Whereupon I Tell You that Lillian Loved Laughter and Lilacs

Once upon a time Hubby and I lived in California in a small rural community.  Each Sunday we drove 12 miles "up the hill" to the town where we went to church.  On the way we often picked up Lillian who resided at an assisted care facility, a small rural home where six to ten elderly persons resided.  
Hubby and I met Lillian when one of the deacons of our church asked if we could pick her up on our way to church. Lillian was a dear woman and always ready to engage in conversation. She enjoyed sitting up front with Hubby and delighted us with her sweet spirit and alert mind and ready smile. Her smile was as wide as an ocean and always genuine.  She loved going to church. We loved taking her.   
Lillian loved flowers and especially lilacs.  A couple months after she died I had a dream about her. I wrote it down in the form of a poem. I'm so glad I did for I fear I would have forgotten the sweetness of this dream had I not done so.

Sweet Lillian

I dreamt of Sweet Lillian.

She said she saw lilacs in the sky.

I thought her words strange

   that she misspoke

   or saw things that were not there.

Yet she laughed

   with that wide laugh of her youth.

So I looked to see

   what made her throw back her head

   in wide display of laughter,

And there

   spread across the blue-lavender sky

   were lilacs in full bloom

   soft canopy of lavender blue.

In delight

   I joined my grateful laughter with hers.

Sweet Lillian.

.

One Mystery Is Solved. Another Remains a Mystery. Probably Forever.

I am not only a dreamer of bright ideas (okay...maybe not so bright) but I am ALSO a solver of mysteries.

A couple months ago I solved part of a puzzle that I had pondered for the past 50 years. It happened like this.

My siblings and I grew up on an Iowa farm within a mile of where the earliest settlers in our township lived in the 1850s. Ours was a bottomland farm. Across the Little Sioux River is a long ridge of hills that extends all the way down into Missouri. They're known as the Loess Hills of Western Iowa and are a wonderful geographical feature of the area. Hopefully, it is okay that I've borrowed a photo from this website. The photographer is Gary Hightshoe, ISU.

As children we spent many summer afternoons playing in the sandy shallows or diving in the murky deeps of the river. It's a wonder we didn't drown...our main mode of swimming was the "dog paddle" which we learned by sheer instinct for survival.

In the winter, when freezing temps had put a thick layer of ice on the river, we would cross the river with our dog, Rusty, trotting out ahead of us, snuffling his nose through the snow, finding hidden paths for us to follow.

We would climb to the topmost point of the hills and then follow the ridgeline southward. We were on an Adventure! Eventually we would wander back, cross the river towards home, and head to supper.

During one of those "Adventures" we came down a long slope towards a point that held a view of the river bottomlands to the west. One can stand on that point and see the hills of Nebraska some 20 miles westward. It's a wonderful vista and it was thrilling to us, even as children, to contemplate the history of this place.

It was at this spot that we discovered a white marble tombstone lying flat on the ground. We could read the words "Lydia E. Bullock, age 42". The "4" was so eroded that initially I thought Lydia had died at age 12. But upon closer inspection I read "42".

That was fifty years ago. This past year Lydia had been on my mind, nudging me to dig for information. I knew there was an 1890 history of Monona County available at the library but on a whim I checked online. Sure enough, it is available there to read.

Here are a few words from that history...

Elkanah T. Bullock came to Kennebec Township in the winter of 1855-56, and put up a cabin on the northeast quarter of section 18, into which he removed with bis family early in the following spring. Here be resided for several years but finally emigrated to Kansas, settling on Solomon's Fork. His sons, Lyman, William and Charles, entered the United States army during the late war, and finally located in Kansas.

I do some family genealogy at ancestry.com and began looking at the census data for this location during 1855 (Iowa) and 1860 (federal). Sure enough, Lydia was Elkanah's wife. Their home was very near the site where she is buried. She died probably in 1861 and the family buried her before their move southward, first to Council Bluffs, eventually to Kansas.

Coincidentally, less than a week after entering the Bullock family information at ancestry.com, her great-grandson found my data and emailed me with questions. The sum of it all is that I was able to provide him with aerial maps showing the location of his great-grandmother's gravesite. It is possible a great-great-granddaughter may be able to visit the site this summer. I, too, hope to visit the site one more time while I am still able to do a bit of "hill-climbing".

To my mind, a mystery has been solved. Lydia has been "reunited" with her family.

And the photo? I'll never solve the mystery of this one...the "celt" is a Native American artifact I picked up out of the sandy bed of the Little Sioux River in about 1957. We had been searching for fresh water clam shells which we thought very pretty due to their mother-of-pearl interior. On that day I had simply reached down into the water thinking I would come up with a clam shell and instead came up with the celt. As children we called it a tomahawk but I believe the proper name is "celt". I haven't a clue as to age. But I often wonder about the fellow who made it. And wonder. And wonder.

If You Want to Hit The News Bigtime, Host a Tornado!

The storm itself is in the news everywhere. If you've been watching news of any kind you know that a tornado ripped through the small Iowa town of Mapleton a mere 20 miles northeast of where we live. You can click here to see photos of the destruction.

But before the storm devastated Mapleton it first passed over our small town. The warning sirens sounded and, being the witless curious folk that we are, most of us zoomed out the patio door to see "what was the matter". We had company and the men of the bunch were the most witless curious. The overhead sky was definitely full of threatening clouds but it didn't seem any more than the usual dark blustery clouds of spring.

But to the north of us, a mere two blocks away, we could see a large and incohesive mass of air that had whipped dirt into the mix, turning it a dark gray. Even though it seemed only "breezy" on our deck, we could see that two blocks north, there were patches and masses of dark roiling air. We knew that boiling mass could quickly evolve into a funnel.

Still...we stood there watching. We knew the air was moving eastward and not towards our deck.

In the meanwhile we had ordered pizza. Our daughter, who had gone to pick it up, was standing in Pizza Hut wondering whether to drive home or to hide in the bathroom with the rest of the pizza crowd. She was bummed that she missed the stormy view from our deck. I was worried about her! But she returned safely.

Our other daughter works in an assisted care facility on the north edge of town....exactly in the path of the pre-funnel cloud. The routine is to round up all residents and move them into the hallway. When they realized one male resident was missing, they found him standing outdoors with his binoculars watching the storm.

Residents of Mapleton, Iowa, did not fare so well. One online source stated that about 120 homes out of the town's 600 were destroyed. Thankfully, no lives were lost. The Sheriff and his crew had tracked the storm and requested warning sirens be sounded early. Those extra few minutes gave residents time to head for their basements or other protected areas. Major damage. But, I repeat, no lost lives. We are grateful for that.

There are numerous videos of this tornado on news sites and on youtube so I will not include a link...you can easily google and find them.

After the storm passed, our guests departed in several directions. But only after checking radar on iPad and iPhones. Pretty handy devices!
.

Him and Me? He and I? It's Easy As Pie!

It's been decades since I studied grade school grammar and I'll admit that my own grammar is not always correct. However, the misuse of pronouns when talking about "him and me" is rampant. There is a simple rule that makes it easy to determine whether to use "I" or "me".

First of all, when speaking of another person and yourself always mention the other person first, i.e., "him and me", or "he and I". Never "I and he", or "me and him". It is proper (and polite) to refer to the other person first just as it is polite to allow the other person to walk through a door first. It is simple courtesy as well as grammatically correct.

Secondly, when speaking of yourself and another person, there are times to use "me" (the objective pronoun) and times to use "I" (the subjective pronoun).

Here's an easy test to determine when to use "I" and when to use "me". Simply remove "he and" or "him and" from your sentence and you will automatically know whether to use "I" or "me". It's easy as pie.

Examples:
My mother gave him and me a sandwich. (My mother gave ... ... me a sandwich.) objective of the verb "gave"
He and I drove down to the beach. (... ... I drove down to the beach.) subject to the verb "drove"
Look at this photo of him and me. (Look at this photo of ... ... me.) object of the preposition "of"
We ate lunch and then he and I left. (We ate lunch and then .. ... I left.) subject to the verb "left"

Please don't get me started on the verbs "lie" and "lay". For the proper use of "lie, lay, lain" or "lay, laid, laid" go to this website. It's easier to give you a link than to try to explain it myself. (Said with a wink and a smile).

It's bedtime. My hubby and I (subject) should be in bed. He (subject) is already asleep. I'm not.

P.S. Only my most faithful followers will realize that this is a reprint from early 2008 but it is still valid today. Grammar has not changed. He and I (subject to the verb) should always recognize that it's good to know that grammar rules also apply to him and me. (object of the preposition "to")

Funny what a good high school English teacher can drum into your head. All that underlining and sentence diagramming paid off. Thank you, Mrs. Vanderlinden. You patiently put up with a lot of flack from our small class of 20.

Whereupon Gramma Vowed Never to Eat Polenta Again!

Polenta! Betcha want some polenta, right! Probably wondering what it is and how to cook it, right?

I think I was eating the stuff before you were born. And so was my Mom. And my Grandma. And so were Per Hansa and his wife, Beret, the main characters in O.E. Rolvaag's fiction, Giants in the Earth. (Per Hansa and his wife and family were Norwegian immigrants who settled in eastern South Dakota after having spent time in Minnesota.)

In 1949 our family was living on a small hill farm in western Iowa. We ate polenta cornmeal mush. And we didn't buy it in a box at the grocery store. My dad used a Maytag motor to power a small grinder which turned yellow corn into a meal that could be cooked into mush.

The photo may be a different model than my Dad's Maytag, but it's similar. A belt ran from the wheel on the Maytag to a similar wheel on the grinder. When it wasn't powering the grinder, he had it hooked up to the wringer washer for our laundry. It made a very satisfying chuggy noise.

We were eating from the bottom of the barrel in 1949 when my mother cooked mush for cereal and then sliced the leftover mush and fried it for the next meal.

Mom says that when she was a child, growing up on the family homestead in Nebraska, cornmeal mush was often on the table. And when my Grandmother moved to California in the late 1940s she (Grandmother) vowed to never eat corn meal again. California was the new land of plenty and I'll bet she kept her vow.

As for Per Hansa and his wife, Berta, in Rolvaag's novel? They subsisted nearly a year eating only cornmeal every meal. For a treat, such as some child's birthday, she allowed them to sweeten it with a bit of sugar.

"Real" polenta is actually a popular food in Italian and other European cuisine. You can read more about polenta here. Alton Brown has a recipe and instructions here.

Now...that is, today...in our country, cornmeal mush has gone from poor man's food to a premium menu item in the finest restaurants. Go figure.

If you haven't tried polenta, think of Cream of Wheat, only in a yellow version with a corny taste. Or if you are from the South, think of Grits, made from white corn.

And You? What are YOU having for dinner tonight?

.

My Problem Is That I Don't Know "The Song"!

I've finally figured out that my problem is that "I don't know the song".

Let me go back in time a bit. I and my siblings attended a school with an excellent music program. And we participated in everything. Between us we had a small band ourselves...we played trombone, tuba, clarinet, saxophone and trumpet. And we were good, thanks to Mom, who made us practice EVERY day. One of us would be practicing our lesson in the bathroom while another played in the bedroom. I don't know how she put up with all the racket because even with doors shut it must have been a time of confusing noise. In high school I even played the guitar a bit. (Click on the photo for a larger view.)


Mrs. Matthews, our band leader, also taught ALL vocal music in our small western Iowa school. And under her tutelage we had vocal music from first grade upward. In high school nearly everyone participated in at least chorus, a glee club, or Madrigal.

And there were contests. We memorized instrumental solos and played in duets and quartets and sextets. We did the same in vocal. We brought home honors in marching and concert band. We marched and played at College homecomings. We had an excellent instructor and we worked and we loved music. We were proud to put on our band uniform or our choral robe and perform.

Music continued in church. We sang in the children's choir and as teens, in the adult choir. We knew how to read music and between us we sang baritone, tenor, alto, soprano.

We were musical.

But today I don't know "the song".

Which song, you ask? I'm talking about today's emphasis in worship service on choral songs vs. hymns.

You see, I still know the hymns. I love the hymns. I can use the hymnal and read the music and sing soprano or alto. And if I listen to the song leader, sometimes I can carry the tenor.

But I don't know the song. The Christian radio song. The "new" chorus songs of which we sing three every Sunday morning.

Why?

I was thinking of this in the wee hour of the morning...it is 4:00 am and I cannot sleep. And I'm lying there remembering a remark my brother made last week. He was visiting and we were watching a movie on television. He, being of my vintage, in his sixties, asked, "Do you find it hard to hear the words above the background noise?"

Oh, yah, I do. There are some movies I may as well watch close-captioned. It's been that way for years. The background noise sounds loud and strident while the spoken words are low and jumbled and undecipherable. I cannot make them out, however much I turn my head to hear them.

When I was diagnosed with cancer a year ago and was participating in a clinical trial, one of the things they asked was that I have my hearing tested so they could verify whether or not the chemo drugs would eventually affect my hearing. That test showed my hearing to be within the "normal" range. My "normal" hearing is A-okay. I can still carry on conversations without asking "What did you say?" (Unless Hubby and I try to talk to each other three rooms away from each other or when there is excessive background noise...well, in that case...we're both hard of hearing.)

But when there is background noise such as on the radio or TV, the words disappear from my hearing range. It's been at least ten years since I've listened to Christian music stations. It's pointless. I cannot understand the words they are singing. I don't know the song.

I do like Christian radio stations that focus on teachers. Voices are easily audible to my ear. But when background instrumental is added? All I hear is a jumble, an excessive volume on the instrumental, and a relentless (and may I add, monotonous) heavy drum beat...all of which drowns out the words before they reach my ears.

I'm not saying the worship leaders at our church sound that way. They don't. The instrumental is excellent and (for my ears at least) at an appropriate volume level. And their words come across just right for my ears. But I find it exceedingly difficult to follow the song because I don't know the song! Because I do not listen to Christian music stations I simply am not familiar with the words. And worse, I am not familiar with the way the music moves. How the music moves is extremely important in being able to "sing" the song. There seems to be very little rhyme or reason as to the direction the notes take, nor how long they are held, nor when they move up or down. It's often incomprehensible to my "traditional musical sensibilities". And try as I might, even when I have become somewhat familiar with a particular song, there is a certain level of difficulty that remains.

Hymns, you know, are written with chords. Strong four-part chords. They are predictable. And even if we sing a hymn I have never before heard, I can read the musical notes and "know" where the song is going. There is a tradition or rule to it. And even though I may not be able to "name the rule" I am completely familiar with the sensibility of it. (You probably think my reasoning is very strange! lol) And I love to listen to the "golden oldies" of my youth! Why? Because I "know" the song...their words AND melody.

But the choruses? The notes are seldom played with a strong four-part harmony nor with a predictable format. The notes seem to wander all over the place. One word may go like this --- ah-ahhh-ah-ahhhh-ahhhhhhhhhhhhh-ah. One syllable of one word! And where it goes from there, who knows? I don't! I'm supposed to sing that syllable up and down and up and down and hold and finally let go and move onward (up or down?) to the next syllable. The entire phrase may move in areas that are totally unexpected to my musical upbringing. It's incomprehensible to my musical background. I want to zig when they want to zag. I want to release a word and move to the next and they want to sing an aria with a single syllable! I am constantly lost as to where I need to go with the next word/note.

I don't know the song.

I do try. There are some that I can sing. If I focus my ear on the voice of one of the worship leaders I can follow along. But other songs? Naw. I just can't sing them. I don't know them. I can't learn them.

I am extremely grateful that our church includes a couple good hymns each Sunday. But the choruses? I wouldn't mind a bit if we cut back from three to two.

I wouldn't even mind if one of those three songs was a special solo, duet, or quartet presentation. I wouldn't mind that at all because we have a lot of musical talent in our church, both instrumental and vocal, both young and old.

And besides, my hips hurt and I find myself "pacing" side to side, in an unconscious effort to avoid discomfort. I can stand for two songs easier than I can stand for three.

And that's my explanation for why I don't know the song.

Sigh!

.

Of Pizza and Pineapple

Pizza and Pineapple...but not in the same dish. That's the menu this morning for breakfast. And, no, this is not a "recipe" post.

Somehow this past month has been incredibly busy. I think if I could take one thing off my calendar it would be medical appointments. But they are there and they will probably remain there for a long time to come.

Last month one of our "missing" family was able to visit from Ohio. And visit we did. It was a blessed time.

This week we are having another nephew visit from Texas. This is his first visit to the area where his father grew up. And so we have taken another tour of the schoolhouse, the farm, the area in general. (Don't forget you can click on photos for close-ups.)

Yesterday's visit to the farm was great fun because the farmer who tills those fields was there with his machinery. He and his helper were placing nitrogen on the acres that will be planted to corn. Then they planned to disk the ground afterward to prepare it for planting. I'm guessing by the end of the day that field was planted and ready for green plants to begin peeking through the soil. It's time. We've hopefully experienced our last killing frost and farmers are now rushing to get every acre planted within the optimum time frame.

Nephew was fascinated with the machinery and asked the farmer many questions...which was nice, because I learned a lot myself without having to ask my own questions.

Of course, we walked through the old house where my siblings and I grew up. As we left, I looked down at the kitchen floor. I remember when that flooring was laid down some 55 years ago. The fellow who sold it to us extolled the virtues of that flooring and guaranteed that it would never wear out. But there it is...the seams are splitting...and it definitely looks "worn out" to me. Don't you think so? That "guarantee" was just too good to be true.

Last evening one of my brothers arrived from his home 100 miles to the south of us and there was much conversation amongst the men at the dinner table and afterward in the living room.

And now today...there are two medical appointments on the calendar. Blood tests. Nephew may have to eat leftover pizza for breakfast. Followed by leftover pineapple upside-down-cake. Somehow I think he can handle that with no problem. Just as long as there is a fresh pot of coffee to go with it.

Upon How I Enjoy A Lovely Antique!

I'm still playing with my treadle sewing machine Singer 66-1, aka Elizabeth Redeye by myself and now by you. I finally bought some sewing machine oil and oiled the machine this evening.

This machine is precision machined and after oiling, Oh! does it runs smooooth! A flick of the wrist on the handwheel and it purrs. I mean it Purrs! But so silently one would never hear.

The old vintage Singers are simple to maintain. A single drop of oil at every moving part. That's it, Folks! Unless, of course, you jam a needle against a button or zipper hard enough to put the thing out of timing, but frankly, I've been sewing on this and other machines since I was 10 years old and I've never had to adjust the timing. This is not an automobile, after all! This is a Singer with a Capital S! And this particular model has never suffered a recall by its manufacturer...even if it did sew though my thumbnail once.

Basically, with vintage machines, just read the manual and oil where directed. If you don't have a manual, open up the machine everywhere that you can open it, and put a single drop of sewing machine oil on each moving part. You can click on the photos to see what I mean...I've marked key areas with a green arrow. (You can usually google your Singer and Model number and find an online manual or instructions.) You can click here for one informative vintage Singer site.

Now and then one might become a bit frustrated if the needle has been placed in backwards...which I confess that I have done...but that is easily remedied by reading the manual for the particular machine...not all machines are the same in this respect.

I changed my mind on the fabrics that I will be stitching together. So last night I cut some extra to go with them. I'll show a pic when I get them assembled.

I need to get this posted...I'm off to do my chemo this morning. And this afternoon I'll be napping...the Benadryl, you know. Later I'll have all kinds of energy...the steroids, you know.


.

Elizabeth Redeye, a Story of Friends, Grandmothers, and a Singer From Long Ago

Nearly thirty years ago my mother's house burned to the ground. A handful of photos, tucked inside a tin container, survived. One of those photos sits on my desk, its edges blackened, its color faded. In the photo my brother, home from Vietnam and sporting a new beard, stands at my mother's ironing board, pressing a shirt. Yah, apron or no apron, he's macho, but he knows how to do a mean press. (Click on the photo for a closer look) Behind him against the wall stands her sewing machine, a handsome Singer treadle Model 66-1 in its tiger-oak "drawing room cabinet". Fanciful decals adorn its black paint. That photo is all that remains of that machine. (The rest of these photos are of Elizabeth Redeye, the real subject of this post.)

I learned to sew on that machine, beginning with doll dresses and progressing to dresses for myself. Once while treadling at a furious speed I sewed through the tip of my thumb, breaking the needle. The lesson was well-learned and thereafter I kept my fingers a safe distance from the pressure foot.

The left side of the cabinet held five drawers hidden behind a vertical door. I often rummaged through those drawers, fingering half-used spools of thread or admiring the metal attachments.

My mother showed me how to lay fabric out on the dining room table and to hold the pattern in place with heavy coffee mugs. Later, in Home Economics class, I learned how to straighten the grain of fabric, press properly, and make a variety of seams. Even after I moved away from home I sewed most of my clothing. First on a black Singer sewing machine purchased at a thrift shop. Then on a vintage Kenmore purchased at a neighbor's auction.

Then I began making quilts. And I began finding vintage Singer machines at yard sales. Several of them! I had become a "collector". And I learned how to take them apart, clean and oil, and adjust a fine stitch.

About 1999 I met a fellow quilter in Ohio via the internet. We emailed daily, chattering about our quilts and various other things in our daily lives. I admired her bold use of bright batiks and she exclaimed over the precision of my piecing. We each love our vintage Singer machines. She named her 1948 Singer 201 "Cecil Faye" in honor of two grandmothers. I named mine "Leona" after its previous owner, an elderly neighbor.

And then my Ohio email buddy sent a photo of a Singer treadle she had purchased in years past. I oohed and aahed and admired, for it was almost a duplicate of the one upon which I learned to sew. She had named the machine "Elizabeth Redeye" (Elizabeth for the eight Elizabeths in her family tree and Redeye for its red decals). And then that woman (who loves stirring up trouble) made an offer which I was certain I would never be able to accept. She said that if I ever showed up on her doorstep in Ohio the machine was mine. At that time I lived in California. As much as I coveted (yes, that's the word!) that machine, the 2600 miles that separated us just seemed too much.

Then, on that fateful Tuesday in September 2001, I was visiting my daughter in Minnesota when the Towers fell. She and I spent the next several days glued to the news. Although the airlines were shut down for days I managed to board my scheduled flight on Saturday and flew home to California. The fellow seated on my right, a New Zealander, had been near the World Trade Centers. He had been evacuated from his hotel and had lost everything...luggage, clothing, computer, passport. He had to acquire a temporary passport at the NZ consulate in order to return home. He was shaken. Who wouldn't be? Our world had changed. We all changed. Over the next two years I experienced an unsettling, a feeling of having lost control over the events of my life. I went about my days with a small nag of trepidation affecting all that I did.

In the midst of all this ensuing uncertainty a thought came to me. I would drive to Ohio. I could take control of this much of my life. I would go off on a 2600 mile adventure and do it by myself. My hubby gave me his blessing to drive his shiny silver pickup to my friend's house and home again. (Trusting soul, he!)

When I showed up on her doorstep my friend had a welcome sign on the front lawn. We laughed as we met each other face-to-face for the first time. We had a long list of things to do during the three-day visit. We made a trip to a nearby quilt shop in a barn, a huge place with tall rows of bolts of fabric, a paradise for quilters. She cooked her favorite chili. We played on her quilting machine. We had tea with a group of other Ohio quilters that we had met online. We laughed and giggled and played with fabric.

In our emails my friend's words had been witty and full of anecdotes of family and home. I had imagined her voice as a slow drawl and instead her words were quick and as wise and funny face-to-face as she had been in her emails. I met her family. I met her cat. We toured her flower garden. She showed me the finely crafted cabinet her wood-working hubby had made for Cecil Faye, her Singer 201. Oh, my, that man knows how to work wood. Drawers galore. Wide sewing surface. Cecil Faye is much loved.

And my friend presented me with Elizabeth Redeye. The machine was simply gorgeous and only my best manners kept me from jumping up and down with excitement. She, her husband, and I managed to load Elizabeth into the back of my husband's pickup, making certain she was stable and secure, protected from the elements under the topper for her long journey.

My 2600-mile trip home was an adventure in "I can do it". A silver-haired grandma, driving a shiny pickup toting a vintage Singer treadle, radio blaring loud, pumping my own gas, reading maps, guzzling coffee and diet Pepsi, braving heavy traffic in large cities, proving nothing to anyone except to myself.

As I pressed westward I imagined the women who traveled at yesteryear's pace in wagons drawn by horses or oxen, their scant sewing supplies tucked in a trunk or perhaps ready at hand to sew a few stitches at a moment's notice, stitches that might provide practical things as well as things of beauty. I thought of trail dust and of precious belongings left behind or cast aside as wagons needed their loads lightened. I felt a kinship with these women, knowing that life today brings its own hardship and travail.

Elizabeth Redeye now sits in my living room. She is a reminder of the generosity of a friend, of my sewing past, and of lives long past of grandmothers and great-grandmothers. It is good to sit down with Elizabeth, to quiet the noise of daily life to a soft hum, no louder than the noise of a treadle sewing machine. This week Elizabeth will be sewing together more squares of fabric for Project Linus. Her previous owner, in Ohio, is a PL coordinator and the product of Elizabeth's efforts will be mailed to Ohio.

(The age of vintage Singer sewing machines can be determined by the Serial number. This particular Model No. 66-1 was manufactured somewhere around 1910 or soon thereafter. The original instruction manual is "Form 7876 Reissue March 9, 1911". The oak parlor cabinet, or drawing room cabinet, as it was called is a Model 21.

This particular cabinet has a spring-loaded lift mechanism. Touch a small button on the front of the cabinet and the machine lifts to its sewing position. Pretty nifty. Tucked away in the drawers are a complete set of attachments for fancy sewing...a subject for another time.)

That Genetic Connection

My Uncle Jake was Mom's favorite brother and it broke her heart when, first, he was wounded (and paralyzed) in Korea, and then died an early death at age 42 as a late consequence of that paralysis.

Last Thursday we were pleased to have Uncle Jake's grandson, wife and great-grandson visit our home on their jaunt from Colorado to home in New York. We had a lovely evening together. And we took many photographs. I especially like this photo of my Mom holding her favorite brother's great-grandson on her lap.

When I took the photo I imagined my Uncle Jake looking on and smiling at his Sis and his Great-Grandson.

Family is important. We express our love first of all to God, then to family. For in our family, we see a bit of ourselves. We see the flaws and the graces handed down genetically and environmentally. I recognize, more than ever, why my personality is as it is...a blend of other personalities in previous generations with traits that hinder or bless. But the flaws in my own personality help me understand others better...both in my family and outside. What seems to be a negative has become a positive in my dealing with and understanding other people. Especially my grandkids!

I am appreciative of the fact that my parents and grandparents and perhaps great grandparents were Godly believers who lived lives of faith in Christ. I wonder, sometimes, if they prayed for my soul as I pray for my children and their children, and even the next generation that is not yet born. I like to think that they did.

You can read more about Uncle Jake here and here...just light bits of insight into his life. And you can read about his grandson Matthew Day Jackson here.

If artistry runs in the family, we've got it. Do a google for "Cat Rocketship". And check (my daughter) Yiddle's website. I love seeing their latest creations. My daughter's abilities awe me.

.

Of Which She Jogs My Memory of a Not So Good Memory

Ree over at The Pioneer Woman is having problems with mice. Naturally, since I have a propensity to offer advice on any number of topics (I know...it's my downfall), I suggested the old-timey remedy we used when we lived in a house that invited mice to live in the walls and the attic and the basement and the drawers and.... You get the picture.

My advice? Forget the traps. Forget the cats. Buy d-CON and place it in the attic and basement. (Keep it hidden away where pets cannot find it.) Sure, now and then one of those four-footed d-CON eaters will die in the wall...in which case you'll have at least two weeks of mourning time...it takes that long for the aroma to waft out the walls into the great outdoors instead of into your dining room (or whichever room is adjacent to the wall in which said critter died) and believe me, you'll be mourning! Dead mouse smell is ugly.

Thankfully, we have not had a mouse problem for years. However... Oh, dear, this is going to get gross...proceed only if you have not recently eaten lunch, or dinner, or breakfast or whatever.

Years ago we lived in the California foothills and we planned to move back to Iowa. Which meant we needed to get our home into salable mode. You know the routine. Get rid of junk. Tidy. Spotless. Don't even eat because the Realtor could call and give you a 5-minute notice to exit the property taking all your food crumbs with you.

We had one wee little problem. No one would even know about it unless they opened the coat closet off the living room. But since 99.95 percent of buyers open every closet in the house this really was not a wee little problem; it was a BIG problem.

Some weeks prior, a nest of critters (I think they were California ground squirrels) had a nest in the attic and somehow the nest fell inside the wall to floor level. Several critters dying inside a wall can leave a hefty aroma. Enough time had gone by that it really wasn't noticeable unless someone opened the closet door. And, Wow, did you notice then! Unless you didn't breathe...in that case, it was no problem atall!

There we were...wanting to sell our house...the aroma still wafting not-so-gently in the coat closet. I'm a handy do-it-yourselfer so I figured this was my kinda project. Simple. Go into the closet, cut a hole in the drywall, remove the dead critters, patch the hole and be done with it.

I laid several plastic bags on the closet floor with newspaper atop. Rubber gloves encased my hands. A good steak knife cut a nifty hole in the wall...on the wrong side of the stud. Had to move over and cut a second hole. Thank goodness the knife was still sharp enough to manage a second try. So far, so good. Two holes in the wall.

The following is the worst part...leave now if you must. Consider yourself forewarned!

I placed my glove-encased hand through the hole in the wall and began bringing out bits and pieces of bones and dessicated flesh. Every time I withdrew my hand I screamed! Aaaaarrrgh! Remove a handful! Aaaarrrgh! Remove another handful! Aaarghhh! Ad infinitum. (Still makes me shiver to think of it!)

It was AWful. I can't tell you how AWful it was! When I had pulled out what appeared to be several skeletons I sprayed the interior of the wall with odor remover. Then I encased the cruddy debris within several layers of newspaper and plastic bags and tossed it in the garbage. I tossed the knife and the gloves, too. I'm not sentimental about such things.

Ree thinks she has a mouse problem! She doesn't have anything on me. Unless hers grow thrice their current size and decide to die by the half-dozen within the walls of her home. THEN she has a problem! But if that happens, someone can send her over here to read about how to get rid of the deceased ones.

The house did sell. I'm thinking the owners must wonder what is hidden behind those two patched holes inside the hallway closet. Some marvelous treasure? Perhaps hidden gold? Do you think curiosity has got the better of them by now?

.