Blogging, according to my world, is new, exciting, revealing, subject to limitations, and factual. Every word I type and every word you read relate to "happenings" Life has sent my way in all of my 85 years. (Setting "vanity" aside, I find as I declare my age more and more often, it becomes less of a challenge to face whatever is before me, and thee, a matter of Thanksgiving as opposed to pride, and a small sense of urgency to share stuff about the wonderful people who have populated my life.)
The printed word is more durable than a lightly-tossed-off remark over a Chinese Chicken Salad at lunch...so, if it is ok with you, if you have the time and forbearance, please come back often, tell your friends, and please, leave a comment or two when you have finished a chapter!
A HINT FOR THE NEW BLOGGER-READER: Sometimes, most of the time, the post you will read first (about Phebe, for instance) will contain references to people in the previous segment. Therefore, click back on the very first Blog..."In the Beginning" posted in November, and proceed from there. It's like playing "Dominoes", start with the first domino and add, one story at a time...going in several directions at the same time. Just stay with me, it will be fun!
Those Early Days in Southern California...ca 1948-1949
Looking back to then, one of those Early Days had all the ingredients of being a Magical Kind of Day...if you call "magical" nearly being trampled by those crazy legs of one young comedian, Jerry Lewis, newly arrived in Hollywood with his darkishly-handsome singing straight man, Dean Martin!
This comedy team, yet to make it big via Radio or the Movies although they were fast gaining favor with comedy club audiences in the Midwest territory, were called to Los Angeles to test the market, so to speak. Lucille Ball was already a well-known actress and comedienne and was hired to be their "foil" for their first appearance at a theater smack dab in the middle of "Tinseltown."
Tickets appeared, out of nowhere (in reality, I don't recall) so Del and I put gas in the 1938 Chevrolet coupe and off to Hollywood we went. There was only one Freeway then...the infamous Pasadena Freeway that included a bridge from which a number of people have jumped...and arrived in plenty of time to do a little sight-seeing and gawk at a few famous celebrities who were there for the same purpose of deciding the future of Martin and Lewis!
Not so much Del, but I pretty much separated myself early on from the true sophisticates arriving by waving at a couple of A-picture actors, gushing inane words when acknowledged by a young blond starlet on her way to a career we would eventually read about in a movie magazine. Once again, I was really out of my league! If Del were here right now, he could tell you their names...oh yes, Eleanor Powell and her then husband, Glenn Ford (the A people!).
Eleanor and Glenn were properly seated in the A-people section, down in front. Not knowing then that in order to get premium seats in the Hollywood-seating-arrangement one tipped the usher a whopping five dollars if you were a non-celeb, we were seated about five rows from the back, but I had an aisle seat which is prime territory to my way of thinking and great for seeing the studio-sized orchestra on stage, the Martin and Lewis comedy duo and my gal, Lucille Ball, a real MOVIE STAR!
The entire routine was scripted, which means they were reading from pages of paper, throwing to the floor each page as the lines were spoken. The three were supposed to stand in front of the three available microphones, which they did until the ad-libbing began. Absolute bedlam! Jerry was really beyond being "outlandish" that fate-deciding performance, roaming the stage, straightening the music sheets of the musicians. spewing gibberish that in later years paid him and his sidekick millions of dollars. Dean stood there with his mouth open in apparent aghast, hand to mouth a la Jack Benny, until his turn to perform, the beginning of my infatuation with his voice to this very day. Lucille Ball of the bright orange hair approximately the shade of Tangee, lost it completely at the unscripted antics of Jerry and Dean's song. So did we, the mesmerized audience....I was more like "stunned!" and in complete awe of what was unfolding before my slightly-myopic eyes.
Encore after encore finally satisfied the audience...these young daring-to-be-different kids just might have a chance in Hollywood. Time would tell.
Oh, yes, the trampling part of this story. Remember, my seat was on the aisle, center of the theater, and it was in this direction that Jerry Lewis, with vast energy still unspent, came lumbering up this aisle, long legs and long arms flailing in two-to-four different directions, drawing ever nearer to my seat where I was sitting, becoming with certainty the 95-pound prime target of an out-of-control-wanna-be-movie star.
The last time I was this all-shook-up was at the Atlantic Theater watching a Boris Karloff-Frankenstein movie as a nine-year-old with subsequent nightmares ensuing.
Jerry must have noticed my near-cringing but convulsing-with-laughter body as he came nearer to my seat for he smiled, patted my shoulder and, never missing a flail, continued on his way out the door, hearing in his ears what must have sounded better than anything his good pal, Dean, could have warbled...the laughter and applause of an audience that helped seal their future for many years to come.
For a movie-star-struck country gal from Atlantic, Iowa, my future was sealed also. I declared myself a Californian at that instant and decided that I would do my best to become more sophisticated if ever I should find myself in the company of celebrities and such again...yes, I am still working on it!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
PHEBE....Country Gal, the First!
Riddle...What would you get if you (not literally you!) mixed the genes of a deeply-committed young man, an English Quaker activist with a prison record who later became an esteemed politician in New Jersey with the genes of an Irish country, rock-solid potato-growing farmer of a non-Catholic background, playfully not adverse to employing a bit of self-deprecating humor and a streak of "feyness" a mile wide with maybe (for purposes of adding color to this story only) a fondness for a "friendly pint" now and again, himself the progeny of a Scottish Clan hell-bent on surviving the life and times of the William the Conqueror era, along the Scotland-England border, with the mind-set of "kill or be killed!" (Personally, I think we have a candidate for Congress amongst us!)
(Purely for your historical information, this particular Clan was "small potatoes" compared to others of the ravaging, plundering and pillaging camps of Clansmen who were called "The Reivers" when they rode the countryside in full armor astride their handsome mounts dressed in likewise protective armor. Whether they wanted to escape the certainty of a beheading or a pre-arranged marriage (it is not the same, people!)it matters not, but wiser heads prevailed in the calm of daylight. This Clan, with not a Menses candidate amongst them, only basic survivor instincts, eventually smartened up and clambered aboard the first boat leaving for Ireland, settling in Ulster, County of Monaghan, in Northern Ireland, if only to lay to rest the irksome long-rumored fables of Scottish thriftiness (nobody is saying "cheap") resigned to "spend their first dime on a pint of the ale." Or corned beef and cabbage! Personally, my bet is on a fine Irish Linen frock or a dainty shoe sized 5.)
Stirring into this mix, add a dash of the German-woman's (or manly) sense of duty, honor, stubbornness, fair-play, familial pride and anything left over from the Depression Years.
The answer to "The Riddle"... someone who wanted to know more about ancestral roots, the "who and the why" of a personality that is definitely a mix of all of the above, except "Reiving Days" never were and never will be an issue with the Police Chief of the nearby lock-up facilities, no matter how handsome the uniform renders his official newspaper picture. (Also, a nice Virgin Margarita has been known to serve its purpose at family get-togethers and will be welcomed in the form of an 85th birthday liquid toast in April, in another attempt to shed a non-terminal case of "shyness.")
All of the above is to introduce to you a woman who has since 1997 been an obsession within my soul and a touchstone to thousands of cousins who share my maiden name or are like-wise descendants of John and Anne Kinton Borton: Phebe Marsh Cranston.
THE SEARCH FOR PHEBE...Country Gal I
"Finding Phebe Marsh Cranston" was going to be THE search of my lifetime, and that search would culminate where? I did not have a clue, and it was the cry of my heart to find her. (And to think it was with the aid of my computer, a "behemoth" I wanted no part of not that long ago, a machine that I was certain would only make my work as the secretary/treasurer of the Arcadia Friends Church Pre-School more complicated and even kept a second set of financial records just in case...yup, that's exactly what I did.) Hey, there are times I don't trust my washing machine and dryer even with the Sears Protection Plan!
Phebe, we knew from information scribbled on a thin scrap of paper that had materialized out of nowhere, was the wife of Great-granddad William Cranston, but that was it! No birth date or birth place, no parents' names, no siblings' name. Phebe was the victim of reverse paper trail...inaccurate records, records lost, even the spelling of her name was up for grabs. In fact, her name and those of two other sisters, were omitted (inadvertently) from two very definitive books on our family history, "The Borton's 300 Years in North America - 1679-1979" published independently by Betty Mann of Lansing, Michigan, a dedicated researcher/cousin. This two-volume history of the Borton Family and its descendants is now out of print and rests in a place of honor on my bookshelf: With a little bit of imagination, one can almost breathe life into the people whose names populate those tomes.
But, in finding Phebe, my Great-grandmother...I was alone on this one. Well, there was my tried-and-true trusty Best Buy protected Gateway computer at my beck and call from Day One, and I am beholden!
Knowing that the Cranston Family had roots in Grant County, Indiana and Guernsey County, Ohio, I placed a query on both of those sites through the USGenWeb research website. A year passed before a reply to my query was posted, and it contained a bonanza of information from Sheila Watson who just happened to have finished a headcount of all the souls resting in the cemeteries in Grant County. Sheila's post to me read: "I have found Phebe!" So she had, along with my Great-granddad. I cried. You will appreciate this little add-on: When I e-mailed Sheila that I wanted to send her some kind of appreciation gift for her hard work, and that her devotion to her hard work in finding Phebe brought me joy and tears, she said, "My dear, that is enough reward for me, your joy and your tears."
So, we know that Phebe, William, their 23-year old son, along with other members of the Borton/Marsh/Cranston families, are at rest in the Fletcher Chapel Cemetery near the entry way to the Fletcher Chapel Church near Hanfield-Marion, Indiana, on burial grounds donated by her brother, Benjamin Marsh.
In finding Phebe, William and their second-born son, we have, with the help of newly-discovered cousins traveling the same genealogical path, enlarged our family circle by thousands through roots traced back to the same John "The Immigrant" Borton and Anne Kinton Borton, his wife and traveling companion when they came to the United States in 1679. This set of Great-grandparents came from England as part of the earliest Quaker contingent seeking religious freedom in the company of William Penn, a significant figure in the settling of New Jersey and later, Pennsylvania.
And I need to clear the record. Yes, John was found guilty, sentenced and served time in the well-known Towers, having been tossed in along with the founder of the Quaker Movement, George Fox, when he was a young man of 26 years of age. The year would be 1660, the same year his and Anne's first child, Anne, was born. The sitting King of England and all the King's men weren't about to put up with these religious upstarts so small Meetings were held in homes in secret to avoid incarceration and death, always a possibililty.
John smartened up, too, sensing danger and headed for the shores of New Jersey in 1679 aboard the boat, The Griffin, along with the kids and all their worldly possessions, other Quaker families and William Penn following heavy negotiations between England and the new land across the Atlantic Ocean. Right off the boat, John and family established a home on land sold to them by the Indian Chief Himmitkon with the Deed being witnessed by six other Chiefs, including his son, Osoxowkond, each having his own "scratches" for signature. Going price for John's land in (West)Jersey at that time was 20 pounds and seven shillings. John helped form and served in the First Assembly of Legislature for the new state of New Jersey. For his service, as a gift from the still-prevailing English government, henceforth all female descendants of John "The Immigrant" Borton would be entitled to carry the designation "Dame." All descending males were entitled to a similar lifetime designation. To which my reiving Cranston cousins will probably respond - "Whatever!" And, those self-deprecating Irish cousins will say, "I'll drink to that!" To this bounty, add the German Polka-dancing kinfolk who will add their own pithy remarks: "Mein Gott im Himmel, what were those dumkoffs thinking!" (Subject to further conjecture and, I repeat... "Broadly speaking, there is nothing like a dame!" ....and welcome to our midst, Liz Taylor!)
I think it positively exciting to know that I share the Borton Grandparent lineage with one of the most influential Quakers of all time...John Woolman, The Traveling Quaker Minister. John and Anne were parents to eight boys and girls, all born in Aynho, Northhamptonshire, England. Elizabeth Borton (Woolman) and John Borton, Jr. are the two siblings from whom we descend.
Phebe's mother was Rachel Borton, wife of Jesse Marsh, once a strong Quaker member but lately turned Methodist. As a matter of record, Rachel was banned from the Quaker Church and actually shunned by her family when she married Jesse, and I can only pray that once grandchildren began to arrive at the Marsh household, old hurts healed and man-made church doctrines mellowed. The Borton Book doesn't tell me that. I do know that grandchildren carry a healing potion all their own.
In searching for Phebe, I have discovered within myself a deep appreciation for all those early settlers who braved the elements of time and weather to move to a new land, cultivate the raw fields, clear acreage on which to build sod and log cabin homes, to give life to and nourish those of whom I am a part and to whom my children and their children belong. We find that Phebe became a widow at the age of 39, left with four very young sons when her William died in 1852, the first to be buried in Fletcher Chapel ground. They had just arrived from Guernsey County, Ohio, and the future had to have looked bleak.
In those days, it mattered not if one be a Quaker or a Methodist or a lost soul making a spiritual connection with God, astride "Old Paint" moseying down a winding country road in Indiana, it was when chips were down that family members and friends reached out to one another in order to survive the pitfalls of worrisome daily living. As is Biblical, widows were nurtured and cared for; happily for Phebe, at the age of 50, she found contentment in marriage to David Hill who passed away after ten years of marriage. Henry Shanehulser came along to help Phebe pick up the pieces of another shattered dream, and it was his name she carried at the time of her death. It was said in the newspaper clipping of her funeral service: "None knew her but to love her." and that she died in great peace at the age of 67 years, 7 months and 24 days, August 18, 1880, a member of the Methodist Episcopal Church.
This is not a sad story...it is one of admiration. Of this woman whom we knew so little about so few years ago, we now know that she, like most of the pioneer women...sometimes "with child" who rode wagon trains, on horseback or bravely trudged on foot the vast expanse of the undeveloped, uncivilized territory... was a "survivor" in some of life's harshest moments. Phebe, who was once only a name on a flimsy piece of paper, is infinitely more than just Phebe. She's the force behind whom I am becoming, a part of the gene-network that will make sure I am a "survivor" when the chips are down and "smarten up a bit" when the need arises!
You are my kind of woman, Great-grandma Phebe. Sight unseen, I could not love you more!
(Purely for your historical information, this particular Clan was "small potatoes" compared to others of the ravaging, plundering and pillaging camps of Clansmen who were called "The Reivers" when they rode the countryside in full armor astride their handsome mounts dressed in likewise protective armor. Whether they wanted to escape the certainty of a beheading or a pre-arranged marriage (it is not the same, people!)it matters not, but wiser heads prevailed in the calm of daylight. This Clan, with not a Menses candidate amongst them, only basic survivor instincts, eventually smartened up and clambered aboard the first boat leaving for Ireland, settling in Ulster, County of Monaghan, in Northern Ireland, if only to lay to rest the irksome long-rumored fables of Scottish thriftiness (nobody is saying "cheap") resigned to "spend their first dime on a pint of the ale." Or corned beef and cabbage! Personally, my bet is on a fine Irish Linen frock or a dainty shoe sized 5.)
Stirring into this mix, add a dash of the German-woman's (or manly) sense of duty, honor, stubbornness, fair-play, familial pride and anything left over from the Depression Years.
The answer to "The Riddle"... someone who wanted to know more about ancestral roots, the "who and the why" of a personality that is definitely a mix of all of the above, except "Reiving Days" never were and never will be an issue with the Police Chief of the nearby lock-up facilities, no matter how handsome the uniform renders his official newspaper picture. (Also, a nice Virgin Margarita has been known to serve its purpose at family get-togethers and will be welcomed in the form of an 85th birthday liquid toast in April, in another attempt to shed a non-terminal case of "shyness.")
All of the above is to introduce to you a woman who has since 1997 been an obsession within my soul and a touchstone to thousands of cousins who share my maiden name or are like-wise descendants of John and Anne Kinton Borton: Phebe Marsh Cranston.
THE SEARCH FOR PHEBE...Country Gal I
"Finding Phebe Marsh Cranston" was going to be THE search of my lifetime, and that search would culminate where? I did not have a clue, and it was the cry of my heart to find her. (And to think it was with the aid of my computer, a "behemoth" I wanted no part of not that long ago, a machine that I was certain would only make my work as the secretary/treasurer of the Arcadia Friends Church Pre-School more complicated and even kept a second set of financial records just in case...yup, that's exactly what I did.) Hey, there are times I don't trust my washing machine and dryer even with the Sears Protection Plan!
Phebe, we knew from information scribbled on a thin scrap of paper that had materialized out of nowhere, was the wife of Great-granddad William Cranston, but that was it! No birth date or birth place, no parents' names, no siblings' name. Phebe was the victim of reverse paper trail...inaccurate records, records lost, even the spelling of her name was up for grabs. In fact, her name and those of two other sisters, were omitted (inadvertently) from two very definitive books on our family history, "The Borton's 300 Years in North America - 1679-1979" published independently by Betty Mann of Lansing, Michigan, a dedicated researcher/cousin. This two-volume history of the Borton Family and its descendants is now out of print and rests in a place of honor on my bookshelf: With a little bit of imagination, one can almost breathe life into the people whose names populate those tomes.
But, in finding Phebe, my Great-grandmother...I was alone on this one. Well, there was my tried-and-true trusty Best Buy protected Gateway computer at my beck and call from Day One, and I am beholden!
Knowing that the Cranston Family had roots in Grant County, Indiana and Guernsey County, Ohio, I placed a query on both of those sites through the USGenWeb research website. A year passed before a reply to my query was posted, and it contained a bonanza of information from Sheila Watson who just happened to have finished a headcount of all the souls resting in the cemeteries in Grant County. Sheila's post to me read: "I have found Phebe!" So she had, along with my Great-granddad. I cried. You will appreciate this little add-on: When I e-mailed Sheila that I wanted to send her some kind of appreciation gift for her hard work, and that her devotion to her hard work in finding Phebe brought me joy and tears, she said, "My dear, that is enough reward for me, your joy and your tears."
So, we know that Phebe, William, their 23-year old son, along with other members of the Borton/Marsh/Cranston families, are at rest in the Fletcher Chapel Cemetery near the entry way to the Fletcher Chapel Church near Hanfield-Marion, Indiana, on burial grounds donated by her brother, Benjamin Marsh.
In finding Phebe, William and their second-born son, we have, with the help of newly-discovered cousins traveling the same genealogical path, enlarged our family circle by thousands through roots traced back to the same John "The Immigrant" Borton and Anne Kinton Borton, his wife and traveling companion when they came to the United States in 1679. This set of Great-grandparents came from England as part of the earliest Quaker contingent seeking religious freedom in the company of William Penn, a significant figure in the settling of New Jersey and later, Pennsylvania.
And I need to clear the record. Yes, John was found guilty, sentenced and served time in the well-known Towers, having been tossed in along with the founder of the Quaker Movement, George Fox, when he was a young man of 26 years of age. The year would be 1660, the same year his and Anne's first child, Anne, was born. The sitting King of England and all the King's men weren't about to put up with these religious upstarts so small Meetings were held in homes in secret to avoid incarceration and death, always a possibililty.
John smartened up, too, sensing danger and headed for the shores of New Jersey in 1679 aboard the boat, The Griffin, along with the kids and all their worldly possessions, other Quaker families and William Penn following heavy negotiations between England and the new land across the Atlantic Ocean. Right off the boat, John and family established a home on land sold to them by the Indian Chief Himmitkon with the Deed being witnessed by six other Chiefs, including his son, Osoxowkond, each having his own "scratches" for signature. Going price for John's land in (West)Jersey at that time was 20 pounds and seven shillings. John helped form and served in the First Assembly of Legislature for the new state of New Jersey. For his service, as a gift from the still-prevailing English government, henceforth all female descendants of John "The Immigrant" Borton would be entitled to carry the designation "Dame." All descending males were entitled to a similar lifetime designation. To which my reiving Cranston cousins will probably respond - "Whatever!" And, those self-deprecating Irish cousins will say, "I'll drink to that!" To this bounty, add the German Polka-dancing kinfolk who will add their own pithy remarks: "Mein Gott im Himmel, what were those dumkoffs thinking!" (Subject to further conjecture and, I repeat... "Broadly speaking, there is nothing like a dame!" ....and welcome to our midst, Liz Taylor!)
I think it positively exciting to know that I share the Borton Grandparent lineage with one of the most influential Quakers of all time...John Woolman, The Traveling Quaker Minister. John and Anne were parents to eight boys and girls, all born in Aynho, Northhamptonshire, England. Elizabeth Borton (Woolman) and John Borton, Jr. are the two siblings from whom we descend.
Phebe's mother was Rachel Borton, wife of Jesse Marsh, once a strong Quaker member but lately turned Methodist. As a matter of record, Rachel was banned from the Quaker Church and actually shunned by her family when she married Jesse, and I can only pray that once grandchildren began to arrive at the Marsh household, old hurts healed and man-made church doctrines mellowed. The Borton Book doesn't tell me that. I do know that grandchildren carry a healing potion all their own.
In searching for Phebe, I have discovered within myself a deep appreciation for all those early settlers who braved the elements of time and weather to move to a new land, cultivate the raw fields, clear acreage on which to build sod and log cabin homes, to give life to and nourish those of whom I am a part and to whom my children and their children belong. We find that Phebe became a widow at the age of 39, left with four very young sons when her William died in 1852, the first to be buried in Fletcher Chapel ground. They had just arrived from Guernsey County, Ohio, and the future had to have looked bleak.
In those days, it mattered not if one be a Quaker or a Methodist or a lost soul making a spiritual connection with God, astride "Old Paint" moseying down a winding country road in Indiana, it was when chips were down that family members and friends reached out to one another in order to survive the pitfalls of worrisome daily living. As is Biblical, widows were nurtured and cared for; happily for Phebe, at the age of 50, she found contentment in marriage to David Hill who passed away after ten years of marriage. Henry Shanehulser came along to help Phebe pick up the pieces of another shattered dream, and it was his name she carried at the time of her death. It was said in the newspaper clipping of her funeral service: "None knew her but to love her." and that she died in great peace at the age of 67 years, 7 months and 24 days, August 18, 1880, a member of the Methodist Episcopal Church.
This is not a sad story...it is one of admiration. Of this woman whom we knew so little about so few years ago, we now know that she, like most of the pioneer women...sometimes "with child" who rode wagon trains, on horseback or bravely trudged on foot the vast expanse of the undeveloped, uncivilized territory... was a "survivor" in some of life's harshest moments. Phebe, who was once only a name on a flimsy piece of paper, is infinitely more than just Phebe. She's the force behind whom I am becoming, a part of the gene-network that will make sure I am a "survivor" when the chips are down and "smarten up a bit" when the need arises!
You are my kind of woman, Great-grandma Phebe. Sight unseen, I could not love you more!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
GLEANINGS... PART II
When John and Anne Kinton Borton set foot on American soil in the mid 1600's, along with their Quaker friend, William Penn, and settled the state of New Jersey, I wonder if Anne and the kids thought to themselves: "Well, John, are you happy now?"
Dollars to donuts, I am thinking my Grandmother Anne, 331 years ago, might have felt the same way I did in 1948 when I boarded the train in Omaha and "rode the rails" to Union Station in Los Angeles...a little bewildered, ready to face head-on a new life among, in her case...Native Americans, and in mine....Lonnie McAllister, Jane Powell, Shirley Temple, Doris Day, John Wayne (from Winterset, Iowa) and if I was lucky, employment at 20th Century Fox or Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and a chance to schedule the daily comings-and-goings of these bedazzling movie stars instead of how I had earned my keep at Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in Atlantic...recording ownership of bales of hay, bushels of corn, nursing pigs and their mommies and daddies and other stuff that makes farming an important part of life in Cass County, sending such reports to the main office in New York City, learning to square dance one balmy evening at a farm/homestead, one of thousands owned by Met Life following the Great Depression. (Sorry....take a breath!) Under the expert tutelage of Jesse Iftner, the affable field representative for whom I personally worked, the entire office staff, in fine fettle, worked off the effects of a hearty barbecue dinner consumed a bit earlier. I was happy I had learned a little bit of country bootscooting from one Bob Pigsley, probably the best dancer in Cass County if not the state of Iowa! Just ask any girl who was lucky enough to be twirled around the dance floor in the America Legion Building throughout the four seasons during the late 1930's, in the arms of Bob Pigsley, 15 years of age or so, who is the "point" of this story.
(I promise...you are going to read more of John and Anne and their kin in another Blog episode. Along with the story of my search for Great Grandmother Phebe Marsh Cranston, which is how I found John and Anne.)
Now, about Bob...he and his sister, Loretta, had always been a part of my family's life since my brother, Kenny, was early on "taken" with Loretta, a beautiful blond, effervescent 24/7. Most notably, my bonding with Loretta was based on her showing me how to apply Tangee, the most popular lipstick sold at the make-up counter at the local 5 & 10 Woolworth's store. (I was awashed in my brothers' girl friends who wanted to make sure I knew how to apply Tangee!) I think Tangee came in just one color...Horrible Orange...but I will have to get back to you on the correctness of that statement. At the tender age of 10 or so, that was a really big deal, and I could hardly wait for the day when Mom would buy a size 30 bra from the Sears Catalogue for this baby of the family!
Dances, in those days, were held as often as the American Legion building was available for renting and how urgent the need for money to pay the mortgage and janitorial services. The father of one of my best friends (actually Jessie was a better friend of Tootie and Tiny's but when Jessie visited, I quickly crossed the street to the Maher house, not wanting to miss whatever shenanigans those three, plus Frances Desmond, would conspire to at any given time) was a very popular and talented Orchestra Leader, Lee Berry by name, and his musical group would play every style of music from a Polka to an impromptu Square Dance set, from a Waltz to the Charleston and the Fox Trot until midnight when "Good Night, Sweetheart" signaled it was time to pack up the instruments. 17-year-old Jessie played the Legion's battered upright piano, a pro at such an early age.
In those days, refreshments were served during these dances (seasonally-decorated cookies and lemonade) and spectators would sit, not at tables, but in straight chairs circling the dance floor to watch their "crazy kids," exchange tasty recipes and equally-tasty gossip, occasionally clapping for the dancers...in particular, Bob! I, for the most part, sat with Mom and Dad, Harry and Edna Pigsley, Harry and Grace Steck, Irene and John Anderson, and Mary and Shanty Maher and waited, barely breathing and/or heavily breathing, for my turn around the ballroom-size, polished floor with Bob. The seasonally-decorated cookies and lemonade kept me occupied while I awaited my turn, every 10th dance or so (no dance card, no number system), but, you just have to agree, wasn't it romantic? :) I have the distinct feeling that every single one of those toothsome girls more of Bob's age wondered what was he thinking dancing with that little squirt? Of course, I was thinking why don't you dance with someone your own age or from your own part of town or something evil like that! You are in Buck Town Territory tonight!
My friend with the amazing dancing feet went on to have a good life, spending his remaining days in Omaha, getting plenty of newspaper acclaim as the most natural honest-to-goodness-look-alike Santa Claus in all of Omaha's history. I want to believe, as he handed out seasonally-decorated cookies, he "tripped the light fantastic with a fancy Irish Jig" for all the good little girls and boys to shout about before he took final leave and, "shuffled off to Buffalo" in his own inimitable way.
Just like in the movies!
Dollars to donuts, I am thinking my Grandmother Anne, 331 years ago, might have felt the same way I did in 1948 when I boarded the train in Omaha and "rode the rails" to Union Station in Los Angeles...a little bewildered, ready to face head-on a new life among, in her case...Native Americans, and in mine....Lonnie McAllister, Jane Powell, Shirley Temple, Doris Day, John Wayne (from Winterset, Iowa) and if I was lucky, employment at 20th Century Fox or Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and a chance to schedule the daily comings-and-goings of these bedazzling movie stars instead of how I had earned my keep at Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in Atlantic...recording ownership of bales of hay, bushels of corn, nursing pigs and their mommies and daddies and other stuff that makes farming an important part of life in Cass County, sending such reports to the main office in New York City, learning to square dance one balmy evening at a farm/homestead, one of thousands owned by Met Life following the Great Depression. (Sorry....take a breath!) Under the expert tutelage of Jesse Iftner, the affable field representative for whom I personally worked, the entire office staff, in fine fettle, worked off the effects of a hearty barbecue dinner consumed a bit earlier. I was happy I had learned a little bit of country bootscooting from one Bob Pigsley, probably the best dancer in Cass County if not the state of Iowa! Just ask any girl who was lucky enough to be twirled around the dance floor in the America Legion Building throughout the four seasons during the late 1930's, in the arms of Bob Pigsley, 15 years of age or so, who is the "point" of this story.
(I promise...you are going to read more of John and Anne and their kin in another Blog episode. Along with the story of my search for Great Grandmother Phebe Marsh Cranston, which is how I found John and Anne.)
Now, about Bob...he and his sister, Loretta, had always been a part of my family's life since my brother, Kenny, was early on "taken" with Loretta, a beautiful blond, effervescent 24/7. Most notably, my bonding with Loretta was based on her showing me how to apply Tangee, the most popular lipstick sold at the make-up counter at the local 5 & 10 Woolworth's store. (I was awashed in my brothers' girl friends who wanted to make sure I knew how to apply Tangee!) I think Tangee came in just one color...Horrible Orange...but I will have to get back to you on the correctness of that statement. At the tender age of 10 or so, that was a really big deal, and I could hardly wait for the day when Mom would buy a size 30 bra from the Sears Catalogue for this baby of the family!
Dances, in those days, were held as often as the American Legion building was available for renting and how urgent the need for money to pay the mortgage and janitorial services. The father of one of my best friends (actually Jessie was a better friend of Tootie and Tiny's but when Jessie visited, I quickly crossed the street to the Maher house, not wanting to miss whatever shenanigans those three, plus Frances Desmond, would conspire to at any given time) was a very popular and talented Orchestra Leader, Lee Berry by name, and his musical group would play every style of music from a Polka to an impromptu Square Dance set, from a Waltz to the Charleston and the Fox Trot until midnight when "Good Night, Sweetheart" signaled it was time to pack up the instruments. 17-year-old Jessie played the Legion's battered upright piano, a pro at such an early age.
In those days, refreshments were served during these dances (seasonally-decorated cookies and lemonade) and spectators would sit, not at tables, but in straight chairs circling the dance floor to watch their "crazy kids," exchange tasty recipes and equally-tasty gossip, occasionally clapping for the dancers...in particular, Bob! I, for the most part, sat with Mom and Dad, Harry and Edna Pigsley, Harry and Grace Steck, Irene and John Anderson, and Mary and Shanty Maher and waited, barely breathing and/or heavily breathing, for my turn around the ballroom-size, polished floor with Bob. The seasonally-decorated cookies and lemonade kept me occupied while I awaited my turn, every 10th dance or so (no dance card, no number system), but, you just have to agree, wasn't it romantic? :) I have the distinct feeling that every single one of those toothsome girls more of Bob's age wondered what was he thinking dancing with that little squirt? Of course, I was thinking why don't you dance with someone your own age or from your own part of town or something evil like that! You are in Buck Town Territory tonight!
My friend with the amazing dancing feet went on to have a good life, spending his remaining days in Omaha, getting plenty of newspaper acclaim as the most natural honest-to-goodness-look-alike Santa Claus in all of Omaha's history. I want to believe, as he handed out seasonally-decorated cookies, he "tripped the light fantastic with a fancy Irish Jig" for all the good little girls and boys to shout about before he took final leave and, "shuffled off to Buffalo" in his own inimitable way.
Just like in the movies!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
GLEANINGS.....!
Before I got "sidetracked" in January and February because of an upcoming State of California DMV "Driver's Written Test" that I had to pass with less than four wrong answers in order to get a five-years' license, I promised you a little-known bit of information about Eddie Rickenbacker (1890-1973) that can't be found in any "official biography" of this World War II hero...this "ploy" is called a "teaser" in the newspaper world and among us female gender type of people.
But, before I do that, let me tell you about my morning at the Pasadena's DMV office on a Wednesday the first week of March. Skipping details of what it takes to get a Golden Senior "dame" presentable for public consumption, let's move ahead to where you find me standing in line at 7:00 a.m., with about 25 people in line ahead of me, and it's kinda cold for sunny California, to boot.
Every nationality and language was represented by those semi-defrosted bodies, some with coffee (I guess) in hand and one fella was chomping away on the most delicious smelling burrito I have ever been in the vicinity of! The Nora Roberts romance book I had brought along seemed so out-of-place (even I was embarrassed at the cover) that I quickly stuffed it back into my laden-down shoulder bag and tried to feign interest in the road construction work that was taking place on Rosemead Boulevard, like I was an off-duty Cal-Trans supervisor or something important like that. (Since my jacket did not have pockets, trying to find an attractive way to showcase my hands, while in a standing position, without looking like a nervous bank robber or test-taker, is simply too exhausting at my age so I, in the most demure way possible, took care of a couple of cuticles to make the wait worthwhile. It's called "nibble and spit".) And, guess what, I caught the eye of one of the nicest young men in the line...ever! (he was in my line of spit but, lucky for him, I glanced up for a brief instant.) About 26, of Vietnam ancestry, and he wanted to know the time of day...like it was then 8 a.m. (If that wasn't a pick-up line, I don't know what else would work as well with me....kids, I'm joshing here!)
Exchanging pleasantries took about five minutes, and I felt I knew him well enough to kind of "joke around a bit" and said..."What we really need now is some "Pre-Test Entertainment," you know, like they do just before the Rose Parade starts down Colorado Boulevard on New Year's Day." We continued our conversation...he went to the same school my three kids did, knew some of the same teachers and we were rolling right along "killing time" so to speak. Just about that time, two "in-liners" ran up to us and said..."Someone call 9-1-1, man down!"
Everyone swung into action, the fire truck came, the rescue truck came, the ambulance came, people got out of line,(literally) the male was transported to the hospital...David and I simply looked at each other and didn't say another word; thank goodness, the line started to move. But, we knew what each other was thinking. Some one's misfortune is not a laughing matter. The "man down" is doing just fine we later learned. One thing for sure, that incident took my mind off taking the Eye Examination and the Written Test which I did pass with 100%, and I am good for another five years! As they said when gold was discovered in this state of California..."Eureka!" I was out of the DMV office within an hour but no one will believe me on that one, either!
Now, about Eddie...Eddie wasn't born rich or famous and certainly not a hero when he first saw the light of day in 1890 in Columbus, Ohio. He did live a fascinating life, however, which, at one time, led him to Atlantic where he sold a Ford car or two. He loved car-racing from an early age, and more about those days can be found by typing his name under Search...great reading! Like the "five little Indians" at 210 Birch, he learned to roll his own cigarettes at the age of five and headed up a group of mischievous youngsters known at "The Horsehead Gang" of Columbus. We five rolled cigarettes for my Dad mostly, except for the time we tried to smoke cornsilk and Mom just happened to catch us. That woman could see whatever mischief we were just in the process of conjuring. Now, today, I can do the same, even from my house to theirs, and serves to keep my three kids on their tippy toes, you bet! (It's a "fey" thing...)
Anyway, Aunt Molly (Mom's sister) and Uncle Russ owned a family cafe where good food and good conversation were expected and served. Eddie would not be considered a "drifter" in those days, just a young man seeking a destiny... whatever it was he wanted to be when he grew up. It is on extremely reliable information, of course, that I know Aunt Molly and Uncle Russ decided they would "go the extra mile in making sure young Eddie had plenty of food, a good bed, and surrogate "parents" while he was in Atlantic." Whether or not Eddie kept in touch after Molly and Russ moved to Bellflower, California, and opened up another family-style restaurant, I know not, but I do know that even "heroes-in-progress" need a touch of tender, loving care just like you and I do. I am also convinced that Eddie thought more than once about his life and those people who were so important to him in reaching his destiny while waiting for his rescue (after three weeks floating around)from the vast Pacific Ocean so many years ago.
The highs-and-lows of Eddie's complete history is awesome...take a minute to check it out.
But, before I do that, let me tell you about my morning at the Pasadena's DMV office on a Wednesday the first week of March. Skipping details of what it takes to get a Golden Senior "dame" presentable for public consumption, let's move ahead to where you find me standing in line at 7:00 a.m., with about 25 people in line ahead of me, and it's kinda cold for sunny California, to boot.
Every nationality and language was represented by those semi-defrosted bodies, some with coffee (I guess) in hand and one fella was chomping away on the most delicious smelling burrito I have ever been in the vicinity of! The Nora Roberts romance book I had brought along seemed so out-of-place (even I was embarrassed at the cover) that I quickly stuffed it back into my laden-down shoulder bag and tried to feign interest in the road construction work that was taking place on Rosemead Boulevard, like I was an off-duty Cal-Trans supervisor or something important like that. (Since my jacket did not have pockets, trying to find an attractive way to showcase my hands, while in a standing position, without looking like a nervous bank robber or test-taker, is simply too exhausting at my age so I, in the most demure way possible, took care of a couple of cuticles to make the wait worthwhile. It's called "nibble and spit".) And, guess what, I caught the eye of one of the nicest young men in the line...ever! (he was in my line of spit but, lucky for him, I glanced up for a brief instant.) About 26, of Vietnam ancestry, and he wanted to know the time of day...like it was then 8 a.m. (If that wasn't a pick-up line, I don't know what else would work as well with me....kids, I'm joshing here!)
Exchanging pleasantries took about five minutes, and I felt I knew him well enough to kind of "joke around a bit" and said..."What we really need now is some "Pre-Test Entertainment," you know, like they do just before the Rose Parade starts down Colorado Boulevard on New Year's Day." We continued our conversation...he went to the same school my three kids did, knew some of the same teachers and we were rolling right along "killing time" so to speak. Just about that time, two "in-liners" ran up to us and said..."Someone call 9-1-1, man down!"
Everyone swung into action, the fire truck came, the rescue truck came, the ambulance came, people got out of line,(literally) the male was transported to the hospital...David and I simply looked at each other and didn't say another word; thank goodness, the line started to move. But, we knew what each other was thinking. Some one's misfortune is not a laughing matter. The "man down" is doing just fine we later learned. One thing for sure, that incident took my mind off taking the Eye Examination and the Written Test which I did pass with 100%, and I am good for another five years! As they said when gold was discovered in this state of California..."Eureka!" I was out of the DMV office within an hour but no one will believe me on that one, either!
Now, about Eddie...Eddie wasn't born rich or famous and certainly not a hero when he first saw the light of day in 1890 in Columbus, Ohio. He did live a fascinating life, however, which, at one time, led him to Atlantic where he sold a Ford car or two. He loved car-racing from an early age, and more about those days can be found by typing his name under Search...great reading! Like the "five little Indians" at 210 Birch, he learned to roll his own cigarettes at the age of five and headed up a group of mischievous youngsters known at "The Horsehead Gang" of Columbus. We five rolled cigarettes for my Dad mostly, except for the time we tried to smoke cornsilk and Mom just happened to catch us. That woman could see whatever mischief we were just in the process of conjuring. Now, today, I can do the same, even from my house to theirs, and serves to keep my three kids on their tippy toes, you bet! (It's a "fey" thing...)
Anyway, Aunt Molly (Mom's sister) and Uncle Russ owned a family cafe where good food and good conversation were expected and served. Eddie would not be considered a "drifter" in those days, just a young man seeking a destiny... whatever it was he wanted to be when he grew up. It is on extremely reliable information, of course, that I know Aunt Molly and Uncle Russ decided they would "go the extra mile in making sure young Eddie had plenty of food, a good bed, and surrogate "parents" while he was in Atlantic." Whether or not Eddie kept in touch after Molly and Russ moved to Bellflower, California, and opened up another family-style restaurant, I know not, but I do know that even "heroes-in-progress" need a touch of tender, loving care just like you and I do. I am also convinced that Eddie thought more than once about his life and those people who were so important to him in reaching his destiny while waiting for his rescue (after three weeks floating around)from the vast Pacific Ocean so many years ago.
The highs-and-lows of Eddie's complete history is awesome...take a minute to check it out.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Four Little Indians....
Pictured are Wayne Jasper Knight and Leroy Edmund (Bus) Prall
Peggy Ann Prall, Glee LaVonne Knight and Betty Lou Cranston
1944 - 210 Birch Street - Atlantic,Iowa
On what would have been your 85th birthday on St. Patrick's Day, 2010....Happy Birthday, Bus! Thanks for willing to share your new bicycle, the snappy slingshot and other boy-toys, Mom's minced ham sandwiches, tummy-grabbing crab apples borrowed from a neighbor's tree on the way to the Sunnyside Swimming Pool, Hansel to my Gretel when we were in the Third Grade at Grant School, catcher to my pitching, summer playground playmate and for trying your best to talk your best friend into taking me to the movies! Shoot, Bus, did you never have a Plan B?
And for being my big sister's little boy! Love ya...Auntie Betty
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Once a Hero...Always a Hero!
"When I grow up I want to be a hero!" You would never hear that slightly incongruous, self-serving boastful statement come out of the mouth of any self-respecting lad or lassie in my peer group at the time, the twenty-some First Graders at the now-demolished Grant School, Kindergarten through Third Grade.
So..Bobby Bailey, no relation to Billie of another storyline, did not wait to grow up to be a bona fide hero in the eyes of several starry-eyed damsels learning their A-B-C's alongside this always polite and quiet kid who lived up the street on Birch.
The day of the event of which I am about to tell you followed a day that Mom, Dad, brothers Dutch, Perle and Kenny, and I had spent visiting with Grandma Rhoda Cranston and our Uncle Ben on the family farm near Fletcher Chapel, a short distance from Atlantic, off of Highway 71. On that Sunday Uncle Ben proudly introduced us to the mysteries of "The Radio!" a ridiculous invention encased in an ugly box that made no impression on my small mind at all at the time. It certainly wasn't anything I would ever want to be bothered with...too tiny, too tinny sounding and one had to practically wear it to hear it...nope, not for me. I'd rather chase chickens around the farmyard and did. (Yes, I watched carefully where I stepped 'cause Grandma was a stickler for tidy floors, beloved granddaughter notwithstanding!)
All of this has nothing to do with Bobby except to explain that on the ride home from the Cranston Homestead, I felt uncomfortably warm but without any further ado or complaint, I settled down on the back seat and fell asleep. (Yes, I was a model child.)
Jump forward with me to the following Monday morning when off to school we kids went knowing it was bound to be another great and fun-filled day of learning and playing, soaking up quality education under the watchful eyes of Pearl Dahlberg, Esther Butler, Agnes Dawson, Maude Fryman, Clara Ergenbright, a staff like no other, believe me!
A bathroom break that followed consumption of cold chocolate milk this particular morning proved to be life-changing for me and for Bobby. No doors closed off the three or four stalls in the Girls' Bathroom and so it was here that a very observant classmate noticed several red bumps on the trunk of my body (I am blushing this minute when I think of how THAT could have happened...20/20 eyesight is the logical answer and I will try to let it go at that!) Said classmate decided to make this day an unscheduled "Share and Tell" day and I was "shared!" A more complete inspection by the teacher led to a telephone call to Mom and home I went...with measles! And more than a bit indignant! Strip-searched, found guilty of possession, punishment quickly rendered: two-weeks house arrest, meals included but no sympathetic visitors save siblings at home, and they wanted no part of being guilty by association. Could it get any worse? Enter Bobby! ...
Bobby, for whatever reason, picked up on my emotional state of affairs immediately, and though we were simply neighborhood playmates, decided he was going to "make things right!" Bobby, my hero!, (see the connection now?) promptly organized the first "gang" ever to walk the halls of joyful yet dignified Grant School named after Ulysses S. Grant, another warrior/hero of considerable fame.
Without much forethought of consequences, said juvenile gang members ambushed the unsuspecting lass and her supporters who, for every good reason, had spread the news of my contamination to each room via the one connecting hallway (we were a small school)!
The blows struck for right or wrong were light, and no permanent damage was inflicted upon one or the other warring factions. I was ensconced in bed, in my home across the alley from the battlefield and had no idea such a high price had been offered on my behalf. Of course, I felt like a little bit of "royalty" when I later heard of the skirmish, never did properly thank Bobby and The Gang, the skinniest, puniest, ragtag defenders of my somewhat dubious honor on the fateful day when Bobby became a "hero" as he led "The Charge of the Lightweight Brigade!"
Measles, bruised egos and skinned knees were bravely suffered as real heros and heroines do. Indeed, friendships were mended in time for the next pick-up game of softball in Talty's Pasture the following Saturday morning minus their ailing all-around female pitcher. Now...some 79 years later, thank you Bobby and The Gang!
And, as History will always have the last word, the male contenders lived on to fight another heroic battle for honor: World War II
So..Bobby Bailey, no relation to Billie of another storyline, did not wait to grow up to be a bona fide hero in the eyes of several starry-eyed damsels learning their A-B-C's alongside this always polite and quiet kid who lived up the street on Birch.
The day of the event of which I am about to tell you followed a day that Mom, Dad, brothers Dutch, Perle and Kenny, and I had spent visiting with Grandma Rhoda Cranston and our Uncle Ben on the family farm near Fletcher Chapel, a short distance from Atlantic, off of Highway 71. On that Sunday Uncle Ben proudly introduced us to the mysteries of "The Radio!" a ridiculous invention encased in an ugly box that made no impression on my small mind at all at the time. It certainly wasn't anything I would ever want to be bothered with...too tiny, too tinny sounding and one had to practically wear it to hear it...nope, not for me. I'd rather chase chickens around the farmyard and did. (Yes, I watched carefully where I stepped 'cause Grandma was a stickler for tidy floors, beloved granddaughter notwithstanding!)
All of this has nothing to do with Bobby except to explain that on the ride home from the Cranston Homestead, I felt uncomfortably warm but without any further ado or complaint, I settled down on the back seat and fell asleep. (Yes, I was a model child.)
Jump forward with me to the following Monday morning when off to school we kids went knowing it was bound to be another great and fun-filled day of learning and playing, soaking up quality education under the watchful eyes of Pearl Dahlberg, Esther Butler, Agnes Dawson, Maude Fryman, Clara Ergenbright, a staff like no other, believe me!
A bathroom break that followed consumption of cold chocolate milk this particular morning proved to be life-changing for me and for Bobby. No doors closed off the three or four stalls in the Girls' Bathroom and so it was here that a very observant classmate noticed several red bumps on the trunk of my body (I am blushing this minute when I think of how THAT could have happened...20/20 eyesight is the logical answer and I will try to let it go at that!) Said classmate decided to make this day an unscheduled "Share and Tell" day and I was "shared!" A more complete inspection by the teacher led to a telephone call to Mom and home I went...with measles! And more than a bit indignant! Strip-searched, found guilty of possession, punishment quickly rendered: two-weeks house arrest, meals included but no sympathetic visitors save siblings at home, and they wanted no part of being guilty by association. Could it get any worse? Enter Bobby! ...
Bobby, for whatever reason, picked up on my emotional state of affairs immediately, and though we were simply neighborhood playmates, decided he was going to "make things right!" Bobby, my hero!, (see the connection now?) promptly organized the first "gang" ever to walk the halls of joyful yet dignified Grant School named after Ulysses S. Grant, another warrior/hero of considerable fame.
Without much forethought of consequences, said juvenile gang members ambushed the unsuspecting lass and her supporters who, for every good reason, had spread the news of my contamination to each room via the one connecting hallway (we were a small school)!
The blows struck for right or wrong were light, and no permanent damage was inflicted upon one or the other warring factions. I was ensconced in bed, in my home across the alley from the battlefield and had no idea such a high price had been offered on my behalf. Of course, I felt like a little bit of "royalty" when I later heard of the skirmish, never did properly thank Bobby and The Gang, the skinniest, puniest, ragtag defenders of my somewhat dubious honor on the fateful day when Bobby became a "hero" as he led "The Charge of the Lightweight Brigade!"
Measles, bruised egos and skinned knees were bravely suffered as real heros and heroines do. Indeed, friendships were mended in time for the next pick-up game of softball in Talty's Pasture the following Saturday morning minus their ailing all-around female pitcher. Now...some 79 years later, thank you Bobby and The Gang!
And, as History will always have the last word, the male contenders lived on to fight another heroic battle for honor: World War II
Friday, March 12, 2010
UNFORGETTABLE...THAT'S WHAT THEY ARE!
This Page is for you, Colleen! Thanks for believing in me....
Some few years ago a nagging thought crept into, took over and laid siege to my whole being...put down on paper a bit of history for Denny, Mary and Dana (and their progeny, a word I have come to find comfort/ease in using) and so I did. I typed out for the Title Page the most convoluted title ever: "Recollections of a 'Child of the Depression Years' In My Kind of Town - Atlantic, Iowa - From the Heart of the 'Richest Kid in Town!'"
AND THEN...further, had the audacity to type out a sort of explanation of what this "important tome" was to be about! Honestly! Read what I wrote and chortle along with me: "Growing up in Atlantic in the 20's, 30's, 40's has given me an abundance (some say an "over-abundance") of childhood memories of loving family and enduring friends...some a mixture of each..and it is a 'Golden Years' Goal' to put down on paper some of those Recollections of Yesteryear that always seem to have involved members living at 210 Birch and those good and loving citizens of Atlantic who were adopted into the Cranston Family for one reason or another. Mostly, they dropped by to sample Mom's cooking and stayed to tell one 'fish story' after another...and do I have some 'whoppers' for you!"
(Well, it seemed a creative/informative idea at that time to do it that way, so I printed up 300 copies, took them to Staples for binding and sent copies to family members, friends and the AHS Class of 1943! Not only did that take considerable nerve on my part to share recollections with people who probably had a whole different slant on the subject, but it also cost me a heck of a lot of money to become a "self-published author!") But, the nagging thought that had consumed my whole being for the while was delegated to the "back burner" and what JOY! it was for me to relive what truly was "from the heart of", in reality, a really, really poor kid but poor, only as far as I could "throw a bull by the horns!" Which means, Colleen, I was "rich!" 'cause I have yet to see "anyone throw a bull by the horns," even in Vegas; and, if it did, it would stay there, right?
Here is one of the stories I included in my Cranston Archive:
Trudy and Peggy Ann
"The baby girl was about to be birthed that first Spring day, 1929, in her grandparents' modest home at 210 Birch.
My 24-year-old sister, Trudy, was at the ready and waiting, and so was I...at the tender age of four, a very inquisitive onlooker...running in and out of the small front bedroom as other family members were scooting around boiling water, waiting for Dr. Greenleaf to make his appearance and making sure all the other less-curious grandkids were kept at a distance. This was a family affair of the first order...
Natural curiosity was one of my earliest attributes to surface, and I was not about to miss all the commotion and excitement, little dreaming, of course, this day's event would be subject to scrutiny on the Internet in 2001! (And now on The Blog!)
That tiny little being created in husband-wife love and now entering the world in the fulness of prophesied Biblical pain, was named Peggy Ann. Did I actually see the birthing process? No...I mostly remember the hesitant wave of the hand my sister sent my way. Could she have been trying to shoo me away? Well, yes, but was I that precocious a child to understand that? Nooo...) I most clearly remember the beautiful emerald green pajamas she wore that eventful day and little else save that Peggy Ann and I bonded forever on March 20, 1929, in the front bedroom of my parents' home. Happy Birthday, Peg!
At family gatherings these days, Peggy Ann never fails to relate the story of her big brother, Bus, and I taking her for a buggy ride around the block, left her cooing away in her buggy while we ambled on home sans the buggy and the baby! It was a neighbor who tattled on us..Peggy Ann arrived home safe and sound after a short span of time, none the worse for wear but she probably could have used a good sun block. Were Bus and I guilty of this dastardly act of carelessness? Probably. All witnesses have since departed this world, and it is her word against mine. I do remember flushing her dime down the toilet one day, but that was later on in our lives. I do feel guilty about that as a dime bought so much penny candy at that time...what a waste! Nowadays, Peggy Ann drives me around town when I visit family in Des Moines and Atlantic. With two strikes against my character already, I will be a vigilant passenger at all times when we get together in August even tho' I have long since repaid that dime debt...over and over and over!(That dime-debt has earned more "interest" than all the pocket-money interest Bill Gates or that cute guy from Omaha has ever earned!)
Trudy was then and always my "hero" in every way. She bought a police scanner. (I, too!) She was a golf and bowling champion, statewide and national! (I show up weekly at Action Lanes on Tuesday and Thursday to exchange recipes, compare remedies and have lunch.) She was a cuisine kind of cook. (I Blog.) She was my champion in all things, "had my back" at all times and is in my heart forever...she lived to be a few months short of her 100th birthday. (I think I have enough "blogging material on hand" to keep me off the streets and my "victims" uptight for a few more years.) ...we will all just have to wait and see, huh? :)
Colleen-- There will be other stories to share about the "best dancer in town", school chums, others of much importance to my growing-up years in Atlantic...then I will tell you about the story behind my being a "dame" only with a capital "D"! Not kidding here, Colleen! Are you chortling yet?
(Afterthought: Spilling the "beans" is pure delight but sure as shootin'...someone is gonna sue me one day!) Ya think?
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