Barely Bear-able

During the summer before my Junior year in high school, I had some rather exciting adventures. My favorite uncle and aunt decided to take a vacation to Ely, Minnesota. When they went fishing, their three children were too young to stay by themselves, so Uncle T asked me to go along to babysit.

At fifteen years old, I was thrilled to be going on vacation without my family. It was the perfect arrangement for all of us. The grownups could fish all day, my cousins could safely swim and have fun, while I got to work on my summer tan. I don’t recall if I earned any money, but that was the least of my concerns.

We stayed at a family-oriented fishing resort with a dozen or so simple cabins arranged along the lake shore. In addition to a playground with a swing set and sandbox, there was a lovely sand beach. Keep in mind that until that time, I’d never seen a real beach before, so that was a special new experience.

The very first day we went swimming in the lake, I learned a critical lesson: always check each other for leeches when getting out of the water! Never having heard of them before, I was appalled to see the slimy little black creatures clinging to our legs and ankles. Hearing them called blood-suckers certainly didn’t make me feel any more kindly toward them, either. Fortunately, they were easy to pull off and toss back into the water.

Many years later, I finally learned to appreciate using leeches as bait when fishing for walleyes. I found it pretty easy to stick the barb of the fishhook right through the sucker, which allows the leech to undulate in the water. Of course, each time we start fishing for the day, I always seem to lose the first leech. No, I don’t lose it to a fish. When the leech twists around and starts sucking on my thumb, I get disgusted and toss it overboard. After that, I’m good baiting my hook for the rest of the day.

One other little adventure on that trip earned me a scolding when I got home. It seems that every night, we heard bears rummaging in the trash cans behind the cabins. The cans were covered with tight-fitting lids, but they were no match for a big black bear knocking them over and pouncing on them.



Uncle T and Aunt J left right after lunch to go fishing and the young boys had arranged to play for the afternoon with some kids in the next cabin. Cousin V was just a few years younger than me and came along to the local garbage dump to look for bears. We thought it was a keen idea to get a picture up close and personal, not realizing the potential danger.

Walking very quietly along the road to the dump, we rounded a curve and suddenly saw a black bear picking through the choice garbage. V stayed back near the road, while I carefully inched my way closer to the critter that was chomping away. From just ten feet away, I could hear the bear snapping and crunching through bones with her powerful jaws. I quickly took a couple of photos and silently walked backwards to the road.

Whew! My heart was pounding like a jackhammer, but the bear just snuffled a bit and moved farther toward the back of the dump. Only later did we find out the female had a pair of cubs that could have been nearby. Once back home, I got the pictures developed and, in my enthusiasm, made the mistake of showing them to my parents. They let me know in no uncertain terms that I would never be that foolish again.

In retrospect, I learned a lot from that summer, but especially, I knew that I was actually growing up. And with growing up, I had to face the responsibilities that went along with it.

The Stress of the Strapless Gown

A date for the Senior Prom – how utterly exciting! And especially unheard of, since I was only a lowly high school sophomore in 1963. It was a totally unexpected surprise because I had not started dating yet and had no prospects for a “boyfriend.”

At the end of the school day, all the kids hurried out of the school to their respective yellow buses. Back then, driving a car to school was a rare exception that required a written note from home and a special pass from the Principal, so virtually everyone rode the buses. I was a bit surprised when a boy named Denny paused by my seat and asked, “Is this seat taken?” My natural inclination was to reply with a smart-aleck “Does it look like it’s taken?” but fortunately I replied with a graciously mumbled “Gosh, no.”

So Denny sat down next to me. Being from a small town and attending the same church, we knew each other, of course, but I sensed that this trip was going to be a little out of the ordinary. It was unusual to think of a boy as anything other than a friend, so the concept of “boyfriend” had not been established in my personal vocabulary. My older sisters each had boyfriends, but no one in my circle of friends did.

We had an uninspired conversation about the weather and school events, followed by an awkwardly lengthy silence. I was unaccustomed to talking to boys as boys. As we approached the end of our ride, Denny suddenly blurted out “Wanna go to the Prom with me?” Trying to not take anything for granted, I quickly looked behind me, just to make sure that he wasn’t talking to someone else. Since there was no one else around, I naively replied “Who, me? Well, um, okay, I guess.” As he got up to get off the bus, he let out a sigh of relief and said “Okay. Good.” Such snappy repartee (or lack thereof) underscored our mutual inexperience and discomfort with the opposite sex.

As soon as the bus pulled up to stop at our farm house, I rushed out to find my mother and tell her the exciting news. “Hey, Mom, guess what? Somebody asked me to go to the Senior Prom!” I hollered excitedly. The Prom was only a week away, so we had to figure out in a hurry what to wear.

Mom grew up during the Depression, so she had become very resourceful and thrifty. Hand-me-down clothes were a fact of life in our family of seven children. However, a special occasion would merit something decidedly out of the ordinary. We generally had two options for clothes when money was tight: either sew something new from scratch or alter an existing piece. In the interest of time, we needed to do the latter.

One of my older sisters had been in a cousin’s wedding a few years before. She wore a long yellow gown of chiffon, satin and netting. It had already been remade several times for each of their Proms. By the third reincarnation (this time for me), it became a fashionable strapless vision of loveliness.

At the tender age of fifteen, I had not “blossomed” nearly as much as my well-endowed sisters. How on earth could I wear (and keep up) a strapless gown? Mom took me to one of the nicest dress shops in town, one that we typically did not frequent. She explained the situation to a snooty clerk that I needed to find a strapless bra that was small enough to fit my almost nonexistent bosom. The clerk practically snickered when I timidly stated my size as 30 AA, then she replied, “If she is old enough to go to Prom, then she is old enough to wear a real brassiere.” The smallest strapless bra they had was a 34 B (which of course was much too big), but we splurged and bought it anyway.

Now we had a real dilemma figuring out how to make the dress stay up properly. The answer was to sew the bodice of the dress directly to the strapless “long-line bra” with stiff stays on each side. I felt and probably looked like a real-live “Barbie Doll” with a small waist and hips, topped by a disproportionately larger-than-life-size bosom. I practiced walking and sitting gracefully in my stiff corset, but unfortunately I didn’t do it long enough.

By the time Denny arrived in his Sunday suit and necktie to pick me up, my younger brothers had teased me mercilessly. They undoubtedly were curious about my sudden transformation from tomboy to WOMAN, complete with the requisite enhanced bosom. Off I went to my very first Prom in my very first long gown on my very first date, feeling oh so grown up and sophisticated. In retrospect, I undoubtedly looked quite young and naïve, rather than mature and worldly.

The evening went quite well until we had been dancing for a while. The high school gymnasium had been transformed into a fairy wonderland with the aid of crepe paper streamers, tinsel and reflective balls. Music was supplied by a real, live band as opposed to the typical 45 RPM records. The band started out playing sedate, soothing waltzes for the first few numbers until more and more requests were made for a “fast” song to liven things up.

The 1960’s was the era of “outrageous” dances, such as the Twist, the Watusi and the Mashed Potato, but they were a staple at any social gathering. My date and I joined the festivities out on the dance floor, jumping and jiving to the pulsing beat of the music. Each dance number became progressively more and more frenetic and it was a relief when the band finally announced they were taking a break.

Returning to the sidelines, I looked down to discover that in the course of twisting and turning, my dress and bra were now positioned a full ninety degrees off center, with one breast behind my armpit.

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed softly. All of a sudden, I looked all too much like a Barbie Doll who had been contorted into an impossible position.

My only recourse was to take immediate action. As discretely as possible, I quickly grabbed the top of my dress with the bra attached and twisted it more or less back into place. It was lucky for me that I had inherited Mom’s pragmatic side and just dealt with the situation, instead of becoming mortified with embarrassment.

Fortunately, Denny didn’t seem to notice. Regardless, that first date turned out to be a real classic “three-in-one” event. It was the first, last and only date I ever had with that particular young man. And the only time in my life I ever dared to wear a strapless dress. No more Barbie disasters for me!

Growing in Confidence

Around 8th grade, I started to blossom. No, not physically, although the girls in gym class teased me so much that Mom finally bought me a real bra. In reality, my white t-shirts had probably done just as good of a job.

Where I did blossom was in developing confidence in myself. In school, I got into public speaking and participated in speech contests across the county. That’s when I discovered that being a bit of a ham was both fun for me and entertaining for others. My first entry was the story Yertle the Turtle by Dr. Seuss. To this day, I can still recite most of it from memory, which is really only appreciated by my 5- and 6-year-old grandkids. Unfortunately, they are probably even outgrowing it as well. I guess it’s time to upgrade to Horton Hears a Who, huh?

During the previous year, my two oldest sisters both got married and moved out of the house. That caused a distinct shift in our family dynamics. For one thing, Mom delegated more of the cooking to me, especially fixing dinner and making cookies. Having a large family, my endeavors were always greatly appreciated, which of course made me more self-assured.

There was only one time that a batch of cookies was not completely devoured. As it happened, I was the one (unfortunately) who made them.

I was making gingersnaps, which are made with molasses, formed into a ball and then rolled into sugar before they are baked. The delicious aroma of the baking cookies spread throughout the house and brought several eager young taste testers on the run.

It wasn't until we sampled the warm, freshly baked cookies that we realized something was terribly wrong with them. They were horrible!

Apparently, Mom had been cleaning out the kitchen cupboard that day. In order to wash the salt shaker, she had poured the remaining salt into a bowl.

While she happened to be out of the room, I spied the bowl of salt on the countertop and assumed she had left it for my cookies. I promptly set about rolling the cookies toward their doom.

As I said, that was the only cookie failure I can recall that someone would not eat, sooner or later. In this case, not even the family dog ate them.

Around this same time, my 4-H sewing projects grew more complex. Before long, I was making almost all my own clothes. I’m so grateful my mother taught me how to sew well, in spite of having to patiently rip out seams that were not done quite right. As I went to show Mom my latest completion, I held my breath, hoping she would not say once again, “Do it over.” As frustrating as that was, I knew by the time I finished the garment that I’d have something to be proud of. And so was she.

With my mother as my biggest fan and strongest supporter, I quietly learned that I could do anything I set my mind to. Even though no one in my family had ever gone to college, I always seemed to know that I would go. The choice of direction could be anywhere. For me, that opened up a world of possibilities. Seemingly overnight, I realized that the amazing things I constantly read about in books were (and are now) within my grasp. What an awesome legacy for her to leave me!

Food from the Farm

As I've mentioned before, many of my early memories are associated with food. In retrospect, it seems that was especially the case once we moved to the farm.

Before starting sixth grade, our family moved to a 50-acre farm about 10 miles south of Kankakee near the small town of Chebanse. The name is from the Iroquois Indians for Little Duck. My folks thought a farm was the perfect place to raise our growing family of seven kids. Most of that first year on the farm was spent making improvements to the house and farm buildings.

The next spring, we really got into life on the farm. In addition to a cow for milk and cream, we raised some chickens, pigs, sheep and a horse or two. A De Laval cream separator simplified the process of separating the cream from the milk; when some of the extra cream soured, we hand churned our own butter, using an old square glass churn that had wooden paddles and a crank handle. Before long, we decided the electric Mixmaster worked much better.

Living on the farm, we had the freshest possible fruits and vegetables to savor. I remember what a treat it was to be out in the garden on a beautiful summer day, pick a ripe juicy tomato, wipe off a little dirt and enjoy it while it was still warm from the sun. A favorite for dinner was a salad Mom made with thick slices of tomatoes, cucumbers and onions sliced into rings. It was all blended with a simple and delicious dressing made from Miracle Whip, sweet pickle juice, salt and pepper. The huge bowl was almost always scraped clean during the meal.

We always had several rows of sweet corn growing at the edge of the crop field. In anticipation of our family’s hearty appetites, Mom cooked two dozen huge ears of corn in her largest pot. It is impossible to describe the intense flavor of sweet corn that is gently simmered mere minutes after it was picked from the field. Add some real butter to that fresh corn and you have a meal fit for a king. Although we canned and froze sweet corn to enjoy later in the year, it was never as scrumptious as that fresh-picked corn during the summer.

We had our own strawberry patch that was prolific in early summer. In addition to strawberry shortcake with real cream, my favorite was a delicious but rather unusual concoction for breakfast. It consisted of a thick slice of fresh homemade bread, covered with sweet cream the consistency of warm butter, then covered with fresh strawberries and sprinkled with powdered sugar. It was truly decadent, but delicious.

Each summer my next older sister and I prepared food to compete at the 4-H county fair, which required practicing a particular recipe until we got it just right. One year I gave a demonstration on how to make gingerbread. Fortunately, I did quite well in the competition and moved up to higher levels. Unfortunately, for each exhibition I had to show three stages of gingerbread: how to mix the ingredients, how to start decorating and finally how the finished product looked. That meant that each demonstration required making three large pans of gingerbread. Although my family had previously been quite fond of fresh gingerbread, by the end of that summer the general consensus was that I should not make any more for a very long, long time.

Thanksgiving Fun – 6 Ways to Stimulate Family Stories at Holiday Gatherings

November is National Family Stories Month. Together with Thanksgiving, it is the perfect time to reminisce about our blessings and consider what and who we are thankful for. In addition to recalling our gratitude, it is heartwarming to share those thoughts with our loved ones. They need to know how much we appreciate them.

To encourage everyone to get into the act, take time to plan some fun activities for your next holiday gathering with friends and family. Whether you have a small group or a large one, everyone loves to hear a good story. From the youngest and to the oldest members of the assemblage can participate when you use simple memory prompts to get people thinking – and sharing.

The challenge is to capture all those great family stories before they are lost. One easy way to save them is by using a recorder, whether it is cassette tape, digital audio or video. If the recording device has a USB connector, you can easily transfer the information to a computer and/or create a CD or DVD to share with others. Best of all, have fun and really get to know each other!

As you make the final preparations for Thanksgiving over the next few days, think about ways to get people started talking about those precious family stories. WARNING: Consider the best time to start these exercises. If your family is like mine, right before you eat dinner is probably NOT the right time: the guests may not have the patience on empty stomachs to listen to everyone’s stories. A better time could be after the meal is finished, perhaps while you are letting your food “settle” before tackling the pumpkin pie and other delectable desserts.

Here are some simple story prompts to help people recall their memories in fun ways:

1. I am thankful for …
This is probably the most common Thanksgiving activity, as each person takes a turn to describe who or what they are thankful for. It is an easy icebreaker, but it may help to give an example or two to get people in the mood to participate. If someone can’t think of anything, offer to let them pass until later, or give them another question.

2. What I like best about Thanksgiving is …
Responses to this question may range from visiting with relatives from near or far away, from favorite foods to football games, from nature walks to afternoon naps, from yummy desserts to plentiful leftovers. Each person may relate to something unique to them.

3. I felt special when …
This memory prompt is a little more revealing than some of the others. If the speaker gives a short answer, ask for more details about the recollection. If they never felt special, remind them of a time when you thought they were special. You may surprise them with your own memories about them.

4. Draw from the hat
Here’s your chance to get really creative. Write a variety of questions onto small slips of paper and put them into a hat or bowl or basket. You can customize the questions to fit your own family or group of friends, mixing serious questions with silly ones. Be prepared to allow guests to switch the question if they are embarrassed or reluctant to answer. Remember that the purpose of the questions is to learn more about them while having fun with everyone.

5. Photo albums
Pull out your old family photo albums. Let each person find a picture of themselves and describe the occasion, including who, what, where, when and why. This is a great learning experience, especially for younger family members who may not know many of the old family stories.

6. Cherished heirlooms
Most families have some cherished heirlooms or stories that have been around for many years. Think about things like hand-made ornaments, sentimental trinkets, an old quilt, a child’s rocker, or anything else that makes you recall a loved one. Move one of your favorite items into the room, or take a photo of several of them if they are not on the premises. Ask your most knowledgeable guests to talk about the origin of the item, especially where it came from and why it is special to your family.

7. Thanksgiving Keepsake for Kids
Here is a simple activity to keep children occupied either before or after dinner. Kids as young as four can draw pictures; they can also talk about their own impressions about the big holiday gathering. This free template is available on my website, but you can easily make your own version to get all the children involved. The great thing is that they can create their own keepsake to help them remember time spent with their loved ones.

Tall, Taller, Tallest

One of the things I remember most vividly about fifth grade was being the second-tallest kid in the class. Another girl was the taller, but I came in a close second at over five feet. Little did I know that would be the end of my surprising growth spurt.

For some reason, our class had to line up by height that year, with the shortest in the front and the tallest in the back. That really emphasized the fact that the boys in general were shorter than the girls. On the rare occasion that dance partners were paired up, none of the boys wanted to dance with the ‘freaks’ like my friend and me. So we danced with each other.

I was convinced that I would always be tall. The one boy I really liked was a full head shorter than I was and of course he liked a little girl who was sweet and tiny, not a tomboy like me. So I always said it didn’t bother me and I continued to be ‘one of the guys’ instead of a girlfriend. My one sympathetic concession was when I noticed that a boy was overly conscious of his lack of height. Then I usually sat down or slouched just so he wouldn’t be reminded of the difference.

Fast forward about seven years to preparation for high school graduation. Once again, we were told to line up according to height. Without any hesitation, I meandered on down to the end of the line where my guy buddies were lining up.

Surprisingly, they started laughing at me! I had a bit of a reputation for frequently clowning around and they all thought I was being funny. They didn’t know I was actually serious. It wasn’t until one of my friends on the basketball team came over to me, put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Pipsqueaks belong at the other end.” As I looked up and up and up at him, it suddenly became obvious to me that he indeed was considerably taller than me. How had I missed that?

Somehow, all through high school, I never noticed that the boys had started to shoot up, while I had barely grown any taller since fifth grade. Being buddies with all the guys at school, I never dated much. In fact, on my few dates, I was always too shy to sit or stand very close to the boys. Oh, I also still tended to slouch.

Remember my last blog about not having any depth perception? I always wondered if that was part of the problem, too, with my height perception. Anyway, by that time, considerably more than half the class had grown taller than me, including many of the girls.

At just over five feet two inches and a quarter tall, I didn’t want to be teased with “Five foot two, eyes of blue, etc.” So if anyone ever asked about how tall I was, I always said “five foot two and three quarters.” I don’t recall now exactly why I felt compelled to stretch the extra half inch. But even today, I’m tempted once in a while to still exaggerate it, just that tiny little bit.

Batting an Eye

By fourth grade, I discovered I had no natural athletic ability. That was a shame, because I loved to watch my older sisters and the kids in the neighborhood play baseball. As much as I begged, pleaded and cajoled them, no one ever wanted me on their teams.

Okay, so I couldn’t hit the ball, catch or throw, but I could run like the wind – at least in my own mind. What no one realized at the time was that I had no depth perception. That quirk turned out to be due to something called amblyopia, or “lazy eye.” My right eye was dominant and I never “learned” how to judge how far away objects were.

Mom took me to the eye doctor’s office every year for new glasses that just kept getting stronger and stronger (think Coke-bottle glasses), but I still couldn’t see very well. Eventually, she took me to eye specialists all the way up in Chicago. Looking back, the amazing thing is that my gutsy mother had never driven in a big city before. She managed to overcome her own fears and take me for monthly office visits for several years.

On the very first visit to the specialist, they discovered the amblyopia, but also that I was near-sighted in one eye, far-sighted in the other and cross-eyed to boot. As a kid I called it “cross-sighted,” because it somehow sounded more poetic to say “near-sighted, far-sighted and cross-sighted.”

Correcting this eye condition is more successful at younger ages. At the grand old age of ten, I was past the threshold of where treatment would definitely help. But they tried. That first day, I had to start wearing an ugly black patch (like a pirate) over my good eye. The theory was to force the weaker eye to do all the work. My vision was so bad that at dinner that night when we had peas (which I loved), I couldn’t keep them on my fork to get to my mouth. Finally, in frustration, Mom let me use a spoon.

Eventually, I used a flesh-colored adhesive eye patch, which was slightly less noticeable, followed later by eye drops to blur my good eye. Over the next couple of years, my vision improved marginally, but not enough to do much good or last permanently.

So now, many years later, how is it? Well, I do drive the car, but when I hear a crash, I know I’ve gotten too close. (Just kidding!) Actually, I tend to over-compensate for the lack of depth perception and allow p-l-e-n-t-y of extra room for passing and parking. I just have to drive forward and backward more times than most people to get into a parallel parking space. Thank Goodness for diagonal parking.

After all these years, what stands out most about this experience while growing up? It has to be the gratitude I feel because my parents made the sacrifice to get me the best medical care they could find. Considering we had seven kids at home, that was no easy task. After all, both time and money were in short supply.

So what was the final impact on my fledgling baseball career? Well, they finally let me play, as long as I was the catcher. Ha! What a joke on me that turned out to be. It seemed like every year I ended up getting hit in the head with a baseball bat for standing too close to home plate. Sure, it might have broken my glasses, but at least I got to play!

Help your children save their memories with my FREE Thanksgiving Keepsake for Kids.