Grandma D was the one who kept different groups of distant cousins in touch. We sort of rode on her letter writing, which was prodigious. In going through the boxes that Mom left behind, I found an old address book that looks like it's Grandma D's. It's got an address sticker with my Grandfather's name and address pasted to the cover, but he wasn't the one who wrote letters or collected addresses. So it's Grandma's book.
It's mostly in pencil and therefor smudged and hard to read. It was completely filled. Addresses ran over into the front panes and the backs of the covers. Some were written on scraps of paper and one edge glued to the top of the front cover, so that they can be flipped through.
A note inside says that Grandpa began working in Buttonwillow (CA) July 24, 1967. It doesn't say what he was doing, just what his temporary address was. He was a carpenter and a welder, so he was doing some sort of construction, but I've never heard what.
There are also interleaved pages glued in, and interleaved address stickers, too. It makes the small book very flippy.
I recognize some of the last names as family names. Some of the first names are ones I'm unfamiliar with. There are friends, too, lots of friends and co-workers and friends of her children. Some of the addresses are current, for relatives who don't move around. So this was her last address book,
Let's calculate. She died at midnight, December 31, 1999. (It was five years before we had recovered enough to comment that she wasn't Y2K compatible.) It might have been started 1967. But she had Parkinson's and was unable to write for the last 5 to 10 years of her life. Assuming 10 years, that's 2000 - 1967, or 33 years worth of addresses.
It's going to take me awhile to go through it and fit names and addresses into the family tree. Yes, I'm doing one of those.
Showing posts with label Grandma D. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grandma D. Show all posts
Monday, April 29, 2013
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Post 7.5.0.0 Musings on a Buick memory, Zoning out
In Post 2.0.0.0, I state that I have a mind like a steel sieve. In Post 3.0.0.0, I mention riding in the back seat of the family station wagon as a child and asking "OK, where is it we're going?"
The question got a round of laughter from my parents and sisters. It was another case of me not paying attention again. I was only mildly annoyed that they were amused.
Here's what I remember. We had been at Grandma D's. When we got into the car, I assumed we were going home. Car rides aren't anything to pay particular attention to, so I just thought my own thoughts and waited until it was over.
I looked up and we were driving west on Pacific Coast Highway, paralleling the Torrance Airport. I could see the strip of strawberry field that ran along it, although it wasn't the right season for the stand to be open, and strawberries were an expensive treat anyway, so I wasn't even considering hoping that we'd be stopping for strawberries.
The location and direction meant that we had gone past our house and must be going somewhere else. Before we went to Grandma's, we hadn't talked about going anywhere else. And if they had talked about going somewhere while we were at Grandma's, I had missed it.
The fact that my sister's giggled makes me think I had missed something said during the goodbyes or that they had mentioned it after we were in the car. They never explained. They may not have explained were we were going, either, but that's less likely. I probably just don't remember now because where we were going wasn't the important part of that memory.
Zoning out during the adults saying goodbye is not something I would ever apologize for. The adults in our family said long goodbyes, long relocating goodbyes. At Grandma's house, they would often start in the living room. Then they'd do a final chat and after a few minutes say they really had to go and relocate to near the kitchen door.
Someone would think of something else, and the chatting would continue at the kitchen door, with the door at least partway open. By then, us kids would have been shepherded into motion and we didn't have anything to chat about, so we'd go stand by the locked car while they drifted out onto the porch and continued chatting.
In fairness, some of the chatting was a leaving kind of chatting. They swapped their intentions of things they would do soon and before we would all meet again. They swapped information about what other relatives might be doing in the near future and that might happen during the time we were gone.
By the time everyone got to the car, I was well and truly into my own thoughts out of self-preservation. Then the car would be unlocked and us kids would get in, because getting us in was keeping control of the departure. Then one or more adults would stand with the against an open car door and they'd all keep talking.
It wasn't continuous talking, now that I think about it. They'd hold still while they chatted, but then the topic would peter out and they'd make goodbye noises and start moving to the next Station of the Departure. But at the next Station, they'd think of something else, and the conversation would well up again on the new topic.
Where are we, now? My parents are sitting in the front seat and they've clasped their seat belts. They've rolled down the windows (no automatic windows - even when automatic windows become standard, they'll resist getting them on the grounds that they'll break long before they'd want to sell the car, and broken window switches would leave everyone sweltering), rested their arms on the window ledge, and leaned out to continue talking.
I do not blame me for not listening to all of that. It was never anything that was interesting to a kid, that they talked about. Maybe if they'd talked about dismembering me, I'd have heard that, but it would have taken something out of the ordinary to seep through whatever more interesting conversation I had going in my head.
It was just a little off-putting to look up and not know where we were going. And it was just a little annoying that everyone chuckled. I can remember thinking that I didn't want to lose track like that again. I guess that's why I remember the incident, even if I don't remember all the details.
I can't say I learned not to zone out. But I might have learned to check back in more often. And I definitely learned not to ask directly about anything that I obviously missed.
The question got a round of laughter from my parents and sisters. It was another case of me not paying attention again. I was only mildly annoyed that they were amused.
Here's what I remember. We had been at Grandma D's. When we got into the car, I assumed we were going home. Car rides aren't anything to pay particular attention to, so I just thought my own thoughts and waited until it was over.
I looked up and we were driving west on Pacific Coast Highway, paralleling the Torrance Airport. I could see the strip of strawberry field that ran along it, although it wasn't the right season for the stand to be open, and strawberries were an expensive treat anyway, so I wasn't even considering hoping that we'd be stopping for strawberries.
The location and direction meant that we had gone past our house and must be going somewhere else. Before we went to Grandma's, we hadn't talked about going anywhere else. And if they had talked about going somewhere while we were at Grandma's, I had missed it.
The fact that my sister's giggled makes me think I had missed something said during the goodbyes or that they had mentioned it after we were in the car. They never explained. They may not have explained were we were going, either, but that's less likely. I probably just don't remember now because where we were going wasn't the important part of that memory.
Zoning out during the adults saying goodbye is not something I would ever apologize for. The adults in our family said long goodbyes, long relocating goodbyes. At Grandma's house, they would often start in the living room. Then they'd do a final chat and after a few minutes say they really had to go and relocate to near the kitchen door.
Someone would think of something else, and the chatting would continue at the kitchen door, with the door at least partway open. By then, us kids would have been shepherded into motion and we didn't have anything to chat about, so we'd go stand by the locked car while they drifted out onto the porch and continued chatting.
In fairness, some of the chatting was a leaving kind of chatting. They swapped their intentions of things they would do soon and before we would all meet again. They swapped information about what other relatives might be doing in the near future and that might happen during the time we were gone.
By the time everyone got to the car, I was well and truly into my own thoughts out of self-preservation. Then the car would be unlocked and us kids would get in, because getting us in was keeping control of the departure. Then one or more adults would stand with the against an open car door and they'd all keep talking.
It wasn't continuous talking, now that I think about it. They'd hold still while they chatted, but then the topic would peter out and they'd make goodbye noises and start moving to the next Station of the Departure. But at the next Station, they'd think of something else, and the conversation would well up again on the new topic.
Where are we, now? My parents are sitting in the front seat and they've clasped their seat belts. They've rolled down the windows (no automatic windows - even when automatic windows become standard, they'll resist getting them on the grounds that they'll break long before they'd want to sell the car, and broken window switches would leave everyone sweltering), rested their arms on the window ledge, and leaned out to continue talking.
I do not blame me for not listening to all of that. It was never anything that was interesting to a kid, that they talked about. Maybe if they'd talked about dismembering me, I'd have heard that, but it would have taken something out of the ordinary to seep through whatever more interesting conversation I had going in my head.
It was just a little off-putting to look up and not know where we were going. And it was just a little annoying that everyone chuckled. I can remember thinking that I didn't want to lose track like that again. I guess that's why I remember the incident, even if I don't remember all the details.
I can't say I learned not to zone out. But I might have learned to check back in more often. And I definitely learned not to ask directly about anything that I obviously missed.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Post 3.8.0.0 Grandma's Pan Lids
Grandma D didn't have many toys for grandchildren to play with when we visited. But she let us play with her pans and her pan lids. That made the lower cupboard where they were kept a treasure trove.
You couldn't do that at home. You couldn't make noise like that at home. No two lids were the same size, so you never got an even pair of cymbals, but there were a lot of different sizes, so you could experiment with the sound.
Which pair was loudest? Two big ones? Two small ones? Or was the wooden spoon on the pan bottom superior?
Adults who would have voted to stop the noise in their own homes, relaxed and exclaimed over the delight taken in the noise at Grandma's. I never asked Mom if Grandma ever allowed it as a Mother. There are still people alive who might know. I should make a note to ask. It would be good to know. It would fill out the story.
Post 3.8.0.0 Babies in Grandma's Sink
Grandma D loved her grandbabies and she loved to bathe them in her sink. She made kind of a celebration out of it, and everyone felt like they were participating in a ritual of joy while it was happening.
Not that anyone else helped with the washing. Grandma was well up to that. Another grandchild might be asked to hand her the towel at the end, but that was about it.
No, what you were supposed to be doing was noticing and commenting on the fun that the baby was having and reminiscing about the other babies that had been bathed in that sink.
"You don't remember, but I remember when YOU were the one in that sink. I bet you wouldn't fit now, would you?"
I don't remember where other people bathed babies. I'm guessing in the bath tub. But it was understood that Grandma was the only person who bathed babies in the kitchen sink.
Mom died last May, and I inherited her photos. From the looks of the boxes, she had inherited Grandma's photos and Grandma had inherited her Mother-in-law's photos. There may have been some from a great aunt or uncle, too.
I haven't been through the whole set. That's going to be weeks and months (and maybe years) from now. But I have unearthed a few pictures of babies in Grandma's sink.
Post 3.6.0.0 Taco Night
One of our regular family treats was taco night. Taco night was always at Grandma and Grandpa's. We'd come in through the real door, which was on the side of the house and entered into the kitchen. There was a front door, with a covered porch and an entry vestibule, but family never used it. If someone rang the doorbell at the front door, you knew they were going to try to sell something to you.
The side door had a doorbell, too, but not a fancy one with chimes, like the front door. It made a buzzing kind of ring. We didn't use it much, either. Being family, we just walked in. Sometimes we'd knock on the door in passing and sometimes we'd just call out, if there was no one in the kitchen to just greet.
When I was young, the older female relatives would call out "knick, knick, knock!" I don't know if any of us kids picked up the habit. But I can hear the call in my Aunt's voice plainly.
Once we were there for taco night, we'd help make the tacos. Who did what depended on who was there and how many of us there were. Grandpa always diced the tomatoes and onions. Grandpa kept his knives sharp, not like at our place. Grandpa sharpened his own and some of the ones that were used most often had been worn away so that they almost looked like filleting knives. Not that any of us knew what a filleting knife was, back then.
It was a time of culinary simplicity in America. We opened cans of Ortega (tm) green chili peppers, chopped, and were being exotic. Kids avoided the peppers and the onions.
Grandma or Grandpa (or another designated adult) would fry up ground beef and set it aside, then fry the corn tortillas (the only kind available then) in the beef fat. Oil would be added if the beef fat started running out.
The fried tortillas were folded up in paper towels and stacked into a rectangular corning-ware casserole, which was just the right size to hold a line of them. If there were a lot of us, a second casserole would be filled.
Let's see, tortilla, ground beef, onion, green pepper, tomato - ah. The Grandpa usually shredded the lettuce, but it wasn't critical. Any adult could do that. And anyone, kids included, could grate the cheese. Sometimes we'd take turns at it. One kid would get tired and pass it off to another kid.
Sometimes a can of black olives would be decanted and put in a bowl or relish dish. Usually, there was root beer or cola. Soda was something else that we usually didn't have at our house. It was bad for our teeth, as was sugar on your breakfast cereal or oatmeal.
Often, Grandma would cook up Jello chocolate pudding before we started making the tacos. I loved the feel and taste of still-warm pudding. The cooked kind was better than that instant muck that came out later. The cooked kind made a skin, so that there was two kinds of chocolaty goodness and you could decide which to eat first.
You could scoop off the skin and eat it first. Sometimes, if the pudding was still warm enough and if you ate slowly enough, the exposed remainder would form a thinner secondary skin.
Or you could flip the skin over, to expose the creamy underside and scoop the smoothness out, tunneling under the collapsing skin. Then you had the skin to eat last. This was a more involved procedure.
But back to the tacos. Tacos are finger food. They are buffet food. You don't make the tacos and serve them up, you prepare the fixin's pass the bowls around so that everyone can make their own. Everyone has their own favorite way to make a taco, although there is usually some experimentation going on.
If there are a lot of people around the table, it can be tricky to find a place for all of the bowls needed. If something had to be put to the side, it was usually the taco shells, which would be left on the stove so that the pilot light would keep them warm. If there was a second casserole of shells, the table was guaranteed to be to full for shell space.
Somewhere along the years, taco sauce was added to the ingredients. If there were more people than planned on, beans could be added to the meat to extend it. The times being what they were, it was usually pork and beans that was added.
If you have kids building tacos, you have tacos leaking ingredients down onto their plates, so everyone had forks to clean up the taco droppings. Every child had to decide whether to start with one taco shell or two. Not that there was any question that we would eat two or more, just that building them was fun and if you did each one in series, you might decide to do each one differently, adjusting the taste to home in on the perfect result.
If you did two to start with, you'd probably just make them both the same. And you'd be making them both on the first round, when everything was being passed around the table. Tacos made after the first round would call for things to be passed to you, as in you specifically. There was a certain satisfaction to that.
You had to be careful with tacos, especially if you had added any sauce. Even just with the tomatoes and the grease from the shell you could get taco juice running down your arm and dripping off your elbow. Extra paper towels were available, or, sometimes, napkins.
Grandma and Grandpa were more likely to have napkins than we were. The philosophy at our house was that if you were eating properly, there was no need for the expense of a paper napkin. Not for a regular dinner.
Kids were warned not to let their eyes get bigger than their stomachs. You don't want to get too full for dessert. And if there wasn't pudding, there was probably ice cream. Especially if it was movie night. Taco night didn't necessarily mean movie night, but sometimes movie night had taco night added to the front of it.
Mmmm. Taco night.
The side door had a doorbell, too, but not a fancy one with chimes, like the front door. It made a buzzing kind of ring. We didn't use it much, either. Being family, we just walked in. Sometimes we'd knock on the door in passing and sometimes we'd just call out, if there was no one in the kitchen to just greet.
When I was young, the older female relatives would call out "knick, knick, knock!" I don't know if any of us kids picked up the habit. But I can hear the call in my Aunt's voice plainly.
Once we were there for taco night, we'd help make the tacos. Who did what depended on who was there and how many of us there were. Grandpa always diced the tomatoes and onions. Grandpa kept his knives sharp, not like at our place. Grandpa sharpened his own and some of the ones that were used most often had been worn away so that they almost looked like filleting knives. Not that any of us knew what a filleting knife was, back then.
It was a time of culinary simplicity in America. We opened cans of Ortega (tm) green chili peppers, chopped, and were being exotic. Kids avoided the peppers and the onions.
Grandma or Grandpa (or another designated adult) would fry up ground beef and set it aside, then fry the corn tortillas (the only kind available then) in the beef fat. Oil would be added if the beef fat started running out.
The fried tortillas were folded up in paper towels and stacked into a rectangular corning-ware casserole, which was just the right size to hold a line of them. If there were a lot of us, a second casserole would be filled.
Let's see, tortilla, ground beef, onion, green pepper, tomato - ah. The Grandpa usually shredded the lettuce, but it wasn't critical. Any adult could do that. And anyone, kids included, could grate the cheese. Sometimes we'd take turns at it. One kid would get tired and pass it off to another kid.
Sometimes a can of black olives would be decanted and put in a bowl or relish dish. Usually, there was root beer or cola. Soda was something else that we usually didn't have at our house. It was bad for our teeth, as was sugar on your breakfast cereal or oatmeal.
Often, Grandma would cook up Jello chocolate pudding before we started making the tacos. I loved the feel and taste of still-warm pudding. The cooked kind was better than that instant muck that came out later. The cooked kind made a skin, so that there was two kinds of chocolaty goodness and you could decide which to eat first.
You could scoop off the skin and eat it first. Sometimes, if the pudding was still warm enough and if you ate slowly enough, the exposed remainder would form a thinner secondary skin.
Or you could flip the skin over, to expose the creamy underside and scoop the smoothness out, tunneling under the collapsing skin. Then you had the skin to eat last. This was a more involved procedure.
But back to the tacos. Tacos are finger food. They are buffet food. You don't make the tacos and serve them up, you prepare the fixin's pass the bowls around so that everyone can make their own. Everyone has their own favorite way to make a taco, although there is usually some experimentation going on.
If there are a lot of people around the table, it can be tricky to find a place for all of the bowls needed. If something had to be put to the side, it was usually the taco shells, which would be left on the stove so that the pilot light would keep them warm. If there was a second casserole of shells, the table was guaranteed to be to full for shell space.
Somewhere along the years, taco sauce was added to the ingredients. If there were more people than planned on, beans could be added to the meat to extend it. The times being what they were, it was usually pork and beans that was added.
If you have kids building tacos, you have tacos leaking ingredients down onto their plates, so everyone had forks to clean up the taco droppings. Every child had to decide whether to start with one taco shell or two. Not that there was any question that we would eat two or more, just that building them was fun and if you did each one in series, you might decide to do each one differently, adjusting the taste to home in on the perfect result.
If you did two to start with, you'd probably just make them both the same. And you'd be making them both on the first round, when everything was being passed around the table. Tacos made after the first round would call for things to be passed to you, as in you specifically. There was a certain satisfaction to that.
You had to be careful with tacos, especially if you had added any sauce. Even just with the tomatoes and the grease from the shell you could get taco juice running down your arm and dripping off your elbow. Extra paper towels were available, or, sometimes, napkins.
Grandma and Grandpa were more likely to have napkins than we were. The philosophy at our house was that if you were eating properly, there was no need for the expense of a paper napkin. Not for a regular dinner.
Kids were warned not to let their eyes get bigger than their stomachs. You don't want to get too full for dessert. And if there wasn't pudding, there was probably ice cream. Especially if it was movie night. Taco night didn't necessarily mean movie night, but sometimes movie night had taco night added to the front of it.
Mmmm. Taco night.
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