Well here we go. Here are a few memories of the farm. I remember the first time meeting Rod. He was so nice to me; I must have been 10. Boy where have the years gone? I remember that day like it was yesterday. He showed me around the farm. First he brought me down the road a little where the street sign was. I looked up and it said “Sheer Road.” Wow, I felt great because that was my name. He told me that their neighbor was one mile away. Again, wow, my neighbor (in New York City) was either on top of me or under my family. lol Some comparison from that day. I loved the farm. I remember he took me into the woods. It was really far in and all I was thinking was I hope we don’t get lost, but I always felt so comfortable with him. Its like I fell in love with my cousin; he was so nice to me all the time. We finally got to one destination and it was old tombstones of a family who had lived there in the mid-1800s and died from the Bubonic plague. It really gave me the creeps. We walked a little further and there was some Hermit that lived on their farm who Uncle Nick allowed to live there and he would check on him every so often. (That piece actually belonged to Raleigh Jones, the hermit). One day Uncle Nick went to check on how the hermit was doing and found him lying on the floor with a broken leg. So of course the wonderful man that Uncle Nick was, he brought him to the hospital. The hermit being alone from what I remember left the hospital and went back to his home in the woods soon after Uncle Nick brought him there. It was time to get back home; it was starting to get dark and Rod told me there were bears in these woods. That was all I needed to hear, a city kid bumping into a bear well I was scared S—t. Then there were, of course, all sorts of noises. l told Rod I was scared. Rod being Rod told me not to worry because this was his land and the bears that lived there knew him. I believed him of course. I did, he was Rod. We made it back to the farmhouse. Boy was I happy to see everyone.
My dad was a golfer. He loved the game. His name was Phil and mom was Rose. Anyway he told Uncle Nick this. So Uncle Nick being Uncle Nick jumped on the tractor and cut out and made a one hole golf course for my dad. That was really cool. The relationship was my dad’s pop Max was Uncle Nick’s brother. I also remember seeing Rod driving the tractor. He looked so big on that thing; as he waved to me; he had to cut the hay. Well, until I have more memories I’ll be leaving for a short while.
All my love Marc
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
Memory from my New York City cousin
I only have one email contact on the Sheer side of the family. Marc is still a true New Yorker. I remember thinking how funny my city cousins talked when they visited the farm. Marc sent this sweet memory of Daddy and the farm. I hope he will send in more as he has time to write.
Boy what could I say, It was so nice hearing from you and reading the stories. I had tears in my eyes. Just thinking of the time my father found Uncle Nick, and going to visit him and the family we never new. There are so many adventures; I remember the few times we came and visited all of you. I don't know if you remember or not, but there was one day my sister caught a frog and had it in a box. Debbie at the time must have been six or seven. Well, Uncle Nick that night caught a few more frogs and put them in the box. The next morning when we all got up Debbie looked in the box and said the frog she caught gave birth. Well, the laughing that went on was something. Anyway, I hope all is well with you and family please keep in touch. I have a tendency to drop out of sight but will try not to.
Always all my love
Marc Sheer
Boy what could I say, It was so nice hearing from you and reading the stories. I had tears in my eyes. Just thinking of the time my father found Uncle Nick, and going to visit him and the family we never new. There are so many adventures; I remember the few times we came and visited all of you. I don't know if you remember or not, but there was one day my sister caught a frog and had it in a box. Debbie at the time must have been six or seven. Well, Uncle Nick that night caught a few more frogs and put them in the box. The next morning when we all got up Debbie looked in the box and said the frog she caught gave birth. Well, the laughing that went on was something. Anyway, I hope all is well with you and family please keep in touch. I have a tendency to drop out of sight but will try not to.
Always all my love
Marc Sheer
Sometimes Life's Biggest Challenges are Just Small Hills
Many times after a heavy snowstorm Mom shoveled a pathway from the top of the hill to the bottom of the hill so we would not have to walk on top of the soft drifts to get to the bus. This was done in the wee hours of the morning while we were still nestled under our piles of quilts. We never heard her leave or return, and she never said a word about her backbreaking night. But as we started the long walk to the bus, we knew we were loved. She feared that we would fall in the high drifts and not be able to get out. We loved walking on top of the snowdrifts. But until they had crusted over, we had to stick to the shoveled out path. Once the snow crusted over, the pathway went unused.
Taking the car up the hill road in the winter was impossible. The roadmen never plowed it out since it was only our family on the hill, and the school bus never traveled a long road for one family. The swamp road had a smaller hill and once in a while the county roadmen would bring the snowplow in that way. The head road supervisor was a neighbor, and my buddy.
Herb was a big man. In my little girl eyes he was a giant, as big around as he was tall. We loved having him come through. He was not allowed to ever plow out anyone’s driveway, but sometimes he felt there was no other way to get that big snowplow turned around than to make a clean swipe of our circular drive behind the house. We kids looked forward to climbing up into that huge truck. I always made sure that I was the first one to grab onto that big hand. As Herb pulled me up into the truck, I announced, “Urb, Urb, urry, urry, urry! Mom’s hot tocolate’s dettin’ dold!” I loved sitting next to Herb while he drank his hot chocolate. I felt so important!
After the snowplow had been through the swamp road, it was smooth sailing for sledding until Daddy had enough ashes from the coal furnace saved up to spread on the hill. It was always disappointing when we saw Daddy take the tractor out to the swamp road with the buckets full of ashes. But spreading the ashes assured Daddy of getting a car all the way to the house and he wouldn't have to walk the hill to get home.
Mom did her best race driving in the winter on the swamp road. Daddy always said we didn’t need the roadmen to clean out the ditches; we had Mom doing a fine job of that! I think she saw the swamp hill as a personal challenge. She was able to get a running start in the lowlands where the swamp met the road. By the time she hit the hill she had to be doing 60 MPH. This was always exciting. The anticipation of possibly making it this time was exhilarating! I envisioned us to be much like the “Little Train That Could.” My little mind would be rapidly repeating, “I think she can… I think she can…I think she can.” As the tires started spinning at the crest of the hill and the car began to slide backward my heart was saddened for Mom. Sometimes she was successful at backing down all the way and trying again. Usually she just slid into a ditch. I don’t know how many times we had to walk home to get the tractor to pull the car out of the ditch. But even that walk home was fun. Of course, in respect for Mom’s yet another defeat to the hill, we always started our walk in silence. But by the time we got home, our laughter could be heard a long way off.
Taking the car up the hill road in the winter was impossible. The roadmen never plowed it out since it was only our family on the hill, and the school bus never traveled a long road for one family. The swamp road had a smaller hill and once in a while the county roadmen would bring the snowplow in that way. The head road supervisor was a neighbor, and my buddy.
Herb was a big man. In my little girl eyes he was a giant, as big around as he was tall. We loved having him come through. He was not allowed to ever plow out anyone’s driveway, but sometimes he felt there was no other way to get that big snowplow turned around than to make a clean swipe of our circular drive behind the house. We kids looked forward to climbing up into that huge truck. I always made sure that I was the first one to grab onto that big hand. As Herb pulled me up into the truck, I announced, “Urb, Urb, urry, urry, urry! Mom’s hot tocolate’s dettin’ dold!” I loved sitting next to Herb while he drank his hot chocolate. I felt so important!
After the snowplow had been through the swamp road, it was smooth sailing for sledding until Daddy had enough ashes from the coal furnace saved up to spread on the hill. It was always disappointing when we saw Daddy take the tractor out to the swamp road with the buckets full of ashes. But spreading the ashes assured Daddy of getting a car all the way to the house and he wouldn't have to walk the hill to get home.
Mom did her best race driving in the winter on the swamp road. Daddy always said we didn’t need the roadmen to clean out the ditches; we had Mom doing a fine job of that! I think she saw the swamp hill as a personal challenge. She was able to get a running start in the lowlands where the swamp met the road. By the time she hit the hill she had to be doing 60 MPH. This was always exciting. The anticipation of possibly making it this time was exhilarating! I envisioned us to be much like the “Little Train That Could.” My little mind would be rapidly repeating, “I think she can… I think she can…I think she can.” As the tires started spinning at the crest of the hill and the car began to slide backward my heart was saddened for Mom. Sometimes she was successful at backing down all the way and trying again. Usually she just slid into a ditch. I don’t know how many times we had to walk home to get the tractor to pull the car out of the ditch. But even that walk home was fun. Of course, in respect for Mom’s yet another defeat to the hill, we always started our walk in silence. But by the time we got home, our laughter could be heard a long way off.
Halloween: Those were the Days
I know there are some people who would rather ignore the fact that Halloween is a yearly event. They would like to see it done away with all together. But I have fond memories of Halloween. My memories of Halloween were built in a more innocent age.
On the Saturday night before Halloween our school hosted a huge party. Each classroom would decorate their door for the grand prize. Children and parents would be dressed in costumes and join the parade around the gymnasium. The Boroch family always won the big prize. The mom was a great seamstress. One year they all came as skunks. They really “skunked” us all that year. After the costume judging and awarding of the prizes, everyone enjoyed playing games such as dunking for apples, donuts on a string, and dodging the apple in the doorway.
Today the whole idea of trick-or-treating is to see how much candy can be gathered from the treaters. In my time, we were excited to get apples and homemade donuts and as much apple cider and hot chocolate that we could carry away in our tummies. Halloween to us was trying to fool our friends better than we did the year before. Since we lived a mile from our nearest neighbor, Mom always drove us in the jeep to trick or treat.
Several hours went into deciding which of Mom or Daddy’s oldest clothes we should wear. Any skin showing had to be blackened with coal from the cellar. Decorated, brown paper grocery bags with cutout eyes covered our heads to serve as masks. For extra padding, we stuffed wadded up towels or straw in our shirts. We were always careful to wear dark-colored clothing, because half the fun was sneaking up on the houses.
With the jeep lights off, Mom quietly and slowly drove up in a neighbor’s field. Then we tripped and stumbled through the field to the unsuspecting house. Once we were all standing on the porch we started yelling “Trick or Treat!” Porch lights quickly lit up the front of the house, we were invited in and the guessing began. We very rarely stumped anyone, but on our way back to the jeep we convinced ourselves that our neighbors never had a clue.
Mom dressing up in costume was a big part of the fun. But I remember one Halloween that beat all other Halloweens. Mom found an old man’s mask somewhere with warts, wrinkles and sagging jaws. She put an extra supply of straw in her shirt and pants and held an old corncob pipe in the mouth of the mask. I thought this would be her best performance year ever. No one would guess her!
One of our visits was to old Manley Van Ness and his wife, Ada. The VanNess’s were a sweet couple and well up in years. Manley was using two canes now. Mom directed us kids to go in the front door while she quietly sneaked in the back. No one noticed her until she was right behind Manley in the living room. She just stood there for a while, hands in her pockets and the corncob pipe hanging out of that warty mask.
As I said, Manley was old and was not moving very fast anymore. That night was different. Manley sensed someone behind him and slowly turned on his two canes. I never knew an old man could jump so high. As he came down he roared with tears gushing down his face, “Why, Blair, I almost didn’t recognize you!” We laughed so hard as we slurped hot chocolate and gobbled down our donuts. We all agreed that was a good laugh on Mom!
Now days kids have to buy their outfits. They have lost the creative excitement of creating their own. I also think people enjoyed their neighbors back then more than we do our neighbors today. We live closer to our neighbors now but hold them farther away from our hearts. Yes, those were the days and could be again.
On the Saturday night before Halloween our school hosted a huge party. Each classroom would decorate their door for the grand prize. Children and parents would be dressed in costumes and join the parade around the gymnasium. The Boroch family always won the big prize. The mom was a great seamstress. One year they all came as skunks. They really “skunked” us all that year. After the costume judging and awarding of the prizes, everyone enjoyed playing games such as dunking for apples, donuts on a string, and dodging the apple in the doorway.
Today the whole idea of trick-or-treating is to see how much candy can be gathered from the treaters. In my time, we were excited to get apples and homemade donuts and as much apple cider and hot chocolate that we could carry away in our tummies. Halloween to us was trying to fool our friends better than we did the year before. Since we lived a mile from our nearest neighbor, Mom always drove us in the jeep to trick or treat.
Several hours went into deciding which of Mom or Daddy’s oldest clothes we should wear. Any skin showing had to be blackened with coal from the cellar. Decorated, brown paper grocery bags with cutout eyes covered our heads to serve as masks. For extra padding, we stuffed wadded up towels or straw in our shirts. We were always careful to wear dark-colored clothing, because half the fun was sneaking up on the houses.
With the jeep lights off, Mom quietly and slowly drove up in a neighbor’s field. Then we tripped and stumbled through the field to the unsuspecting house. Once we were all standing on the porch we started yelling “Trick or Treat!” Porch lights quickly lit up the front of the house, we were invited in and the guessing began. We very rarely stumped anyone, but on our way back to the jeep we convinced ourselves that our neighbors never had a clue.
Mom dressing up in costume was a big part of the fun. But I remember one Halloween that beat all other Halloweens. Mom found an old man’s mask somewhere with warts, wrinkles and sagging jaws. She put an extra supply of straw in her shirt and pants and held an old corncob pipe in the mouth of the mask. I thought this would be her best performance year ever. No one would guess her!
One of our visits was to old Manley Van Ness and his wife, Ada. The VanNess’s were a sweet couple and well up in years. Manley was using two canes now. Mom directed us kids to go in the front door while she quietly sneaked in the back. No one noticed her until she was right behind Manley in the living room. She just stood there for a while, hands in her pockets and the corncob pipe hanging out of that warty mask.
As I said, Manley was old and was not moving very fast anymore. That night was different. Manley sensed someone behind him and slowly turned on his two canes. I never knew an old man could jump so high. As he came down he roared with tears gushing down his face, “Why, Blair, I almost didn’t recognize you!” We laughed so hard as we slurped hot chocolate and gobbled down our donuts. We all agreed that was a good laugh on Mom!
Now days kids have to buy their outfits. They have lost the creative excitement of creating their own. I also think people enjoyed their neighbors back then more than we do our neighbors today. We live closer to our neighbors now but hold them farther away from our hearts. Yes, those were the days and could be again.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Joy is a Dancing Christmas Tree
“Pull, Daddy,” we all called.
“No, too much. Okay, right there.” Mom and Virginia both agreed the Christmas tree was now in the perfect spot.
“Perfect, Daddy. Tie it right there.” Big sister Virginia always had the last say. Rodney and I knew Virginia possessed an artist’s eye, because she told us she did and who were we to argue with Virginia.
I loved Christmas Tree Day. The whole family did too. But I think Daddy enjoyed it even more than we kids did. Earlier in the day, as he helped to bundle up the four children in their overalls, coats, heavy mittens, and boots, I knew Daddy was thinking back on his most memorable Christmas as a child. It was a Hanukkah celebration in the Jewish orphanage when he was very young. Gifts were handed out all around, and Daddy received a bright red fire truck with a ladder and whistle. But when one of the older boys saw it, he made Daddy trade with him or run the risk of being beat up again. In return for the fire truck, a small plastic ladder with a clown was forced into his hands. The clown used to climb up one side of the ladder and down the other. But the clown had been broken, so he didn’t climb at all. I remember when he first told us the story. I cried, but Daddy said he didn’t tell us the story to make us sad, but instead he wanted us to realize what we had in our family…each other. Daddy had decided a long time ago that Christmas on the farm would be different; it would be the most fun time of the whole year for his little ones.
The hunt for the tree started with a search through the thick woods on the top of the hill. The biggest pine trees on the farm grew up there. Finding and decorating the most perfect Christmas tree was a daylong process.
This year, four-month old Emery rode latched into his snow sled as the three farm dogs pranced around eager to have a part in the hike. The family crunched through the snow up the side hill of the farm, as we reviewed the strict criteria to make sure everyone was on the same page.
“Remember,” ten-year-old Rodney began, “it has to be real tall. Taller than me, taller than Daddy.” Even though Daddy only stood at 5’2”, we still thought of him as a giant.
“It has to have lots of branches.” I remembered last year when I was only six, how I loved the bigness of that tree…and every Christmas tree I had ever known in our home. “We have to have room for everything this year and lots of icicles, too.”
“Let’s just be sure it’s not too wide for the back door,” Virginia continued the criteria listing. “You know Mom wasn’t real happy when we had to take the back door off last year.” We all peeked back at Mom pulling Emery’s sled. But she had a strange smile on her face as if she remembered it with fondness.
“And only one top!” Virginia insisted. Twelve-year-old Virginia was determined that this year the tree would be a masterpiece.
As we all ran from one pine tree to the next and back again, we finally agreed on the perfect one. Perfect in every way. It was tall, but not too tall; lots of branches, but not too wide for the door; and it had one top. Perfect! To get it back to the house, Daddy tied it to the other sled that he had pulled up the hill. The tree engulfed the large sled and even though Daddy had tied it on tight, we kids had to help hold it onto the sled as we laughed and chattered all the way back down the hill.
When we reached the back door of the house, we scurried to untie the ropes and stand our tree up. Our number one criteria had been a success. It was tall…real tall. So tall that about four feet had to be cut off the top. That allowed for six tops to appear, which squashed Virginia’s criteria of only one top. My “lots of branches” had to be trimmed down so the beauty could squeeze through the door. But at least this year the back door didn’t have to come off.
After wedging the tree in between slabs of wood in a coal bucket, we anchored it to the ceiling with a rope. Daddy tied off the rope and the family stood back and made sure that it indeed stood straight and didn’t lean to one side or the other.
We tried to wait patiently as Mom and Daddy ran the string of big electric bulbs onto the branches. Then us kids took charge as we hooked several bulbs on each branch. Every so often, a bulb crashed to the floor as my little fingers tried to eagerly race to see how many I could get on before my brother. But this was all taken in stride; after all, this was Christmas Tree Day.
Daddy was glad he worked for Corning Glass Works where they made Christmas bulbs. The factory stored the defective bulbs in huge bins and every year the employees’ families could come in and buy these bulbs at huge discounts. Huge bins of every color…red, blue, green, gold and silver, filled the massive room. And at great prices…no bulb cost more than twenty-five cents. Mom made sure that we chose mostly from the five-cent bins. Over the years, our family had amassed so many bulbs, and every glass bulb had to be used and then each top needed a star or a big bulb turned upside down.
Once all the bulbs were on, Virginia insisted that the icicles be laid gently one-by-one on each branch. She said this would create a more professional look to the tree and really bring it to life. But one mischievous look from Rodney said it all for me. “Are you ready?” And I was! This was the most fun time of decorating. Would we ever let a wanna-be-professional-tree-decorator spoil our fun? Rodney and I stood back and gleefully threw silver icicles by handfuls. Virginia, defeated again, just gave up. She waited until all the icicles were laying in clumps on the already too ornamented branches and tried to rearrange them as best she could. Rodney and I thought the clumps made the silver strings look more like snow. After the meticulous trimming of the tree, the family stood back and fixed our eyes on our handiwork in utter amazement.
Tradition continued and that night we opened our first Christmas gift. It was the same every year, but it was still exciting. All the kids ripped into the packages and brought out matching pajamas. Daddy hurried to get a picture of his four cherubs in our pajamas under the tree before Emery fell asleep.
Then the phone call had to be made to the cousins who lived downtown. “The tree is up…hurry and come see it. It’s beautiful,” I exclaimed to cousin Carole on the phone.
Within the next couple of days Aunt Ilene, Uncle Wilbur and cousins Carole and Sharon braved the icy country roads to come see yet another dancing tree that protruded halfway out into the living room with one branch here and another there. Every year they took pictures of their country cousins’ tree and went away smiling. It seemed to make the city cousins’ Christmas season special for them to see such a gorgeous tree.
Mom always ordered several different kinds of candies from Sears and Roebuck catalog to arrive in time for Christmas Tree Day. She stored the tin cans of ribbon candy, chocolate peanuts, jelly-filled hard candies and taffy on the screened-in front porch. When the door to the porch was opened, the smell of that candy, mixed with the fragrance of the evergreen tree, filled the entire house with the aroma of Christmas.
Great care was given to our special tree. The bucket in which it stood received plenty of water each day. Rodney and I fought for that job. We liked crawling under the low branches and inching to the bucket on our bellies with the pitcher of water. Usually most of my water ended up on the floor and Rodney had to clean up the mess and finish the job. Nevertheless, we determined that this year all needles would remain on the tree until the very end.
For the next week, Virginia and I played dolls at the base of the tree. We stored our little plastic cups and saucers under the tree for quick tea parties. Rodney made fun of our dishes and dolls and lined his army men all around the bucket as if to protect the tree from the dolls taking over.
New Year’s Day signaled the close of the Christmas season. We never had as much fun removing all the icicles as we had putting them on, but we knew every bit had to come off. We carefully took down all the glass bulbs and wrapped them up for the next year. Then Rodney and Daddy carried the boxes up to the attic to be stored.
According to Mom, the season was not officially over yet. Mom laid bones on the tree branches and invited the farm dogs in for their Christmas fun. Those dogs could jump quite high for their Yuletide treats. In Mom’s opinion everyone needed some Christmas cheer.
Pulling our poor tree out of the house was never as difficult as taking it in. Drawing our once gorgeous work of art through the living room and kitchen left huge piles of needles behind. The base of the tree then had to be packed tight with snow to hold it up. We wadded pieces of bread into balls and molded them onto the needle-less branches for the hungry birds. The bare tree stood in the back yard for several days until Mom was sure that the birds had been fed sufficiently.
The last role for our tree was bittersweet for us. All together, we pulled it to the orchard and late at night in the cold winter air, it provided a warm bonfire to cook hotdogs and marshmallows pierced onto apple tree twigs.
Yes, every year our Christmas tree gave many hours of enjoyment for our family, as well as for many other living creatures on the farm. Those were special trees--lovingly sought out for a special purpose. Many memories were built at the base of those trees as my siblings and I crawled under the huge branches. It never mattered that our parents could only afford to give us small gifts every year; the Christmas season was always looked on as the best time. I think the tree had a lot to do with that.
“No, too much. Okay, right there.” Mom and Virginia both agreed the Christmas tree was now in the perfect spot.
“Perfect, Daddy. Tie it right there.” Big sister Virginia always had the last say. Rodney and I knew Virginia possessed an artist’s eye, because she told us she did and who were we to argue with Virginia.
I loved Christmas Tree Day. The whole family did too. But I think Daddy enjoyed it even more than we kids did. Earlier in the day, as he helped to bundle up the four children in their overalls, coats, heavy mittens, and boots, I knew Daddy was thinking back on his most memorable Christmas as a child. It was a Hanukkah celebration in the Jewish orphanage when he was very young. Gifts were handed out all around, and Daddy received a bright red fire truck with a ladder and whistle. But when one of the older boys saw it, he made Daddy trade with him or run the risk of being beat up again. In return for the fire truck, a small plastic ladder with a clown was forced into his hands. The clown used to climb up one side of the ladder and down the other. But the clown had been broken, so he didn’t climb at all. I remember when he first told us the story. I cried, but Daddy said he didn’t tell us the story to make us sad, but instead he wanted us to realize what we had in our family…each other. Daddy had decided a long time ago that Christmas on the farm would be different; it would be the most fun time of the whole year for his little ones.
The hunt for the tree started with a search through the thick woods on the top of the hill. The biggest pine trees on the farm grew up there. Finding and decorating the most perfect Christmas tree was a daylong process.
This year, four-month old Emery rode latched into his snow sled as the three farm dogs pranced around eager to have a part in the hike. The family crunched through the snow up the side hill of the farm, as we reviewed the strict criteria to make sure everyone was on the same page.
“Remember,” ten-year-old Rodney began, “it has to be real tall. Taller than me, taller than Daddy.” Even though Daddy only stood at 5’2”, we still thought of him as a giant.
“It has to have lots of branches.” I remembered last year when I was only six, how I loved the bigness of that tree…and every Christmas tree I had ever known in our home. “We have to have room for everything this year and lots of icicles, too.”
“Let’s just be sure it’s not too wide for the back door,” Virginia continued the criteria listing. “You know Mom wasn’t real happy when we had to take the back door off last year.” We all peeked back at Mom pulling Emery’s sled. But she had a strange smile on her face as if she remembered it with fondness.
“And only one top!” Virginia insisted. Twelve-year-old Virginia was determined that this year the tree would be a masterpiece.
As we all ran from one pine tree to the next and back again, we finally agreed on the perfect one. Perfect in every way. It was tall, but not too tall; lots of branches, but not too wide for the door; and it had one top. Perfect! To get it back to the house, Daddy tied it to the other sled that he had pulled up the hill. The tree engulfed the large sled and even though Daddy had tied it on tight, we kids had to help hold it onto the sled as we laughed and chattered all the way back down the hill.
When we reached the back door of the house, we scurried to untie the ropes and stand our tree up. Our number one criteria had been a success. It was tall…real tall. So tall that about four feet had to be cut off the top. That allowed for six tops to appear, which squashed Virginia’s criteria of only one top. My “lots of branches” had to be trimmed down so the beauty could squeeze through the door. But at least this year the back door didn’t have to come off.
After wedging the tree in between slabs of wood in a coal bucket, we anchored it to the ceiling with a rope. Daddy tied off the rope and the family stood back and made sure that it indeed stood straight and didn’t lean to one side or the other.
We tried to wait patiently as Mom and Daddy ran the string of big electric bulbs onto the branches. Then us kids took charge as we hooked several bulbs on each branch. Every so often, a bulb crashed to the floor as my little fingers tried to eagerly race to see how many I could get on before my brother. But this was all taken in stride; after all, this was Christmas Tree Day.
Daddy was glad he worked for Corning Glass Works where they made Christmas bulbs. The factory stored the defective bulbs in huge bins and every year the employees’ families could come in and buy these bulbs at huge discounts. Huge bins of every color…red, blue, green, gold and silver, filled the massive room. And at great prices…no bulb cost more than twenty-five cents. Mom made sure that we chose mostly from the five-cent bins. Over the years, our family had amassed so many bulbs, and every glass bulb had to be used and then each top needed a star or a big bulb turned upside down.
Once all the bulbs were on, Virginia insisted that the icicles be laid gently one-by-one on each branch. She said this would create a more professional look to the tree and really bring it to life. But one mischievous look from Rodney said it all for me. “Are you ready?” And I was! This was the most fun time of decorating. Would we ever let a wanna-be-professional-tree-decorator spoil our fun? Rodney and I stood back and gleefully threw silver icicles by handfuls. Virginia, defeated again, just gave up. She waited until all the icicles were laying in clumps on the already too ornamented branches and tried to rearrange them as best she could. Rodney and I thought the clumps made the silver strings look more like snow. After the meticulous trimming of the tree, the family stood back and fixed our eyes on our handiwork in utter amazement.
Tradition continued and that night we opened our first Christmas gift. It was the same every year, but it was still exciting. All the kids ripped into the packages and brought out matching pajamas. Daddy hurried to get a picture of his four cherubs in our pajamas under the tree before Emery fell asleep.
Then the phone call had to be made to the cousins who lived downtown. “The tree is up…hurry and come see it. It’s beautiful,” I exclaimed to cousin Carole on the phone.
Within the next couple of days Aunt Ilene, Uncle Wilbur and cousins Carole and Sharon braved the icy country roads to come see yet another dancing tree that protruded halfway out into the living room with one branch here and another there. Every year they took pictures of their country cousins’ tree and went away smiling. It seemed to make the city cousins’ Christmas season special for them to see such a gorgeous tree.
Mom always ordered several different kinds of candies from Sears and Roebuck catalog to arrive in time for Christmas Tree Day. She stored the tin cans of ribbon candy, chocolate peanuts, jelly-filled hard candies and taffy on the screened-in front porch. When the door to the porch was opened, the smell of that candy, mixed with the fragrance of the evergreen tree, filled the entire house with the aroma of Christmas.
Great care was given to our special tree. The bucket in which it stood received plenty of water each day. Rodney and I fought for that job. We liked crawling under the low branches and inching to the bucket on our bellies with the pitcher of water. Usually most of my water ended up on the floor and Rodney had to clean up the mess and finish the job. Nevertheless, we determined that this year all needles would remain on the tree until the very end.
For the next week, Virginia and I played dolls at the base of the tree. We stored our little plastic cups and saucers under the tree for quick tea parties. Rodney made fun of our dishes and dolls and lined his army men all around the bucket as if to protect the tree from the dolls taking over.
New Year’s Day signaled the close of the Christmas season. We never had as much fun removing all the icicles as we had putting them on, but we knew every bit had to come off. We carefully took down all the glass bulbs and wrapped them up for the next year. Then Rodney and Daddy carried the boxes up to the attic to be stored.
According to Mom, the season was not officially over yet. Mom laid bones on the tree branches and invited the farm dogs in for their Christmas fun. Those dogs could jump quite high for their Yuletide treats. In Mom’s opinion everyone needed some Christmas cheer.
Pulling our poor tree out of the house was never as difficult as taking it in. Drawing our once gorgeous work of art through the living room and kitchen left huge piles of needles behind. The base of the tree then had to be packed tight with snow to hold it up. We wadded pieces of bread into balls and molded them onto the needle-less branches for the hungry birds. The bare tree stood in the back yard for several days until Mom was sure that the birds had been fed sufficiently.
The last role for our tree was bittersweet for us. All together, we pulled it to the orchard and late at night in the cold winter air, it provided a warm bonfire to cook hotdogs and marshmallows pierced onto apple tree twigs.
Yes, every year our Christmas tree gave many hours of enjoyment for our family, as well as for many other living creatures on the farm. Those were special trees--lovingly sought out for a special purpose. Many memories were built at the base of those trees as my siblings and I crawled under the huge branches. It never mattered that our parents could only afford to give us small gifts every year; the Christmas season was always looked on as the best time. I think the tree had a lot to do with that.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Fourth of July
Fourth of July back home in Pennsylvania was celebrated with extended family. Either Grandma and Grandpa, the aunts and uncles and cousins would flock to the farm, or we would all meet at Hills Creek Lake. The standard fare of victuals was brought…potato salad, hamburgers, hot dogs, watermelon…just the basics. Oh, well, I guess there was also blueberry pie, apple pie, blackberry pie and rhubarb pie…our family was big on pie.
If we were at the lake, the kids would all go swimming while the aunts watched from the shore. The men stayed at the fire doing what men do…once in a while someone would say something and conversation would linger on that subject for a whole minute. Actually, I think my Uncle Wilbur was the talker who kept the conversation going. Uncle Wilbur was crippled from a blood disorder shortly after he returned from WWII, and he was confined to a wheelchair. He always loved the outdoors, though, and was front and center at all outdoor gatherings. I loved the smell of his cherry pipe tobacco as he puffed over an open fire.
If we happened to spend the 4th at our farm, Daddy would grill chicken, with his famous marinade sauce, on the open pit in the orchard. That gave the men more to talk about. The men would gather round the fire pit and watch Daddy turn the chicken and brush on the marinade every so often. He would pinch the meat to see if it was done. From time to time, one of the uncles would offer to brush or turn the meat and would want to learn how to test the doneness by pinching. This occupied the men’s time while the women were setting the picnic tables in the orchard and doing last minute preparations.
We kids had our own tasks to see to. If we weren’t caught by one of the aunts to run another errand up to the orchard with odds and ends, we would be in the barn or the hayfield. Daddy always left a section of loose hay in the barn so we could jump from the rafters. There were two levels to jump from—the dare level and then the double dare level. Usually someone would triple dare and climb the rope to the heavy hayfork and jump from there. We were always told to stay away from the fork, but it was usually my brother Rodney who had to prove that he was the bravest.
The hayfields were another source of fun. If Daddy hadn’t mowed yet, the cousins would play hide-and-go-seek in the tall grass. Daddy wasn’t too keen about us doing that though. He said we left too many patches of hay flattened to the ground making it hard to mow. But we seemed to forget that.
After the picnic lunch, the men would play horseshoes while the women cleared the tables and the kids played badminton or croquet. Just before the sun went down, Daddy would hitch the trailer, filled with hay, to the Cub tractor and take the kids on a hayride. We always looked forward to that. One time it was raining so hard and he drove lickety split down the road. Somehow the trailer came unhitched and we stopped dead in the road as he went even faster up the next hill. He was quite a ways down the road when he turned around and realized the trailer loaded with us kids was not following him. We laughed so hard that my cousin peed her pants, which made us laugh even harder.
After dark, the kids played with sparklers for a while…we never had any firecrackers nor did we care to go see any big firework displays. I don’t even remember if any of the little towns around us offered firework displays. We were all content to stay on the farm and finish out the night roasting marshmallows over the pit and making smores for each other or for our aunts and uncles. Grandma and Grandpa were always good sports about eating their share.
As the night got stiller and some of the younger cousins fell asleep on their parents’ laps, Grandma and Grandpa and the uncles and aunts would sit over the embers talking of the old days. Sometimes one of them would tell a whole long story of one of our ancestors who we had never known. One time, I remember Grandpa reciting one of his newly written poems…it was about the man from Mars. The talk was quieter than it had been during the day. The dying embers made you want to talk that way. I would fight to keep my eyelids open and as I got older, I could last until the last carload pulled out of the drive.
Fourth of July was a time of family and peace, knowing we were all together. Today we are spread out over the United States. My children don’t even know their cousins very well. How did that happen? Through our mobility and freedom, we have lost something…something solid that used to be the security of family.
© July 4, 2008
Judy Watters
If we were at the lake, the kids would all go swimming while the aunts watched from the shore. The men stayed at the fire doing what men do…once in a while someone would say something and conversation would linger on that subject for a whole minute. Actually, I think my Uncle Wilbur was the talker who kept the conversation going. Uncle Wilbur was crippled from a blood disorder shortly after he returned from WWII, and he was confined to a wheelchair. He always loved the outdoors, though, and was front and center at all outdoor gatherings. I loved the smell of his cherry pipe tobacco as he puffed over an open fire.
If we happened to spend the 4th at our farm, Daddy would grill chicken, with his famous marinade sauce, on the open pit in the orchard. That gave the men more to talk about. The men would gather round the fire pit and watch Daddy turn the chicken and brush on the marinade every so often. He would pinch the meat to see if it was done. From time to time, one of the uncles would offer to brush or turn the meat and would want to learn how to test the doneness by pinching. This occupied the men’s time while the women were setting the picnic tables in the orchard and doing last minute preparations.
We kids had our own tasks to see to. If we weren’t caught by one of the aunts to run another errand up to the orchard with odds and ends, we would be in the barn or the hayfield. Daddy always left a section of loose hay in the barn so we could jump from the rafters. There were two levels to jump from—the dare level and then the double dare level. Usually someone would triple dare and climb the rope to the heavy hayfork and jump from there. We were always told to stay away from the fork, but it was usually my brother Rodney who had to prove that he was the bravest.
The hayfields were another source of fun. If Daddy hadn’t mowed yet, the cousins would play hide-and-go-seek in the tall grass. Daddy wasn’t too keen about us doing that though. He said we left too many patches of hay flattened to the ground making it hard to mow. But we seemed to forget that.
After the picnic lunch, the men would play horseshoes while the women cleared the tables and the kids played badminton or croquet. Just before the sun went down, Daddy would hitch the trailer, filled with hay, to the Cub tractor and take the kids on a hayride. We always looked forward to that. One time it was raining so hard and he drove lickety split down the road. Somehow the trailer came unhitched and we stopped dead in the road as he went even faster up the next hill. He was quite a ways down the road when he turned around and realized the trailer loaded with us kids was not following him. We laughed so hard that my cousin peed her pants, which made us laugh even harder.
After dark, the kids played with sparklers for a while…we never had any firecrackers nor did we care to go see any big firework displays. I don’t even remember if any of the little towns around us offered firework displays. We were all content to stay on the farm and finish out the night roasting marshmallows over the pit and making smores for each other or for our aunts and uncles. Grandma and Grandpa were always good sports about eating their share.
As the night got stiller and some of the younger cousins fell asleep on their parents’ laps, Grandma and Grandpa and the uncles and aunts would sit over the embers talking of the old days. Sometimes one of them would tell a whole long story of one of our ancestors who we had never known. One time, I remember Grandpa reciting one of his newly written poems…it was about the man from Mars. The talk was quieter than it had been during the day. The dying embers made you want to talk that way. I would fight to keep my eyelids open and as I got older, I could last until the last carload pulled out of the drive.
Fourth of July was a time of family and peace, knowing we were all together. Today we are spread out over the United States. My children don’t even know their cousins very well. How did that happen? Through our mobility and freedom, we have lost something…something solid that used to be the security of family.
© July 4, 2008
Judy Watters
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Orchard
Two orchards stood on our farm. One we called the old orchard. This one held apple and pear trees that had gone unpruned for many years. The fruit that they yielded was consistently gnarled and wormy. We seldom went in among those trees because there was a multitude of thorns that grew with a great fierceness. Of the 100 acres on the farm, this seemed to be the only area that was left untended. However, on the far edge of the old orchard was a lovely spring that came out of the ground with sparkling water. My sister, Virginia, once tried to tame the area and weeded around the spring and planted seeds to encourage new growth of attractive flowers. It did take on new form for a season, but the wild vegetation was too much for her, and the thorns reclaimed the spring.
The other orchard sat on a rolling knoll just past our back yard. This orchard consisted of a small grape vineyard, several different kinds of apple trees, two pear trees, and the prettiest little cherry tree. The trees were pruned, and the grass was kept mowed around each one. In the springtime, the smell of the orchard was heavenly. The blossoms of the cherry, apple, and pear trees sent a fresh sweet aroma that announced another booming crop would soon be on the way.
It was here that our family enjoyed many picnics and extended family get-togethers. When I was very little, Daddy built a cinder block fire pit and from that moment on that fire pit was put to good use. Mom’s family reunions were held in our orchard and Daddy would barbeque the best barbequed chicken around. His secret marinade recipe was envied by everyone. As the reunions would fade into the evening hours, adults, as well as the children would sit around the fire pit and roast marshmallows on twigs cut from the apple trees.
In the winter, Daddy would tap the maple trees that lined our road and put frozen buckets of maple sap in a huge pan on the fire pit to cook all day. As the iced sap would melt and eventually start boiling, Daddy would add dozens of egg whites to the liquid. I liked to watch the egg whites start to cook and mysteriously turn to a very dirty froth of debris and impurities. These impurities would be allowed to cook for sometime before they were skimmed away and more egg whites would be added. I am not sure how Daddy knew that the syrup was done, but by the time he started to pour the liquid into jars, it had become a beautiful see-through auburn color. My mouth would water just to think of that sweet syrup over Mom’s pancakes.
And what pancakes we had! Many Saturday or Sunday mornings, or especially when we were entertaining out of town guests, Daddy would take the pancake griddle up to the orchard and put it on top of the fire pit. Mom would stir up a batch of her famous pancakes and we would all gather at the picnic table for pancakes, eggs, bacon, and hot maple syrup. For an added treat, we would have strawberry shortcake, fresh from the morning garden, for dessert.
When Daddy’s long-lost sisters from New York City realized their little brother had a “mansion” in the country, they started making our home their summer retreat. Aunt Mary’s husband, Uncle Bill, was a department store window decorator. In contrast to Aunt Mary, Uncle Bill was a worker and truly enjoyed helping around the farm, even though he was not familiar with farm chores. He tried milking a cow once, but gave that up very quickly.
We were little when Daddy decided to get rid of the chickens; he cleaned out the chicken coop, pulled it up to the orchard, and made it into a playhouse for us kids. Uncle Bill heard about the new playhouse, and he saw his opportunity to put his expertise to work on the farm. On his trip to the farm that summer, he brought a car full of corrugated paper that he put up around the entire inside of the chicken coop. Instantly, we had red bricks and a fireplace that looked like it had real fire. We had a bookcase that looked so real I thought I could actually grab onto the book of Peter Pan.
Virginia, Rodney, and I played house and read books throughout the summer and fall in that playhouse. Many summer nights would find us lying on old quilts listening to the branches of the old apple tree brush on the tin roof. These were peaceful times for me, snuggled up with my big sister enjoying her read to me or tell me a story as I drifted off to sleep. One night, however, my brother Rodney was very disgruntled with me and was determined that only he would spend the night with Virginia. He insisted on telling the story that night…and what a story it was! I remember vivid vampires and wolves gnawing on someone’s leg, but the more Rodney spun his tale of horror, the more frightened he appeared to be. Even with Virginia’s protective arm around me, I was hearing noises outside that made me sure that Rodney’s story had conjured up something really terrible. It was quite a surprise for both Virginia and me, as Rodney, in mid-sentence, abruptly bolted out of the playhouse and at top speed flew to the house and the safety of Mom and Daddy. It was some time before Virginia let him live that one down.
It was in this same orchard where I smoked my first and last cigarette. A girl I knew at school had given me one and dared me to smoke it. I told her I would when I got home, and as soon as Mom left for a quick trip to the neighbor’s house, I ran to the orchard, scurried up the green apple tree, and lit up. I was not real impressed with the first puff, so I thought I would cut the bad taste with a bite of an apple that was not quite ripe. The tartness of the apple didn’t really take the bad taste away, but filled my mouth with a puckering nicotine flavor. I figured after a few more puffs, the taste would get better. So one puff, one bite of apple; another puff, another bite. I don’t remember if I finished either the cigarette or the apple, but somewhere in between puffs and bites, I almost fell out of the tree vomiting. I swore I would never smoke another cigarette again.
My Aunt Marolyn and Cousin Sharon came one time for a week of camping in the orchard. They were “courting” the neighbor boys at the time and so it was convenient for the four of them to sit around the campfire at night and “get to know each other better.” They later married these boys and I like to think they all fell in love in our orchard.
Yes, our orchard was an active place. A place where family gathered, cousins played badminton and croquet, uncles played horseshoes, aunts and grandma visited. It could also be a quiet place to take a blanket and curl up with a good book under any one of the trees.
I visited that orchard last year; it has changed. Many of the trees are gone; the playhouse with the big apple tree’s limbs hanging over it as if to protect those within…all gone now. But the memories of that orchard still play a great symphony in the recesses of my brain, and no one can ever take that away.
© June 23, 2008
Judy Watters
The other orchard sat on a rolling knoll just past our back yard. This orchard consisted of a small grape vineyard, several different kinds of apple trees, two pear trees, and the prettiest little cherry tree. The trees were pruned, and the grass was kept mowed around each one. In the springtime, the smell of the orchard was heavenly. The blossoms of the cherry, apple, and pear trees sent a fresh sweet aroma that announced another booming crop would soon be on the way.
It was here that our family enjoyed many picnics and extended family get-togethers. When I was very little, Daddy built a cinder block fire pit and from that moment on that fire pit was put to good use. Mom’s family reunions were held in our orchard and Daddy would barbeque the best barbequed chicken around. His secret marinade recipe was envied by everyone. As the reunions would fade into the evening hours, adults, as well as the children would sit around the fire pit and roast marshmallows on twigs cut from the apple trees.
In the winter, Daddy would tap the maple trees that lined our road and put frozen buckets of maple sap in a huge pan on the fire pit to cook all day. As the iced sap would melt and eventually start boiling, Daddy would add dozens of egg whites to the liquid. I liked to watch the egg whites start to cook and mysteriously turn to a very dirty froth of debris and impurities. These impurities would be allowed to cook for sometime before they were skimmed away and more egg whites would be added. I am not sure how Daddy knew that the syrup was done, but by the time he started to pour the liquid into jars, it had become a beautiful see-through auburn color. My mouth would water just to think of that sweet syrup over Mom’s pancakes.
And what pancakes we had! Many Saturday or Sunday mornings, or especially when we were entertaining out of town guests, Daddy would take the pancake griddle up to the orchard and put it on top of the fire pit. Mom would stir up a batch of her famous pancakes and we would all gather at the picnic table for pancakes, eggs, bacon, and hot maple syrup. For an added treat, we would have strawberry shortcake, fresh from the morning garden, for dessert.
When Daddy’s long-lost sisters from New York City realized their little brother had a “mansion” in the country, they started making our home their summer retreat. Aunt Mary’s husband, Uncle Bill, was a department store window decorator. In contrast to Aunt Mary, Uncle Bill was a worker and truly enjoyed helping around the farm, even though he was not familiar with farm chores. He tried milking a cow once, but gave that up very quickly.
We were little when Daddy decided to get rid of the chickens; he cleaned out the chicken coop, pulled it up to the orchard, and made it into a playhouse for us kids. Uncle Bill heard about the new playhouse, and he saw his opportunity to put his expertise to work on the farm. On his trip to the farm that summer, he brought a car full of corrugated paper that he put up around the entire inside of the chicken coop. Instantly, we had red bricks and a fireplace that looked like it had real fire. We had a bookcase that looked so real I thought I could actually grab onto the book of Peter Pan.
Virginia, Rodney, and I played house and read books throughout the summer and fall in that playhouse. Many summer nights would find us lying on old quilts listening to the branches of the old apple tree brush on the tin roof. These were peaceful times for me, snuggled up with my big sister enjoying her read to me or tell me a story as I drifted off to sleep. One night, however, my brother Rodney was very disgruntled with me and was determined that only he would spend the night with Virginia. He insisted on telling the story that night…and what a story it was! I remember vivid vampires and wolves gnawing on someone’s leg, but the more Rodney spun his tale of horror, the more frightened he appeared to be. Even with Virginia’s protective arm around me, I was hearing noises outside that made me sure that Rodney’s story had conjured up something really terrible. It was quite a surprise for both Virginia and me, as Rodney, in mid-sentence, abruptly bolted out of the playhouse and at top speed flew to the house and the safety of Mom and Daddy. It was some time before Virginia let him live that one down.
It was in this same orchard where I smoked my first and last cigarette. A girl I knew at school had given me one and dared me to smoke it. I told her I would when I got home, and as soon as Mom left for a quick trip to the neighbor’s house, I ran to the orchard, scurried up the green apple tree, and lit up. I was not real impressed with the first puff, so I thought I would cut the bad taste with a bite of an apple that was not quite ripe. The tartness of the apple didn’t really take the bad taste away, but filled my mouth with a puckering nicotine flavor. I figured after a few more puffs, the taste would get better. So one puff, one bite of apple; another puff, another bite. I don’t remember if I finished either the cigarette or the apple, but somewhere in between puffs and bites, I almost fell out of the tree vomiting. I swore I would never smoke another cigarette again.
My Aunt Marolyn and Cousin Sharon came one time for a week of camping in the orchard. They were “courting” the neighbor boys at the time and so it was convenient for the four of them to sit around the campfire at night and “get to know each other better.” They later married these boys and I like to think they all fell in love in our orchard.
Yes, our orchard was an active place. A place where family gathered, cousins played badminton and croquet, uncles played horseshoes, aunts and grandma visited. It could also be a quiet place to take a blanket and curl up with a good book under any one of the trees.
I visited that orchard last year; it has changed. Many of the trees are gone; the playhouse with the big apple tree’s limbs hanging over it as if to protect those within…all gone now. But the memories of that orchard still play a great symphony in the recesses of my brain, and no one can ever take that away.
© June 23, 2008
Judy Watters
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Unassuming Witness
Great Aunt Florence…Grandpa’s sister. Even her name described her character. Born in 1891, Great Aunt Florence was already “old” when I was born. The story goes that she was once in love, but her parents convinced her that she was needed on the farm and so she stayed with her aging parents. When her parents died, she was past the age of desiring a husband. Instead, she moved to Chicago and sold books. Not just any books. Aunt Florence had a love for children and children’s literature. So for the rest of her life she sold The How and Why Library (Childcraft). That was before World Book Encyclopedia and Childcraft merged. Aunt Florence was one of the first women hired to walk the streets of Chicago knocking on doors to sell the children’s books to stay-at-home moms.
Whenever Aunt Florence came for a visit, she would try to sell our whole town these “nuggets of joy and learning” as she called the books. My father was always a little annoyed with her walking “our” streets with her books. But he also noted the passion she had for the educational necessity that the books possessed. Yes, we owned a set…we were probably Aunt Florence’s first customer in Wellsboro.
But there was more to Aunt Florence than an assertive sales woman. I looked forward to her visits. She read non-stop and with an avid audience such as I was, she read with great enthusiasm. She had a very soft voice…so soft I had to strain to hear her. The emotion that she put into every character brought each one jumping out of the pages. The poor grandmother who Heidi would visit when she went to take the goats out with Peter…I could see that poor grandmother in her bed. I could also see the rich crippled girl who so wanted a friend and found that friend in Heidi. Bob White and his family of quails running across the field to escape the fox produced a huge lump in my throat.
Every Christmas I knew I would receive a book from Aunt Florence…and they were all different genre. My first biographies came from her. George Washington, Abe Lincoln and George Washington Carver were some of my favorites. But when she read Florence Nightingale, I thought that nurse must have been the most gracious and kind woman in the whole world. Aunt Florence softly and courageously brought Florence Nightingale to life for me. She also taught me the lines that Longfellow penned about her:
Lo! in that hour of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloom,And flit from room to room.
Certain books like Ben Hur brought excitement to her voice. It was amazing how that trembling voice could sound so fierce and yet continue to be soft. It was Aunt Florence who introduced me to Nancy Drew and Spin and Marty. She didn’t read all the books to me…we sometimes shared in the reading and sometimes she would just bring the book to me and ask me to read it so we could talk about it on her next visit.
She brought my first prayer book to me. It was full of beautiful pictures and children’s prayers. Aunt Florence spoke about the Lord as though she really knew Him. This was when her voice got the softest and even sparkled a bit as though there was something exciting about Him. Sometimes she would close her eyes just thinking about her friend, Jesus. I never knew just what to do at those times. But when she had left, I would pretend that I was Aunt Florence and try to see Jesus and talk to Him as she did.
By the time I had my own children, I had met Jesus and knew what Aunt Florence was feeling. I tried to mirror her reading style with my children, but I know I failed miserably. My voice was never that soft and exciting. But I like to think that a little bit of Aunt Florence came through and was evidenced by my little ones so that Aunt Florence’s testimony will never pass away.
© June 22, 2008
Judy Watters
Whenever Aunt Florence came for a visit, she would try to sell our whole town these “nuggets of joy and learning” as she called the books. My father was always a little annoyed with her walking “our” streets with her books. But he also noted the passion she had for the educational necessity that the books possessed. Yes, we owned a set…we were probably Aunt Florence’s first customer in Wellsboro.
But there was more to Aunt Florence than an assertive sales woman. I looked forward to her visits. She read non-stop and with an avid audience such as I was, she read with great enthusiasm. She had a very soft voice…so soft I had to strain to hear her. The emotion that she put into every character brought each one jumping out of the pages. The poor grandmother who Heidi would visit when she went to take the goats out with Peter…I could see that poor grandmother in her bed. I could also see the rich crippled girl who so wanted a friend and found that friend in Heidi. Bob White and his family of quails running across the field to escape the fox produced a huge lump in my throat.
Every Christmas I knew I would receive a book from Aunt Florence…and they were all different genre. My first biographies came from her. George Washington, Abe Lincoln and George Washington Carver were some of my favorites. But when she read Florence Nightingale, I thought that nurse must have been the most gracious and kind woman in the whole world. Aunt Florence softly and courageously brought Florence Nightingale to life for me. She also taught me the lines that Longfellow penned about her:
Lo! in that hour of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloom,And flit from room to room.
Certain books like Ben Hur brought excitement to her voice. It was amazing how that trembling voice could sound so fierce and yet continue to be soft. It was Aunt Florence who introduced me to Nancy Drew and Spin and Marty. She didn’t read all the books to me…we sometimes shared in the reading and sometimes she would just bring the book to me and ask me to read it so we could talk about it on her next visit.
She brought my first prayer book to me. It was full of beautiful pictures and children’s prayers. Aunt Florence spoke about the Lord as though she really knew Him. This was when her voice got the softest and even sparkled a bit as though there was something exciting about Him. Sometimes she would close her eyes just thinking about her friend, Jesus. I never knew just what to do at those times. But when she had left, I would pretend that I was Aunt Florence and try to see Jesus and talk to Him as she did.
By the time I had my own children, I had met Jesus and knew what Aunt Florence was feeling. I tried to mirror her reading style with my children, but I know I failed miserably. My voice was never that soft and exciting. But I like to think that a little bit of Aunt Florence came through and was evidenced by my little ones so that Aunt Florence’s testimony will never pass away.
© June 22, 2008
Judy Watters
A Good Name is Hard to Come By
Daddy taught us our name was as good as our word. If we were ever tempted to lie, steal, or cheat another person or go back on a promise, our name would be disgraced forever. The lesson was seen played out everyday in our father’s life. Daddy never took anything without returning payment for it in some form…whether it was a bushel of corn for a bushel of tomatoes or a bunch of rhubarb for a couple quarts of strawberries. Daddy was an honest man and worked hard to have honest children…well, three children out of four’s not bad.
We had a general store in my hometown of Wellsboro called Dunham’s. Before the A&P or Acme grocery stores came in and took over, our family did all our shopping at Dunham’s. Dunham’s had everything: food, clothes, shoes, furniture, tools, canning supplies and feed for the farm critters. I loved going to that store. It had all the wonderful aromas of fresh baked donuts rolled in with the sweet smell of cow feed. It also had the biggest barrel of peanuts in the shell that I had ever seen.
However, Mom never seemed to have enough money to get any of those peanuts, and I had resigned myself to the fact that only the rich people of town could ever enjoy these wonders. But that barrel always intrigued me. It was strategically placed right in the middle of the store so everyone would have to walk around it to get to anything else. It seemed as if a magnet drew me in the direction of the forbidden barrel every time I entered that store.
I remember one shopping day in particular when I had plotted a most devious plan to taste just one of those jewels. As we entered Dunham’s, everyone knew where his or her section of the store was. Mom got her basket and headed for the meat counter. Sister Virginia hurried to check out the new fabric, and Rodney went right for the toys. I was left to myself to meander around.
In those days, we never heard of kids being kidnapped out of stores. In fact, nothing real exciting had happened in that town for the last 200 years. So Mom had no fear of letting me explore. And for a five-year-old, this old store needed a lot of exploring. I had done plenty of detective work here in the past, but today was not going to be one of those days.
I slowly ambled over to that big old barrel as I cautiously put my plan into action. I was almost eye-level with the top. I started to walk around that barrel. I watched the other people in the store to see if they were watching me watching them! No one seemed to be paying any attention to me. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I continued my pace around that barrel. On about my twentieth trip around, I reached up and started circling the steel rim with my finger. With my finger on the rim, I continued with another twenty or so laps. Round and round I went. My heart was pounding so loudly I figured someone would soon hear it and catch on to my wicked plot. But everyone seemed hard of hearing!
So on my fifty-first dizzying walk, I grabbed one of those delectable buggers and headed for the street. No, I raced to the street. I was really scared. I had just become Wellsboro’s littlest outlaw!
I sat on the curb and held that little peanut so hard it felt like it was burning a hole in my hand. A thorough look up and down the street produced no sight of Daddy. He was out paying the bills and was in one of those buildings, but at the moment I didn’t know which one. What I did know was that he had to have seen everything! Daddy was wise and always knew everything, so this crime was not likely to escape his keen eyes. As I sat there with that hot peanut in my sweaty little hands, I became more and more convinced that the deed had to be undone.
Mustering up all the courage possible, I slowly entered the scene of the crime again. From the door, that barrel seemed to have grown immensely since the last time I had seen it just a few minutes before. My heart was pounding so hard by now; I thought I would have to put a hand over it to keep it from jumping out of my chest. But I didn’t have a spare hand. Both hands were glued to that peanut!
I timidly started my journey all over again. Round and round I went. I looked to see if I was wearing a track through the floor that would take the barrel and me to the cellar. I had been in that cellar one time and didn’t like what I had seen. It was dark and musty, definitely not where I wanted to find myself today.
I found it was much harder getting that peanut back in that barrel than it was getting it out. If someone saw me this time, they would think I was stealing it, and I wasn’t! I had done that earlier! I guess it was on my 100th round that I finally got that peanut back in. What a job! If this was what it was like stealing something, I guessed I would never do that again! But my conscience was not done with me yet.
I was back outside sitting on the curb when I saw Daddy round the corner. Having finished with all the bill payments, he was on his way to gather up the family and groceries. He smiled one of his biggest loving smiles at me and I knew “MY GOOSE WAS COOKED!”
I was quiet all the way home. At dinner I didn’t seem to be hungry, which in itself should have told everyone that there was something very serious going on here. But no one seemed to be paying attention. I sat there wondering when Daddy was going to confront me with my dastardly deed of the day, when he finally said, “Why, Judy, why aren’t you eating?”
I knew it! He had seen me! Why had he let me linger in my guilt for so long? That was downright mean. Why hadn’t he talked to me earlier? Why not just spank me and get it over? And why did he wait so long that my food got cold?
I ran over to Daddy crying, throwing my whole body at him. I begged his forgiveness. In between sobs, he pieced the sad details together. His kind loving face looked down at me. But there was now a new twist to that face, one of sadness. Had I missed that part of his face before? I had never seen that side of him. There was a little tear at the corner of one eye.
“Judy, you make me very sad to hear this. This is not the Judy who I know and love. You realize that you tarnished our name today. I am sorry for you that you have this to live with now. You will never try this again, right?” That was it. Daddy had spoken.
I agreed this was the first and last time for me. That was too much work for a peanut that I never ate! I would like to say that next week Mom bought me a whole bag of those delectable things. But, alas, that wasn’t to be. I did maintain a healthy position each time we went to Dunham’s: as far away from that barrel as possible.
I think back on this episode of my life often. I wonder how my parents instilled that conscience of right and wrong into us kids. Parenting does not come with a manual. There is no chapter named “A Good Name is Hard to Come By.” But I think my dad could have helped to write that part.
© June 22, 2008
Judy Watters
We had a general store in my hometown of Wellsboro called Dunham’s. Before the A&P or Acme grocery stores came in and took over, our family did all our shopping at Dunham’s. Dunham’s had everything: food, clothes, shoes, furniture, tools, canning supplies and feed for the farm critters. I loved going to that store. It had all the wonderful aromas of fresh baked donuts rolled in with the sweet smell of cow feed. It also had the biggest barrel of peanuts in the shell that I had ever seen.
However, Mom never seemed to have enough money to get any of those peanuts, and I had resigned myself to the fact that only the rich people of town could ever enjoy these wonders. But that barrel always intrigued me. It was strategically placed right in the middle of the store so everyone would have to walk around it to get to anything else. It seemed as if a magnet drew me in the direction of the forbidden barrel every time I entered that store.
I remember one shopping day in particular when I had plotted a most devious plan to taste just one of those jewels. As we entered Dunham’s, everyone knew where his or her section of the store was. Mom got her basket and headed for the meat counter. Sister Virginia hurried to check out the new fabric, and Rodney went right for the toys. I was left to myself to meander around.
In those days, we never heard of kids being kidnapped out of stores. In fact, nothing real exciting had happened in that town for the last 200 years. So Mom had no fear of letting me explore. And for a five-year-old, this old store needed a lot of exploring. I had done plenty of detective work here in the past, but today was not going to be one of those days.
I slowly ambled over to that big old barrel as I cautiously put my plan into action. I was almost eye-level with the top. I started to walk around that barrel. I watched the other people in the store to see if they were watching me watching them! No one seemed to be paying any attention to me. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I continued my pace around that barrel. On about my twentieth trip around, I reached up and started circling the steel rim with my finger. With my finger on the rim, I continued with another twenty or so laps. Round and round I went. My heart was pounding so loudly I figured someone would soon hear it and catch on to my wicked plot. But everyone seemed hard of hearing!
So on my fifty-first dizzying walk, I grabbed one of those delectable buggers and headed for the street. No, I raced to the street. I was really scared. I had just become Wellsboro’s littlest outlaw!
I sat on the curb and held that little peanut so hard it felt like it was burning a hole in my hand. A thorough look up and down the street produced no sight of Daddy. He was out paying the bills and was in one of those buildings, but at the moment I didn’t know which one. What I did know was that he had to have seen everything! Daddy was wise and always knew everything, so this crime was not likely to escape his keen eyes. As I sat there with that hot peanut in my sweaty little hands, I became more and more convinced that the deed had to be undone.
Mustering up all the courage possible, I slowly entered the scene of the crime again. From the door, that barrel seemed to have grown immensely since the last time I had seen it just a few minutes before. My heart was pounding so hard by now; I thought I would have to put a hand over it to keep it from jumping out of my chest. But I didn’t have a spare hand. Both hands were glued to that peanut!
I timidly started my journey all over again. Round and round I went. I looked to see if I was wearing a track through the floor that would take the barrel and me to the cellar. I had been in that cellar one time and didn’t like what I had seen. It was dark and musty, definitely not where I wanted to find myself today.
I found it was much harder getting that peanut back in that barrel than it was getting it out. If someone saw me this time, they would think I was stealing it, and I wasn’t! I had done that earlier! I guess it was on my 100th round that I finally got that peanut back in. What a job! If this was what it was like stealing something, I guessed I would never do that again! But my conscience was not done with me yet.
I was back outside sitting on the curb when I saw Daddy round the corner. Having finished with all the bill payments, he was on his way to gather up the family and groceries. He smiled one of his biggest loving smiles at me and I knew “MY GOOSE WAS COOKED!”
I was quiet all the way home. At dinner I didn’t seem to be hungry, which in itself should have told everyone that there was something very serious going on here. But no one seemed to be paying attention. I sat there wondering when Daddy was going to confront me with my dastardly deed of the day, when he finally said, “Why, Judy, why aren’t you eating?”
I knew it! He had seen me! Why had he let me linger in my guilt for so long? That was downright mean. Why hadn’t he talked to me earlier? Why not just spank me and get it over? And why did he wait so long that my food got cold?
I ran over to Daddy crying, throwing my whole body at him. I begged his forgiveness. In between sobs, he pieced the sad details together. His kind loving face looked down at me. But there was now a new twist to that face, one of sadness. Had I missed that part of his face before? I had never seen that side of him. There was a little tear at the corner of one eye.
“Judy, you make me very sad to hear this. This is not the Judy who I know and love. You realize that you tarnished our name today. I am sorry for you that you have this to live with now. You will never try this again, right?” That was it. Daddy had spoken.
I agreed this was the first and last time for me. That was too much work for a peanut that I never ate! I would like to say that next week Mom bought me a whole bag of those delectable things. But, alas, that wasn’t to be. I did maintain a healthy position each time we went to Dunham’s: as far away from that barrel as possible.
I think back on this episode of my life often. I wonder how my parents instilled that conscience of right and wrong into us kids. Parenting does not come with a manual. There is no chapter named “A Good Name is Hard to Come By.” But I think my dad could have helped to write that part.
© June 22, 2008
Judy Watters
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