experimentation's, drinking or smoking that seemed to come about during this time. I saw it from afar, I was never a part of "it". I married two years out of high school to my high school sweetheart and we did what was expected of us. Jobs, kids and life happened and years have passed and so have so many of my sheltered ideas about what is good or bad.
I'm in my early sixties now, my favorite drug of choice is Advil, I have never experimented with any of the hard drugs. I don't really care for drinking, although wine is sometimes good and the occasional mixed sweet drink. I don't smoke and never had the desire. People with tattoos don't bother me anymore, I can now see the person behind the tattoo. Imagine what a shock it would have been for a girl to have a tattoo when I was in high school! I'll bet she might not have been allowed to attend regular classes with the rest of us. I only say that because of an unfortunate event that forever stays in my mind and how unfair it was. A senior two years ahead of me got pregnant and she couldn't attend classes with the other students, she had to sit in the office day after day doing her studies, and yet the boy who got her pregnant continued going to classes and playing sports. I knew then that things were not right with the way men and women were treated. We were on the edge of the women's revolution and bra burnings! Hip Hip Hooray!
We all have come a L-O-N-G way since those days in the sixties and seventies. I see so many people sporting a tattoos and some I really like. I love when the tattoo isn't the first thing I see about a person and can tell you that I had the most amazing experience in this regard in Eureka Springs, AR about four years ago.
I was in a wonderful store that sells many beautiful things, many related to the Native American culture. Into the store walks this man, in his forties maybe, he had a black shirt on with images of horses and eagle, feathers and such. This man was alone and he looked at everything in the store, I had my gourd work there on display and we talked about them a little. He continued to walk around, I have to say he was gorgeous, not only in the way he looked but his spirit was gorgeous, you could feel what he was about. When he sat down to play the flutes, I thought I might swoon! Hahahaha! He purchased a leather bag to carry a flute and ask when the store closed, he wanted to bring his wife and daughter back. Just before five and when I was packing up my gourds to return to Ohio, he and his family came back into the store. I talked with them about gourds and enjoyed the visit.
My friend, Jayme, who had come with me on this trip had gone to get the car while I packed up the gourds. I was out front waiting on her when this man in the black shirt came out of the store. He had already put the flute bag to use and was carrying his flute across his back. I ask him about his flute and how long he'd been playing and of course, ask him to play something on his flute. (Swooning again!) We had a little time to talk before Jayme came with the car.
When Jayme arrived, I loaded the gourds and ask he if she'd seen the man in the black shirt with the flute just now. She said, yes and then told me how strange that this same man stopped her on the street as she was going to the car and ask her if she bought the flute she had been playing in the store. She said, "no" . He told her that when a flute sounds and feels right to the player it is the one you should purchase. They went on their separate ways.
I said to Jayme, "Did you find it odd that this man would stop you on the street to say that and did you notice his tattoos?" She looked at me puzzled and then said, "Oh, he did have tattoos, didn't he?" The point of the entire story, his tattoos were so obvious, his arms were covered, his neck but even more unusual were the dots going from his temples under his eyes and across his nose. And yet that wasn't what we saw first, we saw the essence of a beautiful man who had the most kind and gentle spirit!
While chatting with this man on the street, I found out he used to be a tattoo artist and now does detail work on motorcycles. I also found out that he'd been playing flute for about four years and he also explained the history of his flute. What a gentle soul he was. I will always remember this as an ahaaa moment in my life.
So you see I have evolved through the years, I hope that I'm a more open minded person that I was forty years ago. I hope knowing all of this you won't be too surprised to know that I also have tattoos!!!!! Hahahaha! I know some of you are stunned! I'm giggling as I write this! Most who see me everyday don't see my tattoos and they are in plain sight! Shall I share? I have tattooed eye liner! I just had it redone last week and love it! Are you shocked and surprised? Hahaha!
I was raised in a very small town of Cedarville, Ohio. I have spent my entire life as a resident here, graduating from a class of fifty-two fellow seniors. To say we were sheltered from the world is putting it lightly. Oh, don't get me wrong, I got to do things and go places, and yet today, I would call it a sheltered life.
Funny now how closed minded we were brought up to be. Our town is very small and yet there are five churches in our little town. Also, a Baptist College. It hasn't been that many years ago that the girls from this college were still required to wear dresses or skirts unless they were involved in an athletic event. There are no judgements here, just trying to explain the influence of the community I grew up in.
I am almost embarrassed to write about this and please know my education about life and living has changed greatly since I was in high school. I remember graduating and going to a local community college and in my class were other students from other communities. I was involved in the secretarial program, in those days that was about the only option for girls who didn't go on to a four year college. The other girls in my class seemed so worldly, they seemed to understand things I'd never heard discussed before and many of them smoked! I'd never been exposed to a smoking culture and if the kids at my high school smoked, I didn't know them or they were "labeled" as hoods. (I'm just telling how it was.) We didn't see it in the high school but if people had tattoos I would certainly know I was in danger. I'm not sure what kind of danger I was suppose to be in, I was very cautious.
I know much of this thinking carried with me throughout my young adulthood. I didn't stray far from my upbringing. I was part of the Hippie Generation, although I wasn't a hippie. I wasn't a part of drug experimentation's, drinking or smoking that seemed to come about during this time. I saw it from afar, I was never a part of "it". I married two years out of high school to my high school sweetheart and we did what was expected of us. Jobs, kids and life happened and years have passed and so have so many of my sheltered ideas about what is good or bad.
I'm in my early sixties now, my favorite drug of choice is Advil, I have never experimented with any of the hard drugs. I don't really care for drinking, although wine is sometimes good and the occasional mixed sweet drink. I don't smoke and never had the desire. People with tattoos don't bother me anymore, I can now see the person behind the tattoo. Imagine what a shock it would have been for a girl to have a tattoo when I was in high school! I'll bet she might not have been allowed to attend regular classes with the rest of us. I only say that because of an unfortunate event that forever stays in my mind and how unfair it was. A senior two years ahead of me got pregnant and she couldn't attend classes with the other students, she had to sit in the office day after day doing her studies, and yet the boy who got her pregnant continued going to classes and playing sports. I knew then that things were not right with the way men and women were treated. We were on the edge of the women's revolution and bra burnings! Hip Hip Hooray!
We all have come a L-O-N-G way since those days in the sixties and seventies. I see so many people sporting a tattoos and some I really like. I love when the tattoo isn't the first thing I see about a person and can tell you that I had the most amazing experience in this regard in Eureka Springs, AR about four years ago.
I was in a wonderful store that sells many beautiful things, many related to the Native American culture. Into the store walks this man, in his forties maybe, he had a black shirt on with images of horses and eagle, feathers and such. This man was alone and he looked at everything in the store, I had my gourd work there on display and we talked about them a little. He continued to walk around, I have to say he was gorgeous, not only in the way he looked but his spirit was gorgeous, you could feel what he was about. When he sat down to play the flutes, I thought I might swoon! Hahahaha! He purchased a leather bag to carry a flute and ask when the store closed, he wanted to bring his wife and daughter back. Just before five and when I was packing up my gourds to return to Ohio, he and his family came back into the store. I talked with them about gourds and enjoyed the visit.
My friend, Jayme, who had come with me on this trip had gone to get the car while I packed up the gourds. I was out front waiting on her when this man in the black shirt came out of the store. He had already put the flute bag to use and was carrying his flute across his back. I ask him about his flute and how long he'd been playing and of course, ask him to play something on his flute. (Swooning again!) We had a little time to talk before Jayme came with the car.
When Jayme arrived, I loaded the gourds and ask he if she'd seen the man in the black shirt with the flute just now. She said, yes and then told me how strange that this same man stopped her on the street as she was going to the car and ask her if she bought the flute she had been playing in the store. She said, "no" . He told her that when a flute sounds and feels right to the player it is the one you should purchase. They went on their separate ways.
I said to Jayme, "Did you find it odd that this man would stop you on the street to say that and did you notice his tattoos?" She looked at me puzzled and then said, "Oh, he did have tattoos, didn't he?" The point of the entire story, his tattoos were so obvious, his arms were covered, his neck but even more unusual were the dots going from his temples under his eyes and across his nose. And yet that wasn't what we saw first, we saw the essence of a beautiful man who had the most kind and gentle spirit!
While chatting with this man on the street, I found out he used to be a tattoo artist and now does detail work on motorcycles. I also found out that he'd been playing flute for about four years and he also explained the history of his flute. What a gentle soul he was. I will always remember this as an ahaaa moment in my life.
So you see I have evolved through the years, I hope that I'm a more open minded person that I was forty years ago. I hope knowing all of this you won't be too surprised to know that I also have tattoos!!!!! Hahahaha! I know some of you are stunned! I'm giggling as I write this! Most who see me everyday don't see my tattoos and they are in plain sight! Shall I share? I have tattooed eye liner! I just had it redone last week and love it! Are you shocked and surprised? Hahaha!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Memories of Grandma Rankin
I wrote some facts in my last blog about my maternal Grandmother, Gladys Thelma Rankin. I'd like to share some of my thoughts about how I remember her. Things that cause me to wonder if the person I am today is genetic or my upbringing.
Photos: upper left, Grandma Rankin and Uncle Billy
lower right, me and my brother, Brian in our Easter outfits 1956
My Grand-mother was feisty! She was small in stature and she had short dark red hair. Auburn red, probably, I don't remember it having much gray in it. My grandmother smoked and it caused lots of discussion in my home when my babies were little. I didn't like her to smoke in the house and that was not gracious of me, but it was something I felt strongly about.
My Grandmother took care of my Uncle Billy who had cerebral palsy, my Uncle Billy was only a few years older than myself. As children learn at a young age, it didn't really matter that Uncle Billy couldn't do the things we did, we all still played together. He had his own special language and we knew what he was saying, strangers would not know. We rode tricycles, played ball and played with his toys, he had the most fun toys. Trains, blocks, records, games, whatever it was, we all played together. I must have learned early that people haven't all got the same abilities. They still are people and think and play and communicate and need to feel love. Uncle Billy was loved.
Grandma Rankin had her own business. She was a seamstress, her little girls dresses were smocked by hand and sewn by my Grandmother. She called her business "Miller Frocks". She would make little dresses as samples and take them to Dayton and go from client to client, measuring little girls and taking orders for dresses from her samples. The mothers of these little girls loved that my Grandmothers dresses had deep hems, often with a tuck that could be let out when their girls grew taller. My Grandmother's clients were mostly from the "colored" neighborhoods. In the 50's this was not normal to be in the those neighborhoods. My Grandmother was there, she knew they were people, just like us white folks. I would sometimes get to go with her on Saturday's when she delivered the beautiful dresses. Mostly I got to sit in the car and wait until she finished her business. Imagine leaving your kids in the car today!!!! The real treat came when we stopped a little corner market and she would let me have a Root Beer and Snowball cupcake like thing. Oh, that was pretty special for sure! I learned at a young age we all have the same needs and love dressing our babies in pretty smocked dresses. Is this where I began to see that people, no matter the color, were just people after all. Is this where I learned some of my "business" sense too?
My Grandma gave us our first Easter bunnies, a couple summers later we had 52 baby bunnies! A present that got a little out of control! My Grandma always made our Easter dresses, beautiful dresses with organdy pinafores over the top. Pretty white socks and new shoes........... we didn't even go to church. Isn't that funny? We always had big baskets covered with beautiful see through wrappings!
We kids always got to spend a week at Grandma's house in the summer. One at a time. It was a nice change of pace for us. Grandma Rankin lived in Springfield, coming from a home in a woods in the country was like stepping out into the light of the world. She fixed the most amazing hamburgers, no lean hamburger in those days and everything was fried. Oh, and she made the most amazing yeast rolls. I learned to make yeast rolls from my Grandma Rankin. She also taught me to smock and crochet. Little steps to becoming a quilter and seamstress myself when our children were growing up. Sewing became an important part of my life for a time, another gift from my Grandma.
When we spent the night at Grandma Rankins my favorite memory was hearing the train whistles as they passed through Springfield. I am always drawn back to that time when I hear a train whistle today. As we got older I remember sitting and watching the Reds play baseball on TV. If it wasn't on TV the game played on the radio. They were big Reds fans!
I could probably go on and on, but that is enough for now. Just to finish, I would say about the women in my family. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, is it genetic or our upbringing?
Photos: upper left, Grandma Rankin and Uncle Billy
lower right, me and my brother, Brian in our Easter outfits 1956
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Birthdays as a Kid
I remember fondly my birthdays as a teen. I always got to have a slumber party with my girlfriends! You know how slumber parties are, not much sleep going on. We always had lots of good food and birthday cake. Not carrot cake, I had not yet acquired a taste for carrot cake in those years.
The girls I ran around with were all from my class, we grew up in a small town. There were only 54 in my graduating class. We went to school together from first grade to twelfth grade. We all pretty much were girls from farm families, we were all in 4-H together and of course went to camp together. You'd see one of us, the others were not far behind. I have to say, I was thrilled our children went to school where I grew up and their graduating classes were also small, pretty much from K thru 12 with the same kids.Slumber parties were always pillow fights, intimate and quite conversations about the boys and then loud very often uproarious giggles that would go on and on. We played those wonderful 45's on the record player the entire night. We loved the Beach Boys, Surfer Girl..... was a favorite. I can hear it today, it is burnt into my memory. I still have a pile of 45's, my kids will run across them some day and not know what they are or how to play them.
Not that long ago, oh gosh, maybe in 1989, (that was just yesterday!) we all got together and had a slumber party at our house. All my girlfriends came that I'd spent so much time with in high school. Not one of them had changed, we picked up like a moment of time had ever passed. Our conversations were now all about our families. Pictures were passed around, laughter and tears were shared. It was good to know that for as much as things change, some things are always the same........ how can that be?
As an adult, I also used to go to a slumber party that was with other horsewomen. There was no talk of husbands or kids here, it was all about horses, rides and trails, rigs, shoeing, feeding, veterinarians and horse gear. We didn't stay up all night, we were a little older and wiser maybe. We were filled up just sharing the love of horses.
I am glad the tradition of slumber parties is still with us. My daughters had slumber parties and my grand daughters have had slumber parties too. I think you never get too old for them. Actually, whenever anyone comes and stays in my tipi lodge, it's like having a slumber party. A nice campfire burning, good conversations and lots of laughter! Come to think of it the last slumber party was last summer. This was my first co-ed slumber party and it was too much fun! We stayed up until almost three in the morning and we are still laughing about it today!
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Old Friends......
Yesterday one of my friends from long ago came into town. We grew up together, going to the same school for the entire twelve years. I see her today as she looked all those years ago. Young, happy, and just as funny as she always was. We have friends in common that we grew up with, none of us have changed. We are sure that we look as young as we once did and it is only other people who have changed.
Funny how our minds play these tricks on us. What is our brain hiding from us that would be so shocking for us to know? Could it be we do have more character lines than we did in high school. Maybe, our hair has changed color, but then who really knows it could be that color on purpose. We all still talk the same and our giggles are the same. We all fall into the pattern of who we were in school, the ones that had a lot to say then, still do now. The ones that quietly listen, still quietly listen now. And yet, I know we have all changed. I know that I have become more outspoken, but sometimes hide that when I'm around these friends, I like listening to them, hearing their opinions and their stories. As I get older, I am a little more outspoken with them. I guess it is about time, we have been out of high school for 42 years now!
This group of friends I ran around with, had a very close bond. We had very similar life styles, most lived in the rural area, their fathers were farmers. We were all in 4-H together, went to summer camp together, went swimming at Orton Pool on hot summer evenings and we went to school from first grade to grade twelve. We went to football games, school dances, basketball games, ate lunch together and shared the same classes. Our graduating class had 54 graduates. We were all pretty close.
The most fun I remember having with these friends were the slumber parties! Oh my gosh, I can't imagine anything we did that was more fun. I had one at least once a year, usually for my birthday. There were always another one or two besides me that had yearly slumber parties. We'd all bring our 45 records and play music on the old record player into the night. We'd giggle about boys and probably did our share of gossiping. Don't think we ever got much sleep, we had all next day to catch up on that! We all loved being together and didn't want to waste a minute sleeping.
As adults we had a slumber party at my house. We left the husband's with the kids and we all got together for an overnight. We were probably in our 40's. It was fun. We always seemed to have something to talk about, we were all in the same stages of life. We had the same problems and the same joys. And so it is today, we can still talk together like no time has passed and yet we know it has.
My friends gathered at my home the year of our 40th class reunion. It was the only event planned, our class was never very good at planning the reunions. But the "ole gang" got together. We laughed about things that happened in classes, the teachers, the classmates. Oh my, the stories we have.......
Cherish every stage of your life, share it with those around you with joy and laughter. If you can't share joy and laughter, share the tears too. We all understand, we all love one another and it will again bring us back to joy and laughter. I celebrate the friends of my youth, I celebrate all the friends in my life, they have helped me be the person I am today.
Funny how our minds play these tricks on us. What is our brain hiding from us that would be so shocking for us to know? Could it be we do have more character lines than we did in high school. Maybe, our hair has changed color, but then who really knows it could be that color on purpose. We all still talk the same and our giggles are the same. We all fall into the pattern of who we were in school, the ones that had a lot to say then, still do now. The ones that quietly listen, still quietly listen now. And yet, I know we have all changed. I know that I have become more outspoken, but sometimes hide that when I'm around these friends, I like listening to them, hearing their opinions and their stories. As I get older, I am a little more outspoken with them. I guess it is about time, we have been out of high school for 42 years now!
This group of friends I ran around with, had a very close bond. We had very similar life styles, most lived in the rural area, their fathers were farmers. We were all in 4-H together, went to summer camp together, went swimming at Orton Pool on hot summer evenings and we went to school from first grade to grade twelve. We went to football games, school dances, basketball games, ate lunch together and shared the same classes. Our graduating class had 54 graduates. We were all pretty close.
The most fun I remember having with these friends were the slumber parties! Oh my gosh, I can't imagine anything we did that was more fun. I had one at least once a year, usually for my birthday. There were always another one or two besides me that had yearly slumber parties. We'd all bring our 45 records and play music on the old record player into the night. We'd giggle about boys and probably did our share of gossiping. Don't think we ever got much sleep, we had all next day to catch up on that! We all loved being together and didn't want to waste a minute sleeping.
As adults we had a slumber party at my house. We left the husband's with the kids and we all got together for an overnight. We were probably in our 40's. It was fun. We always seemed to have something to talk about, we were all in the same stages of life. We had the same problems and the same joys. And so it is today, we can still talk together like no time has passed and yet we know it has.
My friends gathered at my home the year of our 40th class reunion. It was the only event planned, our class was never very good at planning the reunions. But the "ole gang" got together. We laughed about things that happened in classes, the teachers, the classmates. Oh my, the stories we have.......
Cherish every stage of your life, share it with those around you with joy and laughter. If you can't share joy and laughter, share the tears too. We all understand, we all love one another and it will again bring us back to joy and laughter. I celebrate the friends of my youth, I celebrate all the friends in my life, they have helped me be the person I am today.
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