The Dale Scott farm vs the Robert Johnson farm

This was my Grandpa and Grandpa Scott's farm.  I have so many good memories of my time spent at this farm.  That is probably why I keep coming back to it.  You can see the house and the wash house, the huge barn and other out buildings.  The garden was behind the house and the clotheslines.  The storm cellar  and the chicken coop were also behind the house.  We had many family gatherings in this house at holidays or just for Sunday dinner.  I remember watching the "big kids" playing baseball in the front yard.  We played hide n seek in the dark.  We looked for the wild kittens and got ourselves scratched up, we played in the hay mow and were free to go anywhere.  One time my grandpa called to us and motioned that we should come over to where he stood by the fence.  On the ground was a dark lump of something that I could not identify.  Grandpa told us it was a two-headed calf and sure enough if you looked you could see it.  It was dead of course, but I think he was saving it to show everybody.  Gross!  

When I was about 12, Grandpa "hired" us to walk his beans.  For those of you who do not know what walking beans means, here is my explanation.  When the soy beans are first growing the farmer can use his machinery to hoe and keep the weeds under control, but once the beans reach a certain height you cannot use the machine.  There were always plenty of weeds, most of which I cannot remember what they were called.  There was also a lot of corn since the same machine that plants the beans also plants the corn and some corn seeds always are left in the machine.  So walking beans is the process of walking up and down the rows between the soy bean plants and pulling or chopping the weeds.  A nice clean field was a matter of pride for many farmers.  I am not sure if it made a difference in the yield or quality of the crop.  Now days, they use seeds that are resistant to round up and then use round up on the fields.  Grandpa did pay us for walking his beans-$1.00 per hour plus lunch and cookies and Kool-aid for breaks.  I got a great tan on my legs below the hem of my shorts which meant I had a farmer tan that was immediately evident when I wore my swim suit.  My little brothers walked beans with us.  We could have made more money walking anyone else's beans, but I don't think Mom would have let us.  The farm life was not for me.  Hot, sweaty, buggy, hard work. 

I did try my hand at another summer job that kids always did when I was 16.  I contracted to de-tassel corn on 3 acres.  De-tasseling corn means walking down the rows of corn and pulling out the tassels on some of the rows.  This was done to control the pollination.  I believe it was August.  Normal, intelligent people would have been out doing this in the morning before it got too hot, but I did not like the spiders that were out in the morning and I was a teenager who liked to sleep late so at 1 pm on a particularly hot, humid day, I finally took myself out to my field.  I was old enough to drive and had my own car.  I was not smart enough to wear a hat or to bring any water with me.  The consequence of my poor decision making was Heat Stroke.  I remember being hotter than I have ever been, but doggedly continuing down the row, pulling tassels.  All of a sudden the world went white, I couldn't see anything but white light.  I did not pass out, but I sat down in the shade of the corn, then I lay in the shade of that corn and soon I was crawling back up the row, staying in the shade and heading for my car.  Why?  There wasn't any water there.  I am not sure how long I sat there until I had recovered enough strength to get in the car and drive to water.  It was a while.  Another experience I survived.  I paid my little brothers to help me finish, gave them a share of the money.  I think I got $90 bucks for that job.  Like I said, I was not cut out to be a farm girl.  Hay made me itch, the sun gave me a face full of freckles and burnt me to a crisp.  Of course back then, we hadn't heard of sun screen.  I had enough sun burns by the time I was ten to put me permanently at risk for skin cancer.  

I spent a lot of time on this farm and if you ask me to describe a farm this would be the picture in my mind.  Grandma and Grandpa stopped farming in the 1970's, bought a little 2 bedroom house in Maxwell and moved into town.  I was gone at the time they did this so I never really got to say good bye.  By the time I came home again, the buildings were gone and my Grandparent's farm did not exist any more in this world.  

This is my Grandpa and Grandma Johnson's farm.  I am not sure I ever spent the night at this farm.  I don't know why but my family's relationships with our Johnson side relatives was different.  I remember Grandma Johnson had lovely flower gardens on the side of the house that is facing us in the picture.  This picture looks like it was late winter/early spring.  Grandma had big gardens also, including a blackberry patch.  Yummy.  The first time I ever saw a humming bird was when I was walking along side that lovely flower bed.  Grandpa Johnson had lost his little finger in one of the machines.  I remember one time when we were leaving to go home I was in the car and I yelled out the window "bye bye 4 fingered grandpa" .  Mom was very unhappy with me.  Grandpa Johnson like to put on a fireworks show.  I remember being there for one.  We all sat in the grass and watched as he  shot them off one by one.  My dad says he did that every year.  My Aunt Sandra was a horse nut and she had a horse.  She also had a collection of toy horses.  I think I remember some things about the inside of the house.  The kitchen sink had a pump-that was how they got water in the kitchen.  There was a big stove that burned corn cobs.  That is where she cooked and heated up water.  I remember them having a bathroom, too.  I think there was a piano, since my Aunt Sheila liked to play piano.  One time when we were visiting Grandma had a box of baby chicks in the kitchen next to the stove.  One poor little chick was all pink and bloody from the others picking at it.  Really, all I have is impressions, small snatches of memories.  Dad says this farm was owned by his Grandma Hale.  I remember Grandma Hale as being really old, but then I am older now that a lot of people were back when I thought they were really old.  Grandma Hale was divorced from her first husband, my dad's grandpa.  She remarried and that is why she was Grandma Hale instead of Great Grandma Johnson.  I never met her second husband and don't know what happened to him.  The few times we visited at Grandma Hale's house I was too young to wonder about any of that.  Grandpa Johnson died when I was 17.  Soon after I was gone away to Wisconsin and I never saw any of my Johnson side other than Aunt Sheila and her husband Jerry ever again.  I got this picture from Aunt Sheila.  She did not remember the farm looking so dreary.  Dad did not remember all the buildings.  Dad left home before Aunt Sheila started school so they did not live on the farm with their parents at the same time in any meaningful way.

The reason I titled this article as The Dale Scott farm vs the Robert Johnson farm is because of the totally different ways I remember them.  One was a happy place where I spent a lot of time with people who loved me and influenced me.  The other is a place I barely remember with people who may have loved my but never proved it to me, spent any time with me or had any particular influence on me.  I do not blame them.  Grandparents only have access to their grandchildren through the efforts of their grandchildren's parents.  I do know I come from a line of prideful, stubborn people so who knows why.  I guess that did influence my life.  Like I always tell my kids, your parents can teach you how to act and how not to act.  

My brother Mike added some details.  Here are his comments.

Mike Johnson We visited granma and granpa Johnson a lot when we were young. We stayed over night. The upstairs was cold and drafty. I played in the barn and feed the pig. Threw out ear corn for the cows and pigs. Picked up the cobs for Granma's stove. Aunt Sandy was so pretty riding up on the horse. Play with the baby chick. Granpas big old Buicks sitting to yard. He wasn't very tall but he drove a big car. He would shoot fireworks up an old eave troffer leaned against the clothes line. They always had peppermint candy. I don't think Mom got along is why we didn't see them as we got older. dad had to make the decision to let Grandpa die because he was the oldest son. I think there were some hard feeling over that.

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Terry Johnson Jenkins Thanks for filling in the blanks. I did not know about grandpa's death. I don't even remember the funeral, just the long drive to the cemetery.

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Mike Johnson I remember grampa trying to get grammar into bed with him on his deathbed. Grammar giggling a little. Might have been the morphine.

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Mike Johnson Also every other word was d

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Mike Johnson Every other word was God damn it. Dad hardly cusses

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Some memories are harder to share than others

My mom was a do-gooder. She preferred "caregiver".  When my Aunt Sheila needed a temporary home while her husband was in the army, she came and stayed with us.  When my Aunt Sandra's husband was in a terrible car crash, my little cousins came to stay with us.  Why?  I don't know.  How long?  Long enough.  And sometime in 1966 or 1967 my mom decided to take in a foster child, the first of many.  His name was Bruce and he was 15 years old.  Where did he come from?  I don't remember.  He disrupted our lives in ways I did not understand until many, many years later.  One day he was there, the next he was gone. Was that the end of my mom's desire to be a foster parent?  No.  Soon we had four sixteen year old boys living in our basement bedroom.  One of them was my soon to be adopted older brother, Michael Dennis.  He married Donna Patterson and they live in Colorado.  The others?  I don't remember their names or stories, but soon they were gone, too.  Mom didn't get any other foster children until after my brothers and I left home.  Over the years there were dozens of children that got a temporary home with my parents.  Some stayed a day, some stayed for years and became part of the family.  

Mom was always taking on more than she could handle.  The foster kids, the family, working full time, and her own demons on several occasions overcame her ability to live up to her commitments.  She started smoking.  I will never forget coming home and seeing her sitting at the dining room table with a cigarette.  What do you say to that? She did not stop smoking until the doctor found a spot on her lung and scared her into quitting. Then there was a bottle of vodka in the corner kitchen cabinet. Where did that come from?  She started staying out late and going to Ames in the evening.  She was working at an electronic parts store in Ames and one of her co-workers was named Stan.  That is where she was, with him.  This was when my dad sat across the table from me and said he was afraid they would have to get a divorce.  I wonder what made them stay together?  Many marriages get strained to bursting and then somehow, someway they get pulled back together.  Mom and Dad were obviously devoted to each other in their later years.  They would walk down the sidewalk holding hands.  

I was 16 when Mom tried to kill herself.  My dad had a pistol on the upper shelf in the closet in the little bedroom where my piano was.  She tried to get it but my brother, Michael Dennis and I stopped her.  Then she ran out of the house to her car and said she was going to drive it into a bridge.  Mike took the distributor cap off so she couldn't start the car.  At this point I cannot tell you what happened next because my memory of what came next is blank but it ended up with Mom spending a couple of weeks in the psych ward at Mary Greeley Hospital in Ames.  When she came home she had to give herself shots in her thighs.  Who knew what drugs they gave her.  My friend Cali Christy and I went to visit her one time while she was in the psych ward and we took along some music so we could play the piano and sing for her and the others.  We started singing "going out of my head over you" and Cali was the first to realize that maybe that was not an appropriate song!  

I had an English teacher when I was a sophomore named Mrs. Book.  Ruth Book.  She also went to our church.  I am not sure what the give away was but she got me alone one time and asked me how I was doing.  If I was OK.  In a small town, you can't hide this kind of shit.  I know I did not talk to her about anything.  I did not talk to anyone about any of this stuff.  Years later, Cali Christy told me that her parents talked about taking me in because they thought I needed to be away from the drama that was my home life.  They were always very kind to me.  Rolo and Gail had me over to their house all the time, gave me rides to high school, took me to nightclubs to listen to the band (OK they were bars, not really nightclubs), encouraged Cali and I in our musical adventures, and offered me an alternative vision of how adults lived.  

In spite of all the drama, I was a good kid until the summer before my Senior year.  I did not smoke, I did not drink, I did not screw and I did not go with boys that do. As a sophomore  I went to the prom with a boy who took me to a keg party and I made him take me home. He kissed me and touched my breast and I never went out with him again. I did not do drugs or stay out late or give my parents cause to worry.  My grades were excellent, I participated in school and extra curricular activities.  I had friends.  I helped around the house, cooking huge suppers for all those foster kids.  I did all the "normal" good kid stuff until the summer of my 17th year.  After all the times my mom accused me of things I didn't do, didn't trust me when I was clearly very trustworthy something had to give.  And the thing that gave was my self respect, my confidence, and my sense of self worth and any desire to conform or fit in or obey the rules. For the next year, I made up for lost time by doing all the things that my mom thought I was already doing. I started smoking cigarettes and marijuana.  I had sex. I stopped wearing a bra.  I stayed out all night and lied to my parents about where I was.  I turned 18 in February and was legal to drink.  I drank. Lots. Sometimes I have no idea how I got home.  I dropped out of chorus at the end of the first semester of my senior year.  I got the one and only "F" of my life.  I got a detention.  My life was on the fast track and I was lucky I lived through it.  

Valuable Lessons

I learned to swim at this pool in Nevada, Iowa.  It was right across the parking lot from the Nevada High School and right across the alley from Gates Hall.  My mom signed us up for swimming lessons.  You know it is funny because I don't remember if my brothers came also.  I don't remember how I got to the pool for my lessons either.  I did not learn to swim.  I did learn to float and hold my breath.  I also learned to dive (not part of the lessons)!.  Isn't that funny?  I could dive but did not swim.  I never got to go in the deep end because I couldn't really swim.  Today, I can do the backstroke and the sidestroke, but I don't like to do the crawl.  Just don't like it.  I am grateful to my parents for sending me for lessons.  Mom and Dad never learned to swim. In later years Mom took water aerobics but she never would get out of the shallow end. She was afraid and so was dad. I am pretty sure he never ran more than an inch of water in the bathtub.  I have never seen him in shorts, let alone a bathing suit.   My early exposure to the pool was a blessing.  

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My Mom also signed me up to learn ceramics.  My teacher was an old woman (maybe, she seemed old to me!) who lived on a farm outside of Nevada. She was patient and kind and I cannot remember her name.  I learned to work with the greenware, cleaning the seams and smoothing the imperfections while being aware that any wrong move could destroy the piece.  I learned to paint on 3 coats of color and to finish my pieces with clear glaze.  The process took 3 firings  She showed me how to paint the eyes.  I loved to do horses and cats. I think all my horses were black with white manes.  They have all been broken and tossed. For many years I had a cat that I made all those years ago, but it too got broken in some forgotten accident and discarded.  The only things I have left from those ceramics lessons are this pink candy dish that I made for Grandma Scott, a statue of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus and a plaque with praying hands.

My daughter, Tiffany has the statue and the plaque.  Here's how it happened.  Grandma Scott always put people's names on the bottom of her stuff.  She was trying to make sure people got things they had given her or that she thought they would especially like.  Well, she put my name on that statue.  I had no interest in it, but my mother loved it.  So when I ended up with the statue, I just handed them right over to mom!.  Tiffany also loved them.  I guess that loving feeling skipped a generation.  So eventually, the statue ended up with Tiffany.    She has quite a few items, like the picture of Jesus praying in the garden of Gethsemane and the HUGE ceramic Nativity Set that I made in the early 90s during my second stint of doing ceramics.  The problem with art and ceramics and all the crafts that people like to do is when you are done, you need space to display or store them or someone to give them to or to sell them to.  All the crafty, arty stuff I have done has always led me to a place where I couldn't make anything else with out getting rid of something!  So, I used to crochet.  I made afghans, I made bedspreads, I made doilies, I made granny squares and zigzag throws.  Where are they now?  I took them all to Good Will when we moved from 39th Street in Milwaukee to Garay Lane in Port Washington.  For a while in the early 2000's I made jewelry.  I made necklaces, earrings, bracelets in every color and all different styles.  Where are they now?  On their way to Good Will.  No one needs that much jewelry.  Since 2005 I have been making quilts.  Luckily for me, many of them were for gifts or for some specific person so I am not overrun with quilts.  Also, I stitch them all by hand which means it takes forever for me to make a quilt!

It is funny to me when I look back at all the things Mom did to encourage me musically, artistically and physically even though she was not musically gifted, not was she artistic or athletic.  Did I look at it that way back then?  Heck no.  Was I grateful?  Not so you'd notice. Kids just expect parents to provide opportunities to learn and to grow.  I know now that many parents cannot or will not give their kids these kinds of opportunity. Mine did and I am grateful.  

Mini Skirts, Go Go Boots and other forbidden things

Nevada Cubs Logo

When I was in Junior High, that's grades 7-9 when I was there, Go Go boots and Nehru Jackets and medallions and mini skirts were the cool fashion statements.  My mom said no.  No Go Go boots, No Nehru Jackets, No Mini Skirts.  No, No, No. No make up,  No boys.  I was seriously un-cool in 7th grade.  I got smarter or maybe Mom got more "with it"?  Nah.  I am sure most women my age know that if you don't have a mini-skirt when you leave from your house you can have a mini-skirt once you get to school-just roll it up around your waste!  Go Go boots were not that easy.  Make up was pretty easy too as long as you had money.  Boys, no way.

I walked to the Junior High in Nevada.  It was a large brick building at the Central School complex.  It had 3 stories, big wide steps between floors, no A/C and plenty of heat.  Let's talk about those big wide steps and mini-skirts.  Any one who ever wore a mini skirt knows how hard it is to keep prying eyes out of your business!  The girls wore really ugly and really uncomfortable Gym suits.  Our parents actually had to buy these hideous things for us.

I always got good grades, scored high on the Iowa Basic skills tests, in fact one year I beat out the George twins and got the $25 savings bond for girls from Donnelly's. Why would they separate the boys from the girls in this case?  Why not just take the top 2 students?  It was a different age.  Anyway, John Rebers was a genius.  However, this truth that I am about to confess cannot be denied, I was a terrible student.  I did not apply myself.  If it wasn't for my excellent memory, my ability to read quickly and ability to grasp the concepts easily, I am sure I would have failed, for believe me, I never carried a book home with me from school.  Homework?  No, I don't think so.  My lack of study skills and work ethic have definitely shaped my life.  I did not go to college and I would not have done well unless I changed my slothful ways.

I loved to read and always had a book with me.  Fiction-teenage love stories, historical novels, or science fiction mostly.  I used to take my book into class and read while the teacher was talking.  I guess I usually was pretty good at multi tasking.  I paid enough attention to be able to answer questions or follow instructions.  However, one day I was in Geometry class.  What was his name?  Was it Burham, Burnister, something like that.  I used to remember.  That was 50 years ago, what do you expect?  Anyway, I remember that I was reading a book, a teenage romance and I came upon a passage that read;  It is better to urp a burp and bear the shame than squelch a belch and die of pain.  I started laughing and could not stop.  The teacher was one of those guys that thought it was ok to thump people on the head and my head definitely got a thumping.

I never really got in any trouble at school.  I was quiet, followed most of the rules, minded my own business, answered questions when asked. In 7th grade I went to Junior High without my siblings.  In 8th grade, Steve started 7th.  When I went to 9th grade I had both of them with me.  I believe my only and best strategy was to ignore them.  Pretty much worked all the time.

I was in the Junior High School Chorus.  In 9th grade, our choir teacher was Mr. Philips.  We thought he was cool.  I am not sure he deserved that accolade.

My 8th grade algebra teacher was Mr. McClain.  Nate McClain.  He was ex-marine, always making the boys drop and do push ups in the aisles.  Another male teacher with wrong ideas about girls personal space.  Not criminal, just creepy.  He lived in Maxwell, the town my mom came from.  I found out many years later that he committed suicide.  Who knows what demons he faced but I never really felt sorry about it.

We had a school counselor.  I do not remember why I was in his office but he was another male who had boundary issues.  Do you say to Junior High Girls "you just can't help being sexy".  Really, I did not picture myself in anyway sexy or asking for these kinds of comments.  Another creep.  I can't remember his name and I am sure I never visited his office again.  I didn't tell anyone either.  Who would I tell?

There was a girl that always talked to me about her family.  She would tell me the saddest stories and I just listened.  I remember sitting on the top of the bleachers with her, listening, wondering.  I can not remember her name and I still wonder what happened to her.  Were her stories true or fantasy?  Listening to her sad tales always kept my own in perspective.

One of our class mates got pregnant.  Shocking?  Uncommon?  No.  Every year until we graduated we lost another one. You know they always kicked the girls out of school.   Finally when I was in high school, they stopped kicking them out of school and let them graduate, married or not married.

In Junior High the girls took Home Economics and the boys took Shop.  No choices back in the late 60's.  I learned to sew.  I already knew how to cook but I did learn that you didn't have to buy a box of cake mix at the store!  I have to admit that my mom helped me make my home project, a nightgown with a collar and gathered puffy shoulders.  That was a crazy project for a beginner to take on.  The sewing lessons from school and Mom resulted in me being able to make a lot of my clothes before I came to Milwaukee to go to school.

We walked to school.  It was not that far, it was not uphill, but it was cold in the winter and we were not allowed to wear pants to school.  Oh, we could wear them under our skirts, but that was decidedly NOT cool.  Knee socks were in style so the only part of my legs that really suffered were my knees and my thighs( remember the skirts were short).  One day I got to school and I was going in the side door.  The step was pure ice and the door was heavy.  I pulled the door and I landed on my back, spread-eagled on the ice.  I don't think anyone saw me.  Please I hope no one saw me.

I had a crush on a boy or at least the idea of a boy.  Andy, oh what a lovely strawberry blonde young drummer in the Junior High band.  He was a year older.  Never talked to him, never met him, never want to.  That was not my first crush, nor was it my last.  In 2nd grade a boy gave me a ring.  I lost it and I seemed to have lost any memory of who he was or what his name was.  It is hard for real people to live up to the fairy tales we hear when we are young or the fairy tales we tell ourselves when we are older. When I was 13
I had a crush on Davy Jones from the Monkeys.  I had a crush on Stan, I had a crush on someone every time I turned around.  I never dated a boy I had a crush on.  I only dated boys who actually asked me out but that was NOT in Junior High because my mom said NO.

Grandma's Kitchen Sink Remembered

Of course I don't remember getting a bath in Grandma's Kitchen Sink, but I remember that window that looked out at the side yard, the wash house, the pump and the driveway.  I remember the holly hocks and the little dolls grandma taught me to make from the blooms and the buds.  I remember the little toy soldiers that sat on top of the sill.  I remember watching people wash dishes, cook and can in that kitchen.  I remember "helping" grandma with her pies, mostly eating "mistakes" and leftover scraps!  I remember her sifter, a well used tool for someone who baked as much as Grandma did.  I think one of my cousins got that sifter when we had the estate sale before moving grandma into the nursing home.  This is the kitchen where all those delicious meals were prepared, all the jars of preserves that were kept in the storm cellar were filled and processed.  The walls were covered with wall paper and there was a half wall between the kitchen and the dining room.This is the kitchen where my mom learned to cook and probably fought with Aunt Carol and Uncle Jon over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Oh, maybe not.I can't imagine Grandma making Uncle Jon do dishes!

I also remember these plates.  They hung on the wall above that kitchen window.  When Grandma and Grandpa moved into town after he retired I asked Grandma where the chicken plates were and when I found that she still had them but did not hang them in her new kitchen, I asked if I could have them.  They have hung in all my kitchens since the day she gave them to me sometime in the early 1980's. I love them.  They are chipped (before I got them) and they collect kitchen dirt so must be washed a couple of times per year but I can't imagine working in a kitchen without them.

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This little piece of furniture was my Grandma's telephone table when she lived on the farm.  It was in the dining room and was one of the pieces of furniture that I had to dust.  Her button box was in one of the drawers and I used to play with all her fancy buttons.  Seems like the cage with her parakeet was next to this table and of course the phone was on top of it.  After she moved into town, I asked about this table and she gave it to me. Since then, I always have it tucked into a corner of a room.  Today it is in the dining room.  I have treasures in the drawers but not button boxes! 

These camels are in a Christmas Card box with a note saying they are from the holy land.  I don't remember how I got them.  One of the chains is broken and held into the camel's pack by a thumbtack.  I don't remember if that happened before or after I got them.  Memories are selective and mine is not as reliable as it used to be.

This is the last set of tea towels I received from Grandma,  She made others for me and she made pillow cases for my kids.  She always said we should use them, that's what they are for and that is what I tell people when I give them tea towels or a quilt-It is made to be used.   Sorry Gram, I couldn't bear to ever use these tea towels.  They stay safe in the drawer of your telephone table.  I take them out once in a while to hold and remember.

The blue bowl is one of Grandma Scott's. It is carnival glass and has a chip in it.  I have had it for a very long time but I don't remember how it came to be mine.  The glasses next to it are a recent gift from Aunt Carol.  They were Grandma Bisher's glasses.  Grandma Bisher was Grandma Scott's mom.

This is the gravy dish that my Aunt Beulah (Aunt B) kept on top of her refrigerator for cookies.  Whenever kids came to visit she would take them out of the cookie jar for us.  I do not ever remember getting a home made cookie from Aunt B.  She was a diabetic and always very strict with her diet.  Aunt B made the very best red chocolate cakes.  She always brought them to holiday dinners. probably because she knew everyone would eat the whole cake and she would not have to be tempted.  My mom got this dish after Aunt B died.  Mom had it for years in a display shelf above her refrigerator. I have had it now for many years.  For a while I kept it in my book case behind glass doors but recently I have moved it to a place of honor on the refrigerator.  Sorry to all kids wanting a cookie, it no longer contains any sweet goodies.  I wonder what happened to the ladle.  It seems like it should have a matching ladle. I wonder where she got it from.  Was it a gift or an heirloom?  Oh, well, I never thought to ask about it before Aunt B died so I will just have to wonder.  

I have a picture that always hung on Grandma's living room wall at the farm.  It is a picture of fishing boats at night, mostly grey with a bright yellow lamp of candle light coming from one of the windows on one of the boats.  Again, I remembered it from the house on the farm and asked Grandma for it after she moved into town. It hung on the wall when you first entered the living room, right next to the big heating stove.    I am grateful to have these things to remind me of the past, to keep me connected to my loved ones who are gone.   I am not including a picture of it because it is currently in storage but not for long.

I have been cleaning out my off site storage unit and I have bins full of pictures to go through, pictures of Grandma, Grandpa, Great Grandparents, etc.  I know I am going to wish that we were more diligent about labeling the pictures.  I will be peering at old black and whites wondering who they are and what the connection to me could be.  Then I will come upon the first color prints slowly fading into obscurity.  I will find pictures of me and my brothers and cousins and wonder it that Jean?  Is that Uncle Irvin?  I think of all the work it would be to actually label all those pictures and wonder if anyone will care after I am gone.  Is it worth the trouble?  I was actually thinking about taking them to one of those places that will digitize the photos and give you a CD or a memory stick or what ever.  But, 50 years from now, will we have a machine that will read that CD or memory stick?  Will the  cloud still be there?  Somehow I wonder if bins of old pictures might outlast the computer files.  All you need to access the data on a photo is your eyes and your mind.

I want to roller skate.

I am not sure how old we were when mom signed us up for skate lessons.  The roller rink (Does anyone still call them roller rinks?) was in Ames, a town about 8 miles west of Nevada.  We skated every weekend for a while. Mom skated too, sometimes but I do not remember my dad ever coming with us.

Remember how young my mom was!  When I was 12, she was only 30.   I remember one time she was skating with my brother Michael Dennis when somehow she fell on her knees.  She tore her nylons and got a terrible bruise! Mike was a pretty good skater, very coordinated and strong.  Why, you may ask, did we call him Michael Dennis?  I have 2 younger brothers, Michael Jon and Stephen Robert, my blood brothers.  Michael Dennis was 16 when he came to live with us so we had to find a way to differentiate the two of them.  My parents adopted him.

I was a good enough skater that I could skate backwards, do turns, shoot the duck, take the turns like a pro step over step.  I never owned a pair of skates. Once I was old enough to drive, we went to the roller rink in Marshalltown a couple of times, too.  We did the limbo, shoot the duck, backward skates, couples, and my favorite- the hokey pokey.  That's what it's all about.

I am thinking about this because I went to a roller rink today to watch Kari and Alaysia skate.  My son and his wife and her mom were there, too.  Karen and I did not skate.  I wish I could.  How I used to love it!  Oh, I wish I could skate again.

My kids and I used to go skating when we visited mom and dad in Ames.  That was probably the last  few times I went skating.  In 1993 I bought some roller blades. I quickly learned that roller blades and roller skates are not alike at all.  I never got the hang of the roller blades.  I did not like skating on sidewalks and uneven ground.  My only previous experience was on nice smooth, flat cement since I never had a pair of outside skates, you know the ones that fit on over your shoes and require a skate key.  I also discovered that I was afraid of falling!  When did that happen? I was afraid to skate up or down hill.  I was unsure of being able to stop.  Very sad.

At the rink today they had these contraptions made of PCV pipe and duck tape that looked like walkers.   Kids who couldn't skate well used them.  They seemed dangerous to me.  When I was a kid, the kids who were learning just hugged the walls. They did the limbo today but the did not play the limbo song!  It felt the same and yet not the same.  There were very few "good" skaters.  The kids with the skate walkers really got in the way.

When we think back on the past often we think of those times as better and get nostalgic about the good ole days.  I think the best part of the good ole days is how young and strong and fearless I was.  

Halloween Memories through the Years

Yes, I know it is the beginning of September and school just started and it has been 80 degrees or more just about everyday in so far this month even in Port Washington, but remember that storage unit that I am going to get rid of?  Well I am taking inventory of my Halloween collectibles and some of them are going bye bye!

My grandchildren live in a different Halloween world than I did.  They get a costume but they are more likely to go to school sponsored candy collecting. 

My son, BK and grandson Kennedy, age 2

My granddaughter Kari as a spider, age about 1.

When I was a kid, we made home made costumes and went all over our neighborhood, knocking on doors, ringing doorbells, collecting candy from strangers and friends after dark!  Sometimes it was cold and we had to wear a coat over our costume.  It seemed like a big adventure.  When someone answered the door we said Trick or Treat!  If they asked for a trick, I said "Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat" and they would give me a treat!  I never soaped a window or papered a tree.  One year I went as a pregnant hippie-only in small town Iowa would this be considered "scary".  My mom and dad did not inspect our bags of candy even though we had things that were not individually wrapped and god forbid home made.  Mrs.  Witkonak who lived on the corner made popcorn balls every year!  Home made goodies were not uncommon.  Just imagine that happening today.  Oh, we heard stories about people putting needles or razor blades in the apples or candy bars, but we never really believed it.  This was a time before someone poisoned the Tylenol.

One Halloween I was invited to a real Halloween party at Janelle Wissler's house.  I can't remember what my costume was.  I can't remember what we ate or who else was at the party.  All I remember was that basement!  It was dark and we had to put our hands into bowls of eyeballs, and containers of guts, etc.  I loved it.  No other Halloween party I have been to ever came close to that one.  

When my kids were old enough to go trick or treating we took them to the neighborhood where my in-laws lived around 41st and Capital Drive in Milwaukee.  There were more family home owners there and we considered it to be much better than the hood where we lived (25th and State St, for real)!  And we were right.  Once we bought our house on 39th Street in Milwaukee, we did not worry about them trick or treating.  They knew their way around the neighborhood, who lived where, etc, but we always checked the candy for problems and to get out all the good chocolate and anything else we liked.  Poor little kids at the mercy of their parents!  We had tons of kids come trick or treating in that neighborhood even though they didn't exactly live in our neighborhood.  Lots of parents came with the kids and nobody said trick or treat and if they did and we asked for a trick they did not know what we were talking about. 

My house on 39th St was always decorated for the holidays and Halloween was no exception.  I had decorations for the window, little knickknacks and of course, we carved the pumpkins.  Leaving them on the front porch on 39th St sometimes was not such a good idea.  Smashed pumpkins break little kids hearts.  Shame on you!  You know who you are, you pumpkins smashers!

Tiffany always wanted to go to the pumpkin farm with me and pick out pumpkins.  Even into her adulthood she still wanted to go.  She doesn't really like to carve them, she just wants the pumpkin seeds to roast.  The last few years we have had carving events at our house or at my son and his wife's house with the grand kids or at my daughter's house. The pumpkins mostly come from Walmart.   This year, I doubt if we carve any pumpkins.  Things change.

Take me to church

My Church in Nevada Iowa.  Beautiful Stained Glass.  

My mom and dad always took us to Sunday School and church.  They went too.  We had to memorize the Lord's Prayer and the 23rd Psalm. The kids in my Sunday school also went to regular school with me.   From an early age, I sang in the children's choir and then graduated to the adult choir.  After I learned to play the piano and the organ, I played for church, sometimes the whole service.  I think I mentioned before that my skill with the organ was very limited.  On 4th Street, we lived only 1/2 a block from our church so it was easy to be there as often as needed.  I was baptized at 10, a year early.  In our denomination we did not baptize babies. My mom was surprised at me asking to do it this year but I understood what the deal was and I believed-no need to wait!  I loved to go to Sunday evening singalong services.  That was the only time we sang the really old hymns.  Shall we gather by the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river that flows by the throne of God.  I loved Christmas.  I signed up for prayer vigils.  I also loved to go to church with Grandma Scott at the Maxwell Christian Church.  The Maxwell church is still there.  My church in Nevada is gone.  On that corner, someone built a house.  The membership of my Nevada Christian church built a new building on the outskirts of town.  I've never been there.

In my teen years I belonged to an All Girl Band with Cali Christy, Molly Wakefield and Deb Wells.  We practiced in the basement of my Church.  Deb sang "Venus was her name" and played drums.  Cali was our guitarist and was quite good.  Molly played the organ.  I sang, maybe played the tamborine.  We had a lot of fun but never had a paying gig.

So how old was I when I stopped believing?  Impossible to remember for sure but certainly the seeds of unbelief were sown long before I went to high school.  I read books about witches-what a bunch of BS.  I read Ayn Rand and for a short time was impressed with her theories. I read the bible, what an eye opener!  I discovered that people did not really practice what they preach and there is nothing worse than adult hypocrisy for teenagers.  So somehow between age 12 and 18, I woke to the reality that God did not exist. Since then I have wavered between atheism, deism, agnosticism and Dr. Wayne Dyerism.  Love you Wayne!

We all know that old saying that there are no atheists in foxholes.  Well there are no atheists in the delivery room and there are no atheists when your child or grandchild is sick or in trouble. I prayed in the delivery room and between 2008 and 2010, I used to recite the Lord's prayer in the elevator every morning on the way to my car in the basement and every night I recited it in bed to put myself to sleep, to comfort and sustain me for the hard things I had to do the next day.  Does God answer prayers?  If so, the answer for me is more often no than yes.

I can believe in a higher power that really doesn't give a shit about me.  I have evidence to support that claim.  But if God is omnipotent than he is responsible for everything that happens-whether in my judgement it is a bad thing or a good thing-he is responsible.  ALL things come from God.  I cannot give him the glory without giving him the blame.  And if God is not omnipotent, then what kind of god is that?

It was easier when I had the faith of a child, when I thought I knew the answers because I believed everything I was taught.  Finding your own way takes a lot more thought.

I will not try to convince you that I am right about God, faith or religion.  Do me the courtesy of not trying to convince me that I am wrong.

Collections-What to do with them?

When I was a little girl, living on 4th Street in Nevada, IA,, my Grandma Scott gave me my very first tea cup with Violets painted on it and thus started a collection that had one time had over 100 tea cup sets.  The tea cup and saucers that are pictured below were ones I collected in the late 1980's and 1990's.  I have too much stuff.  I have had an off site storage unit for the past 10 years, about $6000 worth of "I just can't give this stuff up".  These cups are going, either via Craigslist or at our garage sale in 2 weeks or to St. Vincent's or Good Will.  One way or another, these memories are going to belong to someone else soon.  Oh, don't think that I am giving up ALL my precious cups!  Grandma Scott's gift is still here and a curio cabinet full of my most favorite ones of all.

Not one of my favorites, not even sure why I bought it.  Maybe it was a gift?

One of my favorites.  It has a lovely Japanese design and the handle is a dragonfly.  Made of a very light translucent china. The more I look at this one, the more I want to keep it.  It won't take up too much space...

I really like the lacy look of the saucer for this one.

A musical teacup, plays Memories.  Again a gift.

Looks like a french design.

The design looks kind of like fish scales!

Violet is the flower for February so I had several versions.

Very small, very light.

Also a small, light demitasse.

Uncle Verl

Verl Myers was my Aunt Carol's husband.  When I was little I was so scared of him.  He seemed too tall, too big, too loud and he had a habit of picking me up and tossing me around like I was a feather.  He tickled me, scratched me with his whiskers and laughed when I tried to get away.  I really didn't like him!   Everyone in the Myers family called me Teddy.  The story is that my cousin Jim who is one year older than me didn't say my name right.  I never really thought about being called Teddy, but after Uncle Verl died nobody else called me Teddy and I missed that.  Every once in a while Aunt Carol might call me Teddy, but no one else. Uncle Verl was a hog farmer.  He was also a singer and sang with barbershop quartets. He was a Veteran so he had traveled but he lived in the same community almost all his life.  Cancer took him.  I can't remember who told me the story, maybe my mom or Aunt Carol, but at one doctor visit he complained to the doctor that after working a 12 hour day he was a lot more tired than he should be. He was a farmer and long days are the norm.
At his funeral his barbershop buddies sang and it was beautiful.  It was the biggest funeral I ever attended.  They held it in the community center and there wasn't enough room inside for all the people.  That is what happens when a good man in a small community dies.  He touched so many lives. 

I think it is hard for everyone to imagine the lives your parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles had before you were born.  When we are young we do not think about it, we just accept them and never wonder where they come from and how they became the people we know.  I left home at 18 and did not have a close adult relationship with any of my relatives.  I came to visit 2 or three times each year, enjoyed the short times with my family but that is not the same as being close, living in the same town, seeing folks everyday.  Luckily my mom kept me informed but I long ago lost touch with my cousins' kids and grand kids.