HOW IT USED TO BE

I have had occasion to buy a new jar of the old, tried and true Vick’s Vapor Rub recently. I found it has changed it’s packaging but it’s still the same wonderful stuff. 

I, along with everyone I know, have used Vick’s at least once in their life. Growing up in Pennsylvania the winters were cold. Like they are this year. Cold and snowy- lots of snow!  Families didn’t make it through a winter without someone getting a cold. That’s when the little, dark blue bottle came out of the medicine cabinet. Your mother, father, or big brother would tell you how it made all the difference in their cold recovery. It was either slathered on your back or chest or put in boiling water for you to breathe the menthol steam. Smelling the stuff now makes almost makes me nostalgic.

There is a new use for the stuff -still helping us get through a cold though. If you have a cough that is keeping you awake at night. Drag out the old Vick’s in it’s new jar and slather it on your feet. Yep, your feet! Then put on an old pair of socks and snuggle down in the covers for a good night’s sleep. Isn’t it marvelous that this over the counter remedy has a new application?

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It all started when my mother decided she didn’t like the color of our house any longer. In 1947, when the house was built, my folks decided to stain the cedar shingles a dark brown. It was a decision they both agreed to and were happy with with for about 10 years. Then my mother decided she wanted the color much lighter, so she wanted it painted.

My father was of the opinion that since the shingles were stained they could never be painted. He insisted that paint would never stick and he would not put it on the house. My mother on the other hand did not believe a word of his reasoning and she wanted the house yellow.

They had lively discussions about it for months and always came to the same conclusion. Mom wanted it painted. Dad didn’t. Finally in a moment of exasperation, my father declared that if my mother wanted the house painted she could do it herself. And in equal exasperation she declared she would.

With the impasse ended my mother ordered paint and brushes and my father began to worry. He began to think about mom on a ladder. Once the paint arrived, mom started at the bottom and intended to work her way up. Meanwhile Dad began to build an elaborate scaffold system for Mom to work on.

With the scaffolding in place Dad was confident Mom could paint safely. He relaxed. In fact, he would settle himself in a chair every afternoon and cheer her on. It was the talk of the neighborhood- my mother was the one painting the house while my dad was the one sitting in a chair encouraging her in the work. Men would stop on their way home from work and visit. Women would bring snacks so Mom and Dad could keep up their strength. The neighborhood kids just enjoyed the fun of someone painting a house.

My brothers and I were enjoying the unusual drama. Finally our parents had settled the dispute and devised a plan. Mom was pleased because the house was going to be yellow. Dad was enjoying his afternoons in his lawn chair.

Now I know it seems strange that Dad would go to all the work to build a safe scaffold for Mom to do the painting when he simply could have painted it himself. But once my mother decided to paint, nothing was going to stop her. And there was the matter of his statement that he would never paint those shingles. No, the only course of action for Dad was make it safe for her and then make the best of it.

That summer our house was transformed from a dark brown to a shade of yellow that both my parents loved. And my mother, she became part of the neighborhood folklore.

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I have been seeing the opportunity to win prizes from so many places lately. I personally have never won anything. Not one thing ever! I really wish that would change. At any rate as I thought about these prizes being given away I was reminded of the time my dad came up with an advertising gimmick that involved a prize.

My dad sold appliances for a few years in addition to his other business. This side of his enterprise required some advertising to be competitive with other stores. Dad was a bit of a maverick when it came to running his business so when it was suggested he run an ad campaign that ended with prizes, his mind went to the unusual. And no one could move his mind once it landed on something. The prize he wanted to award were ponies. Yes, ponies! A prize that required a shed to stay in and food every day. Not to mention dealing with what became of the food once the ponies processed it. Oh was this a door prize from an inexperienced retailer or what?

But Dad was so excited about the idea of making some little kid’s day by giving him or her a pony. Nothing anyone said could convince him it was a bad idea. He wouldn’t listen to my mother or the advertising rep from the newspaper.

He’d heard somewhere that someone wanted to sell ponies for cheap so he began to search for his prize. In no time at all he purchased a pony named “Peanuts.” He’d decided it should be two ponies and he had found only one. That did not cause my dad to reconsider and give only one pony away. Oh no, he just had to look harder and go a little further to find a second one. Soon we had “Popcorn” in our little shed beside “Peanuts,” who took an instant dislike to his new stable-mate. Everyone but Dad was getting a bad feeling about this door prize thing.

A store that sells appliances has a limited number of patrons and every one that came into my folks store was encouraged to sign up for a wonderful door prize. No one knew what it was they were going to win so no one declined the invitation. After all it was free. I think most folks figured they were going to win a new toaster or an iron.

Meanwhile the ponies were helping with the lawn mowing chores at home and fertilizing as they worked. At first my brothers and I were so mad at Dad. He was going to give two ponies away for free when he would never get one for us. That was before we got to know them. These sweet looking little things would bite us when we weren’t looking. When we were looking they would charge at us. If we tried to ride them (they each came with a saddle) they kicked at us. If we did manage to get on them they would promptly buck us off. And every chance they got they ran away, so we were always chasing them down. We all soon agreed (except Dad) that we couldn’t wait for some poor fool to win the prize and get them out of our life.

Everyone in our family was so excited when the day of the drawing came. Dad was still thinking some little kid was going to be the happiest kid in the world. Never mind that his own little kids couldn’t wait for the prize to be gone.

The lucky name was picked out of the box and it was great news. The winner had about 6 young children. My Dad was really excited as he called the unsuspecting winner. Most stores have you pick up a prize but how do you pick up a couple of ponies? So arrangements were made for the delivery. Dad loaded those critters up in a borrowed trailer and hauled them to their new owners. He threw in a few bales of hay as well.

Of course the children of the winner were so excited. What kid hasn’t dreamed of having a pony? And these kids just had two of the creatures delivered to their door. With saddles. Now the parents had not dreamed of owning a pony in many years so they were not as thrilled to get their prize. My Dad was completely oblivious to this fact. He pulled Peanuts and Popcorn out of the trailer, tied them to a tree, set the saddles and hay down, shook the fella’s hand in congratulations, and drove away.

By the time he got home the lucky winner had called and wanted to return his prize. He begged to be allowed to return his prize. And who could blame him? This prize was going to cost him money to keep. Never mind how the little darlings acted.

My Dad was crushed, but only momentarily. He would simply pick another name from the box. Another winner would surely think differently. But it was a small town and word spread fast. There was no one who wanted the prize being given away at my Dad’s store.

It soon became very clear to my Dad. He was the winner! My dad won his own door prize -two of the orneriest animals on the face of the earth!

About six months later Dad found someone who would take them. We never shed a tear or had a sad moment. And Dad left the advertising to my mother!

This is an honest to goodness photo of Peanuts.

This is what he looked like when we attempted to ride him.  I  did not need to be a pony whisperer to know what he was thinking.

His look was sufficient.

It said, “You can saddle me, but you will not ride me.”

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My daughter’s family went for a train ride this weekend. A ‘Thomas the Train‘ train ride. Thomas the Train travels the world hooking up with with other trains to visit with fans. My granddaughter loved the ride and it brought back the memory of when I rode a train. This photo is of her looking out the window of a Thomas the Train made of leggo blocks. Yeah, leggos!

When I was very young, trains were still an important mode of transportation. Most small towns had a passenger rail service. Like most small towns the railroad tracks ran right through the center of it.

The factories in our town used trains to move their products. These tracks ran right into the industrial area and for many years the trains were more important than trucks. Of course that has all changed.

We also had the passenger rail service. And that’s the one I rode on.

I was 11 years old when the rail service was going to be discontinued in our community. That would have been 1962 before Amtrak was created in 1971. My mother was concerned that trains would disappear forever and I would never have the experience of a train ride. It’s odd to me now that she didn’t care if my brothers ever rode a train. She was determined to take care of this possible lack in my life’s experiences and to that end she devised a plan.

She called my neighbor’s daughter who had moved to a town about 15 miles away. Her idea was to put me on the train in my town and ride to the next one. I would get off at that station and my friend would be waiting for me.  It was  a great plan and she was going to see it executed no matter what.

I honestly didn’t care if I ever rode a train. But that didn’t matter. So on the last day of passenger rail service in my home town, my mother rousted me out of bed early in the morning (it was summer so I didn’t get to skip school). She made me wear a nice dress because I was going on a train. I packed an overnight bag (something I had never done) and we were off to the train station.

My ticket was purchased and then we waited. Of course we were early because Mom was so excited I was going to ride the very last train that would ever stop there for a passenger. I, on the other hand was scared to death.

I know I was 11 years old but the unknown is tough for a child and being alone was the real problem. Mom was to excited to see how unexcited I was. Talk about living vicariously through your child. When the conductor yelled “All aboard” Mom was ready. She put the ticket in my hand, gave me a kiss and pushed me toward the steps of the biggest thing I had ever been on. My mother must have been the only one in town concerned their child needed this experience because I was the only one going up those steps that morning. (No wonder they shut the service down)

I moved down the seats, found one close to a window and sat down. I peered out the window to find Mom waving her arm off. I was ready to cry but found myself waving back at her anyway. I felt like I had been put on the orphan train.

I’d love to say it was a wonderful ride. Truth is I only wanted it to be over. I wanted to see a friendly face at the end. I spent the 15 miles worrying instead of enjoying. But everything went according to the plan. I was met at the station and I spent the night at my friend’s house. The 15 mile ride home was in a car.

As fearful as I was at the time of my train ride, I have always been grateful to my mother for her foresight. Because of her, I was the last person to board the train in our town. And she was right, I have never been on one again.

Looking back 46 years, I think I actually saw the scenery as that train moved down those tracks for the last time. In fact, I’m pretty sure I enjoyed myself.

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My father grew up on a farm and for some reason disliked a lot of things that are part of farming. One of those things was a garden that grew vegetables. This meant I did not grow up with a vegetable garden in the yard. The funny thing is that 3 out of dad’s 4 children as adults have all become gardeners.

I was 18 years old and wanted to try my hand at growing something to eat. Anything would do. I went to my uncle who was a big time (in my mind) vegetable grower. I asked him for help and he agreed. Knowing what I know now, I realize he did not expend much thought or effort but I was so excited and grateful. He came to our house with his rototiller and prepared a little patch of earth for me to plant. At his suggestion I planted onions!

My growing onions gave me a wonderful sense  of accomplishment. I checked their growth every day and could not wait till I could put one in my mouth. I know it was only onions but for a girl who wanted to grow something I was completely delighted. I also learned that sharing your produce was nearly as rewarding as growing it.

The first place my husband and I lived had about 12 acres. With this much space I eagerly awaited spring so  I could have my first honest to goodness garden. I purchased seeds in the late winter, carefully planning what we would plant. What I didn’t realize was I had married a man who did not share my enthusiasm for gardening. So spring and summer passed and the seeds remained in their packets. I thought, O well! I did plant onions once.

Little did I know that my gardening fortunes were about to change. It was probably the economics of it, after all you can save a lot of money if you produce your own food. At any rate, after waiting nearly 5 years my husband decided a garden was a really good idea. I have never done a cartwheel but I wanted to! We were going to grow stuff we could eat. My husband comes from a long line of farming and gardening folk. His paternal grandfather had a truck farm, his maternal grandfather a dairy farm. His father had a degree in Horticultural and loved to garden (both food and flowers). So I guess it was inevitable that my man would wake up one day and say, “Let’s plant a garden.” And I thank God he did!

Our first garden was not big but quite adequate. We decided on the usual things- tomatoes, lettuce, onions, peppers, beans, and corn. A trip to the feed and seed store was exciting. So many varieties to choose from and I knew so little! What I never knew was the knowledge that this man I married had on the subject. It was amazing and comforting to know that only one half of the garden team was a greenhorn. He walked up and down the aisles like a pro. He picked out bush beans, not pole. He wanted a butter and sugar corn.  He didn’t forget the fertilizer either and he knew what kind to get. O Yeah, this guy was a gardener after all!

Next came the soil preparation. We borrowed a rototiller and worked the ground. Back and forth, tearing up the grass and weeds and softening the earth to lay our seeds in. It was hard work because it was a new garden spot.  We had to rake out the clods of grass, rocks, and roots. Once it was clear of these things we smoothed it all over. Our next big decision was what went where. Again this guy I married happily surprised me. I was just going to take the hoe and carve out a line in the soil but he showed me the way real gardeners accomplish this task. We took string and tied it between two stakes. Then we positioned the stakes where we wanted the row to be. We pulled the string tight and that created a nice straight line to follow. I was impressed.

We dropped our seeds in, spaced according to package directions. Next we put fertilizer right down the side of the rows after the seeds were covered with soil. We were busy as can be.

Meanwhile our children were right beside us. Not only were they helping, they were learning how to garden. That is how my husband learned so much. He was with his own father from the time he was a child and now he was the father.

Our children thought it was a great adventure. They understood clearly that we were going to get the things we wanted to eat from planting the seeds of those things. To make it more special we set aside a little space for our daughter and son to plant their own seeds. They were allowed to choose what seeds they wanted to put in their little patch. Our daughter wanted to plant beans. We found the bean seeds and she carefully placed them in the ground, gently covering them with dirt. She was the oldest and had already put some of the seeds in for our garden.

Meanwhile, our son was busy going through all the seed packages trying to find the one he wanted. He was not able to read but he was looking at all the pictures.  When we asked him what he was going to plant he looked at us with exasperation asking, “Where are the hamburger seeds?” I think he understood the concept of having a garden to feed your family better than we did.

He never did find hamburger seeds.

Since that first little garden we have had many more. And my husband has worked very hard in every one of them. All of our children have gardens of their own. Our granddaughter (age 2) helped her mom and dad plant theirs this year. And so it goes.

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Early this morning my husband and daughter went out behind our house to go blackberry picking. One of the blackberries favorite places to grow is along the perimeter of a field. You can pretty much always find some nice picking if you look in a place like this. They were gone about 2 hours and came home with 4 gallons. Considering that’s enough for 12 blackberry pies it’s not a bad return for the time and effort spent.

I grew up picking berries in the summer. First there were the wild strawberries. We picked them in the field beside the small airport that was up the road from our house. There were always enough for 3 or 4 strawberry shortcakes. When they would quit bearing we would move to the huckleberries.

Huckleberries are the wild cousin of the domesticated blueberry. Most of the time they are smaller and     black. The taste is pretty much the same but they grow on bushes that are low to the ground. (perfectly suited for children to pick) We would pick our huckleberries at a place we called “The Cuts” it was an old strip mining area not too far from our house. It had hundreds of bushes and my brother and I and other neighborhood kids would pick gallons of these berries. My mom would make up pies in aluminum pie pans and freeze them. Then all through the fall and winter we would have huckleberry pies. It was a great feeling knowing there were pies waiting to be baked. When these berries played out we moved on to blackberry picking.

Blackberries were picked at a place called “The Pits.” It was a very large area with a huge, deep hole in the middle of it. A factory used the place to dump garbage in when I was a kid. I don’t know what the original purpose was. It had tons of blackberry bushes. The berries were usually big and juicy. We would pick gallon after gallon of blackberries. My mom would repeat the pie process with these berries but she would also make jam. I still love blackberry jam but with less seeds than my mom made. The last berry to ripen was the elderberry.

Elderberries grow on small trees or large bushes. You can find elderberry bushes just about anywhere. They have a very sour taste on their own. (No problem getting all you picked home with these berries.) My mother used the elderberry exclusively for jelly. They are easy to make juice from and the jelly has a wonderful taste.

All of these berries have a limited time to be picked before they dried up or critters would eat them. That meant when the berry picking season began you could not procrastinate. I guess as kids we felt like it was our responsibility to get the berries while we could. And it felt good to know we had contributed to the food supply. Especially the one that answered the sweet tooth cravings.

Berry picking continued to be a big part of our children’s lives as well. While my husband was at work, I and our children would often go blackberry picking. Because my husband loves to use jelly on hotdogs, hamburgers, and other sandwiches, this meant using every available berry around for making jelly. One year we managed to pick enough berries of various kinds to make 100 jars of jelly. Now that’s some serious berry picking!

No matter where we have lived we have managed to find berries to pick, and with those berries make wonderful desserts, jellies, or pies.

Berry picking is not only how it used to be but how it still is.

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The dictionary describes snacks as food eaten between meals. I know that having something tasty to eat between meals has been an important part of my life. The snacks I had as a child are some of the same ones I have now. But there was one my mother made that I just never wanted to continue making myself.

The snack my mom would make was one that she had as a child. It was made of ordinary things found in any cupboard. Milk, bread, sugar, and butter were the ingredients. Butter on the bread, sugar on the butter and milk over all of it. It took hunger away but I did not particularly like it.

We did have chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies fairly often but there were always those occasions when there was nothing to snack on and we’d be starving. These times required creative thinking. We’d have cereal (so what if it was close to bedtime) or we’d open a box of Lipton Noodle Soup and add some additional noodles. These were OK snacks. I don’t know when we discovered the recipe for Minute Cookies. But it became the standard answer to our often asked question, “What can we eat?” Now my children make these for their families.

Minute Cookies are perfect when there is an emergency snack craving. They can be made from start to finish in about 15 minutes, and they are yummy. They taste like a piece of fudge with oatmeal. So they are good for you too. The only problem with them is it’s hard to stop eating them.

In case you have never had the good fortune to find this recipe, here it is and remember don’t eat too many at one time.

Chocolate No-Bake Cookies
¼” cup cocoa            ½ cup peanut butter
2 cups sugar            3 cups oatmeal
½ cup butter             1 tsp. vanilla
½ cup milk
Boil the first 4 ingredients for 1-2 minutes. Add peanut butter and vanilla to the mixture. Add the oatmeal and mix. Drop by spoonful on a cookie sheet. Let cool. Makes about 2 dozen.

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