My Grandmother's Old Fashioned Garden

My Great Grandma Russell died on March 23, 1964.  I don't really remember her very well, she was very old and we didn't visit her that often.  Mostly what I remember was that she had a pair of love birds in a big bird cage, and they fascinated me.

When Grandma passed away her children decided that all of the great-grandchildren should sing at her funeral.  There were a lot of us, but we all came to the church the day before and practiced, and then sang My Grandmother's Old Fashioned Garden for her funeral.  I loved that song, and although I have never sung it since, I still remember the words. 

My grandmother dear
Has a garden,
Old fashioned and quaint
As can be
The flowers so rare,
That none can compare,
'Neath the plum and apricotAnd cherry tree.

Would you like me to
Show you the garden?
Then follow me now
And we'll go
'Round the old grape-vine arbor,
Back of the walk,
Where the birds and the butterflies
And flowers grow.

The daisies and lilies
Are telling
Of grandmother's kind,
Tender care
Sweet william and peas,
Heliatrope and heartsease,
And violets, modest
'Tho fragrant and fair.

I still long for
My grandmother's garden;
With hollyhocks,
Stately and tall
And sometimes in my dreams
I see her, it seems,
My dear grandmother
Standing there close to the wall.

In my grandmother's
Old fashioned garden,
There are flow'rs
Of every hue
Daffodils, pansies,
And hyacynths
And old fashioned pinks
Are there too

I belong to
My grandmother's garden,
I was picked
From the family tree;
So out in my grandmother's
Old fashioned garden,
If you come there
You will find me.

Fixing My Hair

You know your girls are growing up when they start doing their own hair.  I used to love to fix my five daughters hair, but at some point each one of them decided they were tired of having me do it, and they took over that responsibility for themselves.  I was nice to not have to spend the time, but I missed making them look cute, and I sometimes had to bite my tongue when they didn't look as good as I wanted them to.

I remember when I learned to fix my own hair.  I was eight.  Mom had begun pulling my hair back into a ponytail, them curling in into a bun.  I thought I was really cute with my hair fixed that way.  One day I tried doing my hair myself.  It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, and I was sure proud of myself.  I told Mom I thought I would fix my hair by myself after that, and she smiled and told me "OK".  That really made me feel grown up.  After a few weeks I actually got pretty good at pulling my hair up and pinning it into a bun, but for awhile there the bun was kind of lopsided, and often too far over to the left side.  Mom never told me it looked bad, though.  She was a smart mother.  She understood, and hopefully I learned from her, that a mother's job is to teach her children to not need them anymore, even if it makes us kind of sad for awhile.

Piano Lessons

(I am going to be gone helping 315 teenagers experience pioneer life for the next three days, so I am posting three blogs today, early.)



I begged and begged Mom to let me take piano lessons, I was sure I would become a great pianist.  When I was eight years old Mom and Dad found a used piano for sale.  It was beautiful, dark cherry, and in very good shape.

I was so excited the day I went to my first lesson.  My teacher was Mrs. White, a lady who lived in Aunt Ejvor's neighborhood.  Mrs. White's husband was an invalid, Mom said he had been for many years, so Mrs. White taught lessons to support her family.

I really liked Mrs. White, but I was a little disappointed in my lessons.  All I got to do the first week was find out where middle C is, then put both my thumbs on it and play five notes up and five notes down.  Mrs. White said it would strengthen my fingers.  I also had to memorize the notes in the treble and bass clef's.  All Dogs Do Fine, All Cars Eat Gas, Good Birds Do Fly Always, and F A C E, were the rhymes I had to memorize to help me remember the notes.

It wasn't too long before I had graduated to playing simple songs from the beginner book.  That was a little better, and I tried to remember to practice every day.  I really did enjoy playing the piano, I just didn't always remember to practice.

After a few years I was playing real songs, and enjoying the piano even more.  I loved to play the songs I liked, and spent many happy hours at the piano, but I didn't enjoy practicing the songs I was assigned as much.  I'm afraid I didn't work very hard on them, and often I had to repeat the same song over and over again.

I took piano lessons for eight years.  By that time I should have become a piano virtuoso, but I didn't apply myself enough.  One day I realized how much time I had wasted, and determined I was going to practice my lessons the right way, instead of spending my time playing fun songs.  I went to my next lesson prepared to apologize to Mrs. White, and promise to do better, but I never got the chance.  A few years after I began lessons Mrs. White's husband passed away.  When I went to my lesson that day she told me that she was going to get married again, and move to Washington state.  I wouldn't have her for a teacher any longer. 

I was happy for Mrs. White, but sad to loose her.  I wished I had been a better student, and made her proud.

The Boyfriend

Some girls just naturally know how to be girlfriends, I guess.  They seem to attract boys without even trying, and they can talk to them and be friends with them without even thinking about it.  Other girls have to consciously win boys over.  They plan and flirt and do little things to get boys attention, then work hard to keep the boys interested.  Then there are the girls like me.  Boys scare them.

I had no idea how to have a boyfriend.  By third grade I knew boys were out there.  I knew some boys liked some girls in our class, and I listened to those girls talk about their "boyfriends", but I had no idea how to get one for myself, nor did I want one.  It scarred me silly to think about having to carry on a conversation with a boy.  What would I say?

I still remember a few of the boys in my childhood that stood out from the others.  I don't remember that these boys had girlfriends, in fact, they may not have, but they were the popular ones.  There was David Jones, he had red hair and was tall and cute.  I remember Rusty something-or-other, although I can't see his face anymore.  I'll never forget his name, though.  It was really Russell, and that was my last name.  It used to make me cross that he would want to go by Rusty.  I had the biggest crush on Paul Ellsworth, he was sooooo cute, and in my ward at church, too.  He was nice. 

Anyway, I was not one of the popular girls, I was just a shadow in the back of the room.  I was too tall. I had to stand on the back row every time we got our class pictures taken or whenever we put on programs, and I  usually towered over most of the boys as well as the girls.  I never said much in class, and died whenever I was put in a group with boys to do projects.  I couldn't talk to them, it was hard enough thinking of things to say to girls.  I envied the popular girls, especially the ones with boyfriends, but I never wanted to be one.

So you can imagine my surprise on the last day of third grade when a boy in my class caught me just before I walked out the door.  He wanted to say goodbye for the summer, and he gave me a present.  Me!  I had no idea what to say.  I don't remember ever talking to him before, I don't think I ever particularly even noticed him before that day, and I sure didn't know what to say to him at that moment.  I guess I just stammered "Thank you," and got out of there.  My friends wanted to know what had happened, but I couldn't explain it.  Together we opened the little box he had given me.  Inside was some sort of Indian trinket, perhaps an ornament to hang on a necklace.  My friends were delirious.  "That's turquoise," one friend exclaimed, really impressed.  "Why did he give it to you?" 

I couldn't figure it out.  They were sure he really liked me, but I kind of figured he was a kid like me, who would have liked to have had a girlfriend so he could be like the other cool guys, but he didn't know any cool girls so he chose me because he knew I didn't have anybody else so I wouldn't turn him down.

I was embarrassed.  First of all because I hadn't known what to say to the boy and I was afraid I'd hurt his feelings by not talking to him longer.  Second, because all the girls had made such a fuss over me and I hated the attention.  And third, because I really wasn't interested in having a boyfriend.  I didn't even enjoy having girlfriends come over to my house, it was so hard to think of things to talk to them about, and what if this boy wanted to be my friend next year?

I took that trinket and put it in my drawer in my bedroom.  Then I worried about it for a whole day or two, but pretty soon summer took over and I forgot all about the present, the boy, and school.  All I cared about was swimming and going up to the cabin, both of which I got to do that summer.  Mom had decided I would benefit from taking swimming lessons, so every morning for a month she drove me across town and I learned to hold a board, put my face in the water, and kick my way across the pool, turning my head to the side so I could breath once in a while.  I got pretty good at it, too.  By the time school started again I had forgotten the boy.  He wasn't in my fourth grade room, perhaps he had even moved away from our school, because I don't remember ever seeing him again.  I can't even remember what his name was.  But whoever you are, and wherever you ended up, thank you for trying to be my friend.  I'm sorry I didn't make it easier on you, but you were sure nice to me, and I appreciate that.

Third Grade

Do you get intimidated by new things as easily as I do?  The older I get the better I am at accepting change.  Now when I have new experiences I  tell myself I'm having an adventure, but it sure was hard when I was little.  I remember my third grade year in school.  It was full of new things, and it was hard.

My teacher was a new experience for me.  Her name was Miss Fawcett, and she was the first teacher I ever had who didn't go to the same church as I did.  You wouldn't think that would make such a difference to an eight year old, but it did.  For starters, I had never been around people who drank coffee.  Silly, I know, but the first day of school when I walked into Miss Fawcett's room I smelled the strangest thing, and it was unsettling.  Of course, it was the cup of coffee on her desk, and after awhile I got used to the smell, but it was strange. 

Miss Fawcett was young and pretty and very nice, and we all loved her, but she sometimes said things that made me look up in surprise.  I think she got engaged during the school year.  The last few months of spring she told us she was going to leave teaching, and Arizona, and move to California to get married.  That was cool.  Mom let me take a ceramics class with her in April, and she helped me make a ceramic Siamese cat to give to Miss Fawcett on the last day of school.  It turned out beautiful, because the teacher and mom worked so carefully with me, and I was proud to present it to my teacher as a wedding present, too.

Mom was really talented.  She could draw and paint and do crafts and sew.  I was proud of her, but I didn't really like the dresses she made for me to wear.  We could wear shorts and T shirts at home, but we always had to wear a dress to school.  Dad was a school teacher, then in school administration, and we didn't have a very big income.  Mom was frugal and careful, and we always had everything we needed, but never extra.  That meant she sewed almost all of my dresses.  She even sewed some of the boys shirts and pants, and once she made dad a leisure suit out of polyester knit.  She was really proud of that accomplishment, but I don't remember him wearing it very often.  Of course, all  men looked pretty dumb wearing those suits, so I don't think it had anything to do with Mom's ability to sew.

I'm sure the dresses Mom made for me were fine, too.  It's just that they didn't look store bought, like most of the cool girls at school wore.  I don't remember really caring once I had worn them for a few times, but I was sure disappointed every time I would put on a newly made dress and look in the mirror, expecting to see the girl pictured on the front of the pattern. Instead it was always just dumpy old me, wearing a dumpy old hand made dress.  Darn.

Mom spent weeks sewing school clothes for me the summer before I started third grade.  She let me pick out the patterns and the material, and I chose one print that I really loved even though Mom tried to discourage me.  It was bright yellow and covered in flowers.  I thought it was so pretty, until I put it on.  I guess that color wasn't very complimentary to me, because I looked sick.  I was so disappointed.  Funny, but I kept the idea that I couldn't wear yellow up until just a short time ago.  I bought a yellow jacket this past spring and got so many compliments on the color and how it was just perfect for me that I was amazed.  Maybe yellow is my color after all.  Maybe it was just that dress.

I had to wear that dress anyway, we didn't have money to buy more material, and I got used to it after awhile.  I remember one day, sitting on the swing set in the school playground.  My friends and I had been swinging, but now we were just sitting.  A bee came flying around, and it landed right on one of the yellow flowers on my dress.  My friends screamed and shouted and ran around, but I just sat there, as still as I could be.  I didn't want that dumb bee to sting me.  After awhile it took off and flew away. The other girls gathered around, amazed at how calm I had been.  I was just amazed at how life like that flower must have looked, if a bee thought it could get nectar out of a piece of material.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day means remembering Grandpa Johnson to me.  Every weekend when I was a girl we went with Grandma Johnson down to the cemetery to put flowers on Grandpa's grave.  It was such a beautiful place, and I loved being with my family so much, that to me cemeteries have become synonymous with happiness, good times, and beauty.  Some people think I'm crazy, but I love going to the cemetery.

Once a year, on Memorial Day, we would go with Grandma to the cemetery and watch a special program in  honor of  veterans.  I loved seeing the soldiers in their uniforms, holding their guns to salute their fallen brothers.  I also loved seeing hundreds of little American flags fluttering gaily over the graves of men who had served our country.  It always made me proud when we walked over to Grandpa's grave and saw the flag standing next to his name.

Mom said Grandpa didn't like to talk much about the war.  He said there were too many tragic things that happened.  But he did like to tell funny stories.  That's what I remember about Grandpa.  I was only four when he died, but I can still see his big smile and happy face as he told us stories to make us laugh.  Today, as I looked through his memoirs, I found some of those happy WWI stories.  In his honor, and to honor Memorial Day, I'll share some with you.  Perhaps next November, on Veteran's Day, I'll share the rest of his memories of WWI.

Grandpa came to America four years before the started.  He joined the army on October 2, 1917.  He remembered:

 "While in the army, I never had to go on K.P. duty.  Every time my name would come up on the list, I would be transferred to some other company.  My buddies called me a 'lucky Swede'.

....we were sent to the southern part of France for a few days and then shipped to the front....We got to a big army camp built out of tin buildings without any floor.  We were given straw tics to sleep on.  Late in the evening after taps had been blown I was laying on my tic and next to me lay the company clown.  The tics were very hard and he got down on his hands and knees and started pounding the tic, trying to soften it up.  He was dressed in his B.V.D.'s, and as he beet the tic he'd say,  "Here's another blow to you, Kaiser Bill."

Later I was sent to Columbia La Belle 1st Air depot where they loaded up planes with bombs to bomb the German lines.  The third night there the German bombers came swooping in to bomb us.  Less than a quarter mile from where we were stationed was a big ammunition dump which they were trying to blow up. One bomb dropped only 300 feet from the dump.  When the first bomb was dropped we were all ordered to head for open country and the safety trenches.  Right outside of the kitchen door was a five foot square hole of red clay used to dump dish water in.  It was clear full of greasy dishwater.  The first one out the door was our much hated top sergeant.  Into the hole of dishwater he went where he was stuck fast up to his neck.  He began to holler for help but we all hated him so much we could neither see nor hear him.

....The armistice was signed on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918.  After this time we had more freedom to move about.  One Sunday a bunch of us decided to cross over "no man's land" and visit the German front lines.  In our company was a little fellow from New York called Rubenston.  He noticed a small metal plate laying on the ground and without thinking gave it a kick.  It was a booby trap and sent out a cloud of white poisonous gas.  One sniff would put you in the hospital for two weeks, two sniffs would put you there for six weeks, and three sniffs would kill you.  The wind luckily was blowing the other direction and none of us were injured, but everyone was sure mad at Rubenston.

....I visited the place where Joan of Arc was born and saw the room she was born in.  Over the fireplace the soldiers had been writing their names and so I added mine.  Just as I finished, the man behind me said, "John, fools names and fools faces are often seen in public places."   (Mom remembered and told us that saying every time one of us kids were tempted to add our names to the graffiti scribbled on places we visited.)

In the winter of 1919, I got an eight day leave and decided to take a trip to the Mediterranean Sea.  Our passes stated that we had all the time we needed to get to the leave area, eight days leave, and all the time we needed to get back to camp.  We were permitted to go three miles into Italy.  .....After the eight days were up, we got on a train and headed back to camp.  Our train was stopped at a de-lousing station where every soldier was supposed to strip and have his clothes put through a big steam mangle.  I had on a new uniform and was sure I didn't have any lice.  I asked my buddy who spoke French if he thought we could get out of going through the line.  He said sure, so we crawled under the barbed wire and headed for town where we got a hotel and stayed two days.  Then we boarded another troop train and headed back to camp.  When we came into camp, our other buddies started hollering, "Guard house for you guys", because we were two days later arriving back than they were.  I told them they just didn't know how to read their passes because they specifically said,  "All the time you need to get to the leave area and all the time you need to get back."  We just happened to need two more days to get back than they did.  I was really wondering, though, if we might not get put in the guard house, but there was no trouble at all.  The rest of the men were pretty disgusted that a Swede could read English better than they could.

.....At night in the barracks we would sit around and sing songs and tell jokes.  There was one big, tall, red-headed Irishman who was always rubbing someone about something.  One night he grabbed me by the shoulders and looking at my bald head (I had lost my hair while in France, probably from impure water) he said, "Say, John, where were you when the Lord was passing out hair?"  I looked him in the eye and replied, "Well, it was this way.  You great big guys pushed me back to the end of the line and when I got up to get my hair there was nothing left but red hair and I wouldn't have any of that."  Everyone in the barracks just roared and the big Irishman left me alone after that."

Grandpa was honorably discharged from the army on the 26th of September, 1919, and returned to Utah to live.  Perhaps he did loose his hair because of his service, although when he met his brothers after they immigrated to America years later they were also bald, so it probably had more to do with genetics than bad water or poisoned gas.  Grandpa lost one eye and was legally blind in the other, perhaps also a result of WWI.  He suffered from bad health and died young, and some people may have wondered if he was so smart, signing up and serving a country he had only lived in for such a short time, but I am awfully proud of my Grandpa Johnson, and all of the other men who have sacrificed so much so that we could live in this country - free, honorable, and blessed.

Kamala

Seventeen years ago this morning I called my doctor's office, a little concerned because I hadn't felt the baby move for awhile. 

I was eight and a half months pregnant, due in just about two weeks.  It had been ten years since I delivered my last baby and a lot had happened since then.  I had gotten divorced, been a single mom of five for six and a half years, taught school all that time, met Moe, remarried, retired from teaching, and now I was expecting again.  We were all so excited!

Well, maybe Linnea, my oldest daughter, was having a little bit of a hard time.  All of the kids found adapting to a new dad more difficult than they had expected.  No one likes to be told what to do, especially teenagers, and when the person directing them isn't their real parent it is even harder to accept.  Linnea was almost 17, and the new baby was due the day before her birthday.  She was having a hard time with the idea that she might be overshadowed by a cute, new baby sister. 

Our neighbors and friends were very excited about the new addition to our family.  Even though this was the Saturday before Memorial Day, they had planned a big baby shower for me that afternoon, inviting allof my family and friends.

My doctor was not on call, of course, but the answering service referred me to the doctor who was.  I explained my concerns and he suggested we come down to the hospital so he could check me out.  The older kids were at their dad's house that weekend, so it was easy for Moe and me to run down to the hospital.  When we went in the maternity entrance they wanted to check me in, but I explained that I was there to have the doctor examine me, not to actually deliver the baby.

The doctor on call was a jolly fellow.  He had fun swapping stories with Moe as he checked the baby out on the sonogram.  Everything was fine.  But then the doctor made a startling suggestion.  Since I was already there, and everything looked good with the baby, would we like him to just go ahead and induce me right now and deliver the baby today?  That way we wouldn't have to worry any more, and he wasn't busy, but he was stuck there at the hospital all day so he might as well do something. 

What a suggestion!  Of course I was more than ready to be done with being pregnant, and the kids were taken care of, and I hated worrying about complications later, and so, why not? 

So the doctor started me on pittosin to begin my labor, I was already dialated some, then he and Moe continued joking around and having a good time all morning and afternoon while we waited for our baby to come.  It didn't take too long.  About 4:30 in the afternoon Kamala was born.  The doctor let Moe cut the cord.  They joked that he could use his pocket knife as long as he sterilized it, but thank goodness he didn't actually go through with it.  Kami was the sweetest baby you ever saw, pink and chubby, and perfectly healthy.  It was so nice to have her here!

Then all I had to do was call my friends and tell them I was sorry, but I wouldn't be able to make it to my baby shower at 5:00 after all.  They went ahead and had the party anyway, taping it so we could watch it later.  I think they had more fun explaining to the guests why I was absent than if I had actually been there.  They even opened all of the presents, in front of the camera, so everyone could see what we got. 

When we called the big kids to let them know they had a new little baby sister they were excited, too.  Linnea got to keep her own birthday, for a few more years.  (She actually delivered her own fourth baby on her birthday a few years ago, and her husband's birthday is just two days after, so she shares the spotlight now anyway.)  The only difficulty we had was convincing Holly, my second daughter, that Kamala was a good name, and not just Baby.  Holly (who was 14 at the time) thought it would be really cool to name Kamala Baby.  Then when she was in high school all the boys could call ,"Hey, Baby," as she walked down the halls.

Anyway, Kamala, we're glad you are here, well and happy and still beautiful.  And now that you are in high school, I'm glad you're not named baby.  I worry enough about how popular you are without that.

The Summer of 1964

I remember the summer of 1963 and my seventh birthday because that's the year I broke my arm.  1964, though, has always been the favorite summer of my childhood.  That was the year I turned eight, and was baptized.

I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day-Saints, better known as the Mormons.  We believe in baptism by immersion, and that little children don't need to be baptized until they are accountable, or able to understand and choose between right and wrong. 

My birthday is in August, so I was able to be baptized that month.  It was such an exciting time for me.  Earlier in the summer my second oldest cousin, Judy, got married.  Her little sister, Tina, and I had been best friends since we were born.  Judy thought it would be cute to have Tina and I be her flower girls, so Mom made me a beautiful peacock blue silk dress to match Tina's, and we were part of the wedding reception.  I thought that dress was gorgeous!  It was full of gathers at the waist, and when Tina and I twirled our skirts flew out all around us.  I don't actually remember being in the wedding reception, but I fondly remember wearing that dress to my baptism.

The Sunday before my baptism I met with Bishop Brinton, the leader of our ward.  I knew him well because Dad was his councilor, and he was also my friend, Ann's, father.  I was still nervous to meet with him, though. 

At my baptismal interview, Bishop Brinton first asked me if I wanted to be baptized, which was easy, of course I did. I knew that getting baptized meant that all of my sins would be washed away, and I was very happy about that.  Not that I had been a bad girl, but I had a habit of not wanting to get in trouble, which caused me to not always tell the truth.  Like the time I didn't want to admit I flushed the toilet at the cabin, dousing Dad with sewer water because he was down in the septic hole at the moment, trying to dig it deeper.  I also had a hard time obeying.  I always said yes, but I often didn't actually do what I was told to do.  Like the time I thought Dad was just being silly telling us to wear a shirt while we played on the beach, and then I had such a bad sunburn I couldn't sleep for a week.

After talking about being forgiven for my sins, Bishop Brinton took a few moments to explain that baptism was more than just washing away sins.  He told me it meant I was promising to take Jesus' name upon me, which meant I was promising to act like Jesus from then on.  In return, I got to become part of His church and would be given the gift of the Holy Ghost, who would help remind me to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ.  I assured Bishop that this was what I wanted to do.

Mesa was settled by Mormon pioneers, and when I was a child it was still predominantly LDS.  There were so many members in town that it seemed there was a Mormon chapel on every corner.  Not all chapels were built with baptismal fonts, though.  Ours didn't have one, so for my baptism we drove across town to a chapel on the South side of Mesa, and I was baptized there.

All of my family came to see me get baptized, my cousins and grandparents as well as my brothers and sisters.  Afterwards we all went downtown to Bob's Big Boy restaurant for dinner.  That was another milestone in my life.  Our family never went out to eat, it was way to expensive, but Mom and Dad made it a tradition to go to Big Boys to celebrate our baptism day.  That was so much fun!  Big Boys made special hamburgers with secret sauce (I finally figured out it was thousand island dressing, and boy was it yummy!), and we had french fries and a strawberry sundae for dessert.  I still remember how good that food tasted!  Since there were six children in our family we went to Big Boys six times, and each time Dad told us about how we were sitting in the exact same spot he used to milk cows at when he was a little boy.  His family homesteaded the corner of Main Street and Alma School Road, and that is where Bob's Big Boy restaurant was built.  That made it seem kind of like we belonged to that restaurant, though the land had been sold many years before.

It's funny how certain things can make such a difference in our lives.  That was such a special summer to me that the numbers 8, 6, and 4 became my favorite numbers ever after.  And if you were to ask me what my favorite year was, I would still automatically say, 1964.

Patriotism and Mom

People often talk about remembering exactly where they were the moment they heard that President John F. Kennedy was shot.  I was in Miss Ishikowa's second grade classroom, and I was seven years old.  Perhaps that explains why my reaction was so juvenile.  I hate to admit it, but I was thrilled.

In my defence, I really didn't know much about what a President was, or even about what the word assasinated meant.  All I knew was that my mom and dad had not voted for Kennedy, and they were disappointed when he won the election the previous year.  In my young mind that meant he was a bad guy, so it was good that he was gone. 

I remember walking into our house that afternoon, announcing to mom that a wonderful thing had happened.  President Kennedy wasn't our president anymore.  I'll never forget the look on her face, or the lecture I received.  Mom was NOT happy with me.  She told me in no uncertain terms that whether we voted for someone or not, once a man became our president, he was OUR president, and we supported, upheld, and respected him regardless of what political party he belonged to. 

Furthermore, she told me, we are never happy when someone dies, and especially not if they are murdered.  No matter what!  By the time mom was done I had a pretty good idea that I had not only misunderstood the whole matter, I was also in pretty big trouble.

I vaguely remember the following week, but mostly because my favorite TV shows were replaced with footage of the assassination and President Kennedy's funeral, so I played outside a lot more than usual.  It wasn't until years later in history class that I finally began to comprehend the significance of this moment in time, but I have never forgotten the lesson in patriotism my mother taught me on that fateful day in November, 1963.

Music Class

You know, being a kid is hard sometimes.  You get life all figured out in your family, and then you have to go to school and figure it out there.  Then, just when you start getting a handle on how things work in school someone decides you need to broaden your horizons and learn how to get along in all kinds of other situations.  At least, that's what happened to me.

When we moved to our new house we also moved into a new sub-community of Mesa, the east side.  It was cool, I guess, but it meant new friends, new acquaintances, new people we went to church with and new associates for Mom and Dad.  One of those new associations was Mrs. White, the High School music teacher.  She and her husband lived in our neighborhood and belonged to our ward at church.  The year I turned seven Mrs. White decided to form a singing group for young children, and she invited Mom to let Keith and I join.  I was not happy.

Keith didn't mind so much because his best friend, Richard Brinton, also had to join.  Keith and Richard were a year older than me, and they were cool.  I was shy, chubby, and socially inept.  Keith and Richard liked the class because there were cute girls.  I hated it because there were boys.  Who wants to sit in a chair next to a boy and have to sing loud enough for him to hear you?  Not only that, the boys my age were dumb, stupid, and gross.  At least, the ones who I had to sit by were.

Mrs. White began by teaching us how to properly pronounce our words.  We spent one whole class learning how to pop our P's.  That was actually kind of fun.  We spent an hour memorizing, then repeating the rhyme:

Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers.  A Peck of Pickled Peppers, Peter Piper Picked.  If Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers, Where's the Peck of Pickled Peppers Peter Piper Picked?

At first we just mumbled along, then we spit all over ourselves, but by the end of the hour we were getting pretty good at popping those P's, and saying the rhyme faster and faster.

The only other song I remember learning in that class was, "Don't Fence Me In."  I think I learned it good because Keith and Richard liked it and sang it over and over again in the car as we drove to and from our lessons.  I guess they must have been in a cowboy faze about then.  Anyway, Mom didn't make us continue taking music lessons for too long.  I think she really didn't have the money to spend, or the time to drive us back and forth, so she kept us in the token amount of time necessary to show her support, then she let us off the hook.  Thank goodness.  I still can say Peter Piper better than anyone else I know, though.

Fingernail Polish and Soft Elbows

I loved Grandma Johnson with a kind of idol worship.  She was so cool!  Because she was born and raised in Sweden she had a strong accent, which was one of the reasons she was so different from everybody else I knew.  Grandma had tried for years to get ride of her accent, but it was still there.  She also twisted her words around, although I didn't notice that because she handed her way of talking down to mom, who handed it down to me.  You probably have noticed I say things funny sometimes, even though I try to use good English.  When we started adding in-laws into our family they pointed out some of our strange phrases, like "Will you please pick off the table?"  Julie's husband still laughs at us for saying that, although I can't quite see what's so funny about it.

Another thing I loved about Grandma was her ability to cook anything, and make it delicious!  Of course there were the special Swedish dishes she brought with her which our part of our family tradition, like Moss Pudding and Peprakakor Cookies, but she could also make everything else taste good, too.  Grandma made a mean lasagna, (we always refer to it as Swedish lasagna now, although it tastes thoroughly Italian,) and the best lemon merange pie in the world.  In fact, once a burglar broke into her house and stole her purse, some cash, and some jewelry.  When the police came to investigate they got the biggest kick when grandma told them that not only had the thief stolen her personal belongings, he had also taken a big piece out of the lemon merange pie that had been sitting on the counter, waiting to be given to a neighbor.

Most of all, I loved that Grandma Johnson loved me.  She wanted me to come visit her, she liked it when I spent the night over at her house, she listened to my stories and told me stories about her when she was a little girl, and she was always there for me, even when other people seemed to let me down. 

Grandma Johnson is the reason I have soft elbows today.  Weird, you may think, but it's true.  I suppose I didn't work hard enough at keeping myself clean when I was little, most kids don't, but one day Grandma told me that if I would scrub my elbows and knees with a scrubbing brush and soap every night for one week she would buy me a bottle of my very own fingernail polish!  Now, that was an incentive!  I'd never even worn fingernail polish before that, (you've got to remember this was back in the day when only fancy ladies who were going out on the town wore nail polish, not today when we even paint toddlers nails.) 

Well, I scrubbed and scrubbed my elbows and knees.  I remember scrubbing them so hard they turned red and sore at first.  Taking a bath took a lot longer when you had to concentrate on those places, and as an added bonus somewhere during that week I discovered that I actually liked sitting in piping hot water, and I developed a penchant for taking long, soaking baths as well.  By Saturday afternoon, when we went over to visit Grandma and pick sweat peas to take to our Sunday School teacher the next day, I was clean as a button, and kind of shiny, too.  Grandma was duly impressed.  She presented me with my very first bottle of fingernail polish.  I was a little disappointed because it was not bright red like I'd seen the ladies on TV wear, but it was still pretty cool!  It was clear polish, you could see right through the bottle, but somehow they had tinted it with pink so it gave my nails a pretty pink look.  I was so proud of myself.

There was another added bonus to this deal, too, which I'm sure Grandma planned all along although I never figured it out.  Because my fingernails looked so pretty once they were painted I wanted to keep them that way, so I stopped biting my nails and started cleaning, filing, and polishing them every Saturday afternoon.  I have Grandma to thank for my good hand hygiene, as well as my soft elbows, I guess. 

Dad, Me, and the Sewer

     Dad dug a hole on the north side of our cabin so we could have running water inside and the waste water would have someplace to go.  This became our sewer.  At first the sewer didn’t work very well, so one day he uncovered the hole and climbed down inside it with his shovel to dig it deeper.

            “I don’t want anyone to use the toilet,” Dad told us, because if we flushed it the water would spill out on top of him.

            Dad worked all morning digging in the hole.  It took longer than he thought it would.  After awhile, the kids began to need to go to the bathroom.  Mom told them to go downstairs and use the outhouse.  After Dad had built our cabin and fixed a bathroom inside, no one had needed to use the outhouse.  Now it had big cobwebs stretched across the corners of the walls and inside the hole.  Daddy-long-leg spiders crawled over the seat.  The hinges on the door were getting old. It hung kind-of crooked and didn’t shut tight.  All in all, it was a spooky place. 

I had never liked going to the outhouse, even when it was new.  I used to be afraid snakes would crawl up from the hole and bite me on the bottom when I sat on the seat.  Now I really didn’t want to use it because of the spiders, but i really needed to go to the bathroom.  At first I thought I could wait until Dad got finished with the sewer.  I waited and waited, but dad didn’t get done. 

After a while my stomach started to hurt, but I still waited to use the bathroom.  Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer.  I needed to go so badly I couldn’t even walk down the hill, I just had to use the bathroom in the cabin.  Then I had a problem.  Dad had said not to use the toilet.  I didn’t want him to know I had disobeyed, but he would see I had if I didn’t flush the toilet.  So I flushed it.

            All of a sudden, I heard dad yell. 

            “Who flushed the toilet?”  he shouted.

            No one answered. I was afraid to say it was me, so I didn’t say anything at all.

            Now dad was getting really mad.  “I want everyone outside right now!” he demanded.

            We all came.  We could tell we'd better do what he said, or else.  When we were all outside he asked,  “Which one of you used the bathroom when I told you not to?”

            We all looked at each other.  I didn’t want Dad to know it was me, so I looked at the other kids too.

 Dad asked Phillip, “Did you flush the toilet?” 

            “No, dad, it wasn’t me,”  he said.

            “Linda, did you do it?”

            “No.  You told us not to.”

            “Was it you?” dad asked me.

            “Uh-uh,” I murmured, shaking my head.

            “Keith?”

            “I didn’t do it,” he answered.

            Dad looked at us for a long time.  Then he looked at Mom, who had come outside when he called.  She was pretty sure who had flushed the toilet, because she knew I had needed to go.  She nodded her head at Dad, then looked at me.  Dad understood.

            “Ok,” he said.  “Since no one is going to admit disobeying me, I guess you are all going to have to be punished.” 

            “But I didn’t do it,” Linda cried, as she saw Dad start to take off his belt.

            “That’s not fair,” Phillip said in alarm, and Keith agreed with him. 

“You can’t spank us when we didn’t do anything wrong.”

            “I’ll have to if someone doesn’t tell me the truth,” Dad warned, hitting his belt against his hand. 

             I watched in horror as dad took a step toward Keith, then I cried,  “I did it, don’t spank them.  I’m sorry, really, I’m sorry.  Please don’t spank them.”

            Dad turned slowly towards me.  The other kids let out big sighs of relief and stepped back out of the way.  I turned to mom, who put her arms around me and held me tight. 

            “I’m sorry daddy,”  I sobbed.  “I tried to wait, but I couldn’t.  Really and truly.  I’m sorry.”

            Dad looked at me for another second, then he let the belt drop down by his side.  He put his hand on my shoulder.  “Ok,”  he finally said.  “I’m glad you told me the truth.  But remember, from now on I want you to do what you’re told.”

            “Yes, daddy,”  I whispered.  “I will.”

            Mom looked at Dad and smiled.  He winked at her, then looked down at his muddy shoes and dirty pants.  He wrinkled his nose and said, “I think that hole is deep enough.  Maybe I should go take a bath.”

Grandma, Our Swedish Chef

Grandpa Johnson died February 3, 1961.  I don't remember, I was awfully young.  I remember grandpa, though, sitting on his lap while he told us stories, looking into his jolly face, listening to his wonderful Swedish accent.  I suppose I don't remember him dying because mom decided not to have us come to his funeral.  Keith was barely six, I was only four and a half, Phillip was two and Linda was just barely one.  Grandpa died from a sudden heart attack, and it must have been a very traumatic time for mother. 

Grandma Johnson was only 61 when she became a widow, and it must have been very hard on her, too.  She worked much of her married life to help support the family, especially as grandpa's health deteriorated before his death.  Working as a miner his whole life, as well as being exposed to mustard gas during WWI, surely contributed to his failing health and the loss of his eye sight.  By the time I was born Grandpa was legally blind and had one eye replaced with a glass eye.

Grandma worked at Williams Air force Base, running the cafeteria.  She went to cooking school as a girl in Sweden, and was wonderful cook.  Once Grandma was even on the Rita Davenport Show on one of our local television stations, demonstrating how to make Moss Pudding.  At least, that's what Grandma called it in Swedish.  I suppose we would have called it a Pineapple fromage, or moose. 

Moss Pudding was our traditional Christmas Eve dessert, and it is delicious!  It is made with pineapple juice thickened with gelatin, folded into whipped cream and egg whites.  When grandma made it on the TV show she had Rita Davenport be her assistant.  Grandma had put the gelatin in warm water to soften while she mixed the other ingredients.  When it was time to add the gelatin she asked Miss Davenport, "Please hand me the jello", except with her Swedish accent it sounded like, "Please hand me the yellow."  Poor Miss Davenport looked all over the table for something yellow, but couldn't see anything.  "The what?" she asked.  "The yellow," Grandma answered, still stirring the pudding.  "The yellow what," Rita asked in puzzlement.  "The yellow, the yellow," Grandma answered, pointing at the gelatin softening in the small bowl of warm water.  "Oh, the jello," Rita finally understood with a laugh.

All Grandma's friends and family got a kick out of watching that program, and I heard that story repeated for years afterwards.

The Thanksgiving I was seven Grandma Johnson had to work at the base, serving Thanksgiving dinner to all the Air force pilots who lived there.  Since we couldn't have our traditional Thanksgiving dinner at her house, she invited us to come eat at the base.  We thought it was kind of neat.  At school my teacher had helped us make pilgrim collars and hats out of white butcher paper, and I was determined to wear mine to our dinner.  I also had a brown dress that I thought made me look just like a pilgrim.  I remember Mom trying to convince me that I didn't need to wear a costume to dinner, but I was determined to dress the part, so she finally gave in.  I have a feeling I got a lot of strange looks from the young pilots eating dinner that day, but they didn't bother me.  I thought I looked wonderful.  I suppose that was my first opportunity to dress up and pretend to be someone I was not, and I still love doing it today.  Grandma was so pleased to have her family with her for Thanksgiving she didn't even worry about my eccentric attire.  She told me I looked wonderful, and since there were no Thanksgiving centerpieces on the tables, I became the decorations for that day.  I was happy to help Grandma out.

Miss Ishikowa and Second Grade

Starting second grade was exciting for two reasons.  First, I got to go to a brand new school.  Second, I had a broken arm and I got to start school with my arm in a cast!  And then, there was a third reason.  My teacher's name was Miss Ishikowa, and I was almost taller than her.

When we first moved to our new home East of Mesa we were in an older school that had been around for a long time.  I liked it.  There were big, mature trees on the play ground that offered shady spots to escape the Arizona sun, and the teachers were nice.  I remember Mrs. Bateman, my first grade teacher, letting us paint a Christmas mural on white butcher paper stapled to the wall.  The kids said she melted down chalk with water and sugar to make our paint.  They said it tasted good.  I wonder if she really did?  I doubt it.

Mesa was growing quickly on the eastern side, so by the next year a new school was built.  Our house was half way between both schools, but our neighborhood was assigned to go to the new one.  I remember going with Mom and Keith to walk through the new school and meet our teachers a few days before school began.  I was so impressed, and very nervous!  Whereas the old school had been built from red brick, this new school was made from big, cream colored blocks, and it looked very modern.  Of course there were no big trees to offer shade, but the grass was already coming up, and we had a huge cement pad in the playground where we could play four-square and jacks and jump rope, and the boys played basket ball.  It was really cool!

My teacher was a lovely young Japanese American girl, with beautiful black hair and slanting eyes, and I thought she was wonderful!  She spoke softly and loved us kids, and we made the most amazing art projects that year.  For Thanksgiving she showed us how to make big white collars to put over our clothes.  We glued black ribbon on them and tied them in a bow under our chins.  She helped us girls make matching white pilgrim girl hats to wear on our heads, and I thought I looked so cute I asked Mom if I could wear my costume when we went out to Williams Air Base to have Thanksgiving dinner with Grandma Johnson.  (But that's another story for a different day.)

In the spring Miss Ishikowa taught us how to put a drop of black paint on a piece of white paper, then blow the paint with a straw, making a tree with long, willowy branches.  It was so pretty!  She let us put a long, long piece of white butcher paper on one wall of our room, and we painted a Japanese mural on it.  There was a tall, snow capped mountain in the background, a stream winding through the front with a pretty bridge over it, and a Japanese pagoda on one side.  I thought it was the loveliest picture I'd ever seen.  For Mother's Day she taught us how to make cherry blossom out of pink tissue paper which we glued onto a card for our mothers.  I found the one I made for mom just a week ago, saved in an old scrap book mother made.

I sure loved Miss Ishikowa.  Up until that time I had dreamt of becoming a nurse when I grew up, but she inspired me with a new goal.  I decided I wanted to be a second grade teacher.  Funny, I almost made it.  I've substituted in lots of second grade classrooms, but I taught 1st, 4th, 6th, and 7th. 

The only negative thing I remember from my second grade experience was knowing that I was so much bigger than most of the other little girls in my class.  I never was a skinny little girl, the word "plump" comes to mind when I look at my school pictures, and that was hard.  I wanted to be tiny and petite like my cousins.  But the day I realized I was taller than my teacher was the day I knew I would never be cute and small.  Granted, Miss Ishikowa was a tiny litttle person, but to be taller than your second grade teacher is saying something, and it wasn't something I was happy to hear.  Darn.

The Cast That Saved The Day

           Seven years old is pretty young, but I have quite a few memories from that year, especially of my birthday.  I bet it's because of my broken arm.  That made everything different, so the memories stand out.
           I broke my arm on July 24th, I had to go to the hospital and have it re-broken a few days later, then stayed in the hospital for another day, so I had only been home about a week before my birthday on August 4th.  By that time my arm was no longer aching and I had become accustomed to the cast which started at the top of my hand, wrapped around my thumb, and extended up a couple of inches above my elbow.  It was bent like an L at the elbow, so it was easy to rest it on my lap when I sat down, or hold it in the sling that tied behind my neck. 
          So far it hadn't started itching, that came later, and mom had figured out how to wrap the cast in plastic when I took a bath so it wouldn't get wet.  I still had to rest it on the edge of the tub, and then I only had one hand to wash with, but I could do it.  Since it was my left arm that was broken I got along pretty good, being right handed, but I needed help zipping and buttoning and pulling some of my clothes on.
          Our neighbors built a swimming pool in their back yard that summer, the most exciting thing that had ever happened on our block!  It was finished just when I broke my arm.  They invited all of us to come swimming, and that was probably the worst part about having a cast.  I couldn't get it wet, and how do you swim while holding your left arm above you head?  I was bummed out!  Mom tried encasing my cast in a plastic sack with a rubber band holding it closed at the top, but it wasn't waterproof.  She tried putting two or three more sack over that, but it still didn't work well enough for me to actually go swimming.  I remember pouting on the edge of the pool, holding my dumb cast in my arm while my feet dangled in the water, being very put out about the whole thing.  Stupid cast.
          I always enjoyed my birthday, twice as much as other people, because Mom's birthday was the day before and we began celebrating then, but she always made sure my birthday was a bigger deal than hers, so the excitement lasted two days!  On top of that, my cousin Johnny's birthday was on the same day as mine, so it made me feel extra, extra special.  Johnny was Aunt Amy and Uncle Joe's oldest son, and he was four years older than me.  I thought he was so cool!
          This year Aunt Amy had a big birthday party for Johnny, he was turning eleven, and of course we were invited.  For us, every occasion meant a family get together, and sometimes we would invite other friends too.  Aunt Amy was very sweet, and she made sure that I thought this birthday party was meant for me, even if I was only seven years old and all of the rest of the guests were much older.
          I remember driving down to Aunt Amy's house, holding my cast on my lap, excited for my birthday party but nervous about being around all those other kids who I didn't know.  I was really shy, I mean, REALLY shy, and my stomach felt icky whenever I was in a large group of people.  Aunt Amy had told Mom there would be about 12 kids at the party, as well as our family.  Even though half of them would be my cousins, the rest were kids I didn't know, and I was scared.
          It was one of those days in the middle of an Arizona summer when thunderheads were building up quickly to the East, promising an afternoon thunderstorm.  It was the middle of the monsoon season, muggy, hot, and exciting.  If the rain came, and it looked like it would this day, everything would be cooled off by  evening, but for now it was oppressing and uncomfortable.
          We got out of the car and walked up to Aunt Amy's front door, me lagging behind Mom, trying to hide.  Keith ran ahead and burst into her front room, looking for Richard and David, the cousins he always hung out with.  Phillip and Linda also ran on into the house, excited for the fun to begin.  Mom walked in the front door and sang out, "Happy Birthday, Johnny," then crossed the room to give him our gift.  I stood in the doorway, looked at all the people, feeling sick.
          Aunt Amy smiled and hurried over to me.  "Here's our birthday girl,"  she announced, giving me a big hug.  "We've been waiting for you to start the party."  Then she escorted me to a special chair and settled me in next to Johnny, and I felt a little better, for a moment. 
          Once all the guests were there, Aunt Amy explained to them about the game we were going to play.  She divided us up into three groups, gave each group a list of items they were to find, and told us we were going to go on a scavenger hunt in her neighborhood.  Everyone was so excited, except for me.  I didn't want to have to be in a group with people I didn't know, out on the street away from the safety of Mom and Aunt Amy.  I was almost in tears.
          "What if it starts raining?" I asked mom, hoping it would so I would have an excuse not to go outside.  Thank goodness Aunt Amy understood my anxiety. 
          "You know what, Gale," she suggested quickly.  "Why don't you stay here with me while your mom goes with Linda and Phillip?"  (They were too little to go with the other kids, but they still wanted to be part of the party.)  "I need someone to help me get ready for the cake and ice cream."
          And so my birthday was a happy day after all, and I was very thankful for my non-waterproof cast.

My Broken Arm

July 24, 1963, was a day I never forgot.  It started out as a great day.  Aunt Amy and Uncle Joe and their kids were staying with us up at the cabin.  July 24^th is Pioneer Day, and we were looking forward to celebrating it.  July 24^th was also Uncle Tillis’ birthday, so it became even more exciting. 

Us kids worked together and planned a little program to honor the pioneers.  We tried to dress up like them, too.  Terry and Kathy (by older girl cousins)  had long dresses to wear, and Kathy let me borrow her long moo-moo so I could dress up, too.  We marched along the base of the hill, singing pioneer songs and pulling an old two wheeled wagon that looked like it could have been a hand cart.  It was lots of fun. 

After the program we played on the wagon while the adults went inside grandma’s cabin to visit.   If two people stood, one on either side of the wagon, they could make it go up and down like a teeter-totter.  The older kids took turns, then I wanted to try.  I stood on one side of the wagon and tried to keep standing while Kathy edged back from the middle to the other side.  This forced my end to raise up into the air.  It was hard to hold your balance as the wagon rose, and I stepped backwards to steady myself, catching my foot in the hem of the moo-moo.  I tumbled off the back of the wagon onto the ground.  Kathy fell off the other side, and the wagon came crashing down, hitting my arm.  Kathy ran over to see if I was OK.  I sat up, but my arm looked really funny.   Everyone began running around, crying and screaming, except me.  I just sat there looking at my arm in amazement.

The adults ran out of the cabin.  Mom took one look at my arm, and exclaimed, “That’s broken!”  Their was a funny bump above my wrist, where the bone pushed up.  Uncle Tillis looked at my arm and said the thing to do was to put it on something hard and flat to keep it from moving around and getting hurt worse.  He got a piece of hard cardboard, and mom gently lifted my arm on to it. 

It was obvious that I needed to get to a doctor, so Mom and Dad helped me climb into the back of the station wagon, where I could ride lying down with my arm resting on the cardboard,  while they drove to Payson. 

It was late evening by the time they got to town and found the medical center.  There was a nurse on duty, but the Doctor wasn’t there.  She said he was at a party, and she would call him.  I was taken into an examining room to wait for the doctor to come.  I was scared, my arm hurt, but most of all I was thirsty!

“Can I have a drink, please?”  I asked the nurse.

The nurse wasn’t a very gentle person.  She didn’t even look at me as she got out the instruments the doctor would need.  “No,” was all she said.

I really tried to be patient, but after 10 minutes or so my mouth was so dry I just had to try again. 

The next time the nurse came into the room I asked, “Please, can I have a drink?” 

“You’re not supposed to have anything to drink,” the nurse replied shortly, before walking out of the room.

We waited and waited for the Doctor to come.  I really tried not to cry, but by that time my arm was hurting so bad I could hardly keep the tears in, and my mouth was so dry it hurt.

“Please, mommy,” I begged,  “I’m really, really thirsty.”

Mom held my other hand and looked at Dad for help.  Just then the nurse came back into the room.

“Can’t she just have a little bit of water?" he asked.  “She needs something at least to wet her mouth.”

The nurse turned up her nose and said, “I’ll get her some ice chips, but don’t let her have very much.  She’s not supposed to have anything to drink in here.”

The bowl of ice helped a little, but it didn’t quench my thirst.  I wanted to chew them all up quickly, but the nurse would only let me suck on one piece at a time.

We waited for over an hour, but finally the doctor arrived.  He was cheerful and nice, not like the cross nurse, thankfully.  He looked my arm over.

“It sure is broken,”  he said.  “I’ll have to set it, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Now, little girl,” he said, holding up a big shot with a needle almost as long as the syringe, “I’m going to give you this shot so we can put your arm to sleep, then it won’t hurt anymore.”

I had never seen a needle as long as that, and I was scared to death as he started to push it into my arm, all the way down into the bone.  But my arm hurt so badly already that I didn’t even feel the shot.

Soon my arm started to go numb, and before long it stopped hurting.  Then the doctor picked it up and pushed the bones back into place.  Afterwards he wrapped my arm with wet pieces of warm, gooey gauze.  When he was done my arm was totally encased in a thick, white cast. 

“This will dry soon, and be as hard as a rock,” the doctor told me.  “You won’t be able to move your arm, but it shouldn’t hurt, and in four or five weeks it will be healed and as good as new.”

Dad asked the doctor if they should take me home to Mesa, but the doctor assured him that I would be feeling fine in a day or two, and there was nothing for them to worry about.

When they left the medical clinic, Dad asked if I would like to stop at the drive in and get something to eat.  What a treat!  We almost never went to a restaurant.  Dad let me choose anything I wanted, and a strawberry malt sounded best, so that’s what I got.   

I was exhausted from the pain and excitement, and fell asleep on the way back to the cabin.  When I woke up the next morning I found myself lying in the little bed at the end of the trailer in grandma and grandpa’s cabin.  All of my cousins were standing by the bed, looking at my arm.

“Does it hurt?”   Terry asked. 

“Can we write our name on it?” Johnny wanted to know. 

The other cousins all wanted to write their names, too, so Mom found a pen and they each carefully signed the cast. 

It was kind of cool having everyone so interested in me but I was sort of embarrassed, too.

Then my arm started hurting, and it ached all morning.  Mom made me Jell-O, and I sat in the soft chair in grandma’s cabin, my cast resting on a pillow laid carefully over the wide, wooden arm of the chair.  Grandma let me hold the neat pincushion she had made from the stalk of a century plant.  It was round, about 3  inches wide, and 3 inches tall.  It was dark yellow, dry and light, and smelled like dry grass.  It was really interesting to look at, and everyone tried to be really kind to me, but all I felt like doing was cry.

By late afternoon Mom and Dad were worried.  The doctor had said my arm wouldn’t hurt, but I was still in a great deal of pain.  They finally decided to pack up and take me home.

The next day they took me to the doctor in Mesa.  He X-rayed my arm, and found that it had not been set correctly.   The bones were already starting to grow back together, crooked.  A few days later I had to go to the hospital and have my arm re-broken and set again.  Mom and Dad were pretty cross at the doctor in Payson, who was having so much fun at his party that he made them wait for hours, and then set my arm wrong because he was drunk.

All’s well that ends well, though.  I couldn’t go swimming for the rest of the summer, and I missed a scavenger hunt on my birthday because it was raining outside, but I also got to start second grade with a cast on my arm.   After a few months it was taken off and my arm was as good as new, except that I walked with it held at a 90 degree angle for months afterwards because I had grown so used to holding it that way.

Cabin Critters

We ran into all kinds of animals and creatures up at the cabin.  Some of them were really awesome, but some of them we didn't like at all, like the snakes. 

One day Dad took Phillip and Keith out hiking through the woods.  They found a rattlesnake behind a fallen log.  They threw rocks at it, and when it was dead Dad cut it’s rattles off and brought them home to show us girls, (as if we really wanted to see such gross things!)  They really were kind of fascinating, although I refused to hold them at first.  They made a really strange sound when we shook them, a sound that caused my heart to beat fast and my stomach to feel a little queasy.  Dad explained that we should always listen for that sound, and if we heard it to walk away!  The problem was, there were also cicada bugs that lived in the trees all around the cabin.  They made a noise that was kind of similar to a rattlesnake, or at least to the sound we heard when we shook the rattles, so for a long time Linda and I were scared to leave the cabin.  Dad also reminded us to always look on the other side of rocks or logs before we stepped over them.

             

             Daddy long leg spiders seemed to grow especially big at the cabin.  Linda liked to catch them and let them crawl over her hands.  She said they tickled.  Phillip liked to catch them because he said he was going to pull off their legs and he liked to hear us girls complain. One morning I woke up because something was tickling my face.  It was a daddy long legs walking across my forehead!  Yuck!  None of us were scared of them, though, until Keith told us that he'd learned in school that they were the most poisonous  spiders in the world.  The only good thing was that since they didn’t have mouths they couldn’t bite us.

“Don’t squish one on an open cut,” he warned us, though, “because then you will die!”

Grandpa Russell grew the best corn up at the cabin.  But it was so good raccoons liked to eat it, too.  They would sneak into the garden at night to steal the fresh ears, and in the morning grandpa would find their little footprints all over the ground.

Grandpa and Uncle Tillis tried all sorts of things to keep the critters out of the yard.  Uncle Tillis set traps for the coons.  One morning we came downstairs to find that he had caught a raccoon in one of his traps.  We all crowded around to see the little animal.  It was a beautiful creature, his fur soft and shiny, but he was not happy!  He had the bluest eyes, but they were shooting green sparks out of them as he barred his teeth and growled fiercely at everyone. 

Grandpa and Uncle Tillis tried stringing an electric fence around our property to keep the coons out.  The black wire stretched between the fence posts and looked pretty scary to me, but it didn’t seem to bother the raccoons at all.

At last Grandpa brought up Duke, our dog.  Uncle Ray was a Veterinarian, and one of his patients gave Duke to him because they were disappointed with him.  Duke was a big, black Doberman pincher, and he should have been a good watch dog, but he was too nice.  Instead of growling at strangers and barking, he licked everyone and jumped up on people to kiss them.  We loved Duke, but our yard in the Valley really wasn't big enough for a large dog like him to be happy. 

Grandpa thought Duke would be just the ticket to keep the coons out of his corn.  He built him a house under the tree house, close to the garden.  Then he attached Duke’s chain to the clothes line, so he could run up and down the yard.  The only problem was, Duke was afraid of the coons!  He would hide in his dog house and not even chase after them when they came into the yard!

One night when we were in bed we heard lots of dogs barking and men shouting down by the creek.  Dad walked down to see what was going on and came back upstairs in a hurry to get Keith. 

“There are some coon hunters from Christopher Creek down at the swimming hole,” he said.  “They have been chasing a raccoon, and he’s up in a big old sycamore tree.  They’re trying to shoot him, but they’ve run out of bullets.  I told them they could borrow some of yours, but they said you can try to shoot it yourself if you want to.”

 Keith was really excited.  He wasn't yet ten years old, but he loved target practicing with his 22, and he was a pretty good shot.  He went down the hill with Dad and he shot that old coon, way up in the tree!  We were all so proud of him, but later Dad told Mom that the hunters had all been drunk, and they couldn’t shoot straight if it killed them.