Last evening we had a thunderstorm seemingly centered directly overhead. The lightning was sharp and close and the thunder was deafening. The rain was intense and since we are in a severe drought it was much appreciated. The storm came as we were getting ready for bed. The noise of the storm made a nice background to fall asleep to but when I was a child there was no such thing as sleeping during storms.
When a storm would come up in the middle of the night my father would awaken everyone in the house. It did not matter to him what the time was or how fast asleep we all were. He would insist we get up and then he would usher us all into the living room. If we were old enough we would be given a candle in case the power went off. Sometimes we would pray. We had to wait until the last clap of thunder and the last bolt of lightning before we were allowed to return to bed.
My dad was not in fear of the storm. He had survived World War 2 after being wounded in Europe so he wasn’t scared of the thunder and lightning. No, what bothered my dad and made him take such extreme measures was something very simple. He was preparing. Some families have fire drills that show everyone where and how to get out of your burning home. We never had one of those. Until we were older we didn’t even know why were getting up except that’s what we did. His plan was simple-if our house was hit by a bolt of lightning and caught fire, we would already be awake, dressed and downstairs. We could all escape unharmed by simply walking out the door. If it ever happened, which it didn’t.
This all changed one day when this dapper little man came knocking on our door. Our front door no less! He was about 5 and 1/2 feet tall, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and bow tie. He carried a large briefcase and when we answered his knock he said he was selling protection for our home from electrical storms. He was selling lightning rods. Well, let me tell you, he came to the right house. If anyone needed lightning rods it was us.
Normally a traveling salesman got zero traction with my parents. But occasionally there was a product that was being hawked that fit a need. And I think this fella knew it from the moment he looked at all of our pleading faces. Faces that said “Please help, so we can sleep through the night.”
My dad went through all the literature with him. They went outside to measure. They came back inside to figure. They had coffee to help dicker. And all the while, my mother, brothers, and myself were hoping a deal could be struck between this little man and my protective father. We called him ” The Lightning Rod Man.” After what seemed like hours, a receipt and check were exchanged, hands were shook and the deal was done. We were all going to sleep tonight. (as long as there was no storm that is)
What we didn’t realize was how long it would take for the lightning rods to come. And then how long it would take to install them. We were still in for a few weeks of sleep interrupted but it passed quickly. Mr. Lightning Rod came back and personally oversaw the installation of my dad’s new protection plan. He had supper with us when the job was completed. Everyone was happy!
We never again had our sleep disturbed by dad because of a storm. He trusted the rods completely and they remained on our house for many years. The copper coiled wire snaking its way down the sides of the house was full of yellow paint when they were finally removed. It was never fully explained why they were no longer needed but one day they were gone.
We all were grateful that the little man selling lightning rods found our front door that day. Perhaps that was what we were praying for when we were up in the middle of the nights watching the sky light up.
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.
Toys are a big part of any child’s life. We all start out with a rattle and progress from there. Some of the toys I played with as a kid were home-made, one of a kind. They would have never been part of my life if I didn’t have my older brother who included me in the things he did.
The Soap Box Derby was a big event in our town every year. My older brother never ran a car in the race but he did build a few cars. We actually called his “crates” since they were constructed a bit differently than the regulation Derby car. They were made from things that he was able to gather from what my dad had laying around.
His crates usually consisted of a plank for the body. I don’t know where he got the wheels or what he used for axles but I was the gofer (go fer the hammer, go fer the nails, etc) not the engineer. His steering system was 2 ropes attached to the front axle. Pull right to go right, pull left to go left. His design was all about simplicity. Brakes are always an important part of any moving object you’re riding on and the crates were no different. The first few that were constructed had the simplest method of stopping. We’d put our feet down and dragged them till we stopped. Obviously there were some problems with this- ruined shoes, sore feet and legs and sometimes it was ineffective so the second option was used. Crashing! The cars improved a little every time they were built or re-built. (after crashes). Manufacturers know their products are only as good as the materials used to make them. My brother learned this when my dad brought home a set of real Soap Box Derby wheels and axles.
That wonderful gift caused him to aspire to a whole new level of engineering capabilities. There was a steering wheel to consider- gone were the ropes! And a real brake seemed important with real axles. He also created backs so that we could lean back while we rode.
The place we rode the crates was the same place we picked huckleberries. It was called ‘The Cuts’. It was an old abandoned strip mine. It’s not easy to describe what it was like but I’ll try. Holes were dug in the ground and the dirt from the hole was piled right beside it. Most of the dirt piles were very high which meant the holes were very deep. Lots of times the holes were filled with water. And it covered a very large area. What made this the perfect place to ride a crate was the hills. We pushed the crate up the hill and rode it down. (Playing was not easy, it was exhausting!) Sometimes, if we gained enough momentum on a hill and the next one was fairly small we could coast to the top and ride 2 or even 3 hills without pushing. The problem came it we chose the wrong hill. The wrong hill being one with water on the other side. I don’t know how we never got hurt or killed except our guardian angels were with us. We really had great times there.
I know my mother never knew what the place looked like or she would have forbidden us to ever go near it. But we would truthfully say to her “we’re taking the crate to The Cuts to ride”, and she would always answer, “Okay, have fun and be careful or be home for lunch.” I have no idea why she didn’t investigate or why my dad didn’t inform her. But if she had, I would have missed out on some of the best memories, not to mention the fun.
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.
Huckleb
erries 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.
Camping nowadays seems like it would be a whole lot easier than it was 30 some years ago. I mean there are the tents that have rooms and closets and they set up in a few minutes. There are the portable camp kitchens and I don’t want to forget to mention the wonderful sleeping gear from the right temperature sleeping bag to any kind of mat or mattress your heart desires. You can even take a portable potty or shower with you if you want.
Now I haven’t been camping for a long time. The sleep on the ground inside a tent kind of camping is what I’m talking about. At my age I like to sleep in a bed (preferably my own) and take a hot shower. But I always did enjoy the experiences we had when we’d pack up and spend time in a tent.
When our children were very small we bought a canvas tent. Canvas tents can still be purchased but they are a bit pricier and they are not as easily erected. Ours was 8′ x10′ with a window in the back and a zipper on the doorway. The first time we used our tent it had to be conditioned for rain. That meant setting it up in the yard before we ever actually went camping and running water on it from the hose. Set up was not too complicated as long as you could read. It was not as easy as we had thought but we were so excited about our future as campers.
Every year the company my husband worked for would shut down for a week during the July 4th holiday. We didn’t have a lot of money so we decided we could go on inexpensive vacations with our new tent. We would attend the annual family picnic on the 4th of July and then pack up for the week.
Our children were both under the age of three. So we packed all kinds of things besides the necessities for staying a week at a state park. We also had a large German Shepard that was part of the excursion. The place we camped was called Twin Lakes. The lake was fed by natural springs and so the water temperature was never much above 55 degrees. It was a very lovely spot to spend a week.
Our days were spent with early breakfast at the picnic table followed by camp clean-up and then a trip to the lake for some fun in the sand if not the water. Next came lunch and a nap followed by swimming, playing, with maybe a walk around the lake. It was a wonderful adventure for our children and despite the work of camping it was relaxing.
The evenings meant showers that were provided by the campground. Now just as the lake was fed by cold springs, the water for the showers was too. The showers and bathrooms were a good distance from our campsite so my husband would take our son, I would take our daughter and we would get them showered.
The bathroom/shower building was partitioned by a wall that did not go all the way to the ceiling. That meant that there was no privacy as far as sound was concerned. So when the water at 55 degrees hit our children’s little bodies what followed were simultaneous, ear shattering screams- on both sides of the building. It was embarrassing and funny at the same time. Every evening about 7:00 we would walk to the showers and about 5 minutes later the screaming would begin. (I guess if it were to happen now we would be investigated for child abuse.) When we were finished we would quietly walk back to our campsite hoping no one had noticed the caterwauling. It happened every evening for 6 days.
What is interesting was the fact that the kids never complained about the showers. They never fought going even though they knew it would be cold. I guess one explanation is they loved every other aspect of camping enough to endure some cold water on them for a few minutes.
We continued to do the lake camping trip until our 3rd child came along and other things took precedence. When we moved away from our home town we did camp again numerous times. We actually camped while we traveled across the country for 5 weeks. Today both of our sons enjoy camping. I guess the experiences as kid campers worked out okay.
This July 4th we will have a small picnic and set off some sparklers with our granddaughter. It’s different this year than last and next year we will probably do something else. But when I was young, it was the same celebration every year.
It would start with a girl named Izzie. She was an only child and she always had an endless supply of things that burned, sparkled, popped or made noise. Izzie’s aunt was our next door neighbor and every Fourth her family came from out of town to spend the day with them. We were the kids she played with because her aunt’s children were older.
She’d arrive about 10 in the morning with a bag of surprises. I have no idea where her dad got the things in that bag because my dad always said he couldn’t get any of that stuff. We would have a new cap gun and a box or two of caps. We’d also have some ordinary sparklers. But Izzie’s bag- it was magical.
First of all, she always had lots and lots of matches. Matches were a controlled substance in our house. She would also have a new cap gun but it was bigger than any of ours and usually a repeater unlike our single shot pistols.Ours would go Bang! Her’s would go Bang, bang, bang, … (do you sense my envy even now?)
There were the snakes. They started out as a little piece of black stuff but when you struck a match and lit the stuff it would start to grow. It would look like a snake was forming right there on the sidewalk. (The reason they were called snakes!) There were small firecrackers. My older brother and Iz would use these. I was always considered to little!
We always had an ample supply of sparklers but her’s were often colored and bigger. And she would have rolls and rolls of caps so we could take the hammer and smack them on the sidewalk for a very large bang! Sometimes she would have green caps. They were sticky on the back and had a louder sound.
The amazing thing about Izzie was her generosity. She could not wait to show us what she brought and then was just as enthusiastic about sharing all of it with us.
I don’t remember any picnics though I’m sure there were some. I really don’t remember any fireworks. Up until I was about 8, my Fourth of July celebrations were all about my out-of-town friend Izzie’s visit and the goodies she shared.
When I got married I wanted to be the best wife ever. I wasn’t looking for a certificate that said “Best Wife -1972, 1973, 1974, …” but I wanted my husband to feel like he had a Proverbs 31 wife. The interesting thing about that was at the time I didn’t know about Proverbs 31. I only knew that I wanted to be a excellent wife.
I don’t think I thought about my strategy for winning the “Best Wife” title except to do what I saw my own mother do. It’s what women have done for centuries I guess. While the husband is out working, even if we are working, we make his home a castle.
Now my husband’s castle had a lot to be desired in the structural department. In fact when I first saw the house we were going to live in I said, “OK, Now take me to your real house!” But much to my surprise that was the real house. And I may write about that another time…
So the actual house was a bit lacking but my imagination to make my husband feel like a king in his castle was not. I did a lot of re-decorating, most of which he noticed at least once. But when I began my baking campaign I knew I was on the right track.
This fella I married was a cook in the US Navy. I had nothing on him as far as ability. Heck! the guy had people stopping by his house to see if they could get some of his fresh baked bread. (see what I was up against?) But I was a very determined gal. And one day I decided to bake him a pie. I figured bread would not be impressive but no one was stopping by for one of his pies. So a pie was waiting when he came home from work. A nice supper and then pie for dessert. He ate all but one piece - the one I ate. The next day I baked a different pie. He ate his supper and then all of the pie but one piece (mine). I repeated this every day for about 5 days. Apple, pumpkin, lemon, chocolate, rhubarb- it was like he’d died and gone to heaven. I mean he could not wait to get home to me (and my pie). I was so on my way to being the best wife ever!
And then came the custard pie. He came home eagerly anticipating what pie would he eat that night. I was almost as anxious as he was. After all it was a real favorite of mine. He took one look at it and promptly declared that he did not eat custard pie!
Well, I forgot all about wanting to be the perfect little wife. I took one look at him and set him straight. I told him if he ever wanted another pie he had darn well better eat this one. It only took a second or two for him to process that information. And naturally he took the only logical course of action. He said “Let me try that pie.” He ate most of it which was alright because I wanted more than one piece. And now, almost 36 years later, custard has become one of his favorites as well. Or at least he has the good sense to say so.
Our first year of marriage I baked just about one pie every day. Good thing my husband had a job that burned calories and a high metabolism because he never gained so much as an ounce of weight. I still love to bake something for him and often it is a pie.
Here’s the recipe for the custard pie from “The Mennonite Community Cook Book by Mary Showalter”
Old-Fashioned Baked Custard Pie (by Anna B. Showalter, Broadway, Va.)
3 cups milk
3 eggs
1/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons flour
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
Combine sugar and flour.
Add beaten eggs.
Bring milk to boiling point and add gradually to egg mixture.
Pour into an unbaked pie shell and sprinkle nutmeg over the top.
Bake at 350° for 40-45 minutes or until an inserted silver knife comes out clean. Makes 1(9 inch) pie.
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.
I guess if you camp now you are “sleeping out” but this term was not used to describe camping when I was young. Sleeping out meant exactly that- sleeping outside.
One particular time I slept out was when I was about 10 and my younger brother was about 7. We were going to be in a pup tent in our back yard. By this time in my life, my father had installed a beautiful picket fence that separated the lawn from the woods. The tent was just outside the fence on the woods side.
Pup tents are small little tents with short sides and only room for 2. We had a wood floor in our tent so we wouldn’t be sleeping on the damp ground and of course we had our sleeping bags. When darkness was approaching our parents settled us in the tent. We tied the flaps together and were ready for a wonderful nights rest in the outdoor air. We talked for a bit, shone our flashlight on the walls of the tent and eventually fell asleep.
And then we were awakened by the sound of a meow. This one meow was followed by several, followed by several more. Waking up from a sound sleep, outside in a tent by the sound of an animal made our imagination roar to life. And I do mean roar. I do not know how long it took for the meows to sound like mountain lions but that is exactly what we thought. What to do, what to do. The tent door was only a small flap held in place by two ties. Not enough to provide any protection. We must make a run for it. But the fence was to be navigated. We had to find the opening quickly and run for all we were worth. Now we knew the back door would be unlocked but we would have to climb the steps. And we knew the mountain lions would be in pursuit so we couldn’t err in navigating. We decided to go in the cellar door. It was a straight shot into the house. Except it was locked when we got there.
I don’t remember what we did then. I felt sheer terror, mountain lions were on my heels. I probably screamed and ran to the back door with my brother on my heels. (it was every man or kid for himself!) Or I may have pounded on the cellar door till it was opened by my parents. However we got in to the house is not clear in my memory but I slept the remainder of the night in my own bed where animals could not get me.
Now the next morning I did not expect to find a lion sitting on the doorstep waiting to devour me but I also didn’t expect to find what was there. Three little kittens were playing in the yard. I guess they were hanging around so we didn’t have the misguided notion of mountain lions in the backyard with us the next time we slept out.
The town I grew up in was small enough that to be 2.5 miles out meant you were living in the country. And we enjoyed country living. I’m not sure everything we did was a good thing, like the time my older brother decided we should do some trapping. I think he was about 12 and I was 7.
I do not know where he got the trap from. It wasn’t a bear trap but it could have done some damage to a body if you stuck your hand, foot, or limb in the jaws of it. Our house sat on an acre of property with the back half of it wooded. But that’s not where we went trapping. We went further into the woods and set our trap up by a small crick. Crick is what we called a small stream, in Georgia it’s called a branch.
Setting the trap didn’t take too long. I watched as my brother did the work, after all it was his idea and he was older. Baiting the trap was next and I can’t remember what we put in the thing. We really didn’t care what we caught we just wanted to trap something. I guess now PETA would stage a demonstration.
The waiting for some unfortunate creature to get caught in it was next. We would have to walk to the trap every day and check. It stayed empty for a good while until one day there was a raccoon in it. What excitement! We caught something- a raccoon. Then came the realization that we had an animal to deal with. I guess my brother knocked it in the head because it was quite dead when we carried it home. We tied the legs together and found a sturdy stick that we ran between the legs. We each took an end and proudly walked home. It wasn’t heavy but it was an ugly dead raccoon hanging upside down swinging between us.
As we walked my brother talked about making a coon’s skin cap, after all he had an actual coon to skin.
But we hadn’t figured on my mother. She was horrified. She was angry. And she was adamant that the coon had to be buried immediately, the trap had to be thrown out, and we were never to trap anything again. Let me tell you, when my mother decided on something it was a done deal.
I guess she didn’t fully embrace “country living” like we did.
