MEMORIES

It's about time I dusted off this journal and added some memories. 

This week, either tomorrow or Thursday, two granddaughters and I will go to the Missouri State Fair.  Cliff will take us down, set up the popup camper, and leave us for three days.  It's supposed to be hot, as it always seems to be at fair time.

I guess I got my love of the state fair from my parents.  Because they were tied to the switchboard 24/7, we didn't get away for extended vacations.  Someone had to be hired to stay at the telephone office, and money was pretty tight back then.

But we often got away for two or three days to camp out at the Iowa State Fair in Des Moines.  My brother's family lived there, and we'd usually meet up with them during that time, too.  One year I even remember my sister, her husband, and thier little boy going.

We didn't own a tent.  We'd borrow an olive-drab tarp from a farmer, Ted Davies, that Daddy worked for sometimes,  and my parents would somehow make it serve as a tent, securing it in closed car doors and windows on one side. 

Those trips to the fair are the only vacations I remember having until I was thirteen or so, and we'd moved to the city.

After Cliff and I married, I talked him into camping at the State Fair two or three times.  It just wasn't his cup of tea.  He's fond of saying, "I can see everything I want to see at the fair in a half-day."  Not to mention the fact that he really doesn't enjoy camping out.

So we'd drive down there sometimes for a day, or I'd hitch a ride with neighbors; but the camping-out times seemed to be over.

Until my oldest grandson, Arick, was about eight years old and hanging out at our house a lot.

I got a crazy idea:  What if Cliff took the camper down, set it up, and left me and Arick there for a few days?  Would he go for that?  He's quite a worrier, and I didn't know whether he'd be concerned for our safety or not.

He thought it was an excellent idea, and a tradition was born.  Arick went with me for at least four years, and sometimes his cousins went, too.  I recall my daughter's oldest, Brett, going once or twice, and also her step-son Jonathan.  I think Cliff's sister's step-son, Jeremiah, even went one year.

But of course those kids grew up, as children must; and going to the fair with Grandma was no longer on their list of priorities.  There were a few "fair-less" summers for me.

Four years ago, I realized that my daughter's two girls might be old enough to enjoy the fair, and I asked Rachel what she thought about sending them camping with me.  Natalie's always been quite a mamma's girl, so my daughter suggested I only take Monica, who was six years old at that time.

It worked out great.

The next year, Natalie went too.  And last year.  This year will be Monica's fourth trip to Sedalia to the fair, and Nattie's third.

Cliff gets to stay home, I get to camp, and the kids and I have a blast.  It's a win-win situation.

I don't know how much longer these girls will be interested in the fair, but I figure I have at least three years left before I have to hunt up some new kids. 

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One of the best things about my mom was that she loved to tell stories about her past.  Her childhood, her early years of marriage... all of it.  I consider that a rare treasure.  And as much as my mom and I were at odds for certain parts of my life, that is one thing I appreciate.

You see, I have ALWAYS loved a story.  I'm forever trying to worm stories out of people, and most folks are reluctant to give those tales up.  I remember as a little girl trying to get Grandma to tell about her childhood, and she never seemed willing to do that.

Oh, but Mother was willing!

She told how she and her next-youngest sibling, my Uncle Carl, went fishing together.  But their dad wouldn't let them go fishing until they each weeded two rows of the garden.

Mother told how, in the coldest part of wintertime, her dad would hitch up horses to a sleigh.  All the kids would bundle up for the trip to Church, or to town.  Grandma would heat bricks on the wood stove and wrap them up, for the kids to put their feet against.

In more pleasant weather, Grandma would hitch the horses to a wagon herself, load up the kids, and go into Eagleville to visit her parents.

My grandma gave all her kids a drop of kerosene in a teaspoon of sugar in the spring, to get rid of worms.

Mother talked about her Uncle Fishade, who evidently was a hobo, showing up once in a blue moon and leaving behind one of the baskets he'd woven.

And about visiting Aunt Sadie (oh, she was a BIG woman) in Arkansas, and how they'd lift up the boards of the floor in their living room and reach down and get the eggs the hens had laid under the house.  Aunt Sadie had a Victorola, and Mother taught me to sing "In A Lonely Village Churchyard" just like she learned it in Arkansas.

I heard about their trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota, and how Uncle Leo, the baby, was bitten by so many mosquitoes one night when they camped beside the river that his whole body swelled up.  And how, on Sunday, they had church, just their family, on the mountainside, taking communion and all.

When Mother and Daddy decided to get married in December of 1932, the  roads were muddy and the  car got stuck and wouldn't go any further.  So Mother and Daddy walked the rest of the way, got married, and spent the night with some friends.  What a honeymoon night, huh? 

Mother said, "I knew what was going to happen after we got married, but I didn't think he would do it THE FIRST NIGHT!"

These are only a few of the wonderful stories Mother told me. 

I'm SO glad my mother told me about her past.

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My maternal grandmother made lovely quilts.  She spent hours working on them, and sold them for a mere pittance.  I grew up with those quilts, and didn't realize their true value.  I tossed them around as though they were cheap, store bought things, and wore several of them out.  I really regret that now.  When we are young, we don't always know where value lies.

When I'd spend my summer week with Grandma, she spent a lot of time upstairs, where her quilting frame was.  In summer she did her quilting in the mornings, as I recall, while it was still relatively cool; after noon, she'd sit in her rocker downstairs and crochet, and listen to "One Man's Family" and other radio soaps.  My Grandma never just sat and did nothing, unless she was sick.  Or unless she had company with whom to chat. 

When my mom reached retirement, she started making quilts, but they were of a different variety.  She'd go to garage sales and buy any cheap double-knit clothing she could find (double-knit "never wears out", she said).  She'd take her loot home and cut it into square blocks:  sometimes big blocks, sometimes small ones.

Mother tied her quilts, rather than quilting them, which is a much faster process.  And she got to the point where she could turn those quilts out like hot cakes!

She didn't sell many of them; she gave them away to relatives, church friends, and neighbors.  She gave them for birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, and graduations.  When Cliff got his GED, she made him a quilt.

I'm sure there are hundreds of her quilts scattered across the country and around the world.  As I was making my bed yesterday, I saw one of many quilts Mother made for me... this one because she noticed I liked a purple quilt a friend had given me, so she made me one with some purple. 

And I thought of all her efforts over so many years.

I'll bet there are a lot of folks who think of my mom while making their beds.  Not such a bad legacy.

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When we moved to Kansas City in 1956, our first home there was an upstairs, two-room apartment.  Directly below us lived Uncle Clifford, Aunt Mabel and my cousin, Alice.  They had a television set.

Once we got settled in, Alice starting inviting me to come down and watch TV after school.  I believe Howdy-Doody was on about the time we got home.

One of the first major purchases my parents made after our move was a television.  Mother said that was the only way she'd be able to keep me home in the afternoons.  However, I remember arriving home from school on several occasions to find her crying, watching "Queen For A Day".  So perhaps she only used me for an excuse.

Another show that I seem to remember being on shortly after I got home was "My Little Margie".  Oh, I loved that show, which starred Gale Storm.  Since the show ran from 1952 to 1955, I had to have been watching reruns in 1956.

Later on Gale had some hit songs:  "Dark Moon" and "I Hear You Knockin'" were my favorites.  And in the late fifties, she had another TV show, "Oh, Suzanna".

The other day I got to reminiscing about this lady, and listened to those two songs I loved when I was thirteen or so.  That led to my wondering whether she's still alive, so of course I Googled her, and found she is indeed among the living, and even has a web site.  Somewhere in my investigation, I found she had written a book telling about her life and her struggles with alcoholism so, out of curiousity, I checked for it on half.com.  There it was, for 75 cents!

I ordered it, and it came in the mail yesterday.  It was published in 1982, so the pages are a bit yellowed.  But it's autographed!  Ofcourse, hardly anyone these days ever heard of Gale Storm, sothe autograph doesn't really mean much.  But I consider it a bonus, because "My Little Margie" was such a wonderful part of my childhood.

       

Cliff asked, "Why would someone get rid of that?"

"The owner of the book probably died," I answered.

I can't think of one person who'd care about an autographed copy of this book these days... except for me.  

Just one of life's little surprises, and all because I took a brief stroll down memory lane.

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This picture is long before my time; my mom looks to be a very young teenager here (follow the arrow that says "me").

But the words "tent meeting" conjure up a couple of fond memories.

When we moved back to my mom's old home town in north Missouri, there was no Church of Christ in town.  Now, you need to realize that if you are Church of Christ, you can't attend any denomination, because you are a member of the true Church.

So a few families started meeting in the home of a widow lady with a crippled son who worked on watches for a living.  There were enough of us, I believe, to fill up the lady's living room.

Then an evangelist came to town, and a sort of tent was set up on an empty lot in town.  It wasn't really a tent, because it didn't have a top.  There were just four canvas walls around us.

There was a drought that year, so perhaps the brethren figured a roof wasn't needed on the tent.  But on about the third night of our Gospel meeting, we heard thunder getting ever closer, much to the joy of my parents.  We got rained out, and our garden was saved.

That night is one of my fondest memories:  me, standing on the front porch watching the downpour, and Mama sitting at the switchboard on the other side of the screen door, singing, "There Shall Be Showers Of Blessing" after we'd been forced to leave the meeting.

Fast forward about five years:  We lived in Kansas City.  Sometimes our Church services were a little dry and boring.  So when we wanted to hear a really rousing sermon, Mother and Daddy and I would go to the "colored" Church of Christ and hear some REAL preaching.  One year they held a tent meeting, and we attended that, down in the heart of Kansas City's poor side.  We were the only white folks there, as we always were when we visited their services; except when they held the "first Sunday singings".  Then there were lots of us.  Boy, they could sing.

I've heard the stories of old brush arbor meetings, but these times I've related are the only tent meeting experiences I've had.

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