KA-BOOM!; Miss Irene's Bootie Camp.

This incident happened about a week before Easter of 2001 at Miss Irene’s Bootie Camp.  I wrote this down on April 15, 2001.

                                                              Such A Fright!

I was at our daughter Irene’s, asleep in the little bedroom at the head of the stairs, and she was in the kitchen serving breakfast to her daycare children.

I was awakened by a thunderstorm, and I lay there for a little while, listening to the

distant thunder. I was relaxed, thinking I’d get out of bed, but enjoying the sound of the rain, listening to the far-off rumbles of thunder.

I was concentrating on counting the seconds from the flash of lightning to the roll of thunder, to determine how far away the storm was, when all of a sudden there was an enormous clap of thunder which seemed to have been right above my head! This was accompanied instantaneously by a brilliant flash of lightning. Ooooooh! Scary…

It was awesome and brought great respect from me! I jumped out of bed, washed and dressed while my mind was creating a rhyme to tell the daycare children of it.

All the children were sitting around the kitchen table/bench eating their breakfast.

Miss Irene was preparing and serving second helpings to those wanting ‘more’. They all looked at me (as usual when I visit) when I said  “Good Morning!” And then I began my performance of reciting my poem/rhyme to them, rather slowly so they would understand every word and emotion, as a piece of conversation.

As I was reciting rather slowly and purposely emoting, I observed their sweet faces, most were listening very carefully, but Lizzie – how precious was her face – her eyes grew bigger, like saucers almost, her mouth hung open a little - she was SO totally engrossed!

This is what I related to them slowly, without saying it was a poem:

“After a quiet, and peaceful night,

I awoke with such a fright! -------

The thunder came

Crashing through the sky!

KA-BOOM!   KA-BOOM!

OH, ME! ………………… OH, MY! “

What a beautiful experience that was, for me! They seemed amazed at my “story” and it pleased me so much!  The relating of the “story” placed them right there to experience what happened to me. I can still see their faces, listening intently, and their facial expressions showed what they were hearing and seeing of my animation.

I miss those days…

I'll see you at the Corner Post...

The Old Farm; Washing Clothes the Hard Way; Making Bread.

Shortly after we moved to the old farm near Springville, my parents bought some milking cows. Both Mom and Dad had to work in the barn, with the animals. My brother was only eight years old at that time and wasn't old enough to do much work yet. I did some chores in the house and garden. Pulling weeds was not a favorite chore of mine. Many of the weeds were between one and two feet tall, with lots of tough roots.

I also helped on Wash Day, putting clothes through the manual wringer. Rinsing the clothes was especially hard because the rinse water was very, very cold water from the well. The rinsing tub was a galvanized round tub set on a flat, backless kitchen chair. I would have to put my hands and arms in the water past my elbows, and the cold water was quite painful.

Our washing area was a room off the kitchen, unpainted and weather-beaten. It was actually the old back porch, which had been closed in. It did have a roof, and a door leading to the ground, with five or six steps as stairs. There was a medium-sized square window on the outside wall, looking out over the rectangular garden below the barn.

One day Mom wanted me to make and bake some bread. She said to use sieves-ful of flour, and to soften the block of yeast in warm water. I think that day, it was probably three or four large sieves of flour. I began mixing it, trying my best to make the bread. I used my hands to stir it, and there was not enough water for that amount of water so the dough was very hard to knead.

I went to the window facing the garden where she was working, and yelled to her. "Mom! the dough is too hard!" She shouted, "Put some water in it." I did that, and it was so slippery, the water didn't seem to want to go into the flour because the dough was too hard. It was an awful mess. It was like playing with a lot of slippery mud.

It seems that it finally got to be dough, and I put it to rise. After some time it rose and I divided it into pieces to make loaves of bread, I think it was four large loaves, and let it rise again in the loaf pans. By that time, I'm sure she was finished in the garden and came into the house. I often made or kneaded bread for the family. It was apparently one of my chores.

In later years after I was married and when we were rearing our own children, I made bread very often, and rolls and buns. Cinnamon buns were especially good and we all looked forward to having them.



I'll see you at the Corner Post...

Baby Easter Bunnies; A Team of Work Horses; "It's Not Lunch Time."

We moved to Springville, Pennsylvania, when I was nine and a half years old. Came the following spring, we had a pair of rabbits in one of the out buildings. At Easter time, Mom and Dad told us to come up to the shed with them, so we did. They took us into the rabbits' room, and showed us a wonderful surprise. The female rabbit had a litter of very tiny baby bunnies. How exciting that was! Baby Easter Bunnies! We were so happy about that, and astonished because of the coincidence of its being Easter.

My Dad had a pair of work horses on the farm, named Babe and Bill. He shod them, brushed them, and took very good care of them. In the mid-1920s he had been in the peace-time army in Texas, and was in the cavalry. He was accustomed to handling horses. He had liked horses very much.

On the farm, he used the horses to drive the hay wagon on the fields, to haul manure to spread on the fields, and to take the cows' milk to the creamery in Springville, and he used them for other things, too.

Before we moved from Larksville/Plymouth in April of 1942, my brother Joe and I were in the parochial school, preparing for our First Holy Communion. We had to travel back to Plymouth on May 10, 1942, to receive our First Holy Communion. It took probably an hour to drive the distance.

Then in the fall of 1942, we entered school in Dimock, a few miles from our farm. I really don't remember if we went to Dimock School in the spring of 1942 for a month, or waited until the autumn. My brother was in fourth grade and I was in fifth. It was strange to go to another school, and I felt very shy.

I remember that we took our lunch to school, and at recess time I thought it was lunch time. I took out my lunch and prepared to eat. Paul Green was in sixth grade which was in the same room, and said, "Why are you taking out your lunch? It's not lunch time." Not wanting to show how much of a 'greenhorn' I was, I said, "I know!" and I put my lunch away. How embarrassed I was!




I'll see you at the Corner Post...

Welsh Cookies; A Hymn Sing.

Did any of you ever try to make Welsh cookies? They are simply delicious. I made their acquaintance when I was living in Pennsylvania, I think it was in 1995, or 1996, after I had been in Dearborn taking care of my Mom Josephine (Gram B), and her house after her passing. 

My high school classmate and I had talked about my moving from Scranton to closer to her, in Swoyersville. We were very good friends, and I had no one in Scranton so it was a good idea. She found me a place to rent. 

After I got settled in, I would see Welsh cookies in the grocery store, as there are a great many Welsh people in the coal region of Pennsylvania. Then I went to a Welsh church when they were having a Gymanfa Ganu, which is a 'hymn-sing'. It's pronounced something like 'ga-monva gonnie'. The Welsh are known for their singing, especially the men's voices. It was a most beautiful afternoon that I spent there, everyone was singing, and they knew all the words of all the hymns. I sang, too, loving every minute. Some of those hymns are so melodic and meaningful. 

Afterwards, downstairs in the community hall we all went, for 'tea'. Welsh cookies were served and something else that I don't remember. I fell in love with those cookies! And the people were so nice to talk with. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves very much.

The Welsh cookies are made in an iron frying pan, usually, or a skillet or on a pancake grill. After that Gymanfa Ganu, I attended every one that I could, and then began to attend when they had the yearly Eisteddfod, a day of competition in reciting, singing or playing. It begins with the small children, primary grades, young adults, and then adults in the evening. I enjoyed each yearly Eisteddfod immensely.

Well, I made some Welsh cookies in the late 1990s, I think, they were rather easy to do, and I was pleased with my effort. Today was quite different. I had promised someone that I would make some Welsh cookies for them, so this morning I decided I would try. I found a recipe on the internet, because I cannot find my Welsh recipe book yet. 

I got the ingredients out, and bowls, and the dried currants. The currants were rather hard and dry when I purchased them, and I thought that it would be better to plump them up to put them in the cookie dough. So I heated them in simmering water for a few minutes, and let them sit to absorb the water. The result was that after I drained them, they were still too wet, and I should have placed them on paper towel or dishtowel to absorb the outside moisture. Next time I shall do that.

The dough was too loose and not firm as it should have been. The method is to roll out the dough on a floured board, to a thickness of about a quarter of an inch, cut circles with a floured drinking glass and cook them in an ungreased seasoned iron frying pan. About four minutes on one side, and three or four on the other side. I had difficulty with the dough, it was a bit messy to work with, but I kept adding flour to the board, and finally I got them all cooked. Frustrating as it was, they made up for that by being quite tasty, and wholesome. I do think that I will be doing those Welsh cookies again, with better-dried currants. At my age, I'm still learning...

I feel good to have made those Welsh cookies!

I'll see you at the Corner Post...

My Classmate Phyllis At Age Eleven.

Twenty years ago, I wrote in one of my notebooks, about something that was told to me. I found it this week, as I was browsing in this particular notebook. 

I was visiting my classmate Phyllis one evening, it was October 28, 1992. During our conversation, she told me about an episode that had happened to her at the age of eleven. Her family lived on a large farm, in the township of West Nicholson, and there was a swampy area across the dirt road from their house, and up about an eighth of a mile, along that road.

The family had ducks, which were let out every day to spend time finding insects and grass to eat. It was Phyllis’s daily chore to go out and call the ducks and herd them together, to bring them in for the night, and direct them into their duck coop.

One day, they weren’t listening to her, and ignored her call or couldn't hear her. She found them in the swampy area where it was moist, and kept calling them to come home. There may have been many insects keeping them busy, or they may not have heard her voice.   

She went a little farther into the swampy area so she could get the ducks, to gather them together. She unknowingly went too far, into the quicksand part. She began to sink into the quicksand and started to scream for help.

She screamed and screamed while she was sinking even farther, and finally her grandfather heard her. He alerted her father, and the two men gathered some boards to cover some of the area so as to get to her without their sinking, too, and brought the horse and some rope to get Phyllis out of the quicksand.

They put the rope around her shoulders and under her armpits. She was almost up to her neck in the quicksand. The horse pulled and pulled, and finally pulled her safely out of that horrible situation.

I have no idea of whether or not she knew that there was an area of quicksand in that swampy place. 

Some time later they turned that swampy area into a pond. 

I'll see you at the Corner Post...

Alberta's Story of Her Youth.

In Dearborn, Michigan, our Mom Josephine had a good friend about three houses down the street, who also liked to play Bingo, so they would often go to Bingo together. They had known each other quite a few years already.                                                                                                              

Mom was suffering from colon cancer.  She had three surgeries for it, each two years apart. I was with her for long periods, several times, as caretaker. Her second surgery was in late July of 1992, and I was with her. It was then August 13th, and she was beginning to feel somewhat better.  

Alberta, Mom's friend, came by that evening for a visit. She brought Mom some studzenina, which is jellied pigs’ feet, and two peanut butter cookies. She liked coming over once in a while, to check on Mom, to see how she was doing. They would exchange news, and talk for a while. The three of us began reminiscing about something, and soon little tales and anecdotes filled the room. 

Alberta told us stories of her youth in a Pennsylvania coal town. She picked coal, carried it home in bags, on her shoulder. The Breaker Boys, some as young as eight or nine years old, worked on conveyor belts in the breaker, picking out pieces of rock. They would sometimes drop or throw coal into piles on the ground and the people or children would pick it up and put it in bags, and carry it home. Alberta's brother would load a wheelbarrow with the coal, take it home and unload it, and she’d make three trips to his one.

Her father put a shower in their home in the basement. It was the only home around, with a shower. About ten kids from the neighborhood would line up with towel and soap on a Saturday morning to take a shower. Her mother would keep the fire going in the stove to heat the water. The last person would take a shower in cold or cool water.

They had the biggest house in Forbes Road, Pennsylvania, some distance east of Pittsburgh. Alberta knows where Fayette City is, where Joe, my Mom's husband, our Dad, was born. Fayette City is southeast of Pittsburgh. It seems that Forbes Road was somewhat farther east of Pittsburgh than Fayette City. 

She was then thirteen years old – her relatives had a roadhouse and she would go there to work in the summer. She would move a hundred empty cases for soda or drinks, in the basement from one side to the other, fill them with the soda bottles, and carry them back to the other side. It was very hard work, especially for youngsters.

She would also do laundry, with a wringer washer. One day she was bent over the tub with clothes to put in the wringer, and her long hair got caught in the wringer, and she had to pull her hair out little by little because no one was around to help her. For a long time after, she had a place on top of her head where hair wouldn’t grow well.

At the end of summer, her mother would get a bushel or two of peaches as pay from these people, for Alberta’s work. Times were very tough then, in the 1920s and 1930s, even into the 1940s. 

I'll see you at the Corner Post...

It's Nippy Out There! -- And dogs are such good creatures.

Good Morning, all of you good people: It's quite nippy outdoors, it's not going to be even 50 today. A brisk breeze, some heavy clouds, some parts of the azure sky can be seen. The birds are playing with the breezes. I love to see them up in the air, letting the breeze push them up, down, over there, then back over here, with the birds sometimes maneuvering the turns and curves.

There's nothing like taking a walk in the nip-your-nose weather, with your light gloves on and you wish you had worn the heavier ones, with a babushka on your head (babushka can be a Russian grandmother or a head scarf), and you walk a bit faster pace to shorten the time of being too cold. 

There were four doggies that I said good morning to, in my mind. In my mind only, because, excepting one, all were indoors, and barking their heads off behind the window pane or the door pane. They are all so cute, and so vigilant in their employment as guarding-the-home dogs. I waved at every one of them. And I said "Hello, Doggie!" twice, to the little brown shaggy terrier about five houses up on the other side of my street. He was the only one that was out this morning. 

Dogs have two kinds of employment: one is as a wonderful companion, and the other is being the 'alerter' (meaning letting people know that someone unknown is passing by). I wonder which business position pleases them the most. 


This idea of two jobs for these neighborhood dogs is all right, but we all know that dogs have many jobs that they enjoy: being the 'eyes' for the blind; and the 'nose' for finding packets of drugs, explosives, and victims of an earthquake;  and the 'comforter' for those in hospitals and nursing homes; and the 'pillow' for our little ones who just love to have a nap on some of these wonderful pillows; and a 'companion' for those who have lost theirs; and a 'fluffy toy' for growing children to cuddle up with.  


There are some cattle farmers and sheep farmers who want herders to gather in the cattle and  sheep to come home, or to keep them all in their own area for those animals who are just outdoors eating and resting. Wouldn't it be interesting to know of some of the other occupations of dogs? It would be such a good project to find out what all of YOU know about dogs and their employment!

Please do email me at < allegra2006@gmail.com > if you have any knowledge of this subject.  I would really and truly enjoy learning from you. I think I would be surprised at all of these canine 'jobs'. 








I'll see you at the Corner Post...

A 'pritty-good' day; It truly WAS a 'pritty-good' day.

Today the forecast for temperature is 66. I shall go for a walk this morning.

James Joyce, the writer, was born on this day. He was a genius at writing, and was also so afraid of thunderstorms and lightning, that he would get under the covers or under his bed. I would like to read some of his works. I don't care if he was scared of thunderstorms. I know he was a good writer.

I'm back... What a wonderful walk that was, a whole half-hour, with conversations with several doggies, from across the street, of course. There is one dog who is a vigilant guard, even though he is rather small. I was about three or four houses away from where he lives, and he began his warning to his master. Of course, I responded with my usual "Hi, Doggie! Hi, Doggie!" to let him know I wasn't looking for trouble. I would call out to him and he would change the tone of his bark, which pleased me. I like to let the dogs know that I am just taking a little walk to enjoy the beautiful air, and I tell them "You're a good doggie!" And I like to let them know that I appreciate their fine work at their jobs.

I found another penny on the sidewalk. I always pick them up; you know that old saying: See a penny, pick it up, All the day, you'll have good luck!" A penny does have value; if you have ninety-nine cents, you don't have a dollar. Add one, and there you have it! A DOLLAR!

I think it's spring already in my neighborhood, I've seen a few robins for the past few days. One today was quite near me as I walked in his area. He was so busy digging for worms in the storm-moistened little depression in the lawn, that he didn't see me at first. When he spotted me, he quickly hopped away, but I began to speak to him, and he stopped and listened. Not a one response, though. I walked on.

It was so lovely outdoors, such a beautiful azure sky, no clouds in sight, just a slight breeze, perfect temperature for walking. Aah!

I went to bed late last night, working on the computer. I woke up late, just before eight ... Oh, that's the beginning of a poem ... and I've been having so much fun so far. I'd better stop right here and get to work - there are some chores to be done.




I'll see you at the Corner Post...

Some of my Mom's memories in the 1920s.

                                                              Onions

When I was a little girl, about seven or eight years old, my mother sent me to one of the neighbors, Matechaks, to borrow something. It always took me longer than expected.

While there I decided I wanted something to eat. So, I asked for a piece of bread. They always had such good home made bread, which was baked in an old outside brick oven, one that you build the fire in and then rake out the fire and put the loaves of bread in where the fire was right on the brick without the pans. They would let the dough rise in pans and then dump the dough out into the oven.

Well, to my disappointment Mrs. Matechak told me she was out of bread and was in the process of making a new batch which wasn’t raised enough to bake yet. She said all she had was some tea and onions in the house. So, I informed her I would have some tea and onions. I guess they got a kick out of me because they told my mother about it.

We, my sister Deanie and I, liked going to Matechak’s house. They had seven children.

Sometimes they, the children, would go outside barefooted in the winter in the snow.

Once when I was there with my mom, I remember seeing one of their babies, which was born not long before, wrapped up like an Indian baby. It was wrapped in a small feather tick and then tied around and around with a cord. That was when there was no central heating. There was a stove in the kitchen only. The stove pipe went up through the ceiling through a bedroom above and then to the chimney. 

I'll see you around the Corner Post...