I Need More Silver

Our grandparents were so consistent with the sweets they gave us that there are some things that I just can't pass up at the store. I suppose the cookie brands may have changed from Jim to me, and Dad doesn't remember Boppy ever giving him cookies. Being the last grandchild, it is quite possible that I was insanely spoiled.

I have the most distinct memories of Boppy's kitchen, both the Rock Hill house and the apartment on Adams. Prairie Farms vanilla ice cream (in the cream-colored bowls) with Keebler Soft Batch cookies are right up there, which followed Kraft Mac 'n' Cheese. He never added butter, and neither do I. I now feel that adding butter is extravagant, and sometimes don't even use milk. That's probably a mix of Boppy and of Mom's severe frugal nature. He loved KFC and Snickers for his birthday, and Emily and I once received the best thank-you note for the birthday Snickers. I still have it! Mom and Dad would drop me off at Boppy's and go out, but would return later with Ted Drewes in a paper bag. I still associate frozen custard with Lawrence Welk.

Bop used to give me cash to walk down to Freddie's Market for Double-Stuf Oreos. We'd put them in the silver chafing-dish, which I think helps one to not scarf them immediately. In college I once picked up a package at the Kirkwood Target, and they were gone by the time I got to Laclede Station and Watson! I feel in some strange way that Oreos pay tribute to our family, and for that I refuse to feel guilty.

And the Lubeley's. We all love it (except for Dad) and it is just not a birthday without it. I prefer it frozen, and could really just eat the icing. We as a family are so consistent/predictable that A: we call the cake by the bakery's name (it's a Dobosh Torte) and B: when one of us calls in an order, Lubeley's will ask if it's for a Hixson. I hear they are now in cupcake form, and I intend on flying back to New Orleans with some. August 10 is around the corner...

Happy eating...and running!

School Clothes

I can feel it. The summer feels different than it did just a couple of days ago. Knowing that school starts for us in 26 days makes the rest of the summer feel like nothing more than a prelude to fall. I think that even if I weren't conscious of the looming deadline, I would still be able to feel the change in the air.

Growing up, we girls had a getting-ready-for-school ritual that changed only slightly from year to year. It began with the hand-me-down box. Suzy, Emily, and I were in a rotation with a number of other close friends and relatives, the result of which was a large cardboard box that would arrive on our porch one sunny summer day. It started with Suzy, then went to Ann Love, Karen Bennett, Mary Love, Lynn Bennett, me, Mary, Whitney, and then back to Emily. Opening the box and seeing something my sister had worn several years prior was like finding a long-lost friend. And there were lots of goodies that we had never seen before.

Out would come the dresses, skirts, jeans, shorts, pajamas, and tops. Then it was time for the Fashion Show. One by one we would try on the clothes, slowly twirl in front of my mother, and then change into the next ensemble. We would sit with a seam ripper and let out the hems of the things that were too short, spritz the creases with vinegar and iron the hems down. Then back on with the dress, another twirl, and Mom would pin up the new hem. Suzy and I both learned to hem when we were pretty young, but there were a good many years there when Mom did all of it herself.

I never really minded wearing hand-me-downs. This was the late 60s and 70s, and there was no Wal Mart to stock up on cheap blouses and skirts. Of course, there were always gaps in the collections, so Mom supplemented our Box Of Wonders with lots of culottes, scooter skirts, and tops that she sewed herself. No summer omitted the trip to Cloth World, So-Fro, and Eunice Farmer Fabrics. An entire day was needed for this outing, and I remember being exhausted by the end of it. Flipping though pattern books, choosing fabrics, laying them all out so we could see which things could combine with something else to make different outfits... Mom did this for both of us girls every summer, and then with Emily when she got older. Jim always got store-bought things, I guess. As a mother myself, I have no idea how she found the time to do this. I rarely sew anything for my kids now, and it's cheaper to buy things now anyway.

There were a couple of summers when we came back from Germany with an empty suitcase that was then filled with fabric and patterns and taken back to Europe where we sewed and sewed. It was really quite fun, and it gave Suzy and me something to do together when we were at ages where it was hard to find common interests. In 1976, my father took over a Nike missile battalion in central Germany. There were a series of balls given in my parents' honor, and Mom needed a new dress for each one. She had one in particular that had a tulip hem with yards and yards of fabric. I vividly remember hemming that by hand (I was nearly 13 then), a tiny rolled hem with invisible stitches. I spent most of August 1976 working on that, while she sewed my school clothes at the same time.

My mom is awesome. Time to load the kids up and head for Target.

I like stories.

I like stories. It’s one of the things that’s kept me interested in my job, and my life, when otherwise I’d be tearing my hair out. Everyone (and I do mean everyone) has an interesting story, and I found that if I truly listen I can find a commonality with nearly everyone – and a likeableness as well.

I come by this love of stories from listening to my dad, who can sure tell a story. Boy can he tell a story.

Take, for instance, the topic of genealogy - not in general, but just our family. And not my mom’s family – just my dad’s. Now, dad used to loooove to research and present his findings to the family. His findings were fascinating – it seems that we are related directly to all sorts of important historical figures and all manner of bloodlines. My dad’s family was so rich in varied and high class blood lines, that it was almost too much to take in.

Years after much of this information was discovered and trotted out to family, friends and church congregations, my mom and sisters decided to double check before committing it to inked documents. They discovered that much of our illustrious family wasn’t quite OUR family. Dad would find a name or a story that interested him and sort of seemed like it might belong to our family. Or it SHOULD belong anyway. He’d streeeeetch the family tree branch over, bungee cord it into place on the new more interesting tree, and call it good. Sometimes the name was the same (agin, campbell, larkin, hixson) and sometimes only close (hixon, akin, etc) but EVERY story was a good story.

“Why, did you know kids, that your great great great great great great grandmother was gutted by Indians, and left to die in a hollow tree? But she didn’t die, did she? She lived to tell her story and produce a HUGE family. She finally died at 87, beloved by 6 generations and famous throughout New England. Why, her story was made in to a movie!

Okay, so the story is true – this horrible thing did happen to a young woman in the 1600s. And she DID have a name similar to one found in our family tree. But she was NOT our relative, sad to say, because it’s a fantastic story.

We laugh, but never in front of him. We NEVER point out that he’s wrong or is exaggerating. It would hurt his feelings, certainly, but even worse, it would make him scowl his terrible scowl and perhaps yell. This is a frightening experience – even for you, dear reader.

But we do chuckle later, in a fond, exasperated, and sometimes awestruck way. You have to be awestruck by the intricacy, the magnitude, the sheer balls of his stories.

And we do lightheartedly mock, as we pass a Hispanic-owned business, “Why, do you know, Emily that your great great great great great uncle Matthew was shanghaied by the Spanish armada? Yep! Plucked right off the shore of Scotland worked almost to DEATH by those rotten inhuman Spaniards.They eventually released him in the shallow waters off the Spanish shore. He swam to safety, and was saved by a beautiful Spanish senorita, whom he later married. I suspect that before they married, Matthew added Martinez to his name – Mathew Campbell Martinez, which is why it's been so hard to trace the lineage. He and this beautiful woman (and she WAS beautiful - I believe it's her portrait that hangs in the national gallery) had several children all with Spanish names. Later, his children emigrated to Mexico. It would not surprise me one bit if Martinez Tacos-To-Go belonged to some of your cousins.

I would not even TRY to check that documentation, would you? It’s a story. But it’s a darned good one, don’t you think? And it's actually pretty typical of a Dad story. I'd certainly like it to be true.

Anyway – being raised by a story teller has created in me …um.... maybe a slight tendency to exaggerate and embellish. I don’t mean to lie, really I don’t. And even if I realize that I'm embroidering a bit, I certainly don’t intended to falsify. Just to entertain. And we all 5 do it – another commonality, I suppose.

So – that’s why I enjoy the stories of others. I appreciate that a tale is interesting, that it is unique to the teller and maybe to the family. And like Dad, I often hear one and kind of wish it was my own.

For instance I know a fellow whose mother (1^st generation American of Yugoslavian parents), was a war widow in WWII. She used the death benefits from her first husband to open a boarding house. One of her boarders was a poor but handsome and brilliant graduate student from Colombia (the country, not the city). They fell in love, married and had 4 children. And that, my friends, is true – and that is probably the LEAST interesting bit of their family lore. Now, if only I could understand how to link this to our family. Perhaps, Matthew Campbell Martinez’ children actually emigrated to Colombia, not Mexico. And eventually married into the Salgado family? There we go! I bet I’m actually a distant cousin of this Salgado friend! Who knew!

Decades of Fun

Between the five of us, we now represent ages in the 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s. Three of us are old enough to be the parent of the fifth one. When Jim and Suzy were born, Eisenhower was president. Me--Kennedy. Emily--Gerald Ford. Caroline--Ronald Reagan.

That's pretty cool when you think about it!

Commonalities

It is true that my siblings and I are scattered across the U.S. of A. and have different lives, but we also have many things in common. Are these commonalities due to good genes or good upbringing? That is a question that may never be answered. I'd hazard a guess that it is a bit of both.

We are quite fond of music, either playing it or listening to it. Caro is a professional musician (way to magnify those talents, kiddo!) and I think it is safe to say that the rest of us are rather in awe of that.

I grew up listening to Dad's Johnny Cash and Flatt and Scruggs records and a fabulous Neil Diamond 8-track. I will always remember Caro and I singing Sweet Caroline at the top of our lungs while bouncing on the Bounce-A-Way in the living room on the farm, watching the emerald carpet, white walls, and gray woodwork move up and down.

My musical tastes did branch out a bit in college, thanks to roommates and a job in a music store. My CD collection looked like a Who's Who of Lilith Fair. Oy. It's gotten a bit lighter since then.

Reading is another common thread among the five of us. Di and I are in a little GoodReads book club, slogging through reading Middlemarch. I'm about 40% through the 800 pages, so I just may finish it before September. Last night, I came across this quote:

"The wit of a family is usually best received among strangers."

Which leads me to my third commonality for today - wit. We all crack each other up and often do not even realize that we said something funny. It just comes so naturally, you know. I do think that Jim would with the Wit-of-the-Family prize, but he has had more time to hone his skills.

There are other things that we all enjoy - languages, family, gardening, grammar* - but those will have to wait for another post.

*I will probably regret not having one of them proof this for me prior to posting, won't I?

Navel Contemplation

by Suzanne

When the suggestion arose among the sisters to start a family blog, I wasn’t too sure what I thought. I have a lot of second thoughts about nearly every real decision I make, a lot of over active hindsight. These thoughts, this hindsight arise from the tremendously insecure part of my personality. Perhaps it does in everyone Would I blog my heartfelt feelings and then hate myself for exposing my tender underbelly to others (who would no doubt be rolling their eyes at me, worse yet snickering)? Would I be erudite and clever, only to look back and see myself as a pretentious fool? Or, is the whole thing meaningful only in the moment of the writing, and less so in the reading – are blogs just high tech navel-contemplation? (thanks, Em, for that image – I just found a speck of lint, I think).

No matter, really – if only a few family/friends find a few entries interesting and thought provoking (or more importantly, funny – we ARE funny girls, after all), then that’s good enough for me. In the words of Bette Midler…Oh, never mind, this is a family show – but you know the line I mean. The line about “…if they can’t take a joke”.

So, we are all 5 pretty amusing (as well as most of the next generation) – and not just to ourselves and each other, either. People are often surprised when I say something funny . I don’t know why they’re that surprised, really. Maybe it’s the sideways presentation. Maybe it’s my usual mumble with the clearly understood funny bits slipped in willy-nilly. Where do we get this? Because we all do it, though Diane and Caroline don’t really mumble. Jim’s the master mumbler – on that we can agree. Sitting next to him at a family dinner is pretty amusing – but no one else can hear his little cracks. Just him and the one next to him. Dad suspects – but can’t really make it out.

Anyway – this is my inaugural blog post. I’ll be brave again in the future.

Our Family Motto

Dad always told us our family motto was “Illegitimus Non Carborundum”, which, loosely translated from the Latin, means “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” Though it is the motto for any number of families, we now legitimately own it. Well, we own a version of it, I suppose. Good advice, along with "pull your socks up and get on with life," and "keep smiling," all of which are Vintage Dad.

There are five siblings in our family, ranging in age from 28-53. We each have very different professions, lives, situations, and geographic locations, except for the two still in St. Louis. We’ll each be taking turns writing posts, and some of our kids will pop in from time-to-time as well.

Let the games begin!