Simple learning that Lasts

 We are always learning, even though we may be unconscious of the effort.   Lately I am reminded how often some of the simple, early  messages  are ever useful in my life. At the time I didn't realize I was learning important things for my future. 

 How about the multiplication tables?  I don't think they use that tool any more, but I haul it out of my mental file regularly for all sorts of tasks requiring measurement.  Simple division is another one.  I am glad that old-fashioned math works for me in my life, not sure I could manage the new versions.

 "Thirty days hath September, April, June and November,,,,etc."  That is another one. Think of the nursery rhymes that provides guidance, still, in behavior:  "one, two, buckle your shoe; three, four, shut the door; five, six, pick up sticks,"  and so on.

 The chants that went with learning to jump rope were a bit nonsensical, yet often held some instruction, as our nimble feet managed to miss the twirling rope.  Learning to count as the steps got higher and higher, was an accomplishment in more than one way, totally disregarding the exercise gained in the process. 

These simple tools and many others have spanned the years and continue to be helpful.  I don't need to wonder if the app on my phone will change or a new program come up with something beyond my understanding.   There is no need for constantly changing passwords.  It is a comfort to have something so enduring in the ever changing world of today.

A History chain, unplanned

 That title for this rambling of my thoughts sounds like it is going to be full of wisdom, etc.  That is not my intention.  It is simply that I am preparing to make a shift in some of my activities and it is causing questions to come my way.  Those questions have prompted this entry.  

    I have been the secretary of the County's Historical Society Board for the last six years.  It is a group of half a dozen individuals  who endeavor to come up with projects that will help the county citizenry, all ages, to become aware of what a rich historical heritage is claimed in this area.  It is interesting that the majority of the board are people who moved here as adults rather than having it as their home grounds. Now I am resigning, not because of lack on interest, but my age and problems connected with that limit what I can do to enhance the activities of the board.  I have not publicized my intentions, but I have given notice to those who need to find a replacement.  

    A question at our last gathering was that of when did I become interested in history.  My answer does not apply to this area, but the 'subject' as a whole.  Long ago I realized that I have had the interest my entire life.  As a child I was always pleading for stories about my Dad's life when he was little.  He would teasingly respond with, "you mean when I was a little girl?" and then I would get to hear stories of his growing up a 'real' cowboy on a ranch.  When my grandfather passed away I was 10 and there was a time that I got to sleepover on a regular basis with my grandmother.  She had been an emigrant from Lancashire, England when she was 19.  I sought more stories of her youth and life in the "old country."

    In high school my interests scattered out and I realized that I was 'a Jill of all trades' in the sense that lots of things appealed to me.  I loved English classes, I was good in Math,  music classes, art classes, etc., including history.   At this point my parents were looking into their own genealogy and I discovered that my father's lines took us back to the beginnings of the United States, the Puritans, Quakers, in the 1600's. Fascinating stuff, but I tucked it into a mental corner of my brain and went on with other  adolescent things.   However, one of my favorite leisure reads was that of history based fiction. Through the years I became more and more involved in tracing my ancestors past, not just their names and birth, but what they did, where they moved, when, etc. so that I could eventually weave a story together and get the feeling of knowing them.

    I got married, became a mother, drug my children to genealogy centers, until they became too many to haul.  History on hold, again. In 1981 the editor of the county newspaper phoned me and asked if I would be willing to write the rural news column for the paper.  With some reservations I accepted and he was pleased with my approach.  Weekly I gathered info from my village and contributed to the paper, hoping to make it interesting as well as true.  I really didn't think of it as being 'history.'    It was  just a fun sideline, a way of keeping me updated on my community.  I continued to write it, along with other news stories here and there, when I started to work full-time, teaching at the local high school.  Not history, family and consumer sciences, which I loved.

    Some years later I was given the opportunity to be the Ward Historian for our local congregation of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  The former historian was suffering some health issues and when I started looking at the past  entries in her ward history I recognized that she had been taking excerpts  from my weekly news columns  to tell the history of the ward.  She gave full credit to me, but I had no idea it was being done, or perhaps I would have made adjustments.  

      It has been a long time commitment to recording local history.  Upon my retirement from teaching, my editor suggested I write two more columns for the newspaper, both historical.  There are times I feel I know way more about the last 150 years than I do the present happenings around me.  I added the activity with the county historical board, and now, with that role in the past I will continue being a historical journalist.  A position I simply fell into, but definitely a part of me.  I  now intend to do more on my personal family history.  My audience is shrinking but it will  still give me enjoyment and these true tales will be there for  family members.  Maybe one of them will be bitten by the history bug, it can be contagious.  

Easters, many and varied

 With Easter coming up this weekend and the weatherman forecasting snow for our region I realize that I have had lots of snowy Easters, but it didn't take away from it being Easter.  It doesn't take away from the Holy Week.  In the long run, my Palm Sunday, the Holy Week, and all, it is up to me.  It is all up to me to Easter now, without my family, in whatever way works.

 There was always some family fun and there was always some church. In my younger days it meant something new in clothing usually a dress but maybe a spring coat and it might have a hat to go with it, maybe a pair of sandals. The dying of boiled eggs  and the hunting of them, generally throughout the house with it being too wet for an outdoors hunt.  It also meant Easter candy, but not the variety now offered.  This was more jelly beans, gum drops,  those sugary egg shapes that were about the size of a medium egg in lots of colors and at least one chocolate item, which might be gooey on the inside, or peanut butter or marshmallow.  Or it might be in the shape of a rabbit, the posed rabbit that was hollow, but had solid chocolate ears.  

    Easter was also a Sunrise Service at the Methodist Church, and Dad even came with the rest of us on that day.  No Daylight Saving Time, and I always felt it must be so very early, the sun just coming up over the hills to the east.  Now I realize it really wasn't that early.  But it felt special, even if we were trudging through the snow to get to the church.  The hushed feel, the reverence of that day  carried over, the rays of sunlight  lighting up the colored glass window scene on the eastern side of the chapel.  It was different from the weekly church-goings. Easter!

I knew there would be hot-cross buns at home after the meeting.  That was a part of my maternal grandmother's background being passed down.  I wanted my own children to experience hot-cross buns, the making of them, the story, the currants, the smell of them baking.  Not important really, just my feelings of heritage.

I loved the wearing of a hat, and still do, even though my hats are all stored away.  It really isn't a Easter thing, but that is when I was first introduced to knowing  that for me, a nice hat meant a 'step up.' A behaving as a lady. 

I loved Easter as the mother of my own family, trying to instill the importance of remembering Jesus Christ, yet still making the weekend one of welcoming the hoped for spring.  For years I endeavored to have hot-cross buns for my children,  until I had so many things to do--making Easter dresses for 5 girls and surely something for our son, dinner, eggs, etc, that something had to give.  And it was the buns that went after about twenty years.  Having changed locations I endeavored to incorporate the culture of my new surroundings, and my husband's families Easter activities.  

Easter is still a favorite time, a holiday of sorts. I still love to dye eggs, it has been a long time since I thought of a new Easter outfit for myself.  My priorities have changed and hopefully matured, along with my circumstance. The Inspiration of the week, the day,  has become more and more, of my own making, along with the interactions with others feeling the same.  Now I have lots of reading, learning more each year of the Real Reason.  We celebrate Christmas, the birth of Jesus, because of Easter, the Atonement and Resurrection.  As it should be.

Wash Days, now and then

 Lately as I load my washer or my dryer I reflect on the ease with which I can perform this task.  After sorting I throw a batch into the washer, add some detergent and any additional stuff that the load might warrant. Shut it, twist and poke a few dials or lights---and go about my business, wherever that might take me.  In an hour, give or take, the machine gives a few beeps to alert me that it has completed all the cycles and awaits my leisure to remove the contents, with the drying as the next step. It may be hours before I respond and move on. 

What a wonder this is!!   I don't have to go very far back in my ancestry to see huge changes.  Actually, I don't even need to go back at all, because I started my married life in a farm house that had a twin tub washer, wringers attached.  But even those were a far cry from the days of my grandmothers' days for laundry.   Wash tubs, bluing, heating water for the tubs, scrub boards, making their own soap (another long process in itself),  wringing clothes by hand,  hanging it all on the clothes lines with clothes pins, and likely I have skipped a few things that were needed because I have no literal experience. 

The choices of detergent, softener, additives are endless now.  Each product promising wonderful results. A person doesn't even have to estimate the amount of detergent, or whatever,  needed, it can all come in a  nice little cake that does more than one thing to give lovely laundry.

A few things have remained the same.  The laundry does not sort itself, still a manual job.  The rules still apply that if one tries to combine white clothes with colored clothes, they will not remain white.  And linty things don't mix well with others.  There still has to be some effort put forth in the drying.  It can be put in the dryer and that only requires a few more dials to choose to receive the desired dryness for the specific type of load.  One can still hang clothes on a line outdoors and there is a fresh scent to those cleaned items that is not duplicated in the dryer. 

Then there is the "putting away" that stays a manual job.  Folding clothes, placing in drawers, putting clothes on hangers and then in closets.  Ironing was a huge item on the task lists for the homemaker of the past. Just imagining the need to iron those floor length, detailed dresses with bounces and flounces on the 1800's, 1900's-- no, don't imagine, and they did it without the aid of electricity!  No wonder there was a need for the profession of "laundress" to have wonderful appearing garments.   

Fabrics have changed and contributed greatly to the ease in all three steps--washing, drying and the finishing up.  Rarely is there a need for ironing now.  It would be a whole new topic for this blog.  I recall melting a few items in my teenage years, best not recalled.

Facing the Unknown Reflections

 I learned recently that I have 15 ancestors buried in the Bridge Street Cemetery in Massachusetts. All my life I have known that my ancestral roots went back to the Puritans of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, but was surprised by this many.  My 7th Great Grandfather, my 8th Great Grandmother,  Great, (how many?)  grand aunts and great grand uncles. The earliest birth date for any of these 15 is 1638. Other cemeteries were listed on the site that I have not yet pursued.  One listed was Bloody Brook Mass Grave---just the name tells a story with few detail, and the results.

There are some in the Windsor, Connecticut Colony and Hartford.  I haven't looked at this cemetery site very closely. It has just came up on Family Search,  Maps indicates early relatives all across the nation, some even in the south.  

I can't help but reflect on how these individuals made the decision to sail into what was totally the unknown, and that one thing they would know was that life would be hard, that there were many dangers in that land across the ocean. Their ships were such small sailing vessels. It was like placing a tea cup at the place of embarking and expecting the cup to arrive in a harbor far to the west, with not even a chip on its surface. I have seen the one of those ships on display at Plymouth in Massachusetts.  What courage they had to have, what dedication to their cause!  I am sure there are more ancestors during this same time period who died on the voyage across the Atlantic and their graves were the watery deep.  

Since I have two family lines that go back into the 1600's, I realize that those graves that are located in the southern part of our nation might well be my Quakers rather than the Puritans.  The Quakers early years were in the Carolinas and Virginia, often islands off shore.  

There is a date in July that is celebrated as Pioneer day, referring to those who crossed the country coming to the west.  I have always felt a tad disconnected on that day, but thinking of these ancestors of the 1600's, one can't get more sense of pioneering than the legacy they left for many of us descendants still living in the land they sought and somehow survived.  

Elastic Winter

 Our winter seems to be stretching way out of bounds.  But maybe seasons don't have set boundaries? Is it just our imagination and terms that we have been given to title the cycles that roll through our lives approximately every 12 months.   Is it only winter than can seem long?  I can't think of any complaints about a long fall, or a long spring.  The heat of summer does bring yearnings for some cooler days, but that only means fall, not winter.  Personally, I have always liked living with four seasons, even in this winter of my own life. I am not wanting to move to warmer climates when the cold days arrive. 

This span of cold, snow, wind and wet has been a rare one.  I am old enough to recall the famous "winter of '49" and experienced it as a kid in Wyoming, so my perspective of the rigors of those months have a totally different slant than these of when I am aged and dealing with those added challenges.  The winter of '83 was spent in Idaho, with a little different circumstances--young parenthood, six children, farm wife.  Challenging, intense, but manageable with the right equipment, and an occasional thaw. 

Now this one, winter of 2022-23, so far about 6 months in length,  much snow, heavy wet snow, not quite daily, but several days each week.  And the need for the moisture brought  being acknowledged and appreciated. There have been some drought years. We have had help from family and neighbors in dealing with some of those things like continual shoveling of walks, driveways, of getting our garbage cans to the pickup spot and retrieving them, etc.  When it is such an unending struggle to manage the snow, wondering where else to put it as the scraped piles get higher and higher, the drifts deeper and deeper it becomes hard to maintain the positive attitude.  

It is beautiful, the sparkling waves of white.  Crystal ice hangings, but not the slippery and sliding surface underfoot, threatening falls and possible broken bones and bruises. The nights of the full moon on snowy slopes, glowing in that blue light, often with a coyote choir accompanying the mood.  The feeling of joy when one wakens to discover the snowfall, untouched yet by a footprint or tire mark.  There is that wonderful feeling of peace in the silence after a storm has moved on, up and over the nearby mountaintops, leaving them gleaming when the eventual sun breaks through.  I am ever amazed at all of the beauty that has been provided for us as residents of Mother Earth, no matter the season, or even the time of day.

Now it is mid April,  and some days are warming, and the earth is being nourished with the melting water.  Still, we are expecting more snow.  Stretching, stretching.  Just a glimpse of green blade of grass or even weeds boosts the hope of a growing season to come, part of those seasonal cycles. Winter is not forever. 

Pioneer Day, 2022

  This day, July 24th,  is a special, commemorated day for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, to which I belong.  It has been celebrated since 1847, the year, date that those first pioneers entered the Salt Lake Valley after hard months of travel across the western part of the United States.  Persecution drove those families out of their homes in Nauvoo, IL after the martyrdom of their prophet, Joseph Smith, Jr. 

I don't have ancestral connections with those early settlers of Utah.  In fact, it was more than 100 years later that I even became aware of anything connected with them.  I do honor and respect, admire what they did and continue to be amazed at their strength and faith that carried them through the trials they experienced.  Diseases, malaria, cholera, lack of funds to move one more part of the distance, the early snows of Wyoming, crossing rivers,  giving birth, death, etc.  And once to the valley they were seeking, it was a wilderness : sagebrush, mesquite, and the shores of the Great Salt Lake.  It all took courage, grit, and faith.  

But I do feel a closeness to my own  ancestors, pioneers in their own right.  From the Puritan and Quaker families of the 1600's, to their descendants who made their way westward through passing decades, settling along the way, living lives that were not easy, but pushing on, forging ahead.  I have pictures of some of them.  Others arrived in the US around the turn of the 20th century from Sweden and England, looking to improve their lives.  More courage and grit. 

I am grateful for these ancestors, and that they felt the pull of coming to this new land, and later to this country.  Leaving behind homes, family, comfort for the unknown.  Some came alone, or struck out on their own once established within a community to find  their way again, among strangers, in lonely places.   It is the way of life, of progress, development, individually and with others.