Buddy: The poor little doggy

He might have had a reaction to the non-itch meds he's been taking so they gave him Valium, put him on IVs for a while, and now he's home. He's asleep and not puking or shaking so there was an immediate improvement. We'll see how he's doing tomorrow. I thought he was a goner.

Accepting good wishes and cookies

When our thirteen-year-old wire haired terrorist walked away from his usual piece of toast this morning I told my beloved there was something wrong.

He's been seeing the Vet for a "chewing" problem and the meds seemed to have slowed it down but he's not his usual self. I goog'ed (this is my new word for research on Google) his meds and one of the side effects is lethargy but I'll give the Vet a call today because walking away from a handout is something he'd never do if he felt good.

Two and a half months

I had a visit from the lil guy and his mom on Tuesday. This time he was wide awake and ready to smile. What a cutie he is. He's 14 pounds and 24 inches long and he won't be three months until July 3rd. We won't be able to call him lil guy much longer.

When parents die

So many times when adversity visits a friend I can't say, yes I know what you are going through because I don't. I don't have Cancer. I've not lost my job. My child is alive. I can only be a witness to the pain and hold a hand or lend an ear. I guess you could call me lucky in that respect. Sure, I've had adversities but none so powerful as the loss of your mother and this is the journey a good friend is experiencing right now.

Both my parents lived to an age where you wouldn't say they died young but any age is difficult to lose your parents. The title daughter isn't something you earn it is bestowed on you by your parents and, eventually, it is them that takes it away.

Death steals from the living and hopefully, gives peace to the dying. So to all my dear friends who've lost that title I wish peace as well.

Di, Ingrid, Sandi, my darling sister, and now Kathleen your memory will never replace their presence but it will soothe your heart.

Right in the middle of the stinkin' valley

On Monday I was feeling rather tense. Honestly, I was in a hateful mood. I hated my representatives in Sacramento and wrote them.* I hated the idiots in Thugville for rioting after a stupid basketball game. I hated the city of Los Angeles for wanting to spend way too much money on the parade to honor the Lakers and wrote the mayor. I hated Iran but didn't know who to write. About the time I was ready to hate the whole world my beloved walked into my office, sat down and said let's go somewhere. Quickly I Googled, "What to do in San Fernando Valley" and came up with a few gardens to visit. We chose The Japanese Garden at the Tillman Water Reclamation plant in Van Nuys.

Skip this part if you don't care what happens to your poop.
Don't know what goes on at a water reclamation plant? Neither did I but check the link to find out. It's quite interesting. Let me give the highlights. You flush your toilet or run your garbage disposal and all this stuff goes to the sewer. Eventually it makes to 6100 Woodley Ave, Van Nuys, CA. There it goes into a series of holding tanks where it is screened and sifted and aerated and then some stuff heads off to another plant, the sludge, and the water is cleaned so it can be used to water golf courses and landscaping. This water is not for drinking though they say it would be safe but some of the water is used in the Japanese Garden.

All of this is done in large open tanks and yes, it smells like crap, because that is what most of it is. They have life preservers hanging on the fence around the open tanks but honestly, would you want to live after falling in? Lets move away from here and go to the garden.

We parked in the lot, payed our senior price of $2, and walked to the entry of the garden. It's a small door, traditional to a Japanese garden, made so you can't see what's in there just yet. When you walk through the whole expanse opens to this wonder garden of lakes, streams, water falls all beautifully and skillfully landscaped. Huge Koi swim in the water and there is an occasional water fowl. I can't describe everything because ever path we took had a different water feature or exquisite grouping of plants. The more than six acres was peaceful and, even though a group of pre-school children followed us into the garden, we found some quiet places to sit and watch the water; sometimes moving, other times calm. Ok, this was what I needed and when I left I felt calm and relaxed.

* If you want, you can e-mail your representatives in Sacrament and tell them they better get busy and do their jobs while we still have a state to do it in. Don't know who they are?

Find your CA state rep.

Lakers win, LA Citizens, losers

Look at this fat bastard. He has expensive shoes, a Lakers jersey, and a Lakers jacket. He could afford to pay for the damage he's done. I hope they threw his sorry ass in jail so he can celebrate with Bubba who would love this wanna-be punk.

Los Angeles, in as tight a financial situation as most of California, is going to co-host a Lakers victory parade. Why? 1 milbucks could very easily be spent on something equally as good for the city, couldn't they? LA aleady payed overtime for the rioting last night. Some please make the connection for me between pride in "your" team winning a championship and destroying a city bus.

Kitchen stories: Thanks for the move

The first settlers to the area was the Miami nation and village became their traditional capital. The settlement, at the Maumee, St Joseph and St Marys Rivers, was called Kekionga and the Miami lived there peacefully until around 1676 when the French missionaries found them.

In 1790 President George Washington ordered that Indiana be "secured", which meant the native population better skedaddle or die. After two losses to the Miami tribes General "Mad" Anthony Wayne routed the tribe, established a fort at the three rivers, and named the fort after himself. Fort Wayne was established and was a moderately successful venture.

By the mid-20th century it was a strong manufacturing center with the likes of GE, Westinghouse, Magnavox, and a variety of auto manufacturing support industries. At the end of the century Ft Wayne went the way of the other mid-west cities and became part of the country know as the Rust Belt. General Electric was the death knell for Ft Wayne and it has struggled ever since.

My family left in 1957 and not because they were visionaries but only because my father was stationed in Port Hueneme for a portion of 1944. He'd never gotten over California and they finally made the move more than ten years later.

In 1995 and divorced for many years, my mother found the need to be with her brothers and sisters and moved back to the town where she grew up. While visiting her I found the area beautiful but stifling. It felt as if the town was stuck in a fifties era mentality of segregation and ignorance. All my relatives, plain and simple, were bigots. Because of that President Obama carrying the state of Indiana, great though it maybe, was a shock. Growing up in California was the best education our parents could have given us. Thanks Mom and Dad.

Hot flash for him

Man discovers hot flashes and cravings from the other side. This story, though only humorous to women of a certain age, is so painfully honest I thought some might enjoy reading what menopause is like.

My Brief Life as a Woman

Moon and K go to town

Friday found two friends on public transportation heading East under cloudy skies. Since my traveling companion posted about the trip on her blog, I don't have to.

She took some very good snaps.

San Antonio Winery

Here comes the pole

Editor's note: While chatting with some friends I related the funny story of the electric company replacing a power pole in our back yard in late 2005.

To find the exact date I looked on my blog and to my amazement could not find the original post. Very new to blogging then I could have deleted the post. Luckily I still had the text and photos from the event. I'm republishing the story even though it's over three years old.


You can rock my cradle just don't kick my cribs

Cribs, in this instance, are platforms the outriggers of HUGE cranes sit on while they lift a power pole over your house. Let me say it again, over your house.

We have a power pole in our back yard and two weeks ago Edison, our power company, came and dug a new hole next to the old pole. The existing pole also carries the TV cable and over the years had gotten pretty beat up so they had plans to replace it. The next week we received a notice that next Monday the power would be off for most of the day. On Thursday they delivered the pole along with street signs warning Monday morning, bright and early, the street would be closed. Don't park on the street or they'll tow your car. Amazing how many didn't read the notice but the crew gave them time to get their cars moved anyway.

I can't say enough about how nice these guys were. After they got the serious business of setting up the crane they were kind enough to talk with us and answer some questions; I always have questions. I was totally fascinated with just the idea of lifting a forty foot pole over my house and I'll admit, a bit nervous. I had a vision of the pole crashing down through my almost-finished new kitchen but after talking with the guys, and seeing their attention to detail and safety, knew that wouldn't happen.

Here are the guys when they were done.

Now blooming at the Getty Center Central Garden

This plant, Geranium Maderense is a true geranium. Hard to believe for it doesn't look like and geranium I'm used to. It has a long woody trunk that ends in a two to three foot head of blossoms. It's blooming right now at the edge of the stream, as well as other locations in the Central Garden. By the looks of it it will flower for a few more weeks. Very showy.

Never wake a sleeping baby

The lil guy, now two months, came to visit and this is what we got. Adorable and we stood and watched him sleep. He was sleeping so comfortable who could pick him up. Unfortunately we were on our way out so Mom will just have to bring him back again when she can visit longer and we can actually see those eyes open.

Buddy dog was interested even though he didn't make a noise. Don't you wonder what the dog is thinking when he sees a little person?

Note to lil bird, he seems to like the car seat.

Growing up: Pre California

My sister and I were born in Indiana but left in 1957 which made me seven-years-old, her 14. We had both sets of grandparents and a myriad of cousins, aunts and uncles, and assorted friends of the family and one Aunt and Uncle in California and no friends. My parents being the friendly type they had no problem with the latter and as crazy as both sided of the family were leaving the former seemed ok, too.

When told about the move, which was only a few weeks before, I never remember feeling sad at the thought of leaving all this. Though only as far as the first grade in my education I still had friends I'd made but I can not remember even one day in California that I yearned to return to Indiana. My sister might have had different feeling, maybe my Mom but my Dad, nope he knew what he wanted and it was to get the hell out of Indiana. He was stationed in Southern California during World War II and he never got over the fact that the weather was so nice. No snow in the winter, no bugs in the summer. I remember watching something about President Eisenhower at his Palm Springs Western White House and Daddy commenting on the fact we had feet of snow and they had yards of sunshine and they were golfing right there in January, hitting the ball is short sleeves. Our time had come to move. Yes, I remember President Eisenhower, I'm that old.

It was June 1957, we had a new Mercury Turnpike Cruiser, ours was two-toned copper color, and after selling everything in our house we loaded up a few things and off we went down Route 66, heading West.

That was an adventure for a seven-year-old who'd never been further than Chicago. Momma planned ahead for me she had books and paper and crayons so I had things to keep me busy but I did enjoy seeing the country whiz by my window and every night, Daddy would find a motel with a swimming pool for us. I thought life was grand.

We had one near tragedy. When my parents sold everything they took the money with them. The cash was in a wallet and Momma kept it in her purse or in the glove box when we were traveling. One morning, for some reason she put it in the pocket of her jacket. As the day went on and the weather brightened she removed the jacket but had it in the front seat.

Often we'd stop and get gas and that meant we could get out, stretch our legs and make a potty stop. We'd all done that and were back in the car and ready to head down the road. We were only about fifteen minutes away when Momma screamed. Her jacket must have fallen out of the car at the gas station and all our money was in the pocket.

I never saw my Dad drive so fast and when we pulled in to the station there was the jacket lying on a stack of tires. He waved to the attendant, said it was his, grabbed it, then got back in the car just as fast as he could. He couldn't look but handed it to Mom and yes, all the money was still in the wallet. That was the first time I'd seen my parents cry. Daddy found a motel early that day, he was way too upset to go any further.

Sad Day

California Supreme Court upheld the ban on same-sex marriage. The decision, however, preserves the 18,000 marriages performed between the court’s decision last May that same-sex marriage was lawful and the passage by voters in November of Proposition 8, which banned it. Supporters of the proposition argued that the marriages should no longer be recognized. (as appeared in NY Times article)

So those marriages from May to November are ok? How does that make sense. If they are valid then this shouldn't even be a question. This is what I hate about the way we handle propositions in California. If you have enough money you can get anything on a ballot measure and those bastards in Sacramento do nothing.

Free, not always the best choice

Today started the free-in-the-park-concerts and we tried the Thousand Oaks flavor of the month. The group billed themselves as Manhattan Transfer meets Take 6. This was a bit of an overstatement but it was free. They were real fine with the harmony but white people should never cover James Brown, N-E-V-E-R.

Free concerts mean people drag their kids and food and chairs and blankets and it's a bit odd. Why would people come to the concert only to talk with friends and ignore the performance on stage? On one side of us, a man started talking when the performers came out and never; never shut up. I mean he didn't even take a freakin' breath.

The group on the other side had a million kids with assorted parents and not once did they look at the stage. They too were afflicted with diarrhea of the mouth. These people were not on the periphery but close enough to see the group.

Truly, I have no problem with kids being at these concerts, and if they run around and don't pay attention, hey they're kids, but what's up with their stupid parents? Sit out away from everyone who might not like to hear your conversation or your cell phone and have a nice day in the park.

Up by the stage there were a group of parents dancing with children. The kids were having a ball, the parents, too. This is great, kids need to see live performances and what better place. Their experience was much better than the little ones running amok while their parents all chatted like magpies. Selfish bastards. And to think, the park wouldn't let me bring my dog. Why?

Today is our little girl's birthday

Being parents mean you no longer turn on your planetary axis but on your child's. The world slows when they are small to give you time to learn about each other. Time for you to bring them from their world into yours. Your steps become tiny as they run to keep up until you stride together side by side. Hoping all along you've prepared them for the lives they'll live without your guidance.

From the beginning your hearts are tied together, and though miles will eventually separate you, the gentle tug is always there reminding you both you are made of the same cells, the same breath, the same stardust.

We wish our lil bird the most happy day and look back on all the love and good things she's accomplished this year knowing a year isn't made up of days and hours and minutes but of memories.

Happy Birthday

Wish I'd said that

It's not a lie, it's a gift for fiction.

Growing up: Wild Violets

ED note: I follow a blog from Chicago, Mr Brown Thumb, and his latest post reminded me of a long forgotten memory. I found his writings on Blogs of Note and his blog is being picked up by Chicago Now an offshoot of the Chicago Tribune, their new online venture. He is funny AND informative.

In my early years I remember my grandmother Emily, everyone called her Pruce, lived in a small house with her second husband Virgil. The house was Pruce's before they married and I guess they saw no need to move anywhere else. Pruce had raised her children there after her first husband, Thomas died.

The house was tiny, just two bedrooms, with the kitchen being the biggest room in the house. There was a walk-in pantry and only one bathroom but who even noticed then. No one but the wealthy had more than one toilet. The tub was big and deep and sat on four claw feet. The underneath of the cast iron tub was painted the color of the walls but occasionally the paint would chip off to reveal layers of the past decor. Baths in that tub were the greatest and it was usually with a cousin or two but it was big enough for the whole family. I can still feel how cold that porcelain was until the water warmed the iron tub. If we were lucky we'd get a bubble bath which was a few sprinkles of Tide detergent. I'm surprised we had any skin left after that.

There was a register in the floor and after a bath on cold days momma would spread a towel on the grate so you could warm up while she dried you off. The coal furnace in the basement would be humming along sending a continuous blast of warm air through the register. I was too young to shovel coal so it seems like a great way to heat the house. To leave the bathroom you had to run from register to register, jumping like little goats, until you got to the bedroom and changed your clothes. As an adult, I know it was two steps to the register and two steps to the bedroom but as a little kid it was a race to stay warm.

The basement was always a bit scary for me down a few rickety stairs and always smelling of dust and mildew. The furnace took up most of the space but a little corner held the washer. It was a big tub with a wringer. The two rollers had an electric motor and you had to be very careful not to get caught. Today we say, "Don't get your panties in a bunch" then it was "Don't get your tit in the wringer" -- same thing.

Grandma had a big wooden paddle and she'd fish out the clothes from soapy water of the tub and feed them through the wringer into a deep sink. Then she'd drain the water, refill the tub and rinse the clothes, then back through the wringer again. You can see why wash days took all day and this was seen as modern for the time. The clothes would go into a basket and upstairs to hang outside on the clothes line.

She'd fill her apron pocket with clothes pins and stand on a box while I helped by handing her the wet clothes. Not the sheets because they were too big and heavy even though she'd run them through the wringer a few times.

Because the clothes line would sag under the weight of the wet clothes you had to prop it up. For that there was a long stick with a notch at one end. You'd put that notch in the center of the line and lift everything up. This made sure nothing like the heavy wet sheets would drag in the grass. Everyone had this method and I remember a cousin getting whipped from my Dad's father for running through the wet laundry and knocking out the post. You only had to see that once before you figured out we couldn't play there but there was something quite strange about running through the wet sheets as the wind flapped them about.

Besides the clothes line, the back yard was big enough for a small garden and a sidewalk leading to a detached garage set on the alley. Along that sidewalk, in the spring, the wild violets would grow and it was our job to carefully pick hand fulls and bring them to Grandma where she'd put a little water in a jelly glass and set them on the kitchen table. If you grew up in the 50s who culd forget the jelly glass, everyone had them. Good old Welch's Grape Jelly. On the shady side of the house the lily of the valleys grew and when there were enough they'd get added to our bouquets. We learned at an early age what not to pick because my cousin Dana and I got our butts spanked for picking some of Grandma's strawberries, green of course, and proudly bringing them to her.

There were no fences but we knew not to wander anywhere or play in the alley for the fear of the switch. When I was old enough we could walk down the alley to a little store about a half a block away. The proprietor was Herb and he knew everyone and everyone's kids and grandkids. You'd walk in the back screen door to the distinctive smell of butcher shop. Herb had penny candies and he'd always stop what he was doing to sell you some. I'm sure it wasn't his biggest sale of the day. Next door to Herb's was the Dewald Tap, a small neighborhood bar that my Grandpa Virgil frequented. Virgil love his beer. This bar was not unlike the one in the Simpson's and anytime they show Moe's Tavern I'd remember the Dewald Tap. The door was always open and it was dark in there but, on occasion, we'd peek in to see the bar stools and hear the jukebox.

So this post was suppose to be about violets but somehow it got me thinking of a variety of different memories on East Creighton in Ft Wayne, Indiana in the 50s. You see, it was at this kitchen table that I heard most of the stories, met most of the relatives and have most of my Indiana memories.

Growing up: the Plunge

During the summer we'd meet at the "Plunge," the local swimming pool, and spend the morning there. It was 25 cents to swim for the morning session and for a 10 cents deposit you could put your dry clothes in a cubby hole. You'd get a big old rusty safety pin that made a hole in your bathing suit with the number of the cubby and when you brought it back you'd get your dime. Everyone said the old man behind the counter would go through your stuff and steal your money but I never had much stuff and never lost any money. You could change your clothes in the locker room but I always wore my bathing suit under my shorts and t-shirt. Who wants to waste time plus the dressing room smelled of chlorine and mold so you wanted to get outside quickly.

We'd swim, really just play in the roped off shallow water, until the lifeguards blew the whistle for a rest. This would give everyone a chance to use the bathroom, yeah, like most didn't just pee in the pool, or rest a few minutes, or buy a snack from the vending machine. If I had an extra dime I'd buy a bag of Corn Nuts. They were salty and tasted like chlorine but I loved them. We'd sit on the deck waiting to be whistled back in and it seemed like ages. At noon they'd blow the whistle again and that was the end of the first session. You had to leave but you could come back at 1:00 and pay another quarter. Most of the time that would be enough water even if you were only ten.

Even if you went alone there were kids you knew from school and summer was a great time for the Plunge. There was a girl who's mother wouldn't let her go alone, which was so embarrassing. The mom would pick me up and drive us there then sit on a blanket outside the pool fence. My friend was an only child and she could swim because she had private lessons, but mostly we just splashed and played Marco Polo. I could swim a little but to go beyond the roped off section you had to prove to the lifeguard you could swim the width of the pool. I tried it once and then some punk boy kicked me in the gut as I was swimming by. The lifeguards only gave you one chance so it was back to the shallow end.

We could only watch the older kids in the deep center of the pool jumping off the diving boards. Every once in a while some brave soul would climb the ladder to the high dive. There would be a hush as they walked to the end of the board and jumped off. Some would cheer and clap others boo, tough judges there. Once someone thought they were brave and climbed the ladder only to climb back down again. I felt sorry for that boy as everyone booed him as he walked back to his friends. This is where I learned about peer pressure.

After the swim session we'd go across the street to a little mom and pop store, I think it was called the Corner, and buy candy. You'd have your wet bathing suit rolled up in your wet towel and one of the owners would always yell at us not to leave them on the floor as we perused the candy selections. My favorite was Abba-zaba, a taffy with peanut butter on the inside. You could chew that forever and it would last me all the way home, usually barefoot hopping from one shady spot to the next.

Wish I'd said that

On Twitter there is something going on about how to create your Porn Name with the suggestion of your pet's name and the name of the street you grew up on. Mine is rather tame, Sassy Fairbanks. So I'm reading some of these Twits and someone changes the rules: your SS# and mother's maiden name, please. Too funny.

Editor note: I just realized lil bird's would be Armstrong Downing. Unfortunately I realized it while drinking my tea. I must go wipe-up my desk.

I have a green daughter

Mother's Day present from my thoughtful daughter. It is a recycled pot filled with drought resistant plants. How great is that? She really knows her momma.

Thanks lil bird.

Happy Mother's Day

Growing up: Culver Center

Culver City was a nice little town in Southern California to grow up in during the early 60s. Tucked in between the Pacific Ocean and downtown Los Angeles, and in the sunny part of the state, what's not to like about it.

We had so much freedom then and I can remember, at age 10 or so, walking by myself to friends houses or to the big shopping area, Culver Center, about a mile and a half, to meet friends. During the summer we rarely wore shoes and when we'd cross the hot blacktop street we'd either run or walk on the painted white crosswalk lines. I guess I got fed up with this and bought myself a pair of Zorries, that's what we called thongs, and wore them home only to rub a nasty blister between my toes.

Culver Center was one of the first shopping centers in Southern California and the strong merchant's association, with the help of the city council, kept May Company, a large department store chain, from moving in. The block had a long narrow street with businesses on both sides and large parking lots in the back. At one end was a Bank of America and a Market Basket, a chain super market. There were a few shoe stores and both men and women's clothing stores, all privately owned. At the other end was Hellmans Hardware and a toy store where I bought a hula hoop when it was such a craze. I paid one dollar in 1959 and that was a few weeks allowance.

Mom worked at Torrey's, a jewelry store in Culver Center so if I stopped by she'd give me a quarter. When she was almost 16 my sister worked across the street at W.T. Grants, the five-and-dime store. Her job was to dip up ice cream cones and sell candy and we all fell in love with Jordan Almonds when she had that job. You could go in and buy a nickel's worth of candy in a little white bag. Most of the time my money was spent on a Drum Stick ice cream or root beer Popsicle at Thrifty Drug Store. We never had enough money to go to Curries so that experience was reserved when adults were paying the bill and it was a treat. Their "Mile High" ice cream cones were wonderful and there was a giant replica of it outside. It was the pole to hold up the front of the building painted like a huge ice cream cone. Fascinating to a ten-year-old.

Culver Center had a music store, Martin's. There was a little soundproof booths, only big enough for two people, with turntables so you could listen to a record to make sure you liked it. My sister remembers seeing a young Johnny Mathis come to Martin's Music to sign autographs. What a heartthrob he was.

A big favorite with my sister's friends was Wellingtons. This was a drug store but they had a soda counter and a magazine rack. What teenager didn't love Wellingtons. They made hamburgers but I loved the grilled cheese sandwiches, that was my treat. I can remember listening to the big kids talk about the scandal of the day, Payola.

Since my mom worked on Friday evenings Daddy would often take his two daughters to Ships for dinner. Ships was a coffee shop and though it wasn't on Culver Center street it was on the next corner. Everyone went to Ships with it's 50s modern deco and coffee shop fare but it was too expensive to be a teen hangout. Being a small town you would see many familiar families in line for a table. Fried shrimp and a baked potato I thought that was the best. My sister loved the boysenberry deep-dish cobbler. They came out hot with a scoop of ice cream. They had toasters at each table. Who knows, it was the 50s.

During Christmas they decorated all the store fronts and the street and parked Santa's Sleigh in front of the toy store. You could just walk up and sit on his lap to tell him your holiday wish, no photographers waiting to take your photo but mom or dad could snap one if they had a camera. I was in third grade when I realized a teacher from our school was Santa. I never told anyone for fear of not getting any presents but when I sat on his lap I saw it was him. To me he looked like a sad Santa and as an adult I'm sure there was some humiliation taking this part-time job. Teachers have never been paid what they deserve.

Most of Culver Center is gone now. A Ralph's market took over the Market Basket and Ships has gone the way of most 50s coffee shops. It was torn down and it's now a Starbucks and a juice stand. Grants and Wellington's are gone too and the Thrifty's is a Rite-Aid but I can't help thinking that it was there when I needed it and I'm glad for that.

No lint

Oh this is pathetic. You know the lint you clean out of filter on your dryer? Well, if you wash a load of everyday clothes, dry them, and have no lint afterwards; your clothes are old. Mine seems to be pathetically old.

What a dope

Manny Ramirez has really got himself into trouble this time. He's brought shame to himself and a team and city that took him in. I usually want to give people the benefit of the doubt and hear the whole story but if it looks like a pig and smells like a pig … and this does; then he's a pig. I hope the Dodger's let him go.

The drug he tested positive for is HCG. It is one of dozens of substances prohibited under baseball's drug policy. Players can call a hotline to check on the legality of any substances, and they can obtain a therapeutic use exemption for any legitimate medical use of a banned substance. So did Manny think he was smarter than everyone else? Or was he just too stupid.

Thanks Manny, I hope you rot in hell.

G**** H***

My office window faces the front of the house. Yes, I have an office and for the life of me I can't figure out why I need an office but it's my space; I've claimed it. He has the entire outside, garage, yard, storage area and I have two rooms; my office and a miniature room I laughingly call my studio. I share my workspace with two large stand-alone closets with drawers and storage. It is also crammed with "stuff" waiting to find a home whether it's going off to a charitable organization or the trash, I'm still trying to decide.

At first these cupboards were to house my artwork and supplies but I found I really needed some more space for those big-box food items and it's now become the Glory Hole. To glass blowers it's the furnace, miners; the opening of a mine, but my mom always gave that name to a large cupboard where you stored food.

Typing those two words, G**** H*** is going to get me into a whole bunch of trouble. You see G**** H*** has some porn reference and there will be a lots of people, surprised people by Google-ing those two words and coming up with this rather tame site.

Third Eye: Open

Ajna Chakra

After I'd had that lightening bolt experience and started painting again I shared my first pastel with a docent friend and she immediately said it opened my Third Eye. This is an Eastern spiritual reference to vision. It did get me thinking. Is there a special part in your brain that if repressed kills your creativity?

Some researchers have suggested that the third eye is in fact the partially dormant, pineal gland which resides between the two hemispheres of the brain. This pineal gland has some cells that resemble the photoreceptor cells in the eye and some reptiles can sense light via that third eye

Do I believe this? I'm such a skeptic which leaves me in a place where I don't believe much of anything. Raised in a Catholic family I tend not to agree with anything from Rome but do feel somehow we, as organisms, have a connection. Whether it's electrically or biologically or spiritual, I have no idea but feel some invisible connection.

Listening to NPR, National Public Radio, I heard an interview with Bruce Hood, chair of developmental psychology and director of the Cognitive Development Centre at the University of Bristol in southwest England. He's written a book, Supersense: Believing the Unbelievable. What he said was superstition is baked into our human nature. Humans are born with brains designed to make sense of the world and that sometimes leads to beliefs that go beyond any natural explanation. To be true they would have to be supernatural and it's these supernatural beliefs that bind us together into a society. If you get time, listen to the interview it is thought provoking.

So, are you superstitious?

Remember Yom Hashoah

Last week was Holocaust Remembrance Day. Because it follows the Hebrew calendar it falls on different days. Next year it will be April 11. I'm posting this because I have a number of Jewish friends and like them, I don't want anyone to forget the horrors.

To augment the family income, my mom was a dressmaker in her spare time and she made an acquaintance with the owners of the local fabric store, Joe and Pauline Meyerhoff. I understood their thick accents meant they weren't from the United States but I'd never asked where they were from.

A trip to this yard goods store, for a nine-year-old, was fun so I never minded tagging along. The deep shelves lining the walls were stacked with long rolls of fabric with the smaller bolts sitting on tables. They were neatly arranged by the type of fabric and then into similar hues. I was fascinated by the color and can even remember the smells which, as an adult I know now, were from the dyes.

In the front of the store, near the windows, was a wide low table was used to measure and cut the fabric. Pauline would roll out the fabric, lay it flat then slice it off with the sharp long handled shears. If it were near the end Pauline would measure the remaining fabric and always say, "Only a few inches I'll give you a good price." I think she always did, I never heard my mom say anything bad about Pauline. After she was done Joe would quickly re-roll the bolts and place them back on the shelves. I think Joe was the neat one. They worked well together.

In the back of the store were racks of buttons, zippers and thread and I never tired runny my fingers over myriad of colors. I was convinced, if you tried hard enough, you could tell colors by touch and would experiment every time I was there. My successes only reinforced my theory; my failures meant I need more practice.

Pauline was a sweet woman though always seemed a bit sad to me while Joe was outgoing and gregarious. He would talk to me, not as a child but, as an adult and it made me feel special. Of course the of candy he had for me didn't hurt. My mom would buy her fabric but chat as well and what they talked about I have no idea. The Meyerhoffs learned momma was a dressmaker and would give out her phone number to customers needing her service. She got a lot of jobs from their store.

One afternoon while watching Pauline cut fabric, I noticed something on her forearm and, as children would do, was caught staring. At first she pulled her cardigan sleeve down to cover it and my mom admonished me for staring but she then called me closer. "Did you notice my tattoo, she asked?" I said yes and she then, after asking my mother's permission, proceeded to quietly tell me why she had the tattoo.

When Joe and I were younger we lived in Germany. We knew each others families and when we were old enough, we got married. From across the table Joe added, "She stole my heart when I was your age." Pauline waved him off and with her usual quite voice went on. There were some wicked people who hated all the Jews and put us in prison just for what we believed. Young and old, brothers and sister and husbands and wives; we all went to the prison camps. They made us work hard and every day some of our friends or neighbors or family died. They fed us horrible food and many starved.

By this time Joe had come to stand next to Pauline and wrapping his arms around his wife he added he would eat no matter how bad the food because he knew they would survive somehow and get out. Pauline smiled softly and said this was true and Joe would often force her to eat something. She turned to him, gently touched his hand, and said he did save my life.

We were some of the lucky ones and when released we learned Joe and I were the only ones left from both our families so with nothing to keep us in Germany, we left and came to the United States to start over. Now we have lovely American friends who have made us feel very welcome even if we are Jews. The wicked people put a number on our arms that would never come off. Now it just reminds all of us never to forget.

Even at such a young age I understood the pain these two people went through and regretfully, had a million questions I did not ask. I did ask my parents about what Pauline had told me and they said it was all true. I think that is when I realized there were evil people in the world.

There are very few survivors from the prison camps these days and I would love to find out what happen to these two dear people. There was a famous survivor names Joe Meyerhoff but he was a professor on the East coast. I might not even have the correct spelling of their last name but I do remember they kindness and could never understand why someone would want to kill them.

Kitchen stories: Little Crow

My father, one of three boys and two girls, had a bit of a different name and I never did find out where the name came from. His full name was Dorus Eugene Eley but everyone called him Dory. That's all I remember him being called but when we left Indiana to come to California in 1957 he changed his name to Gene. I guess he never liked the name.

This photo is of Daddy at about three-years-old and I love that you can see the shadow of the photographer to the left. My Grandfather Howard did take photos and developed and printed them himself so I would assume that was him taking this photo. This is unmistakable as Gene.

His older brother was named Gayle, yet another odd name for a boy but get this, his sisters were Harriet and Bernadette. The last boy, Roger. Whew, the cycle of odd names was broken. I never asked my grandmother, Lavon just what she was thinking when she named the kids but then her name was odd, Lavon Sumaria.

My uncle Gayle had a nickname and I only remember hearing it a few times as a kid. He really took after his father Howard and had a lot of his traits, a quick temper being one of them. His first wife Margaret was a good match for him because her temper was as bad as his.

Margaret was dear to me, she would babysit me from time to time and showered me with attention. She had three boys and would have loved a daughter. I was only about five when I remembered a particularly bad argument of theirs. They'd scream at each other like crazy and this time Gayle must have really made Aunt Margaret mad because as he was leaving she threw a kitchen chair at him, it hit the wall and one leg stuck. When he came back they patched things up but that did leave quite an impression of me not to mention a hole in the wall.

At times my dad, especially when he wanted to make his older brother mad, called him Crow. The nickname would make him furious so it wasn't used often. I never knew what it meant until years later, when my Uncle Roger moved to California. Roger was a great story teller and I have most of the family history from him. He was relating the story of Doggie Votaw to me and then asked if I'd remembered they called his brother Crow. He then related the following.

When Gayle was just a little kid he'd drop his pants and pee just anywhere. His mom would scold him but this didn't make him stop. One day he decided it would be fun to pee through a knothole in the fence. He dropped his pants and poked his little penis through the hole. There was a big old crow on the other side and it decided that was one great worm and grabbed a hold. Gayle ran home without his pants screaming bloody murder the whole way and from then on they called him Crow. You can see why, as an adult, he hated that name.

My mother is Frog Clan

Frogs are good signs.
The Frog is a doctor and healer, seer,
and fortune-teller.
The Frog is a messenger of rain …

We need the Frog now.

Today is Earth Day so all you losers not recycling or saving water get with the damn program, will ya?

Last Friday darling companion and myself went to the local Farmer's Market and the city had a handful of booths set up to remind folks what to do. At every booth we both said, "We do that."

So what's left for us? We've cut our water and electric consumption way back. We ride public transportation and my darling rides his bike around town. We don't use plastic bags unless we recycle them so will you fat bastards get off the couch and recycle, now!

One last rant; to the designers and makers of washing machines: Now you come out with energy efficient machines. Where were you ten years ago?

To those of you that are already friendly to Mother Earth, thank you. Thank you very much and keep up the good work.

The little guy

His first pix on the blog he was only a few hours old and crying. Here he is much happier and all of 17 days old. I got to hold him this morning and see his mommy and daddy. All is well. He's a very cuddly little guy.

Kitchen stories: Best of Show

If I were to judge my father's mother Lavon on her cooking I'd give her the blue ribbon on her pies. Of my two grandmothers her pies were winners. She was the slowest cook I'd ever seen but the results were fantastic.

Her pies were nothing fancy, always a fruit pie, but crust that was perfect every time. I'd watched her many times as a child but had the pleasure of watching her make pies when she'd visit California for the winter. She'd stopped using lard but Crisco still gave her a very tender crust, though she said she missed that flavor. She could roll a ball of dough into a perfect circle every time and if you've ever tried you'll appreciate this talent. Each pie maker has their own way to finish off the edge of the pie. My mom and Lavon used the tines of a fork to decorate the edge. I pinch the edge into a scallop but ever so often I'll use their method just to remember their method. Though my mom's mother Emily was a good cook she was more of a cake or cookie baker. My mom Lorna learned a lot from her mother-in-law Lavon when it came to pies.

Much of Lavon's life was spent watching the pennies and when she cooked she made use of everything. I still can't throw out and extra pie dough. You either made a small pie or baked the extra on a cookie sheet sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. That was always the treat I loved best but sometimes she'd have enough and make a "Vaseline Pie." What it was really was a Sugar Pie. This is sugar, milk and an egg baked into a custard; it only looks like Vaseline but tastes great. I remember eating the last piece of sugar pie once and caught hell from my uncle Roger. My pie making skills are some of my best but I've tried to make a sugar pie but it never comes out like she did. I think it was just her "touch" that made it so good.

Now blooming at the Getty Center Central Garden

This wonderful leafy plant is now blooming and can be found at the beginning of the Central Garden at the Getty Center.

The Honey Bush, or melianthus major, is over five foot tall with a beautiful spiky burgundy flower. It comes from South Africa and although toxic when taken internally, it is used medicinally by their local people. They mostly use the leaves to make poultices that are applied directly to wounds, bruises, backache and rheumatic joints. I'm allergic to things that aren't toxin, so I'll pass, thank you.

Since the Central Garden is seasonal we have plants that come and go and sometimes it's a bit of work to keep up on the names. We have a wonderful contact who knows all things growing and he's a life saver when it comes to names of plants.

Kitchen stories: Those poor Colvin children

Around 1928 my mother's family lived in Greenville, Michigan and her father Thomas worked for Gibson Refrigerator Company. He had a management position and they had more money than when they lived in Indiana. They weren't rich but they did live comfortably. Comfortable enough to send the two older girls to a Saturday matinee once in a while.

Greenville was a very small town and like all towns they had their share of financial hard times. A citizens committee thought it a good idea to identify children of the families in need and treat them to an afternoon at the local movie theater. The newspaper also took pictures of this philanthropic event and when my mom and her sister showed up in front row of that picture printed in the Sunday paper, there was hell to pay. Needless to say, that was the last Saturday free matinee they attended.

Celebrating Spring

In 2006 we took an Easter Hike. Would like to do the same but I've volunteered for extra duty at the Getty Center that won't be possible. Maybe next week my beloved and I can get outdoors; we both need it.

Holidays are always the hardest to staff and since we don't celebrate Easter I'm celebrating Spring at the Getty. What better place. The garden is looking like Spring has sprung though the grass is a little ratty. It's been seeded and it takes a few weeks before it is lush and wonderful again. I always feel a bit sorry for the visitor who comes when it looks so bad but we have to do it sometime and I guess the timing has something to do with the weather. I always finds something that is spectacular and highlight that for visitors to reassure them they've come at the perfect day.

The weather is a guess these days and it's the same all over the country. I heard they had wildfires in Oklahoma and tornadoes in most of the south. I shouldn't complain about windy weather. Wear a coat or not? I know it's Spring when I have turtlenecks and shorts in the same load of laundry.

My Springtime wish would be for everyone to take a break from the news and do something that makes them happy. The news sure won't. What ever happens, put it in your rear view mirror and keep on driving.

Kitchen stories: Nicknames

My Great Grandpa Votaw, on my Dad's side, was a character. They called him "Doggie". His true name was Charles D. Votaw, born in 1878. Grandpa's wife died in 1941 and he and his "housekeeper" lived in a little house in Berne, Indiana for as long as I can remember. He called this woman his housekeeper but when I was older my mom told me it was his live-in girlfriend. She was with him until the day he died in 1968. I saw him just three years before that and he had not changed a bit from when I was a kid.

His house didn't have indoor plumbing because he'd say, "No one's gonna crap in my house." Us kids though it was funny though my Grandmother Lavon, his daughter, didn't like that sort of talk at all. He also had a little red pump in the kitchen sink. I guess he washed up there but he never seemed to clean to me.

There was always a garden and when we'd visit we'd sit outside this tiny house under the shade of a huge tree. I can't remember if he chewed or smoked but he always smelled of tobacco. Grandpa would always have a story to tell and how he got his nickname was pretty funny.

Before motorized trucks hauled goods around the country the teamsters did and when Charles was young he was pretty good with a team of horses so he became a teamster for the local railroad station. He was a tall skinny kid but strong as an ox and would sometimes stand in the wagon, a whip in one hand, and the reins in the other. He never wore much of a heavy coat, no, they worked to hard to get cold but he did fancy a cap with ear flaps. You could tie up the flaps when it was warmer but he said, "It was a damn waste of time 'cuz they'd always fall down, so most of the time they'd be flappin' in the wind."

One spring day he was late with a delivery and was "urging" the team on down the road at a good clip, standing up on the wagon with his ear flaps blowing in the wind. When he got to the station he was met by his boss and a few other teamsters. "Votaw, his boss bellowed, you look like a damn fool dog in that cap." The other men laughed, so did Grandpa, and the name stuck. From then he was called Doggie Votaw.

We have nothing to fear but ourselves

Not too long ago I wrote a piece on me being lazy. For what it's worth, I actually did something yesterday. And when I say "something" I mean painting. I "do" something every day. Cook, laundry, clean, well not everyday but I keep busy.

It was my Yoga instructor I have to thank for getting me back on a somewhat creative journey. She said, during our Savasana on Saturday morning, don't let fear run your life. So I'm laying there and wondering what am I afraid of? Is fear keeping me from being creative?

Then this bolt of lightening came through the gym and singled out me; I am afraid.

When I started in pastels, almost two years ago, I thought I'd sell some of my work. I know they aren't masterpieces but decent enough for someone to shell out a few bucks for and hang on their wall. This journey took me on the road to market my work. I made prints of my work for the folks who would love to own my work but didn't want to buy the original, matted same and framed them; quite nicely I have to admit. I bought a booth at a few Holiday craft shows and thought I'd priced my work reasonably. There we small miniatures of my work in the form of greeting cards, too.

When I couldn't get anyone to purchase anything more than a few of the greeting cards I'd created I packed up everything and put it all back in my studio. Shut the door always thinking I'd get back to it as soon as I'd washed the taste of defeat from my mouth.

Comes February 2008. I brake my wrist (read posts with label "wrist") and I am down for the count. My wrist still hurts to do somethings but painting is not one of them. Good excuse not to paint, right? My beloved never pushes, never asks why; I stopped in November of 2007. I did wonder but didn't try to find out the reason. Self doubt wraps its self around you like a wet blanket.

Yesterday I saw my husbands old boots in the corner of the stairs to the garage and knew I had to paint them. I don't care if it ever gets framed or sees the light of day-- I did it for myself and I feel pretty good about it. I'm not afraid if anyone doesn't like it nor wants to buy it. I'm only sharing this photo because I want someone to know I've found my way back to my studio.

Oh, and the Vodka bottle in the studio? Naw, not what you think. I just don't have room anywhere else for the booze.

Kitchen stories: Lavon Sumaria

Everyone has two parents and I'm no different, there. Relating to my beloved about the interesting information I'd found investigating my mother's maternal side, the Truesdells he asked what about my dad's family. We were as close to them living only about twenty miles away but I don't remember as much.

My Grandfather Howard Brian Eley, born 1896, I remembered as a gruff old cranky man. Stiff as a board and when my mom and dad divorced in the early 60s, disowned my mom, sister and me. I never did understand and it was hurtful to have your Christmas card returned with a note not to contact them anymore. He relented slightly and did have a relationship with his son but I never had much to do with him and when he died in 1976, I did not attend his funeral.

There are much better memories of my grandmother, Lavon Samaria Votaw. She was quiet and kind and a pretty good cook. Born in 1902, she always referred to as "ought two", and married at 18. She was a proper church attendee and I was surprised to learn, just last week, she was pregnant when they married.

Lavon had little formal education but in her later years could speak on any popular subject. She read the paper cover to cover and loved sports though had trouble remembering the name of a LA Lakers basketball player from the late 90s, Vlade Divac. She called him the "bearded foreigner" and that name stuck with all of us.

Lavon never cursed and I rarely remember her raising her voice. She was patient with the grand kids and secretary of the Eastern Star for more than fifty years. Not one to give up on anything. She had five children the youngest coming quite late in life. My uncle Roger, as an adult, related how difficult it was to have a father too old to play catch with him as a kid. He grew up like an only child and I think, very lonely.

Three boys and two girls lived in a very small little house that Lavon occupied until about a year before her death. She was still spry of mind but her poor body had given out and rather than fall down the basement steps, again, her remaining sons moved her to a retirement home. Not an easy decision for anyone, when my Dad visited her in the home he said it was the saddest moment he ever had.

In the early 80s she would travel from Decatur, Indiana to my dad, Gene and his wife Mary's in Palm Desert and spend the winter. I believe this was the joy of her life. It was happy for me because I got to see her as an adult and she even came to stay with me for a week. So happy to have my young daughter enjoy some of the same things as I did.

Lavon confided to me her pain in losing her two daughters. Harriet died suddenly in her 40s and Bernadette, dying in a car crash on vacation, was in her 60s. Grandma said it was difficult losing Howard, her husband, but to outlive your children was heartbreaking. She would outlive one more, her first born son, Gayle. He died when she was in her 90s. She was a kind woman but strong in spirit and I might get a little of her stubbornness from her.

Welcome: baby

Here's our second baby, the one with the blue booties.

He was born today and checked in at a whopping 8lbs 2 oz. 20 1/2 inches long. Momma and Daddy are doing fine.

Welcome little guy.

An attention whore

Cooking has been the thread through both sides of our family and I seem to have passed that love on to my daughter which make me quite happy. I do it for the praise; I'm an attention whore and love the adulation. The challenge is important, too but praise is what I live on so I cook, and feed, and cook some more. This sometimes, for me, can be a problem.

The Teardrop Gathering at Lake Perris was great this year and since I'd won a outdoor dutch oven in the raffle last year I participated in Friday's DO potluck. Got lots of great ideas for managing my outdoor cooking and we ate some pretty good food, too. Some pretty ordinary food as well which is the reason for the post.

Outdoor Dutch Oven cooking is not for the faint of heart nor feeble of muscle. Visit our food blog, Peanut Butter Etouffee and see. You are cooking with hot coals, no way other than guess work to regulate, and sometimes, an unfriendly environment. I've seen the enemy, and it is WIND. Did I mention the weight? My 12 inch weighs all of 25 pounds. So why would you just use it to heat up something canned when you've got a camp stove?

The DO is a cast iron beautiful bit of engineering. Heavy pot on three, perfectly balanced legs leaving room underneath for the coals. The lid, heavy with a lip that allows coals on top without getting them into your food. This lid fits tightly on the pot but can be turned easy so there are no "hot" spots while cooking. My darling made me a lid lifter and pretty much anything I ask for. Nice to know someone who welds. Ok, so why not use it to its limit? I love cooking tools but only use the correct tool for the job. Jeeze, I'm a snob.

Once I made a large pot of chili verde while camping and with it was serving beans. Since you can stack one pot upon the other and take advantage of the heat from the bottom, I had beans in the smaller pot on top of the chili verde. I was only really heating the beans so the camp stove would have worked better. The DO is no easy critter to handle and clean up. Empty, it requires hot coals to boil water while you scrub out the pot, rinse and repeat until clean. Never, ever put soap in a DO it ruins the seasoning. The last thing I want to do is heat something in it.

Oh, but if you want a real treat, like biscuits, lovely fluffy biscuits when you are camping by all means get yourself started. I warn you, it's addicting.

Kitchen stories: Chickens

When I was young, about six, I spent a week with my grandmother Emily and her second husband Virgil Rollins at their lake cottage. She met Virgil at the General Electric plant in Ft Wayne. He was a truck driver, she worked in the factory, and they dated for a long time. Finally, in 1952, she agreed to marry him and he moved in with her. I believe he owned the cottage at Snow Lake. Virgil never had children of his own and loved being part of this growing family. Each of the girls, my aunts Mary Alice and Marcella and my mom had two children and the boys, Uncles Tom and Joe produced an additional 11 grand children between them.

It was always fun to be go to the lake, Virgil loved all the grand kids and was a kind patient man. He supplied the love that Emily couldn't but she loved him more than she loved anyone else. Adversity was to visit Emily once more; in the late 50s Virgil was diagnosed with throat Cancer. She would take care of him for less than a year before he passed away. After he died she sold the lake house because she'd spent her happiest days there and it was torture without him by her side.

On the way to the lake we stopped at a farm and bought three chickens and the next morning Virgil took them down to the lake and axed their heads off. They ran around headless flapping their wings and when they'd stopped their running he took them into grandma to clean. As I think about it now I'm horrified at the thought of that sight but then it didn't bother me in the least.

Sitting on a chair in the corner of the kitchen I watched Emily pull most of the feathers then she proceeded to clean out the "inards" and remove the final small feathers. She taped a few of the big feathers together on a piece of folded newspaper, attached a string, and tied that around my head telling me it was my war bonnet. That might have been the only time she did anything fun with me so I cherish that memory. The big reward was the perfectly fried chicken for dinner that night.

Emily cooked many meals at the lake and one of my favorites was a fish caught in the lake; Sun Perch. Grandpa Virgil and my uncles would fish all Saturday and bring home buckets of them. She'd always clean them herself but not remove the bones. There would be big heaping platters of the fried fish along with corn on the cob and always bread with butter just in case you swallowed a bone. From an early age us kids knew how to remove the spine and all the little bones from our fish. The bread was always there but I never remember anyone choking.

When Virgil took us kids fishing it was only about twenty feet from shore. I realized later we really weren't fishing. He'd bait a line for us and put it in the water until we got board and wanted to go swimming. I'm sure that's why he kept close to shore, he knew it wouldn't take long for us to lose interest. The only time Virgil raised his voice was when my cousin let all the minnows used as bait go.

In the boat or on the dock we had to wear a life vest whether we could swim or not. I know I didn't swim but could paddle around with the life vest on all day. Best memory was of the mud and if you have not stepped into a lake and felt the soft squishy mud between your toes you've never lived.

Interested in starting at the beginning of these stories? Read Kitchen stories: an ear full

I thought I was just lazy.

Last year I broke my wrist and stopped painting for a while. Now, for some reason I can't start again. It's been troubling me and I keep making excuses for not getting back to the studio. It seems I'll do almost anything to keep from picking up the chalk. It's not because of my wrist, I've worn out that excuse, although "downward facing dog" kicks my butt from time to time.

Writing has become more of a challenge but I'm running out of Kitchen Stories and I've been spending way too much time at the Family History center at the local Mormon church. Not that they aren't all darling people there. I've never met a Mormon I didn't like except when they start to talk religion. Oh wait, I did work with a horrible woman but she was a convert and not born to the LDS church. Horrible. So horrible I won't even talk about her here for fear the page explodes. If I believed in anything I'd believe she was the devil; but I don't. I could start a rant on people who are converts to anything but I'll leave that for a completely different post. Converts who share; suffering bores. That includes people who've quite smoking, lost weight, found Jesus, Jehovah, Muhammad or blogging. Keep it to yourself.

So, who am I? A quote from Mary Todd Lincoln might be my mantra, My evil genius Procrastination has whispered me to tarry 'til a more convenient season.

After reading Wiki's definition of procrastination I feel like pulling down the shades, curling up and closing my eyes for a while. Are you afflicted with this illness?

Kitchen stories: The Great Depression

My mother Lorna was the first of five children in her family. Three girls then two boys. Before the boys were born her Emily and Thomas had a grocery store in Southern Indiana, Jeffersonville. I don't think it was very large and they lived above the store. I do know they had a wood stove for heat and cooking and Emily said she could cook anything on that stove. You didn't dare let the coals die during the winter or you'd freeze to death and even the children, at an early age, learned to keep the fire going. There was always a pot of coffee at the back of the stove for anyone coming by.

In the late twenties they moved to Greenville, Michigan and Thomas went to work for the Gibson Refrigerator Company and, as a family history states, had something to do with the design of the gas refrigerator. I've done a small bit of investigation but found nothing to substantiate this claim.

What I do remember is momma telling of the Christmas they were in Michigan and how much money they had. Everyone had lots of gifts to open and each package her mother opened had luxuries like electric toasters and waffle irons with an added bonus; there were $100 bills slipped inside. It wasn't long after that the Great Depression hit and they ended up back in Indiana on a farm outside of Ft Wayne, in Monroeville. Thomas told the children he wanted them to know the joys of growing up on a farm as he and Emily did but my Aunt Marci confided it was was cheaper to live there and grow some of your own food. From time to time different relatives would move in with them and on Sunday Emily always cooked enough for a visitor or two.

Once Emily, knowing they were having a difficult time, told a city relative to come by and she'd give her a chicken. Grandma asked the husband if he knew how to kill it and he assured her he did. The woman took the chicken then invited them to dinner that Sunday. When they walked it the house it stunk to "high heavens." She didn't gut the chicken and cooked it with the "innards." The chicken was inedible. Emily had her come back to the farm where she gave them both a lesson on butchering a chicken.

The Depression was pretty hard on most city people but on the farm they raised chickens and and had a little truck farm; they even had a calf, they called him Popeye. When Popeye got bigger the three girls loved riding him but one day he was gone and they suspected he was served the next Sunday. When a baby chick would die, which would happen often, they would bury it in a matchbox in the yard complete with good Catholic burial to send it off to the great beyond. She said for a while you couldn't walk through the yard without stepping on a chicky grave.

The youngest, Uncle Joe was six-weeks-old when his father died but somehow Emily Pricella, now called "Pruce", carried on. She tried starting a beauty shop in her house for a while but ended up working at the Perfection Bakery in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. One of the benefits of working there was once a month she could buy a big box of "day old" bread and pastries for a quarter. She'd drag a huge box home on the street car just for the sheer joy it brought her kids. She'd also share with family members that always seemed to show up on that day. She'd also never let the kids eat the Ginger Snaps because she said the swept the floor and put it in the cookies.

Kitchen stories: we all have skeletons

Thomas and Emily stayed in Kentucky until right after my mother Lorna was born. They headed by to Jeffersonville where is family lived. Not much is known about the Colvins. Thomas had a few brothers and sisters and it seems most of the family was on the wrong side of the law. Wilder Colvin was married to a woman named Johanna Dabney from Ohio or Pennsylvania. When Johanna married Wilder her family disowned her. She had a few children and later the family relented and asked to meet her in Ohio. She had no money for a winter coat so she went without, caught pneumonia and died. I don't think the Dabneys had anything else to do with the Colvins after that.

Grandma Emily would tell of her father-in-law, Wilder and his business of counterfeit dollars. Once, when Federal agents were searching the house, Emily stood on a rug holding my mother in her arms. Under the floor boards were the counterfeit dollars. She said she was shaking the whole time. It wasn't long after that exciting episode they left the Colvin house to start out on their own.

Thomas' young brother Dewey. When he was young he and a friend got themselves in a bit of trouble for stealing something minor. For this they were sent to reform school which turned out to be the best education a young lad inclined to larceny could have gotten. When released he fancied himself an outlaw and robbed gas stations, liquor store and the like; did a little time, too. Story has it he got ambitious, robbed a bank, and was shot in the process. At that time you died from getting shot in the process. Now this story was never told but my mother learned about it and was sworn to secrecy for the shame of it. She kept that secret for a very long time.

In the 1980 when genealogy became popular my aunt and her sister-in-law went to Jeffersonville to research some family history. My mom was horrified and told me the story and was afraid the two researchers would find out the truth. When she spoke with her sister she asked tentatively about Uncle Dewey. Yes, they did find some newspaper reports but had known the story for years as their mother told them the same thing and swore them to secrecy, too. Seems Emily told quite a few this "secret."

Kitchen stories: a word from Marci

Taking a little break here. This is from a letter from my Aunt Marci, my mom's youngest sister. She sent this letter after my mom passed away and I'm glad she shared this with me.


This is not a story about Lorna, but, as you will see, there wouldn't have been a story without her.

When she was eighteen Lorna worked at the General Electric. As do all eighteen-year-olds, she spent all of her money on clothes. One payday she came home with a pair of I. Miller shoes. Now I'm not talking just any shoes … I am talking a pair of navy platform sandals. At that time, I. Miller was the Mount Everest of Shoedom. And, the most expensive shoes that Wolf and Dessauer sold. (Wolf and Dessauer was the place to go for swanky clothes in Ft Wayne.)

The next payday she added a silky two-piece navy and white print dress and a navy straw fisherman's cloche. Now if you've not heard of that hat, it's nothing more than a version of a real deep sea fisherman's hat. The difference is Gene Tierney wore one in some movie and instantly every adult female in America was sporting one.

Now comes the good part. I had this adventurist spirited friend, Clare. Together we cooked p this plan to borrow our big sister's clothes and go do something … adventurist!

Lorna actually let me borrow the whole rig. I don't know how I talked her into it, probably agreed to wash her underwear for a year. Trust me, your mother was no push-over.

Comes the night. I don't remember what Clare wore, but picture this--a fifteen-year-old that looked thirteen, with a twelve-year-old body. I am arrayed in a dress that probably wasn't much more than a size too big, a hat half as big as I am, and those magnificent platform shoes.

No one was home when I left or I probably wouldn't have gotten out of the house (what do I mean probably). We meet at the street car line and downtown we go.

We go into the Berghoff Garden Grill, slither into a booth and order a "Tom Collins." To her everlasting credit, the waitress does not laugh.

A few minutes later, we have our two glasses in front of us, and we are prepared to be initiated into adulthood (six years earlier than the law allows).

I take a taste, Clare takes a taste.

"What does this taste like Clare?"

"Lemonade."

"Lemonade with Gin?"

"I don't know what Gin tastes like."

"I don't either, but I think we'd know if there was something besides lemonade."

"Right."

"What should we do?"

"Drink it, pay the bill, and go home."

That's exactly what we did. We never told anyone, even till now, what we did. I carefully put Lorna's outfit back in the closet and that was probably the saddest ending to a great adventure.

The waitress at the Bergoff is still in the kitchen, laughing her fool head off.

For the Irish in all of us

Happy St Patrick's Day

Kitchen stories: Mom's birth

For Grandma Emily Pricella to get off the farm all she had to do was marry a man ten years older than herself. Her future husband, Thomas Perry Colvin, came into her life when she was almost fifteen. He'd worked on their farm as hired help and wanted to marry her. Now her father James didn't want to lose her, she could work in the fields and could even drive a buckboard so I'm sure that's why she wasn't married until she turned sixteen. She was sixteen on January 1, 1922 and one month later married. I believe they ran away since they were married across the Ohio river in La Grange, Kentucky

Le Grange, in Oldham county Kentucky, is an odd little town. The train tracks go right down the center of the small street. Literally, everything stops while the train moves through. It was on the trip to locate our family cemetery in New Albany that my sister, aunt and I wandered over the river into Kentucky to find the birthplace of our mother. She was the only sibling of five to be born in Kentucky and it was a small town with an odd name; Pewee Valley. Mom was always teased with the name of her birthplace but I found later the town is named for a local bird, the Pewee, and had nothing to do with the size of the the quite small city.

Since she wasn't born in a hospital and we had no clue to where they lived, so we drove on through this very small town and ended up in Le Grange. The older section of town had some antique shops as well as some touristy places so we parked and started poking around. Standing in a gift shop I felt the rumble before I heard it and thought we were having an earthquake. Nothing major mind you, I'm quite the expert on the ground moving but I did look up, check to see what was shaking and when I then heard the rumble, glanced outside. I was quite amazed to see a towering locomotive with dozens of cars lumbering up the street just inches from our rental car. We stepped outside to see this sight as did a few other strangers in town; the locals just go about their business.

It's hard to imagine my grandmother at sixteen, newly married and pregnant with her first child. Yes, I've done the math and there was no "happiness ahead." She did come early and grandma tells this story.

It was mid-December and though cold, no snow. They had no car but did have a buckboard and Emily, no stranger to driving one, used it to go to town. God only knows where her husband was but on the 14th, as she was coming back from town, the horse spooked and threw her down on her knees. All alone she got the horse and wagon under control and drove home. It was still a few weeks until her due date but the next day she went into labor. The mid-wife was called and momma, Lorna Georgiana Colvin was born later than night.

I never asked grandma if she were frightened because I don't think she ever was. If she was she never showed that side of herself. Anyone knowing her knew she was a tough old bird and this could be the result of a lifetime of pain and disappointment. She was 25, had five children, one only six-weeks-old, and in the midst of the depression her husband died.

Kitchen stories: Capt Clinton Truesdell

Not all stories heard were funny; some just odd. This was a story not heard as a child so at least sometimes the family was descrete. I was reminded of this part of the family history when my sister and I were investigating the family cemetery in New Albany a few years ago.

Our maternal Grandmother, Emily's family farm was in the southern part of Indiana, New Albany just across the Ohio river from Louisville, Kentucky, and was given to them by her Grandfather, Clinton DeWitt Truesdell, born 1827 in Galla, Ohio. He was a riverboat captain on the Mississippi. Grandma always said St. Louis but some other data says St. Paul; either way he moved commerce on the mighty river.

James Morgan Truesdell, born 1864 in Lawrence, Ohio, was her father. As a young boy he took to the Mississippi as a cabin boy aboard the riverboat, Marrietta out of St Paul. The captain of this boat was Clinton DeWitt Truesdell, his father. I'm not sure how old he was, but James fell in love with a woman and had a child. When he informed his father he was told they couldn't marry. Seems Capt Clinton had an extra marital relationship and this woman was his half-sister. James left the woman and the son and later met and married Susan Cora Very from New Albany, Indiana. These were Grandma Emily's parents.

Clinton gave them the land for their farm and it was there grandmother, Emily Pricilla, January 1, 1906, the seventh of fifteen children was born. Captain Clinton left the river and lived with them on the farm and eventually died there.

Emily's maternal grandparents, Martin and Mary Jane Very, also had a farm in New Albany and it's on that land we found Slate Run, the family cemetery. Grandma spoke fondly of that farm and of the Very grandparents. Martin Very was a kind man. He built a Methodist Church and would let poor families bury they relatives in the cemetery resulting in a number of headstones with no family ties.

Grandma spoke little of her childhood. With all those kids the farming family was extremely poor and her father, by many accounts, was quite lazy. Grandma Susie, on the other hand, was energetic and when she'd say, "I'm gonna take papa his lunch out in the barn," the older kids knew there'd be a new sibling soon.

She did tell of the Spring House, a little house built over the stream used to keep the milk cool and though the children were not allowed in, in the heat of the summer, they'd often sneak down and have a taste of the cool milk. She said knowing it was forbidden made it all that much sweeter.

When she did talk of her time in New Albany it was to relate how very poor they were. All the children needed to work to help support the huge family. I did get the impression she didn't have a happy childhood. She lived through the Influenza 1918 outbreak but lost a good friend. Lifes day-to-day struggle touched her personally when she was nine and came down with the chicken pox. After contracting them her two-year-old brother Cecil Albert died. She always said it was because of her. Sad to think she carried that burden her whole life.

Everyone worked on the farm, even the younger children and when Emily was ten she worked all summer on a neighbor's farm to have money for a warm winter coat. When time came to be paid her mother took the money and she was given a hand-me-down. You can see why she left the farm as soon as she could. The only way for a young, uneducated woman to get away was to marry and when Thomas Perry Colvin, ten years her senior, came by she was more than happy to become his wife. They married in La Grange, Kentucky February 4, 1922; Emily turned 16 the month before. My mother was born in December of that year.

Cell Phone Numbers Go Public; not

I posted something that was in error regarding registering your cell phones so telemarketers could not obtain your number. There is an e-mail circulating as well as some media reports; all in error.

The most important is the following:

Contrary to the e-mail, cell phone numbers are NOT being released to telemarketers, and you will NOT soon be getting telemarketing calls on your cell phone.

There is NO deadline by which you must register your cell phone number on the Registry.

There is only ONE DNC Registry. There is no separate registry for cell phones.

The DNC Registry accepts registrations from both cell phones and land lines. You must call from the phone number that you want to register.

So, no need to rush and register but definitely register. Life is just a little nicer without those pesky calls. If you've registered for more than 31 days and are still getting calls, file a complaint.

File a complaint with the Federal Trade Commission.

One here; one waiting

Our "pink" baby came on Monday and she is a darling little doll. Mommy and Daddy could not be prouder. Pix to follow.

I've not seen her in person but I live across the street and have viewed the stream of family and friends arriving to give witness to this blessed event. Not a voyeur, just watching from my sick-bed. By Monday I'll be good to make a visit. I hope the new smell isn't gone by then.

Baby "blue"? He is somewhat on schedule for April and it would be kind for him to come then but who really knows with these small packages.

It's raining lemons

As an update to the previous post. Life really threw me a few the past week. On Tuesday my darling and I stopped by the local Popeye's restaurant for a quick lunch. It turned into four days in bed for me. Lucky husband didn't eat the same thing because he had to nurse me back to health. He did a fine job though cooking not his forte I couldn't eat anything anyway.

And, because my glass is half full, I lost four pounds.

I do have lemons

Wish I'd said that:

When life hands you lemons, ask for tequila and salt and call me over.