I remember my mother . . .

Mother’s Day, with is inevitable memories of the past, is here.  Because my sweet Gram was “mother” to me most of my adult years I must return to my beginnings for my own mother.

It saddens me to this day to know I was a heartache to Mama.  She had been raised in a certain close, loved cultural mold and when it became apparent I could not fit into that form, it bewildered me and hurt her.  To our consternation we had little common ground and I was glad my brother and sisters could give her the comfort of conformity I couldn’t.

But before our lives separated too far many things took place which remain with me still.  I remember Mama singing, and how she loved to sing.  I can close my eyes yet and see her at the sink, the ironing board (wash and wear were both in the future) or stove with her hands busy and her voice in song.  She would have scoffed at her ability, but her voice was clear, true and when she hit a note, it held and did not waver.

We all, except Dad, that is, sang with her and when it got too loud, he’d retreat to his shop with the parting words, “I can’t stay in here with all this racket.”  Poor Pop was out numbered five to one and never had a chance!

I remember Mom best though, at her sewing machine.  She sewed constantly for the five of us and when we were gone she turned her talents to arm’s full of clothes for the Relief Society.

I don’t know where she learned her dressmaking skill but she knew tricks I see explained in expensive pattern instructions today and when I occasionally sew and make a tricky seam come out just right I give my thanks to Mom.

She kept out home so clean you could literally eat off the floor and it shames me to know how little housework I do in my own house.  I learned her housekeeping standards, but the will to do it is missing and in desperation, I long ago turned that task over to others.

Mama was a worker.  A worker at a time when “labor saving devices” were fairly new and she refused them.  Her excuse was that they were too expensive, but her real reason, I know, was that she felt no job was done “right” unless she had her hands actually in it.

Oh, I console myself that in some ways I work harder than she ever did, but Mom couldn’t understand a woman not satisfied with home, family and church.  She has no sympathy for women who “gadded around all day” and it was years before I shook off my last vestige of guilt over not being under the shelter of  her approval.

One of my saddest, yet strangely dearest memories of Mama was when we knew her remaining days with us were few and I watched her dust mopping her floors.  It stunned me with anguish to see her going through the old, familiar motions of cleaning yet leaving dust around and behind her.  And her not even knowing she did so.

It was shattering first of all to even see dust on Mama’s floor.  Then, to see her going through the motions, thinking she was dusting up, yet accomplishing nothing, broke my heart.  In those few seconds I knew to my core I was saying goodby to that gentle woman and I wept.

Ah, yes, I remember Mama and though we grew to live in different worlds and there was small understanding between us, there remained love, and that love remains to this day.

I watch, listen, remember and write it down.

                                                                                          Published May 5, 2012

A person has to have something to do to fill their days and so I write.  Of course, I wrote for the Green Sheet newspapers for many long years, both as Women’s Editor and also a column called From Out My Window, and in doing so, I  practically told my life-story, personal, inner philosophy, Gram’s best recipes, and truthfully, if anything exciting or interesting came to me, no matter how off-beat,  I told.

Those were wonderful times for me and so, when the paper’s stopped publishing, the habit held and I just kept on writing. Only then, my mind turned to the stories of old Pioneer Days that I’d heard about this neighborhood and soon I had so many that my son, Bill, mentioned the possibility of putting them into a book and that’s exactly what happened.  And continues so, and again, for me, it’s been great.

My first book was in collaboration with Beverly Wheeler Mastrim, who was born and grew up on the spacious Wheeler Farm and Dairy, and who developed into a very masterful artist with oil, water color and sculpturing.  Not a bad combination  at all.

We both had seen the valley’s broad farms, pastures and orchards broken up into subdivisions, and, inasmuch as she had painted so many of those rural  scenes while they existed, the two of us got together and put my tales of that great change, and her pictures of barns, fields and animals together in a colorful, appealing book.

That book is called “The Sunset of the Farmer”, and is, pardon me, simply beautiful.  Lots of others have thought so, too, and I say ‘Thank you. Thank you’.

By then, however, you couldn’t stop me and I (no, it was my son Bill) put all my old Pioneer family tales, both happy and not-so-happy, together into a book  I called “Our Road” and subtitled it,  Not a history, but stories of the people who made our  history.  It’s a nice fat little book and lots of people have found their ancestors in its pages, and others have told me, “Just change the names and it’s a history of my family, too.” 

Now, those are the kind of words that send a writer right back to the keyboard and the next not-so-fat book is a story of two, entirely different, groups of people.  Mormon farmers and dairymen made up one group, while Smelter workers from Southern Europe, made the other.  Different heritages, both living happily and prosperously, but  separately, yet in the same area.  The area which, in 1904 united and became, Murray City, Utah, USA.

I called that small book “A Tale of Two Cities”, and explained, “A classic tale of when  Industry and Agriculture collided but finally combined.  It is a story of how those two ‘cities’ joined to become our City of Murray, Utah.”   Like all tales of the early days of any area, it is filled with both rejoicing and tears.  But the rejoicing won and that’s where we are today.

I’ve written a small booklet I’ve called “Life’s Extra Innings” and relate how the final  years of anyone’s life can be different . . . but just as rewarding . . . than the earlier years.  Yeah, if done according to my way of thinking, (which doesn’t always agree with what some others might consider best), but, for me they’ve worked.  Good Extra Innings and I’ve seen a lot of them, too

And, because my mind doesn’t follow the usual pathway, there is another small  booklet I’ve named, “A Machine Called Ethel”, and I like it, but as with all writers, if I ever take time to edit and re-issue this one, I’d have some ‘real good thoughts’ to add.  But again, that‘s me.  Not always agreeing with others, and sometimes not even with myself.  Oh me.

Murray City remade Our Road again this past summer and so it’s not hard to know what I’m doing now, and I think I’ll call this book, “Our Road—Re-visited”,   Why not? 

It was fun watching them tear Our Road up (or down) and in doing so, unearth pipes our great-great-great-grandparents, as well as the ‘between’ generations  put underground beneath the road. And at the same time, I’ve gossiped back and forth with a childhood friend, Wayne  Bodine, who had been an Inspector of re-made roads in his town in Arizona.  Fun.  Both in watching and comparing. 

See, a writer never runs out of people, places and things to write about, and that’s how my days are spent. And for me, it’s good.

For Ethel’s books, go to www.BradfordDesigns.com

 

In a world where all else is changing by the minute, some things, thank heavens, will never change.

In a world where change is ‘the thing’ and old customs and values are heedlessly tossed aside as worthless, it’s easy to find much to fret over, and hard to find anything for solace.  At such times it’s good to remember that even in the midst of the whirlpool of change, some things remain constant.

A newborn infant still clutches one’s fingers in the same tight clasp, bringing tears of wonder to the new mother, utter devotion from the father and deep thankfulness for the continuation of life to grandparents.

The first bicycle is still the most wonderful gift a six or seven year old can get, and will likely ride it with more pride and sense of adventure than they will ever again feel, too, for in this blasé age, the first car is often greeted with only a ‘it’s about time’ yawn.

Little girls still play with dolls and have parties where endless cups of punch are drunk along with endless dishes of dry cereal.

And . . . if you can force yourself to get out of bed by five or six any morning, you’ll see dawn come over the Wasatch mountains as it has for eons, and will continue to do so for more and more eons. You’ll see its beauty light up the sleeping valley, feel that God still is in His heaven, and wonder why  you‘re too stupid or lazy to rise at that hour, and feel that rapture more often.

The pride of accomplishment one feels upon the completion of a hard job, well done, is still the same, too.  For work that has taxed the mind, imagination and patience, once done, is so fulfilling that even the work and sweat that was required, is recalled with satisfaction.

The swift cut of despair when death touches your life is ever the same and a letter, or email, from a loved one remains pure magic.  It could be from a lover, husband, son or daughter, from a missionary, service man, student or grown child off on his own.  It matters not, the letter is priceless and whether you share it with others or hold it close and ponder it in your heart, the emotion is universal. 

The peace and upwelling of joy that enters the heart in moments of true prayer and meditation is ageless, giving you a ‘breathing spell’ when one can shed the vagaries of life as unimportant and the timeless, important things can fill your heart.

Children are still born (the pill notwithstanding) to be loved and guided to adulthood and their maturity is still met by parents with pride, sorrow, regret and bewilderment.

Pride to suddenly know that your child is capable of making his own decisions.  Bewilderment because you suddenly realize that any advice and love they now give or ask of you will be because you have earned that respect and not a right for you to demand unasked.  You feel sorrow and regret that though this is the goal you’ve worked so hard for, it’s a heartache to see it arrive.

Joy, pride, thankfulness, heartache, prayerfulness, these are the verities of life, the same yesterday, today and will be the same tomorrow.  In a world where all else is changing by the minute, some things, thank heavens, will never change.

The perfume of spring, and our lives . . .

As a child I heard my mother sing the old song, “Jeanene, I dream of lilac time, when I return, I’ll make you mine,” I loved the words, the melody, and my child’s mind wondered where that person was, and who he’d “make mine” when he returned.  (Even then I knew it was a man-woman song.)

As I grew older I learned the song was of World War I vintage, written during a war-ravaged April by some lonely man in the trenches of France, dreaming of lilac time at home, and of the one he loved.

The perfume of those purple blossoms cannot, to me, be rivaled by any other flower, and even blindfolded one can tell its lilac time.  And nothing can compare in beauty, either, to a long hedge-row of them, all abloom.  With the perfume drifting to you, you know, long before your eyes see them what flower is in bloom.

Years ago, my own love came a-calling for the very first time with his arms full of those sweet purple blossoms, and  I think he won my heart right there and then.  And whenever I hear of someone filling a room with flowers for the one they love, I remember lilacs and recall how my mother’s home was filled with bloom, just for me.

So, one of the first things I planted when we finally had our own home was lilacs.  My choice of location was poor, however, and though they lived and bloomed, they never turned out to be the magnificent hedge I wanted.

AW died at lilac time and heaps of expensive flowers covered his grave.  But, silently and alone, that night when everyone else had gone, I went back and put lilacs over his head.  Oh, I was so grateful to each person for sending their flowers, but he loved lilacs, and lilacs were in bloom, so I saw to it that they rested over his grave.

During his lifetime, he (as many men foolishly do) grew sensitive over his love of beauty, and sadly stopped showing it.  I decided it had been but a youthful, spur of the moment idea that had brought those arms full of lilacs to my door as a young girl.

But then, one lilac time when he thought he was unobserved, I saw him walk out to the blooming bushes as if on some trifling errand, but no.  He stopped by that purple hedge, gathered his open hands full of the uncut blooms and buried his face in them.  He soon stepped back, and dropped his hands,  but as he seemingly walked casually away, there were tears in his eyes, and I knew that love of beauty still lived deep within, and I was sad that it had become so hidden.

And so, it’s lilac time, and my memory recalls, first, mother’s sweet voice singing of their lure, next, of my mother’s house filled with them, just for me.  This memory is followed with the one of me planting a hedge of then at my own home, the deeply engraved on my mind is seeing his face buried in a hand full of them, and finally, yes, finally as they lay gently over his grave.

Yup, and again, again, all my life, there’ve been days marked by Lilac Time.  And it’s lilac time again.

Their eyes danced with joy . . .

Three young men entered a restaurant and sat at a table right in front of the booth where I sat.  My first reaction was that I wished they’d sit elsewhere for it was obvious they were deaf and as a result, also mute.

Where could I look?  I didn’t want to stare at them, but how could I avoid it?

I needn’t have worried, for they had no problem at all in meeting my eyes and couldn’t have cared less if I looked at them or if I didn’t.  They were quite content with themselves and what  they were doing.

They were three of the happiest people I’ve seen in a long time and were having a most animated conversation.  Arms and hands were moving, heads were tossed back in laughter and their eyes danced with joy.

I still tried not to look at them, but not for the foolish reason of “don’t stare at a handicapped person.”  No, I could hardly keep my eyes off them because they were so utterly unmarked by what is commonly termed a handicap.

To put it mildly, they were the most ‘awake’ people in the whole room.  And everyone there was watching them in wonder, for very obviously they were having a great time, and didn’t care who knew it.

My first thought of “Oh, you poor things, how much of life you are missing,” soon changed to thoughts of “how much they had that I didn’t.”  In more than one way, they got far more out of life during that noontime hour than I did.  Yet, in the eyes of the world, I was the lucky one and they would be classified as the unfortunates.

Now, I’m sure they have had a lot of bumps and hard knocks, in learning how to cope in a hearing world, when that gift was denied them.  But, no matter how they had struggled to learn, they were now on top of those struggles and using the other senses far beyond what we  ‘normal’ ones were. They were showing me limits I had not dreamed of.

They laughed.  They joked.  They talked. No, not verbally, but hands, arms and fingers flew.  They reached, they gestured, and it was a three-sided give-and–take, probably more than if they had been speaking, because at the table in the middle of the room they could sit so they could easily see  each other, and the ‘talking arms’, had plenty of room to ‘speak’.

One, a most beautiful black man, threw his head back in a great big laugh and the other two grinned and shared his enjoyment.  It made me want I could to go over and ask them to let me in on their fun.

But at the same time, I absolutely knew that some of their laughter was over my, and everyone else’s, expense over our reactions, but that was all right.  That’s exactly what we all deserved for even daring to think ‘oh, you poor young men.’  How senseless of me. 

They gave their orders quite capably and casually, to the waitress, writing on a small notebook what they couldn’t make known otherwise, and then visited while waiting for their meals.

I glanced around the room and everyone was doing exactly the same as I.  Not actually staring, but just the same, keenly aware and not missing one bit of those men’s every movement.

I marveled.  There was none of that ‘hiding in a side booth’, or none of  ‘let’s not talk and perhaps no one will notice us’.

Nope, they chose a table in the middle of the room and paid not one bit of attention to anyone, yet not trying to ignore people, either.

As I left, I asked the clerk, if they came in often, and she said, yes, and that  they were always the same delight to watch and wait on. 

There I was, one of a room full people ready to kindly look aside with pity, at three handicapped people, and ended up wondering who was handicapped.

Those three men might have once been thought of as such, but they had learned to live, and I mean really Live . . . which was different than most others, but, let me tell you, and I hope they see these words and know  how much joy and admiration they brought to one seemingly uninterested bystander. Me. 

I would never choose to have myself or one of mine, to be born with the lack of hearing and its twin,  being mute, but that noon time hour taught me a lot of how we judge people before really finding out exactly what it is we’re judging. Or if there really is anything to judge.

But Corrie says, ‘It doesn’t pay to get us pissed off’

These words came by way of  my friend Corrie who lives in the Netherlands.  Too true to be lost, and so with no apologies, I send them along to  you. 

___________________________

Checking out at the store, the young cashier suggested to the older woman that she should bring her own shopping bags because plastic bags aren’t good for the environment. The woman apologized and explained, “We didn’t have this Green Thing back in my earlier days.”

The cashier responded, “Yes, and that’s what made our problem today. Your generation didn’t care enough to save our environment for future generations.”

She was right — Our generation didn’t have the Green Thing in its day.

Back then we got Milk in glass bottles and returned the empties to the Dairies, and as well as the all the cold Drink and Beer bottles to the store, which sent them back to the plant to be washed,  sterilized and refilled, so the same bottles were used over, over  and over. Really recycled. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the Razor Blades in a Razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the Blade got dull.

No, we didn’t have the Green Thing back then.

We walked up stairs, because we didn’t have an escalator and elevator in every shop and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn’t climb into a 300 horsepower Machine that runs on Petrol that comes from Oil, every time we had to go two blocks.

But she was right.  We didn’t know of the Green Thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby’s Nappies because we didn’t have the throw-away kind, and used cloth Handkerchiefs, Napkins and Dish Cloths instead of throw-aways  that all  come from  paper which comes from cutting down our age-old Forests. We dried our clothes out side on a line, with real Wind and Solar Energy, and not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts and 30 amperes.  Kids wore hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new.

But that young lady is right. We didn’t have the Green Thing back in our day.

And we only had one TV or Radio in the house, and not one in every room.  And the TV had a small screen the size of a Handkerchief (remember?), not a screen the size of the county of Yorkshire.  In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn’t have electric machines to do everything for us.

When we packaged a fragile item to send in the Post, we used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic Bubble wrap.  Back then, we didn’t fire up an Engine and burn Petrol just to cut the lawn, but used a push Mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn’t need to go to a Health Club to run on Electric operated  Treadmills.

But she’s right. We didn’t have the Green Thing back then.

We drank water from a Fountain or Tap when we were thirsty instead of each time, demanding a plastic bottle flown in from another country.  We accepted that a lot of food was seasonal and didn’t expect that food be bucked by flying it thousands of air miles round the world. We actually cooked food that didn’t come out of a Packet, Tin or Plastic wrap and we even washed our own vegetables and chopped our own salad greens.

But, of course, we didn’t have the Green Thing in our time.

Back then, people took the Tram or a Bus, and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their Mothers into a 24-hour Taxi Service.  We had one electrical outlet to a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances.  And we didn’t need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest Pizza Joint.

But isn’t it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn’t have the Green Thing back then?

Please forward this on to another selfish old person who needs a lesson in conservation from a smart-ass young person.

Remember: Don’t make old people mad.  We don’t like being old in the first place, so it doesn’t take much to piss us off. 

(Thanks to Corrie, a from Holland)

Isn’t it wonderful ? ? ? 

In a world where change is ‘the thing’ and old customs and values are heedlessly tossed aside as worthless, it’s easy to find much to fret over and hard to find anything for solace.  At such times it’s good to remember that even in the midst of the whirlpool of change, some things remain constant.

A newborn infant still clutches one’s fingers in the same tight clasp, bringing tears of wonder to the new mother, utter devotion from the father and deep thankfulness for the continuation of life to grandparents.

The first bicycle is still the most wonderful gift a six or seven year old can get, and will likely ride it with more pride and sense of adventure than they will ever again feel, too, for in this blasé age, the first car is often greeted with only a ‘it’s about time’ yawn.

Little girls still play with dolls and have parties where endless cups of punch are sipped along with endless dishes of dry cereal.

And . . . if you can force yourself to get out of bed by five or six any morning, you’ll see dawn come over the Wasatch mountains as it has for eons, and will continue to do so for more and more eons. You’ll see its beauty light up the sleeping valley, feel that God still is in His heaven, and wonder why  you‘re too stupid or lazy to rise at that hour and feel that rapture more often.

The pride of accomplishment one feels upon the completion of a hard job, well done, is still the same, too.  For work that has taxed the mind, imagination and patience . . . once done . . . is so fulfilling that even the work and sweat that was required, is recalled with satisfaction.

The swift cut of despair when death touches your life is ever the same and a letter or email, from a loved one remains pure magic.  It could be from a lover, husband, son or daughter, from a missionary, service man, student or grown child off on his own.  It matters not, the letter is priceless and whether you share it with others or hold it close and ponder it in your heart, the emotion is universal. 

The peace and upwelling of joy that enters the heart in moments of true prayer and meditation is ageless, giving you a ‘breathing spell’ when one can shed the vagaries of life as unimportant and the timeless, important things can fill your heart.

Children are still born (the pill notwithstanding) to be loved and guided to adulthood and their maturity is still met by parents with pride, sorrow, regret and bewilderment.

Pride to suddenly know that your child is capable of making his own decisions.  Bewilderment because you suddenly realize that any advice and love they now give or ask of you will be because you have earned, and not a right for you to demand unasked.  You feel sorrow and regret that though this is the goal you’ve worked so hard for, it’s a heartache to see it arrive.

Joy, pride, thankfulness, heartache, prayerfulness.  These are the verities of life, the same yesterday, today and will be the same tomorrow.  In a world where all else is changing by the moment, some things, thank heavens, will never change.

 

When You’re In A Car, And Stopped At A Red Light I was conducting a symphonic orchestra the other day, and having a marvelous time.  The reeds came in with a flick of my wrist and disappeared just as quickly when I nodded to the strings to take ‘center stage’. It was unbelievably great, and as I turned to give my cue to the percussions, I saw, right at my side a young man conducting along with me. Startled, but without missing a beat, I gave him a happy nod and together we controlled those 45 or 50 instruments as if we were Leonard Bernstein . . . and a clone.
 
With four arms signaling those musicians it was utter perfection, and just as the music was reaching its climax, the traffic signal changed and with shared grins our hands went quickly to the steering wheels and we went on about our separate ways.
 
I often conduct music this way, but mostly I simply beat out the rhythm with my hands, and only occasionally give a flourish with my arms.  And yes, I’ve sometimes noticed the next-car-driver give me a definite ‘what’s wrong with you’ look, or at times one will smile and then swiftly take their eyes back to their car as if they had intruded upon me in some private moment.
 
But this time, it was different.  That young man and I were one with with the station we were listeing to and both enjoying the moment and it became a joyous rarity in life. One I shall remember.
 
Truthfully, I think I was more active in my ‘conducting’ than he was, but after all, I grew up watching Bernstein and there was nothing restrained about his arm work.  But even without any early training, there was nothing haphazard about my twin conductor’s arm work, either.
 
Those shared moments were so good that I went my way thinking how odd it is that though we are so close to others in our cars, seldom do we look into the other driver’s eyes.  In truth, we avoid doing so, and if by chance we do happen to lock eyes, we quickly glance away as if it were an intrusion.
 
Yet, most of us are friendly human beings and we just might like each other immensely if we met in some other way, but it’s as if it’s been drilled into us that it’s a no-no to have eye contact with other drivers.  Except, of course, when our fenders meet, but that’s another story.
 
Children aren’t so up-tight. Before they had to be strapped in for safety sake, kids would look out a back window and wave, smile or make faces at you, and if we waved or grinned back, they’d giggle, stick their tongues out, and darned if we didn’t drive away with a happy feeling.  But again, rules . . . yeah, even safety rules . . . have put a stop to that bit of hi-way fun.
 
Just the same, it does happen, to you and to me, and another time it happened to me and was so unusual that I remember it year’s later. I was at a red light and there was a man in the car aside mine eating a banana.  I laughed as I caught him with it sticking straight out his mouth, and with a grin, banana still in his mouth, he reached to the seat beside him, picked up another banana and reached it out to me.
 
Of course there were windows, and a hi-way strip between us, and the light changed, and it was all over, but again it was a definite human contact with unspoken, but shared laughter and I felt happy and think he did, too.
 
Now, I don’t know why we feel embarrassed if we look into some other driver’s eyes, but if it happens, take a chance as I did. 
 
You too might share the podium with another, or a banana, cup of coffee, or perhaps just a smile. But if the S.L. Symphony Orchestra is ever in a pinch for a guest conductor, I know of two who would step right in and, according to me,  do a bang-up job, as well.

 Don’t discard them, they made you what you are

Every year we mark holidays as they come along, and recall and talk of where we were and what we were doing in past years.  It’s just part of the day.  But each of us has other anniversaries, our own personal ones, that we mention to no one.

Yes, we all have long past days and places we ‘mark’ silently and alone.  Days of a sad marriage and divorce. Times when we moved to another city. Left a certain well loved home, the parting from some loved one by sad events or death.  Days we note alone and quietly let them pass, unmarked by anyone else, for those who would know and perhaps maybe also shed a tear, are no longer part of your life.

We’re all the same, for on many an outwardly unmarked day we recall what took place on that self-same day in some former year, and relive the memory because sweet or bitter, it left its mark in making our lives what they are today.

There is something within us that, at times, relentlessly doubles back upon our experiences and we find ourselves standing where we once stood, and in an odd way, face-to-face, we  meet ourselves.

There are certain places, which, when I pass by, I can stare at with odd thoughts.  Almost as if I’m inwardly asking, “Who was that Ethel who once stood or lived here?”

Years ago, and I know the date well, a man and I met briefly and sadly on a certain downtown Salt Lake corner, each knowing it was a parting from an impossible situation, and that should we ever meet again it would never be the same, for we would not be the ‘same’ people.  And, never mourning the choice I made, there are some years when that day jumps out to me and I silently and alone I mark it, and like all humans, wonder if he recalls it, too. . .

There is also a lovely pioneer era home on South Temple, near the Cathedral of the Madeleine, that I stare at, almost expecting so see a young Ethel entering or leaving the door.  It is now an office building, but it was then a boarding home and I lived there during an eventual year of my youth, and I mark, and that long ago Ethel, each time I pass.

Oh, I’d love to enter that door, peer out those windows and see those once familiar walls again, but fear holds be back.  Fear?  Yes, fear it will be all changed.  Or truthfully, maybe fearful that it might be too much the same and cut me deeply with the sharp sword of remembrance.

And there’s a large old home on Poplar Street in Murray that I look at curiously, trying to reconstruct a day so long ago that I never even knew Gram, who, as young Rachel Crozier, was spending the summer there with relatives and a young man named Archibald Bradford was invited to come and play his guitar and sing for the group.

Oh me, oh my, what events and lives came from that turn-of-the-century meeting.  Without it I wouldn’t be Ethel Bradford and my sons and grand- and great-grand children would not bear that Bradford name either.

Yes and the ground each of us have stood on is special to us.  I will always see a tow headed girl-child playing on the northwest corner at 700 E. and 4500 South no matter how it’s changed. Some part of me will forever be turning somersaults, climbing trees and prowling those then open fields.

No one, no matter how close or loved, can look upon ‘our’ spots and ’our’ dates with the same emotions we do.  For those places and days created our own private happenings, songs, events, stories, and fragments which no one else would understand.

So, we celebrate national holidays and all laugh and recall what we did on other years, but those memories will never be as poignant as the private dates we all hold.  Unshared by wife, husband, lover, children or friend.  They are the personal, secret, milestones, both bitter and sweet, which are silent parts of our lives.

Each one of you has your own days to recall, shed a tear or smile over.  And it’s all right, for they are yours and, strangely, will continue to be as poignant as when they first happened, but somehow getting both older and sweeter as the years pass by. Treasure them.  They can’t be repeated or recalled and are the stuff from which your present days were made.

Well, get acquainted with your ancestors.

My road was re-made this last summer and while I sometimes cussed fate to have such a happening right at my front door, at other times it was downright hilarious.

One afternoon I called  my friend Marie DeNiro Davis Fairbank, who lives across the road, and we laughed like a couple of fools as we looked out our front windows and there, in front of  her lovely  home, shining brightly for all to see, including everyone in every passing car, and in vivid orange color, was today’s version of the old fashioned outhouse.

Now, several decades ago, when I came here to make my home, one could still find one or two of such backyard structures, and in fact, there was one in Gram’s vacant field, hidden by an old tall hedge of Lilac Bushes, and if you were curious and really looked closely, it wasn’t the only one that could be spotted, used, not used forgotten, in this area.

But today? ? ? Well, of course, it’s against the law, and not to be tolerated in any circumstance. (Ho, ho. Keep reading) but just the same for most of the summer there were several of those old time ‘conveniences’ right here, and could be seen from my window, Marie’s, everyone in any passing car.  And . . . there was no question that they were often and visibly well visited.

Of course, they were there as necessities for the many men who were re-making our road, but to such as Marie and I, it was still funny.  Yes, there are laws against such things, but just the same only a few feet from Marie’s well kept lawn and home that bright orange ‘small room’  stood, and I can well imagine the laughter that would have come from Marie’s parents, Joe and Helen Clay DeNiro, if they had been still with us to see the things.

The men working on the re=make of our road took such structures quite casually.  They are just something that ‘comes with the job’ and would dare anyone to question its position, and I love it.  Well, not exactly IT, but the circumstances that require IT being there. I must be easily amused, but I grinned.

And funnier still, there was one long, long day during the re-make, when the culinary water in several  homes  had to be turned OFF, and we were cautioned  that circumstances just might force them to keep it OFF for perhaps as long as eight or so hours.  I laughed to myself as I wondered what would be people’s reaction if a few of those bright orange conveniences were to be re-located for the day in our driveways? ? ?

Now everyone, including me and Marie would  have been aghast at such a happening, but just the same, it would  have been just as logical as all the others along the road, and also just as funny.  And, dang it, I betcha it wouldn’t have been just Marie and me who would have laughed, either.

Don’t tell me life isn’t one big joke.

Now, the following vignette really has nothing to with the story of my road re-make, but it’s true, does tell of Jordan River, not too far away, and is also too good to be lost.  So, again, stay with me.

I remember as a 10  or 11 hear old, going to visit a school friend who lived west on 3900 South, and still vividly recall my shock and surprise to see that 3900 South dead-ended right there at the edge of the River.  And there was no way to get across it at that point, either.  Dead end.  Period.  Zilch.

And as all this was going on before there was plumbing in all the  homes,  those living in almost every home along the river . . . on both sides . . . built their outside toilets so that they hung over the river.  Absolutely.

I do hope the Jordan was used for transportation only, but when I visited with kids who lived in such homes, and in such places, I was too scared to use their ‘bathrooms’.

And in places where there was no handy river, there were dozens of canals criss-crossing the valley, and, sorry to say, but they were used in the very same manner, and is why parents insisted their children never play or swim in the canals or ditches. 

Oh me. Those were still pioneer days for many a family.