My mom was always one of those people who “Spring” cleaned her home twice a year—once in the Spring and once again in Fall.  This was non-negotiable.  She cleaned walls, ceilings, carpets, windows—every surface in every room on every floor—AND inside every drawer or cabinet. She flipped mattresses and scoured grout with an old toothbrush.  Since the basement held my father’s workshop, the furnace, oil tank and not much else, she did relegate the cleaning of that floor to him, but she did make frequent trips down there to check his progress. 

With the passing of time, my father has passed and Mom now walks with a walker, but she still insists on her cleaning marathons—only concentrating on the main floor where she lives.  When we visit, I will clean the upstairs for her—there’s a spare bedroom where we sleep—and another spare room mostly empty. 

The basement, however, has not been touched much since Dad passed.  The tools were left to my brother and in more than 10 years, he still cannot face getting rid of anything—which is such a shame because they are rusting in the damp workshop.  Since Mom can’t go down into the basement, she had no idea of its condition until I showed her pictures.  She shrugged and said she couldn’t force him to do anything.  So, I suggested we just get rid of the myriad of leftover scraps of wood, trim and old paint cans and she said she’d talk to him about that.  Then, in one of the pictures, she spied a shelf of books and decided they must be musty by now and we could toss those.

The small stack of books were mostly hardcover spy novels (Dad loved those) and how-to books.  All of them smelled musty.  She started to page through one while I paged through another.  In one of the spy novels we found $2 bills tucked between the pages and Mom laughed…that’s Dad she said.  We went through the other books, but we didn’t find anything interesting until the last book.  I picked it up to hand it to her, and something slipped out from the book jacket.  It was a small bag like the kind you got a card shop if you only bought one card.  Inside were small pieces of folded paper. 

Mom opened one of them and her eyes misted up. I asked what the paper was—was it a note from Dad?  She shook her head no…they were notes SHE wrote and sent in his lunchbox sometimes…little I love you’s or you’re the best husband type notes.  There were also cards from my sister in the stack.  And then Mom handed me a hand written letter I wrote to Dad a long time ago.  I remembered tucking it into his birthday card that year, thanking him for helping me through some really rough times back then.  I couldn’t believe he kept it all those years. 

Filly—you’re the best! You make us laugh, you entertain us and you educate us!  I’m so glad I “met” you!!!  Hope you have a wonderful birthday!

Happy Birthday to a great friend!

I was gonna post some pictures of handsome, sexy cowboys for you, but we have different ideas there (and most of them look gay somehow…lol)…so I thought I’d stick with horses!

Hey! Here’s a cowboy who’s not gay and not all slicked up and shirtless…LOL

Love you Filly! Have a great birthday!!

Last year, about 2 weeks before Christmas, my son called and opened the conversation with, “If you need a gift for Kerri (my daughter-in-law), I have an idea.”  I informed him that I usually have my shopping done at the end of September, October at the latest, but I was still interested in his idea.  He told me that they had started decorating their home for Christmas and me, being the kind, loving mother that I am, said “WHAT???? 2 WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS?” 

BACKGROUND: In all fairness, there needs to be a little background presented here.  My son was married the year before in October and they had also just bought their first home so there were other priorities THAT year.  I get it.  But this year?  I wondered what the delay was.  And being a caring, loving, mother, I asked.  My son is affectionately known in our family as Clark Griswold.  He is the king of lighting displays.

So, they were focused on getting the lights up just right both inside and out.  It seems all that was left, was getting their stockings and where exactly would be the perfect place to hang them.  He found his stocking in a box of things we had stored for him till they moved into their new home. 

It seems that they had never seen what each other’s stockings looked like.  His was a cross stitched one I made for him when he was 8 or 9—a Santa making toys.  Hers was a basic plain red one that barely showed her name anymore.  My son said she looked so sadly at hers compared to his that he just thought I should make one for her. I told him I definitely would make her one, but it would take me significantly longer than 2 weeks to do. 

I told him to pick a theme he thought she would like and I would get it and make it for her for next Christmas.  The theme he chose was snowmen and that meant that the entire stocking—background included—would have to be stitched, since most Aida cloth is white and a white snowman on a white background would be silly.  I have been working on it off and on for most of the year.  Sometimes the tiny stitching gets to my eyes and I have to put it aside for a while and then other things come up…

But I have finished the stocking finally…and along the way, I devised a (in my mind) perfect plan to give it to her. 

MORE BACKGROUND: I made a cross stitched stocking for my daughter as well that same year as I made one for my son, but she had one that her got from her mom (store bought) that she liked at the time, so we never put the one i made out.  And I was fine with that.  After she got married, she stopped using her mom’s stocking and bought matching stockings for her and my son-in-law.  And then when my granddaughter was born, she bought a special one for her, so I never offered to make any for them.  And now?  I didn’t want anyone to feel slighted, so giving it to her at our family Christmas gathering seemed wrong.  So I devised my plan.

My son and daughter-in-law always come to our house for Thanksgiving.  After we eat and the kitchen is cleaned up, we retreat to the living room to watch Christmas movies…starting with Die Hard.  As soon as Hans Gruber falls off Nakatomi Plaza, my son says…NOW the Christmas season starts!  Every year…like clockwork.

It’s at that point I intend to give her the stocking.  I hope she likes it!

Recently one of my oldest friends and her husband came for a visit (and to pick up my mom’s contributions to their flea marketing endeavor.) She has begun to have muscular tremors and is undergoing tests to determine their origin and best course of treatment.  Sadly, she has had to give up her car and rarely goes out anymore because these tremors can occur at any time.  I was truly touched that they decided to come up to visit!

Her husband, with her permission, showed up a brief video of her standing in their kitchen.  She was trembling all over and visibly shaking and then-POOF-she just snaps out of it.  She remembers nothing of what happened at all. 

Understandably, her husband now does the cooking as my friend is afraid to be around a hot stove.  Which brings me to the saddest part of this post.  Every fall, when my friend visits, we would spend the entire time talking cookies—we called it Christmas Cookie Countdown.

We’d sit at the table with our notebooks, recipe files and samples of new cookies.  We’d made and share shopping lists and discuss the new cookies—would they package well?  Are they worth the effort or special ingredients? We had a great time sampling and discussing.

Since I was totally unaware of her condition, I had all my recipes and stuff ready to go on the buffet.  I saw her eye the pile with such sadness but until they divulged what was going on, I had no idea why.  After we ate our lunch and I cleaned up the kitchen, I brought the stack over to the table and said let’s plan!  She said, I can’t bake anymore and it’s senseless to think about.  I opened up my file and said Merry Christmas!  You pick out the cookies you want, and my gift to you this Christmas is to bake them for you! I told her I’d even bake an extra basket for her to share with her flea market friends as well.  Her smile was all the thanks I needed!

My Grandma was a tiny woman (barely 4’ 8” tall), born of Austrian immigrants.  Her name was Anna, but all her neighbors affectionally called her Aunt Anna.  She taught me to make potato candy and she also taught me to crochet. 

I could sit and watch her crochet for hours.  Her hands would bob and weave, seeming to dance with the needle and yarn. And she never focused on her pattern or her hands—she just focused on me and the others in the room and chatted.  And that room—her sitting room—was full of items she made: afghans, pillows, and doilies.  I adored the doilies—so dainty and delicate!  (Sadly, I could never master the skill to make doilies—I crochet too loose to work with cotton thread.) But she had an afghan made of Granny Squares—I always called them Grammy Squares because they reminded me of her—that I adored!

I remember saving my allowance to buy yarn to make a blanket for my bed.  I was so proud to purchase the pink and white skeins!  I had decided to make granny squares and I began in earnest.  I made square after square and saved them in a bag under my bed.  Then the music bug bit me, and I wanted to learn to play the piano.  My parents surprised me with an old upright piano for my birthday!  But the more I practiced and learned the piano, the less time I had to crochet squares.  Every time Grandma visited, she asked to see my squares and she was increasingly disappointed that I wasn’t progressing.

 I made an extra effort to make more squares, and during one visit, I announced that I was close to being able to join the squares together!  All I needed to do was purchase the joining yarn.  She asked if I was going to use white or pink and I said neither…black! She looked appalled and said no!  It would look awful she insisted.  I insisted it would be beautiful (I seriously thought it would—what did I know?) Both she and mother went on and on about the hideousness of my idea and I got disgusted.  I grabbed my squares and ran to my room and threw them under the bed.

On my very next birthday, Grandma gave me a large wrapped bundle.  When I opened it, I was puzzled—it was a pink and white crocheted blanket.  “TA-DA!” she said. 

“I don’t understand,” I told her.  “I’m making a pink and white blanket Grandma.”  (This one was different though—not granny squares, but large solid-colored blocks in pink and white.)

“Not anymore,” she explained.  “Your mom gave me your squares.  I took them all apart and made you this!”

I was devastated!  All my hard work—POOF—gone!  I started to cry and ran from the room.  I never even came out for cake.  Years later she apologized and we made up.  She encouraged me to keep crocheting and I have.  Every winter I crochet at least a lap blanket and have donated quite a few to the homeless shelters around here.  But I have never made another granny squares blanket.

Note: None of these pictures are Grandpop’s putz–I have none of those. These are from Roadside America in Shartlesville, PA. Roadside America is a miniature model town.

One of my favorite traditions of Christmases past, was my Grandpop’s putz.  (A Christmas putz refers to a miniature village usually surrounding the Nativity scene.)The day after Thanksgiving, Grandpop commandeered their sitting room and began the building.  Whenever we visited before Christmas, it would be covered in tarps—shrouded in secrecy—which of course helped the excitement build till Christmas Day.  We couldn’t wait to see it! 

Grandpop started with a large wooden slab covered with green felt.  From there he built mountains, tunnels, and forests on several different levels.  And from there, he simply created an entire town!  He painstakingly made buildings—stores, churches, and homes—and they had lights inside!  There were street lights and street signs, stop signs and bus stops.  And he hand-carved the people in the town too.  There were little gardens, bushes and even a creek or two.  And the TRAINS!!!  He had at least 6 different train sets on the putz and on the uppermost level was a small cable car—which circled their Christmas tree…the most gosh awful aluminum thing I’d ever seen…but Grandma loved it. And in it’s place of honor was a hand carved Nativity set, brought by Grandpop’s parents from Austria.

Everything was electrically connected to a large control box that only Grandpop could operate.  We’d spend hours walking around the putz, trying to see everything!  The people, the details on the buildings…it was all meticulous!  I don’t think I ever appreciated just how much time and effort he put into his putz.

When our family moved into a larger home, my dad created his own putz.  Dad’s lacked the handcrafted elements that his dad’s had and he purchased the figurines and trees.  But his buildings were spectacular!  Our putz was in our basement—mom refused to surrender our living room—so no Christmas tree on ours.  And Mom refused to allow the Nativity set into the basement. My little brother helped –mostly with the trains—while he and Dad sampled the egg nog Mom kept in the basement fridge.

When my Grandpop passed, my dad and my uncle split the train sets and my aunt took the rest.  Then when my father passed, my brother took it all.  He has never set up a putz. Sigh…

One of my earliest memories of Christmas was my mom squealing with delight when she opened the gift from my dad…it was a flannel nightgown. She got one every year.  I couldn’t figure out what the big deal was.  What I didn’t understand back then was how dire their financial situation had always been.  We three kids always had plenty of gifts beneath the tree, but Mom and Dad bought each other only one gift.  She got a flannel nightgown; he got a flannel shirt.

As we grew older, and Dad found better jobs, he kept the tradition of the flannel nightgown, but added jewelry under the tree.  Oh, nothing like diamonds, mind you, but lovely necklaces and rings and even very nice watches. 

During our most recent trip home two months ago, we were cleaning out Mom’s dresser and in one drawer, I found a collection of small boxes.  I brought the drawer over to the bed where she was sitting and her face lit up!  Her jewelry from Dad!  The anticipation on her face as she opened each box was so precious!  And her smile—recalling every piece that Dad had given her—priceless!!  But then, this look of sadness overtook her.  And it hit me…she wouldn’t ever wear any of these pieces again.  Mom wears a Life Alert pendant around her neck, so necklaces might get tangled.  And the rings?  Well, she’s shrunk some over the years…the rings would just slip off and she might lose them.  And although the watches were useful, many were delicate with small faces and she prefers the ones with larger more visible faces.  But we did have fun trying all the jewelry on and playing “Queen”.

From there I pulled out drawer after drawer of clothing that no longer fits, but she never got around to giving away.  We made piles for certain sisters and then a pile for my flea market friend who would sell or donate the rest.  At the very bottom of the last drawer was a very nice box which I pulled out and asked what’s in here??  I saw the same look of sadness come over her face.  “Open it,” she said.  Inside was a beautiful red flannel nightgown.  I took it out of the box and held it in front of me. The top had smocking in white and an empire waist and long sleeves that gathered at the wrist. (similar to the top below)

It was long and way too big for my mom.  She told me it was the last nightgown Dad ever bought for her and she never even got to wear it.  I told her to put it on now at least, over her clothes. “It’s too big and too long for me to wear it now.  Put it in the pile for your friend.”  I saw her wipe tears from her eyes, and told her to at least try it on once if she’s going get rid of it.

She stood and put the gown on.  I walked over and grabbed the sides and said, “gees this is really huge!  You and I could both wear this!”  She laughed and I helped her take it off and into the flea market pile it went.

But I got what I needed in those fleeting moments.  I took the beautiful red nightgown out of the flea market bag before I gave the bag to my friend.  When I got home, I carefully took the nightgown apart and cut each piece down—removing the inches of unnecessary fabric and adding small tucks here and there.  Then I sewed it all back together.  I plan on giving it to her when we visit this month.  I can’t wait to see her face!