All of us who grew up in households headed by children of the Great Depression are no doubt familiar with the proverb waste not want not. It basically decrees that you should make do with what you have. And so it is with Amish names. Over these past 500 or so blog posts, I’ve mentioned more than once that Farmer Gary is enamored with the Amish. It was only today, though, while recording this story, that I tied together that…
The news in the registered letter Dad opened on February 7, 1951, was something no college senior should have to receive. That same day, Dad wrote to his future wife: My Darling, I got an awful shock this morning. I got a registered mail letter from dad. He’s lost his job. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read it the first time. For a while I couldn’t move or think. Golly, you never realize the blessing of security until…
While digging around recently in our greeting-card drawer, I came across several colorful choices. I flipped them over to check the artist’s name and realized the cards must have been a long-ago gift from Mom and Dad, as the illustrator was their “neighbor” Jacques Pépin. They weren’t borrow-a-cup-of-sugar neighbors (although both parties would surely have been generous with their sucre); they lived about a mile apart. My parents were delighted to stop for a casual chat with Chef when they…
Middle brother Dave recently came across a batch of photos he took long ago. I asked him if he’d like to put together a blog post about them; happily, he said yes. Here is his story: The Brownie camera, an inexpensive point-and-shoot, democratized photography in the mid-century USA. Mom and Dad gave me my Brownie Fiesta on either Christmas 1965 or my ninth birthday the following March. These photos all date from 1966 and are of places in and around…
Have you read this book by my second-favorite storyteller, Jean Shepherd? In God We Trust … All Others Pay Cash was the inspiration for the cult-favorite holiday flick A Christmas Story. Jean Shepherd, by the way, grew up in Indiana. And his father worked for the Borden Milk Company. Today’s story is from my favorite storyteller, though, who also grew up in Indiana. Farmer Gary tells this tale with a twinkle in his eye, as he was spared direct involvement…
Our siblings and cousins are checking in this afternoon, asking each other how the blizzard is treating them. Here in southern Indiana, we did not have snow in the forecast. Yet, yesterday and today, a few flakes managed to blow around. Very few. Connecticut and New York are getting hit hard, with heavy snow and high winds. True to form, Harry’s wife, Linda, good-naturedly grumbled about only getting a few inches in Maine. This doesn’t exactly meet the “historic proportions”…
Decades ago – before we were even engaged – I told Farmer Gary if I ever wrote a memoir, the title would be Kowzerout! We’d been dating for a few months, so Gary invited me to the farm for Sunday dinner. It felt like something out of a Laura Ingalls Wilder story, as his mom, Rita, put on a nice spread. After we finished dinner, Rita shooed us into the living room while she washed the dishes. (She refused my…
Growing up, storytime with Mom wasn’t so much about princes and princesses. The theme was more witches, black cats, and cauldrons. Yet in 2005, as a grandmother of seven, she wrote about the princes who came to visit one day. The Suitors The princes came Somehow she stayed awakeenduring flattery and flufftheir mouths were coffersfull of father lips were tired of smilingof eyes of searchingnot one would she wishto rule beside her They left at lastshe walked into her garden…
Had I studied four of the dozen books of the Aeneid – in Latin, no less! – I do believe I’d have spent the rest of my life complaining about it. Not Mom, though … a high-school senior, she wrote Virgil a fan letter. It was in the style of his epic poem, of course: On Completing Book Four of the Aeneid Farewell, proud poet of a thousand years,Thou instigator of our common tears –Thou prompter of the midnight oils…
He was part of the Greatest Generation. The generation that fought the Second World War, in the hope there would never be another. Members of this generation, those who returned from the horrors of war, were often quiet about what they’d witnessed. Perhaps they were just too busy catching up with their lives back home. Most probably, though, they didn’t want to bring the trauma they’d seen back to the surface. This may have been the case with Gary‘s uncle…