QUESTION FIVE FOR THE “NAME THE LAMB” CONTEST

This week’s question is:

Before Sammy remembered Gran’s warning that his chickens were not pets but a product, Sammy had already named two.  What were their names?

a. Jim and Sally

b. Freddy and Pansy

c. Albert and Candy

d. Ned and Grace

e. Ernie and Nettie

If there is no one to put in the Weekly Contest WINNER’S SPOTLIGHT under the Bookshelf column to the right, instead of repeating all unclaimed questions, only the previous “un-won” poser will be reprinted and available for a “Second Chance” answer.

Remember—the contest is open to anyone, of any age, and contestants are not limited to only one win.  Answers to both the Weekly Contest and the Second Chance questions are to  be  submitted to me at glmiller456@gmail.com.  Be sure to put as the Subject the number of the week’s question you are answering.  Since there have been several weeks without a winner, multiple winners for the same question will be permitted.  The prize is the privilege of naming one of Sammy’s soon-to-be delivered lambs and have your name listed on the Acknowledgement page of the new Sammy book which is a Work In Progress.

Second Chance Question:

When Sammy’s baby chickens arrived, in what way was he not prepared for them?

He didn’t have—

a.  A place to keep them.

b.  Food and water dishes.

c.  A heat lamp.

d.  None of the above.

e.  All of the above.

We are learning about the unexpected “pop-ups” that can happen when the sale of a home is involved.  The Home Inspection found only four minor problems that either have already been or are in the process of being eliminated.  However, there is a big one that may take a while to correct.  We have fallen prey to Pennsylvania’s hidden nemesis—radon.

Radon is an invisible gas that has no smell or taste and it is responsible for 20,000 lung cancer deaths a year.  It is released naturally when the sub-ground rocks of our Pennsylvania mountains break down and thus becomes able to invade our basements by seeping up through the porous cement floors.  Luckily there are ways to mitigate the dangers of this intrusive invader, and I’ll let you know what we will be learning about them in the very near future.

Take care, and have a marvelous week.

WEEK FOUR OF THE NAME THE LAMB CONTEST

Week Four, Name the Lamb Contest

When Sammy’s baby chickens arrived, in what way was he not prepared for them?

He didn’t have—

a.  A place to keep them.

b.  Food and water dishes.

c.  A heat lamp.

d.  None of the above.

e.  All of the above.

I have moved the contest from under the Bookshelf area of this blog to the main section because for the next few weeks.  As much as I enjoy sharing this time with you, for the next few weeks will need to be spend it preparing for our move from Pennsylvania to Alabama.

This involves sorting through boxes that were never unpacked from when we moved to PA, preparing for a Garage Sale, repacking what I did unpack, and the actual move itself.  Anyone who has experienced any of these chores, understands the time and physical energy it will take to accomplish these tasks.  Of course, squeezing into this hectic pace will be ordinary living—you know the mundane of getting meals, doctor’s visits, and just plain living, and maybe a rest or two.

Thank you for your understanding.

There were no winners for week three, so the question will remain open for another week if you want to try your luck in answering it.  It is repeated below.

Again, I apologize for the briefness of this blog.

Week Three, Name the Lamb Contest

What did Sammy do to change Dad’s mind and allow him to raise chickens?

a.  He said CAYC was a dumb club and he was going to quit

b.  He threw a tantrum of crying and screaming

c.  He presented plans, a budget, and pictures

d.  He threatened to go live at Gran’s

e.  He promised to clean Dad’s office for the entire summer

WEEK THREE OF THE “NAME THE LAMB” CONTEST (Check in the Book Shelf column)

TIME TO THINK ABOUT GARDENING!

The other day I received a seed catalog in the mail and it made me realize that it is time to think about planting a garden.  Although I really enjoy gardening,  as well as the canning that follows, I am afraid that this year I again will not be planting.  Our house sold and come near the end of May, we will be heading south again.  That means there is no reason—or time!—to plant up here, and since most of the garden items will be getting harvested when we arrive there, it won’t make sense to plant down there, either.  Hopefully next year we can have a garden.

It is still snowing here—mid April and we have snow!  It has snowed all day today, from lazy, little flakes, to almost what could be termed a blizzard, on to large flakes.  It snows heavily, then stops for a while.  Then it starts up, again.  By that time all the snow that was laying on the ground has melted and the cycle starts over again.

A couple of weeks ago I was in the Dollar General.  It was another day that there had been snow after a week or so of warm weather.  The clerk commented on the fact that he hoped it was the potato snow.  I had never heard of a potato snow, so I asked him what he meant.  He said that the last snow of the season was referred to as the potato snow because it meant that it was time to plant your potatoes.

My friend came to visit me last week and I was telling her about it.  A soon as I mentioned “the last snow,” she interrupted me and said, “Oh, you mean the “onion snow.”  Now, I had never heard of that one, either!

A lot has changed since we moved to Florida thirty-nine years ago!  I did know that one is supposed to plant English peas (green peas) on Good Friday, and garlic is to be planted in September, but I had no idea that there were special days to plant either potatoes or onions.

I also knew that one did not plant tomato or pepper plants until after the thirtieth of May so that, hopefully, there would be no more killing frosts to do them harm.  However, that is no guarantee, because the year we moved to Florida, the farmers and gardeners here in Pennsylvania were hit by a killing frost around the seventeenth of June!  And yes, my gardening friends had covered the plants, but the frost was so severe, it even chilled them through the paper tents and boxes they used.

Now I do know the saying “a frost in the dark of the moon will not kill the plants, but a frost in the light of the moon will.”  And I know that saying is true, for I have experienced it.

Another thing that I experienced was companion planting.  Companion planting is when you plant two different kinds of plants near each other.  I used to have a list I made from the gardening magazines I used to get.  But time has wiped away most of the combinations from my memory.  I do, however, recall that good companions to most everything were marigolds and nasturtiums.  Because the tomato and pepper plants are planted so late, I, like a lot of gardeners, had already planted the crops I would start with seeds.  Therefore, I had saved room in my plot for the plants and just plant them together.  I learned in the companion planting that for the best crops, tomatoes and peppers should not be planted side by side, but the best idea is to plant them either end of the garden, separating them as much as possible.  After I started separating them, I did get better harvests.

So I wish all my gardening friends success in their efforts this coming season.  May you not have cutworms or harmful grubs of any kind, and may the bees and ladybugs be kind to you.  Best of all, may you get a rich and satisfying harvest.  Enjoy the eats!

MY, THE CHANGES IN HAIR GROOMING

I just got my hair cut again, after a year and a half, and was surprised at the change in procedure.  Since my hair has wave to it, I was used to the hairdresser wetting my hair before putting me in the chair and applying the scissors.

However, this time she just draped me with the protective cloth and started to work.  The method of controlling the wave now, to make trimming easier, is to use one of those hot irons used by many women to straighten their unwanted waves and curls.  My sister-in-law assured me that was now the standard procedure, at least in this area, as this is what her hairdresser does, too.

I started to think back to when I was a kid and the way we women used to manage our hair.

Saturday was hair washing day.  Back then, it was believed that it was not good for your hair to be washed more than once a week, so there was no hair-washing as part of the daily bath/shower routine.  I remember most vividly the way my mother used to curl my hair when I was about the age of five.  She used to put it up in rags.  Oh, not the same way it is done these days.  Her method was to take long strips of old sheets and begin by layering them back and forth over her index finger.  Then she would portion out a section of my hair and comb it down around her rag-draped finger.  After the curl of hair was made, then she would wrap the remaining cloth neatly up over the curl she had just made, slip it off her finger, and tie it up.  She continued doing this until I had about a dozen or more rag curls dangling from my head.  At least they didn’t slip when she sent me outside in front of all my friends to play hop scotch, or whatever the game for the day was.

Hours later, when the curl inside all that cloth had dried, she would unwind all those rags and carefully slip them from inside the curl, and roll each up for the next week.  The curls were set so well, I could pull them down and watch them spring right back up again! 

Part of this great curl success was due to the fact I had naturally curly hair.  And as such, the teenage years were a grooming breeze for me since I did not have to tend to my hair with any grooming.

Another fond memory I had was the night we were visiting my aunt and uncle in Brockway, PA, and my teenaged cousin took me to her bedroom and introduced me to putting one’s hair up in pincurls.  Do any of you remember those days?  That was when girls would take strands of hair, wet them, usually with a comb or just their fingers dipped in a glass of water, then wrap them tightly around a finger pressed against their skull, slide the circle of hair off onto their head, and anchor it with crossed bobby pins.  Usually the whole head was covered with these metal prongs.  I remember my older sister sitting on her bed, with the glass of water between her crossed legs and her body, listening to her favorite radio program or broadcasted music, going through this ritual almost every night.  Very time consuming, but it did work!  The results were nice waves, or curls depending on your hair’s natural ability.

Then there were those little pink, plastic curlers with the long, thin hinged strap that came over the division of hair rolled onto it and locked into the opposite end of the curler itself.  They were part of that new invention—the home permanent.  Remember?  In our vanity, we would take strands of hair, slip tissue-like papers over the ends to keep all the strands together, roll them over those spikey things along the inside of the curler, set the anchoring part of the curler, then dab the permanent solution all over those curlers making sure they were well saturated.  Next came the plastic bonnet and then the waiting until everything dried.  Oh, I can still remember the smell!

But they, too, worked and waves or curls resulted…at least for a while, but lots longer than the nightly bobby pins!

Another method was curlers.  And they have had their own revolving, too.  I have one of the first curlers I ever used.  It was a three piece metal contraption.  There was a long tube of maybe five to six inches, with a hinged half tube connected to it with a rivet near the top.  We would squeeze a portion of the curler pieces that protruded beyond the rivet and the pieces would separate.  We would slip a section of hair between these two pieces, pull it as near the end as we could without the hair slipping out, roll the curler up, and then slip over a thin piece of metal wire attached to the same rivet to “close” the curler.  They were hard to sleep on at night, but they also did the job.  These evolved to plastic curlers.  They started with the same idea as the permanent curlers, but instead of the prickly inside, there was sponge covering the curler part.  Then it progressed to just a single piece of rolled plastic, usually with holes in it to aid drying, and the hair was once again anchored with oversized bobby pins.  These curlers came in diameter sizes from small to jumbo, depending on how curly you wanted your hair to be—or uncurly, as the case may be.  That’s where the jumbo size came in. The last curlers I got (yes, the older I got, the less curl I had) were heated curlers!  They came upright in a box you plugged into the wall.  Their charm?  The heat curled your hair in MUCH less time than the other processes I have mentioned. 

Which reminds me, I almost forgot to mention the old-fashioned “quick-set” using the heating iron.  It was a long rod of ten to twelve(?) inches that also had a hinged flap, a wooden handle, and an electric cord.  It was plugged into the wall with the metal tip usually resting on the provided metal stand.  The portion of hair one desired to have curl was sectioned off and slipped in between the two pieces of metal, wound up, and held that way for a short time.  The trick was to get the desired curl without burning the hair!

Oh, what we ladies go through just to look pleasing for our men!

As for me, so far the straightening that was done at the beauty shop has not returned to either curl or wave.  However, I do see signs of some curl returning, I hope it won’t be too long before it is all back.  I’m too old to learn new tricks, and I did enjoy the looks of the wave I had.  But after all these years, it’s kinda nice to have it smooth, too.  Oh, well, as long as I have what I refer to as my “wash and dry” look, I am satisfied.  What is wash and dry?  I wash it in the shower, dry it with a towel, and comb it into place.  What I see is what I get…and I am satisfied.  But what is more important, so is my husband.

How about you?  Do you remember those days?  How do you groom your hair?

TODAY IT BEGINS!

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?

So reads the back cover blurb of my first book, All Because of Chickens of the series, Adventures of the Half Dozen.

Today is the start of something big…the start of the contest to name nineteen lambs to be born in my new book of the series.

By the time the contest is over, I expect to have this new “work in progress” ready for the publisher.  The names of the contest winners will be listed on the acknowledgements page of the new publication about Sam, Mai Li, and the rest of the gang, Lori, Kate, Joseph and Will.

In the second book of the series, Lessons from the Sheepfold, Sam followed in the footsteps of his mentor, Si.  Sam and the gang named his first eight lambs all beginning with the letter A; Abby, Adena, Alice, Anna, Arianne, Alex, Amos, and Andy.  Now, these new lambs will have names each beginning with the letter B.

Mai Li has already named the lamb known to be runt of the litter Bitsy, short for Itsy Bitsy.  Can you come up with another name that starts with the letter B?

Here is a recap of the rules.

After today, I will have the weekly question in my blog under the Bookshelf section. 

Each question will be a multiple answer question from something in my first Sam book, All Because of Chickens. 

To be sure your answer gets to me safely, send it to me directly at glmiller456@gmail.com.

As Subject, put Week Number (each week’s question will be numbered) Contest Answer.  The earliest correct answer, determined by the email date, will be the winner for that week.  Winners will be notified both by return email and listed on my blog.

Oh, I almost forgot.  In case you do not yet have a copy of All Because of Chickens, you can purchase either an e-book or a printed copy on-line from: MuseItUp Bookstore, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or several other on-line book stores.  You can also get printed copies locally from Red House Books in Dothan, AL, Rosie’s Book Shoppe in DuBois, PA, or Brockway Drugs in Brockway, PA.  You can also order a printed copy from me at the above email address.

Let’s have some fun and get those lambs names!

Week One, Name the Lamb Contest

Which breed of chicken did Sammy choose for his CAYC summer project?

a.  White Leghorn

b.  Rhode Island Red

c.  Barbed Plymouth Rock

d.  Golden Comet

e.  Black Minorka 

UPCOMING CONTEST—WE NEED YOUR INPUT

I am taking the advice from one of my young friends who suggested that I include in my blog some tidbits of what is coming up in the third book in my series on The Adventures of the Half Dozen.  In my new manuscript, with the working title GREENER PASTURES?.  Sam has five ewes that will become new mothers when their lambs are born at the end of year, according to the story’s timeline.  These Mamas-to-be are following in the footsteps of both their mother and grandmother, as each is expecting four lambs.

That means Sam needs twenty names for the babies.  When Doc Turner examines Sam’s ewes, he discovers one of the expected lambs is smaller than the others.  Mai Li quickly names the small lamb.  She wants to call him Itsy Bitsy. 

But Sam is following Si’s method of knowing when the lambs were born.  The names of each new group of arrivals start with the same next letter of the alphabet.  The pregnant ewes were Sam’s first lambing and their names all start with “A.”  This is Sam’s second lambing, so all the names will begin with the letter “B.”  Mai Li suggests if they shorten the name to Bitsy, it will agree with Sam’s plan.

However, that means Sam still needs nineteen more names. 

Not only will the winners of the contest each name a new lamb (starting with the letter “B”), but their own name will also be listed in the front of the new book on the Acknowledgements page.   

This is how it’s going to work. 

Starting the first Wednesday of April, I will have a question in my blog under the Bookshelf section.  Each question will be from something in my first Sam book, All Because of Chickens.  Each question will be a multiple answer question.  To be sure your answer gets to me safely, please send it directly to me at glmiller456@gmail.com.  As Subject, put Week (each week’s question will be numbered) Contest Answer.  The earliest correct answer, determined by the email date, will be the winner for that week.  Winners will be notified both by return email and listed on my blog.

If you do not yet have a copy of All Because of Chickens, you can purchase either an e-book or a printed copy on-line from: MuseItUp Bookstore, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or several other on-line book stores.  You can get printed copies locally from Red House Books in Dothan, AL, Rosie’s Book Shoppe in DuBois, PA, or Brockway Drugs in Brockway, PA.  Or you can order a printed copy from me at the above email address.   

I hope you are as excited about this contest as we are.  Sam and Mai Li are really looking forward to the names you choose for their next lambing!

THE LOST COAL

It snowed again most of the day yesterday.  Probably because of the high wind that accompanied it, yesterday’s worth didn’t consist of that much accumulation, maybe an inch or two.  Except for one or two snowfalls with those beautiful, fluffy humongous flakes, most of this winter’s white downfalls have consisted of very small flakes, reminiscent of either the old Ivory flakes laundry soap or its counterpart, Ivory snow.  Even so, beautiful in its own way. 

Two days before that, the sun was warm enough to put a big dent in the white ground covering leaving large, bare patches in the yard.  The next day was interesting.  I’d look out my kitchen window, and the sun was shining brightly.  The next time I looked, it was snowing—hard.  Then the sun would shine, then more snow.  This kept up most of the day, with the sun having the last say-so before night fell.

I kept wondering what was so different about these snows from those of my childhood.  Finally, I remembered—there was no soot blanketing the pure white.  In the nearly forty years we were in Florida, the basic heating evolution changed from coal to gas or electricity, or even those outside burners using wood and sometimes, yes, even coal.

This used to be “coal country.”  We had lots of strip jobs around.  Almost everywhere you would look, a month or two later, the ground, trees, and beauty would be stripped away so the dozers could reach the coal that was lying just underneath.  For many, many years the mining companies were not required to backfill or landscape any of these destructive trenches which scarred the mountainous terrain, which was a shame.  Now, with stricter overseeing, the land is being restored to a better condition.

There was, and still is, also deep-mining is some areas.  The last few years, when we’d come north for the summer to escape the southern humidity, I used to be kept awake at night by the sound of coal trucks coming and going to the pits just over the next mountain.

The heating change from coal has not only left whiter snow, it has almost removed the need for the traditional “Spring Housecleaning.”  It was the coal dust on the walls and the curtains, and that permeated the rest of the house that needed to be washed away, more than the need for an annual cleaning spree.

But along with the heating change, there are a lot of lost memories our children will never know, for they haven’t and probably won’t experienced them. 

For instance, my father would bank the furnace at night, putting enough coal on to supply a bit of warmth throughout the night, but mostly just to keep the coals in the furnace hot enough to become active in the morning.  The house cooled down overnight and no one wanted to put their nose out from under the covers until we heard dad shaking the ashes down, stoking up the coals, and shoveling on more of that hard, black fuel.  Then we’d race each other to the registers to soak up the heat coming through.

The ashes were a blessing, too.  They were used on the roads to give cars traction where there were icy spots (instead of today’s salt or other chemicals) or in the ruts to help us get out of snow-stuck places (instead of cat litter).  They were also used in the gardens to supply nutrients for the summer crop.

The registers were not only good for us to sit on when we came in from playing in the snow, or on those cold mornings, but there was usually one out-of-the way register that held a three-pound coffee tin of water to hydrate the dry winter heat.  Another way my mother used to rejuvenate the house was to open both the front and back doors and let the wind blow through for a few minutes. It was quite chilly as she did it, but boy, did the house smell fresh afterwards!

The year after Jerry and I were married, we moved out to a farm—not to farm, but for the room and the cheaper rent.  One of the factors for the move was that the house was supplied with gas heat from a capped well on the property.  We lived there about three years before dynamite set off at a nearby strip mine cracked the casing of the well and our supply of gas was lost.

The landlord did the only thing left to do and converted the huge furnace in the basement back to burning coal. 

That meant that I became the fireman since the furnace was located in the basement in a section reached only through an outside door.  And since that door was around a corner from the back porch where the winds piled snow waist-high, Jerry was not able to navigate the walk on his crutches.  My puny night-time banking skills were not equal to my father’s, and inevitably the furnace went out—usually about two in the morning.

I get very grumpy when wakened from a sleep.  Early morning icy cold in the house, having to push my way through the wet, cold snow outside, and fighting the huge furnace (the farmhouse had five bedrooms and a bath upstairs and four sizeable rooms and a bath on the first floor, so it needed a LARGE furnace to heat the house) to get lit…and stay lit…didn’t help my disposition!

Needless to say, we moved into town the following summer.

Coal had another advantage, besides heating our homes.  It provided us the pleasure of watching our coal gardens bloom.  “Coal” gardens, sometimes referred to as “depression flower” gardens, or “salt crystal” gardens, are a fascinating thing to behold.  If you put “coal” gardens into the search program of your computer (I use Google) you should get a row of coal garden pictures.  If you click the “more gardens” underneath the pictures, a whole page of pictures comes up.  There was also a heading labeled “depression.”  The very first picture was the most beautiful coal garden I have ever seen, full of beautiful pastel “flowers”.

Even with puzzles, board games, and cards, my mother sometimes had a hard time in the winter keeping us entertained.  I remember her helping us make these gardens.  If you want to try your hand at it, I have copied her recipe for you.  As with a regular garden, proper watering is key to its growth.

Wash a hunk of coal and put it in the center of a dish (it is best if the dish has a low spot, a lip, or sides),  stir the mixture until the salt is dissolved, slowly and carefully pour over the coal, then put drops of food coloring over the mixture.  Set aside and watch.  In a few days crystals will start to grow on the coal.

The mixture:  6 Tbs. common salt, 6 Tbs. bluing, 6 Tbs. water, 1 Tbs. ammonia.

Suggestions:  Coal can sometimes be purchased at a landscaping store, bluing is found in the laundry section of a grocery store, and ammonia can be found in the cleaning section.  ALWAYS add the ammonia to the water, NEVER add water to ammonia.  Ammonia is foul smelling and the water activates the odor if added to the ammonia.

More suggestions.  To vary the landscape, you might want to glue tiny branches to the coal.  If you do, make sure the glue is dry before adding the mixture.  If bare spots occur, add more ammonia water.  Be careful of splashes.  Growth will occur wherever the mixture goes.  Make sure the coal stays damp by putting a little water in the dish when it dries out.

Have fun with your gardens, and let me know how they turn out.

A PENNY EARNED

Again, I want to apologize for missing the last two weeks on my blog.  There are just some times that life gets in the way of good intentions and plans.  Lately this has been happening quite a lot, not only in my blogging.

We are currently putting our home here in Pennsylvania on the market, with intentions of going back south of the Mason-Dixon line.  Hopefully, this move will be made prior to the original time we set when we returned to our roots.  Meaning we hope to get a buyer quickly.  The call of family and grandchildren is a very powerful thing!

This means that things have to be done—mostly getting the hundred boxes, or so, that we moved up here with us gone through and seriously divided between keep, donate, and discard.  When we moved here, it was a pack-and-bring with high hopes of getting rid of a lot of the items by donating or marketing them.  And, yes, by disposing of them too.  But as with a lot of good plans and intentions, a lot of this gave way to actuality.  I have made a good start, with the help of our friends, and am determined to make a sizeable dent in this matter before the week is out.

However, this is not the topic for today’s blog.

Part of the reason for this blog is for you to get to know me better, as well as to compare living styles in my day to living styles now.  So today I thought I would share with you a little about the jobs I have had.  Not all of them have been wage earning, but they were instrumental in developing and shaping my future.  Each of them required faithfulness to the position as well as to the patronage.  After all, these are two qualities that make both a good employee and good business sense.

So I guess you could say the first “position” I held was at the age of thirteen as a Sunday school teacher in the Primary department of my church.  I probably would not have been selected for this occupation except for the fact that my mother was the superintendent of this area of church service.  I quickly learned that I had to be prepared weekly for the task that I held, and that I owed my best to not only my mother, but to the children I taught, and to my church.

The second job I set out to get was at the age of fifteen as a clerk in one of our local grocery stores.  There were originally three in our area when my family moved there; one at the top of the hill and two side-by-side at the bottom of the hill.  The one at the top of the hill closed first.  After a change in ownership of one of the two at the bottom of the hill, the other market closed.

The sole remaining market became a favorite spot for the kids attending the playground across the street who had a penny or two to spend.  It was also “the place” for those running grocery and milk errands for their mothers.  And it was sort of hang-out some of the older boys in the neighborhood, especially the corner that held the pin-ball machine.

Since I was officially under-aged for working, my suggestion I be hired was refused.  Even so, I felt that the owner had a problem in the pin-ball machine area.  On the wall he had a dirty, well-worn hand printed sign that said “Do not tilt” that was completely ignored.  I figured he needed a new sign, so I got some poster board, lettering stencils, and colored pencils and made him a nice sign to hang there. 

He was shocked when I gave it to him, and although he offered to pay me for it, I refused.  It wasn’t long after that he asked when I would be sixteen.  I told him in a couple of weeks.  He said to be sure to let him know and he would give me an application for a job.  I was quite surprised, but very happy.  So this was my first paying job.

My second job was as a swimming instruction at the local YMCA for the city swim program.  By that time I was married and our oldest child was about two years old.  And to be honest, I do not remember exactly how I came to know about the Y’s need or how I came to apply.  I think I had just finished taking a Life Saving course at the Y and one day when I was leaving, I overheard the manager talking about the need for an instructor for the summer swim program.  I told him I would be interested and he asked if I had any certification and experience.  I said no, but I wouldn’t mind getting certified.  That led to my taking a Red Cross Water Safety Instructor course (I already had my Red Cross training in first aid).  I taught that program for three years.

This job was followed by my working for the B.F. Goodrich company as a—are you ready for this?—golf ball winder!  We would wind the miles of elastic around the core rubber balls until they met the gauge and pressure required and then tie them off.  These would then be sent to Massachusetts to get their outer coating on.  I worked there until I was six or seven months pregnant with our second child, another boy.  When he was about nine months old, I returned there until he became sick, and then I quit.  I was asked to come back, which I did, until he had his second seizure, then I quit, period. 

My next job was that of an AVON lady.  It was quite interesting and lasted until the local B&O shops closed down.  I could not, with a clear conscience, go to those homes and ask them to buy cosmetics and perfume when they needed to put food on the table.  Also, the arthritis I had in my hip was making it difficult for me to walk my local route.  Besides, I became my own best customer—not of the make-up line, but of the cologne containers!

After I had hip replacement surgery, we moved to the Pensacola, Florida region so I could be out of the cold weather.  To support our family, which now consisted of three children, we purchased a hardware store and became merchants.  After two-and-a-half years of merchandising, we realized we were in trouble, and I got an outside job as a cashier at a grocery store.

We met some wonderful people at our store and by the time we closed the doors on a Subchapter S, one of our customers and a dear friend had gotten Jerry a job on the Navy base with a section of the Department of Navy (which eventually transferred to the Department of Defense) through the new handicapped program, while I became a sewer at Vanity Fair.

Before long, our friend got me into the Florida State handicapped unpaid work experience program and I was also placed at the Naval base.  I worked as secretary to the manager of the newly developed Handicapped Program for the Department of Navy.  At the end of my unpaid work experience term, I was picked up by DoN as a temporary worker trainee.  I transferred to another branch of DoN, also as a temporary employee but at a higher grade.  I soon transferred back to DoN personnel department when chosen as a permanent employee and continued working for the DoN thirteen more years.

I took an early retirement and set up my own business giving Federal Retirement Seminars attended by employees of several branches of the Federal Government in the Southeastern Region of the United States for the next twelve years, until I closed my business.

That is when I started writing in earnest, finally putting on paper some of the stories that had been playing in my mind for twenty years or more.  Both All Because of Chickens and A Girl Like You, came from that source.  My Lessons from the Sheepfold sprang from All Because of Chickens, as is my current work in progress, tentatively titled GREENER PASTURES.

Which job did I consider the most unusual?  Winding golf balls has got to be at the head of the list.  As I and the other fourteen winders on my shift making the specific balls we made (times three shifts making 45 winders) each making 5-600 balls a day for a total of 22,500 to 27,000 of these same balls a day six days a week (we had worked overtime for almost a year) and equaling between 135,000 and 162,000 a week, not to mention the winders of different gauged balls with different starting cores, I figured either golfing must be a tremendously popular sport or else there were an awful lot of lousy golfers out there who kept losing their balls.

Of all the jobs I’ve had, I find the most satisfying are being a wife, mother and grandmother.  I am looking forward to our move south so I can also add great-grandmother to the list.

What is the most unusual or favorite job you have ever had?

ROLLER SKATES—AND KEYS

Last Sunday I was watching the Signed, Sealed, and Delivered marathon and on one of the issues they were singing a song with these words:  I’ve got a brand-new pair of roller skates, you have a brand-new key…

Now I have to admit that it has been awhile since I last roller skated.  And I don’t know much about today’s skates.  I do not know if they need a key.  If they don’t, I got to wondering if today’s youth even knew what those words meant.  But they took me back to my childhood and the skates I used to have…and the key that went with them.

Once you got your skates (often as a “special” birthday or Christmas gift—or more likely handed down from an older brother, sister, or cousin), they were yours throughout your skating lifetime. 

Our skates were a two-piece, all-metal affair without a “boot” attached to them.  That’s because they were worn on the outside of your own shoes, were completely adjustable, and long-lasting.

All because of the key. 

Each of these two pieces had a set of wheels situated near the toe and heel ends, and were held together with a pair of bars.  If I remember correctly, the bars had rounded sides and slid inside each other with the flat side against the skate.  These bars had a slit in them for a short bolt to fit through.  Its nut rested underneath the skate between the edges of the bar.  This made them adjustable in length.  The toe piece of the skate had two clamps—one for each side of your shoe—that fit about level with the base joint of your big toe and your little toe.  Underneath the skate, holding these clamps was a screw that had a square end.  The back end of the skate had a metal piece about an inch high with slits on either side.  It was shaped in a curve to accommodate your heel and keep your foot in place.  A flat leather strap was threaded through the back and around your ankle, like a belt, to keep your foot in place.

The key was vital to making your skates fit.  At one end of the key was a hexagonal opening that fit over the nut and tightened it at the length needed for a good fit.  It was also a convenient place to put a long string or leather thong so you could hang the key around your neck, in case you needed it.  The other end was a square opening that fit over the screw for the clamps, so the clamps could be snugged against your shoe while skating, and loosened when you were done.  The middle of the key was wing shape to make it easier to tighten or loosen the clamps.

Since we lived in the city, there were cement sidewalks where we could skate for hours.  And there was always our favorite playground, the road, where we could skate, too.  A chore our mothers often gave us was to run to the neighborhood grocery store for a loaf of bread or something else needed for the next meal.  It was fun going on our skates.  It depended on which grocery store we went to whether we skated up a hill and then sailed back home, or sailed on the way to the store and skated up the hill coming home.  Our town had so many hills that wherever you went, you went either up or down!

I preferred to go to the store that was down the hill.  You see, all the sidewalks we skated on had a full, dull sound.  But the house at the bottom of the hill, after you turned towards the store, had a sidewalk with such an interesting hollow sound.  I never could figure why it sounded that way, ‘specially since the cement seemed just a solid as the other sidewalks.

Every once-in-a-while we were able to spend a Saturday at the roller rink, an indoor skating rink.  However, we were not allowed to use our street skates there.  We had to rent their skates with the wooden wheels which were supposed to be kinder to their polished wooden floors.  Our metal wheels might have dents or imbedded something-or-other in them which might damage the rink’s floor.

These skates were the luxury skates, because they had boots on their wheels.  As times got better and finances became easier it became the “in” thing to have your own skates for the rink.  In our teen years, it just wasn’t “cool” to skate outdoors anymore.  So often, under the Christmas tree, there was a box holding a pair of booted “rink” skates.  These came at a time when our feet did very little growing, so it wasn’t necessary to buy multiple pair to keep up with changing foot sizes.

For me, like for most of my friends, high school graduation pretty well ended our skating careers.  Once in a while I would take our kids and go skating.  In our area, rinks came and went, as it didn’t seem to be a lucrative business.

By the time skating rinks were “back in” again, it was the grandchildren I was skating with.  By this time, rinks were no longer allowing wooden rollers on their floors.  Since wooden wheels had become the norm for street skates, rink wheels had progressed to neoprene, or some other newer product.  And although the skates still had four wheels, they were now in a straight line instead of on four corners.  The last time this old lady went skating, she barely was able to keep her balance, even though the rink owner had a supply of old-fashioned non-inline skates.

I am content to leave the joys of roller skating to the younger crowds, as it should be.  But I shall forever keep the fond memories of my youth’s skates—and their keys. 

What about you?  What are your fond memories of roller skating?   

WITH IMPROVEMENTS, WE NEED WISDOM

Today one of my friends told me she had been in an accident.  Snow?  No.  Icy Roads?  Nope.  A snow white-out?  No.  Although all these could have been a possibility, the problem was not due to this winter weather we are having full-blast; the problem was due to texting.

We have come a long way in our written communications. 

When I was a kid, all we had around the house to use to write a note was a pencil or pen and a piece of paper.  However, other than writing letters which I mailed, I do not remember leaving notes for any of my family. 

My mother was a stay-at-home Mom, so if I wanted to go anywhere, all I had to do was ask, and if permitted, then go.  If Mom needed us for any reason, she usually opened the door and yelled for us (yes, Mothers used to use their vocal chords and yelled outdoors if they wanted one of their kids.)  

When we heard them, we knew we had better get home, it was something important.  When my children went out to play, they could roam the neighborhood as long as they did not go out of the range of my voice.  If they did not come shortly after being called, it spelled TROUBLE!)

Back to when I was a kid.  Our neighbors had the niftiest “message center.”  It was their enamel kitchen table.  No, their mother did not work, either, but the older kids were constantly on the go, so when something needed said or done, it was written onto the kitchen table with a pencil.  All it took to erase it was a wet rag and some soap or a little cleanser.

I remember the day we moved up to a typewriter.  My oldest sister was taking typing in high school, so to help her out, my mom and dad got us a typewriter.  No, it wasn’t a brand new fancy thing.  And it was a used one, but it was magic!   Of course, we all wanted to type on it, but we had to take turns.  After all Barb, the oldest of we three, being in high school and needing to practice, had dibs.  Then I had to wait till Margie, the middle child and the one in junior high, did what she needed to do.  I, a lowly grade-schooler came last.  But that was okay, I had other things to do.  But I did get my chances to use the typewriter, too, for we had it many years.  

What kind was it?  I think it was a manual Underwood.  Have you ever watched the TV program, Murder She Wrote?  Well the typewriter Jessica uses on her kitchen table is exactly what ours looked like.  And it took some effort to hit those keys hard enough to press through the carbon ribbon and leave an imprint on the paper.  Between typing and piano playing, my fingers became very strong!

If you think the typing was hard, try correcting any errors.  It was such a chore—especially if you were typing in duplicate (that means using carbon paper), cause you had to hand erase the error, on both copies individually, and try not to smudge them.  And if you wanted to change a whole sentence, that meant you needed to put in fresh paper and begin all over.  It took some doing to get that first error-free homework paper done, believe-you-me.

About the time I was in high school, we got a newer model of typewriter.  It was still a manual (that means it took finger power, not electricity to make it work), but it was much more compact and easier to use, not to mention lighter to move.

When we got married, my husband had his very own typewriter.  It had its own carrying case and was probably mid-sized between Jessica’s typewriter and the one we now had had at home.  But it was so easy to put in its case and carry from place to place, including from one destination across town to another.  And often, I just opened it and left it in its case to use.

I do not actually remember when I first got to use an electric typewriter.  However, I do remember how easy it was to press a key to get it to print.  I think I had a hard time getting one letter at a time, because if you hit the key too hard, or hold it too long, you would get duplicate letters.  Since I was used to the old manual typing, my first electric typing looked something like this:  FFFFouurrr ssscorrre and sevvven yearrrs aaaago…  Kind of hard to read, huh?  I wasted a lot of paper learning 

Then came the day of the computer.  Oh, how often I have thanked our dear Heavenly Father for this invention!  You do not have to press hard to type, it is so easy to correct a mistake, if you want to move a sentence from one section to another you can do it without typing everything all over again, and if you want to make a copy you can tell it to instruct the printer to make two or a hundred.  WOW! 

You don’t even need to keep paper copies in files, unless you want to.  Of course, to save it on your computer, it helps if you remember to save your work as you go and definitely before you accidently hit a wrong key and lose it or shut off your computer.  Something I sometimes have a hard time remembering.

We not only don’t need filing cabinets, we don’t need dictionaries.  The computer will tell us if we have spelled something wrong.  Of course, it what we wrote was a legitimate word, unless we use it incorrectly in a sentence and get “told on” by the computer, we can find spelling errors on checking our work.  But these errors are still easier to change…and print.

So far, so good.  These new inventions do not take either much wisdom or self control to use.  If we do need to write and print something, we have a marvelous way to do it.  However, I am not so sure the newest way to send messages is the best.  Oh, not because there is anything wrong with the invention, but the human element involved.

The invention?  Texting.

Cell phones, although I will tell you up front I hate them, have changed our world.  But I am not sure for the better.  Oh, it’s not the cell phone I doubt, it is the intelligence of the human race.  I will gripe about this at some other time, what we are talking about today is the texting angle of the thing. 

I do have to agree that it is handy-dandy for what it was meant for.  If I cannot connect with someone I have phoned, I used to have to keep calling back until I got them to be able to tell them something, or I had to send them a message via mail or computer e-mail.  Now I can leave either a voice message or a text message.  (Yes, I have finally learned how, if I don’t forget between use—you know, use it or lose it applies to texting, too.)

The problem is some humans just do not believe they can live one second if they are not either on a cell phone talking—or texting.  If you are in your own home or space (other than driving your car—a lethal weapon), that’s fine.  If it is important, by all means, again, go for it (of course if you are driving, pull off the road and stop).  But, if you are in a situation where it is neither safe nor convenient, if it is something that can be done later, and definitely does not infringe on anyone else, either their space or SAFETY, control yourself.

It would be a shame for you to cause an accident, like my friend’s where repair is going to be needed on three vehicles because someone crashed into hers and pushed it into another, or you hit a person in a wheelchair in a crosswalk and dump him onto the ground (like what happened here in our town last summer), sending him to the hospital for an extended stay, or you have to live with the fact you committed vehicular homicide by killing someone.  All of this not only has harmed or cost someone else, but also extracts dearly from the one causing the accident while texting.

No, I am not zeroing in on the teenage population.  I have seen too many persons classified as adults indulging in this immature behavior to blame just one age bracket.  Texting while driving should not need to become a police matter, nor a matter for additional laws.  Any policing needing done should be on the shoulders of each individual involved in this act to make sure he or she behaves in a mature, responsible manner for all concerned.

RUBBER PANTS (AND DIAPERS)

I was so surprised the other week when I was walking through WalMart and saw a display for rubber pants in the infant section of their clothing department.  These were the first I’d seen since our children were babies.  Of course, I had very little reason to need these since we finally ended the task of potty-training our children (almost fifty years ago).

For those who have no idea of what I am talking about, let me fill you in.

In my days as a young mother, there was no such things as Pampers—or any other disposable diaper.  Disposable means you have to replace over and over.  Our diapers, once bought, lasted for as long as we needed them, for we used good old fashioned cloth diapers.  There were thin gauze-like diapers similar to the diapers I’ve seen sold in today’s markets.  But the best, more absorbable, and longer lasting, were the flannel diapers.  Through the years I’ve even seen the special diaper pins, but I never saw the rubber pants needed to go with them.

Wet diapers, being what they are—wet diapers—needed some kind of a barrier to protect the laps of those lucky enough to be cuddling the baby when the water works erupted.  That’s where the “rubber pants” came in.  Although, I do not remember them actually being rubber so much as a pliable plastic (which became more rigid with the washings they received).

So when a baby was changed of a wet diaper, we’d just lay him or her out, take off the rubber pants and the wet diaper, and scoot a clean diaper under him.  Of course if the diaper had more of a “discharge” in it than just urine, the step of washing him clean fell in there, too.  Then we would powder him (heaven forbid!  Powder?!  How Barbaric!), pin him up, and put the rubber pants back on.  He was again ready for cuddling, smelling as sweet as babies can smell.

But what did we do with the wet diaper?  Soak it in the diaper pail until the next day when we would wash the diapers—yes in the washing machine.  Of course, if the diaper was soiled, we would dunk it in the toilet to get rid of most, if not all, of the residue and resign it to the diaper pail, too.  How often did we do the task of diaper washing?  Well, it depended on how many diapers we had and how often a clean one was required.

A good supply of cloth diapers was anywhere from four to six dozen.  Where did they come from?  Not only Baby Showers, but a lot of us expectant mothers spent time sewing, knitting, or crocheting things for the little ones comming our way.  The most common diapers were twenty-seven inch squares of hemmed material. 

However, when I was expecting our middle child, my mother saw a “formed” diaper.  She made me a couple and I sewed up several dozen of them.  I do not remember the exact measurements but they were like twelve inches wide and maybe sixteen inches long?  In the middle of the length of both pieces (a front and a back), a half circle, maybe two to two and a half inches deep by four inches long would be cut out to form a crotch and accommodate the legs.  These four half circles were sewn on one of the long pieces in that crotch area with the straight sides together in the middle.  This made it more absorbent.  Then the back and front were sewn together, leaving a space of about two to three inches open to turn the diaper inside out.  (I made sure when I sewed them together that the circles were on the outside so that when it was turned inside out, they would be on the inside.)  Then I sewed the open spotclosed and then all around the diaper about one-quarter inch in from the sides to give it a finished look.  By having the circle sewn on the one side, only, I used that side towards the baby and was able to keep most of any staining on the inside of the diaper and the outside, where people could see, was smooth.  Sometimes, to add variety, I would do the back side (the side not against the baby) in either a color or a print flannel.

These diapers, just like the square diapers, could be folded to adjust to the size of the child, from newborn up.

Washed diapers, just like about everything else at that time, were line-dried, even in the winter!  There was nothing softer than a freeze-dried diaper!  It was also a matter of pride to show the world the Lord had blessed us with a little-one.

Diapers were not only used as diapers!  They were also spit-clothes at burping time, with the formed diapers fitting so nicely at the neck.  What on earth did we do with them after the baby was grown and no longer needed them?

After they were potty-trained, the diapers didn’t lose either their value or their worth.  The nicer looking ones were set aside for the brother or sister we hoped to provide.  And NOTHING makes a better cleaning cloth…especially for shining windows…than an old diaper.     

Cloth diapers were, and still are, expensive.  Even the flannel to make them was somewhat dear.  But I really feel sorry for today’s parents who spend a good hunk of their paychecks for disposable diapers, week after week.  Our cost was a “once” expense.  Yes, we had to spend more time on the care of the baby, if you count the rinsing of the diaper from the diaper pail, the washing, drying, and folding for storage.  But that was time we spent thinking about our new addition, dreaming over what they might become, and praying for their safety and good health.

Enough about the diapers.  Back to the subject of this blog, the rubber pants.

Rubber pants came in many sizes from infants to at least size three, and the sizes, like infant clothing today, usually were the same as the age of the child.  Infant, three month, six month...so a size three was for a three year old.

I remember as a young mother, going into the drug store and seeing a display of rubber pants, and was amazed to see some size three rubber pants for sale.  At that time, babies were started to be potty-trained soon after attaining the age of two, when they were able to stay dry all night.  When progress was being made, training pants replaced diapers during the day, and the chore was usually finished well before the age of three.  So my immediate thought to myself was, What child is not trained prior to being three?

Well, one of mine! 

Our middle child was born in early January.  His sister was due in December, almost three years later.  No matter what I did, I just could not get that boy to comply to my wishes that he use the commode!  I begged his father to let my rebellious one know I was not the only one who was not satisfied with his performance, or lack of it, by giving his a swat on his rear.  And before you start with the cry, “Child brutality,” it was perfectly acceptable, praise the Lord, to discipline a child by using either a hand or a hairbrush, or even a belt on that particular part of a child’s anatomy that God had prepared for that purpose!  (I wish it still were.  Maybe today’s children, and especially those who have to exist with them, would be better off.)  In typical male fashion of that day and age, he ignored me.  It was, after all, part of the wife’s job, to do this particular training of the child.

When I was still in the hospital after the birth of our daughter, (yes, we could stay longer than a couple hours or overnight…usually up to a week.) Jerry came to visit me with a big smile on his face and his chest puffed out.  No, in this instance it wasn’t pride of our daughter.  His big news was that he had potty-trained our son.

I asked him how he was able to do in a couple days what I couldn’t do in almost three years, he replied, “It was simple.  When he dirtied his panties, I gave him a swat on the rear and told him ‘No more.’”  I am so glad he did that, but a whole year after I had asked him to do it?

But, again, what caught my eye with WalMart’s display is that all the rubber pants on that rack were size three!  Our truly needed sizes were infant to three.  Of course, the thoughts of today’s young mothers is that potty-training should not even be started until the age of three, when the child has a better grasp of the whole procedure.  All I can say is, I credit you for having more patience, not to mention MONEY, than we, in our day and age, ever had.           

MAIL CALL

Guess what I got in the mail the other day. 

A letter! 

Not a request for money, or a bill, or news about the latest health publication.

It was an honest to goodness letter, hand written, from a friend!

Do you realize how seldom this happens anymore?

I remember when that used to be the only way, besides the telephone, friends could stay in touch.  It was an economical way of keeping friendships alive, of letting your friends and relatives know about special events…weddings, graduations, births…or of encouraging fellowship by inviting them to a party.

It was economical in that the post office would deliver these missives for the grand total of three cents, if you licked the flap and sealed the envelope.  If you just tucked the envelope flap inside and did not seal the envelope, the cost was one cent.  Mail was delivered by an honest to goodness mailman who walked his beat—not once, but twice a day!

Letter writing takes practice to become an art.  When we were kids and had to write thank you notes for gifts, along with grumbling and complaining, we made them as brief as possible.  They would be printed in pencil on a thank you card given to us by our mother and go something like this:

Thank you for the gift (sometimes we even named what it was.).  As we got a little older, we would add the name of the gift and say that “It was very kind of you” or even “I shall enjoy using it.”

Usually our mothers would address the card, stamp it, and make sure it got in the mail—either by sticking it under the corner of the mail box on our porch for the mailman to pick up, or by sending us to the “mail box” that was not too far away.  This box not only held letters we wanted sent out, but also the mail to be delivered to our area.  That way, the walking mailman could refill his bag and not have to carry all the letters the total distance of his local.

For those of us starting out writing “newsy” letters to friends or relatives who lived away, our early letters usually went something like: 

“Hi.  How are you?  I am doing fine.  What is your new school like?  Do you have a football team?  Write soon.”  There were several different scenarios that could take place here.  Such as we would ask what our friend had done that summer, or if he/she had read any new books, or that you had heard they had gotten a new pet and asked how it was doing. 

One day it occurred to me, if I was asking all these questions because I really wanted to know what was going on in my friend’s life, then perhaps she wanted to know what was going on in mine.  That was when my letter writing changed.

I filled the pages with what I had been doing—making a new outfit, what had happened in school, reading a new book, telling about the playground parade, or how sunburned I got swimming at the park.  I would share about the sock hop after the basketball game, or how the ice skating on our local dam was.  My writing size was small to middling, so it took a lot of writing to fill up a page or two, front and back.

The letters I would get back still asked a lot of questions about what I was doing and said very little about their life, but eventually their letters started to get more informative.

One of the people I used to love writing to was Jerry’s Aunt Bonita.  I have often felt sorry for her, having to read my epistles!  When they visited us once, Aunt Bonita and I went grocery shopping.  She spent time explaining to me how to know when oranges were ripe—the fact that the skin was stretched making the natural pits in it more smoothed out.  Also, you could tell how juicy they were by whether they were soft of hard when slightly squeezed.

I just had to write to her and tell her all about my shopping expedition to the grocery store, how I had followed her advice, and how the oranges I had picked out were so sweet and juicy.  With some additional “news” about what was happening, I think that letter was something like thirteen pages long!  I do not remember if it was thirteen pages, numbering each page or numbering the pages front and back, but still, that was a lot of reading for that poor lady!

But I think it was writing all those long letters that got me interested in writing stories.

I didn’t use to understand my mother’s excitement at Christmas time when the cards started coming with letters tucked inside.  Who cared about the letters?  It was the card that was so pretty.  Of course, things change in value as we get older, and those letters have become very special to me, too.  So often we are caught up in our lives that we do not have time to share our joys and daily happenings with friends and relatives.  These little missives at that special time of year catch us up and keep us in touch.

Yes, we can keep in touch with the telephone now.  In my younger days, people could not afford making calls outside their local calling areas.  Long distance added up to an unexpectedly large phone bill!

That is one thing that is so nice about today’s cell phones—unlimited calling.  Of course, our monthly bills are paying for the privilege, but it sounds good, anyway!  The thing that is exceptional are the “face time” calls we can now make.  Jerry and I are currently living in Pennsylvania, but we can not only keep in touch with our families in Alabama and Florida by quick calls on the phone but also with our “face time” calls.  It is nice to be able to keep abreast of the growth and development of our great granddaughter, or share some of the sights of trips to Disney, or see the engagement ring of our granddaughter!

Besides E-mail, other social media are avenues of communication available today like Face Book, and Twittering.  Some of the social media is sorely abused, as is cell phoning and texting.  Things that are better said in private, if they need said at all, are blazoned across the atmosphere without a moment’s thought of appropriateness as to what is being broadcast or even of the place it is being spilled into.  Frankly, I don’t appreciate hearing about last night’s conquest when I am stuck in a slow moving aisle at the grocery store!  Stranger or not, good manners used to keep some things private.

Yes, things change and move ahead.  But there is just something about a handwritten letter…

When was the last time you either received a letter from—or better yet, wrote one to—a friend?

…PEDLERS THREE

My apologies for no new blog entry last week.

Single digit temperatures with sub-zero wind chill factors.  A gap in the neckline of a coat found by an icy breeze.  Snowy wet gloves ineptly protecting frozen fingers.  A perfect formula for a severe January cold, if not the dreaded flu bug!

Chills, light-headedness, nausea, inability to calmly sit at the computer to write a blog, headache, uncontrollable runny nose, continuous deep-chested coughing followed by…well you know the drill. 

A phone call to the doctor.  A trip to the pharmacy.  Did you know that now-a-days your doses of amoxicillin can be made tempting in several different flavors? 

When my husband needed and antibiotic several weeks ago, the druggist gave him this pink liquid instead of the gigantic pills Jerry would never have been able to swallow.  It is the first time in almost sixty years he not only finished a prescription, but enjoyed it!  He kept wanting me to “just taste it.”  Being raised by a registered nurse of the old school, I wasn’t about to taste someone else’s medication.

So when I had coughed enough and blown my nose enough, and felt really lousy, on top of his nagging, and realized I just couldn’t hold off for the two weeks I knew I would have this cold, I finally placed my call to the doctor requesting the famous pink stuff.  Although my amoxicillin was white instead of pink, I was assured it was flavored the same way my husband’s had been, with—bubble gum.

It has been two weeks, and I am doing much better now.  Either the medication—or time—did its work.  Thinking back, I am happy that there is bubble-gum flavored antibiotics instead of some of the “home remedies” that used to be depended upon.  As a child, my husband remembers the old-time, old-faithful mustard packs.  He also tells me of sugar cubes dipped in kerosene.  Thank goodness, my mother never resorted to either of these remedies.  I don’t know if it was because we were never that sick or I just don’t remember.  Either we might have inherited healthier genes, or her constant vigilance over her family caught the germs before they could take up residency.

Although I really did not care to drink the milk that I had noticed her adding something from the “blue bottle” (also known as Philips Milk of Magnesia) kept on an upper shelf, I didn’t mind her home-made eggnog at all!  However, like most mothers, she did have her favorite remedy—Raleigh ointment! 

She used it liberally with a deaf ear to our often loud, squirming protests.  When we came in from playing in the snow, after the coats, scarves, mittens, boots, and snow pants were removed, that flat, round can came out and a liberal amount was spread on cold cheeks, chaffed wrists, half-frozen hands, and sometimes even our ankles.  And if there was a sign of a runny nose or a cough, when we went to bed, that round can was there to “put a little in our nose” and to rub on our congested chest.

Why did I hate it?  Because after it was on a little bit, wherever it was got really cold and a tingly sting would start up.  After that, it seemed to warm up and by then we had even gotten used to the smell.  Of course, by the time this metamorphous had taken place, we were usually asleep.  I have to admit, though, come morning we had forgotten all about the discomfort and were ready to brave the cold (and Raleigh ointment) for another day’s adventure.

Another remedy Mother used was plain old aspirin.  No ibuprofen for us.  No, sir!  We took the real stuff, and healed a lot faster.

In those days, there was only one place Mother could get her tins of ointment—direct from the Raleigh man!  That was part of the era when peddlers would come door-to-door hawking their wares, and services.  Kind of like I did when I had my Avon route years later.  The Raleigh man would come with his big black bag and Mom would have him come in.  My, the stuff he had in his bag…combs, ointment, even flavorings were among his wares.  Mom would calculate when he would be around next, and purchase the ointment and flavorings she felt she would need till he came back again.

Another peddler I remembered making rounds every now and again, was the knife sharpener, who also sharpened scissors.  He’s set up his wheel and all the ladies on the block would bring their kitchen knives and household scissors for him to sharpen.  Although my mother used a whetstone to sharpen her knives in between times, she did appreciate the new edge for her scissors, especially her sewing shears.

Our best loved peddler was Billy.  For many years, he sold boxes of greeting cards.  He’d come staggering down the street on his twisted legs, two big cloth shopping bags loaded with cards hanging from each outstretched, twisted arm.  The first time we, as kids, saw him, we were quite afraid of him.  You see, Billy had MS, and his walk was different, his talk was different, the look of his face was different, but his smile that was plastered there, we did like that.  Billy was well known in all the little towns for a radius of probably twenty-five miles from his home.  He supported himself with the sale of his cards.  Of course, Billy didn’t drive, but he didn’t need to.  He was so well liked that just about everyone on his route who had a car available, offered to take him wherever he needed to go.  I remember seeing him walking along the highway, and if one of the cars in front of us didn’t stop to pick him up, we did.  It was a very sad day for the whole area when Billy was no longer able to peddle his wares.

Now-a-days this unique flavor is missing from our lives.  If we can’t get to the store, we go to our computers and order whatever it is we need and either pick it up postage free at the store, or take advantage of free postage to our homes.  Sometimes it is even worth paying the postage, just so we do not have to go out.

Part of the reason peddlers no longer have a place in our lives, is the danger and lack of trust involved.  Not only the danger as a homeowner of opening your door to a stranger, but also the danger of being that hawker and being invited into the unknown homes on your route.  It is a changing world we live in, where innocence and ingenuity have been replaced by suspicion and fear.  And a possible friend and service by the tap of a computer key.