Rocking Chair

We went into a consignment store the other day, and there it was...a little maple rocking chair. Perfect. We snapped it up.

When I was pregnant with Serena, we drove from San Francisco to Kansas, Iowa, Missouri, Texas and Arizona to visit family. While we were visiting, we looked for a rocking chair. I love to rock, and wanted to rock my baby. In Iowa, uncles and aunts helped us look. Then Uncle Myron asked if I wanted one they had that he'd refinished. It was perfect. He called it a nursing rocker, low and no arms. As he said, "it has been chewed by a dog on one of the rockers, so you don't have to worry about the baby damaging it."

So we stuffed the chair in the back of our tiny Datsun and drove home with it. The back of the rocker was over the cooler in the back seat, so every time we needed in the cooler we had to tip the rocker.

That rocker rocked both children, and became a knitting rocker. No arms, which was perfect for this body's repetitive stress problems.

Then Serena moved out and took the chair with her. I missed it. She set it so she can look out over her view and rock quietly with a cat in her lap.

So now I have a new to me rocker that is just right for me. It is set so I can look out over OUR view -- withOUT a cat in my lap. For whatever reason, I have been able to start knitting again. Perhaps it is the rocker? Whatever, my Plisse is starting to grow a bit.

Just for fun Howard asked her if she would trade rockers. Her eyebrows went up all the way and she said, "but it is MINE!" Which is almost word for word what I'd predicted. We all laughed.

There once was a

When we moved from Fresno to Portland, many years ago, Mrs. Williford gave us a dresser and a book for Serena (who was around 18 months old at the time.) We used the dresser for years, it just went to a family with 4 children, to continue the tradition of giving.

But the book. Ah, the book. We read that book over and over and over to both children. It got to the point that we knew it by heart. I don't know what happened to our copy. I want to read it to Justin when we can.

Yesterday a new copy came. Howard was able to identify it by the back cover alone. He didn't know that it was coming, but he knew exactly what it was when this picture emerged from the envelope.

The book? "The Boy With A Drum" by David L. Harrison and pictures by Eloise Wilkin I look forward to reading it to Justin many times.

Sorry Bill

moar humorous pics
We didn't have a shower in the house until we had lived in Utah for a few years. Mom and Dad had one installed in the basement. During that period of time they seem to have been installed in a lot of laundry rooms instead of bathrooms, just as this one was. The house didn't have a lot of water pressure. It was really easy to annoy the person in the shower by turning on hot water upstairs. So convenient if they had annoyed you... Actually there was a perverse joy in listening to my brother bellow to turn off the hot water. I don't remember doing it to Annette and wouldn't have done it to my parents. But I do remember doing it to Bill. This photo from http://icanhascheezburger.com brings it all back.

Skunks Take 2

We lived in an old house in Oklahoma that was actually two houses that had been pushed together. One side had an unfinished basement, the other side was balanced on concrete blocks. Little did we know that the concrete block side was a skunk magnet! Our first clue was waking up one night to the sounds of a cat fight on steroids. That was "exciting" as it sounded as if it were right under us. Turns out that it was. Right under our bedroom. sigh

Our children were small, about 4 and 1. You know, the age when they are either movng or asleep. The time of life when there is no mute button.

There was a wonderful racetrack in the house. They started off in the living room, then on to our bedroom, breeze through the bathroom, whizz through the dining room and wind up back in the living room. This was a wonderful game -- to chase each other around and around. Sometimes just one of them ran it. Screeching in laughter at the top of their lungs. Nathan couldn't move very fast, but it didn't matter.

Unfortunately, the skunks resented being awakened as they slept under our bedroom floor. They really didn't like the noise. And showed their displeasure as skunks are wont to do.

We tried all of the home remedies we were told about. How many of them were to tease us? I don't know, they didn't work. Eventually a friend loaned us a trap, and helped dispose of the first skunk. Which got exquisite revenge as it died. The second skunk left for a day or so, and Howard dug out the path to the den, and put down a sheet of roofing materials to deter the skunks.

Didn't work. Wasn't too long before they had moved under our bedroom again. This time the trap was dropped off, with best wishes. I'm not sure he even slowed as he dropped it off. He wanted nothing to do with it!

Eventually the skunks were persuaded to find a different home. But every time it rained there was a skunk odor in that house.

I don't remember how long we had skunks under our bedroom, it seems as if it was a very long time. It probably wasn't, but too much time has passed to know for sure.

Skunks 1

Alison told her skunk story the other day. It reminded me of several of ours.

When we lived on the eastern plains of Colorado, the house was 4 miles out of town. The church, parsonage and cemetary were surrounded by fields. When our road started drifting over at the cemetary, it was our responsibility to call the school and let them know. There was just enough time left to end classes, get the kids on the buses and home before it was too dangerous.

Nathan had severe asthma, so we had outside cats. For convenience, the cat food was kept outside on the front porch, in a metal bin that had originally held popcorn. The cat food attracted skunks. Cucumber (and the other resident cats who were there for shorter times Rosie and Blackie) learned to eat quickly if they didn't wish to share. Didn't matter, the skunks would investigate the porch to see if there were any crumbs.

After a while, the blasted things figured out that they could open the bin by pushing at it with a nose until it fell off. There would be a loud CRASH as the metal lid hit the concrete floor. Not conducive to sleep. One night, I'd had enough. I heard the CRASH and jumped up out of bed, raced downstairs, threw open the front doors and stormed out on the porch. DUMB but I wasn't thinking at the time! The skunk tried to spray me, while balancing on the rim of the bin. Instead, it fell on its back. I came to my senses and leapt back into the house, slammed the front door, then looked out through the window in the door (heart pounding!) The skunk rolled over, looked around, then waddled off the porch.

The next day the house was sprayed in a different place about every hour. The smell lingered for a long time. The day after that Nathan, waiting for the school bus, leaned against a post on the front porch. It became obvious, as the bus made its way to school, that he had found one of the places that had been sprayed. A polite phone call from the school asked us to please pick up that coat and bring something to keep Nathan warm, so the smell wouldn't permeate the school.

After that, the cat food bin was kept inside. I do learn, sometimes slowly!

34.5 years

Howard's grandmother was a letter writer. She wrote just after we were married that we had married on their anniversary. I didn't know that. Turns out she meant that they were married on Valentines's Day, our six month anniversary.

Grandma J. felt that the best way to show her love was to feed the person. We always left from visiting them stuffed beyond the gills. Two days (or so) of eating as much as we could left its toll! Grandma would put any food that hadn't been dished up on our plates, telling us to "eat up, so the sun will shine tomorrow." Oh dear. One memorable meal she served homemade banana pudding, coconut cream pie, chocolate pie and angel food cake with strawberries. Howard asked for a small bite of each and received a full serving of each one! That was on top of a full meal! Uf-da!

The Years of a Couch

When I was growing up, it was called a davenport. I believe Howard's family called it a sofa. Now it seems to be called a couch.

When Serena was just getting active, my Great-Uncle Charlie decided to move into a senior apartment complex near my parents. He was fascinated by Serena, I don't think he had been around a toddler much, and her energy level astonished him. (As it does, I believe, almost everyone around one!) One memory stands out, my parents had a step/seat in front of the fireplace, probably 9 inches to a foot tall. Serena was clambering up that, then she'd stand up and jump down. Over and over. And over. Charlie stood there and laughed, which, of course, encouraged her to continue. He was filled with delight, and so was she.

Charlie asked, somewhat shyly, if we would take some of his furniture. It would make him feel better if he knew where it was going. As we were fresh from grad school with few belongings, we accepted with joy. I'm not sure that I fell on his neck thanking him, but it was close! (grin)

So it was that we received some of Charlie's furniture. Now the nice thing about Charlie's furniture was/is that it was purchased by someone who stood right at 5 feet tall. In other words, his furniture fits me beautifully! The couch was oversized (it didn't fit in the door of the apartment when we were living there!) but it was just the right depth for me to be able to sit all the way back and my feet still could be flat on the floor. That is unusual.

Just after we received the furniture, we moved to Portland Oregon. We had the couch reupholstered. It needed it. Shortly after it came home, Serena took a red marker to the cushions. Thank goodness I could turn them over! That did, of course, mean that the cushions didn't get even wear.

I figured it up the other day. While we had it, the couch survived 2 children growing up, 8 cats, 7 moves, 2 stints in a storage unit, dirt roads and a lot of use! It, unfortunately, finally the wood started giving way. Re-upholstering just wouldn't work now. I didn't want to let it go without some sort of memory. So I kept a piece of the upholstery. There were 4 fabrics on the couch, so it had been reupholstered 3 times. Charlie had probably purchased it in the 20s, so the it had a good long life. The velvet (brown?) was the first. Then there is a tiny scrap of brocade (all I could get, the fabric was disintegrating.) That is a gold with a brown brocade. Then there is the gold brocade that was on it before we received it. The blue striped velvet was put on in Portland.

I don't know if the couch would have survived longer if it had been reupholstered again earlier. Somehow I doubt it. The nails in the arms had broken the wood when they pulled out. One of the legs broke as the couch was moved.

It was hard letting the couch go. It had been part of us for a long time. But it was time. We'll miss it. If I can't find another that allows my feet to touch the floor, we won't buy another.

Ideas on what to do with the fabric scraps?

Handel's Hallelujah Chorus

I should be asleep. The alarm is set to go off at 4:30 in the morning, so we can spend some time with the kids before Serena flies out for home. Yet, I'm awake. Drat.

My parents had a reel to reel tape recorder. Dad used it for work before his stroke. It was a massive thing by today's standards, I think each reel was close to 6 inches (15 cm). And heavy. But that was state of the art in those days. After his stroke, he didn't need it. We had pre-recorded tapes for it, I remember some were loaned by others to amuse him after he came home from the hospital, but the selection was...eclectic. The Messiah, Coppelia, western tunes... I think I remember some friends loaned/gave him tapes.

For whatever reason, I commandeered that machine. I needed it to go to sleep. I'd go to sleep listening to Coppelia or to Handel's Messiah. I'm sure I probably only needed one side to go to sleep, I seemed to have fallen asleep before "The Trumpet Shall Sound" for the Messiah, but I'd rouse for that. Wonder if that is why my Mom hates trumpets? She commented one time that they demand (bugle?) her attention.

Anyway, tonight I was thinking about the Messiah and the Hallelujah Chorus. How many times I've heard it or sung it in my life. My first memory of it is with that recording (no, I don't know who made it.) Then there is the memory of the pick-up choir of my high school days. A local religious institution invited anyone who wished to come for the afternoon to practice the Christmas portion of Handel's Messiah, to be performed that evening. We all came together, from MANY religious backgrounds, practiced (I'm sure that the sponsoring church's choir had practiced a LOT more) and then put on a performance that evening.

Then in college, the church we belonged to performed the Christmas and Easter portions on alternate years. Complete with brass quintet. I think that is the last time I sang it myself.

When we moved to New York, Serena was a member of the high school choir, which had the Hallelujah Chorus as the finale of the program every year. Anyone who had been a choir member in the past was invited to come up on stage and sing. It was a vibrant, exuberant performance, with friends meeting up since they had graduated. Some had been singing this together for 40 years or more. Most of them tried to get in on time, so they could get to the program. I know we tried to schedule her flights home from college in time so she could get there. Didn't always happen, due to finals schedule, but still...

Now, listening to XM stereo on tv, there have been a couple of playings of the Hallelujah Chorus. And there is still that stillness, that delight in the memories over the years.

Tonight, for some reason, instead of sleeping the Chorus is once again ringing in my head. The worst of it is that I can't remember, is it 3/4 or 4/4 time? Sheesh? Instead of the joy, why is THAT important?

We are waiting the birth of grandtad. Any day now. Whee!

Buttons

My Mom had a button box when we were growing up. It was, I believe, a red checked gift box that had held jams from Knotts Berry Farms. It was always a treat to dig through the buttons, some were plain, some were shiny, some had little bits of glass. We didn't do it very often, but it is a fun memory.

Somewhere along the way I started saving buttons too. Not too far into our married life, from the looks of the button jars! I have 2 - 1 gallon jars to hold my buttons. It all started from sewing, then we bought 2 fruitcake tins of them at an auction, then Ivadell gave me a jar of them...

It is almost a constant, however, that if I need buttons for a specific project, I don't have what I need on hand. Now that the fabric store where I used to buy them is closed, the situation is even more dire. I spent some time yesterday going through buttons for the 3 baby sweaters I have nearly completed.

In the process, it was a trip down memory lane. I found the leftover buttons from dresses for Serena, buttons that I purchased when she was tiny figuring I'd have them on hand when I needed, buttons left over from projects I sewed for Howard, some of the buttons I recognized from the auction and Ivadell. I found buttons out of deer horn made several years before his death in 93 by my Uncle Myran. I went through the buttons and remembered. I remembered both kids going through the buttons. When I needed to keep them busy, I'd ask them to string like buttons on thread. I had fun with all the memories.

Oral History

Mom called tonight, Dad and she are being interviewed via telephone. I tend to forget that they have lived through so much, it is imperative that at much of the story is preserved as possible. It turns out that they are the only ones found to interview, so far, that represent a part of our historical background for our denomination. If they hadn't responded, that information would have been lost. As it is, the researcher, who had planned to spend about 20 minutes with them today spent quite a bit more time, and will be calling back. Mom has asked me to help find more information while we are there.



You see, 50 years ago our denomination was formed out of the merger of 2 other denominations. Dad was the minister of a church in St. Joseph, Missouri. There were 3 churches in town which were affected by the merger. In the negotiations for those 3 churches to merge into one, it was decided that they would start off with a new minister for the new church. The other two ministers left as they found calls elsewhere. Dad was the last, and found himself ministering to all 3 parishes. I found it exciting, as a child, because he had a police escort between churches on Sunday morning so he could make all 3 sermons on time! No, I don't know how he did it, I really should ask again. I remember hearing, and I hope someone corrects me if I'm wrong, that they all started at the same time, but shuffled the sermon times so that he could preach. Eventually they held a merging ceremony, and all 3 met as one body. Mom and Dad have pictures, I'm in one of them, as they had the children from all 3 churches leading them into worship. The local merger was covered by national news media. Mom has copies of all of that. Shortly after that we moved to Utah.


Mom also asked if I remembered going to church camp when Dad was the director. Yup! Oddly enough, I am aware of knowing someone with asthma for the first time. Dad directed the camp, and brought the whole family with him. (Years later we did the same with OUR family!) I think her name was Anna, but there memory isn't perfect. But she couldn't keep up with the activities the other campers were doing, so she played with Annette and me. I was so upset when she had to go home in the middle of camp because she was too sick to stay - perhaps had to be hospitalized that night, I don't remember. I wasn't very old, but it hurt that I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye when she left. As I have learned to live with asthma, I've thought about her, and wondered how she is doing.


And then Howard came home tonight from the state-wide meeting of the denomination talking about someone else who was at the Synod when the denomination was formed.

Isn't it amazing how events in life are timed so well? Perhaps if I hadn't listened to Mom tonight talking about the interviews I would not have been so aware and interested when Howard mentioned the gentleman he talked with tonight.

But I'm also reminded that if we don't listen, we lose a lot of history. Each person has a history, we have to be open to hear it!