Pun intended

When I was a child I spent a lot of time at my Gram’s on the farm.  Her kitchen was long and narrow with one window at the end.  The kitchen sink was porcelain with one large basin and single faucets.  Opposite the sink was a Maytag wringer washer; the one with the square tub.

This was the height of luxury to my Gram.  There were many changes within a few years due to the fact that the kids (9 of them) had grown up and moved out except for Aunt Gayle and her family who lived with Gram.  The siblings and siblings-in-law got together and modernized a bit.  Running water was piped in.  Just cold for a while, but eventually a luxurious hot water heater was put in.  There was a glitch in the installation of the hot water and somehow the toilet (wow, an inside toilet) got hooked up with hot instead of cold!  Strange sensation but welcome in the winter.

The kerosene stove was replaced with a large electric stove that stood on legs and had an oven on the end.  It looked kind of like this. 

This stove worked its way into my family many years later. (Another story).

I loved to be there on wash day.  Before the hot water was installed, Gram and Aunt Gayle heated water on the new stove to pour into the Maytag.  Then Gram would take her paring knife and shave a bar of Fels Naptha soap into to washing machine tub.

I remember standing on my tiptoes and watching the flakes fall into the hot steaming water.  The smell of the soap was wonderful. At least it was to me.

I watched the whole process.  They started with the white clothes, sheets towels etc.  Then the colored clothes and last the jeans and coveralls that my uncles wore for work and in the barn.  By that time the water had cooled down so the colors didn’t run.   I helped (“be careful, don’t get your hands too close to the wringer”) catch the clothes and guide them into the rinse tub as they came out of the wringer smashed flat.  There was a special way to feed them in so the buttons wouldn’t pop off.  I helped to hang the clothes on the line by handing the clothespins to Gram or Aunt Gayle.  The lines would be weighed down so much that we had special long poles to lift them up and keep the clothes from touching the grass.  My favorite time was in the spring especially when the lilacs were blooming.  Ahh the fragrance…a bit of breeze, birds tweeting…..

Then, when my Mom tucked me in at night I loved the fresh clean smell of the sheets with just a touch of lilac.  MMMM seems a lot of my memories are triggered by smells.  Am I sparking any memories in you?  Comments welcome.

I love the old fashioned, simple, “comfort foods.”   As a child I loved to go to my Grandma’s house on the Farm.  Mealtimes were the best.  My Aunt Gayle was the cook.  She made bread every day.  The house smelled delicious.  I loved to watch her tip the loaves out of the pans and place them on racks to cool.  She usually made white bread but occasionally she would vary the routine and make whole wheat or sourdough.  Her white bread was beautiful.  The texture was perfect: small bubbles dispersed evenly throughout the loaf, crispy golden brown crust, and that heavenly yeasty smell.

These were the days of oleomargarine.  I am unclear as to the history of margarine, maybe it was a butter substitute developed during the war.  It came in many different forms and packaging.  The one I remember most was a solid brick of white resembling lard.  It came wrapped in paper.  Instructions were included with a small packet of bright orange powder.  We were to sprinkle the powder onto the softened block of margarine and stir until the whole thing was colored yellow.  Another way it came was in a sealed pouch with a blister of orange colored dye.  You had to break the blister and squeeze the bag until the margarine was colored.  Sometimes time was short and demand was high so Aunt Gayle did not have time to “fool around” with coloring the “Oleo”.  In that case we had “White Butter”.  It always amazed me that it tasted good, just like the yellow Oleo.  I loved to white butter on the fresh white bread.  Yum!

Another favorite was White Beans.  Aunt Gayle would make a huge pot of great Northern Beans.  She made them with a bit of ham or bacon, and some onions.  She served them in a bowl with some chopped raw onions sprinkled on the top.   I loved them with lots of black pepper, a thick slice of crusty white bread with white butter melting in.  This is still one of my favorites except White Butter is no more (thank goodness, I guess it was mostly transfats and has proven to be a factor in our health issues of today).  Still, it is a warm, cozy memory that makes me smile.

Down the Hill to the Pond

Winters were different When I was a kid!  At least so it seems to me.  There was more snow.  It stayed cold all winter except for what we called the January thaw.  Seems that we would get a warm spell lasting a few days and melting some of the snow.  Then it would get cold again and the snow would freeze on the top layer forming a crust.  We would try to walk carefully on top of the snow cover trying not to break through.  If we did, our legs would sink  to our butts or our waist.   We were dressed for it.  I had snow pants made of wool.  They had suspenders and covered part of my chest.  I had boots with a fuzzy lining that fit over my shoes.  My handmade mittens could tuck up under the cuffs of my jacket and my hat tied under my chin.  I don’t remember being cold.  My sister and I and the neighbor kids built forts and houses in the snow.  I can see them now…bright pink cheeks, damp hair peeking out from under our hats, noses running.   Wow, I can smell the wet mittens trying to wipe my nose.

One of our favorite things to do was ice skate.  Seems like we always could find a patch of ice down the hill.  we would set out armed with shovels and towing a sled.  We would stomp around between the peat bogs and cat tails making sure the ice was strong enough.  The water wasn’t more than 15-18 inches deep .  After testing the firmness of the ice, we would take turns sitting on the sled to put skates on then also take turns with the shovel. skating along behind it scraping the snow away as we went.  Sometimes the ice would be very rough and bumpy then at other times it would be smooth and clear as glass.  I remember laying down on my stomach and looking into the ice.  It was so clear i could see to the bottom.

One of the tricky parts of skating with the shovel was that you couldn’t always see the tufts of  grass under the snow.  The closer we got to the edges of the bogs and cat tails the thinner the ice was so sometimes you would be skating along and the shovel would hit a dry patch.   Zip, head over heels in a minute!  We usually skated long enough to clear the ice and only quit when it got dark, we could not feel our toes, or someone had to go to the bathroom!

When I was about 5, we had a particularly good patch of ice.  Smooth as glass.  Some of my Aunts and Uncles,( my mom was one of nine children),  my Parents, and some neighbors had a skating party one night.  The weather was at a reasonable temperature, the moon was full and there was no wind.  The uncles gathered  wood and had a fire near the edge of the ice.  My Aunt Gayle made hot chocolate and carried it in a thermos.  I can recall the smell of the chocolate combined with the clear fresh air!  I had a fun sliding around on my boots and was surprised to see my aunts and uncles on skates!  I never thought of them skating.  My uncles lifted me up and swung me around and my aunts held my hands and helped me slide on the ice.  It was wonderful.  That was the only time I remember such a gathering.

In my early grade school days, we could bring skates to school.  The custodians would make a skating pond every year and we were allowed to skate at recess and at lunch time.  I could hardly wait!  My family scrounged up a pair of skates for me.  They were Hockey Skates,  Brown, and worn so thin at the ankles that someone had patched them with black patches.  I didn’t care, my feet were small and it was a wonder that they found a pair to fit me.  These had obviously been around!

Recess came and I struggled to get my skates on and tied.  I didn’t do too bad, ankles wobbled and so did I but I stayed on my feet.  There were rules on the pond.  No crack the whip,  no racing, skate counter clockwise around the pond, be careful of the little kids.  Some of the teachers put skates on and joined us to maintain order.  It worked pretty well and was timed so that the biggest kids were on the ice at different times.  I don’t remember how long recess was, but it seemed like a long enough time to get the skates on, get on the ice, skate a while, get the skates off again and get back to the classroom.  Phew!  I don’t think I skated at lunch time because I was a walker and not a bussed kid and I went home for lunch.    There was one drawback though,  it was on this ice that I became aware of “clicks”.  You wouldn’t think it back then, but it was just as prevalent then as it is now.  The girls in my class would skate two by two and choose their best friends to skate with.  I had lots of friends…I thought.  Then I realized that I was skating alone.  Apparently worn brown Hockey Skates labeled me some kind of outsider!   I looked at the beautiful white figure skates being worn by the “in crowd”. Janice, Sharon, and a few others.  Kind of took the wind out of my sails or my skates as it turned out.

I got my white skates a few years later, and my sister, cousins and neighbor kids had a great time skating on any pond or bit of ice we could find.   I don’t remember when they stopped making the ice pond at school.   I imagine there were some reasons to discontinue it.  Too bad.    I made some good friends to in the second level of the “click”, but that’s another story.

In a recent conversation with my sister, we were discussing our various stages of decrepitness (decreption?  Decrepitation?).  Anyway, I think this seems to be common among Seniors.  We talk about our aches and pains and our medicines and our dietary problems.  This talk usually leads into the inevitable bathroom talk but we won’t go there today.  (lol, a pun).

There are some other challenges that we both have dealt with throughout our lives but are now becoming more difficult.  The fact that we are short ( 5’ ish) has been a cause of some difficulties.  i.e. reaching things on the top two shelves of the cabinets in most kitchens, reaching things on the top shelves in the grocery stores, finding a chair that allows our feet to touch the floor when sitting in them, having to shorten all clothes we buy, (leading to a proficiency in sewing), needing a pillow to drive a car so that we can reach the pedals (this problem fixed itself with the advent of power seats).  Ahh the adaptability of humans.

I have digressed it seems, but this also is a privilege of the Decrepits.  As we were talking, we realized that we would have great difficulty if we had to live alone.  In addition to our vertical challenge, we now have decreased strength, eyesight, dexterity, balance and flexibility. I currently use a wooden spoon or barbecue tongs to knock thing off the top shelf of my kitchen cabinets, then catch them.  Needless to say I keep light non breakables up there.  The alternative is a step stool which requires me to go to the utility room and carry it back to the kitchen, figure out how to open it, then climb up,  reach the item,  hold on to it, then decide weather to let go of the hand hold on back of the stool or let go of the item as I really am more comfortable using two hands.  The supermarket shelves present another problem.  I usually don’t carry my tongs with me and I invariable find that all the “healthy” cereals are on the top shelf.  They put the sweetened,  fruity cavity producing ones on the center shelves so the kids can beg their Mothers for them.  This makes me behave in a way not always comfortable for me.  I am forced to ask a stranger to reach things for me.  There is rarely a helpful clerk around.  I usually check out the other shoppers then choose the most likely person to help me.  Tall Moms with only one child with them (don’t want to distract them and be responsible for lost children, or tall elderly men that are shopping alone, (don’t want to spark a jealous wife).  Sometimes there are slim pickens so I attempt to use another box of cereal to knock the one I want off the shelf.  This usually draws a crowd and I most likely will get the box I want.

One of the biggest problems is opening things.  As you may have noticed, many of our canned goods now come with a ring to pull to take off the top.  What was the matter with the can opener?  Both my sister and I have great difficulty pulling up on the ring while holding the can tightly.  This is worse when the can is larger than the soup can size. I have bought stock in stain remover products because if I don’t hold the can steady, I wind up wearing the product inside.  I can see the usefulness of this type of can opening for the Military, or for people on camping trips, or for aid to starving and destitute people who may not ever have heard of a can opener.

I can just see the young, strong workers in the test kitchens at one of the food manufacturers ……”Wow”  you guys, “this is great! People will love it.  No more hunting in the drawer for the can opener, no more electric openers cluttering up the counter top, this has tremendous possibilities,   the Military, Boy Scouts, Astronauts, people will love it.”

Hmm.  I wonder who they got to test them.  Eagle Scouts, Lance Corporals, Harley Riders, testosterone loaded teenage boys?  While we are on the subject of teen age boys, I am sure they can open milk bottles with a simple twist before they raise the gallon bottle up over their shoulders and glug from the jug.  I need to get out the old beer can opener (good thing I saved one) and break the lower ring with it.  Then I can twist the top of the bottle off.  Some other products with similar caps are soda, mayonnaise, hot sauce, peanut butter etc.  The cap on these is stronger and will not break with the opener.  I have to ask for help.  I understand the need for tamper proof evidence in this day and age and more’s the pity that we need it.  But tho they look pretty sitting on the cupboard shelf they do me no good if I can’t open them.

I recently bought chicken broth in the new packaging rather than in a can. Its a box shape lined with foil. Ingenious!  I thought this would be better and I would avoid the dreaded pull ring.  Wrong!  There is a neat little door on the top which opens easily….but, there is a pull tab on the inside that is foil backed.  It is slippery and I couldn’t grab it.  I had to ask my husband to do it.  It is that fine motor pinch that my arthritic hands have trouble with.  I need to keep a pair of pliers in the drawer with the shiny, seldom used can opener.

Next I will address the cereal box liners.  Yikes, what have they done to the inner bag?  No matter how I try, I can’t pull the layers apart.  I refrain from using the scissors as this makes it hard to fold the top down to keep the cereal fresh.  Again, I have to ask for help!  I know the old ones used to open up at the seams sometimes, or rip down the side spilling cereal into the box.  This was never a problem for me as I had lots of kids and the cereal never lasted long enough to get stale.  Since cereal moves much more slowly nowadays, I find myself pouring the cereal into zip lock bags after cutting up the packaging.

Now on to the zip lock bags.  There are zip lock and then there are ZIP locks.  The original bags were easy to open and shut.  However, there is a kind of zip lock that manufacturers package their goods in that are very hard to open.  I think they have deeper grooves or something.  Takes two adults to grasp and pull!.

I am sure that this all seems trivial and  you may wonder why I am wasting your time and mine.   Well, just wait til you get there.  I have visions of having a home aid person come in on shopping day to open all my groceries.  I would have to put everything in containers and refrigerate it. ( I am afraid the cat would have to stick with dry food, who wants all that fishy stuff sitting in your fridge).  Maybe this could work into a job for unemployed teens.  They could charge by the hour or the can.  Would be better than flipping burgers, right?  Or shoveling snow and mowing lawns. ?   OR, better yet, maybe I can ask the super market checker to open everything as she checks it out.  Can you imagine being in line behind someone who has food stamps, coupons, needs to write a check, and you have to wait for the bagger or checker to open all the cans and boxes?  No wonder that meals on wheels is so popular.  Also the attendance at senior centers for meals testifies to the problems of getting at our food in its modern packaging.

When I cook, things evolve.  For instance, yesterday I decided to make some easy chicken soup.  I have been laid up with an aching back for a few weeks.  My activity has really been limited.  But, I was tired of sandwiches.  I had three chicken thighs in the freezer that had been there a while.  They were way to fatty to just bake.  These came in a bag of 6 or so, and I had tried them.  The amount of fat was repulsive to me.  So, they lay gathering frost.

I hate to waste food!  This comes from trying to feed five kids with almost no money.  Consequently, I have a weight problem as I have a tendency to eat all the leftovers.  That’s another story and I digress as usual.

I planned to stew up the thighs, add some celery, onion, bay leaf, S & P and make a nummy broth.  I would add some noodles and  we would have a nice healing chicken soup for dinner.

My soup smelled great and I removed the thighs in time to save the meat.  (overcook and the flavor is gone.)  I tasted the meat and it was really good.  Forging ahead with the soup, I added some seasoning and turned up the heat to reduce the broth.  I removed the meat from the bones and got about two cups.  Hmmm.  Tasted the broth,  Hmmmmm.  Evolutionary moment!

I added two chicken breasts from the freezer to the broth and simmered them.  Rummaged around in the freezer and found a bag of mixed veges.  I cooked about two cups of them plus some celery and onion and set them aside. MMMM chicken pie coming up.

I cut up the chicken breasts.  They were very flavorful having been cooked in the broth.  I put the chicken and the veges in a baking pan.  Then I made a gravy using butter, flour, and about three cups of the broth.  I was drooling but my back was aching.  Leaning on the counter top I mixed up a bisquick topping with eggs and milk and poured it over the mix in the pan.

It was as good as it looks

As long as I was at it and the oven was on, I remembered that I had bought a brownie mix (on sale for $1.00 at Walmart.)  MMM again, easy, just oil and a couple eggs.  Hmmm.  I added chocolate chips to the batter and remembered that I had half a container of chocolate frosting in the fridge.  So, I sat down to stir them up and put them in the oven.  Took some Ibuprofen.

Kitchen smelled great. I sat in the recliner on the  rice bag.  What have I done??  Hope I’m not too lame to eat.  Haha.

The kitchen was a mess and Ted came several times to add water and soap to things to soak. (Thank God, he does dishes!)

Dinner was delicious and the Ibuprofen had kicked in.  I think the chicken soup would have been good too.  Also the brownies.  I just can’t seem to just do things PLAIN!! I have to add or change every thing.  I almost never follow a recipe as it is written.

How about some Ice Cream? some Whipped Creme?

This is probably some deep seated psych thing…..No sense fretting, I like me.

His wife could eat no lean.

So betwixt the two of them

They licked the platter clean.

We are the living images of the Sprats.  I just keep getting rounder and softer and my husband gets thinner and leaner.

How did this happen? When we got married some twenty years ago we were both round and comfy.  We loved to eat and I loved to cook.  Having been raised in the fifties, We were of the meat and potatoes generation.  Dessert each meal was the norm.  Gravy was ladled over our roasts and potatoes.  All vegetable were cooked to the soft and mushy stage and slathered with butter.  Salt was freely sprinkled thither and yon (not to mention over the shoulder), and sugar was stirred into the liquid in our babies’ bottles.  It was wonderful!

Of course, we all know where this has led…..obesity is rampant, especially in me.  I still love to cook, and eat.  I have expanded my diet over the years to include such delights as pasta, cheese and avocado.  This is thanks to the Italian influence I was under for twenty years.

So here I am, my exercise has diminished markedly due to various physical ailments, my appetite has not decreased, and even though I have changed my diet to include salads and fresh veges and whole grains, I have discovered  a deep hidden part of me that acts like I have been food deprived for half my life.  This is strictly not the case.  We always had plenty of food to eat when I was a child.

Things have changed lately as my husband has developed Alzheimer’s Disease and has almost completely lost his ability to feel hunger.  He eats when I cook and fill his plate.  He eats everything and doesn’t seem to have lost his sense of taste and enjoys the food.  I am sure that if I did not call him to the table, he would not think to eat.

I am one of those people who sit at the table eating one meal while planning for the next.  That, sad to say, is one of my greatest joys.  I love feeding people including me!  I come from a family where the majority of its members are “round”.  I am sure that body shape and appetite are partly hereditary.  We have pictures to prove this.

I wish I could bring myself to eat what and when my husband does.  Then, of course, we wouldn’t be the “Sprats” anymore.

I have noticed over the years that farms, especially those that are smaller operations, with older buildings have a collection of machinery, old cars, and trucks etc., left along fence lines.  These things are parked at angles, obviously no longer used or usable, and have been left to rust away.

Some are no longer working farms, or just the house and buildings are used and maybe the majority of the property has been rented or sold. Each place seems to have a particular “graveyard, usually along a creek or tree line, or in a far corner of an unused farmyard or pasture.

I imagine that most of these pieces just were phased out by advancing technologies.  Why didn’t the farmer trade them in to equipment companies or sell them for scrap?  Why keep them just to see them overcome with weeds.  I have seen some with full grown trees coming up between chains and spikes and wheels.  Likewise, cars and trucks of various vintage sit sinking into the weeds waiting to decompose.  If they were planning to fix them, surely they would be parked behind the garage or the barn in an area where they could be towed away or worked on.

Lately I have seen some unique pieces of farm equipment painted bright colors and fitted with potted plants and used as a lawn ornament.  I enjoy seeing these.  At least we have found a use for some of the old plows, hay rakes, balers and such.  Tractors also have been rescued and refurbished and used in shows at County Fairs.  I love this too.  It is respectful use for some pieces of history.

This commentary is in no way a criticism of Farmers.  I have a great respect for them.  Farming is one of the most difficult occupations we can undertake.  Competition is tough.  Equipment, seed, fertilizer and other costs of operation are astronomical.  The work week is 24 – 7, the market for their products fluctuates like a roller coaster, and on top of all else, the whole operation depends on the weather!!

I can understand that in the past money was spent on repair of the farm buildings rather then repair of the main living quarters.  The cost of paint was prohibitive so many barns weathered to grey.  The whole farm family worked hard and in its way, life was good.  Some of my favorite memories are of the time I spent on the “farm “.  Maybe the priorities were different years ago.   Maybe the “equipment graveyard” was the last thing on their minds.   I imagine they thought some parts could be cannibalized to repair other machinery.  I also wonder that all that scrap metal wasn’t donated or scavenged by the government for use in World War II.  I remember stories about rationing and of children even donating their metal toys for the “War Effort”.

My musings, as usual, seem to have strayed from the original thought.  I guess, I just want you all to notice the farm graveyards and remember that it was these skeletons along with our sturdy ancestors that built our prosperous agricultural community.

The main crop of this farm was a nursery and abounded with many flowering plants and trees.  This was third generation nursery so many of the hedges and fence lines and flower beds were old and in some cases overgrown making for unique hiding places.  The side yard was my favorite.  It had a huge circular area of decorative grass.  It was striped green and white and grew very thick.  My Gram called it Snake Grass.  Just the name put me off, but I did see the garter snakes slither in and out sometimes so I gave this place a wide berth.  In those days the lawn was mowed with a push mower.  It was great!  I loved to follow behind shuffling my bare feet through the fresh cut grass turning my toes green.    The smell was fresh and the grass was moist and NO noise, or gasoline  smell!

The yard was bordered on one side by a long chicken house.   The building was low and almost completely hidden by Lilac bushes.  To the left of the building was a path where the Lilacs met a huge climbing Rose bush.  The roses were pink and the blossoms were prolific.  They seemed to bloom  through most of the summer and their fragrance reached all the way to the back door.  The path looked most inviting with the flowers arching over it.  As you neared the rose bushes, the fragrance changed and become mixed with an unpleasant odor.  Passing through the arch, the source of the odor was obvious.  It wasn’t the chicken house as you may have imagined, although its unique odor added a sharp edge to the overall essence, it was a small building made of weathered wood.  It had one door and a small chimney type vent on top.

The main house did not have indoor plumbing.  This was the “Outhouse”.   The door creaked on its old hinges and the bottom edges of the boards in the door were ragged.  Inside was dark and lit by the sun shining through occasional knotholes.  Looking up I could see the piece of screen that was fitted over the roof vent.  The walls were festooned with spider webs.  The outhouse was fairly big and in fact was a three holer.   One seat was lower (child height) and the other two were adult height.  The holes were cut accordingly for which I, as a child, was always grateful.  The edges of the holes were beveled or rounded off and had been smoothed either over the years with use or sanded with care, comfort in mind.  There was toilet tissue there, but also a large beat up Sears and Roebuck catalog.  The door could be “locked” by turning a rectangle of wood that was nailed to the inside edge of the door.

I had no thought that this was at all unusual. The outhouse was unisex and the “boys” never mixed with the” girls”.  It seemed perfectly natural to be in there with my Mom or my Aunts or my Gram.  We used the outhouse during the day and at night you could choose to go out to the “house” or use the chamber pots  in the bedroom closets.  Using the “pot”  was tricky for a child and one night, I decided to use it without waking up my Mom.  Disaster!  It spilled!    I don’t think it had been used too much at that point,  but I was really upset that my new socks had gotten yucky!  My Uncles had a hay day with this and called me “pee socks” for years.

The rose bush attracted all sorts of insects, but the most scary for me were the bees.  I can remember standing near the path with my little legs crossed,  trying to time my dash for the outhouse door between bees flying about.  My Gram found me there and walked me through.  She told me not to be afraid, that the bees were just busy and really didn’t want to sting me.  They just sting when they are surprised.

“Just hold very still if they land on you.  As soon as they figure out that you’re not a flower, they will fly away.”  She was right.  I have only been stung once and that was a total surprise both to me and the poor bee.

I thought of the Outhouse the other day while watching a TV show where the couple was looking for a house.  They had two kids and wanted a four bedroom house and at least four bathrooms!!  At one point in my life I had five kids, my husband and I with one small bathroom.  Many times we had house guests for weeks at a time and we all managed to share the bathroom!

This time in my life has many cherished memories.  To this day, the fragrance of certain roses takes me back to those  times including the sweet smell of the roses undercut with the fumes from the outhouse.  If  I can take a deeper breath, I smell the grass and feel the cool wetness of it and hear the buzzing busyness  of the bees.

copyright 2009 mjv

]]> http://marjee.wordpress.com/2009/06/24/the-fragrance-of-the-roses/feed/ 2 marjee pink rose sm http://marjee.wordpress.com/2009/05/29/hello-world/ http://marjee.wordpress.com/2009/05/29/hello-world/#comments Fri, 29 May 2009 00:32:53 +0000 marjee ]]> Surely that sounds better than 67!!  How did I get here?  I have recently realized that I have lots more time to look back than to look forward.  Not that its really a surprise, I always knew that I would arrive here at some time, but it seems to have happened very quickly.

I have many things to look back on or at (whichever).  I have five children, 17 grandchildren, 1 adopted grand daughter, and 6 step grandchildren (some of whom I don’t see anymore), and 2 (Count ‘em) 2 great grandchildren.  Most of my family lives close enough that I get to see them fairly regularly.  My son is the exception, he moved to Alaska.  That is a story in itself.  Not for this narrative.

My husband was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease 4 + years ago.  It is called “younger onset” as he was diagnosed prior to age 65.  Much to early to my way of thinking, he is only 56.  This too is a story for another time.

I have a plethora of hobbies.  Currently these include spinning (wool), knitting, machine embroidery and many other fiber arts.  Photography is my other artistic endeavor.  35mm slr for years, then digital.  I bought a Canon HD40 a year or so ago but haven’t had  much time using it.  I also use a small Sony mostly for ease of toting it around.  I am in the process of scanning the prints into the computer so I will have access, especially for this blog.

So many hobbies, so little time.  I don’t know what happens to the days.  I have been  retired for two years.  Since my 65th birthday.  This was timed perfectly as it was about this time that my husband was let go from his position as a systems manager in an information technology dept. at a medium sized hospital.  He was escorted out and informed that he was no longer performing up to their standards.  This is a devastating story also to be told in the future.

Through this medium I plan to recall my memories using my photos to illustrate those memories.  My hope is that my kids and their kids and their kids etc. will share these notes.

Maybe someday my great great grandchildren will find answers or insights into themselves and their backgrounds.  I wish I had something like this….I would love to ask  my great great gram about her life and what happened that she died at 44 yrs old, or if my great grampa on my dad’s side really invented windshield wipers!

And thus, this will not only be a looking back, but a connection to the future!

copyright 2007 mjvmemories