The Things I See; A Library's Goodies

Last fall, I had the joy of inspecting a fairly new library in the Albany Park neighborhood of Chicago. What could be more exciting? An English major in a library BEFORE it opens. I had to wander the stacks too because I had to look at the ceiling where the stacks were. I have an observation which was eye-opening to me.

Libraries in multi-cultural neighborhoods need to have books in the languages of their neighbors.

I feel like such a dork for not realizing that. Of course, I don't know which Asian language or languages this is, but there was a whole row of such books. It also made me realize that, although I knew it, lending libraries are global. If you speak Spanish, but your library doesn't carry Spanish-language books, the reach of a lending library means you can get books in your language. This is a head-to-desk realization.

When I was growing up, inter-library loan was a thing. Mainly, it was in the loaning of large print or Braille books. I knew people who would go to the local library and ask for the list of large print books. They had to wait awhile because these came from the big libraries or, in some cases, the university libraries, but they would arrive to our little library in Monona. I remember the librarian let me see one. Whoa! 18, 24, 28 point type. A 150 page book could balloon in page size to double that. You could kill small animals with the size of the book. But the librarian emphasized that people with failing eyesight should be allowed to read, too.

Libraries have had to remake themselves as the world goes digital. The days are long gone where you could wander the stacks of a library, finding treasures in the back; books which hadn't been checked out in 10 years. I loved to look through those, even if I didn't check them out. My local library has removed some of their stacks, replaced by an increase in the display area of periodicals (I'm not against that.), more music and movie offerings; and more classes. I have a cross-stitch club I go to every fourth Tuesday of the month, assuming I'm not traveling. There are more computers available for those without reliable access. But the large number of stacks, which I remember wandering in the 1980's, are gone. It's just the nature of a library nowadays. If I want something, they can get it via inter-library loan, but I do miss wandering and finding something I didn't know existed.

This library in Albany Park, was sparse from a browsing point of view. They are heavily focused into community programs. Being part of the Chicago Library system, there is no need to have a vast amount of paper materials in the building. Instant access in requesting books is provided. You can do it yourself from one of the terminals around the library. They have an outdoor reading area where you bring your own things or books you have checked out. It was quite inviting.

I have great fondness for the library I grew up with. That is probably as much due to the librarian who was very invested in getting kids and their parents to read. It was just assumed you went there. That libraries address the reading needs of their diverse communities should not have come as a surprise to me. I'm kind of ashamed it never occurred to me before I had to inspect one.

Beverage:  Water

Deb

Deciphering

Bohemian National Cemetery is a very peaceful place, even while being bordered by two of Chicago's busy streets. When I was inspecting the columbarium, I stood on the front steps and gazed around the grounds. The one thing I noticed, was the overabundance of tree headstones. This is the view looking northeast from the front steps.

Notice, within this view, there are two right of center. I found the amount of trees to be very intriguing. There is a tree in my dad's family.

My great-great-great uncle, Mathew Thompson, is buried under this. It's the only one in the Monona, Iowa city cemetery. I don't think the Lutheran cemetery has one. I have not been in the Catholic cemetery to know if one is there. I'd not seen another and then, driving through Bohemian, there were trees everywhere.

I was told they were used primarily by Eastern European people. I objected. "I have one in my family; my dad's side. They were Scottish, from northeast of Edinburgh." The historian looked at me. "That is very interesting." He mentioned a book a woman wrote roughly 7 years ago, about the trees in Bohemian National, but was unsure if you could find it anywhere. She had spent a couple of years photographing every tree in the cemetery. She also deciphered what the symbols carved onto the tree meant. He could not remember the name of it and didn't know if it was still available. I spent hours googling any kind of book and came up empty. He said it was a $45 book because it was filled with photos, but I'd pay $45 to have something like that.

If you google "tree headstones", you will find web sites with information about this symbolism. The historian at Bohemian National said, if I brought in a photo of the tree, he would be able to tell me what the symbols mean. That would be fantastic, but I only have this photo. I don't have side or back photos. Those were lost in the great computer melt-down of late 2011. I remember there being symbols carved all around this stone. Perhaps I have the photos stored on a CD, but I'm thinking that's unlikely. While everything is backed up today, it wasn't back then. I would need to go back to the cemetery and photograph the whole thing to present a better view for deciphering. I am very curious what the stone could be telling us that we don't know. Plus, I wonder how this compares to trees in Bohemian National.

Looks like I have a road trip in my future.

Beverage:  La Croix Berry Seltzer

Deb

A Change of Palate

On Monday, I found myself on the road in a "please go do this now" work event. This involved an afternoon in my Jeep and a late lunch. As it came time to procure said lunch, I was trying to decide what I wanted, what was it that would satisfy.

When you're on the road, how do you determine what you're going to eat? You're driving down the Interstate at 70 mph. You've got a full tank of gas. (Insert Blues Brothers quote. You know the one.) You realize you're hungry. Thanks to our "enlightened" age, we no longer have to rely on faded billboards advertising diners at the next exit which the health department closed down 6 months ago. We have spiffy shiny signs put up by highway departments advertising chain restaurants with the same food you can get from Bangor, Maine to San Diego, California and every point in between. Depending upon revenue, that Burger King sign at exit 136B might be for the Burger King that went out of business 6 months ago, but the highway department hasn't had a chance to remove the placard.

I thought about all of this, and more, as I pulled into my restaurant of choice on a Monday afternoon. I opted to eat at Culver's.

This place was, essentially, foreign to me until, roughly, 9 years ago, when I was sent north into Wisconsin for a bridge job. There was a Culver's just north of the town where I was stationed, across a parking lot from the hotel where I was to spend the night. I knew nothing about this chain. It was, at that time, limited to Wisconsin.

If you are unfamiliar with Culver's, they are a fast food with a large sit down area restaurant. Their specialty is the "butter burger". I'm not sure if they fry their hamburgers in butter or if butter is added to the meat as it's cooked. It has a taste that is reminiscent of burgers cooked over a backyard grill, summertime, with dad pretending that he knows exactly how to do this whole grilling thing that everyone assumes he can do to perfection.

The advertising for Culver's stresses something we subconsciously take for granted. Culver's says that when you go into a Culver's, anywhere in the US, you will find the same high standards of food that you find when you're at your hometown Culver's. My food from this Culver's was the same as the Culver's close to me, same taste.

I'm going to be doing a little traveling on my upcoming vacation. Part of that will involve being on the road during the hours when we usually sit down to meals. I've read some articles about how life changed, dramatically, when the US Interstate system was formally opened. It used to be that going from point A to point B involved a two-lane road with speeds of 60 mph, although that was usually only in the first few years of a highway's life. After it had been patched in several place, you might hit 55. To get from Cedar Rapids to Iowa City, you would have to drive through Ely and Solon or maybe go via North Liberty, Tiffin and Coralville.

Growing up in Monona, I remember the drive-in at the west edge of town, just off Highway 18. It was a huge treat in the summer to pile into the car and go to the drive-in for dinner. You generally knew the waitresses. In fact, some of them might be babysitters to the kids in the car. The food was unspectacular but it was homemade from locally sourced ingredients.

If you were traveling, there were thousands of these restaurants along the two-lane roads that crisscrossed the US and thousands more Jim and Joe's Diners, usually located in the downtowns of the towns through which you were driving. As the interstates came through, or rather, by towns, the local diners and drive-ins closed. They have been replaced by the McDonalds, the Subways, and yes, the Culver's of the world.

There are pluses and minuses for this. On the plus side, I remember gas station bathrooms, oh lord do I remember those. The jokes about cleaning it every 6 months with a flame thrower weren't that far off. Now, when you have to go, for the most part, the chain eateries keep their bathrooms in a condition we'd never dreamed we'd find while traveling. You had to actually sit down at Jim and Joe's to use the bathroom, although, in small towns, they seemed to understand that parents with 4 kids just needed a place for those kids to go so they'd stop saying, "I have to pee."

Food is, essentially, the same. If I walk into a Subway in Youngstown, Ohio, I know the menu already. I know what I want and what it's going to taste like. I don't have to stand there trying to decipher a menu I don't know or order something that is vaguely familiar but which the locals just snigger at. "That's for the tourists," they say behind your back. You know that ingredients have been, you hope, supervised by the chain's quality control systems and will taste exactly the same as what you can get at home. For many of us, while we say we are "open to try new things", when faced with Jim and Joe's versus McDonalds, we'll opt for McD's because it's familiar.

On the minus side, that uniqueness in cuisine is lost with Culver's every 150 miles or so. There really isn't an incentive to hop off the Interstate and try Jim and Joe's even if the billboard you passed 20 miles back was freshly painted and the sign is still by the exit. We don't go through town anymore on Highway 30. We go by town at 70 mph and may only give the exit arrow a cursory glance. Jim and Joe's may not even exist anymore. I don't remember when the drive in closed. I think it was long after I was gone from Monona.

As I think about a day trip here and there while on vacation, I think about where I'm going to stop to eat when it comes that time. Just off the Interstate is not where you're going to find Jim and Joe's. If you're going from point A to point B in the quickest amount of time, the drive through at Wendy's becomes your choice. In, out and back on the highway. You're not inclined to drive 3 miles into town for a "unique" eating experience since your final destination is another 4 hours ahead.

When we travel, we tend to fall into two categories, the meander and the straight line. There is room for both. The meander will seek out the Jim and Joe's while the straight line will stop at Culver's and get back on the road. Sometimes, we combine both styles into a trip. And I'm not bemoaning the homogenization of travel eating, don't get me wrong. There is a need for clean bathrooms and quick meal service, something you did not get in the 1960's.

Stopping for food is, for me, as much about what I want to eat as what is convenient and what fits with the style of travel. If I have time, Jim and Joe's is very appealing. If I have places to go and people to annoy, I need the drive through. I don't think we'd be happy to go back to the time when the only food available while traveling took you two hours to get and eat. Our palate has changed. Some places have adapted and some have not. I'm going to muse on this over my vacation and I'll be back with some thoughts at the end.

Beverage:  Dr Pepper

Deb

Weird, Creepy, Eerie, You Label It

I finished my autographed copy of Chicago Haunts 3 on Friday night. If you've read the previous two books, Chicago Haunts and More Chicago Haunts, this is more of the same although the author goes southeast almost to the Indiana border and west as far as Cherry Valley. If you haven't read the first two and you don't know anything about hauntings in Chicago, this book will have references that you won't get. As is the nature of a serial, the author refers back to previous stories. In some cases, she provides a bit of a history. More often, she just mentions that you'll find the story elsewhere. This isn't a negative of the book, just a note that if you pick this up as your first exposure to ghosts of Chicago, you're going to come away disappointed because that's not what she's doing in this book.

Beilski has an immensely readable style. It's breezy and devoid of over-the-top moments. She reports the stories with an eye toward, this is what happened or is rumored to have happened. In her introduction, she mentions that some stories she collected left her shaken and you are warned. Being yet one more layer removed from the actual events, I wasn't scared by anything related in the book. There are some places she talks about that I don't think I would go alone, particularly at night, because the mind plays tricks on you and you can think you see something you don't. Orbs are a classic case of this. At night, a camera flash will illuminate dust particles in the air that we cannot see. People will jump on this as evidence of orbs, something associated with hauntings. Um...no. It's just evidence of dust in the air.

Cemetery "lights" are another thing. I used to think the Monona City Cemetery was haunted. Every time we passed it at night, I would see these flashes of light in the cemetery. It was only when I started reading about the paranormal that it was explained to me. Flashes of light in a cemetery are, more often than not, reflections of car headlights. Highly polished marble tombstones are the culprit here, not ghosts, yet your mind could tell you there is something strange going on because you want to experience it.

Now, I'm not a skeptic. I believe there are things we don't understand. There are enough ghost photos and stories of hauntings with no logical explanation that I believe there is something to this. Things happen that we just can't explain. Something falls off the shelf and there were no ground vibrations nearby which would cause it to happen. A photo shows an image of a person where everyone swears no one was. One of my guild mates felt someone stroke her hair while she was working alone during the day in an office in a building that was supposed to be haunted. I don't think I've had anything ever happen to me until Saturday. Now, I don't know.

One of these daily is part of the number of drugs and vitamins I take for my RA. They are large, about an inch long. I bought this bottle when it was on sale, buy one get one free, and I happened to be picking up the monthly drugs. It's a great deal. This is a 4 month supply so I have 8 months of vitamins with the two bottles.

On Friday, I finished the last pill in the bottle. I couldn't swear, at the time, but I thought I had only finished bottle #1 of the two, so I went to the bathroom to get the next bottle. I couldn't find it. These are rather large bottles so it's not going to fit just anywhere. I went through both drawers and under the sink. Nothing. I checked the shelves to the left of the medicine chest. (It's too big to fit in there.) Nothing. I opened the bin I have on the floor in the bathroom. It has sunscreen and Ace bandages but no vitamins. I looked around the microwave since I keep my drugs on top of the microwave so I remember to take them in the morning. Nothing. I even looked under the kitchen sink, although I didn't know why I would have put it down there. It wasn't there either. I picked up the old bottle and tossed it into the recycling container.

Oh well. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. I may think I was on bottle #1 but, in reality, I'll bet I was on bottle #2. I went to the office and, over lunch, started a grocery list for the weekend, although I wasn't really planning on leaving the house. Item number 1 was "calcium + D 1000".

Saturday morning, I got up and lurched into the kitchen. Did I want to make waffles this morning? Nah. I'd go with peanut butter toast and yogurt. That will be good. I came to a screeching halt as I walked into the room. There, on the counter in front of the microwave, was the bottle. I blinked for a moment and looked at the back door. I could have sworn I pitched the old bottle into the recycling. Maybe I hadn't. Oh well. I'll just move it to the left side of the sink and pitch it later. I picked up the bottle and nearly dropped it. It was full. Not only that, the lid was unscrewed and the paper seal had been started as if someone had left it for me so it wouldn't be hard to open in the morning when my RA is most acute.

I set the bottle back down, backed away from the counter and just looked at it. This was not here when I went to bed Friday night. I will swear, on a stack of bibles two miles tall. It was raining when I got up and I wasn't looking forward to having to go to the grocery in the rain. Now, it was clear I didn't have to go, but where did this come from?

To the best of my knowledge, I did not have an unexplained black out Friday night. I can, mentally, account for my time from when I came home from work to going to bed. I'm not aware that I sleep walk. I would think I would have discovered other things awry which would cause me to wonder about somnambulism.

I dumped out all the pills and spent an hour looking over all of them. They look fine. My doors were locked so no one came into the house overnight. That would be creepier still; the thought that someone came into my house and gave me a bottle of the vitamins I'm supposed to take, particularly when I didn't tell anyone I was out of them.

So, dear readers, I got nothing here. If there was something awry with my house, I would think the girls would be restless as it's well known that animals can see and hear things we can't. It is entirely possible I found this in my sleep, opened it, and left it out for me to find the next morning. I just don't know.

I went on with my life but I have to tell you, every time I used the microwave this weekend and then, when I dumped out the morning's pill, I just had to wonder. Perhaps I should stand in my kitchen tonight and audibly thank the ether for finding it. Saved me money.

Beverage:  Water

Deb

Originals

I've been away from blogging. First of all, it's work related. We've had a huge project that required a lot of my time; overtime and driving thither and yon. (Hmmmm. I should do a post on old words I still use.) I come home from a drive or an overnight or a day at the office and collapse into the recliner. Up go the feet, recline the back (Whoops. Move it away from the wall first.) and settle in for an hour or hour and a half nap. Usually, that would delay the onset of the sandman, but I'm quite worn out at the end of a day so slipping into sleep hasn't been a problem.

And, I'm unsettled with my RA meds. I'm supposed to be cutting back on the Prednisone but I'm scared that the driving I've had to do will take more than a little toll on the joints so I have not gone from one whole pill to a half pill. I have one more trip, I hope only one more, and then I can start cutting those pills in twain. I don't feel like cooking when I'm tired like this so cereal and oatmeal are staples. What did our prairie ancestors do when they worked 10 hours in the fields in August? There wasn't a Subway to make them a sandwich. They couldn't pop open a can of tomato soup. I often feel guilt in chugging down a mug of soup because I'm too tired to do any "real" cooking. My great-grandmother didn't do this. I'll bet she ate better than I.

So, blogging has been something of a second or third after-thought. There are so many photos uploaded to my Flickr account with the idea of a post behind them. This past week, I haven't considered writing anything other than the reports I needed to get done. Those are sitting to my left, finished and ready to be delivered with tomorrow's jaunt. I have time to consider blogging again. My goal is, always, a post a day. I am quite behind. Let's get somewhat caught up, shall we?

One of the trips of the past week was to Iowa for a meeting with clients. My boss was on vacation and this was a "What can we do for you?" kind of meeting. Instead of my boss having to pay overtime and mileage, I decided to stay overnight with my mom. I haven't been back to see her since March. When I called, I said, "I'm going to bring that box back." You should have heard her cackle.

"Oh good," she laughed. "I have a box you can take back with you. More fabric I found."

Pilchard's box was put in the back seat of the Jeep and dropped in the living room where mom could find it to fill for the next time I come back. In return, she handed me a smaller box with fabric scraps. When I got home, I took the scraps out to see what she'd found. It was like looking backwards in time. Witness these two squares found in the bottom of the box.

The fabric on the right is from the very first item I ever made. It was a skirt and it was required in Home Economics class in 7th grade. When I pulled it from the box, I actually had to sit down. I turned the piece over and over in my hand. It's a cotton, but it has a shiny finish to it. I remember, back when I started sewing, that fabric, while on bolts, was not always made evenly. Edges would often be angled and pinning pattern pieces onto non-square fabric resulted in awkwardly hanging clothing. You'd take a thread and pull it through the edges to form a line. Then, you'd cut off the extra fabric of this line, thereby squaring the edges. I remember how the thread of this broke, constantly, because of the sizing applied to the fabric. I remember that it took an hour or more to get the fabric square in order to pin the skirt pattern onto it.

It was a very simple skirt; two pieces; a front and a back. The waistband was elastic and there were no pockets. I remember being so pleased with this and desiring to make more clothing. We couldn't afford much at that time so "current" fashion was not something I was a party to. But, by being able to sew, I could have the latest trends in clothing for a fraction of the cost. My mother sewed. It was kind of expected that you learned, at some point during high school. I don't remember her sewing as much as I did but she probably didn't have the time.

The blue on the left is from something she had made. I cannot, for the life of me, remember what that was. I'm thinking a dress or a jumper, perhaps. I look at that swatch now and think, "Wow, I'd like that fabric now. It would make a great camp shirt." I love the sort of watercolor pattern in the vibrant blues with green accents. I"m pretty sure she bought the fabric and the material and I made whatever it was she wanted. We often did that as she just didn't have the time to sew.

Looking at these pieces brings back the hours spent looking through the fabric and the pattern books at the dry goods store in town. You had to order patterns back then, as they didn't have a way to store everything in every size. It took about a week to get them. You'd mark the fabric you wanted and they would hold it under the counter until the pattern came in. Fabric was laid out on long tables with everything from upholstery to special occasion to cottons to knits all mixed together.

Later, when an actual fabric store opened two doors down, you got to sit at tables and look through all sorts of pattern books. Fabric was organized by type and color. It was, and still is, to some extent, a magical time to be able to look through the pattern books and run my hands over the myriad of fabrics in their textures, prints and sizes.

I don't know what happened to the two items made from these swatches. I'm sure we gave them away. They really would be vintage now, if we still had them. I have been sewing a long, long time.

Beverage:  Huckleberry tea

Deb

Not Quite 40 Years Ago

Ron Santo was inducted, posthumously, to the Baseball Hall of Fame on Sunday. He was part of the Cubs franchise my dad loved. The Cubs were so much a part of his life. He told us stories about buying a train ticket to Chicago when the Milwaukee Road ran passenger service through Northeast Iowa. The train would arrive in Monona around 2 a.m. Dad and his friends would ride the train to Chicago, hop onto the red line elevated train and take that to Wrigley Field. Bleacher seats, in the war years, cost a buck. They would sit in the bleachers of the Friendly Confines cheering on the team and, when the game was over, reverse the process to get home. They usually arrived back in Monona around 2:30 a.m. A friend would drive him home and he'd get about 3-4 hours of sleep before starting the day. I don't know how many times he did this but he loved to tell the story.

Growing up, we had an old box radio about the size of my sewing box. It was brown, I remember that clearly, with a big dial on the front that moved the red line to the various stations. In the summer, when he would go out to the fields in the afternoon, dad would put the radio in the east southeast windows of the porch, meticulously tune the dial and fiddle with the antenna until we heard the first verse of, "Lets Go! Batter Up! We're taking the afternoon off! It's a beautiful day for a ball game!" Then the booming voice of Jack Brickhouse came out of the radio, "The Chicago Cubs are on the air!" It was a marvel to me, unknowing as I was about radio waves back then, that we were listening to something going on live in Chicago. Chicago! That's another place, a big place, so different from Cedar Rapids or Des Moines, the biggest cities I'd been to at that time.

It was someone's responsibility to listen to the game and, when dad came in from the fields, after about an hour or 90 minutes, tell him what the score was. Plus, it was not just tell him the score, it was also our responsibility to tell him who had hit a home run. He was a huge fan of Billy Williams and Fergie Jenkins, so when they were slated to play, it was doubly important to keep tabs on the game for him. That responsibility usually fell to me, as the oldest. My siblings didn't have the patience to sit at the table and keep one ear on a scratchy radio broadcast and do something else. They wanted these summer days to be filled with other things.

When we started taking family vacations, one of the first places dad wanted to go was Chicago, and, by extension, Wrigley Field. We'd gone to a minor league baseball game in Cedar Rapids, the Cedar Rapids Cardinals, in preparation for the Chicago trip. The team at that time, was affiliated with the hated St. Louis Cardinals. I don't remember anything about that game other than it was chilly at night and my grandmother, with whom we were staying, disapproved of the excursion. But, the trip met dad's expectations for us sitting for 7 innings so he bought tickets to the Chicago Cubs vs the Houston Astros.

Somewhere, I have the program for the game. I can't tell you if the Cubs are up or in the field. This was a Friday and "Ladies Day" at the ballpark. Women got in free to grandstand and bleacher seats. We had reserved grandstand seats which were discounted. Our tickets were not mailed. We had to go to something called the "Will Call" window, a term we were unfamiliar with. The smartly dressed ushers showed us where to go and dad handed each of us a ticket. I felt like I was on top of the world. This was Chicago! This was the Cubs! I didn't know anyone in my grade who had gone to a real live major league baseball game!

Billy Williams was still with the team at this point. Santo was gone. Ernie Banks, another stalwart of the Cubs, was managing the team after the then manager, Whitey Lockman, was ejected in a May game. Dad was in his glory pointing out all the players and where he used to sit when he came in the 1940's. We walked all over the park, from one end to another. We got hot dogs, cotton candy, soda, peanuts and ice cream. Dad taught me how to keep score. The scorecard and a pencil were 50 cents. It was a bit chilly in the shade but the atmosphere of Wrigley Field could not be matched anywhere.

The Cubs lost 6-4. I remember that. Dad and mom conferred and we came back the next day. We had seats to the left, on the third base side. I remember my youngest brother had to go to the bathroom, so dad took him. During that interlude, Billy Williams came up to bat and hit a homerun over the left field wall. Billy was rounding third base when dad got to the top of the ramp to see anything. He was very disappointed that he'd missed seeing it.

It's too expensive for me to attend a Cubs game now. It's relatively easy to get there. I'd take the communter train into the city and hop on the same red line elevated train to stop at Addison Street. The park is a 2 block walk west. There are statues of Ron Santo, Ernie Banks, Jack Brickhouse and Harry Carey around the park. Dad despised Harry Carey because he announced St. Louis Cardinal and Chicago White Sox games for years before coming to the Cubs. He replaced Jack Brickhouse in the announcer's booth, a move dad always resented of "his" Cubs.

All of this came back into memory as I read the stories of Santo's induction. I don't pay much attention to baseball anymore. I quit caring deeply when salaries became more than the gross national product of some small countries. I can't tell you, right now, where the Cubs stand in their division or who plays for them. I do know that it doesn't matter where they are in the standings, Wrigley Field will almost always be sold out for every game, such are the Cub faithful.

Dad never got to sit in the box seats down front. I was going to do that for him the year he died. He was going to retire and come visit for a week. We were going to take the trains to the ballpark and watch a game up close and personal. I thought of all that on Sunday. Ron Santo's induction should have come earlier but it's still important that he's in the Hall of Fame now. Some day, I should go visit Cooperstown.

Beverage:  Darjeeling tea

Deb

Would It Work Today?

There is a huge market for "vintage" items now. A couple of the blogs I follow to the right; Smile and Wave and Thompson Family-Life; are penned by women who worship vintage, thrift relentlessly to find just the right piece that I look at and think, "I remember when that was new". It's amusing, in a way, to see my childhood now held up as a pinnacle of design or color or kitsch. But then, I remember cruising antique stores for the right chair or end table. My collection of Jewel Tea china, as an example, was once something  given away in oatmeal boxes. Hence I guess our view of what's called "vintage" or "antique" varies as the years separate us from when the item was new.

Where am I going with all this? Well, today's old photograph is of the gas station where my dad worked for a time. Yes, I grew up on a farm but I really think dad never wanted to be a farmer. It was the only way of life he knew, however, and he was sort of expected to farm. His father helped my parents buy the farm where I lived my life from age 3 to age 20, when they moved into town. Grandpa spent a lot of time with us, helping with everything a working farm does. It's not an easy life. It wasn't when I spent my years pitching hay nor is it now. I think my dad would have rather been a man working in a factory than a man on a tractor.

After grandpa passed away, farming became less and less what dad wanted to do. He started looking outside the farm, with its spotty income, and took a factory job. He worked that until the factory closed and then did a number of other jobs in and around my hometown. One of them was at this gas station.

I don't have the photo in front of me where I could read what I scribbled on the back for the identifying year. This was an open house at the station. For a 3-day weekend in the summer, the station had contests and discounted items. I remember a watermelon seed spitting contest, water balloons, a jar filled with marbles to guess how many, gift certificates to local businesses and discounted food and soda pop in the mechanic bay.

I can still hear the ding when you pulled into the station and ran over the line that activated the bell. Self-service was unheard of. Oh, in a small town, you could get by with it if the station owner knew you. I can remember my dad pulling into Smitty's and pumping gas because Smitty was busy with another customer, but usually, you waited. The oil was checked. Your windshield and back window cleaned. I remember the sound of the pump bell when you hit a dollar's worth of gas. I remember when gas was a quarter a gallon and the uproar of that. And I remember these small stations.

On the left was the retail area with a small office and a restroom tucked behind it. Unlike the markets that are attached to gas stations now, dad sold candy, gum, road maps, soda and small car aids like key chains, those trees that freshen the air and tire gauges. There wasn't much room and the soda machine took up a lot of it so retail was limited. Road maps HAD to be provided. It was just expected that if you wanted a road map, you went to a gas station. Given where we lived, he had maps of Iowa, Minnesota and Wisconsin.

To the right was a mechanic's bay. This would be unthinkable nowdays, to have your mechanic at the same place where you get your gas. Dad knew quite a bit about repairing cars but he learned a lot from the guy who owned this station. I don't remember his name. They sold tires and paid one of the local farmers to come take the old tires. Occasionally, they had one or two cars awaiting parts for repairs sitting next to the station, but this guy's mantra was to finish repairing one car before taking on another because he didn't like having a bunch of "broken down" cars around his station.

These small stations are pretty much gone, only a memory. The building above still stands and the concrete islands where the pumps are in the photo were still there when I passed by a year or so ago. It was a repair shop with a lot of broken down cars surrounding it.

This gas company represents another era. Midland, Sinclair, DX, Texaco all those names of gas companies who serviced small town America are gone, gobbled up in the 1980's and 1990's.

Our lives are different. Dad opened the station at 7 a.m. Sometimes, he'd close it at 6 p.m. This station was located in a town west of Monona, named Luana. If you needed gas after 6, you had to either call up the guy who owned the station and have him open a pump for you (It was a key that turned the pumps on and off and it hung under the counter below the cash register.) or you had to drive to Monona where the Shell station was open until 9, 10 on home football or basketball nights. If the Mrs. was expecting, you'd best make sure you had gas for the drive to Waukon, Postville or Elkader because there wasn't anyone open after 10 p.m.

These places were also hang-outs for the men of the town. Yeah, you could go to the Corner Tap, but people generally frowned on that. So, if there wasn't a car needing repair, men would gather in the empty bay, drink coffee or soda and shoot the breeze. On a Saturday afternoon in the summer, it wasn't unusual to see 8-10 guys just sitting around talking about the crops or fishing or hunting or the Cubs or the Twins. You certainly don't see that in the larger cities anymore. I wonder if they do it still in small towns.

And I wonder, would people frequent a place like this if someone decided to try to resurrect it or has the time passed where this would be profitable? Full-service gas pumping with the amenities. I know my grandmother refused to go to a self-service station. She went to the same guy for decades. His son took over when he became too old to run the business. I remember she was distraught when the son had to close the station because he couldn't compete with the self-serve that opened up the street.

I don't remember when dad left this place or if he helped close it down. The relocation of highway 18 was a contributing factor. The traffic didn't go through Luana anymore so you didn't get people deciding to stop on the spur of the moment. Would they drive out of their way now for a chance at nostalgia? Would they pay 10 cents more per gallon to have a pump boy, for lack of a better description, come pump their gas, wash their windshields and check their oil? I have read that margins are razor thin for those who franchise a gas station with a convenience store. Could you make the ends meet if you provided car repairs with your gas pumping or do you need to offer beer, soda, a deli, aspirin, newspapers, chips and day old pizza?

Vintage or nostalgia? We thought we were cutting edge at the time. Is there a market for this kind of experience?

Beverage:  African Rooibos tea

Deb

Day 10- The first novel you remember reading

Today's book challenge post is much easier than yesterday's. I was even quite surprised that one of the books I chose is still available and I could find a photo of the cover.

My mother is a voracious reader. I don't remember a time when she didn't read. I don't have memories of her reading to me, but I do have memories of being taken to the Monona Public Library, sitting at the kids table and being allowed to page through books with incredible pictures while she went to the left, into those dark stacks and came out with two or three books that didn't have pictures. Why would you want to read something that just had words on the page? Pictures make the words come alive.

I believe mom was encouraged to read by her parents. My grandmother received, probably, 6-8 different magazines every month and read each one of them. She read the newspaper, all of it, ads and everything. I don't remember my grandfather having books around, but he was a numismatist, an antique's dealer and a philatelist, and I remember magazines devoted to those hobbies lying around. My grandfather's parents had a few books in their home.

Reading was encouraged in all of us kids. My brothers don't read as my sister and I do. My ex-husband came from a family of readers so it would be natural to hand down the love of reading and the love of books to Carole. She's a couple days ahead of me on this challenge and her answer to this theme was her father's Hardy Boys books.

As I aged, the public library became a more wondrous place. Girl Scouts was in the basement of this building, the town hall. The library was just beyond the town clerk and the mayor's office. I can smell the smell that greeted you when you scampered up the stairs, across the lobby to the large wooden doors that said "Public Library" on them. The librarians were two ladies everyone knew and they made it their business to recommend books.

I think, the summer between 3rd and 4th grade is when I made the transition to non-illustrated chapter books. We went to the library and the librarian suggested I start reading Nancy Drew. She said the beauty of these books was that there were more of them in this series, meaning Nancy and her friends, these characters I could get to know, would have more adventures. Well, okay, I'll give it a try.

I don't know if I read The Secret of the Old Clock first. That is the first one in the series. I do know that once I started reading these, I was hooked.

At the time I was reading them, new books were showing up in the library every 6-10 weeks. I wasn't the only 4th grader reading Nancy Drew and 3 of us would, before Girl Scouts, go to the library to see if a new book was in. We had read all the others so a new one was a treasure. But, we did have arguments over who had checked out the last new book so whose "turn" it was to check the newest book out first.

That's when the librarian stepped in and said she would start a list. She would keep tabs on who checked out the book first and rotate it between the three of us. It was a good system. If one of us came in and found the newest book on the shelf but it wasn't our "turn" to check it out, she would call and find out if we were going to come in soon or could she let someone else check it out. I think this lasted a year before we moved on to other books.

In the back of my mind, there is the idea that there was a series I read before Nancy Drew, but Nancy Drew is the chapter book I remember most clearly.

Beverage:  English Breakfast tea

Deb

Happy Birthday, Sis!

Today is my sister's birthday. I'm having fun with the scanner in the office since my home scanner doesn't want to work.

First week of September 1970, before school.

I can't seem to get the photos square, however.

Spitting watermelon seeds at the gas station where dad worked. That's him in the background. They were having an open house event over July 4th, 1976. You had to get the seeds into a box and you won a prize.

 

And finally, on a merry-go-round at Paul Bunyan State Park in Bemidji, Minnesota in 1973.

Hope your birthday is special.



Beverage:  Blackberry Sage Tea


Deb

Xylophone is Never on a Billboard

When I was growing up, we farmed. Farm families rarely get what could be termed a "vacation". Someone has to come milk the cows and feed the pigs. Forget a summer vacation because there might be hay to bring in or corn to cultivate. School runs from the end of August to the end of May. The best you could do was drive to a cousin's for an extended weekend, assuming you could find someone to watch the animals.

My dad had wanderlust. He loved to travel. He liked farming, it's what he knew, the life he grew up in. But he really wanted to travel. Once he sold the milk cows and got out of that, we went places and did things.

We went to the Black Hills in 1972. Dad took a look at the map and saw how close this place called "Devil's Tower" was, so, we crossed into Wyoming and drove to see that. This was waaaay before Steven Spielberg turned it into an icon for alien life enthusiasts. I went back in 1974 but have not been back since.

We went to Chattanooga, Tennessee in 1974. It was part of a two week vacation that saw us leave Iowa, heading east, hang a right towards Indianapolis, head south to the Gulf of Mexico at Mobile, Alabama, turn right and drive over Lake Pontchartrain in Louisiana, turn around and head north along the Mississippi, through St. Louis and home again. It was great, even if, at times, you wanted to kill your siblings. My friend, Jon, lives in Chattanooga and says the view from Lookout Mountain hasn't changed all that much although there is more development. That cannon, he says, is still there.

I couldn't, and still can't, read in a moving car or bus, without getting motion sickness. I can do cross-stitch and I remember knitting and crocheting, but while my sister and brothers could read, I was left watching the scenery. I also wound up taking 90% of the photos so you'll rarely see me in any of them. I would get bored and we kids would get antsy. Somewhere along the line, my mother stumbled across a book of travel games. It was a big, thick book that had word searches, crosswords, finish the photo, match the picture, all sorts of games. It was passed around to each of us and we could do one thing from it. Crossword puzzles didn't seem to bother me so I would do one of those, which sparked lively discussions of a 5-letter word for a container, usually for beer. My mother has a great vocabulary and my dad would, occasionally, surprise everyone with what he knew.

At the back of this book were suggestions for games that could be played without paper or pencil and required simple observation. One of our family favorites was called "Bury the Cow". In this game, you picked a side of the road and counted the cows as you passed them. If you passed a cemetery, you lost your cows and had to start over. At first, this was a fun game to occupy the 2 hour drive to grandma's. But, as there weren't a lot of routes between Monona and Cedar Rapids, you eventually figured out, if we took Highway 13, the person on the right side of the car was going to lose. There were more cemeteries on the right side of the road than on the left.

For long road trips, particularly ones involving Interstate driving, another game became a family favorite. Called the "Billboard Alphabet Game", the premise was finding a word on a billboard, street sign, or building name that started with a letter of the alphabet. Everyone could play and what letter you got depended upon who started, and stayed because sometimes someone would drop out, in the game.

One grew to hate certain letters, however. Why does "Kwik-Trip" have to be spelled that way? There are only so many "Dairy Queens" around. "V" wasn't much better. At least with "U", traveling on the Interstate would net you the "No U-Turn" signs. Shell's "V-Power" gas hadn't been invented yet.

"X" is, absolutely, the worst letter to get in this game. Even the book said someone getting "x" could use a word that contained the letter and not try to find a word that started with "x". Back when we were traveling as a family, triple X stores weren't that common on our routes. Thank heaven for "Exit 263" ahead.

As a parent, I handed down the Billboard Alphabet Game to my daughter. It really is a great game to play with kids, particularly kids learning the alphabet. It teaches not only words, but also observation. I find myself, on long drives, such as going to Connecticut to visit Carole and David in November, playing the game in my head. "Okay, I need an 'F'." It's a great way to pass the time on a drive.

Now that you've read this post, I'm willing to bet on your next drive, you'll be more observant, looking for words that start with the more obscure letters. Let me know if you find something other than "XXX-Rated!!!"

Beverage:  Irish Breakfast Tea

Deb

No spill! What a concept!

My mother and I spent Friday morning and early afternoon last week, visiting the relatives who don't move anymore. They are in the same place all the time. It was a very overcast day with a chill wind from the west.

By the time we had catalogued everyone in the Monona City Cemetery whom we came to find, we were cold and hungry. We headed over to a local restaurant for lunch.

"Can I get you ladies something to drink?" the waitress asked.

"Hot tea!" was our unanimous reply. She returned with Lipton green tea and this mug teapot set up, one for each of us.

I have one of those. Mom gave it to me for Christmas many years ago.

I have never seen this set up used in a restaurant before. It's great. You fill the top with hot water and make a cup of tea in the mug and you easily have 3 cups right there. Of course, mom asked if I had used my mug/pot combo lately and she just laughed when I said, "Um...no, but at least I do use it."

Other restaurants should adopt this. It beats, hands down, those silly little metal pseudo-teapots with the flapping lid that never pour straight into the cup. I think they are designed to pour most of the hot water onto the table while missing the cup. I can see you shaking your head, "Oh yes!" Those should be melted down and used for soda cans.

And yes, the waitress was amused that I took a photo of the teapot.

Beverage: Scottish Blend tea.

Deb

Wondering about the paper.

I get the Daily Herald. I have gotten this newspaper for years, over a decade, I believe. They do more local coverage than the Chicago Tribune or the Chicago Sun-Times. Lately, however, I have wondered if it's worth it.

Newspapers and magazines are fighting for their very survival in a media-saturated world. I can get my news from any source now, colored just the way my ideology leans. I certainly don't NEED a newspaper. I can hear the local news on the radio in the morning, the very local news from WDCB, College of Du Page. I get a news feed through AT&T/Yahoo, who provides my Internet service. There are millions of ways to get the news I want or need. The newspaper is not my only option.

I bring this up because delivery of my paper has been inconsistent. When Carole was coming, I let the papers pile up in order to clean the house. I sat down over Memorial Day and read a half month's worth of newspapers. Oh I know the Chicago Blackhawks are in the Stanley Cup. I know about the oil spill and the earthquake off Vanuatu. I know about the controversy surrounding President Obama's decision not to lay a Memorial Day wreath at Arlington National Cemetery. Personally, I think there should be a contest. High school aged kids write a 500 word essay on why the president should come to their Memorial Day remembrances. Every state submits one essay and the president decides on May 1st, which observance he attends. I honestly don't think many kids realize why we have Memorial Day. Send the President to their hometown, to speak in their hot and stuffy gymnasium about the sacrifices men and women made so we have a Memorial Day. Maybe you can't stand that year's flavor of president, but you will remember him talking about Memorial Day.

I'm sorry, I'll get down off my soap box. Got a bit side-tracked there.

As I was reading through my newspapers, I noticed I didn't have all of them. At first, I thought maybe I'd read them, but the randomness of the days missing told me I never got the paper in the first place. Then, on Wednesday, May 26th, there was no paper. I totaled up the missing papers; almost a full week. Why am I paying $43 every 8 weeks when I'm getting 7 weeks worth of papers?

I emailed the Daily Herald. It's a thankless job, delivering papers. I remember helping a friend deliver the Cedar Rapids Gazette and collect for the delivery. She had to pay, up front, for the papers and then collect. She got to keep a certain amount, but that was cut when people did not pay. If she quit delivering their papers, they would complain. The paper would give them a credit, which came out of her earnings. So, that misty, foggy, damp and dreary night, she handed me a list of people and I marked down who did and didn't pay her. I did that with her for three pay periods which helped convince the Gazette that some people were deadbeats. Some people would get extra service because, when she came to collect, they gave her a tip. I don't remember the lady who gave us a bag of cookies because she knew we had to walk all over town.

I don't know how it is now. I get a bill. There is a spot for "carrier tip". Even in my cash strapped life, I try to tack on a dollar or two. I know delivering the paper means going on in all weather, in your own car, in the wee hours. It's a thankless job and probably pays just enough to cover your car expenses and a bit more. It's probably not something you could earn a livelihood at, support a family. I guess I think, if everyone on the delivery person's route tacked on a dollar every other bill, they would get a nice chunk of change.

I'm changing that policy now. The Daily Herald was most apologetic about the missing papers. I've been credited 2 weeks for the inconvenience. But yesterday, there was no paper again. I'm thinking it's been more Wednesday's papers than any other day; never Sunday. Wednesday's paper contains the food ads. Is there something about that particular paper that is important? There aren't coupons, just a food section. I don't know. I had to go to the web site today and click on "Missed yesterday's paper". I don't want to have to do this every week or 10 days. It's not value to me.

I like the newspaper. I grew up in a time when newspapers still had clout and relevance. It could be argued they do not now. I like the feel of a newspaper. The ability to read more in-depth than on the Internet. I also like the freebies that come in the paper. I was very low on cereal and wondering how I could scrape up some funds.

A Sunday paper arrived at just the right time. I used the coupon for Chex and got a box of Rice Chex, not the honey nut which was free. Trix, well, "Silly rabbit. Trix are for kids". They were amusing but not in a "must have a box" way.

So, we shall see. I probably wouldn't miss not getting a newspaper and my budget would certainly enjoy being $43 richer every other month. Still, I think a little bit of me would pass away without a newspaper.

What would I wash windows with?

Beverage: Grape Pomegranate Juice

Deb

Thinking about roots.

It's getting close to the Illinois St. Andrew Society's Highland Games, June 18-19, at the Oakbrook Polo Grounds. I'll have a brand spanking new tent to set up. If the weather looks even remotely dicey on Friday, I won't go. The memories of last year are still fresh.

As I mentioned, I visited my old hometown last week when I went to Decorah on business. I stopped by my dad's grave and told him everything that has been going on. After that, I walked among the headstones in one of the older parts of the cemetery looking for relatives.

We know where my grandparents, Archie and Eltha, are buried. We know where my grandfather's parents, Lawrence and Minnie, are buried. We know where Lawrence's father, Andrew, is probably buried, but we don't know where his mother, Anna, is buried. Andrew came to America with his uncle, Matthew, and aunt, Jean. We know where Matthew and Jean are buried.

I should have brought along the hand drawn map I received several years ago when I was doing more digging into the Thompsons than I do now. But I honestly didn't think I'd have the time to stop so the idea of bringing along my genealogy materials whooshed through my head like a stiff breeze. When I walked through the older section of the cemetery, I had a vague remembrance of where Anna's grave might be but no clear image. I didn't find Anna but I found another Jean and Janet.

My camera died after taking these two photos. I need to come back and photograph the stones from all angles. In the top photo, I think the small marker on the right side had a name that began with "M". There was, I believe, a Margaret. Again, without the stacks of information I have, I couldn't remember.

These markers are exciting to find. My mom and I have talked about meeting at the cemetery some weekend day with cameras and paper and pencil, to decipher the aging stones and document their location in the cemetery. I took a look at the Google earth view in the hopes that we could use that to mark where everyone rests. It's not the clearest. Still, it's better than nothing and, 5 years ago, we couldn't do that so we will make it work.

Jean, the top marker, was born in Scotland and came over on the boat, the British Bark Sterling. Janet was born shortly after the family arrived in Northeast Iowa.

Time is not a friend to headstones. I wasn't sure if I could scrape that orange stuff off or it I should leave it. I would like to do something that the names and dates will still be visible for years to come. I guess the first step is contacting the cemetery association to see what is and is not allowed. Then, what would it cost to clean these and do some preservation work.

My father rests to the left of the building in the background. He's got a wonderful view of a cornfield and it's peaceful.

Beverage: V8

Deb

A pause to reflect

I grew up on a farm outside the small northeast Iowa town of Monona. While I lived there, I would think about leaving. The town wasn't "big" enough for me. My dreams demanded that I go some place larger than Monona.

But when I think about my life, I feel, very strongly, that small town lifestyle I learned growing up has given me a resilience I might not have gotten had I lived in a large city. It could be argued that it's also the time period in which I grew up; pre-computer; but I think there is just something about a small town lifestyle that teaches you how to roll with the punches. It's less forgiving, to be sure, if something goes wrong. The closest hospital is a 40 minute drive, even in an ambulance. You can't run to the 7-11 at 2 in the morning for a Slurpee and a can of cat food. A trip to the mall involves a full day because that means driving to Dubuque or La Crosse.

The small town life also means everyone knows everyone else and I will admit, I don't care for that aspect of it. I am a private person. There are just some things I don't want people knowing. Don't bother pointing out the irony of my having a blog. I can see that, but there are some things that not even the blogosphere needs to know. It is, for instance, no one's business about my comings and goings from my house. As long as I'm not doing anything illegal, why should you care if I am up until 1 a.m. In a small town, that's not the case. I think it is the nature of life in that environment.

It's good for kids. Growing up, I knew that if I had a problem, there were places I could go to be safe or to call my parents. I also knew that if I got stopped for speeding, for instance, my parents would know before I got home. One of the local policemen took a very active interest in my youngest brother and other young men in the community. He was concerned they were headed down the wrong path. His death from cancer at the young age of 33 left a void in the community.

You could walk to school or the pool or the grocery or the park and know people knew who you were and would keep an eye out for you. Doors were never locked. The Victorian custom of going to visit unannounced on Sunday was still in fashion. In August, it was nothing to come home to two bags of vegetables left on the front step. If your mom got sick with the flu in the winter, there were any number of people who would drop off a casserole or offer to take you "up town" to get groceries. That was just the way it was.

Perhaps it still is. My mom is getting older and is slowing down. She's had her knee replaced and I sometimes think about moving back. I drove through Monona last week after my business trip. Downtown is a shadow of my memory. The town is still viable and there are new homes on the west side. I thought how the community could certainly benefit from retail development and some other businesses.

Big cities have the latest and greatest. They have the captive audience to fund the businesses and services people seem to demand. But I think there's an intangible that we miss when our focus is solely on cities of 50,000 or more.

There's a quality of life in small town American you cannot get anywhere else. I would hate to see it fade.

Beverage: Dr. Pepper

Deb

This could be good.

Not to give too much away, but a job from Northeast Iowa landed in our lap for bid this afternoon.

I know exactly where it is and I know the company putting out the bid. When we would go visit my late in-laws, we would go right by the company's offices.

If we get the job, it's going to require at least one trip out there to do some inspections and set up equipment and one trip out there to monitor the initial blast.

I'm excited. It's near my hometown, not that I have anyone I'd visit there other than the graves of my relatives. I know that probably sounds morbid, but I have yet to find my great-great grandmother, Anna's grave. It's in the oldest part of the cemetery. If I have some down time, I should put flowers on my dad's grave and see if I can find Anna's grave.

Plus, if this goes into a weekend, I can watch on local TV my Iowa Hawkeyes play football. Depending upon the time frame, this could happen during the fall when the trees explode in color beyond your dreams. "Autumn in New York" is an old jazz standard. It's nothing compared to autumn in Northeast Iowa. We like to say God made New England first and then made Northeast Iowa to do it right.

Keeping my fingers crossed.

Beverage: Blackberry Sage tea

Deb

An Anniversary, of sorts

It was roughly 10:30 p.m. last night when yesterday's date actually sunk in. June 17th. 31 years ago, I walked down the aisle of St. Paul Lutheran Church in Monona, Iowa and exchanged my "Thompson" sir name for "Montague". It was a lovely June afternoon. It had poured sheets of rain from 11-11:30 a.m., but settled out to be partly cloudy and the sun shown for the entire ceremony which started, on time, at 1 p.m. We had a small reception of punch, cake, ice cream, mints, nuts in the church fellowship hall and then had a buffet dinner for friends and family at a nearby restaurant. After the dinner, my relatives went back to my parent's house and my new husband and I left for a week-long drive around Lake Superior.

Funny how life changes from one day when you can't think of anything that could possibly go wrong.

Thirty-one years later, I have 2 cats, a job and a mortgage. I eat s'mores for supper because I want to. I can't mow my lawn anymore because the pollen makes me cough. I do wash and dishes when I want to, keep the house as clean as I feel comfortable with, and don't have to answer to anyone about my computer time or TV preferences or where I go and when I'll be back.

And yet...

I had anticipated having a party at that 25 year anniversay. The divorce came right after 20 years. I anticipated that, with Carole moved out and on her own, I'd be planning for retirement in 15 years and actually going places I dreamed of going. My favorite song is "April in Paris" as sung by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. You probably know it if you watched "Blazing Saddles" because Count Basie and his Orchestra did the most well-known version of the song at the end of the movie. I like that version but Ella and Louis' is better.

I always wanted to see Paris in April just because of that song. There is an anecdote floating around that someone corralled the writers of the song and asked, "Why April? You know it's cold and rainy and the flowers haven't really blossomed and you can't sit at an outdoor cafe and really enjoy yourself. Why April?" The writers responded, "April fit with the music." Sounds like a plausible reason to me.

I wanted to visit Scotland, particularly the area where my family came from. I wanted to visit Montreal, to try out my fractured French, and Germany as my mother's father and his family were 100% German. Then I could see if I could speak the German I learned in high school. I figured there would now be time to go to all those museums I never saw, concerts and plays, not that we didn't do those things when Carole was young. Indeed, she was the beneficiary of being dragged to many cultural venues which, I hope, instilled the love of music and learning that she has.

What I miss the most is the conversation with another adult. When a day feels long and you've been stressed almost to or even past your breaking point, coming home to another adult makes all the difference. With all the stresses that I seem to face, sharing them would make it seem that life has not singled me out to make an example of. There is an aphorism which I couldn't find that says how burdens divided are easier to carry. Having someone else about to share the health of the cats or the sadness of all this rain or the pain of an eye infection or the sneezing of a cold just makes it seem less oppressive. I didn't, 31 years ago, walk down the aisle with my father intending to be alone in 2009.

But this is where I find myself. It's neither good nor bad, it just is. "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and sorry I could not travel both. But being one traveler long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other as just as fair...Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less travelled by and that has made all the difference."

Beverage: English Teatime