A Treasure Rediscovered

Ceylon Elephant Sculpture - Designed by Carolyn Kinder
Image - Amazon.com

Both of my parents were avid readers. As far back as I can remember, there were always shelves full of books in our homes.  As soon as we children learned to read, we were given full access to the family bookshelves, and were allowed to read anything that was there. If my parents had any books that our mother didn't think quite suitable for us to read (yet), she kept them in her cedar chest or another 'off limits' place.  Most of my father's books were theological, mathematical or scientific; however, his collection did contain a number of volumes of classic literature.  Mother's books were fewer in number, and tended to be books of poetry, literature, and current fiction.

Among the family books that I loved to read when we lived in New Mexico was a volume containing a collection of prose and poetry.  I don't remember if my mother started reading aloud to us from this book and thus piqued my interest, or whether, when I was a young teenager, I just picked it up one day and started to read.  The book contained many amusing stories, poetry (some of it of the tear-jerker variety,) and many writings of an 'inspirational' nature.  One of the poems I especially liked, and read it again and again, until I had memorized it.

When we moved to Arkansas in 1950, the book came with us.  It stayed on my mother's bookshelf after my father died, and eventually came to have a place on the bookshelf in my own home. I read from it many times over the years.

It came as sort of a shock to me when one day several years ago I was looking for this book and I couldn't find it. I looked in every nook and cranny where a book of standard size could have been. No book. After a few days, I quit searching, and the loss of the book gradually faded from my mind. (I still have no idea where it might have gone; I'm quite sure I would not have given it away.)

A couple of weeks ago, the poem that I had loved as a teenager suddenly popped into my mind. That made me want to have again the book that I no longer possessed.  Truthfully, I had forgotten the title of the book, but not the first lines of the poem.  What to do?  Answer: Google!  And, there they were!  With the title of the book in which the poem was contained and a helpful link to Amazon.com, as well.  (Have I told you how much I love the Internet?)

Click. Click.  The book,  Ted Malone's Scrapbook (used, but in 'good' condition with slightly damaged dustcover) could be mine for a few paltry dollars.

Click. Click, again. The book is paid for and on its way to me.

It arrived this past Saturday.  I learned from examination that it was first published in February, 1941 and had its tenth printing in March, 1944. The material for the book was selected from Ted Malone's radio programs and a feature column in Good Housekeeping Magazine, both of which (radio program and feature column) bore the name of "Between the Bookends."

I could hardly wait to find 'my poem' (which I did; it's on page 181). I'm going to copy it below.  As you read it, please keep in mind that I was only 13 or 14 years of age, and probably in the angst of my first infatuation with a member of the opposite sex, when I read and memorized this poem.
 
You've been champing at the bit to ask me, I can tell.  Just what does the photograph of an elephant have to do with all this?  It will become clear; read on.

BITS OF LIFE I'VE MISSED

While walking down an avenue, I came upon a shop;
'Twas small, exclusive, quiet, dim, what could I do but stop?
I saw an ivory elephant up high upon a shelf,
"I'd like to have that elephant," I murmured to myself.

I priced the ivory elephant and sadly sighed to see
That little ivory elephants were never meant for me.
Sometimes I pause before the shop and there upon the shelf
The lonely little elephant still stands all by himself.

For you, O Unattainable, my love is much the same;
I know I dare not love you, but I thrill to hear your name.
I dream of your lips pressed to mine, although we've never kissed.
You... and my ivory elephant ... are bits of life ... I've missed.   ~UNKNOWN

Tomorrow is also a day.

Butterflies and Memories Part 2

Butterfly on Abelia, 2009

Although I am unsure of the exact date, but probably in the summer of 1942, we moved to Albuquerque after my father went to Grand Junction, CO. Other than remembering that we came on the Trailways bus, I don't remember anything about the trip, nor of moving into the furnished house at 706 N. Second St. (now disappeared forever, along with many blocks surrounding it, to make way for big banks and other commercial buildings.)  The address, 706, placed the corner lot on which the red brick house stood at seven blocks north of Central Avenue, or Route 66, which was the "Main Street" of Albuquerque.  Mama's place of employment was also on Second Street, probably in about the 300 block, so it was very well placed so that she could walk to and from work.

 About all I remember of the house itself was that it had a few steps leading up to an open front porch, a living room which contained a piano (to our delight), probably a couple of bedrooms (although I remember only one), a kitchen, bathroom, and back porch.

 The bedroom that I remember contained a brass bed with a tall headboard. That bed is where I spent a great many days during my "Childhood Illness" about which I wrote at length last year.

My memories of "706" are somewhat limited, probably due to my being so sick most of the time we lived there.  But, I wasn't sick the entire time, and the memory butterflies have left me with a few snapshots.

At some time after moving from Las Vegas, we must have acquired a "wringer" washing machine, which was housed on the back porch.  I was too young to participate in the laundry process, other than probably hauling dirty clothes to the machine, but I do remember that I was fascinated by the wringer.  So much so that, at age 8, I considered it an appropriate instrument of punishment for the younger sister who simply would not mind me when I told her to do something. This torture (as she now describes it), which was applied only once, was to have her hand and arm inserted into the turning wringer until she agreed to comply.  I thought it was a dandy way to bring about cooperation, but she squealed on me, and my mother applied suitable persuasion upon another region of my body, which compelled me to abandon the practice.


It was in the yard of this home that I first explored smoking.  Real tobacco not being available in our house, my friend Helen and I discovered that Rabbit Tobacco, which grew in profusion, could be picked, dried, crumbled and rolled up in toilet paper to create a substitute cigarette.  This practice was not long continued because my father, upon one of his visits to Albuquerque from Colorado, caught us.

Another memory is of my mother's "Jewel Tea" dishes.  Jewel Tea dishes were a free gift, or at least of very low cost, that came with the purchase of Watkins products, such as vanilla, spices, and other food stuffs.  Watkins products were personally delivered to one's home by "the Watkins Man" who drove a small commercial van with "Watkins" emblazoned on the side.  I suppose Mama had been buying Watkins products for some time, for she had quite a collection of Jewel Tea "Autumn Leaf" dishes, probably a service for six. The dishes were glazed pottery, with red, brown, orange and gold designs.  I understand that they are quite "collectible" these days.  We used the Jewel Tea dishes on Sundays; I don't remember any other dishes, although we must have had them.
 

Example of "Jewel Tea" ware

On one fateful Sunday afternoon, Mama had washed the Jewel Tea dishes that had been used for dinner, as the noon meal was called in our household, and as she dried them, had placed them on the "drop leaf" kitchen table prior to putting them away in china cabinet.  Said table had the leaf extended and the leg to support the raised leaf was in place.   Younger sister, full of energy from lunch, was running through the house at breakneck speed, probably being chased by yours truly, and was just short enough to run under the table in her getaway efforts.  She ran under the table, all right, knocked the supporting leg from under the leaf and all the Jewel Tea dishes came crashing to the floor.  There may have been one or two surviving pieces, but that was it.  For all intents and purposes, Mama's hard won collection of Jewel Tea dishes was gone, gone, gone! 

Same sister had a penchant for playing with Mama's dishes, some of which, I learned later, were wedding presents.  At least two pieces that I remember suffered disaster at my sister's hands -- a platinum banded stemmed compote, and a peach-colored crystal sugar bowl.   She maintains to this day no memory of these occurrences, but I do!

Another thing I remember was a huge fire at a lumber yard which was located perhaps 6 blocks from the house.  The fire started after dark, and I recall standing outside in the front yard, hearing the fire truck sirens, smelling burning wood, and watching burning embers and smoke shooting into the sky.  The lumber yard was completely destroyed, and the fire believed to be arson.

One last memory before I wrap this segment up.  After my "illness" I was occasionally allowed to walk my sisters and baby brother, who was about 2 years old, to the neighborhood park. about three blocks away.  Exposure to sunshine was deemed to be a contributor to my recovery.  It was on one of these excursions that I found, lying next to a trash barrel, a copy of "Sunshine and Health" magazine, which had some very interesting photos in it.  Turns out it was a nudist publication.  I took it home with me, where it promptly disappeared.

It's funny what one remembers.

We moved from "706" to 607 N. Second during the summer of 1943, before I entered the third grade.  The new house was somewhat larger, and it was closer to Mama's workplace.  We lived there for over two years, and I have lots of memories of that place to share.

Until next time, I leave you with a few more 2010 lily photos.

Butterflies and Memories Part 1

I have decided that memories are quite a lot like butterflies. Some flit in and out again, darting between receptive brain cells but never staying long. However, others sit for a while and leave permanent impressions, light and airy as they may be.

It's amazing how many butterfly memories one can recall, given the opportunity.  Having recently undergone an extensive period of quiet, restful sitting and slumbering,  I have remembered quite a number of things that have occurred during my lifetime.  It's not that I've just remembered them, nor has my life "flashed before my eyes"; most have been floating in my brain cells for many years. However, I've been putting them in an order of sorts.

Most of these remembrances have no historical significance whatsoever, and will be boring in the extreme to most who read them, but they are occurrences that have shaped my life. Some memories are of historical happenings, and readers of similar age will have similar memories -- when I finally get to the historical stuff (H) -- but there is only one (H) in this Part 1.

My earliest memory (don't laugh or doubt) is of my first (as in one year old) birthday party, cake and all. At age 6 or 7, I began to describe it to my mother. She told me there was no way I could have remembered it, but my description of the room and the view from the window was so exact that she finally had to agree that it truly was a memory, as there were no photographs of the occasion, and our family lived in that house only a few months past that date.

I have lost any memories of things that happened from then until I was about 4, except discovering my first pet, a cat named Black Pepper, doing his "business" in a bushel of peanuts on our back porch. I must have been about 3 at that time.  

I have only  "snapshot" memories of happenings from age 4 to 6 when our family lived in El Paso, TX.   These include:

       * Mama taking me to the first movie I ever saw, starring Deanna Durbin. I still remember the melody and some of the words to a song she sang in the film.
       * seeing the lit-up 1938 community Christmas tree in downtown El Paso after we left the movie; it was a thrilling sight for a 4 year old, and seemed to reach to the vaults of the sky.
       * moving from a room in a rooming house to a big house on Hill Street, which had about 25 steps from street level to front door (I recall I fell down them several times).
        * visiting the little girl across the street even after Daddy told me not to (my little friend had German measles, and although I didn't know it at the time, Mama was pregnant with my baby sister, born 1/1/1939).
        * the spanking I got (with a razor strop) from Daddy when he found out I had played with my sick friend.
         * seeing my baby sister's bald head in bed with Mama.
         * my two year old sister putting Black Pepper in a dresser drawer, where he stayed all day. We could hear him crying, but didn't find him until bed time.
        * playing with the boy next door and getting stuck in the cactus bed between our houses.
        * losing my first tooth in a piece of apple during a supper with my parents' friends, Mr. and Mrs. Pollard.
        * Mr. Pollard teaching me to eat the skin of the potato because that's where all the vitamins are (I still do that);
       * Mrs. Pollard, "Podough," giving me the Minnie Mouse quilt blocks.
        * going to Juarez, Mexico on the bus with Mama when she went shopping for  groceries (Mama told me when I was in my 40's that Juarez was the only place she could afford to buy meat, and she didn't know if she bought beef, pork, horse, dog or cat, or something else entirely, and she didn't care - meat was meat).
      * seeing wild canaries nesting in the trellises over the patio of our home on Montana Street.
      * eating stucco sand with a spoon with my friend, Edna (is that called pica?)
      * starting kindergarten and my first school book, which was in Spanish, "Juan y Maria en Casa" (I've written about my first day in school in my diatribe against a certain brand of canned evaporated milk.)
      * a strange landlady who stood on a chair in our kitchen and stuck her finger in an open light socket -- on regular basis (I think we didn't live there very long).
       * packing up to move to Las Vegas, New Mexico, and Mama crying because she couldn't take our furniture.

I was almost six when we moved to Las Vegas. I don't remember the move at all, and I don't remember my first day at school, first grade, but I do remember:
       * my teacher, Mrs. Kole.
       * my good friend, Cherry, the only black girl in the class, perhaps in all of Las Vegas.
       * a boy named George, who called Cherry the "N" word and made her cry, and I punched him in the nose and made him cry, and bleed, and Mrs. Kole sent me home with a note.
       * Christmas of 1940 when I got a pair of roller skates and a doll with jointed legs and arms, held together inside with rubber bands. The doll was dressed in a red dotted swiss dress with a white apron, and had long black braids, tied on the ends with red ribbons. On that same day, my younger sister "wound up" her legs and arms until the rubber bands broke and the arms and legs fell off. Mama couldn't fix it. That was the last doll I ever got as a present. When I get to heaven, I want long black braids and a red dotted swiss dress with a white apron. Do you think God will let me dress that way, or will I be content with what I get?;
       * Mama accidently pushing a fine crochet hook through the palm of her hand, and having to cut off the hook end to pull it out.
       * getting a new baby brother in April, 1941.
       * having to move from our furnished apartment because the baby cried too much to suit the landlord, who lived upstairs.
       * our wonderful new landlords, Mr and Mrs. Carpenter, who loved all of us and the baby; we loved their big house, where we lived in the entire upstairs.
       * Daddy coming home from the CCC camp on a Friday night after dark and Mrs. Carpenter's Chihuahua bit him on the leg, tore his pants and drew blood.
 (H) * December 8, 1941. I sat on the stairs and listened to the radio when President Roosevelt announced that Congress had declared war on Japan.

I have posted earlier about my Daddy going to the Army sometime after Pearl Harbor. In reviewing some old documents just this past week, I discovered that he did not actually go to the Army until May, 1942.  He was sent to an Army base at Grand Junction, Colorado, to teach automotive mechanics.  Mama and the rest of us moved to Albuquerque, some 75 miles away, where Mama had obtained employment as a bookkeeper/secretary at a large electrical wholesale company, as there was no employment available in Las Vegas.  My memories of the actual move are sketchy, at best, but I remember that we "moved" on a Southwest Trailways bus, all of our household items (no furniture) in boxes in the luggage compartment. We rode together on the back seat of the bus, and my poor mother, who all her life suffered from motion sickness, had to manage 4 children age 7 and under and be sick at the same time. I cannot imagine how she did it.

End - Part 1

If you have endured this far, your reward is a photo or two of my 2010 day lilies which, for the most part, have bloomed without benefit of my hovering presence. Several varieties have already "shot their wad" and I'll have to wait until next year to enjoy watching them bloom.

       "H-14"

Another Fever-Induced Remembrance

(Image: Wikipedia)

Fever seems to have unlocked a few other memories of the late 1930's. I'll try to keep this one (relatively) short.


Title: Bathtub Papier-Mache'

Date: Fall of 1938

Place: El Paso, TX

Location: Bathroom on the second floor of the "Hill Street" house

Cast of Characters: Myself (age 4); my younger sister (not quite 2); my mother's sister - sweet and dearly beloved Aunt Jewel

Props: Deep, claw-footed bathtub; a tremendous amount of newspaper; laundry starch; water; large buckets with lids.

Action: Aunt Jewel and children sit on floor of bathroom, laughing and tearing sheets of newspaper into strips which are thrown into the bathtub with great gusto. Aunt Jewel amuses children by telling stories of her experiences as an elementary school teacher in a small West Texas town. When all newspaper has been shredded, Aunt Jewel plugs bathtub drain and turns on water, soaking newspaper, adds starch. Children strip to undergarments and are lifted into the tub where they are instructed to stomp on the newspaper until it becomes mush. Children laugh with glee at this unexpected and delightfully messy experience. Aunt entertains children with stories of making wine by tromping on grapes. Younger child slips and sits down in mushy paper, but continues to kick feet to stir the mix. When proper consistency has been achieved, Aunt Jewel stops the tromping and removes as much paper mush as possible, placing it in buckets. Children remain in bathtub. Using dry cloth, Aunt wipes as much paper mush from tub and children as is possible, then turns on water and bathes children. Children are dried off and re-clothed. - End

Note: Aunt Jewel must have been doing some sort of project at her school which required a substantial amount of papier-mache'. Wherever she was teaching, it must not have been far from El Paso, since I remember her being a frequent week-end visitor. My mother must have been very happy for her visits and her ability to entertain the two of us, since Mother was then pregnant with my baby sister, Carol Anne, who was born on New Year's Day, 1939.

A Jiggly Remembrance

I was preparing a package of Jell-O (TM) this morning, and it reminded me, as preparing it always does, of a tale from my childhood.

Both Mama and Daddy were gainfully employed, and after my brother, the baby, became old enough not to require a hired babysitter, I, as the eldest, was the chief sibling-looker-after. During the summer school breaks, this meant that I had a full time job, from the time our parents left home in the morning until their return in the evening. As you might expect, the four of us got into a lot of mischief, several episodes of which involved Jell-O.

Mama kept a modest supply of Jell-O on hand, five or six boxes, stored in the kitchen cupboard. We children loved Jell-O, and could hardly wait for her to fix it for our dessert, which usually occured on a weekend, as Jell-O takes several hours to go from liquid to the jelled state. Although I had watched the process many times, Mama didn't think I was old enough to mess around with a saucepan of boiling water when she was not there to supervise so, although I did prepare the food we ate during the day, I was not allowed to make Jell-O.

Hmmm... The boxes of Jell-O were just sitting there, enticing us with the sweet-tart taste we knew was lurking behind the cardboard box and waxed paper inner container.

While we didn't dare open the box (a missing box would have been too easily discovered) I learned that if I took the ice-pick and drilled a small hole at one of the back corners of the box, through the cardboard and into the waxed paper, the dry granules would easily pour from the hole into our waiting (and no doubt grubby) open hands. Yum! Granulated Jell-O tasted even better than the prepared stuff.

The now empty box could be returned to the shelf, pristine in appearance except for a tiny, almost invisible, hole on the back side.

The Jell-O raiding parties continued sporadically until Mama decided to make a batch of Jell-O for a Sunday dessert and found all the boxes empty. I can't remember what punishment she meted, but whatever it was, I somehow had no further desire to raid the Jell-O stash.

I still like "dry" Jell-O, though.

Caught in the Web of Words - Part One - Post 33

I can't remember a time when I could not read. Neither do I remember being taught to read; one day I just could, and did, and have continued to do so, for about 70 years. The first book that I truly remember was one used in the kindergarten class I attended in El Paso, TX, in 1939. Bi-lingual education in the USA is nothing new, folks. My kindergarten primer was in Spanish and was titled Juan y Maria en Casa.

Our family moved to Las Vegas, NM, where I completed the first grade. Shortly thereafter, during the early summer of 1942, we moved to the much larger town of Albuquerque so that my mother could seek employment, my 55 year old father having been conscripted by the U.S. Army to be an instructor of automotive mechanics almost immediately after Dec. 7, 1941. That's another story for another time.

By the summer before I turned 9, I was spending my school vacation time in the Albuquerque Public Library. Albuquerque was still a relatively small town at the time, and it was quite safe for me to walk alone for the some 8 or so blocks from where we lived. I would stay at the library for as long as it took me to select as many books as I could carry (6 -10) from the children's section (and they weren't "picture-books," either); then I'd lug them back home and read. And read, and read, and read. My two younger sisters and my brother were being cared for by a housekeeper/baby-sitter, and I'm sure she was most happy to not have me under her feet as well.

In a day, two at the most, I'd be finished with those books and back to the library I'd go for another load. Before we moved (1944) to a new home about five miles from the library, I think I had read every book (of any interest to me whatsoever) in the children's section. The librarian also allowed me to browse in some carefully selected sections outside the children's area, and helped me select books that were not 'too adult' for me.

After we moved, I didn't have easy access to the library so I read my mother's books. I remember that she was quite flustered when she found me reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith -- promiscuity, several stillborn babies, and like ilk; Mama did not think I needed to read about that when I was 10 years old. However, I don't think she took it away from me. Truthfully, I don't remember much about it. It must not have warped my psyche too badly.


My father had a very large number of books, which were stored in boxes in our garage since there was not sufficient bookshelf space in our new home for them. Most were theological tomes from his days at Seminary and books of a religious nature he acquired while he was an active church pastor. I think I must have attempted to read some of them (readers must have books), but they were not the sort of thing that would hold a young girl's attention for very long, I'm sure. However, he did have some books of poetry (notably The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow), some Shakespeare plays, and a few other non-theological books that I did read.

At that age, however, I was more interested in Carolyn Keene's 'Nancy Drew' books, and novels such as Lew Wallace's Ben Hur, Lloyd C. Douglas' The Robe, Dr. Hudson's Secret Journal, and The Magnificent Obsession. NOTE TO MY READERS: If all you know about The Magnificent Obsession is the 1954 film staring Rock Hudson, do yourself a big favor: Read the book! And Dr. Hudson's Secret Journal, which is directly related to The Magnificent Obsession. They're a pair.
To be continued. Part Two: in which we move from Albuquerque to a small Arkansas town, population 400 (if you count the cows), and my literary and vocabulary education continues.

PLEASE NOTE: The spider web photo is not mine. I got it from a Wikipedia article on Spider Webs. The photographer is Michael Hartl, and the photo is in the public domain. For a more close-to-home, and beautiful, photo of a spider web, check out Dot's blog, Strolling through Georgia (and sometimes Alabama), here.

Booze in the Window - Post 13

I had lunch today after church with a woman who has been a fellow worshiper for about 5 years. Although I speak to CJ every Sunday, I find I'm just now really getting to know her. I am learning that she's an intelligent, delightful, multi-faceted individual -- and a great story-teller. We had a lovely, long lunch with lively conversation and lots of laughter. I repeat here one of the stories she shared.

At the time of this event, CJ was 6 years old and lived in a small southern Arkansas town; you know, one of those where everyone knows everyone... and everyone's business; not many secrets there. CJ's daddy was a deacon in his church (one of the teetotal denominations), and although everyone knew he was a deacon, come Christmas time, someone (not a church member, of course) would inevitably gift him with a bottle of bourbon. Being the good deacon that he was, the gift was never directly consumed, but would be given over to the care of their cook, who would store the bottle on top of the refrigerator then use it as flavoring for the next year's holiday fruitcake. The fruitcake was wrapped in cheesecloth, liberally soaked in the liquor, then put aside to "mature" until the holiday meal. [I happen to be quite fond of southern fruitcake, but cannot think of anything worse to do to it than drench it in bourbon, the flavor of which I find overwhelming!]

After this year's fruitcake making, CJ and her best girl friend, being of a curious nature, decided they needed to sample some of the remaining whiskey. They pulled up a chair to stand on, retrieved the bottle, got two small glasses from the cupboard and poured about a finger of whiskey in each. They didn't actually drink the stuff, she said, but instead stuck their tongues into the glasses for "a taste." One tongue-full was more than ample; they spewed and snorted and poured the contents of their glasses down the drain. Thinking they heard an adult approaching, and not wanting to be caught with the bottle, CJ grabbed it and ran to the living room. Seeking a hiding place, she placed it behind the curtains in the room's bay window.

[You know what's coming, don't you?]

About an hour later, the neighbor across the street telephoned CJ's mother. She told her she might want to check the front window, because there was something in there which was causing motorists to really slow down as they passed.

Now, CJ is younger than I, although not by many years, but she clearly remembers the tongue-lashing she received from both her parents. Mother was horrified and mortified; Daddy was distinctly distressed. She did not say if the discipline she received was more than verbal.

I'm looking forward to our next long lunch.