Summer Nights

It's nights like these that bring back old fond memories of childhood games.

Remember Mother May I? Someone, "Mother", would stand at the end of the lawn and everyone else would be "Child" players. We would take turns asking permission to make certain moves, such as: "Mother, may I take ten baby steps...or...Mother, may I take two tree falls...or...Mother, may I take three giant strides...or run until you say stop?" If you ever moved without her permission, like Simon Says, you had to go back and start all over again.

"Mother" would then say "Yes, you may...or No, you may not." The first one to reach "Mother" would be the winner. In retrospect, what an unfair game! And worse yet, there was some unwritten rule that if you cheated and got away with it, good for you. If "Mother" didn't see you do something, you got away with it. Probably not a very good game, all in all.

Then there was freeze tag where "It" ran around, and the person who got touched by "It" had to freeze in place until another player touched them and set them free. Goodness knows what this was about.

There was hide and go seek and a game we played about hiding behind numbered trees. It seems like there were something like 5 trees. "It" would say: "Pauline behind tree #2!" If that guess was correct, Pauline had to step out. If that was wrong, "It" had to guess again.

Before my time, there was Kick the Can, which sounds kind of fun.

My dad had a furry coat that he would wear, always approaching dark. All I remember about this game was how dang scary it was. We would tauntingly chant "No-o bears out tonight! Daddy killed 'em all last night!" Then he, or whoever was wearing the coat that game, came lumbering out while we all squealed our guts out. Once he somehow broke his finger playing this game and was so humiliated, he didn't tell us for years.

You might call it cheap thrills :o)

One Size Doesn't Always Fit All

Today is an important day, Father's Day. I'm blessed to still have my dad on this earth and have been thinking about him a lot today...and about gloves.

There are many kinds of gloves. Some are soft and fleece-lined. Some are like ski gloves that keep your hands warm but don't allow for much flexibility. There are gloves just for looks, like ladies wear at fancy dances. Then you have the leather ones to protect the hands when serious work is being done, like fencing and such.
My favorite pair of gloves are Isotoner-like and wonderful for driving and keeping out a little chill. Of course there are boxing gloves and batting gloves and mitts, but right now I'm talking about the other kind.

As with gloves, which have basic similarities, one size doesn't necessarily always fit all...and it's the same with dads.

My dad is the leather-glove-like kind of dad, the one you need when there is hard work to be done. He's never been afraid of tackling a project, has always been responsible and gone the extra mile. He's up before the crack of dawn and doesn't go home til the job is done. He never has to be reminded to do anything and never passed onto someone else something he didn't want to do.

For years I thought weeds didn't grow in gravel, since I didn't see any in the gravel driveways on the property. Then I realized he spent hours spraying weeds or pulling them out by hand. No magic gravel after all. When we went to mow the lawn, we never had to find the mower or see if it had gas in it. There was no risidual grass gunked under it either, and the blade was always sharp. No magic there either, apparently.

It doesn't matter. I still think my dad is magic! Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Elvis has left the building...

My parents had a bird, seems like it was a magpie but don't quote me, that would come sit on their roof each year. It visited for several years and became such a solid fixture that they even named it...Elvis. One year Elvis didn't come back.

After spending the night in my room with the door closed very tightly, trying not to have dreams of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds, I got up wondering when and where we would find the errant fowl's remains.

As Gomer Pyle used to say: "Surprise! Surprise!" There, fluttering by the back sliding door, was the bird, (not sure if was Elvis or Priscilla) but it was definitely wanting out. Swirl, the cat, was sleeping in the chair by the door. I walked over, slid open the door and hoped for the best. After a minute, it hopped out and looked around. I didn't see any way it could possibly fly, but more "surprise", it took off and flew over the carport!

Maybe that was because it wasn't weighed down with all those missing feathers we have been trying to sweep up for over a day. Did you ever try to sweep up little soft feathers? They either stick to the broom like little children whose mother is leaving without them or they scoot ahead of the broom like a fly does when you swing the swatter.

Anyway, Folks, Elvis has left the building and I'm so glad!

The Scene of the Crime

Today I got home on my lunch hour, having left the back door open enough for the cat to go in and out during the day, and WHOOF! Right before my very eyes was a bird flying around trying to find its way outside. (We do not have a pet bird, just so you know.) At first I thought it had somehow flown in through the 6" opening, but then noticed gobs of feathers everywhere. I thought (hoped) maybe it had battered itself in its attempt to escape the inadverant entry and lost a little plumage.

But then I noticed something else...dark drops of blood across the floor, and then across the other floor...and then down the hallway where I had seen it struggling in flight. It was like something from a crime scene, and would have been, had it not been feline natural instinct. It was awful. The cat was just taking a nap. I didn't know what to do and spent the few minutes trying to search for the bird and encourage it go to outside, but couldn't find it. I had to go back to work and left the front door open, too, just in case. But, alas, I fear it is in here somewhere...somewhere where we don't know enough to look. Kyle cleaned things up because I had to run back to work, and he didn't find it either.

Button, Button, Who's Got The Button?

It's interesting the unnoted-before role buttons played in my childhood. Surely they must make some fantastic buttons these days, but I don't recall noticing any lately. There was a game children played where the person who was "It" kept the button inside tightly-closed hands, palms and fingers together. The children in the circle would hold their hands out together in the same way. "It" would go around the circle and either pretend to slip it into someone else's hands or pretend not to slip it in while actually doing just that. I don't recall just how it worked, but the winner was the one who guessed correctly who had the button and the loser was the next "It." The name of the game was "Button, button. Who's got the button?"

You could thread a string through the holes of a button (the bigger the better and it could only have two holes), tie the end, put your thumbs inside the string and start swinging the gizmo in a circular forward motion. It had the same effect as spinning in a swing, where it winds up one way and then unwinds the other direction and repeats itself, only faster. Once you got it going at a good pace, it would actually make a humming noise, very cool.

My Grandma Rice had a metal can with a lid, much like the one those Christmas cookies come in every year, the ones never purchased by the person who actually ends up trying to eat them. My best recollection is that it was a deep cobalt blue. That thing was chuck full of buttons, hundreds of them, maybe thousands or even millions! I would go over to my Grandma's house, which was conveniently located just next door, and play with those buttons for hours. I would count them, line them up by twos and fours and sixes. I would line them up by size and according to color, by buttons with two holes and those with four and those with loops on the back and no holes at all. Some of them had sparkly middles. Some were flat and some were very fat and artistic. (Where is that box of buttons now, I wonder?)

A couple of years ago, I was in a store and saw a puzzle, a puzzle with buttons all over it. Most of my puzzles end up back in the box for another round, but this one got framed. It took me a while to realize its appeal. Every time I see it, it reminds me of my Grandmother and brings me a moment of pleasure. See for yourself.

Oh, and by the way, I have a little glass jar with buttons in it, but I know better than to suggest to my grandkids that they entertain themselves lining up buttons. We may just have a little button-spinning contest at the next family party, however...that is if I can find some string and a gigantic button.

Preston Idaho Main Street

Ok, since I'll be driving through the town of Preston (population about 4900; ironically, elevation about the same) sometime this weekend, I decided to think back to the stores that existed up and down Main Street, or close to Main, years ago. If I waited until after the weekend drive, you might think I "peeked from under the blindfold" and we can't have that! Preston (of Napoleon Dynamite fame) is about 12 miles east of Clifton, and a trip there was considered "going to town." There are no doubt some businesses that are now gone, some that Ive forgotten, plus some new ones, but here goes:

OP Skaggs, the grocery store with a room in the back where people could rent freezer lockers (before people owned their own freezers) to store their harvested beef or ham, etc. It was a little eerie to enter through the big door and hear the definitive "CLANG" beind you. You always made sure to shadow Mother closely. Nobody was ever locked in there to my knowledge, but it always seemed a possibility. There was a specific smell that hit you upon entering, a good smell...no idea what it could have been and I've not smelled it since, but would recognize it in five seconds with my eyes closed even today. The temperature was such that when you went there in the summer, it was a fantastic respite from the heat, but when you went during the winter, you had to brace yourself first...sort of like visiting Canada during the winter months of September through June :o) (Sorry, Sherry, couldn't help that; it slipped right out of my fingertips.)

Other businesses were:
a good bakery, whose name I forget
Kings
Sprouse Reitz (a wonderful Kings-like store)
Polar King (homemade fries and the world's best non-homemade ice cream)
The animal auction just west of town; next to it, but never mentioned out loud, was the slaughterhouse.
Across the street from the auction is a bar that still exists, by the name of Tattlers, (or something like that).
Foss Drug (incredible malts so big you had to refill your glass to eat it all)
Famous Preston Night Rodeo & the Franklin County Fairgrounds, next to the ball fields
East Side High School, also of Napoleon Dynamite fame (bigger than West Side, but still rivals)
My Grandma Shaffer's place, with the ice cream parlor next door
The County Courthouse
Edwards Floral (I stopped in last summer and it still smelled like Heaven.)
Pop N Pin Lanes (self-explanatory)
two motels, one next to the Pop N Pin Lanes
a doctor’s clinic
the library
a pretty park
DI (Deseret Industries)
The Preston Hospital
Webb Mortuary, conveniently located next door to the hospital
The Preston Citizen
The Owl, a bar and cigar store
Isis theater
a dry cleaner
Preston Lumber
the bus station, inside a hotel
the barber shop with that turning pole
U&I furniture
Artic Circle
a car dealership
First Security Bank
Police Dept
Drive In Movie, south end of town and over the tracks
Owen’s café
a photography shop
Montgomery Ward (nicknamed Monkey Ward for some reason), a catalog store
JC Penneys
possibly a shoe repair shop, not sure
a farm implement company

All stores closed by 5 or 6 p.m.and were never opened on Sundays; most still aren't.

The beautiful cemetery is located a few miles east of town, just north of the golf course and close to the radio station.

Around Christmas time, they have a winter celebration with a "bed race." One time I took my children to watch, and it was quite a fascinating experience. The teams take things very seriously and competition is stiff. It seems like the year we went, the Dean Abrams family won it for something like the third time. Frankly, I'm pretty sure if we lived in the area, my children and grandchildren would be giving the Abrams a literal run for their money.

It'll be nice to drive through town again and note which stores are still open. I'll bet Pauline could come up with at least ten of them I have forgotten.

Cute town, available on your GPS.

Wildflowers 'n Things

Yesterday I noticed that there are rose buds everywhere in my yard that should be blooming very soon and after thinking of Spring on the farm yesterday, more things came to mind; namely, Flora and Fauna, Twins of Nature, that provided such sights and smells as:

Indian paint brush, fiery stocks of red, feather-like and about 9 inches tall lit the hillsides were their vibrancy. Then there were blue bells (no cockle shells)sometimes called larkspur and almost a shade of purple, a bell-like flower on a stalk, softer-looking but lovely. There were the ever-beautiful sego lilies, a simplistic elegant wildflower held almost in reverence by anyone of Pioneer heritage. I've heard it's illegal to harvest one from the wild, but I would love to have some legal ones in my back yard as a reminder. There are small cactus plants here and there that sometimes surprisingly develop bright and pretty flowers on their tops. There are beautiful "docks", sometimes mistaken for sunflowers. There is the lovely and rare columbine, almost too fancy to be a wildflower. There is always the fragrant sagebrush which really isn't a flower but smells good enough to qualify in a way. Up at the Loading Place there was a plant with little white beads that we called kisses because if you put them against your cheek and squeezed them, they would give you a wet little kiss. Sometimes you'd come across a wild huckleberry bush and somebody would make up some jam.

Sometimes in the barrow pits, you would find asparagus, growing wild and rampant.

I loved hollyhocks, tall stalks with big blooming flowers full of circular seeds. The flowers were always a bright color; we used to pick them from my Grandmother Rice's yard and make dancing dresses for pretend dolls out of them. Under some of her trees were little violets that smelled so good you tried to breathe them against your nose til you had to breathe out. The theory was that the more you picked them, the more they grew, and I picked my share. Grandma had unique flowers you don't see much any more, like Lilies of the Valley. A year or two ago, I noticed that Lavene Cox had a bunch of them on the north side of her house and it made me happy to know they still grow there. Pansies were always a hit because they like cool weather and have the strength of a lion, along with their deep velvet-like texture and color. Mother grew some flowers called Johnny Jump Ups that looked like miniature pansies and were equally hardy. Grandma also had lilacs...white, blue and purple ones. The white ones smelled the MOST like lilacs.

In my family's front yard we used to have a bunch of rose bushes, the kind where there were bunches of small roses all over, bright golds and oranges, but they were in the way and got chopped down. On the front lawn there was a single white rose bush that had blossoms like perfume. I tried to get a start of that growing but it didn't work. Those white roses would take me away to Ferdinand Land.

The hills were filled with pines trees and cedars and quaken aspens. Everybody in town, at least one time or another, carved their names or initials into a "quakie." Years ago my Dad said somebody found a tree with his girl's initials on it; he probably still has it somewhere. You would carve your name in a tree and the bark would defend itself by swelling up, like lips full of collagen, so it became even more prominent. In retrospect, people probably shouldn't be carving their names into forest trees, but it's a good memory nonetheless.

Salt Licks and Baby Chicks

Now that it looks like Spring has possibly "Sprung"...

One of the...ok, THE most fun thing for a kid on the farm was driving over to Preston in the Spring with Mother and returning home in the back seat with a box or two of the cutest little creatures ever, baby chicks. The box had big holes in it and you could watch their tiny fuzzy bodies wiggling all over as they were chirping their little peeping noises. There must have been a hundred or more in a box, and what an exciting time that was! (This is when the children offer to take care of ALL the work involved, forever.)

We would take them home and turn them loose in a section of the chicken coop under a big ceiling light that simulated Mother Chicken. They huddled together in a big mass and sounded like a Jr. Tabernacle Chick Choir; a literal visual of "How often I would have gathered you like a mother chicken under her wings..." There were little boxes with feed holes in them and the cutest metal upside-down-like cans with a little trough at the bottom where the water settled, refilling itself when needed. (I've seen little candy dishes out of that style.) The poor little ones didn't know how to drink water, so we got to hold them in our hands and dip their little beaks in water, then turn their heads back so a few drops went down their throats til they got the idea.

Oh, they were so so cute I almost wanted to be a baby chicken! After a few weeks, their feathers turned from soft down into harder feathers, and they weren't so appealing. By the time they were a year or more, they seemed like a lot more work than fun. I never did like the chicken harvest and to this day don't have much taste for chicken. I wrote a poem about them literally running around without their heads, which they seriously do, but won't include it here.

Another spring thing was setting out salt licks for the cows. I thought that was weird, but knew it was important. It was amazing to see a salt lick half gone and wonder how many thousand swipes of the tongue that took. There were brown ones and it seems like some greyish or white ones, no clue why.

Springtime on the farm, not a bad time at all.

For My Dear Mother, May 2009

So Good

My mother has always had an easy life. She weighed about four pounds when she was born and got to have her own bed…a shoebox on the oven door. She only had to walk four miles to school (while wearing a dress), sometimes even getting a horse and sleigh ride in the winter.

She got to gather all the dirty clothes in a blanket, like Santa delivering gifts, every Monday doing “the wash” in a wringer washer…got all that exercise and fresh air to boot by hanging clothes on the line out back. Sometimes on Tuesdays we even “helped” her with the ironing by doing handkerchiefs and pillowcases.

We let her darn our socks on a light bulb because she was so good at it. We let her stoke up the stove on cold winter mornings before we got up because she was so good at that, too. We let her off hauling one load of hay each day so she could go make a big dinner, and she was pretty good at having it all cleaned up before we went back out, as well.

All she had to do on the farm was that hay hauling…oh, and hay raking, and hay bale-turning, and the laundry and cooking; bathing us all in a galvanized tub and putting bobby pins in all our hair…and sewing doll clothes and flatfell-seamed flannel pajamas for us for Christmas, and helping us with school projects and volunteering for Clifton’s 24th of July potato-peeling, sorting potatoes, making bread and butter pickles with hand-peeled scallions, replacing the wallpaper every couple of years, making bread by hand, having her “club” once a month, being the ward Sunday School secretary for 60 years…little stuff like that because she was so good at it, you see.

We let her plant a huge garden and tend it mostly by herself because she was so very good at that too, you know.

She’s voted, done visit teaching and made fudge till she had forearms like Arnold Schwartzenegger. She still Mothers and Grandmothers us and we love her so much! She’s very good at that, too, real good!

Love, Kay
Mother’s Day 2009

Old Mother's Day Story

When I was younger and more niave, I loaned out my only copy of a wonderful Mother's Day story to someone who lost it. Here is my best paraphrase; the original story was much better. (It's a story about two girls, their dad and mother.)

For Mother's Day this year, we decided to do something extra nice to honor our Mother. We thought and thought about it and decided to rent a limo and go on a day-drive. Since it would be good weather, and we were out driving anyway, we could stop by a lake and have a little picnic. Mother is so good at putting together a great picnic--fried chicken, potato salad, vegetables and maybe even one of her wonderful apple pies--that she'll be excited!

And since it's such a special occasion, it would be a good idea if we had new matching dresses, maybe with hats. Mother is so good at sewing she'll be proud to do that. Dad said that since we were out for a drive and by a lake anyway, what a waste not to do a bit of fishing--and he will just buy a new pole. Oh, how excited Mother will be about the whole day!

The celebrated day arrived. The girls were dressed up in their wonderful new matching dresses; Dad was smiling with new pole in hand; the picnic basket was chuck full of a wonderful variety of food. As they were getting read to leave, they noticed Mother looked a little tired. Then it came to them; they would let Mother stay home and rest, maybe do a little tidying up which she liked to do, while they were gone. As they left, they noticed tears in Mother's eyes and they were SO glad they had done all these wonderful things to show their mother how much they loved her.

What a great story, huh? Happy Mother's Day!