family

Three Little Girls

“To Thine Own Self Be True,” says Polonius to Hamlet. Those words have been spoken millions of times to many.

My mother-in-law Lisa was not my favorite person but she was a wonderful grandmother to my daughter Paula. She was known to her grandchildren as “GM” because when my daughter, who was the first grandchild, was a baby, Lisa wanted her to say “Grandmother Dear.” Paula tried but as a two-year-old, it came out garbled, something like “gwrm”, which became affectionately “GM” and caught on with all of the grandchildren. Lisa became “GM” and my father-in-law, her grandfather Paul, simply “GF” – you get the picture.

Lisa was from an upscale English family. She was more formal and parochial in her ways than my parents. She spent a great deal of time with her three granddaughters, my daughter Paula the first, followed in two years by the twins, Cheryl and Lynn.

Lisa was especially known for being a very good cook, something she learned to do after she married my father-in-law Paul. As it was told to me she didn’t know how to cook but rather learned to after marriage in order to feed “Paul Z.”, he was a priest and she was his wife, which meant she had a very distinct role and cooking was paramount. He was also a very large and handsome man with a big appetite.

Lisa spent hours in the kitchen cooking for Paul Z, and when she was not cooking for Paul Z specifically, she was cooking for the family, Whenever the three granddaughters were with her, she would prepare meals while the three little girls sat in their high chairs at the kitchen table. Lisa would be preparing something, the whole time talking to the three girls, teaching them about life, love, and family. Whatever the lessons, they always had a great time. As I said she was a wonderful grandmother.

On this particular afternoon, Lisa was baking a cake, a four-tiered cake, “perhaps it was someone’s birthday.” It was big and fluffy and the three toe-headed blondes were excited to be dipping their little fingers into the bowls of cake dough and frosting.

1950s-mother--daughter-baking-a-cake-vintage-images

Carrying on an appropriate conversation with the three little girls – the twins aged 2 and Paula at age 4 – Lisa decided to talk about love and then asked each of them who they loved. She started by example “GM loves Paula and GM loves Cheryl, and GM loves Lynn, and GM loves GF” and so forth.

Lisa then prompted Cheryl who was always a very bubbly, happy child. Cheryl went down her list “Cheryl loves mommy and daddy, and Cheryl loves GM and GF, and Cheryl loves Hennessy” (Hennessy was GM and GF’s dog). “Cheryl loves Lynn and Cheryl loves Paula.”

Lisa then went on to Lynn, who was like Cheryl an easy-going child, and Lynn went down her list. “Lynn loves GM and GF. Lynn loves mommy and daddy. Lynn loves Cheryl and Lynn loves Paula.” Lisa was so encouraging “Wonderful Lynn!” she said, and turned to my daughter and her first born, Paula Jonelle.

Paula, more intense, pensive and introspective than the other two, gave the question real thought, and then very decidedly gave her answer: “Paula loves Paula!”

And there it was.

Laughing out loud, Lisa said, “Oh, of course, and who else does Paula love?” Paula answered. “Paula loves Paula.”

Lisa relayed this to the family and forever at family holidays and dinners it was known as the “Paula loves Paula” story, told over and over again, always garnering laughs and giggles. And to this day, as Paula’s mother, I can say unequivocally that nothing has changed. My daughter takes care of herself first. It is for this reason that she is so well equipped to take care of me.

March 18, 2019 0

What We Can Learn From Our Mother’s About Thanksgiving

From My Rehab Facility, Thanksgiving Lessons For My Daughter

By Mary Wenger, registered nurse, and creator of MarytotheContrary.com

I am in my late 70’s and it is during this time year that I think about my parents the most. My mother was generally speaking an unhappy woman, but at Thanksgiving time she was always happy and this is when I think about her and my father the most.

My mother started preparing for Thanksgiving in early November, and her preparations were all about the details. The event started when she started pulling out the cookie books. She started to decide which cookies she would be making, and there would be hundreds of them. One unforgettable year she made 90 dozen cookies, and she always gave most of them away. Thanksgiving through Christmas was the only time of year when, for my mother, it was really about everyone else.

After the cookie planning started, she turned her attention to the turkey. My father was a welder, so we did not have a lot of money, but we were a family of six so we needed a large turkey, very large, and it was always expensive but this was one item she would splurge on at the local farm. Mom would proudly make a call to this local farm to order the fat bird, and hang up with a smile as fat as the bird itself.

Before Thanksgiving dinner we piled into the family car and head to Cumberland Street in our small town of Lebanon, PA to see the Thanksgiving parade and stood in the cold, waiting for what seemed like hours, our hands and toes were frozen and teeth clicking as steam puffed through our noses in anticipation. Our Thanksgiving Day parade was not big, but to us, it was so exciting, and to me, it was all so big. People would dress up and toss candy and gum, which to us kids was a big deal – we would scramble to catch as much as we could in that freezing cold air. The parade marked the start of Christmas because at the end was the Santa Clause who would climb up on the fire truck, and then up the fire ladder to the second floor of the big department store in town, Bon Ton, and wave to the crowd, throwing candy out to all of us.

We had a lot of food at our Pennsylvania Dutch dinner table: an enormous turkey, peas, creamed corn, jellied cranberry, thick slices of white bread, stuffing, salad, boiled and thick cut potatoes and sweet potatoes with huge chunks of butter, and heaps of mashed potatoes made with real cream. We drank tall glasses of chocolate milk and for dessert, we could choose from ice cream, jello, cakes, and pies.

Thanksgiving was about my mother’s vision of how things could be when at her best with the family. She taught me that it’s what you do by example, taking the time to create something for someone else. The details are what people remember. I remember how much she worried about where she got the turkey, the size and plumpness of the turkey, the cookies she would bake, the flour she would use, where she bought the butter, the table setting, and what time we would leave for the parade. Preparing the family for all of the details mattered to her. My mother made sure everyone was ready and together, and she started to ready us early for what was to come next, from food shopping to where we would stand on the parade route for the best experience in our humble town. Family matters, if even for a moment. Eventually, we would all split up in our lives and go our own ways, and many of us would stop speaking to each other all together, but on this one day, we were one, a whole unit in a temporary glory she could revel in. Time is ominous. Thanksgiving actually meant that Christmas was on the way. The day wasn’t about the settlers, but that something else was on the horizon, it was a prelude.

My mother felt that Thanksgiving, more than any other time of year, was important, and so to this day, I do too.

I am in a rehabilitation facility, temporarily, recovering from brain surgery, and may not be able to come home for Thanksgiving. My daughter is spending the days here with me and we are going over the list of food I’d like to have on Thanksgiving day, as she and my son-in-law will have to cook and bring the meal to me. As these memories surface at this time in my life, I am thankful that I am alive today and able to pass these memories lessons to her.

March 18, 2019 0

Vegetables, Fruit Trees and Hobos

My parents inherited a parcel of land in the suburb of Lebanon, Pennsylvania. To a Texan, this ⅓ of an acre was a smidgen of earth, but in this part of the world, a parcel of land this size would house eight double homes with eight backyards and eight outhouses.

In the summer, Dad decided to increase our food income by planting all sorts of vegetables: beans, tomatoes, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and corn. He did the planting, convincing my mother that he needed a full sized tractor to assist this modern day farmer. My brother said it was more like a planter of yesteryear without the horse.

Of course, there were four of us kids to do the hard work-planting potatoes, sowing seeds, keeping the rows free from weeds, and harvesting the veggies.

There was always something to harvest throughout the season. Early on it was stripping the snap bean plants, then after the beans, tomatoes were pulled from their plants to ripen from the vines to line up on our backyard fence. Later is the summer, our father, after a hard days work, would come home and with a giant metal tub, go out to our ”farm” and snap off dozens of corn cobs, and bring them into the house. Mom would boil them up and with a pound of butter on the table, always a steak or prime rib, several other veggies, and often an apple pie for dessert. We would sit down to, a royal feast you could say.

Also around our land he planted fruit trees, including apples, pears and peaches. Each year the fruit trees grew taller and more abundant as my father would nurse them with his green thumb, and each year people in the neighborhood would help themselves to the fruit, which was fine by him. My father so enjoyed sharing our bounty with the neighborhood that he never minded cleaning up the spoils on the ground.

I also remember that, in summer, hobos would come to the house. The word was out that Mom was a soft touch. My mother always gave them a sandwich and a soda, and in those days the sandwich slides were big, thick slices of freshly baked bread, stuffed with either thick slices of ham, a sirloin steak, or maybe miles of Lebanon bologna and cheese with lots of mustard. The hobos would sit on our porch and chat with us kids, and in those days no one ever thought of anyone stealing from us – what was there to steal?

These are the things I remember.

August 7, 2018 0

My Pets Are “My People” Too

Do you remember the name of the person who sat opposite you at your brother/sister/cousin’s wedding dinner? Or the name of the salesman who sold you your first car? Or when you lost your first molar? No, you likely can’t. Because these people were not all that important in our lives.

However, I would bet a dollar to a doughnut that you can remember practically all of your pets, if indeed you were lucky enough, like me, to grow up having animals in your life.

There are those of you who, like my sister, do not like animals. Or, you are unlucky to have allergies out the kazoo to fur or feathers of any kind. Or, you have not had the privilege to have a friend-to-the-end pet in your life. I have had many pets who helped to make my life more enjoyable, more interesting, and just happier because they were there. My friends. To the end.

I would like to share a few of my friends from my past, and in my present, who traveled along my life’s highway.

“Peso”, a German Shepard, stood guard at the family compound when I was growing up. Nobody, but nobody crossed his path who was not a familiar face. I can’t say it was “Gunfight At The O.K. Corral” (a famous movie from 1957 starring Kirk Douglas, Burt Lancaster, and Dennis Hopper, among others) in my neighborhood, but close enough. Peso protected my family and my home. His loyalty to us was second only to his love for us and us of him. The pictures are long gone of me as a child, standing next to this loyal friend as I hung on to his thick furry body, me smiling, and Peso looking happy, with his tongue hanging out; my love for him remains forever in my heart.

I don’t remember the names of all of the goldfish I had, but I do remember how happy they made me just watching them do their swimming thing.

I remember the kitten I rescued who had fallen into a hole in the ground. He was huddled on a little ledge. I climbed in halfway and, with my 12-year-old feet digging into the seat (it was an outhouse), I grabbed the crap-covered, wet cat and pulled him out. Both he and I were hosed down by the neighbors who later helped me bathe our furry friend.

I remember my brother’s rabbits, especially “Big Pat”-one huge, big-eared, friendly bunny who lived for years with us. We could take the rabbits out of their pens and let them graze in the yard.

I remember “Holly”, a black lab who, like Peso, kept the family safe, as one teenager found out. This teen was looking for drug money and tried to enter our house through the patio doors only to be greeted by a very angry Holly who took a bite out of crime (the kid’s leg)…

Holly decided she was my private friend. Each night she would sit down right next to me in bed and I would pet her good night. Holly lived a long life. When she left us, for many nights afterwards, I would put my hand down to pet my dear friend who was not there.

I remember “Inky”. My daughter wanted a pet of her own, and finally my husband relented to her having a cat, to which I mean we returned home with a beautiful little black dog — it was Inky. My husband was not talking to us for a day. A few days later and many years later, Inky was carried around in my husband’s arms, or he was on his lap in his office.

Inky became Don’s dog, and remained his dog until the end. Many weeks before my husband’s death, Inky stayed on Don’s bed next to him. For many weeks afterwards, he was still on his bed.

I remember when I first moved to my present home, I took a walk to a dog park a few blocks away, feeling unusually low. I met a small brown and white Beagle named “Nimbus”. He took one look at me across the park, strode across to say hello as if we were the best of friends. Nimbus introduced me to all the “park regulars”, the hidden ‘ole swimmin’ hole, the fountains for dogs and people, and you think i’m crazy now, but it happened…I discovered quickly that Nimbus was the King of the park

Nimbus eventually introduced me to his family and they too became my close friends. One day years later, Nimbus did not come when I called him from across the park. I knew what this meant and said goodbye to him at the park. He died a few weeks later.

“Marley”, named after Bob Marley, comes from Turks & Caicos and was carried home in my daughter’s purse. He was found, tiny, half starved,walking down the middle of a one lane dirt highway. That was 11 years ago. Marley is over 60 lbs., my main squeeze. There is no room in this story to tell you about Marley.

And then there’s “Will”.

Will is a little white dog; a member of the Coton de Tulear family. He is a ball of fluff who puts a smile on my face the minute I hear his yap yap yapping as he drives up in his Toyota to visit. He is accompanied by another friend, a female human. Will, named after William Shakespeare, has all knowing marble black eyes. He has conversations with me on a dog-to-human level, always happy conversations.

I’ve had conversations with many exciting people, and not so exciting people, but my conversations with Will are always more interesting. And anyway, would you rather talk with Will or with the IRS? I thought so.

May 23, 2017 0

Mary To The Contrary

Tag

Three Little Girls

What We Can Learn From Our Mother’s About Thanksgiving

Vegetables, Fruit Trees and Hobos

My Pets Are “My People” Too