Dad's Cars

When I was growing up, my Dad usually had two cars.  One was the family car that we drove to town for groceries and other shopping and drove to church on Sundays, and the other was what he called his work car.  That one he drove to his job as a Grain Sampler in Willmar.

I never cared much one way or the other about the family car.  But, Oh how I loved his work cars.  The ones he had when I was old enough to drive were an early 1950's  faded blue Plymouth and a gray Studebaker, also early 1950's vintage.  These were not spiffy classic cars.  These were dirty, rusty and disreputable looking cars.  They smelled of grain dust and oil.  They were parked away from the house as they were always leaking some sort of fluid from underneath.  The only thing he asked from his work cars was that they should run well enough to get him to work and back home again.

Whenever I could wheedle Dad's car keys from him, I drove one of his work cars.  They were great.  I could go places with friends and not worry about the car.  I could put a ding in the side of one, and if I covered up the new scratch or dent with a little mud, nobody could tell it from the dents already adorning the car.  Don't ask me how I know this.  I think that driving these old cars was reverse snobbery, in a way.  The kids at school had their highly polished, fancy painted, souped up Hot Rods.  I had Dad's old work car.  This appealed to my sense of humor.

This was the last of Dad's work cars that I remember.

Unfortunately for me, I no longer lived at home when he had this car, but I remember that it was at least as disreputable as his previous work cars.  It might have been worth living at home yet just to have been able to drive it.

Dad told me once that he would sometimes take my sister to school in this car, and that she would have him drop her off a block or so away from their destination so none of her friends would see her in the car.  I expect that I, on the other hand, would have been more likely to pull right up to the front door, or park it in the first row of the parking lot.

I've always been ornery that way.

Wrinkles

I don't have cable TV.  I don't watch enough TV to justify paying the high fees.  I have an antenna.  It works well enough so that if I do want to watch TV, I have the choice of between 8 and 10 channels.  More than enough for me.  Most of the time.

This past weekend I was in my living room doing some hand sewing on a quilt.  Decided to watch a little TV while I worked.  This was a mistake.

Aside from the Public Broadcasting channels, there were mostly a variety of infomercials on.  At least half of these were for creams and lotions that, should I immediately call to order because operators were indeed standing by, holding their breath waiting for me to pick up the phone, credit card in hand, would take away every wrinkle that ever thought about appearing on my face.

I have a news flash for those people.  I am perfectly content with my wrinkled face.  The crow's feet around my eyes and the deep lines on either side of my mouth show that my sense of humor is alive and well and that throughout my life, I have laughed much more than frowned.  The rest of the lines and wrinkles give this face character.  They show that I have lived, not just existed.  When I see someone of my vintage whose face is perfectly smooth, I rather feel a bit sorry for them.  How can you lead a full life and not have it show in your face?

My Grandma Matheny had one of those faces that showed that she had lived.  She was a true pioneer in the northern Minnesota woods, moving to that area with her family when most roads were logging roads or trails.  Train travel was new to that part of the state and the railroad lines didn't reach as far north as she lived in the log house built by my Grandfather.  She raised her nine children there, without inside plumbing and without the modern conveniences that we are convinced we could never live without.  Grandma's face was lined with wrinkles.  I thought she was beautiful.

Grandma with Clarice, Shirley and one of Shirley's children

Sometimes when I was just a little girl, I would sit on my Grandma's lap.  Once in a while I would sit on her lap while she sat on the heavy, cast iron oven door of her wood-burning kitchen range, waiting for the room to heat in the early morning, just as my Dad had done when he was a little boy.  I remembering reaching up and touching her wrinkled face.  It was soft as silk.  Her smile deepened those wrinkles, and she was all the more beautiful to me.  I guess that along with that wrinkled face came the unconditional love that a Grandma has for her grandchild.

What I wouldn't give to see that wrinkled face again.

What Were They Thinking

I love going through old pictures.  Many times they lead me for a stroll down Memory Lane.

Sometimes I will run across a picture that puzzles me.  One in which you wonder what those people were thinking about when the picture was taken.

Like this one.

This one was taken in 1960, sometime around Christmas.  The little doo-dad on the coffee table was a decoration that Mom set out only at Christmas time.  The candles on the bottom were lit and the heat from them made the angels above move round and round.  Mom and Dad are in the living room of the house on the farm.  But what on earth could they have been thinking about to have such sober looks on their faces!

That's more like it.

On Happiness

One of the blogs that I read daily had a post recently about happiness and the fact that each of us is responsible for our own state of mind.  It stated that others can not make us happy.  We and we alone have the ability to choose whether to live in a state of happiness or in a state of misery.

Everyone has people in their lives who could drag us down if we allowed them to.  And each of us has circumstances, whether it be financial problems, work related aggravations, living situations or a myriad of other things in life, that could make us unhappy.  Even our long, cold, gray winters can bring us down.  But only if we let them.

The suggestion was made that we make a list of ten things that make us happy, and whenever we start to feel down in the dumps, take out that list and read it.  Focus on those things that make us truly happy.  Although I have never actually written down this list, this is a method I have used in the last few years to ward off depression.  Whenever I feel myself headed toward a pity party, I think about things more pleasant.  So here is my list of happy things.

1.  Fall leaves make me happy.  I love that time of year.  The hot, muggy summer days are gone, the air is crisp but not freezing cold, and the colors of the leaves are spectacular.  I love being outside this time of year just to drink it all in and enjoy.

2.  Flowers make me happy.  Flowers are one of God's best creations.  I love lilacs in the spring and daisies in the summer.  I love the rich colors of chrysanthemums in the fall.  My walks in the warm months of the year are made so much better when I see a yard full of flowers.  Or when I bring home cut flowers from the store.  They always brighten my day.

3.  Soft spring rains make me happy.  Spring rains wash away all of the dirty, dreary leftovers of winter.  They bring on the beautiful green leaves and grass of summer.  They make the world smell fresh and clean.

4.  Big brown puppy eyes make me happy.  Dogs are so trusting.  They love you unconditionally.  They want to be with you, even when you are grumpy.  And even if you just went out to get the mail, they act like they are so glad to see you when you come back.

5.  Phone calls make me happy.  I'm not talking about those calls where someone wants to sell me something.  Or those bad news calls that we have all received.  I am talking about the ones where my adult child says that they just called to see how I am.  Or those calls where a grandchild has something exciting to tell me about.  Or when a friend or relative calls just because they missed me.  Those are the phone calls that make me happy.

6.  The smell of homemade bread baking in the oven makes me happy.  It is not just the promise of the yummy goodness that will be ready to eat soon, but it is also the memories of the smell of bread fresh from the oven when I got home from school, as a child.

7.  Memories make me happy.  We all have good memories and bad memories.  The bad ones I have taken out, looked at them and then packed them away on a shelf in the back of the closet of my mind.  Those things that caused the bad memories cannot be changed, only learned from, and they are not worth dwelling on.  But the good memories live in my mind, right in front, where I can take them out, remember good times or people who are well loved or places that made me happy.  Good memories can bring sunshine to the darkest day.

8.  Making things makes me happy.  It doesn't matter if it is a quilt that I make, or a batch of chocolate chip cookies or a really good supper.  I get as much pleasure crocheting a granny square for my work-in-progress afghan as I do from making a loaf of bread.  I come by this honestly.  My mother was creative.  She sewed and made crafty things when I was young.  It is her influence that causes me to be happy while "doing something," no matter what it is.

9.  Woods and water make me happy.  There is a feeling of peacefulness that goes along with a walk in the woods or along a shore.  The smell of pine trees, the sounds of bird's songs and the gentle lapping of water on a shore make for a serene soul.  Whenever I have been unhappy or distressed, a walk in nature has most times brought me back to a place of happiness.

10.  I have saved the best for last.  My children and grandchildren make me the happiest of all.  Whether we are spending time together on a family picnic or on a holiday or special occasion, or whether I am just looking at their pictures that I keep in my bedroom, or talking with them on the phone, my family never ceases to make me happy.  They are my best thing and I love them will all of my heart.

I can guarantee that if I were unhappy, reading my list of happy things would turn the most dreary time into one of complete joy.  It works.

How to Survive Winter

I have finally figured it out.  I now know how to survive a Minnesota winter.  I stay indoors.

I don't recall disliking winter when I was a child.  I remember the fun of building snow forts.  And snowmen.  And making snow angels.  And ice skating.  And sledding.

Going sledding at my Grandma Matheny's house near Blackduck was exciting.  The cousins would take sleds and toboggans to the hill in the cow pasture across from the house.  This hill was full of rocks and tree stumps.  The person who was steering the sled had better be good at it, or we would hit a rock or stump and go flying off into the snow.

One year when I was about 8 or 9 years old, my Christmas present was a pair of ice skates.  Five blocks from our house in Willmar was an outdoor ice skating rink.  I spent many hours there skating.....pretending I was an Olympic skating star.  Truth be known, I never did get the hang of skating backwards or doing the fancy steps and jumps, but Oh, how I loved to skate.

When my family lived on the farm, sometimes in the winter my Dad and Uncle Ronnie would pack up us kids on a Sunday afternoon and head for the lake.  They would shovel off an area so we could ice skate.  Or they would drive the car around on the ice and snow, towing us on skis or sleds.  I'm pretty sure that the towing part would be frowned upon today, what with all the concern with safety issues.  But we sure had fun.  And afterward, there was always hot chocolate and cookies at either our house or at Ronnie and Em's.

I guess I really don't hate winter.  I love to sit in my rocking chair by the window with a cup of tea or coffee and watch the snow fall.  I love the way the snow makes everything look so beautiful.  But after years of clearing snow off of sidewalks with a shovel and years of slippy sliding on the ice, walking or driving, I much prefer to watch winter from the comfort of my living room.

Works for me.

The Great Canning Marathon

So, when I shopped for groceries I found ham and beef roast on sale.  Brought home a ham and two roasts.  Cut the meat from the ham bone and cubed it.  Cut both roasts into cubes and browned the cubes in the oven.  Stuffed the whole shebang into pint jars and canned them.

Canned meat isn't pretty.  Jars of canned peaches are pretty.  Jelly in jars is pretty.  Meat is not.  But it doesn't have to look pretty to go into a ham and scalloped potato dish or into a country beef stew or homemade vegetable beef soup, which is where these jars of meat will wind up.  I think I need to can more ham and beef the next time there is a sale.

I had a little ham left over.....not enough to fill a pint jar.  So into my pantry I went and dug out a bag of dry split peas and a couple jars of carrots.  Dumped them into a stock pot along with the broth that I had boiled the ham bone in, the leftover ham and the meat from the ham bone, threw in a handful of dried onion and a little pepper.  Tossed in a pint of celery that I had canned a while back, just for fun.  Brought the soup to a boil and then let it simmer on the back burner all day.  This is seriously good split pea soup.  Had a bowl for supper and canned the rest.

This soup separates during canning, but combines again when heated and stirred.

Then I decided to try something just for fun.  I had found a recipe for canning French Fries.  I already can potatoes.  I do this because I can get a pretty good price on a large bag of potatoes as opposed to the smaller bags.  Trouble is, I can't eat even a small bag before they go bad.  Canning them solves this problem and I can have canned potatoes boiled, mashed or fried.  Works like a charm.  I love French Fries.  So I decided to try this recipe.

I just peeled and cut them lengthwise into fries, packed them in wide mouth pint jars so they would be easier to take out of the jar, covered them with boiling water and ran them through my pressure canner.  I only had four empty wide mouth pint jars for the French Fries, so I filled enough small mouth jars with cubed potatoes to fill the canner.

Of course I had to give the fries a taste test, so the next day I opened a jar.  These only take a couple of inches of oil to fry, so I heated the oil, dumped the drained fries into the pot and let them brown.

I really can't tell the difference between these canned French Fries and those I have made with raw potatoes.  They are yummy.  I may have to can up a few more jars of these.

And with that, the great canning marathon came to an end.

It gives me a sense of accomplishment to see these jars of meat, soup and potatoes on the pantry shelves and knowing that if I get a hankering for beef stew and biscuits, I don't have to run to the grocery store for the ingredients.  Grab a few jars off the pantry shelves and before long, dinner is served.

Favorite Photo of Mom

I have no idea where or when this photo was taken or even who took it.  I only know that's my Mom sitting on that rock.  I know that she is too far away from the photographer to be able to know who it is just by looking at the photo.  But I found it in the photo album that she had put together when she was young.  You can see by the caption she wrote underneath that it is indeed her.

And I really love this photo of her.

(You can click on any photo and bring it up full size in another window.)