FOUR…THREE…TWO…ONE…HAPPY NEW YEAR!

How can it be possible that a year that started just a day and a wink ago is already coming to an end? 

It is said:  the older you get, the faster time flies.  I am finding this to be so very true.  It seems like just last week 2017 was a promise of so many hopes and plans coming true.  And now we find it is suddenly time to be exhilarated and rejoice over our accomplishments and/or to mourn lost dreams and opportunities and lick our wounds.  Yet, in just four days human nature will allow us to look at 2018 with as much renewed expectancy and anticipation, shiny-eyed hope and vigor as we did at the birth of this year that is drawing to a close.

New Years seems to be more of an adult celebration than one for children, since it comes when most children are in bed and fast asleep.  Nor was it welcomed with the fireworks that usher it in now-a-days—a happy welcoming that often starts in the early evening before the young-ones go to bed and sporadically lasts through the midnight hour.  Although, before we were sent off to bed, we were allowed to go out on the front porch and join the other neighborhood youth as we tooted horns, spun noisemakers, or banged on pots and pans and shouted “Happy New Year” as our participation before the cold would drive us back inside, glad to head for the warmth of our beds.  Later on in the quiet of the night, I vaguely remember the sound of cheering and horn blowing at Times Square in New York City being broadcast over the radio along with Guy Lombardo’s orchestra playing, “May old acquaintance be forgot…”

I also remember that we kids would get together, spending hours giggling and laughing as we tried to outdo each other with all the absurd “New Year’s resolutions” we would invent.  Even then, we somehow knew very few resolutions, many with good intent, would never be achieved.

My parents and three other couples would get together every now and then for an “adults only” time.  One of these events was held on New Year’s Eve at our house, and just after midnight Mother served a meal of pork and sauerkraut.  In our area of the country, that was traditionally the “good luck throughout the year” first meal eaten.  Although Christmas was not a time for our extended families to get together, often on New Year’s Day my maternal grandparents were our guests on January first for this traditional first supper of the New Year.  During our years of living in Florida, however, we learned that the southern version of this “good luck” meal was pork jowls and black-eyed peas, or maybe some liver and lights.

One thing that hasn’t seemed to change too much over the years, though, is that the first of January is the day for dismantling the Christmas tree and putting away all the decorations.  The whole family would participate.  Silver icicles would be as patiently and carefully removed from the branches as they were put on them and rehung over the cardboard insert that slid back into their storage boxes.  Ornaments were removed and wrapped in tissue paper before being slipped into their individual compartments in their boxes, or gently piled into a common box.  Each tree-light string was coiled and tied, hoping to eliminate the chore of untangling them next Christmas.  Elves and villages returned to their storage homes, and everything was assigned back to its place in the attic until next December.

Two noticeable things have changed through the years.  The trees, usually ready to shed their needles, were taken out to lay in rows along curbs of residential streets waiting for trash pick-up.  Now they are folded up and put in their own boxes and stored along with the ornaments they will wear again the following year, their needles just as fresh as they are now.  And secondly, instead of music or programs from the radio accompanying these tasks, it is the televised Rose Parade or one of the many football bowls.

New Years, like Christmas, has its own memories and traditions that somehow last throughout time, often old, yet ever fresh as they are remembered from our own childhood and passed down to the generations coming along behind us.

It will soon be time to say goodbye to the old year with nostalgia and look forward to a New Year with hope.

I wish you a Happy New Year filled with hope and blessings.

…PRESENTS UNDER THE TREE…

So goes a phrases of one of my favorite songs of the season. 

We are now in the final countdown to Christmas. 

For some, all the hassle of the season is over.  The house is decorated, both inside and out.  Gifts are bought, wrapped, and either hidden or mailed.  Baking is finished—with lingering odors promising an abundance of cookies, not to mention the nut rolls, pecan tassies, pies, and other sweets destined to tickle the taste-buds of family and friends.  Now it is time to sit back and enjoy a cup of hot chocolate or a glass of eggnog, soft music floating through the house or Christmas programs on television, a crackling fire in the fireplace…

For the rest it is the realization that there are only FIVE DAYS to get everything done!  It is a time of hastening to get all the above completed so that on the Big Day we can finally relax.  It is the rush of traffic or the crowded airports so we can be home with family.  Or that last trip to the store for eggs needed for that batch of cookies promised to the third grade teacher.  A time of pushing and shoving in the stores to get “just the right present.”  Or perhaps the harassed lament, “I’ll be glad when Christmas is over!”

In my early days, I remember that around the first of December, Mother would take down the summer window dressings and hang the winter curtains.  There were usually one or two of the couch pillows that were covered in the same print made from the left-over scraps when Mom sewed the curtains.  Window sills were usually adorned with candelabra and pine boughs with extra glass balls laid on the branches.  A lighted village was usually on top of some piece of furniture.

There were very few “fake” Christmas trees, so trees were not put up and decorated after Thanksgiving dinner, as they often are now.  About a week before Christmas, my dad would go to the woods and cut down a tree and bring it home.  It would sit on the front porch until a couple days before Christmas when he would bring it into the house and set it into a mop bucket filled with coal.  Sometimes string anchored to a window frame was needed to help keep it straight.  And we always had to remember to “give it a drink” each morning so that it would last to New Year’s Day.  Along with lights, we used the ornaments we three girls had made in school over the years as well as real glass balls to decorate the branches.  Then we’d hang several silver threads, or icicles, one-by-one on each branch.  When Dad would turn on the lights, we’d ooh and aah at the beauty of it all.  Then we would head out to see what our friends’ trees looked like.

Not only Christmas, but all holidays at that time were usually an individual family event.  I do not remember at any time there being a huge influx of relatives to help celebrate the holiday.  And that went for all of the families in our neighborhood.

I do not remember my mother doing an excessive amount of baking for the holiday, either.  Of course, as a child, unless you were involved with the actual cutting out of the cookies, the licking of the bowls, or the snitching of raw dough, you didn’t have much to remember.  Mother usually did the baking when we were in school or out playing.  All we did was the enjoyable eating!

Over the years we back off on the decorations, and reason that no one is around to enjoy all that baking, but the presents are still the things that are important. 

But we find our priorities in present giving change, too.

When I was a kid, there was usually one big gift and maybe a couple small ones.  Of course, our big gift was not an IPod, or a computer, or even our own cell phone, or any other gift that could put our parents in the poor house for the rest of the year.

Our big gift might be a doll, a game, a sled, or—if we were very lucky—a pair of ice skates.  The little gifts might be a pair or two of socks, a hand-knit scarf, or some other piece of clothing.  And we were thrilled to get what we got.  If it was a toy, we actually treasured it and played with it for a long time—often several years…not just for an hour or two until it was broken.  Our parents did not have the luxury of a plastic credit card, they used cash.  And often that cash was gathered over the year as a weekly or monthly deposit at the bank into a “Christmas Club.”

After we opened our gifts and had breakfast, we would go out prowling the neighborhood to see what our friends had gotten.  By afternoon, we had congregated at someone’s house and were playing one of the new games or were putting together one of the new puzzles.  In the evening, if we were lucky enough to have gotten a book, we were reading it while half-listening to the radio with the rest of the family.

When my husband and I were first married, also long before “plastic money,” the gifts we gave the family were hand-made.  We could not afford to give anything store-bought.  That year, I crocheted many inserts for pillowcases.  There were two patterns I used.  One was a young girl wearing a hoop skirt, and the other was butterflies.  We saved for a long time for the pillowcase tubing that, at that time, could be bought by the yard.  I cut it to length, sewed one end, then put a pair of butterflies or a pair of girls on the open end of each case and finished it with a crocheted edging.

I felt very humbled (another word for ashamed) that all we could do was a hand-made gift, although those who received the gift said they really liked it because it was handmade.  It wasn’t until several years later when I, myself, received handmade gifts and prized their value that I understood.

As we celebrate this season, I hope we remember the greatest present we have ever received… the gift of God’s own Son.  He not only came to us as a baby to grow up and experience our lives as we do, but He came to show us God’s love for us.  And you can’t get any more “handmade” than that!

CHRISTMAS SHOPPING CHALLENGE

I went Christmas shopping last week.  Believe it or not, we actually had some snow!  In fact, we had two short spells of near white-outs:  once when I was driving from store to store and mall to mall, once when I was driving the twelve miles between the shopping malls in DuBois and home.  Can you believe, the snow actually melted between the two white-outs!

Made me think of doing my Christmas shopping as a tween or young teen.  I walked in the snow the mile and a half to shop in downtown DuBois.  Not only was the white stuff coming down, but also  snow was laying on the ground and even piled up where the sidewalks had been shoveled. The town and the shop windows were all decorated so festively for the holidays.

Nope, there were no such things as malls at that time—at least in our area, and very few, if any, vacant stores.  The department-type shops and the five-and-dimes were on both sides of the street within four blocks of walking distance.
 
The Kroger market was on one corner if the block leading toward the center of town, with the Montgomery Ward next to it.  The Montgomery Ward was three-stories, if you counted the basement.  It smelled of the oiled sawdust they put on their wooden floors in the evening before sweeping them after all the customers were gone.  The display cases were mostly square table-like bins with stacks of clothing or household linens, such as sheets and towels, piled on them. 

On the second floor the furniture department and business offices resided.  That was where I went to get my free copy of the new booklet that had just come out, Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  I had that booklet for years, and remember it was one of my favorites.  I wish I knew what happened to it.

I don’t remember too much of the basement area, because I didn’t go there any more than I had to.  But I think that is where the kitchen needs and the handyman tools were kept.  It is also where, in a little cubby at the bottom of the steps, Santa Clause was usually enthroned.

The next store was one of my favorites: Troutman’s Department Store.  There were two separate front doors to enter this store…one on the left side and one on the right side…and between them, next to the sidewalk, was a free-standing enclosed display case.  There were display cases to either side of the display island leading to the doors with a walkway and another large display case situated behind it between the doors.  Once you went through the doors, you were in a little entry area and had to go through a second set of doors to actually get inside the store.  The perfume and make-up area was stationed just inside the doors on the right hand side of the store.  It was heavenly just to stand in that little entry between the sets of doors—to be out of the cold and wind and just to smell that wonderful odor from the perfume counter!

Beers Music Store was next followed by one of our three movie theaters, and the Pershing Hotel ended the block.  JC Penney’s and Sears and Roebuck were among the stores on the other side of the street.  

The rest of the main stores were around the corner to the right and filled both sides of the street for the next three blocks.  By the time you were done shopping and carrying your packages, you were beginning to dread the idea of the walk back home.  Of course you could take the bus, but it cost a whole nickel!  It was easier just to walk.

I compared those days to how I did my Christmas gifting this year:  a little actual shopping in the malls, bought some things on the computer and had them shipped directly to the recipient, other items I actually handcrafted.  The away gifts are now all mailed, and I’m still waiting for the local gifts I ordered to be delivered.  Although I still have to do the wrapping, I’m marking “gifts” off my “to do” list. 

Guess it’s time to turn my thoughts towards Christmas baking. 

HAS ANYONE SEEN BAMBI?

Last Monday, the first Monday after Thanksgiving, was the first day of deer hunting using a rifle here in Pennsylvania. 

When I was a child, the first day of Buck Season was on the first of December.  It did not matter which day of the week it fell on, with the exception of Sunday.  In that case, since hunting is not permitted on Sunday, it fell on Monday, the second of December.

The business section of our town lays on flat land, or a valley running north and south.  This is rimmed on the east and the west by hills.  I lived on the hill on the east side of town.  During the Great Depression, the WPA built stone steps up the slope of the hill leading from the center of town to the east side.  This allowed the people living on or near the top of the hill and beyond easier access to the schools and businesses located in the town. 

At the top of these steps, the WPA also built a large stone bench as a resting place for those walking to and from their homes to the shops, businesses, and schools.  It was also where the three main routes coming from the north, south, and west met.

On the evening of the thirtieth of November it became the meeting place for the east side children to enjoy the annual spectacular sight.  As far as you could see up any of those three roads were the headlights of the hunters arriving in our area as they sought out their camps and lodgings for the big day.

While the lights were an exceptional show, the first day of hunting meant that cars with dead deer tied onto their fenders would proudly parade through town, proving the prowess of the drivers as skilled hunters.  Buck season was special because the local paper, as well as the local businesses, offered prizes for many of “the first”—the first deer, the first spike, the first of the various total points of the antlers. 

My father was a hunter—deer, squirrel, rabbit, groundhog, grouse, ring-necked pheasant, turkey —they were all welcomed additions to our table in those depression and post-depression days.  Dad won prizes twenty times in the twenty-five years he participated.

My birthday also happened to be on the first of December.  When he would bring home his “catch,” he would jokingly tell me, “Well, here’s your birthday present.”  I would much rather have seen Bambi alive than dead!  Especially since Dad would hang the deer on the back porch roof strut that was about a foot away from the opening of the back door.  I know it is silly, but as a young’un, whenever I had to go in or out of that door, I was always terrified as to what would happen if that deer ever came alive and started kicking.  Mom must have told him how I felt, because later on Dad began hanging his deer on the iron clothes posts in the yard.

My father never let us have any of the tails as trophies of his accomplishments.  When I was in high school, I was quite surprised when he brought the tail of his twenty-fifth deer to me as a present.  He later also gave me the tail of a grouse he had spread and dried.  The following February my dad died of a heart attack at the age of forty-eight.  I kept those trophies for over sixty years.

When I was in junior high, the school board decided to declare the first day of hunting season as a legal holiday for any student who could show a valid hunting license.  That meant that most of the girls as well as the boys who did not hunt still had to report to classes.  This did not sit very well with the student body.  But what is the saying?  That’s the way it is.

So when congress enacted the “Monday Holiday,” the State changed the first day of buck season to the Monday after Thanksgiving, and the school system declared it a legal holiday for all students, not just the hunters.  Of course, with the whole weekend for the hunters to arrive at their destination, the drama of their appearance fell drastically.

The deer “bagged” had to be reported to the game commission, and if a doe were accidently killed during the week-long buck season, or a buck accidently killed during the one-day doe season, the deer would be confiscated and the hunter fined.  The meat did not go to waste.  The Commission had a list of handicapped individuals unable to hunt and the deer would go to the families on that list. 

We were married about twelve years before we found out about that list and the fact we were eligible.  For a good seven years we received either illegal kills or sometimes a road kill.  The deer we received had already been gutted, so our part of this deal was that we would skin the deer and cut off the head.  We were then to return to the game wardens the skin with the head intact. 

Our younger son was about five years old when we started this exchange and he wanted to help with the skinning,   He felt his part was to sit in a chair and make gagging sounds while we worked.  He was quickly barred from the room when my stomach started churning.

We canned the venison and found that it was a very tasty addition to a meal…much more so than the beef we have canned.

What about you?  Did/do you hunt?  Your parent or an older sibling?  Or, like me, do you prefer catching sight of your Bambi eating at the side of the road or from your apple tree?   

HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF POLIO?

First, I want to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving.

I also want to apologize for not having a new posting for last week.  Time ran out for me before I was able to get my thoughts together and written down.  So I this week I decided to try a little harder and get this ready in advance.

My husband was not feeling at his best and so my time was taken up helping him.  He is now eighty years old and has been diagnosed with Post-Polio Syndrome, or PPS.  For most of my readers, I doubt very much if you have even heard of polio, unless it was in reference to your immunization shots.  But when we were children, polio was still a very feared and dreaded disease, especially among children, and during the “dog-days of summer” (another name for the month of August).

Polio itself has been around since Bible days.  In fact, it is mentioned by description in Matthew 8:6.  A centurion came to Jesus seeking healing for his servant boy.  The Amplified Bible puts it this way:  “Lord, my servant boy is lying at the house paralyzed and distressed with intense pains.”

Thanks to Dr. Jonas Salk and Dr. Albert Sabin, there are vaccines that can prevent people from getting the disease, although there is still no cure for polio.  Even now if someone gets this disease, the only thing that can be done is to treat the symptoms and let the disease “run its course.”  There are four strains of polio:

Mild:  People who have mild cases of polio do not even know they have it.  The symptoms are very similar to having a light case of the flu.  No after effects are experienced.      

Non-paralytic:  This kind of polio has stronger flu-like symptoms.  There is either very little or no pain and any muscle damage is usually light.  Resulting weakness is blamed on the “flu,” and regular everyday living eventually rebuilds the weakened muscles.

Paralytic:  This form of polio is the most painful.  If affects the spinal cord and/or the brain.  In ten to fourteen days, once polio has “run its course,” there is no more pain.  But any damage to the nerves lasts a lifetime.

When it attacks the lower spinal cord either the arms or the legs can be paralyzed.  This means the weakened arms or legs cannot function by themselves.  They must have help to be able to move.  Sometimes exercises can help arms and legs regain movement.  More often, braces are used to replace the necessary lost muscle strength.  People with weak legs choose either crutches and braced legs or wheelchairs to help them get around.

If polio attacks the upper spinal cord or the brain, it affects breathing and swallowing which can cause death.  Those who need help breathing use either a respirator and/or an iron lung.  An iron lung is a big tube-like “bed” one lies in.  A machine moves it’s “mattress” up and down to help the air go in and out of the lungs.

PPS:  The true definition for this fourth variety, is when someone who has already had polio  contracts the disease again, sometimes as many as thirty or forty years later.  PPS can strike the same place or a different part of the body and can cause paralysis even though the original polio did not.

However, now-a-days, the doctors have broadened the meaning of PPS to include accumulated health issues resulting from having had polio over a long period of time. 

My husband was nineteen months old when he contacted polio.  When the disease had run its course, he was left paralyzed in both of his legs.  So part of his PPS diagnosis concerns the fact that after seventy-four years of walking on crutches, the rotator cuffs in his shoulders have worn out and disappeared, making using his arms very painful.  As one of his doctors put it, “Arms were not made to be walked on for over seventy years.” 

Inadequate therapy due to non-experience of how to deal with a polio victim after five-bypass surgery, a diminished sense of balance, and extreme knee pain and sensitivity has confined to a bed, lift chair, or short periods in a wheelchair this man who used to amaze his classmates with the speed he could climb the ropes in gym class, do push-ups with his legs dangling in the air, fathered and raised three children, worked hard for over forty years to support his family, used to be able to climb in and out of boats, and holds a black belt in karate.

Even though his constant companion is pain, he still smiles, and attempts to live as normal a life as possible.

That’s why in my life, his needs come first.

RECYCLING, HABIT OR A WAY OF LIFE?

Just finished the first load of dishes and have the pots and pans soaking while the dishes, glasses, and silverware drain—and dry a little.  I never do dishes in the sink that I don’t think of my mother.  When she did dishes, if it was on, she wouldn’t miss her radio program, “Beulah.”  Other times, when I helped by drying and putting away, we would play games.  My favorite was when we would guess the song the other one hummed, and then we would often go off on a tangent and sing the song together.  I learned a lot of songs of her generation that way, and she learned some of mine.

I think I got into the practice of recycling by watching her when I was a little girl.  I can still see her at the sink, removing labels from the cans she had opened for supper. She’d already rinsed them when she had made supper, adding that bit of water to whatever she was making—and, yes, I picked up that habit, too.  When the dishes were done, Mom would wash them in the dishwater.  After they were dry, she would cut the bottom off the can, of course, that was way back when you could cut the bottom off the cans, slip both lids inside the can, and then step on the can and flatten it.  Many housewives were following the same practice, for this was during the war, and metal was in demand for defense.

We kids did our part for the war effort, too.  In those days, chewing gum was quite popular among the younger crowd.  And chewing gum was packaged a little differently than it is today.  Each of the sticks were wrapped in a paper that had a metal coating.  It took a little practice, but the skill of removing the foil from the paper could be learned.  We would gather these flimsy offerings into a ball.  Some of the older neighborhood kids had balls that were almost the size of a baseball!  That represented a lot of gum chewing!!  I never did know how the kids recycled those metal offerings for the war effort.

Sometimes we would take the foil wrapping and chew it.  That was rather electrifying, especially right after a trip to the dentist which included new metal fillings.

Recycling.

I remember when milk was delivered to the door in glass bottles—with a cardboard stopper.  The milkman would hop off his truck swinging his wire basket tote holding the milk for the household.  Most everything came in quarts or pints.  He’d take it to the door and leave it on the porch or stoop, pick up the empties that were waiting there, and then return to his truck.

When I was in sixth grade, we had a contest in our class to see who could write the best letter to one of the local milk companies asking if we could visit them.  It so happened, I won that contest, and had my letter sent to them.  I remember that part of the tour we had was past the machines used to wash and sterilize those bottles the milkmen had returned to the dairy.

We kids did our part in the recycling effort by scouring the neighborhood for pop bottles that were thrown away.  Pop came in a small size and a large size.  If we returned a small size bottle to the store, we’d get two cents per bottle.  For five bottles we could get a bottle of pop.  If we were really lucky and found a large bottle, we would get five cents as a refund.  We had a NEHI carbonated beverage company just outside the commercial part of town.  We passed this building every time we walked to town, and often stopped to watch through its big windows the bottles being washed, dried, and then filled with cola. 

Of course, this was when the beverage companies were permitted to wash, sterilize, and reuse the bottles.  And before plastic and aluminum took the place of glass.

I also remember when the daily newspapers for the month were stacked and tied with cord and placed at the curb for the trucks to come along and pick them up.  I had almost forgotten about those big trucks.  I wonder if it had also been for the war effort.

Today, we are encouraged to recycle “to save our planet.”  The only trouble is, that it is often difficult to find someone willing to take the recycling, or are so selective that you kind of wonder if it is worth it. 

For instance, in our area, the refuse companies will pick up recycling within the city limits only, but not in any of the rural areas, even though it is the same company that serves both.  The one pick-up station we visit is ten miles from our home, and also has its limitations: number one and number two plastic beverage containers, NO LIDS, aluminum cans, and glass bottles.  The area in Florida we lived in before we moved to Pennsylvania had a change in companies.  The new refuse company that won the bid for the whole county, accepts plastics up through number seven, aluminum included things like clean disposable pie pans and even clean cooking foil, and glass is glass.  They even welcome Pizza boxes.  They picked up household refuse twice a week, once a week they also picked up recycling (in a separate container), and once every two weeks they would pick up lawn trash (weeds, pruning, etc.).  And if you had large objects to get rid of, like a chair, couch, lawn timbers, once a month you could call and make arrangements to have it picked up and hauled away.  All included in the reasonable quarterly fee.  Now, if they had resources that were taking the recycled materials, why can’t local refuse companies find enough users to widen the articles they accept?  And maybe even be willing to pick them up, since the recyclers are probably already their customers? 

How do you feel about recycling?

   

GOD’S MIRACULOUS WHITE STUFF

It’s snowing!  The first snowfall of the year—and it’s only the first of November.

I love the first snowfall.  It makes me feel like getting out our old thirty-three-and-a-third vinyl record and playing Jackie Gleason’s orchestral version of Snowfall.

It also reminds me of the snowfalls when I was a kid.  I remember evenings when seven or eight of us neighborhood youngsters would congregate in the road at the corner under the arc-light and race around trying to catch those big, fluffy flakes in our mouths.  We’d giggle and laugh and thrill to the joy of the moment.

But these flakes aren’t those nice, huge, delicious ones.  Nor are they the little tiny balls that usually are blown in with the wild winds.  They are the small ones that surprise us by silently dropping down.  You know, the ones that are just the colder side of raindrops.  But glancing out the window, I see that every now and then, one of those large flakes is beginning to make an appearance.

For those of you who remember the boxes of laundry detergent our mothers used to use on washday, we would categorize those big fluffy flakes as Ivory Flakes, and the tiny round balls that would come barreling in as Ivory Snow.

Couldn’t help checking out the window again, and the flakes are getting larger.  This morning started with a heavy frost.  So the snow that is falling on the shed roofs, porches, and railings is beginning to pile up.  What’s landing on the grass, roads, or in the dirt hasn’t started gathering, yet.

I remember, as a kid, the snows would be almost thigh-deep.  We haven’t had snows that deep for a long time.  I have to kind of chuckle when I consider this.  I remember seeing a Family Circle cartoon where the father and his small son are walking side-by-side in the snow.  The father says something like I just did, how he remembered the snows being deeper.  The picture depicted the snow to be about knee-high for dad, but son was plowing through almost waist high white stuff!

Oh, and the fun we had playing in the snow!

Of course we did all the normal things one does in the snow—made angles and snowmen, threw snowballs, built forts, and even shoveled walks.

Our road was a street that cut in half the rise of a hill in the eastern residential area of our small city, DuBois.  Over by our favorite arc-light there was a crossroads.  Third Street, our street, was a paved road that, at this point, went up the hill to another level of our street.  Sherman Avenue crossed our road there and was a dirt alley that went on up the hill.  But the part that went down to the bottom level was paved.  Combined, it was a dandy place for sledding.  We knew we could be classified as “one of the bigger kids” when we had mastered the maneuver of coming down Third Street's hill, making the turn onto Sherman and, flying past all the houses, continue down the lower hill.  At the bottom of Sherman, we either made another left turn onto Lakeview Drive and ended up near the junction of the main road, or we ended up on the bank of the Tannery Dam which bordered the far side of Lakeview. 

Eventually, the city more-or-less discouraged that challenge by designating a good long run on Fourth Street, the upper level of the hill that ended in a nice field rather than near traffic or the dam.

About that time, my father built us a bobsled.  If I remember correctly, it could hold six or seven of us at a time.  Both of my older sisters actually mastered it’s steering.  I don’t remember why I never did.  Maybe it was because by the time I was old enough to do so, the weather pattern had changed and there wasn’t enough snow to make getting the bobsled down from the garage rafters worthwhile.

The flakes are now getting thicker and are starting to outline the individual branches of the trees of the woods on the lower part of our property.  If this keeps up, and the wind doesn’t start blowing, by evening we might have a lacy patchwork of limbs, branches and twigs to enjoy.  Especially if there is a full moon.

Our daughter-in-law was born and raised in the south.  Although she would like to have more, she’s had very little experience with living in and dealing with snow.  So when we do get a snowfall, we tease that she must be thinking of us.

Just checked the window again, and as happens with so many “first snows,” it has already not only stopped snowing, but also melted from the porches, railings, and many of the shed roofs.  Guess we will have to wait for another snow before we can enjoy moonlit lacy branches.

I MISS BIRD FEEDING

One of the joys of the changes in the seasons, especially the coming of winter, used to be getting out the bird feeders and stocking up on various bird feed, including sunflower seeds.  We have found that it is a joy that seems to have become very limited since returning home to our area of northwestern Pennsylvania.

Apparently, over the last thirty-nine years we were living in Florida, it seems that here in mid-western PA, bear and deer have taken a partiality to the free hand-outs of corn and seed that the feeders present.  When approached about doing something to alleviate the danger of free-roaming bear in residential areas, especially where children live, the Game Commission’s lack of concern is reflected in its glib reply, “Then stop feeding the birds.”

I have seen pictures of the damage these bear do to feeders, mauling and mangling not only the feeders, but the posts that hold them, too.  I have even seen pictures of dumpsters that have been dragged as far as a half-mile from their designated locations by bear on the prowl.

Ridiculous, you say.  Bears sleep all winter long and can’t be that kind of a threat.  Usually, true.  But there has been a weather change over the last several years and the winters have not been as severe as they used to be to keep these animals dormant.

This is deer area.  We, living in one of the more rural areas, have always enjoyed watching the deer as they moved from one stand of woods to another through our yards.  They have not been too bothersome, except for their unappreciated nibbling on flower beds.  However, I just learned this week that classmates of mine have had bird feeders mauled every bit as badly—by deer.  And they live in more populated, residential areas!

I’m hoping to find the pattern I saw in one of my DIY books of a feeder that could be extended on a PVC frame from a deck railing.  It enables easy access to filling the feeder, but puts the empty hull mess out into the yard—and keeps it above marauding animals.

This is a problem we did not have in our panhandle section of Florida.  The worst problem was the ants that would be attracted by the spilled seed that the birds did not get around to cleaning up.  I had two feeding stations…one small feeder right outside our kitchen window in my Japanese magnolia tree, intentionally for the smaller birds like the various sparrows, finches, vireos and chickadees, to name a few.  One winter, we even had two pair of indigo buntings winter over.  The other feeders were at the end of the yard near the privacy fence.  That station held seven feeders on posts embedded into a cement pad.  The purposes of the cement pad were to: 1. help the birds find spilled seed easier, and 2. eliminate unwanted plants from growing in the yard, again as a result from uneaten spilled seed.  The bigger birds, like cardinals, jays, a woodpecker or two, and the pesky cowbirds, usually ate there.

Yes, in our section of sunny Florida, we usually had at least two weeks of straight sub-freezing weather, usually in late January or the first part of February.  Sometimes we even had snow, and sometimes ice storms.  Since the feeder by the kitchen was in the tree, the birds waiting their turn at the feeder would perch on the branches.  The branch beside the feeder was slanted.  It was kind of funny watching the birds when that branch was icy.  They would perch near the top—and slide down and off the branch!

I hope you enjoy the pictures below of our feathered visitors.

Do you feed the birds?  What kind of birds visit your feeders?

PURPLE FINCEHES AT FEEDER.   BACKGROUND IS A LAWN CHAIR--NOT SNOW,

CAN YOU FIND THE SPARROW?  HE'S BLENDING IN WITH THE SEED!

RESULTS OF 2014 ICE STORM--PACE FLORIDA

FEMALE CARDINAL AT FEEDER,  ICE ON SMALL BRANCHES, WHITE ICY-SNOW IN BLOCK 

DAYS AND CHORES OF THE WEEK

I started today with the chore of baking sugar cookies, and my mind began to remember how the different days of the week used to mean the special task that was to be done that day.  You know, Mondays were washdays, Tuesdays you ironed, on Wednesday you did a mid-week straightening of the house or the mending that couldn’t be done Tuesday evening while the whole family was listening to the radio.  (No, we didn’t have television, cell phones, or computer games back then).  Sometimes Wednesday was baking day and Thursday was shopping because Friday the house was made spic and span for the weekend.  And Sunday was church day.

Of course, sometimes that schedule got changed and Saturday morning, when the kids were all home, the house was cleaned.  Each of us would clean our own bedrooms, including changing the bed linen and often washing the windows.  If we shared a room, we took turns; one cleaned the bedroom and the other cleaned the bathroom.

When we got to the downstairs, we would split up wisk-brooming the furniture, dusting, shaking all the throw rugs and vacuuming the carpet.  While we were busy we would listen to the radio.

Let’s Pretend was my favorite program, which featured Fairy Tales.  This is where I first heard the story of Beauty and the Beast, and it has remained my favorite to this day.  My older sisters enjoyed a program called, if I remember correctly, A Girl Named Smith (or was it Two Girls Named Smith?).

That did not mean Mother wasn’t doing anything.  She was always in the background cleaning out closets, or drawers, mopping something or other, or shining the mirrors.  Sometimes she would be doing special baking or cooking for the weekend.  And Father, if he wasn’t working at his job, he was mowing the lawn, weeding the garden, or working on or washing the car.

When the work was done, we were paid our allowance, and usually given permission to walk the mile to town.  We had four five-and-dimes, and not a penny was spent until they were all checked out and we found which items we wanted to buy and which of the stores had them at the lowest cost.  We often spent most of the afternoon spending our allowances—a quarter went a long way in those days.  Once in a while we went to a movie, which cost six cents if you were under twelve, and thirteen cents if you were twelve or older.  A box of popcorn cost ten cents and a candy bar cost a nickel.

We might not have had all the “modern conveniences” that are available today, but we had the luxury of time and ease.

Today our week goes something like:  Mondays we do the laundry, clean the house, and bake cookies for one of the children’s sports events.  Tuesday we have to take the household pet to the vet, stop at the store to get something for super, rush off to an afternoon church meeting, rush home to get supper, and then attend one of the children’s sports in the evening.  Wednesday we have to straighten up the house, go to town for something one of the family just has to have before tomorrow, and be back in time to carpool the neighborhood kids to their next activity.  

Thursday is our day at the civic center and Friday we clean house—again.  Of course we do get a break because that is the night we get to order in pizza, or some other ethnic food.  All the while we are constantly in touch 24/7with our BFF—the cell phone.

Yes, times have changed.  In some ways for the better, in other ways--  Well, let’s just say sometimes I miss the ways of our Yesterdays.

How about you?

INTRODUCTION TO MY NOVELS

For those first-time visitors to my blog, you can learn about its purpose and intent by reading the first article, which is listed in the archive.  In this second posting, I want to introduce you to my three published novels.   

I am fortunate to have two “tween” books published in both the E-book and print formats.  For those not familiar with the term Tween, it is the age group of nine-to-twelve years old.  But don’t let this fool you.  I have many young adults (YA) and adults who have read both of my tween books and told me how much they enjoyed them.  I am just sorry they have not posted any reviews in the online book markets.  

All Because of Chickens and its sequel, Lessons from the Sheepfold, my first and third books are published by MuseItUp (MIU), out of Canada.  These two volumes are the beginnings of a tween series entitled Adventures of Half-Dozen and are available in both formats on-line from the MuseItUp Bookstore, as well as many other book sellers, including Amazon, Books-A-Million and Barns and Noble.  Those who happen to live in the neighborhood of DuBois, PA can also find them at Rosie’s Book Shoppe in DuBois and the Brockway Drug Store in Brockway.  Those living in the Dothan, AL area can find them at Red House Books. 

Unlike many Tween and YA books in this day and age, my pages are free of aliens, sorcerers, and monsters—as well as bad language and sexual overtones.  They are, however, full of fun, exploring new experiences, and adventures.  My purpose for writing these books is to entice non-readers of this age to discover the excitement and friendships that can be found on the printed page, whether on paper or a computer screen.  

My second book, a sweet romance, is published by Clean Reads out of Alabama, and is available in only the E-book format, from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other on-line book suppliers. 

Featured below are the covers and back-cover introductions of each of these endeavors.

Returning to the family homestead intensifies twelve-year-old Sammy’s longing for the family heritage—farming. But Dad’s ultimatum, “… no crops, no animals, no barn…” shows Dad wants nothing to do with farming, for himself or Sammy. Then why did Dad insist Sammy join a farming club?

Permission slips for Ag club summer projects are due. Sammy defends his project choice with, “Technically, Dad, chickens are birds not animals.” Miraculously, he wins Dad’s approval.

Sammy’s problems begin with the early arrival of his peeps and the loss of his best pals.   His ingenuity to care for his chicks, make a new friend, and design a compost bin win him a new name. His biggest challenge—can he butcher his roosters? 

Summer’s many adventures include solving a mystery, fighting a hawk, and being disqualified at the County Fair.

At the end of the project, has he won…or lost…the thing he wanted most—Dad’s change of heart about farming.

Sam plots a triumphant coup for next year’s County Fair exhibit—both to celebrate graduation from Middle School and to erase the disgrace of this year’s disqualification.  He’ll raise a calf…and Mai Li will use her herbs for their joint exhibit of—cheese!  

Until Sam learns…it takes two years for a calf to give milk…their farm is too small to support a cow…cows don’t eat goldenrod! 

Determined, Sam finds a way to accomplish his plan.  But will he have the strength, daring, and courage it will take to raise sheep in a cow county?

Sam, staunchly supported by his friends, the Half-Dozen, experiences many challenges: a barn raising, acquiring sheep and a battle line, squelching a middle-school cow vs. sheep feud, sheep shearing and lambing, attacks on his sheep, challenging the local vet at a Grange meeting, and of course, County Fair.  

By close of CAYC Fair Day, the whole county has learned lessons from the sheepfold.

 Caught in a web of terror, Allison decides her only choice is to abort her baby. 

That is, until she meets Mark Copeland, who offers her a marriage of convenience. Since they each believe their destiny is a marriage without love, they cannot realize what is so apparent to everyone else…that both of them are already under love’s spell.

Many things—blue eyes, cookies, mysterious envelopes, secrets, a dangerous fall, an unexpected visit from a stepbrother, military deception, legal intervention, a birth—bring to awareness and fruition a bounty of love and understanding. 

And Allison…it all started with a girl like you! 

Although I do not have any printed ratings on my latest effort, the ratings of the first two books have all been 5-star.  Perhaps you would like to be the first to post a rating for Lessons from the Sheepfold?

I am currently working on book three of Adventures of the Half-Dozen, as well as a second sweet romance.  I hope to have them in the hands of a publisher, as well as the hands of you readers very soon.

Read my new post next Wednesday.

Please leave your comments below.

GETTING TO KNOW ME

As a comparatively new and not widely known author, I thought it would be nice to let my readers know a little more about me as a person.  Since I am several generations removed from my readers, the purpose of this blog is not only to let you get to know me as a person, but also to introduce you to the ways and times of the era I grew up in.  In exchange, I would like to get to know some of your experiences along these same lines.

For instance, we might talk about the games we played as a child, or the places we visited, or the pets we had.  For those who have worked, either for pay or as a volunteer, we might talk about some unusual occupations we have had, jobs we liked best, jobs we didn't like so much.

I am hoping to have a new post each week.  In some of them I will be just reminiscing about the way things were, maybe sometimes I'll compare them to how they are now.  In these cases, it will be up to you to decide if indeed there are such things as "the good old days."

Some of the things I share will let you know what is happening in my life now; like things I am doing, or places I'm going, or writings I am working on.

I am hoping to share visits from my fellow authors so you can get to know them a little more as a person, too, as well as learn about some of the stories they have written, or may be working on now.

All in all, I hope you will visit my blog often.