Throwback Thursday

December 10, 2015 By Carole

Today we’re throwing it back. We’re throwing it allllllll the way back to December 1992 when Hannah was 3 months old.

I cannot even stand the cuteness. And yes, she was a roly poly little thing. Or, as my pediatrician used to tell me, she was clearly thriving. In all seriousness, she was 8lb 5 oz when she was born in September and by December of that year she was up to a hefty 14lbs. That little velour jumpsuit is loose – and so cute! Hannah was the best dressed Christmas baby ever! – but that’s mostly my little nugget filling it up with her chubbiness.

I had an Emmaljunga pram and we went everywhere with that thing. It was heavy and a pain in the ass to haul in and out of the car but Hannah loved it because she could stretch out and be comfortable, nap when she felt like it, and gaze adoringly at her mama. Or, as my mom used to say, be the princess that she was clearly meant to be.

I look at these pictures and they bring back some truly happy memories. I remember that by then I was feeling like maybe I had a handle on this mom thing, finally. I was back to work but on a light schedule, she was (mostly) sleeping through the night, I was still able to breastfeed exclusively thanks to a very helpful mom and an understanding library staff, and the joy I felt when I got home from work each day and her eyes lit up at the sight of me – well – I get verklempt even now when I think about it.

I was on the verge of my first Christmas as a mom and I can honestly say that the wonder and magic of the season was profound and new and it has been ever since.

Throwback Thursday: This One’s For Dale

June 25, 2015 By Carole

In honor of Throwback Thursday and in celebration of Dale’s birthday, which is tomorrow, I’m sharing this picture of Dale’s mom, Ruthie, with her 3 boys. (Okay, she eventually wound up with 4 boys and a girl but these were the children she had at this time. Work with me here.)

It was taken in September 1951 at Kozy Kamp Hideaway Village – not that I have any idea where that is. My mother-in-law, gawd love her, was really good about writing on the back of photos. That’s how I know where this was taken and when. It’s also how I know that Randy, the oldest, is 2 1/2 years, Glen is 20 months, and Dale, the baby, is 2 1/2 months. That’s right. 3 boys in 3 1/2 years. And would you just look at her? She looks happy. And like the picture of health with her big smile and her long legs crossed at the ankles. The boys are clean and dressed and smiling and Dale, well, he looks a little milk drunk, but that’s to be expected given his age. I’d be willing to bet the photo was taken by Dale’s dad, Jack, and that would probably account for the looks of adoration on their faces. Well, except for Dale because he’s oblivious. And milk drunk.

I love this photo for a million reasons but mostly for the glimpse it gives me of Dale’s earliest days. He was blessed to be born into a loving family with amazing and supportive parents. They camped and hiked and traveled. They worked hard and played harder. They loved each other and their kids fiercely and set an example that all 5 of their children strive to live up to every day.

Good people, I tell you, and I’m grateful that they raised Dale to be the man he is. So, on Dale’s almost birthday, I just want to say thanks to Ruthie and Jack. You raised a fine man.

Throwback Thursday Christmas 1992

December 18, 2014 By Carole

Allow me to present . . . mother and daughter in their matching Christmas sweatshirts:

Yeah.

These must have been a gift from my mom and, while it’s cute on Hannah, on me? Oy. Is it appropriate to use a Yiddish exclamation of dismay on a Christmas photo? Well, I’m going with it.

And can we talk about my hair? The blondeness? And the permed-ness? And the headband with the bow? Double oy.

In any case, this was taken at my mom’s by her Christmas tree and in front of the fireplace. You can just see the edge of the Ten Commandments that now hangs in my dining room. And there are ornaments in that photo that now hang on my tree. And my baby girl – just look at those cheeks and those tiny feet and hands.

So, despite the corny sweatshirts and bad 80s hair that obviously carried over into the early 90s, it’s a photo I sort of treasure.

Happy Christmas, Throwback Thursday Style!

Throwback Thursday: The One About Not Judging

November 20, 2014 By Carole

When I was 5, which is when this picture was taken, my mom was a single mom. My parents had split up when I was 2 and my mom hadn’t yet married my stepdad and so she was doing it on her own. I think she got $75 per week in child support and that was for all 3 kids. She didn’t work because, well, it was 1970 and most moms didn’t work in those days. At least, not most moms where we lived. So, we didn’t have a lot of money. I never felt like we didn’t have enough, there was always food and our house was warm and I can honestly say I didn’t want for anything.

But.

I got free lunch. And in those days the kids with free lunch were pretty obvious because everyone else paid for their lunch and we (I think it was a we but I felt like I was the.only.one) had an orange card that the cafeteria lady punched when we went through the line. It didn’t bother me, though. I thought it was cool and I was special.

Until.

The lunch lady, Mrs. Holmes, (and I won’t describe her other than to say – picture your typical lunch lady with the white smock and hairnet) decided that maybe I didn’t need free lunch. I’m not sure why she decided this but I think it may have been because I had pretty nice clothes. My mom had a very good friend with 3 daughters and I got all of their hand-me-downs. And there were a lot. I wore a dress to school every day and I could go weeks before I had to wear the same one twice. They were pretty much all Polly Flinders dresses and I must have looked like a little rich kid who was taking advantage of the system.

I’m not sure how a kid could do that but anyway, she decided to start following me to my table. And making sure I ate my lunch. All of my lunch. Now, I was a good little girl and I liked to follow the rules so I tried to do as she said. But one day? One day we had cowboy stew. It was some kind of meat in gravy that was grey and it was ladled over mashed potatoes. I thought it looked like someone threw up on my mashed potatoes and I just couldn’t bring myself to eat it. And when I didn’t eat it Mrs. Holmes started yelling at me. She told me that other people paid for my food and I had better eat it because it was free and I wasn’t allowed to waste it. So I cried. And I got more and more upset. And then I threw up on Mrs. Holmes.

That, of course, earned me a trip to the nurse and she called my mom. I told my mom the whole story when she came to pick me up and I can still see the look on her face. She was angry and indignant on my behalf. And crushed that a person of authority, one who should have been compassionate, instead berated and belittled me. I remember her taking me to the principal’s office and I remember her telling Mrs. Bohlin, the secretary, that she absolutely had to see Mr. Kelleher, the principal, immediately. And I remember sitting on the chair next to Mrs. Bohlin’s desk while my mom went in and talked to Mr. Kelleher.

My mom told him the whole sordid tale and Mrs. Holmes never bothered me again. In fact, I don’t really remember her after that. I’m not sure if she left or if she just stayed far away from me but I don’t really recall interacting with her ever again.

Are you wondering why I’m telling you this story? It’s not so you will feel sorry for me or my plight as a 1st grader. It’s not so that you will run out and make a donation to your food pantry. (Although, if you want to do that it would be awesome!)

Here’s why I told you this story: It’s partly because it shows how amazing my mom was. She was my champion and she wasn’t about to let any lunch lady be mean to me. But it’s mainly because I learned an important lesson from Mrs. Holmes. I learned not to judge others by their appearance. It’s hard not to do this, especially at this time of year when all of the charities are asking for help and we wonder if it’s going to the right people. We see the people at the grocery store, paying with their EBT cards. We wonder if they really need help. We wonder if they are making good choices with the money they get. Why are they buying junk food instead of vegetables? Why do they have things we have to work so hard for? We wonder if they are scamming the system.

But before you judge them, think about me, the little girl in the very nice dress who got free lunch. And remember that you don’t know anyone’s story until they tell it to you themselves.

Throwback Thursday: Soft As A Grape Revisited

November 13, 2014 By Carole

One of my ideas that I shared with the other participants in NaBloPoMo was that we could occasionally republish an old post from our blog. Something that we felt particularly good about or that didn’t get much attention at the time. I know it’s kind of a cop out but this work week is condensed and intense since I took Monday off and Tuesday was a holiday and my time for blogging right now is exactly . . . zilch.

And so, I thought, do a Throwback Thursday of an old blog post. Something from waaaaaaay back in the day. I wasn’t sure what to choose but then a friend on Facebook mentioned making grape jelly and inspiration struck. Allow me to present, from back in October of 2005, when my writing was good but my pictures were small and not-so-good, the post I wrote about making grape jelly with Dale’s mom.

Dale grew up with a grape arbor in his backyard. He has loads of stories about the grape harvest every year – including the accomplishment of stuffing 100 grapes in his mouth.
He fondly remembers grape fights and tossing grapes into the air to catch them in his mouth. He chuckles when he tells the story of tossing a handful of rocks, rather than grapes, into the air for his brother, Randy, to catch and swallow. He also remembers the year the grapes fermented on the vine and the birds all got drunk. But mostly what he remembers is drinking the grape juice and eating the grape jelly his mother made every year.

My mother-in-law, Ruthie, was what we often refer to as a “character.” She was loving and funny and silly and believed fiercely in protecting the earth. She walked to the river behind our houses every day that she could and nothing made her happier than just being outdoors. She was ahead of her time by recylcing way before anybody else did. She conserved water and resources and could squeeze the life out of a dollar like nobody I’ve ever known. Making juice and jelly from the grape arbor in her yard was something that she enjoyed. But she also saw it as a responsibility, a way of reaping the benefits of the land and feeding her family with the results.

Six years ago I asked Ruthie to teach me to make grape jelly. Now, with apologies to Jane Austen, it is a truth universally acknowledged that the day you make grape jelly must be hotter than the hinges of hell. So, on this particular day in September, I headed next door to make grape jelly, in the heat, with Ruthie. We laughed and we talked and we sweated and by the end of the day we had about 4 dozen jars of jelly and 4 big bottles of juice. I had learned to make the jelly and I have made it every year since. And it has always been hot and humid on the day I’ve made it.

Ruthie passed away this past winter and, while we hadn’t made jelly together in recent years due to her illness, this is still the first year I’ve done it without her being right next door. As I said to Dale while we were picking over the grapes that he and Hannah had picked the other day, I do this to honor his mother’s spirit. She taught me to do this and continuing the tradition is a way to keep her and the things that mattered to her alive – not just for the sake of her memory but for our whole family. Because, of course, the jelly will be shared with the family. And co-workers and the mailman and the neighbors, too, depending on the harvest.

Most people probably wouldn’t bother with this anymore. They’d leave the grapes for the birds or just let them rot on the vine. They are probably the same people who buy their socks at Walmart and their sweaters at L.L. Bean. Nothing wrong with that but no real sense of accomplishment. No pride in the finished product. No piece of yourself in every mouthful of juice and schmear of jelly. All of that and also the fact that nothing, but nothing (except maybe the magic of knitting) compares to starting with this:

and winding up with this: