For Julie and me-to help us remember the stuff we are made of, by Charlotte Boquist

Do you know what you are made of? This is a powerful tribute to the women in Charlotte’s family. It is a reminder that we are connected to the past and the future in ways we seldom understand.

 (Looking back so we can look forward)

These women whose genes we bear,

A common thread will soon appear,

Determined looks, a musical ear,

Their belief in God carried them through.

These women whose genes we bear,

All had courage beyond compare,

Standing tall, beside their men,

Clearing the unbroken dry ground,

Of its sagebrush and cactus.

Together they turned the hard rocky earth,

And harvested crops to see them through.

These women whose genes we bear,

Were survivors, following their men,

Though not always in agreement,

Were steadfast and determined to the end.

These women whose genes we bear,

Were cooks for the family and crew,

Baking many loaves of bread and pots of stew,

Washing and ironing, all by hand,

They had babies, though not all survived.

These women whose genes we bear,

Had an artistic side,

With needle and thread,

With pen and paper,

 With paint and canvas.

They left behind their creations for us to treasure,

As we remember these women whose genes we bear.

A Design From The House Of Eva, by Barbara Sparks

Barbara's beautiful tribute to her mother is modeled after a poem called, "My Mother Pieced Quilts," by Teresa Palomo Acosta. To read the original, please click here: Original Poem. After you have read and commented on Barbara's inspirational piece, try your own hand at this model, writing about someone special in your life. I will post those that are submitted according to the guidelines. And I'll publish my own version in honor of my grandfather, who baked bread.~ Bonnie


They started out as
simple bolts of cloth
without shape
without a defined purpose
sitting idly on a table
without a hint of what they were to become.

Choose me, use me
make me come alive
may have been their cry
if they could speak.
They longed for that loving touch
of a skilled seamstress
to transform them
to give them a home
away from that lonely, cold store.

Mother, you came and rescued them
You had that loving touch
Your hands gave life to the cloth
Your hands turn cloth into works of art.

You may have chosen the special form it took
from a pattern book
But sometime patterns were not good enough
so you searched the expensive stores for that special look
that you couldn’t find in the pattern book.

You wanted the outfits of the rich and powerful elite
and when you spotted them
you simply sketched a picture of what you felt was worthy of your child
added your special unique touch
drew a pattern on newspaper
cut it out and the the magic began.

Sometimes you transformed those bolts of cloth into
an entire wardrobe for summer camp
or a wardrobe for a new year of school
A bolt may have been a beautiful dress for a fraternity court.

What a sight your daughter was as she entered the room
on that special night
No one knew how small the price for such magnificent clothing
No one knew that your daughter’s outfits were not from a store but were one of a kind
A Design from The House of Eva
More precious than any commercially made ones could ever be
Mother, the creations made with your hands were yet another way you expressed your love for me

MY BAT-MITZVAH, by DORA SILVERS, 83

A couple of weeks ago we had the very special privilege of participating in this milestone in Dora's life. Did you know that one can be Bar or Bat Mitzvahed at 83? Because David says in the Psalms that the average life span is around 70 years old, you are more or less "starting over" at 70, so 83 is the equivalent of 13 -- the second time around! Thank you, Dora, for letting us share in this event! 

My 3 brohers attended Hebrew School, they were all Bar-Mitzvahed. At that time Girls were not permitted  to be Bat-Mitzvahed.  My Brother Jay taught me to sing "Ein Kal La Heinu.  I was 8 years old.

When I was 10, I was sewing buttons on a blouse on a Saturday morning.  My father said "Dora, you had all week to sew, today is Sabath.'  Papa went to the bookcase and gave me the 5 Books of Moses to read, that was my introduction to the Torah.

Today, I reflect on the past and live in the present.  On Friday night services, when the names of the sick are read, it gives me the opportunity to make phone calls, to chat and cheer them up.  When the names on the Yarzeit list are read, I remember those that are gone.  When I lost my son Mitchell and my Husband, I had a very heavy heart.  Now, I have a lighter heart. through my Jewish faith, God does make your heart lighter.

I love my Religious Faith and being Jewish.  I learned many things from my studies with my Rabbi and Cantor.  "Thank You"  Rabbi Warshaw and Cantor Ken for all your help to prepare me for my Bat-Mitzvah.

I am grateful to have my Family:  My Brother Jay, 4 children, 3 Grandchildren and 3 Great-Grandsons.  I am blessed and life is good. 

                                L'CHAYIM    ---    TO LIFE.

Kindergarten Debutante, by Margaret Takacs

Margaret wrote many wonderful stories. This one was a favorite for so many of us. I want to repost it today in remembrance of a life well lived.  ~ Bonnie

During a span of our lifetime certain childhood memories will stay with us, because our families and friends don't let us forget them. This is such a story.

My father died in World War I. At the age nineteen, my mother became a widow with one child. We had to go to live with her parents in a small rural town in Hungary.

My grandparents’ house was a long, rambling building with not much frontage toward the street, but reached far back toward the backyard and garden. At the whole length of the house was a veranda with lots of potted plants on it, and outside there was a flowerbed with roses. The front of the house was our living quarters; the back was used for grandpa's workshop and the students’ bunk Beds. I was not allowed to go in there, but I loved to peek in the window and watch how the boys were singing, hammering, and putting pieces for shoes together. Singing, always singing and bantering with each other.

Grandpa was a master shoe maker and president of his guild. Students who wanted to learn a trade had to do it the old fashion way, moving into the master's house. They paid for room and board as tuition, and spent years  practicing and learning their trade till they become masters of their own.

I was four years old, going to kindergarten. We went to school earlier than in the U.S.A. We learned to count, build with blocks and paint. We spent time making crafts, cooking with baby small utensils, and, of course, playing a lot. Good manners and social graces, getting along with each other was a very important subject.

At the end of the school year our teacher always put on a show for our parents showing off our accomplishments. At the end of the show she let us individually perform something of our choice. I told my mother that I had a surprise for her which would make her very proud of me. I could hardly wait the day to come.

Finally the day arrived. There I was, dressed in my prettiest pink pinafore dress, velvet ribbon bow cascading down my hair. I curtsied to the audience and whole heartedly delivered a song -- a dirty, bawdy song, which left my audience in the state of shock! I curtsied again and looked around waiting for my applause to come. Stone silence from the audience, except my mother’s wish to be dead from embarrassment came a sobbing question; "My God, Where did you learn that?" I said, "From the boys in grandpa's workshop.” By that time I was in tears.

The audience sized up the situation feeling sorry for the heart broken child gave me applause, saying my performance was one what they would never forget. And they didn't ~ teasing me from time to time, asking when my next performance will be scheduled.

LOVE REVISITED, by Gloria Hannigan

The mother who held me and dried my tears -
was the same mother who swatted my bottom when I dumped a bowl of oatmeal on the dog’s head.

The father who took away my roller skates for three whole days -
was the same father who always let me win at Candyland.

The brother who closed me in a room with burning sulpher from his chemistry set, to see if I would turn yellow -
was the same brother who put the worm on the my hook when we went fishing.

The sister who ignored me when she was with her friends -
was the same sister who brought me a piece of cake when I was being punished.

The best friend who sat faithfully by my side every day of summer vacation while my broken leg healed -
was the same best friend who blabbed to everyone that I loved Tony.

The boy who hit me in the back of the head with a slushy snowball -
was the same boy who looked to me for praise when he produced the loudest burp in second grade.

The dog who chewed the arm off my favorite doll -
was the same dog who always greeted me with tail wagging and lots of slobbery kisses.

I am a survivor of love.


For more by Gloria, please visit her blog: http://gloriahannigan.blogspot.com/

Valentine's Day Memories, by Bonnie Mansell

On Valentine’s Day Steve and I drove down to Balboa to have dinner at BJ’s. We parked on Park Avenue, next to the alley that runs behind the old Island Rooms Motel, where I used to stay as a child with my mom, her sisters, and Grandma & Grandpa, along with all the cousins.

Steve and I walked down that well-lit alley and I showed him the tiny house in the back that we used to rent. Tiny as it was, we only rented half of it. I can hardly believe how many people we got into that little space.

We walked down to the ferry and rode it across the bay to the peninsula. We were the only pedestrians on the ferry on this calm cold night - a contrast to the bustling crowds drawn to this spot in the long, warm evenings of spring and summer.

The quiet atmosphere and clear sky encouraged both romance and nostalgia. We reminisced about crossing on the ferry with our children when they were little, about my own childhood memories of that same crossing, and about my parents as they enjoyed grandparenting our children.

The ferris wheel was turning, but only a few brave souls were riding it on this windy night. We were not even tempted. As we walked through the fun zone, we remembered my mom riding the merry-go-round and ferris wheel with our kids, while my dad watched. We passed the bakery and I remembered the doughnut holes that Grandpa used to buy for us.

When we got to BJ’s we found to our relief that it wasn’t crowded. This was the BJ’s where we took the kids to celebrate their birthdays, so our memories were filled with the chaotic joy of those days. We used to sit in a booth, crowding in as many people as possible and putting high chairs at the end.

It was here that my mom showed the kids how to tear off one end of a straw wrapper, blow through the straw, and “shoot” the wrapper across the table at each other. She also showed them how to scrunch the wrapper, accordion style, into a teeny ball, drop small amounts of water on it from the straw, and watch it “grow” and wriggle like a worm.

After dinner, we took the ferry back to the island. We walked around the island before going back to the car, another tradition full of memories. I could see that Steve’s hip was hurting, but this is part of the way he gives himself to me. He knows how much I love walking, so he walks with me, even though it hurts.

As we walked, we talked of simple pleasures – Balboa Bars, kids walking on the retaining wall, the changes that time brings. I am grateful for places like this in my life – places I couldn’t afford to live, yet completely accessible for pleasant evening walks, places of beauty and wonder, where the memories are free.

The Race, by Charlotte Boquist

Fall comes early in Wyoming. Usually by the middle of August you wake one morning and know that it is fall. There is a feel in the air, a smell that is fresh and crisp and you know….. It won’t be long until the night turns cold and one day very soon snow will cover the fields and the garden. This morning with the first hint of fall, you feel an urgency not fully realized in the long summer days before. You know that soon the garden’s bounty will have reached its limit.

For several weeks we have been harvesting the bounty from our garden, racing against time to “put up” our winter’s food. This morning it is green beans being picked. The bucket is brimming and you carry it to the welcome shade of the back porch where Grandma has been waiting impatiently to get started. Her age hasn’t allowed her to take part in the harvest and she misses her garden. She is happy that she is still able to be useful. You sit with her there in the cool of that protected space as the two of you spend an hour snapping the fresh green beans.

It is a pleasant time of companionship. Two generations working together toward a mutual goal. Chatting while you work, grandma passing on her knowledge and history of the family to you. It is a lovely time of communication; the two of you working together accompanied by the steady “snap, snap, snap” of the long crisp beans.

Soon the bucket is emptied and the process moves to the kitchen where the vegetables are prepared and packed into sterilized jars. The filled containers are then moved into a kettle where they are further processed in a hot water bath. This is boiling the jars and their contents for a certain amount of time, which makes the food safe for consumption for as long as a year afterward.

Day after day the process has been repeated through the hot summer. Lining the shelves of the root cellar are jars of red tomatoes, green beans, peas, and brilliant maroon beets. We’ve make pickles both sweet and dill, lovely applesauce and apple butter, rich with cinnamon. Peaches and pears have been canned and currant jelly joins the parade. Potatoes, carrots and squash are stored whole in bins in the dark, cool space.

We know that we are in a race against Jack Frost’s inevitable visit that finally ends with the first snowfall.

Life As I Remember It, by Charlotte Boquist

…..began with a walk along the highway to Grandma’s farm. I had my hand in my Momma’s as we trudged along the edge of the road. It was early summer and the weeds that grew by the side of the black top weren’t very high. Later in the summer they would be almost as tall as I was at three or four years old.

This highway in the early thirties was a long way from the busy path to Yellowstone Park that it is today. We most likely walked the whole half-mile distance without seeing a car.

The reason for our walk that morning has been lost in time, but it wasn’t an unusual occurrence. As long as Grandma lived we went to her house, and even now, when visiting that part of Wyoming, my sister and I are drawn back to the farm. While they lived to their late nineties, Grandma and Grandpa are both long gone. The farm had passed down to my Uncle Jonathan and now another generation to his son Tom.

The road has changed very little in the seventy-plus years since that walk took place in the very early part of my life. It remains a two-lane black topped highway, a little wider, but with much more traffic. It is still a major artery carrying tourists to see the wonders of Old Faithful Geyser and all the amazing sights in Yellowstone National Park.

As we wended our way to Grandma’s that morning I remember the warmth of the sun on my back and the comfort of my Momma’s hand as she led me onward. I have no recollection of any conversation that must have taken place.

I do, however, recall the red-winged black birds defending their territory in the cattails that grew in the drain ditch beside the road. The birds were sounding their warnings saying “ok-a-lee, ok-a-lee” as they flitted about warning the late comers that this place was spoken for.

There is a smell that goes with this memory, the odor of creosote. This distinctive smelling substance was used to treat the wooden telephone poles as a preservative. The telephone poles marched along the drain ditch that followed the edge of the road.

These are some of the sights, sounds, and smells that still bring back that early childhood time--my first memories.

MY FEAT (FEET) ON A UNICYCLE, by Charlene Farnsworth

Over 50 years ago, I was filled with childhood glee for I had mastered the art of riding a unicycle.  My feat, requiring a great deal of balance, is now accompanied with a bit of irony.
I feel quite comfortable describing my accomplishment in my senior years, but shyly accepted the accolades directed my way each time I jumped off the unicycle in my youth.

My favorite Uncle Jim was a superb athlete.  He performed unbelievable gymnastics on the rings, walked on his hands, treated us to unique maneuvers on a trampoline, and rode his unicycle as if it were a “three-wheeler.”

Although Uncle Jim had two daughters of his own, he always made me feel special and was very interested in all aspects of my life.  It was for him that I wanted to master the unicycle.  The challenge began.

My Dad bolted a pipe from the back wall to the front door of our garage so I could practice, holding on to the pipe for dear life.  Of course, my goal was to someday advance beyond the pipe and proceed, hands-free, down our long driveway.  I remember many sudden departures from the unicycle as I advanced one foot, two feet, maybe a yard, beyond my faithful pipe.

With ongoing encouragement from my family, my perseverance never waned.  Then one day my balance and confidence were perfectly synchronized, and I moved far beyond my safety bar.  I comfortably peddled down our driveway and into our quiet street.  How difficult that was holding onto air, but how exhilarating to peddle, turn around and even smile for the camera.

I must admit I am grateful that my delightful accomplishment was captured in an everlasting black and white photograph.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t believe it myself!  Over the years, I have enjoyed sharing this photograph with many people, particularly children, to show how you will eventually reach your desired goal if you just keep on trying.

The Rose Parade, by Evelyn Watson

Parades were never much of a big deal for me, even the world famous Rose Parade on New Year’s Day didn’t much thrill me, except it was special time with my dad. Dad loved the Rose parade and looked forward to it each year.

Just he and I went; mother wasn’t really able to endure the long day of standing and, like me, I don’t think she relished parades much either. She never said that, but I never got the impression she felt she was missing anything by not being able to go.

We never sat in bleachers or camped out on the streets as is done today. In fact we didn’t leave the house until about time for the parade to start. We didn’t pack a lunch or take anything with us except dad’s camera and film.

I don’t remember any of the details of where we parked or where we were positioned to watch the parade, but we never had any traffic or parking difficulties. We heard and saw everything without difficulty being able to view the floats and bands up close as they passed by.

Dad was in his glory and took lots of pictures with his slide camera delighting in showing slides to family and friends afterward. I’m sure they had all watched the parade on television and seen the floats, but dad enjoyed this tradition and no one ever refused looking at them.

After all these years I still have those slides. Dad was so proud to show his slides and brag about going to the parade without the hassle of traffic or parking problems. How we did that I can’t imagine and the fact that we never had anyone ask to go with us seems strange because it seems everybody is thrilled by the Rose parade except me.

I don’t bother to watch the parade on New Year’s Day. To me it is boring. That is not to say the floats aren’t beautiful and clever, because they are. You marvel as to how they were able to create them.

A few years ago we went with friends a day or two after the parade to where the floats are taken for viewing. I was not happy being charged to view them and as beautiful as they were I grew bored and tired before we finished.

But I’ll never forget dad’s love for the Rose parade. It was probably the thing he looked forward to the most.

Christmas Traditions, by Gloria Hannigan

Christmas with my grandfather always meant the perfect Christmas tree.  He would spend hours cutting off branches, drilling holes in the tree and repositioning each branch until the tree was perfect.  My brother, sister and I would sit and watch him, yawning frequently, sometimes falling asleep, and being poked awake by each other, waiting for Grandpa to get the tree perfect so we could decorate it. 

My Mother put on the lights and her prize ornaments from Germany.  We were then allowed to add a few plastic balls and hang the icicles which had to be hung one at a time.  When I would get up during the night I would find my Mother still in the living room repositioning each icicle until the tree was a work of art.

When I had my own family the Christmas tree lost much of its perfection.  We never quite got the knack of how to choose a tree.  One year we could only get it to stand straight by tying a string around the tree and attaching it to the wall with a tack.  The tack gave way and the tree ended up on the kitchen floor.  This was the end for many of my mother’s precious ornaments that I had inherited. The rest were broken the next year when one of my sons received a clown punching bag as a gift. 

Need I say more?  I started my own tradition listening to Dean Martin’s Christmas album while trimming the tree.  This caused a lot of moans and groans when the children became teenagers.  One thing remained of my mother’s traditions, I still insisted on the icicles being hung one at a time.  I often found myself doing this alone as everybody got bored quickly and disappeared until the next meal.

When the children were grown, one of my daughters invited me to come and help trim their Christmas tree.  When she opened the door, I was delighted to hear Dean Martin singing, “I'll Be Home For Christmas”.

After the tree was trimmed I was appalled to see my two grandsons, three and four years, throwing icicles on the tree.  When my oldest grandson handed me a bunch of icicles, I looked into his shining laughing eyes, said quietly to myself, “Forgive me Mother”, and threw the icicles at the tree.

 Gloria's Blog:

For Display Only, By Yolanda Adele

I was five years old the Christmas that my mother promised to take me to see Santa at the big store downtown. She said that all I had to do was to be patient while we first stopped at the appliance department.

As soon as we got off the streetcar I could feel and smell the fresh mist in the air, mingled with the scent of cinnamon churros, my favorite fried sweet bread sticks, coming from the vender’s cart. I didn’t dare ask Mama to buy one for me because today I was going to try to be on my very best behavior.

The multi- colored Christmas lights from the decorated street lamps reflected in small puddles of rain water. It looked magical to me.

As the sales person talked, talked, and talked some more, I could hear the sounds of laughter and Jingle-Bells coming from the main lobby where I was sure that Santa was sitting, waiting for me!

I quickly grew impatient. I made many trips to the drinking fountain. Mom was so enveloped by the prospect of owning a new wringer washing machine that she turned a deaf ear to my pleas and demands. I had to go "potty!" I was afraid if I had an "accident" Mama would have to take me home WITHOUT seeing Santa.

Minutes later an irate salesman approached my mother and asked in a loud voice, "Is that your child on the floor model commode?" He didn’t give Mama a chance to answer. “If so, remove her at once, and explain to her that that latrine is for display, ONLY! We have sanitation laws you know!" With that he handed my red-face mother a box of tissues.

That day I learned: what “displays only” are not for. I finally got to see Santa in person -- on my sixth Christmas.

Country Road, by Noemi S. Rabina

I am a country road stretching from town to a remote village. I am being traveled by all people from all walks of life. Employees from town will walk in groups to the end of the road where they work in a Power Plant. People from the village will also walk to town for different purposes; like selling their goods, or buying commodities they need at home.

Being in a rural place, I am not as attractive as those in the metropolitan areas. I look rugged especially where I have lots of turns. Wild trees have grown on both sides, their leaves as big as elephant ears.  As the wind blows, it gives a whispering sound. Who would dare walk alone on this lonely road?

However, I always look forward on Sunday mornings when five sisters will come out and joyfully walk together on my humble path. It is a joy for me to listen to their laughter, their songs of hymns, and their words of inspiration. I bet they are going to church, rain or shine. They will take off their shoes and walk bare foot to feel the cool earth on my side and the running stream of rain water. 

One will describe the beauty of the wild flowers unnoticed by other passersby, the dancing leaves of the wild trees, and the song of birds, big and small. Showers come and they were drawn closely together under a big black umbrella. Three heads drawn sided by side; one small head in front and another small head at the back. They move slowly as one, to my delight, as they scream with laughter that echo all the way.

Before sunset, they are on their way back home to where they call their paradise hill.  They started as five going to town and returned with gentlemen escorts from their church. The air is filled with brotherly/sisterly love. I am not a lonely country road after all. 

Watching the Streetcars Go By, By Yolanda Adele

When I think of streetcars I think of the past, before plastic seats marked with graffiti, aluminum rails; and a time where air conditioning came by opening the windows. Imagine that.

In the summer when my parents and I visited my maternal grandparents in El Paso, Texas, my cousins and I slept out on the little terrace facing Main Street. From our perch we’d see the Red Streetcars pass. Each streetcar had a sign over the door that read: Ride a Mile and Smile the While-Only 5 cents.

The streetcars were noisy on the rails and had a high pitched horn that made it difficult to sleep. My cousins and I amused ourselves by making up stories or making fun of passengers scurrying to get on the streetcar. Sometimes people lost their footing as they disembarked, but there always seemed to be someone there to give them a hand.

On Halloween transportation inspectors watched for pranksters who may try to water down the rails with soap to cause the streetcar to lose traction. Twice we saw automobiles cross the tracks and collide with a streetcar. There never was a shortage of surprises to be witnessed on Main Street.

We saw a drunk, coming from the cantina near by, fall on the tracks while the approaching streetcar sounded its horn. We yelled, screamed and hollered until some good Samaritans pulled him to safety.

Watching the streetcars on Main Street provided “reality” entertainment for us kids, in lieu of television, which my grandparents didn’t have.  Sometimes in the afternoon our adult relatives sat out on the terrace to visit with each other, greet friends they saw on the street, as well as watch the streetcars go by.

A horrible experience relating the streetcar and my family came in the 1950’s, when my grandfather, Jesus, was working as a maintenance mechanic for the Red Streetcar Company. 

Streetcars are propelled by on board electric motors and require a trolley pole to draw power from an overhead wire. While at the junction just a few blocks from our ‘perch’ on our grandparents terrace, Jesus had turned off the electricity in order to work on the overhead wire of one of the two streetcars that were not in service. 

A new and inexperienced employee saw that the electricity switch was not turned on. Instead of investigating the reason it was shut off, he simply pulled the switch on. Consequently, my grandfather was electrocuted. Miraculously he survived, though he was so severely burnt that he had to have his right arm amputated up to his elbow.  He remained in the hospital for nearly a year.

The streetcar accident changed his life forever. He never returned to work again, he never complained… and he never sat out in the terrace to watch the streetcars go by.

Sister Week, by Gail Earl

My younger sister Jan, and I are best friends. We have always shared a special bond. We know what the other is thinking and always finish each other’s sentences. We are very lucky that we share every Saturday together. We just always have.

My older sister, Sharon, moved to Idaho a few years back with her husband. We miss her terribly but stay in touch via email and Facebook daily. When she moved we started a tradition called "Sister Week.” She comes down and stays with me. My sister Jan also takes a week off work and comes and stays with me. We plan every day ahead of time; the entire week is filled with laughter and adventure. It's a week long slumber party. We are all pretty goofy, love to laugh and be silly.

My husband, kids and Grandkids all know that they fend for themselves the entire sister week. My poor husband even sleeps downstairs and the girls get the upstairs (to be honest it's not really a sacrifice). I think the giggling gets old with him. He loves us all and is happy to give us our space. Sister week is the middle of October. So far we've planned a train trip downtown L.A. We like to go to the fashion district, the jewelry district, China town and the museum.

We have one day where we'll drive to Oxnard to see our brother. He is an eye doctor so he'll examine all our eyes and then we'll have dinner on the beach. One day we will be antiquing in the circle of Orange. One day will be spent cruising three different marinas and beaches (Hermosa, Redondo and Newport). One day we'll be at Farmers Market, the Beverly Center and Santa Monica. We'll visit our old haunts from when we lived there.

One day is our mani/pedi and spa day. One day will be a family dinner with the kids and grandkids. We do this family dinner every Saturday night, but Sharon is never here for all our chaos. We like to make each day a marathon day and pack in as much as possible.

As much as we love all the running around, I think what we like most is at the end of a busy day, all getting jammied up and jumping into my bed and laughing and giggling 1/2 the night away. It reminds us of when we were children and shared a room. Our father would have to yell at us to stop the giggling and go to sleep. After we laugh for as much as we can take, we all go to separate rooms to actually sleep.

I know we're silly together, but it even amazes me how utterly ridiculous we can get. Our conversations range from uncontrollable laughter to free tears. Nothing is off limits.

I know how lucky we are to have this time together, but I think the real luck is that we all know how valuable it is!

My First Job, by Dora Silvers

I was 11 years old in 1939. Every Sunday I babysat Ruthie while her parents went to church. The first page on the Sunday Funnies was Dick Tracy and Little Orphan Annie. I turned on the radio and listened as “Uncle Bob” would read the funnies as we followed along. I was paid 25 cents. I learned how to budget my weekly quarter.

Movies were 5 cents on Saturday. Ice cream on a stick was 3 cents. Before the movies, I would go with my friends to the candy store. We would get two scoops (about 1/4 of a cup) of Jelly Beans for 2 cents. Movies were from 12:30 to 4 o'clock. The afternoon included a coming attraction, a serial (usually a western) which was continued each week, Looney Tunes, and then the main feature.

This memory came to me when I learned that Little Orphan Annie will be discontinued. It all began in 1924. These are good memories for me.

SUMMER OF 62

If I could go back in time, I think I would choose to go back to the summer of ‘62. It was the summer I got to spend with my mother's parents, Mimi and Grandpa Benny, in Thistle Utah. It wasn't a summer of going places, or playing with kids my own age or swimming at the plunge. But I loved every minute of it. Yet if I could go back, I would tell them both to talk more -- to each other and to me.

"Kathleen, tell your Grandfather to pass the salt please," my Grandmother Mimi tells me during dinner one night. I relay her request to Grandpa who sits next to me and I hardly notice the fact that she has barely conversed with him in the six weeks I have been there. Sadly, it's not till twenty years later that I realize the charades they played that summer I was seven hundred miles from my parents.

Mimi and Grandpa lost their only son when he was ten years old in a mountain avalanche just a few hundred yards from where they lived. When I grew up I often thought this was the reason for my Grandfather's drinking and I thought it contributed to my Grandparents' rocky relationship. I mean how do couples survive when one of their children doesn’t?


I'm not sure if this was what separated them, but looking back, staying in their home that whole summer, I learned nothing about who Mimi and Grandpa were. That was the saddest part of all. They had no T.V. and no telephone; we had plenty time to talk, but neither of them shared too much. I would have loved to get to know them better. If nothing else, I would just love to be reading their memoirs right now.

I have precious memories of Grandpa Benny calling me over and handing me a giant Hershey bar and telling me "not to tell my Grandma." Another time Mimi and I were sitting out on the front porch when one of her neighbors she didn't care for came over and asked, "What ya doing Anna?" My Grandma quickly replied, "Oh, we're going to town with Benny." Only I distinctly remember Mimi being upset with Grandpa and her asking me to relay a message to him saying we would not be joining him. I thought this was hilarious at the time.


I know life is cruel at times but I wish I had been enlightened that summer and explained a few things about life. Would I have understood? probably not. Maybe it was better that way. I don't know. All I know is that I know of very few married couples who get along; not my Grandparents, not my parents and not me and my ex. I just wonder how my kids and their spouses will fare. I really couldn't tell you right now because none of my four kids plan on marrying in the near future.........