Fifteen years ago today, March 16, 2009 Antiques Road Show pt. 5

Although it's a gorgeous day, it's a tad chilly for me to walk outside, so I've been on the exercycle watching reruns of Antiques Roadshow again. I thought of one of mine and rustled around in a cabinet and found two.

 
The first was a printed copy of my blog written 15 years ago, March 16, 2009, the day after we returned (and were recovering) from a Holy Land cruise with about 170 travelers--
members of our church, their friends, and members of 2 other churches. I must have written furiously--it runs for 65 pages (with photos) and was finished on March 18! Of course, I was much younger then.
Here's what I found written for March 16, 2009--advice from Beverly Miller Meyers who had been on a similar trip some years before. With tears, I copy it here, safe and true 15 years later.

"Bon Voyage! Have fun and be safe. I am still green with envy. Wear your support stockings on the plane and any long bus rides. In Egypt follow your guides rules but if you get a chance the people are so poor especially in Cairo that a few shekels is always appreciated. In Israel climb up to into and around everything. There is so much history there. At Bethlehem crawl under the altar under the main altar and look through the star to the dirt. If Jesus wasn't born there it had to be close by. In Greece buy some Ouzo it tastes like licorice. Drink it with ice and the same amount of Ouzo and water. At the Parthenon go into the back of the temple of Athena and see the best representation of Nike bending to tie her sandal. If you get there please take a photo for me. Nike might have been moved to the museum by now though. At Ephesus look at everything again for me. Ephesus is my new favorite ancient city. I want to go back there some day not on a tour and just wander. Check out the history of the evil eye in Greece and Turkey.
Lots of Love,
Bev"

And we did it all, but in reverse order leaving from Cairo, 31 hours back to Columbus.

Memories

Many years ago, I read a short piece in a woman's magazine about clearing out the home of an elderly woman after her death. Among her belongings they found a large ball of string (frugal people used to save string, rubber bands, pieces of foil, bread bags, etc. for some need in the future). It was labelled, "Pieces of string too short to use." That's how I feel about my memories; I'm grateful I started a blog (web log, or diary on the internet) 20 years ago, because I remembered then details I can't recall now. I occasionally recall something from Alameda, CA during our time there in WWII, or an event at Faith Lutheran in Forreston, IL where we lived after Dad's time in the Marines. One piece of string I found today for which I have no story to write because I was trying to remember the pastor's name, is how cute my little brother looked in his Bumble Bee costume for the Mother's Day program at the church.
It's a piece of string too short to use.

Billy Collins wrote a poem called "Forgetfulness" in 1994. It's the only poem I have posted on my refrigerator. https://youtu.be/aj25B8JYumQ?si=M5m15Zd1J-cI5zvX You can hear the audience laugh, but you'll recognize every line. It's happened to you,

This 2011 blog entry includes both Alameda and Forreston at Christmas. Collecting My Thoughts: Monday Memories--Christmas in the 1940s

Collecting My Thoughts: Monday Memories of Kindergarten and Alameda

Time travel with memories

We've both been trying to remember the name of an electrician from Cleveland who was on Bob's Haiti team and was a friend on Facebook (until he blocked me because he was a Democrat).  But so far, we have not come up with a name.  But we will.  Long after we need it.

A few weeks ago, it came to me that I was forgetting a lot of names, faces and events (duh!), and I should write down a list of all the names of the people I remembered. What a dumb idea, I thought, but I couldn't get it out of my mind. I kept seeing a list in categories.  Forreston, Mt. Morris, church, Lakeside, college days, So, I finally started one in word processing, although at first, I was going to hand write it. I decided if I did it in the word processor, I could alphabetize, and use the "find" feature if I didn't remember where a name was. It's now up to about 12-13 pages. 

 I do have some printed church directories, our school annuals, our Lakeside property owners' directory, some club directories, etc. to use as guides. I also have the Mt. Morris Past and Present, and the Mt. Morris War Record. If there are photos, I look at them, and try to remember if or when I've ever really "known" the person. It's been interesting. I can remember many faces of the class of '52, but not '58 or '59. Some people I still know on Facebook like Dick Butler or Jim Isenhart. Then I have a little symbol next to the name if they have died and put in the death date if I know it. I remember a lot of the parents of friends, like Nancy's, and Lynne's, and Sylvia's. So, I'm adding those names too. I remember the people on our block on Hitt St. in Mt. Morris from when I was 4 or 5, because I use to walk into their houses and talk to them! For some I have to find sources for first names because they were, "Mrs. Aufterbeck" or "Mrs. Duncan," since we didn't call adults by first names. I knew so many adults from when I worked at the drug store and at the town library, so I'd better write down the names while I can still remember. There were a lot of farmers who came into the drug store, some all the way from Polo, and most of those names I've forgotten. I used to babysit a lot, so I'm trying to recall those names. There was a Jewish couple who lived on N. Hannah, I think their name was Fishman, but I've forgotten their first names, and their kids' names. Maybe it will come to me--in the middle of the night! :-)

Anyway, it's something to do when it's too hot to go outside. Who knows if I'll ever finish it.

  

  

 

Childhood memories of traveling to Chicago, guest blogger

Dave Graf recalls: "When I was a kid (starting as early as age 5), I loved to take Route 64 to Chicago to visit my grandparents. They moved there when WWII was over. It was more fun than going into the Windy City by the Tollway. Names such as Sycamore, St. Charles, Itasca, Bensonville--(we turned off of 64 and took Rte 83 to Irving Pk)--were MAGIC names. Even Kings, IL was "magic" because as far as I was concerned, Kings was where we broke loose from our local area. The closer to Chicago we got, the more excited I was. I told you the story about when I went to Arlington Park with the Jewetts. We ate at the Hotel Baker, in St. Charles on that day (*)when Steve and I stared from outside the window, looking at, and smacking our lips at the people eating inside. Unfortunately, Norm caught us--but that's another story. Mom and Dad stopped at the Log Cabin, located right next to the Fox River. If I remember right, the Latrines were in the basement and there was a glassy area where you could see how the river looked at that level. I also remember a Wurlitzer Juke Box they had in the dining area at one time. I was fascinated by the way the colors in the tubes changed. Now Jim and I sat in the back seat on these excursions--and we would push, punch and pester each other much of the way in. The reason we behaved at the Log Cabin was that if we got TOO wild back there, Dad would pull over, off the road before we got to the Cabin. He would say something like this, Do you boys see those chimneys with smoke coming out of them? Those buildings are the Reformatory for Boys--and unless you promise to settle down, we will turn right now--and head over there!" The first few times we were afraid he would do just that, but later on we wised up, grinned at each other when the folks weren't looking--and were well behaved because it was nearing chow time. Somebody told me a couple years ago that their parents did the same thing!

We turned onto 83 at Montana Charlie's Steakhouse. I would have loved to have eaten a huge steak there later in life, but I suppose it's gone. We drove Past Kiddieland, in Addison, IL, a Seminary called "Our Lady of the Snows" I believe (that name rings a bell). Then right from (I think Harlem) onto Irving....and there it was! It used to scare the pants off of me--"Dunning Mental Health Facility!" Every so often, some of the patients would be right up to the iron fence that surrounded the place! The Reform School was nothing, next to Dunning!

On to Irving Park. The bus route ended at Narragansett, and returned to the run to the East, near the Lake. When I was about 12, I'd get onto that (electric) Irving Park bus and go from one end to the other. I memorized every stop and where it was: Calif (2000), Western (24), Cicero (48)., Austin 6000) etc. Past Nicky Chevrolet "With the Backward K". We'd go to Drake Avenue, turn North and head to my Nana's home at 4332 N. Drake, just South of Montrose (4000 W). And I was in Heaven. We would all sit on the 2nd floor on the porch, in the back by the alley, in the night and listen to the steam trains rattle by on an overpass about 6 blocks away. The RR was the "Soo Line". Nana's mother and father lived in the same "bungalow". We did this for years. I would sit up on that same porch with my Great Grandfather and listen to the Cub games. I learned OTHER "Magic Names"--Sauer, Rush, Baumholtz, Minner, Caveretta, Pafko etc. Magic names, and Magic Times--Trips to the City with the Big Shoulders. Maybe someday, God will return it to a wonderful city to visit--as well as a great place to live in!"

And I still don't have a smart phone

Four years ago I wrote this. Nothing much has changed.

Not only do I not know how to use a smart phone as many my age do, but I don’t know how to do the simplest, ordinary everyday tasks familiar to my grandmothers (b. 1876 and 1896): harness a carriage horse, kill, gut and pluck a chicken, milk a cow, trim a kerosene wick or bank the stove with corn cobs to heat water for a weekly bath. Nothing I did in my professional life (academic librarian in Slavic Studies, agriculture, veterinary medicine at 2 different universities) lasted even a year or two, and unless they were digitized, my publications have disappeared. Did the student reconstructing road kill for a class project go on to make a difference, or the horse on the treadmill help someone get tenure? It was exceptionally interesting--but did it matter?

I do think education is over rated. At least higher education Did my job make a difference like the men who build, plumb and wire houses that last for over a hundred years? Or was it even as important as the commercial truck drivers who deliver food that someone else has grown, harvested and packaged for my use?

 
I probably spent half my professional life attending meetings, or writing reports, or staring at budgets of cuts that never seem to come together. At annual review time with my boss (he visited each library) I'd scoop everything off my ancient desk and put it in a box. About 6 weeks later I'd look in the box--usually nothing needed attention. Occasionally today I run into a former dean or department chair at Panera's who remembers me, and that's nice, but I do wonder if they have the same thoughts I do.

Groundhog day, 2020

Buckeye Chuck and Punxsutawney Phil are both predicting an early spring, but it's sunny in Columbus, and if they were here they would see their shadows. According to the tradition, if Phil sees his shadow and returns to his hole, he has predicted six more weeks of winter-like weather. If Phil does not see his shadow, he has predicted an "early spring." The date of Phil's prognostication is known as Groundhog Day in the United States and Canada, and has been celebrated since 1887. I don't know how long Chuck has been doing it.

My library colleague from the 1980s never mentions one of her early library positions which was in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, so maybe it just doesn't seem too glamourous.  But I did check the internet and see she is still researching and writing, and here's a recent story about her mother who was a Code Girl in WWII. https://blogs.loc.gov/folklife/2019/03/herstory-crowded-wartime-washington-and-the-code-girls-reunion/

My summer of 1958, part 2

In the summer of 1958 I lived on my grandparents’ farm near Franklin Grove, IL when they were in their 80s and I was 18.  (See Part 1)  They were lured back to Illinois with their young son Leslie in 1908 from Wichita, Kansas, where they had lived since 1901 with  the promise of this farm home to help her ill father, then in his 80s. They took care of him until he died in 1912.  My grandmother was the only survivor of his four adult children, her oldest brother Ira having recently died of blood poisoning from an injury on his farm near Ashton and the home place. (Diphtheria and childbirth having taken the other two, Will and Martha, in the 19th century.)  Ira was the one who was helping her father manage the farms.

What our family knew as the farm house had been put together using a small house ca. 1850s, and a larger, early 1900's style, an unspectacular, 8 room, boxy farm house. Grandma had it remodeled adding a huge gracious dining room, with a bedroom and balcony above it where she had hanging plants and flowers and a second staircase, a big airy kitchen with "modern" features like a built in corn cob storage for the blue and black cookstove, manual dishwasher, a metal topped table with flour bins, a walk-in pantry/storage room, an upstairs servant's bedroom, plus two bathrooms, a dumbwaiter, a generator in the basement and a utility sink at the back door for washing up before entering the house. The dining room and the bedroom above it were the new part that joined the 19th c. and 20th c. houses together.

Some updates had been done by 1958, but the house was in poor repair.  Grandpa was not “handy” and Grandma was not a fastidious housekeeper, being much more interested in the business end of farming. And they were old—his hearing had failed, and she’d had several small strokes and falls. So, according to my steno pad diary the well wasn’t working and I was hand pumping the water I used for cleaning, cooking and dishes.  I don’t mention our drinking water in the diary, but it does give me pause to think we were probably drinking unsafe water.

I didn’t understand it then, but do now—Grandma fretted to the point of tears that she wasn’t there when Martin came to fix the well the first time.  According to my diary, Martin didn’t return until June 6.  I can’t recall how the laundry was done, but mentioned in the diary  (June 3) that Grandma had worn herself out and was out of breath gathering up laundry and we had to rush to get her to the hair dresser.  On June 6 I noted I drove to town, mailed some letters and picked up the laundry—it was $8.10.  That day after working in the garden I wrote that I washed my hair and tennis shoes—and I used only one bucket of water to do both jobs!

I wrote that the well drillers came on June 18th, and by the 20th were finished after 105 feet of drilling and finding 41 feet of water although I was still pumping pails of water for household use. A plumber had to reconnect the house to the well source.   Usually, taking a bath wouldn’t be  an event for a teen diary, but I mentioned it on June 27, and washed my hair on the 28th so maybe it was awhile before we got water in the house.

My summer of 1958, part 1

If you had said to me, “Remember the time you lived at the farm and the well was dry?” I would have responded, “I remember the farm, but don’t recall a problem with the water.”

That’s why it’s nice to have a diary, that retro pen and paper version of a blog, which stands for [world wide] web log. While searching for another notebook, I unpacked a box and found my diary from 1958, a stenographer’s notebook with green tint pages and perfect handwriting in real ink, telling about my days with my grandparents on their farm between Franklin Grove and Ashton, Illinois.  I was there from June 1 to July 12, 1958, and indeed, the water problems were a focus of the first few weeks. I’d totally forgotten that part about pumping water, using a bucket, and driving to my parents’ home to take a bath.

To back up a bit, you need to understand my mother.  Just the sweetest and dearest soul, and always had a solution to anyone’s problem, especially anyone in her family. After my freshman year at Manchester College I wasn’t happy, and wanted to transfer, but I also needed a job for the summer.  My Oakwood dorm friends had all secured something interesting or exciting, and I was faced with going back to Mt. Morris and perhaps working at the drug store where I worked in high school, if it had reopened by then (had been a fire), or fill in at the town library (yawn) where I’d also worked in high school.

The steno pad’s first 10 pages were filled with notes comparing Manchester with Murray--the history, religion connections, majors, costs (Manchester’s tuition and fees were higher, but room and board lower—and all laughable by today’s standards, ca. $1,000/year).  Also in the steno pad were notes about the University of Chicago in a fine arts curriculum and vocational guidance with a minor in Spanish. Expenses were higher—about $1,755, but student jobs looked plentiful.  And then notes about the University of Illinois, what would transfer, a major in Spanish and a minor in Russian.  The notes end there, but I did transfer to Illinois and just by coincidence, that’s where my boyfriend was.

So back to Mother.  I got a little sidetracked.  She knew I was unhappy and that I didn’t have a job;  she knew her parents who were 82 and 84 (b. 1876 and 1874) shouldn’t be alone in their big old farm house in very poor condition. Although Mother and her siblings Muriel and Leslie, and the neighbors checked in often, it wasn’t the same as someone in residence. Neither one of them would consider moving, although they did spend their winters in an apartment in Orlando, Florida. Somehow, Mother convinced me I’d be doing her a favor if I worked as a housekeeper for Grandma, and she also convinced Grandma that Norma needed a summer job. Perfect.  She was a master at this! My grandparents didn’t really want me there (weren’t convinced they needed any help) and I couldn’t have imagined a less inviting or a more lonely place to be (I had spent the summer of 1957 in California at a church mission in Fresno and a year at college with many friends), but my mother appealed to my “missionary” spirit which was still rather strong in those days. I was the 50’s version of the SJW—social justice warrior.

I arrived at the farm about 4:15 on June 1, 1958.  My brother drove me there and helped unload all my clothes. . . .Stay tuned for the next installment of the Summer of 1958 down on the farm.

Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

September 11

We all know what September 11 means, that scary day in 2001. It was sitting in my office of our home watching TV, and saw the second plane and listened to the amazing TV staff on duty that day.  But in 1988, 30 years ago, there were millions of people who'd been led to believe that September 11-13 (give or take), Jesus was coming back to rapture the church. (And it was the month we settled our mortgage and bought our home in Lakeside which we've been enjoying for 30 years and since we’re not in the group that believes in the rapture we had pretty much ignored the warnings.)  A retired NASA engineer, Edgar Whisenant, wrote 2 books predicting Jesus would return--he sold 4.5 million copies, and enterprising promoters were selling trips to the Holy Land with a beautiful view of the Eastern Gate and Temple Mount. And they ignored, or explained away, Matthew 25:13.

I fell on the treadmill at the gym, Lifetime Fitness, yesterday. I wasn't injured, just hurt my pride. Another woman, also in her 70s, a cute little brunette, stopped and jumped off her machine, and rushed over to stop mine so I could get off. Otherwise, I might still be dangling. If I hadn't been going there 6x a week, I wouldn't have had the strength to hang on; on the other hand, if I hadn't been going 6x a week, I wouldn't have even been on the darn thing!

Christmas in ‘Nam by guest blogger Bill G.

Christmas of 66, my unit received a bunch of letters from 4th graders in Des Moines.

At the time, the public wasn't getting a lot of anti war media but it was building.

The 1st sergeant handed out 2 letters at random and told us ...”Reply and be thoughtful.”

My two kids had the same last name, Green, so I assumed they were related, somehow (they weren't).
The letter from the little girl was as one would expect ...thanking me for fighting for my country, wish you could be home, etc.

The boy wrote the same type of letter...but added the following:
“I wish that I could take your place so you could be home ...”
With a P.S. ... “Can you send me a machine gun?”

Any way...I sent the young girl, Denise, a dress ... And the boy, a  silk jacket that had a tiger embroidered on the back.

Some weeks later, I am told to report to the commanding officer ...

Turns out the teacher spoke to the Des Moines paper and there was a front page article about the letter project and my letters back to the kids.

Those were the days.

Note:  Bill and I have never met, except in an e-mail group.  He posted this story and I asked permission to share since so many of us remember the VietNam years.  He served as a helicopter gunner  in the Mekong Delta from 1966-68 when he was 19.

School closing due to heat

I don't know how many MMHS graduates remember this, but they actually did close the school one September in the 1950s because it was too hot. I was there. Of course, our homes didn't have AC or fans either, but . . . Today Columbus is sending the kids home early due to the heat.

Dao vs. United

I've never seen an incident like the Dr Dao vs. Chicago police and United Airlines, but I have been on a flight with a belligerent, unruly, drunk female, and when we landed, all were told to stay in our seats, and police came in to remove her first. I've also been on a train that made an unplanned stop in the middle of nowhere, and police came in and took someone off. Do you want to fly or share the interstate if police are not allowed to remove someone who has been reported to them--maybe for ...assaulting another passenger or being rude to staff, or being drunk or who is having some sort of mental break. That was not the case in Dao's situation, but what were the police told except to remove him? Do you want to continue to travel with a man who challenges the police and wins? And what rights do you give up when you buy the ticket to ride. I've now heard at least 20 conflicting opinions, all from the "experts," who cite laws, regulations and police training on how to handle dangerous situations.
 

We used to get belligerent people in the veterinary medicine library--I know that doesn't sound possible. Usually they were male, non-citizens who wouldn't take No from a woman. There are still cultures where dealing with a woman is an insult. My out was always to give them the name of MY boss, who was male (and in another building) and was paid 4x my salary to handle problem. That seemed to make them happy. A few times we did have to call the police, even though I was probably tougher. A uniform goes a long way. 

 

There are 37,000 words in the contract the customer has with the airlines; and no one has ever read it. 

https://www.forbes.com/sites/omribenshahar/2017/04/14/david-dao-versus-united-what-does-the-airline-contract-say/2/#29cbcf38132a 

 

Some people say past behavior should have no bearing. http://www.bizjournals.com/chicago/news/2017/04/11/doctor-pulled-off-united-flight-has-drug-offenses.html 

Sorting through old letters--again

Over the week-end I finished up my massive project begun a few weeks ago--rereading all the Christmas letters I'd saved since 1987, and running most through the shredder.  This is to save my daughter a lot of work somewhere down the road.  Some I just couldn't give up yet, so there are still a few in a separate pile.  Then I decided perhaps I should look through the greeting cards box--I also save cards for special events or special family and friends. Hard to believe it's been almost 17 years since retirement--but there were all the "Happy Retirement" cards from library and veterinary medicine staff.

About half way through I came across a very clever hand made engagement and wedding announcement for the two daughters of the Palenske family from Christmas 1961.  So that's why I'm here at the internet again instead of cleaning out files and boxes.  I thought I'd try to track down my college era friend. We weren't that close except for 1959 and 1960, and I suppose I was still exchanging letters with her and was added to the announcement list.  I don't think I went to the wedding--it would have been about 4 weeks before my first baby was due, and we were living in Champaign, a four hour drive to their home in a Chicago suburb.

What I found on the internet was very interesting and I think I tracked her down.  One newspaper article for an event gave an e-mail, so I've dashed off a few sentences.  Stay tuned.  The last person I found this way (my first piano teacher, Miss Tinklenberg, a teenager who taught all the children in Forreston) responded, "Who are you?"

Update:  Yes, I found her and am sending her the cute announcement of her wedding.  No, she didn't remember me.

Past Thanksgiving holidays

I'm drawing a blank about what my parents may have said about their Thanksgiving holidays.  And for myself as a kid, I don't remember much until I came home from my freshman year in college and found myself teary to see aunts and uncles and cousins all gathered for a big meal. I'm not sure we even had any traditions or styles of celebrating that needed to be blended.

I used to think, based on family Bible records, that my immigrant ancestors came around 1730. After starting genealogy a few years ago I found a few from England in the 1600s. I think they did miss the first Thanksgiving between colonists and native Americans.  My German ancestors had to sign pledges of loyalty to the King of England; the British and Irish who were already subjects didn't. There was a lot of discrimination against both Irish and Germans in the mid-19th century.--by the same groups that had come a generation or two before them. My grandmother whose family had come from the area of Europe that later became Germany had German immigrant women as household help.  It's my recollection from stories my mother told that Grandma thought they weren't very assimilated to our customs.  But when you're trying to fill up a country and find soldiers, the requirements were rather lax. The various church groups helped them resettle, just as today, if they didn't have family; no programs from the government. Some were indentured to pay for their passage, it was sort of like the coyote system of today bring people out of S.A. and Central America. Had to work many years to pay back the cost.

Most of the links from this page to other articles are broken, but this is a good explanation of other countries' observance of Thanksgiving. 

Attending church is a nice tradition--after all, God is the One to whom we give gratitude.

 

Today is November 1 and it's 80 degrees

We'll be eating on the deck this evening. Baked chicken, mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, and chocolate pie.  I was looking through some October 2009 blogs and found a photo of our almost completed sidewalk improvements that apparently our wealthy suburb got from the ARRA, Obama's stimulus to get the economy going again.  Of course, the recession was over in June 2009, and has been the slowest recovery ever, other than the Great Depression, which FDR managed to drag out for almost a decade through government interference in the economy.  Since my husband's surgery, we've been doing a lot of walking.  I don't like to do the hill shown in this photo, so I walk south to the church parking lot and circle around, and he continues to the north to the next corner.

http://collectingmythoughts.blogspot.com/2009/10/thanks-america.html

Were serious signs overlooked?

I was watching news coverage of the mental state of the former TV news colleague in Virginia who killed two reporters of WDBJ-TV live on camera yesterday then uploaded his murders to Facebook like an ISIS terrorist. Other colleagues said he interpreted everything as racial. It's unfortunate that someone didn't spot his problem--or maybe they did and were afraid to say it out loud for fear of being called racist.

About 45 years ago, and I still haven't forgotten her, a pleasant, plump, middle aged woman joined our adult education committee at First Community Church. She mentioned she was a faculty wife and her husband taught at Ohio State. There was the usual chit chat and joking as we all introduced ourselves, and suddenly her face clouded, and she said (paraphrase), "I know you are all in on it; you know about my husband's affair; you're covering for him; I won't stand for it."

We were all just stunned. Apologies were made for anything offensive we'd said, the meeting proceeded, but after the meeting we all got away from her as quickly as possible. Of course, we were not at fault—she was obsessed with her marital problems and decided we all knew.

Memories of Dad

When I was a teen-ager, my mother would often remind me to put on an apron when working in the kitchen. Sort of irritated me, but after all, she was the one doing the laundry. When I was 60 and visiting my parents, I'd just chuckle when my father would say, "Baby, put on an apron." (Didn't mind being called Baby because that's about as affectionate as he got, but having him tell me to wear an apron. . well. . .). This morning I put on my new light teal shirt (meeting friends for coffee at Worthington Panera’s) and looked down and there was a food splatter. I'd worn it on Sunday and made cabbage soup with a chicken broth base. I dabbed at it with cold water without much success, but I'll forever hear Dad when I put it on.

The pope wants to go out for pizza

“Speaking to the program “Noticieros Televisa,” Francis displays his usual candor, dishing details about the secret conclave that elected him, talking about how he senses his papacy will be short, how the church must get tough on sexual abuse, and how all he really wants “is to go out one day, without being recognized, and go to a pizzeria for a pizza.” “ Religion News Service

Yesterday I had a chance to visit with Annabelle who lives in San Antonio and was in town visiting her 96 year old mother.  When she was a senior in high school she was our babysitter and now has a 13 year old grand daughter although she’s just as pretty as she was then.  She asked about our daughter whom she babysat for in 1968.  She claims there are no good pizza places in her city, and they were all looking forward to going to Tommy’s last night for pizza. That’s where our family went for years, always calling the order in ahead of time because our little guy was a bit impatient and didn’t like to wait for his food.  But I must say, our children were always the best behaved in restaurants.
That sounded so good we ordered pizza from Iacono’s just up the road for dinner last night.  Usually, we have a Friday night date with neighbors or friends, but my husband’s cold that he picked up on the plane back from Haiti has been hanging on.

Dreaming of Spudnuts

When we were students at the University of Illinois there was a Spudnut shop in Urbana. It's gone, but this one is in Canoga, Park, CA. (There are a number of them in California).  This is a donut with maple syrup with crumbled bacon. Spudnuts got their name from a special recipe using potato flour--at least 70 years ago. There is nothing in the world better.

http://www.laweekly.com/restaurants/the-spudnuts-saga-a-bite-of-donut-history-2375403

Two local history titles on Jerome, Ohio

I’ve been living in Columbus since 1967, and I admit that until today I’d never hear of Jerome, Ohio, which is just up the road near Dublin, and was described 65 years ago by Johnny Jones, columnist 1940-1971 for the Columbus Dispatch, as “American as apple pie” and off the state highways where you cross the O’Shaughnessy Dam Bridge near the Columbus Zoo. With Dublin spreading out, Jerome had a 90% increase in population in the last decade, from about 4,000 in 2000 to 7500 in 2010. Author of the first book, Les Gates, grew up in Jerome and recorded his fond memories in a small book titled simply “Jerome” (3d ed. 2014). Gates returned to the home place after serving in the military and was in the insurance business for many years in Dublin, OH.  After a few words about his parents and life on the Gates farm at 7379 Brock Road, he continues with memories, photos and descriptions of neighboring farms, the local school and business establishments like the Twin Oaks Golf Course and Seely Grocery Store. Gates is about my age, and includes stories of his years at Dublin High School with photos of his team sports, baseball and football.

In a conversation with another Jerome resident, 99 year old Mary Alice Schacherbauer, Les Gates learned she had a diary of her writings with memories and musings from 1914 to 2014. With his interest in Jerome, Les and his wife Mary decided to edit and publish her memories also  as “Days I remember; my memories and musings from 1914 to 2014. “ Mrs. Schacherbauer is about the age of my parents, so I particularly enjoyed her stories of school in the 1920s, and found to my surprise that people had school buses back then.  My parents lived on farms near Dixon, Illinois, and walked to school. She and her husband Lee married in 1937 and were active in the Jerome United Methodist Church.  She includes family stories and has many fond memories of grandparents and aunts and uncles. Several of her poems are included, and she closes with prayer for “our country, our world, our way of life.” One hundred years old and she has seen a lot of changes, but still enjoys life and especially her memories.

You can purchase one or both titles from Amazon or at local gift shops. Or you can contact Les Gates at goldengator1938@yahoo.com.