Posts
After World War II ended, Dad was no longer needed to build LST boats. Well-trained in his craft as a welder, he started working in the Maintenance Department at the new A. O. Smith factory about 40 miles away. I didn’t realize until many years later how forward-thinking the design engineers were.
In 1946, “The company constructed a 400,000 square foot residential water heater plant in Kankakee, Illinois. Life Magazine proclaimed it ‘the most modern water heater factory in the world.’”
About five years later, Smith’s had an open house for all the families, just so everyone could see the ultra-modern facility. OSHA would have had a conniption fit if they saw the plant tours that included me and other young children. We stood beside the huge noisy blast furnace that melted frit onto steel to make the patented glass-lined water heaters. Did that impress me at just four or five years of age? Of course not! I happened to be much more excited about the little bottles of orange drink than I was about the technology.
After my father made the round trip drive to and from work for several years, my parents decided to move our family closer to his work. So soon after the war, it was impossible to find the four-bedroom house they wanted for their growing brood. The solution was to order and assemble a structure from a precut lumber kit, rather like putting children’s building blocks together from a diagram. That was the summer of my sixth year.
The house was a 1½ story Cape Cod style with twin gables, two bedrooms upstairs, two bedrooms downstairs, and a full basement. Somewhere along the line, we had seen tightrope walkers on television. Being quite a tomboy at the time, I thought I could walk across the floor joists in one of the upper bedrooms.
Walking along the floor joists from one side of the room to the other turned out to be not only fun, it was easy, too! I just had to spread my arms wide to balance myself a little bit, especially at the turn against the far wall. When I hollered for my older sister to come watch me, she wanted to do it as well.
She started walking along the floor joists, getting more wobbly with each step. Yelling at her to keep her arms stretched out wide, I was horrified to watch her fall between the joists. Luckily, she caught herself with her arms straddling two joists. Unluckily, the workmen had just that day put the finishing coat of plaster onto the ceiling in the bedroom below.
When Mom, Dad, and everyone came running to see what our screaming was all about, there was my sister dangling from the ceiling below. More correctly, there were her legs dangling from the ceiling below. In a matter of minutes, two burly men raced upstairs and pulled my sister to safety. I don’t remember the details of the aftermath, but I never did that trick again.
When September came that year, school bells started ringing. I had never gone to preschool or kindergarten, so I didn’t really know much about what to expect. All I knew was that I had brand new black-and-white saddle shoes and a red plaid metal lunchbox with my name on it.
On the designated day, I dressed in my red plaid dress with a white pinafore attached. Hmmm, I see a pattern here! I never realized what a preference I’ve always had for red plaid! In fact, when I went to Scotland earlier this year to conduct writing workshops for schools, I was drawn immediately to the Royal Stewart plaid, which is (you guessed it) a red plaid!
Sadly, the shoes, dress and lunchbox were the best parts of that day. Mom held my hand as we walked into the huge classroom, filled with complete strangers. Since we had moved into the new house just shortly before the start of school, I didn’t know a single soul. Not only that, my teacher towered above me, with a crucifix hanging down right at my eye level. I’m not sure I had ever seen a nun before, certainly never one up so close.
Mom got me settled at a desk with my name on it, gently pried my hand from around her fingers and walked away! I started to cry, but she walked further away. I cried harder and she walked out the door. That wasn’t what mothers were supposed to do! I felt abandoned and just knew I would never find my way home again.
After such an inauspicious beginning, I quickly learned to love school. I loved getting new clothes, new shoes, new books, new subjects, and new teachers, even nuns. Most of all, I loved learning new things.
To this day, each Fall I welcome the opportunity to plan my own curriculum for the next year. Whether it’s learning Transcendental Meditation, writing a book, becoming a Personal Historian, or discovering www.mommyspiggytales.com, there is always something new to learn. Maybe continually learning something new is my way of feeling young, like when I was six years old.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
A Family Makes a House a Home
MPT#2: Preschool-Kindergarten Years
Although I was born on a farm in central Illinois, Dad didn’t farm there for long. The meager proceeds from rented farmland proved too minimal financially to support a growing family, with four young daughters under the age of six. Around that time, the US government needed skilled civilian workers to build LST (Landing Ship Tank) boats for WWII. When they offered a training program in welding, my father was among the first group of eager volunteers.
LST 325
Along with a new job came good pay and a steady income; my parents bought what seemed like a mansion in a tiny nearby town with a population of a few hundred people. That became the first home I remember.
The two-story house was yellow, with a huge white wrap-around porch on three sides, and a distinctive round turret in the southeast corner. There were two massive parlors (such a charming old-fashioned name for a room) in the front of the house, with gigantic wooden doors that magically slid apart to hide inside the walls. An attic occupied the topmost floor and served as our playground for make-believe on rainy days.
The kitchen was cozy and warm, with a built-in breakfast nook. It had a wooden table and benches on each side, with a scrolled design across the back. My designated seat was a red step-stool at the end, but I always tried to quickly scoot into the far corner and snuggle into a comfortable position. I felt so much more grown up there, rather than having to sit on the “baby chair.”
I loved to listen to fairy tales at that age. Looking out the turret window like Rapunzel, I dreamed of lowering my long braided hair to some knight in shining armor. On other days, my sisters and I sat out on the porch, making dozens of dolls from colorful hollyhocks. Just in case you never made dolls like that, we used toothpicks to hold two buds and a full flower for each doll; with more blooms, we made a beautiful layered skirt, rather like Chiquita Banana’s costume. Unfortunately, not many homes today grow hollyhocks, so this simple pastime is fading away.
Hollyhock doll
Continuing the fairy tale theme, my best friend lived a few blocks away in a big, white house surrounded by a huge black wrought-iron fence. Approaching the house, I always held tightly to my mother’s hand and looked for trolls and ogres around every corner. Apparently, I was listening to too many stories at that impressionable age. Many years later, I drove past that house and was completely surprised to discover that the fence I remembered as being monstrous was actually only about three feet tall.
Kitty-corner from our house was a landmark building that was eventually placed on the National Register of Historic Places: the beautiful St. Mary’s Catholic Church. It was also called the Cathedral of the Cornfields, or the Prairie Cathedral. It is amazingly elaborate, especially considering the size of the town in the middle of farm fields. The original builders must have done some serious sales and marketing to convince the community to erect such an impressive structure.
Cathedral of the Cornfields
One Sunday morning while we were all getting dressed for Mass at the Cathedral, we heard someone chuckling outside, followed by another and another until they were laughing out loud. Curious, Mom stepped outside and saw what was going on. My younger brother Pete was standing on the porch, smiling and waving at all the people on their way to church – bare-buck-naked! At just over a year old, he had developed an aversion to wearing clothes. Any chance he had, he was likely to tear everything off, then stand there and giggle.
Picture of Elizabeth at age 4
Even though we only lived in that house for a few years, it is the one that I think of as “home.” Perhaps it is because I have such vivid memories there, or because it was such a carefree time in my life, but I think that place will always be home to me.
What are your fondest memories of home? I’d love to hear about them.
Although I was born on a farm in central Illinois, Dad didn’t farm there for long. The meager proceeds from rented farmland proved too minimal financially to support a growing family, with four young daughters under the age of six. Around that time, the US government needed skilled civilian workers to build LST (Landing Ship Tank) boats for WWII. When they offered a training program in welding, my father was among the first group of eager volunteers.
LST 325
Along with a new job came good pay and a steady income; my parents bought what seemed like a mansion in a tiny nearby town with a population of a few hundred people. That became the first home I remember.
The two-story house was yellow, with a huge white wrap-around porch on three sides, and a distinctive round turret in the southeast corner. There were two massive parlors (such a charming old-fashioned name for a room) in the front of the house, with gigantic wooden doors that magically slid apart to hide inside the walls. An attic occupied the topmost floor and served as our playground for make-believe on rainy days.
The kitchen was cozy and warm, with a built-in breakfast nook. It had a wooden table and benches on each side, with a scrolled design across the back. My designated seat was a red step-stool at the end, but I always tried to quickly scoot into the far corner and snuggle into a comfortable position. I felt so much more grown up there, rather than having to sit on the “baby chair.”
I loved to listen to fairy tales at that age. Looking out the turret window like Rapunzel, I dreamed of lowering my long braided hair to some knight in shining armor. On other days, my sisters and I sat out on the porch, making dozens of dolls from colorful hollyhocks. Just in case you never made dolls like that, we used toothpicks to hold two buds and a full flower for each doll; with more blooms, we made a beautiful layered skirt, rather like Chiquita Banana’s costume. Unfortunately, not many homes today grow hollyhocks, so this simple pastime is fading away.
Hollyhock doll
Continuing the fairy tale theme, my best friend lived a few blocks away in a big, white house surrounded by a huge black wrought-iron fence. Approaching the house, I always held tightly to my mother’s hand and looked for trolls and ogres around every corner. Apparently, I was listening to too many stories at that impressionable age. Many years later, I drove past that house and was completely surprised to discover that the fence I remembered as being monstrous was actually only about three feet tall.
Kitty-corner from our house was a landmark building that was eventually placed on the National Register of Historic Places: the beautiful St. Mary’s Catholic Church. It was also called the Cathedral of the Cornfields, or the Prairie Cathedral. It is amazingly elaborate, especially considering the size of the town in the middle of farm fields. The original builders must have done some serious sales and marketing to convince the community to erect such an impressive structure.
Cathedral of the Cornfields
One Sunday morning while we were all getting dressed for Mass at the Cathedral, we heard someone chuckling outside, followed by another and another until they were laughing out loud. Curious, Mom stepped outside and saw what was going on. My younger brother Pete was standing on the porch, smiling and waving at all the people on their way to church – bare-buck-naked! At just over a year old, he had developed an aversion to wearing clothes. Any chance he had, he was likely to tear everything off, then stand there and giggle.
Picture of Elizabeth at age 4
Even though we only lived in that house for a few years, it is the one that I think of as “home.” Perhaps it is because I have such vivid memories there, or because it was such a carefree time in my life, but I think that place will always be home to me.
What are your fondest memories of home? I’d love to hear about them.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Harvest Season
Harvest at the Splear Farm 2010
The fall season has always been my favorite: kids returning to school, cheering for the home team at football games, “leaf peeping” as the trees miraculously transform from boring greens to glorious autumn colors, and watching the harvest progress from field to field, restoring the wide open spaces to the land I love.
Once the harvest is complete, we’ll be able to once again enjoy an unobstructed view from horizon to horizon, some ten miles or more in each direction. This is God’s Country and, for me, the best place on earth to live, in spite of all the dirt, grime and grunge involved in the harvest.
I was raised on a fifty-acre farm just outside a small town in central Illinois (the Prairie State). Dad worked long hours as a welder in a factory, plus he farmed corn or beans in his “spare” time. We lived ten miles from a community of about 30,000 and some sixty miles from Chicago, in the middle of the grain heartland.
In my mind, it was the perfect place to raise a large family. We had the best of both worlds: a wholesome country lifestyle with a strong sense of community and all the urban benefits of good schools and plenty of cultural activities to keep seven kids challenged and out of trouble.
When I was a teenager and brought dinner out to Dad in the field during harvest, I was struck by all the physical sensations that assaulted me. During this time of year, when I watch the huge combines run through the fields, those memories are especially vivid in my mind. Here is a more fanciful version of what I remember experiencing as a kid:
The behemoth rolls through the tawny gold field, devouring everything in its ponderous path, spewing out an enormous horizontal whirlwind of chaff, dirt and stalks behind it. Slowly, inexorably, it consumes dozens of rows at a time, cutting a swath through stems bursting with soybean pods. In one fell swoop, the machine separates the precious beans from pods and stems, storing them temporarily in its enormous belly.
I stand beside the tractor, waiting for the monster to disgorge its contents into the first grain wagon. The noise is deafening, even though I try to block my ears. As bad as the noise is, the grit is even worse. The handkerchief tied across my mouth and nose does essentially nothing to keep the fine grit from permeating my mouth, my nostrils, my throat, my lungs, and even my ears.
By the end of the long day, I will feel as if the grit has invaded clear to my eye sockets through every pore of my body. The combination of taste, smell and grubbiness of the grit lingers for days after the harvest is completed, in spite of long, hot showers. I struggle to hold back the inevitable coughing fit, at least until the monster moves past me to the second wagon. Sometimes I even succeed, but barely.
Today, almost 50 years later, there is still a lot of grit, dirt, and chaff thrown out from the combine, but most machines now have enclosed cabs that are climate-controlled. While a side benefit is the comfort of the driver, more importantly it protects the sensitive GPS and other electronic equipment typically installed to monitor crops.
As advanced as farming technology has become, unfortunate accidents continue to happen. Late one autumn evening, I was heading home from a town about eighty miles away, driving through the country. Noticing a warm red glow in the distance, I thought to myself, “What a glorious sunset we’ll have tonight.” My stomach lurched when I realized the radiance was coming from the east. As I drove closer, it became apparent that the source was from a corn field that was on fire.
Lord willing, I will never see such a fearsome sight again. Flames shot into the air, surrounded by huge clouds of acrid, billowing smoke. The farmer scrambled ineffectively to create a fire break with a field cultivator, while the lone fire truck did its best to slow down the marching blaze. Continuing on toward home, I met several more pumper trucks arriving. They did not save much of that particular 160 acre field, but they were able to keep it from spreading to the surrounding fields and homes.
The next time you see a piece of farm equipment working in a field (or perhaps slowing you down on a country road), wave to them in appreciation of their dedication to put food on our tables. You’ll find they almost always wave back, with a smile on their grubby faces.
Do you have a favorite Fall or harvest memory? I'd love to hear it!
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Never Known as Lizzie!
Mommy's Piggy Tales - MPT #1: My Birth and Namesake
Great Aunt Lizzie
When I was born on a cold, windy November day in 1947, my Great Aunt Lizzie served as the midwife for Mom. My parents and three older sisters lived on a small farm in central Illinois, outside the tiny rural town of Papineau. By the time the old country doctor arrived many hours later, so had I, squalling and bawling like a real trooper. Fortunately, it was a relatively easy delivery with no complications.
After cleaning up the tiny form, Aunt Lizzie laid me in my mother’s arms, asking, “What do you plan to name her?”
Mom looked up with a tired smile and said, “I think she looks like an Elizabeth, so we’ll name her after you.”
“Oh, no! Please don’t do that to her!”
Startled by the outburst, Mom asked, “Well, why ever not?”
Lizzie hemmed and hawed, then busied herself for a few minutes tidying up things in the bedroom. Naturally quiet and reticent, it was difficult to begin her story. Finally, she began to talk.
“Until I reached the age of eight, I was always known as Elizabeth, which is a beautiful name. But in third grade, some of the boys started teasing me and calling me Lizzie. Then they taunted me mercilessly about my infamous ‘namesake.’”
Although acquitted of the gruesome (and true) murder case of 1892, Lizzie Borden was memorialized forever in the popular rhyme:
Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one.
For the rest of her life, my great aunt was called Lizzie, usually followed by some reference to the legendary Lizzie. As a spinster woman, my relative had never had any marriage prospects, which she attributed to that horrible little rhyme and the mean-spirited schoolboys who drove her into a shell.
After much discussion back and forth, Aunt Lizzie finally agreed to let my mother name me Elizabeth, on the strict condition that I never, ever, be called Lizzie. So Baby Elizabeth was welcomed into the family with open arms.
All throughout my early years growing up and attending Catholic school, everyone called me Elizabeth. Or, if I was in serious (but infrequent) trouble, it was probably Elizabeth Mary.
That all changed when we moved to another town after my fifth grade. Nicknames were much more popular in public schools in the new area, so all at once I became Liz. Before long, kids tested calling me Lizzie and chanting the old rhyme. Luckily, thanks to the insight of my elders, I had enough confidence to just ignore trouble makers and walk away.
Image created in www.wordle.net
Over the years, my names have changed in a progression. The initial Elizabeth C. became Liz (not Lizzie!) C. in sixth grade and stuck until I married in college and became Liz D. Ten years later, a divorce--with reversion to my maiden name--left me feeling like Liz C. no longer fit for me, so I adopted the name Beth C.
Happily, I met and married the love of my life in 1981, which led to another name change: Beth LaMie.
Actually, that change almost didn’t happen. The night before our wedding, my husband-to-be said, “So, this is your last night as Beth C.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, obviously not understanding his meaning. “I wasn’t really planning to change my name.” After all, my professional contacts knew me by Beth C.
He paused, looked at me quite seriously, and quietly stated, “Take me, take my name.”
“Oh!” I said, recognizing how traditional he actually was. “I guess I’m changing my name again…but for a very good reason!”
I was in Scotland this last winter to give a workshop for the school my niece’s sons attended. It was an eye-opening experience when the 10-year-old boys started calling me Great Auntie Beth! That name took a bit to get used to, but I think Great Aunt Lizzie would have approved.
Although I was never called Lizzie, I have used enough variations on Elizabeth to confuse my friends and family. In fact, when someone phones me, my husband pretty much can tell when someone knew me by whether they ask for Elizabeth, Liz or Beth.
For my purposes, I answer to all the name variations, except Lizzie—that one I just ignore. In fact, you can call me anything but late for dinner.
Thanks to Janna at http://www.mommyspiggytales.com/ for encouraging stories of our youth!
Great Aunt Lizzie
When I was born on a cold, windy November day in 1947, my Great Aunt Lizzie served as the midwife for Mom. My parents and three older sisters lived on a small farm in central Illinois, outside the tiny rural town of Papineau. By the time the old country doctor arrived many hours later, so had I, squalling and bawling like a real trooper. Fortunately, it was a relatively easy delivery with no complications.
After cleaning up the tiny form, Aunt Lizzie laid me in my mother’s arms, asking, “What do you plan to name her?”
Mom looked up with a tired smile and said, “I think she looks like an Elizabeth, so we’ll name her after you.”
“Oh, no! Please don’t do that to her!”
Startled by the outburst, Mom asked, “Well, why ever not?”
Lizzie hemmed and hawed, then busied herself for a few minutes tidying up things in the bedroom. Naturally quiet and reticent, it was difficult to begin her story. Finally, she began to talk.
“Until I reached the age of eight, I was always known as Elizabeth, which is a beautiful name. But in third grade, some of the boys started teasing me and calling me Lizzie. Then they taunted me mercilessly about my infamous ‘namesake.’”
Although acquitted of the gruesome (and true) murder case of 1892, Lizzie Borden was memorialized forever in the popular rhyme:
Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one.
For the rest of her life, my great aunt was called Lizzie, usually followed by some reference to the legendary Lizzie. As a spinster woman, my relative had never had any marriage prospects, which she attributed to that horrible little rhyme and the mean-spirited schoolboys who drove her into a shell.
After much discussion back and forth, Aunt Lizzie finally agreed to let my mother name me Elizabeth, on the strict condition that I never, ever, be called Lizzie. So Baby Elizabeth was welcomed into the family with open arms.
All throughout my early years growing up and attending Catholic school, everyone called me Elizabeth. Or, if I was in serious (but infrequent) trouble, it was probably Elizabeth Mary.
That all changed when we moved to another town after my fifth grade. Nicknames were much more popular in public schools in the new area, so all at once I became Liz. Before long, kids tested calling me Lizzie and chanting the old rhyme. Luckily, thanks to the insight of my elders, I had enough confidence to just ignore trouble makers and walk away.
Image created in www.wordle.net
Over the years, my names have changed in a progression. The initial Elizabeth C. became Liz (not Lizzie!) C. in sixth grade and stuck until I married in college and became Liz D. Ten years later, a divorce--with reversion to my maiden name--left me feeling like Liz C. no longer fit for me, so I adopted the name Beth C.
Happily, I met and married the love of my life in 1981, which led to another name change: Beth LaMie.
Actually, that change almost didn’t happen. The night before our wedding, my husband-to-be said, “So, this is your last night as Beth C.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, obviously not understanding his meaning. “I wasn’t really planning to change my name.” After all, my professional contacts knew me by Beth C.
He paused, looked at me quite seriously, and quietly stated, “Take me, take my name.”
“Oh!” I said, recognizing how traditional he actually was. “I guess I’m changing my name again…but for a very good reason!”
I was in Scotland this last winter to give a workshop for the school my niece’s sons attended. It was an eye-opening experience when the 10-year-old boys started calling me Great Auntie Beth! That name took a bit to get used to, but I think Great Aunt Lizzie would have approved.
Although I was never called Lizzie, I have used enough variations on Elizabeth to confuse my friends and family. In fact, when someone phones me, my husband pretty much can tell when someone knew me by whether they ask for Elizabeth, Liz or Beth.
For my purposes, I answer to all the name variations, except Lizzie—that one I just ignore. In fact, you can call me anything but late for dinner.
Thanks to Janna at http://www.mommyspiggytales.com/ for encouraging stories of our youth!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Time for Some TLC
This is the guest post I did for http://www.simplemarriage.net/time-for-some-tlc.html recently. Check out their site when you have a chance - good ideas.
I started a little project recently that required getting out my sewing machine. I hadn’t used it for several months and for some reason the thread kept breaking. Finally, I broke down and dug out the owner’s manual for some help.
Hmmm, when was the last time I had cleaned and oiled the machinery? Apparently, if I couldn’t remember, then it had been way too long. As I started to disassemble each component, I made mental notes to be able to put it all back together – hopefully without any parts left over.
I have never seen so many fuzzy dust bunnies in such a small confined space. I grabbed my trusty old toothbrush (one that had been replaced recently) and brushed out all the lint I could find. Next, I dug out the good old 3-in-1 oil can to lubricate all the neglected moving parts.
Amazingly, it was immediately easier to manually run the sewing machine thru its paces. Using my photographic memory (okay, so I added a few grumbling words to help), I reassembled the machine and closed the covers for each compartment. Uh oh, where did that spring come from? I retraced my steps and consulted the manual for the umpteenth time to find the location missing one itty bitty spring.
As I worked thru the process using the manual as well as trial and error, I thought of how Mom regularly serviced her machines. I recalled how she always kept a very small can of machine oil strictly for that purpose, whereas I had to borrow my husband’s.
I also thought with pride about how she never had to take her sewing machine in for service. She knew that machine inside and out and could tell by the sound and feel when something needed attention. Sort of like she did with our family. She seemed to hone in on someone who needed a bit of TLC before we were even aware of it.
As I considered her legacy, I resolved to be more attentive to my equipment and to the people in my life who matter. I felt contentment as I finally started my sewing project and enjoyed my newly smooth-running sewing machine.
Which areas of your life could use a little TLC to run more smoothly? Consider some of these:
1.Relationships with children
Sometimes we get caught up in trying to do too many things. Spend time working on your relationship with little ones. Now that school has been out for a while, think of something fun and creative to do with your children or grandchildren. Plan an activity that everyone will enjoy that also allows some quiet time to talk. This is a perfect time of the year for a walk along the beach, in the woods or through a park. Tell them some of the activities you used to enjoy when you were their age. Ask their thoughts about what they would like to do on your next outing. You may be surprised at the pleasure they get out of little things. This small investment can pay big dividends in your relationships.
2.Relationship with spouse
We all get caught up in a whirlwind of commitments, whether it is work, housecleaning (seriously, some people do, or at least so I hear), caring for an elderly relative or getting distracted by financial burdens. Try a little “preventive maintenance” with your spouse – plan a special demonstration of your love. If he raves about your homemade lasagna and you don’t usually take the time to make it, surprise him. If she has gotten overwhelmed with housework while chauffeuring the kids to summer activities, surprise her by washing the kitchen floor. The important thing is to do something nice for them that is out of the ordinary. The great thing is that it doesn’t have to be expensive or time-consuming. The important thing is for it to be some TLC from your heart.
3.Relationship with God
It is very easy to relegate God to just an hour or two on Sunday morning. Sometimes he is trying to speak to us at other times, but we are so busy running around that we can’t hear him. Try spending some quiet time each day with no computer, no television, no music blaring. Choose a nice quiet spot where you can get comfortable, open your heart and be receptive to hearing an inner voice. Even if you hear nothing, the tranquility will refresh you in preparation for more hectic times. Years ago, I learned Transcendental Meditation and it helped me through a rough patch in my life. Now it helps me to stay focused on where I am heading and what I want to do with my life. That’s how I apply a little TLC to myself.
What areas of your life need a little TLC? I’d love to hear about them!
I started a little project recently that required getting out my sewing machine. I hadn’t used it for several months and for some reason the thread kept breaking. Finally, I broke down and dug out the owner’s manual for some help.
Hmmm, when was the last time I had cleaned and oiled the machinery? Apparently, if I couldn’t remember, then it had been way too long. As I started to disassemble each component, I made mental notes to be able to put it all back together – hopefully without any parts left over.
I have never seen so many fuzzy dust bunnies in such a small confined space. I grabbed my trusty old toothbrush (one that had been replaced recently) and brushed out all the lint I could find. Next, I dug out the good old 3-in-1 oil can to lubricate all the neglected moving parts.
Amazingly, it was immediately easier to manually run the sewing machine thru its paces. Using my photographic memory (okay, so I added a few grumbling words to help), I reassembled the machine and closed the covers for each compartment. Uh oh, where did that spring come from? I retraced my steps and consulted the manual for the umpteenth time to find the location missing one itty bitty spring.
As I worked thru the process using the manual as well as trial and error, I thought of how Mom regularly serviced her machines. I recalled how she always kept a very small can of machine oil strictly for that purpose, whereas I had to borrow my husband’s.
I also thought with pride about how she never had to take her sewing machine in for service. She knew that machine inside and out and could tell by the sound and feel when something needed attention. Sort of like she did with our family. She seemed to hone in on someone who needed a bit of TLC before we were even aware of it.
As I considered her legacy, I resolved to be more attentive to my equipment and to the people in my life who matter. I felt contentment as I finally started my sewing project and enjoyed my newly smooth-running sewing machine.
Which areas of your life could use a little TLC to run more smoothly? Consider some of these:
1.Relationships with children
Sometimes we get caught up in trying to do too many things. Spend time working on your relationship with little ones. Now that school has been out for a while, think of something fun and creative to do with your children or grandchildren. Plan an activity that everyone will enjoy that also allows some quiet time to talk. This is a perfect time of the year for a walk along the beach, in the woods or through a park. Tell them some of the activities you used to enjoy when you were their age. Ask their thoughts about what they would like to do on your next outing. You may be surprised at the pleasure they get out of little things. This small investment can pay big dividends in your relationships.
2.Relationship with spouse
We all get caught up in a whirlwind of commitments, whether it is work, housecleaning (seriously, some people do, or at least so I hear), caring for an elderly relative or getting distracted by financial burdens. Try a little “preventive maintenance” with your spouse – plan a special demonstration of your love. If he raves about your homemade lasagna and you don’t usually take the time to make it, surprise him. If she has gotten overwhelmed with housework while chauffeuring the kids to summer activities, surprise her by washing the kitchen floor. The important thing is to do something nice for them that is out of the ordinary. The great thing is that it doesn’t have to be expensive or time-consuming. The important thing is for it to be some TLC from your heart.
3.Relationship with God
It is very easy to relegate God to just an hour or two on Sunday morning. Sometimes he is trying to speak to us at other times, but we are so busy running around that we can’t hear him. Try spending some quiet time each day with no computer, no television, no music blaring. Choose a nice quiet spot where you can get comfortable, open your heart and be receptive to hearing an inner voice. Even if you hear nothing, the tranquility will refresh you in preparation for more hectic times. Years ago, I learned Transcendental Meditation and it helped me through a rough patch in my life. Now it helps me to stay focused on where I am heading and what I want to do with my life. That’s how I apply a little TLC to myself.
What areas of your life need a little TLC? I’d love to hear about them!
Friday, June 11, 2010
Memorial Day Musings
The approach of Memorial Day earlier this year made me think about some of my friends and family members who have passed away. The pain of their loss may never go away completely, but it has lessened over time.
One of the ways I dealt with the sudden loss of my mother several years ago was by writing a letter to tell her all the heartfelt things I didn’t have a chance to tell her in person. In fact, I wrote for hours that first night, often crying so hard that tears smeared the pages.
I told her how deeply saddened I was that I didn’t have a chance to tell her goodbye and how much I missed her. After a few sessions of cathartic writing, I was able to finally turn to a more joyous topic: how grateful I was to have her for my mother.
Mom taught me many of the important things in life, such as faith, love, family, honesty, respect and responsibility. I started writing vignettes about memories from my childhood and I found a sense of peace as I experienced what I can only describe as a starburst effect.
As I recalled the details of a single, simple family event (such as my 8th-grade graduation) it pointed me to stories about favorite family recipes (such as sour cream chocolate cake) that in turn made me recall summer activities (such as our huge vegetable garden and preparing projects for the county fair). If you envision the sky on the 4th of July, when the fireworks display amazes us with a burst of color and lights followed by another and then another, you’ll see a starburst effect.
Each little story made me think about another one and I began to jot down story ideas in a pretty little spiral-bound writing journal that I carried with me at all times. Every time the cobwebs in my mind cleared enough to reveal a potential topic for future development, I wrote it down in my journal. My hope was to use the snippets of memories to expand into a full story as time allowed.
So what’s the point of this rambling for you?
1 - If you’ve lost someone dear to you, try writing to them or about them. Enjoy all the old memories you can recall to save for yourself, as well as for your friends and family. As a Personal Historian, I am always excited and pleased to help people save their family stories, whether I write for them or teach them how to write their own.
2 - Think about the people around you and let them know how much you appreciate them while you still can. Tell them you love them and what you admire about them. Write them a little note to thank them for something, even if it is small. Consider this: if they were suddenly gone from your life, what would you have wanted them to know? Make an effort to show them how much they matter to you.
3 - Start keeping your own writing journal. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just a simple notebook, tablet or sheaf of paper where you can jot down images that you recall and stories that you can pursue later.
4 - Years ago, I sent a letter to my great aunt and told her how much I appreciated her seeing me as a young lady when I was a terrible tomboy. My intention was to drive up to see her so we could talk about all the little things she had done for me. Unfortunately, she died before I could make the trip. I was so glad I didn’t put off sending that letter.
5 - Moral of the story: Don’t wait until it is too late to tell someone how much they mean to you. You never know when you will lose someone dear and you don’t want to regret the omission.
Go ahead, make their day – tell someone you love them.
Better yet, write it down so they can refer to it time and again.
One of the ways I dealt with the sudden loss of my mother several years ago was by writing a letter to tell her all the heartfelt things I didn’t have a chance to tell her in person. In fact, I wrote for hours that first night, often crying so hard that tears smeared the pages.
I told her how deeply saddened I was that I didn’t have a chance to tell her goodbye and how much I missed her. After a few sessions of cathartic writing, I was able to finally turn to a more joyous topic: how grateful I was to have her for my mother.
Mom taught me many of the important things in life, such as faith, love, family, honesty, respect and responsibility. I started writing vignettes about memories from my childhood and I found a sense of peace as I experienced what I can only describe as a starburst effect.
As I recalled the details of a single, simple family event (such as my 8th-grade graduation) it pointed me to stories about favorite family recipes (such as sour cream chocolate cake) that in turn made me recall summer activities (such as our huge vegetable garden and preparing projects for the county fair). If you envision the sky on the 4th of July, when the fireworks display amazes us with a burst of color and lights followed by another and then another, you’ll see a starburst effect.
Each little story made me think about another one and I began to jot down story ideas in a pretty little spiral-bound writing journal that I carried with me at all times. Every time the cobwebs in my mind cleared enough to reveal a potential topic for future development, I wrote it down in my journal. My hope was to use the snippets of memories to expand into a full story as time allowed.
So what’s the point of this rambling for you?
1 - If you’ve lost someone dear to you, try writing to them or about them. Enjoy all the old memories you can recall to save for yourself, as well as for your friends and family. As a Personal Historian, I am always excited and pleased to help people save their family stories, whether I write for them or teach them how to write their own.
2 - Think about the people around you and let them know how much you appreciate them while you still can. Tell them you love them and what you admire about them. Write them a little note to thank them for something, even if it is small. Consider this: if they were suddenly gone from your life, what would you have wanted them to know? Make an effort to show them how much they matter to you.
3 - Start keeping your own writing journal. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just a simple notebook, tablet or sheaf of paper where you can jot down images that you recall and stories that you can pursue later.
4 - Years ago, I sent a letter to my great aunt and told her how much I appreciated her seeing me as a young lady when I was a terrible tomboy. My intention was to drive up to see her so we could talk about all the little things she had done for me. Unfortunately, she died before I could make the trip. I was so glad I didn’t put off sending that letter.
5 - Moral of the story: Don’t wait until it is too late to tell someone how much they mean to you. You never know when you will lose someone dear and you don’t want to regret the omission.
Go ahead, make their day – tell someone you love them.
Better yet, write it down so they can refer to it time and again.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Book Giveaway
A new writer friend of mine, Bill Smith, is running a book giveaway through Sunday, May 9. I haven't read it yet, but it sounds like an interesting tale of a family in the Missouri Ozarks. Check it out at http://allisonsatticblog.blogspot.com/2010/05/back-to-homeplace-review-and-giveaway.html
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