A while back I saw our son, Russ, taking his son to look at Grandpa Bob’s old farm truck.
I couldn’t figure out what they were doing. It wasn’t until later that I found out that Russ was giving Harrison an education.
Russ was showing the hand crank in the truck door that worked the window.
It was something Grandpa had that none of their cars had. The crank was very interesting to Harrison.
A man and his truck
I wonder what else we have around that would be considered ancient. I think that in the attic there’s a dial telephone that was attached to the wall by a cord. How in the world did we call on that phone without buttons?
Our daughter Rebecca and I took a ride today to Stevens Point for a fashion show at Bria Bella, our daughter-in-law Tara’s boutique.
The show was delayed from the original July date when a terrible storm hit, and damaged the area. Today we had lovely weather. Not a storm in sight.
Before the show, I got to visit with grandson, Ethan. He was taking some time away from his freshman studies at UWSP and helping out on this special day at the shop.
Susan and EthanTara’s shop in Stevens PointThe finale of the fashion show–Tara is center stage
Watching the guest models show off clothes from Bria Bella was a lot of fun. I’m so happy to be able to have made the trip to Point. Thanks Rebecca for driving.
FYI: Bob stayed home today deciding he wasn’t up to too much walking, or hanging out in a woman’s fashion boutique. It really was a ladies day out for Rebecca and me.
When I was a kid, my dad told my sister and me stories about his childhood. They were all funny. Here’s one we always laughed at. Dad was a much better teller than he was a writer, but I’m still happy to have a copy of this story written in his own hand. I actually adapted it in my book Chicken Charlie’s Year.
Charlie’s swing
My sister Bernice is only five years older than me, but
when I was five and she was ten, that made a big difference.
My
sister Bea was the best swing builder in the whole world, or so I thought once.
“Sure I’ll make you a swing,
Charlie. But it’s raining out, so I’ll have to make it in the basement. I’ll
get some stuff and tie it to the heavy wood beans. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Well about a half-hour later there was my swing, a bicycle
tire and a kite string.
“See, Charlie, it’s a swing, only you can’t swing on it.
Get it. It’s only to look at.”
“What good is a swing you can’t swing on?” I asked.
“Well, don’t swing on it.” She went upstairs then.
You
guessed it. I didn’t make one full swing and there I went on my behind across
the basement floor. I ran holding my backside, hollering, “Ma! Ma! Ma!”
I thought I’d go back in time to the year I began writing my weekly newspaper column. This column shows me as a harried mother of three young children. Hope you enjoy this memory.
September 4, 1980
He put on his
jacket as he turned away from me. Heartlessly, he ignored the tears in my eyes
as he went out without a backward glance.
Without pride, I followed a few steps behind
him. He was leaving me today and there was nothing I could do to keep him by my
side. Robby was going to kindergarten.
Many a day this
past summer, as I pulled at my hair thinking of answers to his never-ending
line of questions, I looked forward to this day. Someone else would now have a
chance to try to answer his questions. I would have a breather, if only for a
few hours a day. (No one told me that in
a few years, the baby in my arms, Russell, would have even more questions.)
But now he is
actually leaving and I’m not rejoicing as planned.
Robby is not like
my impression of the usual first-timer. He is not clinging to his mother,
crying as if he is being abandoned. No, he is raring to go. He’s grown up … too
grown up. He doesn’t need me anymore!
Today, I again give
him into the hands of strangers. A short time ago, the stranger was the
dentist. That was for all of a half-hour with me fidgeting in the outer office.
He survived that experience better than his overly nervous mother.
This time I won’t
be in the next room. I’ll be miles away from my little boy.
I won’t be there even
if he cried. I’m sure he won’t—that is, if he doesn’t trip over his own feet
and fall down.
I won’t be near if
a big kid picks on my innocent 5-year-old. He’ll just have to learn to stick up
for himself. He has to grow up sometime. BUT IF ANY HOODLUM EVER DID TOUCH A
HAIR ON HIS HEAD…
I also won’t be
around when Robby accomplishes a learning feat. I’ll just have to wait until he
runs through the front door, waving his paper proudly.
I watched him climb
on the bus and I sniffle. “I’m alone…” There’s a tug on my arm. Becky looks
sad, too.
I pat her head and
say, “You’ll get to go to school when you’re five, Honey.”
“I know that. But
Mommy, when will Baby Russell quit eating my coloring book? Will he get a
bellyache if he eats a crayon? Can I help you clean up the kitchen floor?
Russell made me spill my milk. Does the baby like milk on his head?…”
What am I thinking
about? I’m not alone. It’s two long years before Becky marches off to
kindergarten (730 days to go) and five years before Russell follows (1,825 days
for him).
I don’t have time
for tears. I have to hurry to get something done before Robby gets home. He’ll
only be gone a few hours.
Robby, Becky, and Russell 1980 Rob, Rebecca, and Russ
End of summer means we’re squeezing in a few campfires so we can make pudgie pies. Here’s how we made pizza pudgie pies for my birthday celebration with Andy and Rebecca.
First, get a pudgie pie iron. Spray bread sides that will go against the iron. Put pizza ingredients on one slice of bread: pizza sauce, mushrooms, onions, pepperoni, black olives, and cheese–whatever you like.
Cover all with the second slice of bread.
Close the pudgie pie maker and clamp it shut.
Put it over hot coals and check it often.
Andy made sure mine was perfect.
When finished it’s good and it’s hot, so be careful when you bite your pizza pudgie pie.
