Happy Lasagne to Me! Memories of Me Monday

 

 {May 1958 - My First Birthday}

TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER: "Describe at least one family tradition that you remember from childhood. Do you have a favorite tradition?"

EASY!  Definitely, birthdays.

On our birthdays we ruled the day.  My favorite part was not even the gifts . . .

. . . my favorite part was dinner!

The birthday person got to choose what we'd have for dinner that day.  My dad always wanted my  mom's special meat loaf and scalloped potatoes.  He still requests that.  Strangely, I don't remember what I chose for each of my own birthday dinners but I do remember, as I got older, that I usually requested my mom's lasagne.  MmmmmMMM!

Lasagna was a big deal, a special meal, at our house.  It's labor-intensive, as anyone who has ever made it knows.  Especially if you make your own sauce like my mom did (none of that bottled stuff!).  Then the layering of the noodles, cheeses and sauce, and the topping it off with yet more cheese.  Then it had to be baked for an hour or so.  Finally, it came to the table bubbling and fragrant and accompanied by a huge green salad and garlic bread.  Wow!  In my mind it even eclipsed the cake.

 

{My 9th birthday}

Our birthday cake was always homemade, too, by my mom.  It was usually a round, two-layer cake, carefully frosted, and with the appropriate number of candles.  It's funny, but I don't remember what kind of cake I usually had, though I'm sure I requested chocolate as often as any other flavor, but I sure remember that lasagne! Thanks, Mom!

FOR NEXT WEEK: "What is the most outrageous thing you did as a teenager?"

Uh oh.

Back to School Way Back When - Memories of Me Monday

{Franklin Park - formerly Franklin Elementary School; Redondo Beach, CA.}

 
TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER: "Describe the grade schools you attended (what were the buildings like, the area; did you walk or bus), and physical descriptions."

Most of my grade school years were spent in the suburbs of Los Angeles.  All southern California elementary schools looked alike in those days.  Three or four classrooms were strung together in long rectangular buildings separated by concrete walkways and some grass and trees.  At one or the other end of the classrooms were the bathrooms, and sometimes an audio-visual room.  One row would also have the library, which was the same size as the classrooms.  Another long building usually stretched perpendicularly across one end of the row of classrooms, with space between for walkways.  This was the administration building and the front of the school.

There'd be a huge square of asphalt behind the school, that was the playground.  It was partitioned off into a number of zones: the kindergarten play-yard was always separate from the other kids; there was another fenced off area where we parked our bikes and which was closed and locked during the day; an area closest to the classrooms held the playground equipment (slides, swings, monkey bars, parallel and chin-up bars, teeter-totters, and a merry-go-round); there was a grassy area in a back corner with a baseball backstop where we played ball games; the rest of the playground was either open space, or were painted with lines designating basketball, tetherball or dodgeball, hopskotch, and foursquare.

There was no cafeteria.  We all brought lunch from home and if you forgot yours, hopefully your mom would bring it to you, or the teacher or other students would share theirs with you.  We had metal lunchboxes with thermoses and our moms packed tuna or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cookies, and fruit, and milk.  No one had yet come up with the bright idea of installing soda or snack vending machines on school grounds.  You ate what your mom packed or you traded with the other kids.

That would've been a pretty typical California elementary school in the 1960's.  All of the students walked to school, or rode their bikes.  No one lived so far away that they had to be bussed or driven to school.  We went to school with the same kids we were neighbors with.  Our parents all knew each other.  Our moms were active in the PTA and were our Room Mothers.  Our dads volunteered in the Boy Scouts, put us to work in the yards or garage on weekends, and did all the home repairs.

There were no drugs at school, except maybe an aspirin from the school nurse if you were running a fever.  But even that was rare; our moms were at home so if we got sick, they came and got us.

 {a school similar to how I remember Eden Prairie Elementary School}

I attended the 3rd and 4th grades in Minnesota where the schools were very different.  Instead of rows of classrooms with outdoor walkways, in cold-weather Minnesota the elementary schools were one huge multi-floored brick building.  Classrooms lined either side of long dusty hallways.  The bathrooms, or washrooms, as they were called, held rows of stalls (at least in the girl's, I never saw the boy's facilities) and, in a large open area at one end was a round, free-standing sink, about belly-height to a 9-year old.  Girls could gather all around the edges of this sink, step on a chrome ring that circled it at floor level, and hold their hands under the sheet of water from the round faucet in the center.

I loved that sink!  It was very social.  We girls would stand there letting the warm water run over our hands, and chat.  We had a great time in there, sharing secrets and giggling.  There was a lot of camaraderie.  The teachers often had to run us out of there.  I've rarely seen "communal" sinks like that since those two years in a Minnesota grade school.  It's really a shame.

In California we had huge windows on both sides of our classrooms, a hard sheeting on the floor that always seemed dusty, and a small closet for our coats and lunches. You could tell what time of the year it was, or what the class was currently studying, by the drawings and projects taped to the windows.  The teacher had a large desk at the front of the room, where huge blackboards covered the wall.  There was a white projection screen, and maps, that could be rolled down out of metal tubes above the chalkboard.  Our desks were one piece with plastic chairs, a laminate surface for the desktop. and a basket under the chair to hold our books and papers.  I can't remember for sure whether the laminate tops were hinged and opened into a storage well, but they probably did.

Our desks in Minnesota were similar in that they were all one piece, but there was no basket underneath, and they had had a very deep well for our books under the hinged wooden lid.  The lids had inkwells so obviously they'd been around a long time!  Just inside the well was a tray for our pencils and crayons but we used them for another purpose as well.

Eating powdered Jell-O gelatin was very popular then; we'd sneak a box out of our mom's kitchen and take it to school.  There, we'd carefully pour a small mound of the green, red, yellow, or orange powder onto a corner of the pencil tray.  Then, throughout the day we could slip a moistened finger inside our desk and then nonchalantly bring that finger to our mouths for an sneaky treat.  It got so popular that it was bound to be found out, and jello was soon banned from our classrooms.  I remember well my 4th grade teacher, Mr. Lindgren, striding up and down the rows of desks checking every student's fingers for tell-tale stains!

In Minnesota, like in California, we taped our special papers and projects to the windows.  But the windows were a lot smaller and when your classroom is on the 2nd floor there isn't going to be anyone walking by outside to see the papers, so we taped them facing in toward the class instead of out.  Our classroom floors were wood, and so were the long hallways.  Inset into the walls outside each classroom was a long bench with hooks above and space underneath.  This is where we sat to remove our knit hats, mittens, scarves, boots, and snowsuits when we arrived at school on a winter morning, and where we again sat at the end of the day to bundle back up.  The same routine was repeated to go outside to the playground, where we went on all but the coldest of days.  There was also a large glassed-in display window, similar to what you'd see at a department store.  The back opened into our classroom.  There were glass shelves.  This is where we displayed some of the projects we worked on; usually art projects.

Once, during a arts and crafts period, I got creative and made some 3-dimension animals out of construction paper.  I had horses and cows, dogs and cats, and even an elephant.  Mr. Lindgren was so impressed he dedicated the display window of our classroom to my creations for two whole weeks.  I was very proud.

Minnesota was much more rural than where I'd lived in California.  Houses were further apart from each other, there was no little corner store, and school was definitely not within walking distance.  We were bussed from our housing subdivisions to school.  Can you imagine how long it must have taken my mom to get three of us out of the house in full winter regalia?  Not to mention keeping an eye on my two little sisters, who weren't in school yet.  Actually, it was just Mike and I who took the early bus; Steve was in Kindergarten, and his bus came about an hour later.  Which was a good thing because whenever Mike and I didn't manage to get out of the house and over to the bus stop in time, we simply waited and got on the bus with "the little kids."  That was embarrassing, though, and we had to take notes, from mom, so we'd be excused for arriving late.

I didn't like riding the bus, either one.  I was so shy that it was a daily challenge to screw up my courage and climb those steps.  Our bus was crowded and I never knew if there'd be an empty seat next to a child who wouldn't tease me or pick on me.  Boys were the worst, the 6th grade boys, a terror.  Bullies gravitate to children who are timid so I got my share of pokes, jeers, and rude comments.  They often tried to get me to talk but I'd grit my teeth and just stare straight ahead.  I don't remember ever saying a word on the bus.  My brother told the other boys that I only had  half a tongue, and that's why I never spoke.  They all wanted to see that for themselves but I never gave in.

Our bus passed by a golf course.  Every day I'd stare out the window and try to see down into the ditch between the road and golf course.  The older kids had passed the rumor that there was a decapitated corpse in that ditch.  I wished desperately to catch a glimpse of it, but was also terrified of that wish might coming true.

In Minnesota we had a huge cafeteria at school.  My brother and I usually brought lunch from home but now and then we were thrilled to be given 25 cents to buy the school lunch.  You collected a plastic tray at one end of the long metal counter.  As you moved down the counter you were handed a plate of food, perhaps a small dish of jello, and a piece of fruit.  At the other end was the cashier who also presided over racks of milk cartons.  You were allowed one carton of milk with your lunch.  If you wanted another carton of milk it cost a penny.

Yes, a penny!

There was a small white dish at the cashier's table for us to put the pennies in.  This way she didn't have to stop ringing up the student's lunches, taking money and giving change, and could keep the line of students moving.  We also didn't have to wait in line again.

I don't know where I got the bright idea that I could just pretend to put a penny in the dish.  I like to think it was my brother, Mike's, idea, but I have to confess I think it was actually all my own.  I only did it a few times - I'd walk up to the cashier when she was very busy. I'd have my thumb and first two fingers pinched together as though I were holding a penny.  Then I'd pretend to place it in the dish, at the same time giving the existing pennies a little swirl to create the tell-tale rattle of coins. 

Then I'd pick up my carton of milk and head back to the lunch table.  I thought I was pretty dang clever!

Yeah, it's hard to believe I was brave enough to do that.  It seems totally out of character but maybe it was a way to make myself feel better after the crap I'd get handed on the bus nearly every day.  A way to prove to myself that I wasn't a complete retard.  I wasn't brave enough to ever tell anyone, though . . . 'til now. . . gee, I hope that school doesn't come after me for their three cents.


FOR NEXT WEEK: "Describe at least one family tradition that you remember from childhood.  Do you have a favorite tradition?  Describe that one.  Which did you like the least?  Describe that one, too."

Girl Jockey

TODAY'S MEMORY JOGGER:  "What did you want to be when you grew up?  Why?"

THIS!!

Because I loved horses (don't all young girls?)....

But then I grew too tall so I decided to be a writer.

But writing didn't pay so I eventually became a computer programmer/systems analyst.

I made a lot of money, but writing computer programs almost completely destroyed my creativity.

I've spent the last two years trying to get it back.

I'm almost there.

Maybe I'll dig up that half-finished novel and ... well ...

... finish it?!



FOR NEXT WEEK:  "What is your secret or recipe for good health?"

 

What Kind of Teenager Were You?

Age 8 - The Good Girl

Age 16 - The Demon Child
{looks can be so deceiving!}

Today's Memories of Me Monday: "What kind of a teenager were you? Nice, rebellious, etc.?"

I think I can sum myself up as a teenager in one word --> TYPICAL.

And that's all I have to say about that!

Ok, I guess that would be taking the easy way out!

So here's a list of words that describe me during the ages of 13 to 18:

Happy
Sad
Helpful
Stubborn
Friendly
Solitary
Funny
Mean
Grateful
Hateful
Sweet
Sassy
Honest
Sneaky
Obedient
Rebellious
Creative
Apathetic
Joyful
Gloomy
Teachable
Resistant
Neat
Sloppy
Loving
Uncaring
Affectionate
Cold
Optimistic
Gloomy
Stable
Moody
Hard-working
Lazy

As I said - TYPICAL!

I'm sure my parents were continually shocked and appalled by the changes in me once I reached the teen years. I had been such a good little girl! Eager to please, obedient, helpful, and a good student.

Suddenly, I was lying, skipping school, sneaking out at night, running away from home, hitchhiking, chasing boys, experimenting with drugs & alcohol, smoking, and yeah, I even spent a night in Juvie.

It's a bit embarrassing now. Some of my biggest regrets are from that time period. Luckily, I was just skimming the surface of those activities, and I didn't get addicted to drugs or cigarettes, become a homeless runaway, turn to prostitution, or drop out of school.

In the end, I and my parents both survived those years. We can even laugh about them now - mostly. My mom likes to sum it up like this: I was the type of teenager who would nod yes, ok, of course, agreeing to everything she told me to do, not to do, etc. And then I'd just quietly go do as I pleased.

My dad wrote about me in his own life history (a work in progress): "Our second born was such a sweet child." Then. later, "In spite of a firm belief in her own code of good behavior, she could sometimes be led astray."

To date, my dad's life history ends with that second sentence. I hope I wasn't so terrible that he can't even bear to write about it!

Yeah, I know. You want more details. Names, dates, places, the nitty-gritty, the dirty laundry, a complete confession.

To quote the Wicked Witch of the West: "All in good time, my pretty, all in good time....!"


FOR NEXT WEEK: "Tell about how you feel about water -- playing in it -- seeing it -- tell about the various bodies of water you have seen and an experience or feeling about each."

It's Memories of Me Monday!

The Memory Jogger as posted yesterday: "What memories do you have of your two grandfathers? Talk about each of them."

Until just recently, when my mom informed me otherwise, I had always thought the above photo was of me on my dad's shoulders. Turns out it's me on my step-grandpa John's shoulders.

My mom didn't like Grandpa John. He had married my dad's mother, Lois, who died when I was three, so I don't remember her, unless she is (and quite possibly could be) the woman in a very vague memory I have of a large woman sitting in an overstuffed chair. I'm told she was quite heavy. She must have been relatively young when she died since my dad was only in his early 20's then. I really don't remember John either since, after my grandmother died he didn't bother to stay in contact with my dad. Anyway, my mom says John always gave her a creepy feeling, and she didn't trust him with me. She kept an eagle eye on him whenever he was around.

My dad's dad {the "real" one} was definitely in our lives. His name was Dee Hansen and he lived in the country part of Marysville, California. He had a sprawling old farmhouse with a camper parked in its gravel driveway, a porch all the way across the front, a bathroom that very well may have been added on since the house was originally built, a great big "den" with cowhide-covered sofas, pool table, and a buffalo head mounted on the wall (and gave me the creeps when I slept in there), and a large kitchen that his wife, my dad's stepmom, Bertha, ruled over with an iron hand.

Grandma Bert, as we called her, was no-nonsense and a teetotaler, so my grandpa had to go out to the shed in back of the house for a pull from one of the bottles he stashed out there. They had a huge garden and when we visited in the summer my grandpa would pick ripe canteloupes, cut them in half and scoop out the innards, then drop a big ol' blob of vanilla ice cream in the centers. Ohhhh, that was good!

My brothers and sisters and I were city kids, growing up in the suburbs of L.A., so to us those summertime visits to my grandpa's house were like entering a different world. He had a huge red barn out back and, although I don't remember any animals besides a few chickens, there was still lots of hay in there, old rusty farm equipment, and hidey-holes where the chickens laid their eggs. One summer we found an abandoned nest of eggs. For some crazy reason my brothers and I thought it would be a good idea to throw the eggs against the wall of the shed just behind the house.

Rotten eggs STINK! My grandpa was hopping mad! He made us get the garden hose and clean off that smelly mess. Of course, my parents were angry, too, and we got a good scolding. Looking back it's hard to believe I would do something like that. I'm sure it must have been my brother, Mike's, idea!

Before he retired my grandpa had worked as a foreman at a slaughterhouse. He also had a portable slaughterhouse on wheels which he hitched to a truck and hauled to his customer's farms for on-the-spot custom butchering. When I was a kid that big metal trailer, no longer in use, was parked among hip-high weeds in a sideyard at my grandpa's house. It was locked but we kids could cup our hands around our eyes, clamber up to stand on the long-flat tires and peer into the windows at a jumble of strange metal machinery inside. We tried to imagine what exactly went on in there, how the animals were killed, which machines cut up the carcasses, and where did all the blood go? We had gruesome conversations, but they were also thrilling in a very creepy way, and gave me the same shivery chills I'd get watching a scary movie.

Most fascinating, to me anyway, were the meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. That particular summer (I think I was probably 9 or so) a particular type of riddle was very popular among kids: Dead Baby Jokes. One comes immediately to mind. "What is pink and white and red all over?" Answer: "A dead baby hanging from a meat hook." No wonder my morbid curiosity and fascination with that old portable slaughterhouse trailer!

I was lucky to have my Grandpa Dee all through my childhood and into adulthood, though we did lose Grandma Bert in the late 1980's. My grandpa was in his 80's and still going strong, even planning to marry again, when he was killed outright in a car accident. It was a huge shock to us all. I know it hit my dad hard. He said to me over the phone shortly after we found out, "I no longer have any parents living."

I hope I'm light-years away from that!

I've talked about two grandfathers already, but I did have a third. My mom's dad, Bill Ware. I know very little about him except a few things that my mom has told me. He deserted my grandmother Ware when she was pregnant with her 4th daughter. My mom was about six at that time. Since my grandmother was pregnant she couldn't get a job. She had to take in washing to earn money, and I think she also helped take care of an elderly lady in the neighborhood. My grandfather simply disappeared.

Mom remembers the last time she saw her dad. It was about a year after he left. He'd returned broke and on foot, asking to come back. Mom was outside, rollerskating. I think my grandfather said "Hi" to her, and my mom replied back, "hi." But that was all. My mom didn't go to him, or follow him into the house. That says a lot. And my grandmother refused to take Bill back. He left and was never heard from again.

Years later my grandmother heard through friends that Bill had married again. Well, there'd never been a divorce so now he was also a bigamist. Not a lot of pride to be had with regard to that relative! It wasn't until the early 90's that my grandmother found out Bill had died in 1975. It's weird to think that he lived his life, and then died, while his first wife, four daughters, and then eighteen or so grandkids lived and thrived and rarely gave him a thought.

I do hope he at least had an inkling of what he was missing. One thing I know for sure; he surely got an earful when my grandmother died in 2000 and caught up with him in the hereafter!

And one thing I'm very grateful for. I know the experience affected my mom deeply, one result being that she very carefully (I believe) chose a good, trustworthy, and faithful man to be her husband and father of her children.

And who also happens to be an awesome grandfather!

....and now.....

NEXT MONDAY'S MEMORY JOGGER: "What kind of a teenager were you? Nice, rebellious, etc.?" {uh oh!}

Memories of Me Monday Part Three

Ok, to recap, here's the Memory Jogger from The Jar: "If you could visit any country overseas, where would you go, and why?"

As I've mentioned, I'm limiting myself (for awhile at least, probably a year) to writing about memories of my childhood only. I remember having only the vaguest interest in visiting a country overseas; I probably didn't know much about any of them yet. I think I may have wanted to go to Ireland because I had some notion that everyone there owned horses, and I had the usual schoolgirl crush on those handsome animals. Other than that, I don't remember any desire to leave the country. I think I may have been too scared. My older brother, Mike, travelled to Japan with his Boy Scout troop when he was twelve. I remember being totally in awe of him, that he was brave enough to go to such an exotic place without our parents! And, if I remember correctly, the boys were parcelled out among host Japanese families so he stayed in the home of complete strangers!

No way would I have had the nerve to do something like that.

However, I did have an ongoing fantasy of being shipwrecked on a deserted island.

Really!

It was most likely fueled by the books I read, like "Robinson Crusoe," "The Swiss Family Robinson," "Baby Island," and one of my all-time favorite books, "Island of the Blue Dolphins." All of these books were about people stranded on deserted islands. The last two books were my favorites because the main characters were young girls who used their wits and cunning to survive and thrive. Just the kind of girl I wanted to be, and wasn't.

At that time my family was living in Redondo Beach, California. The summer I was 11 my mom took us five kids, plus several friends and including my best friend, Judy, to the beach almost every weekday while my dad worked. We all got as brown as Indians, rubbed our stomachs raw riding the waves on our canvas surfmats, burned our bare feet on the hot sand, ate tuna sandwiches made with Miracle Whip and my Mom's homemade wheat bread, grapes, red plums, and cookies, and went home every afternoon with sand in our suits, ears, and hair. It was heaven!

Judy and I spent those summer days pretending we were sisters shipwrecked on a deserted island. We stood knee-deep in the waves for hours and made up stories about our adventures. We began writing the stories in notebooks that we bought at the Five and Dime. My stories evolved into my first novel. It was called "Two Girls on an Island," and I illustrated it myself. I can't remember for sure if Judy wrote a novel, too (did you, Judy?), but she probably did.

Writing at our kitchen table, about 1970

That summer marks the beginning my writing life. Over the next 5 or 6 years I filled several notebooks with stories, journal entries, and poems, and I wrote another novel called "Cabin 13." Then when I was 18 and packing to move out of my parent's house, I casually tossed them all in the trash. My mom, who was watching me pack, looked at me with surprise and said, "You may regret that someday."

I was sure then that I wouldn't; that was childish stuff and I was done with it.

She was right.

Although I've filled many a notebook and journal since then, and I expect I'll fill many more, but I'd give a lot to have those first efforts back again.

Memory Jogger for Monday!

Here is the Memory Jogger from The Jar for this coming Monday:

"If you could visit any country overseas, where would you go, and why?"

It's worded more in the present tense, but use it any way you want -- maybe you only want to use one word of the sentence? Or cast your mind back to your childhood and try to remember what country you fantasized about visiting. How about: what weird idea did you have as a child about a foreign country, that turned out not to be true at all?

Have fun with it!

Deborah

Memories of Me Monday

If you saw yesterdays brief post you know that the memory jogger for today is: "What is your personal secret for happiness?"

Interesting question because one of my goals as an adult has been to be happy, purposely, by enjoying and treating each moment as precious, no matter how ordinary.

As a child, naturally, I didn't do that. At that time in my life, with so much of my life ahead of me, my happiness came from anticipation. I looked forward to 1st grade so I could play on the "big kid's playground" and not in the "baby yard," I anticipated the fun of Christmas, birthdays, and family vacations, I couldn't wait to be 12 and go to junior high school, 16 couldn't come soon enough because then I could date. Looking forward to these Big Events was exciting, and it seemed there was always a milestone ahead to look forward to.

I do remember, though, having a little trick -- and I suppose you could call it a secret -- that I used to help me through sad or scary times, but it still drew upon the concept of anticipation.

Although I loved school, there were a few things at school that were decidedly NOT fun for me; in fact, they were traumatic. Giving an oral report, for example, or doing a math problem on the board, reading aloud in front of my class, even my turn for Sharing Time in the early grades was an occasion for heart-pounding fear.

As I mentioned last week, I was very shy as a child. I much preferred sitting quietly in my seat to doing anything -- and I mean, anything -- that would cause my classmates to focus their attention on me. I can well remember that dry-mouthed fear, clammy hands, and fluttering stomach, when it was time for me to perform.

I also clearly remember that, once I was on my feet and had begun to speak, thoughts of home would float through my head and help calm me. The rational part of my brain would send me images of the front door of my house opening to welcome me. Inside my mom would be in the kitchen baking bread or cookies and the smell would fill the house. Through the kitchen window I'd be able to see our clothesline with a double row of snow-white cloth diapers snapping in the breeze.

In reality I was still in front of the class with knocking knees and trembling hands clutching my book report carefully printed in pencil but, as I paused to lick my lips and try to get a deep breath, I'd think to myself, soon this will be over and I can go Home.

I got through a lot of scary situations this way, by looking past it to the refuge of home. I saw my home as a sanctuary and, truly, it was the one place where I was completely protected, loved unconditionally, and accepted for just who I was. I wasn't shy around my family, I felt important, and I was surrounded by the people and things I loved best.

A lot of the things that frightened me as a child, still do. I still don't like speaking in public or being the center of attention. I much prefer to be in the audience than on the stage. But when it's necessary for me to do something that scares me I still use that same trick -- I cast my mind ahead and imagine myself at home, perhaps curled on the couch with a book and a cat, and I still feel that little lifting of my spirits as I think to myself, this will soon be over and i can go home.

Memory Jogger for tomorrow (Monday)

For those who want to play along, here is tomorrow's memory jogger from The Jar:

"What is your personal secret to happiness?"

Remember, you can write a memory based on the entire question, part of the sentence, or just a single word, totally up to you. I'm concentrating at present just on memories from my childhood, but you can use any part of your life that you want.

Share your memories, or not! Feel free to post a link to your blogged memory in the comments section. Have fun, and get those memories written!

I'll be posting mine tomorrow!

Deb