Whenever I see anyone pulled off to the side of the road with car troubles, I feel great sympathy for them. My sister and brother and I experienced our share of automotive adventures as we grew up. Fortunately, our father contributed a wealth of knowledge concerning how to keep a car operating under tricky circumstances. He showed us how to solve car problems creatively, and this has certainly helped me out over the years.
One of these adventures always makes me laugh when I think about it, and so I'll share it with you.
In the mid-1970s, my father owned a white VW van. This was the successor to his VW Microbus, and he drove it everywhere. As it happened, one day the ignition switch quit working. Daddy couldn't get a replacement VW switch right away, and he needed to use the bus, so he jury-rigged a substitute switch. He always had parts to various machines stored in his garage. This time he dipped into his appliance parts box and retrieved part of the control system for a washing machine. Since he could fix anything, he hooked this up to the VW and solved the ignition problem.
We just had to make sure the switch was in the "heavy wash" position.
My brother and sister were driving the VW home from the Peninsula one evening in 1975. They reached Jefferson Avenue in Newport News and all was going well. Then the bus died, and they couldn't restart it. Somehow they managed to get it off the road and into a large parking lot. My brother opened the engine compartment in the rear of the bus and then scooted under the bus to check things out. My sister sat up front in the driver's seat and followed instructions. They were concentrating on the task at hand when they noticed a police car pulling up beside them. This wasn't surprising at that time, really. A VW bus, two teenagers (one a boy with long curly hair), in an empty parking lot, doing something to the car. The officer inquired whether they needed help and my brother explained that the car wouldn't start. He said they were working on the situation. The officer stood and watched. My brother called out for my sister to try and start the car. It didn't work. Then he called: "Is it on heavy wash or normal wash?" She switched it, and the car started. Hurray!
The officer, whose eyebrows I imagine had shot up off his forehead, looked at them and said, "They're not going to believe this at the station!"
With everything closed up and ready to roll again, my sister and brother headed on back to Portsmouth. Daddy installed a proper VW ignition switch soon after, but I was a bit sorry to see 'heavy wash/normal wash' go. It still makes me laugh all these years later.
Friday, November 17, 2017
Thursday, November 16, 2017
Santa's Logs
We had a fireplace in our home but we never really used it. I remember only two or three fires in it when I was growing up. If we did have a fire, we first had to remove Santa's logs and then add the wood we actually planned to burn.
What do I mean by Santa's logs?
At some point during their yearly visits to my mother's family in Western North Carolina, my father brought home three beautiful logs. I think they were white oak. They fit perfectly in my parents' fireplace. My parents never built fires in this fireplace, but the logs looked lovely.
Once we children began to arrive, so did Santa Claus. I don't remember my first Christmas, but I do remember from later ones that Santa always left evidence of his visit down our chimney. Every single year, those fireplace logs were in disarray on Christmas morning. My father had to point them out to me my first few times, but once I understood the drill, I would always point this out to my sister and then to her and my brother. We had absolute proof that Santa had been at our house!
In 1962 we moved to our new house in Churchland. The logs came with us and went straight to their position of honor in our new fireplace. The fireplace hardware was fancier, and there was now a screen for the fireplace, but the logs settled right in. Sure enough, on our first Christmas in the new house, Santa kicked those logs around during his visit.
No matter how old we grew, we checked to see if those logs were out of position on Christmas morning. Several times my husband and I were lucky enough to bring our children to celebrate Christmas with my parents. Each of those times, I carefully pointed out how Santa had landed on those logs when he brought the presents. My father never forgot that detail!
My parents are gone now, but my sister lives in their house. I am glad to report that Santa's logs still lie proudly in the fireplace there. I hope Santa still lands on them when Christmas comes.
What do I mean by Santa's logs?
At some point during their yearly visits to my mother's family in Western North Carolina, my father brought home three beautiful logs. I think they were white oak. They fit perfectly in my parents' fireplace. My parents never built fires in this fireplace, but the logs looked lovely.
Once we children began to arrive, so did Santa Claus. I don't remember my first Christmas, but I do remember from later ones that Santa always left evidence of his visit down our chimney. Every single year, those fireplace logs were in disarray on Christmas morning. My father had to point them out to me my first few times, but once I understood the drill, I would always point this out to my sister and then to her and my brother. We had absolute proof that Santa had been at our house!
In 1962 we moved to our new house in Churchland. The logs came with us and went straight to their position of honor in our new fireplace. The fireplace hardware was fancier, and there was now a screen for the fireplace, but the logs settled right in. Sure enough, on our first Christmas in the new house, Santa kicked those logs around during his visit.
No matter how old we grew, we checked to see if those logs were out of position on Christmas morning. Several times my husband and I were lucky enough to bring our children to celebrate Christmas with my parents. Each of those times, I carefully pointed out how Santa had landed on those logs when he brought the presents. My father never forgot that detail!
My parents are gone now, but my sister lives in their house. I am glad to report that Santa's logs still lie proudly in the fireplace there. I hope Santa still lands on them when Christmas comes.
Biscuits and Gravy and Giblets
Most conversations this time of year concern food, so I want to add to that already overwhelming number.
I've been thinking of my mother during the past week because five years have passed since her death. I remember so many things about her and think of her every day, but when I think about Thanksgiving or Christmas or any other feast days, I inevitably recall her biscuits and her gravy. Mother was not a fancy cook, and she didn't really care for cooking per se. She fed us good, wholesome meals and stretched my father's paychecks to cover a surprisingly varied menu. Nothing complicated or exotic ever appeared in her kitchen.
I prepare a far greater variety of dishes and inhabit a culinary world that my mother never entered. But I cannot, for the life of me, make biscuits and gravy the way she could.
I gave up trying to match her skill years ago. First to go was making gravy. I watched her make gravy every week as far back as I can remember. Just plain white gravy, made either for chicken/turkey dinners or hamburgers and gravy dinners. I watched her put the fat in the cast iron pan, add a little flour, and stir it up into a roux. She wouldn't have known what a roux was at all, but she made them perfectly. Then she added the appropriate liquid and the remaining flour and boom! There was the gravy. I stirred the final mixture many, many times so that it wouldn't burn, and I always believed that gravy was just that simple to make. Ha! My first solo Thanksgiving went very well except for the gravy. I could not get rid of the lumps to save my life. A gravy fiasco. I kept trying in subsequent years with no better luck, and then finally succumbed to the use of cornstarch. The last Thanksgiving we spent together, in 2009, she gave us all one final taste of perfect turkey gravy.
Biscuits seemed to appear with equal magic. Once again, I watched her all the time and figured I could do this, too. Could I have asked her for her recipe? Nope. She made biscuits from scratch and used Pillsbury's Self-Rising Flour and milk. I, of course, in my newly-married state, used King Arthur flour and wouldn't touch self-rising. I tried a long succession of recipes for biscuits, never finding a satisfactory, easy one. Biscuits almost completely disappeared from my dinner offerings. Now I use the frozen Pillsbury Grands, which don't even come close to mother's. And really, I should just buy some self-rising flour and have at it. I might achieve success now!
Giblets pertain more to my children than to my mother. Regardless of what gravy fiasco I was dealing with, my gravy always contained giblets. Apparently my oldest son thought that "giblets" was a word I had made up. Just another one of mom's quirks. Imagine my surprise one year when he came running into the kitchen on Thanksgiving, yelling out that giblets were a real thing. I didn't understand at first. He had just heard John Madden on the television, talking about how he was looking forward to getting home and having his giblets and gravy. "Mom! He said giblets!" We all had a good laugh that day, and, of course, as any good family does, we tell that story every year.
This year will mark a first for our family. We are gathering on the Outer Banks with my sister, brother, and a large number of our Harrison cousins. No one is making dinner. We are going to Mako Mike's for their full course Thanksgiving dinner. I'm perfectly happy to have someone else prepare it and then adjourn to the beach to digest it while watching the ocean.
Nevertheless, I know both the biscuits and the gravy won't measure up to mother's.
I've been thinking of my mother during the past week because five years have passed since her death. I remember so many things about her and think of her every day, but when I think about Thanksgiving or Christmas or any other feast days, I inevitably recall her biscuits and her gravy. Mother was not a fancy cook, and she didn't really care for cooking per se. She fed us good, wholesome meals and stretched my father's paychecks to cover a surprisingly varied menu. Nothing complicated or exotic ever appeared in her kitchen.
I prepare a far greater variety of dishes and inhabit a culinary world that my mother never entered. But I cannot, for the life of me, make biscuits and gravy the way she could.
I gave up trying to match her skill years ago. First to go was making gravy. I watched her make gravy every week as far back as I can remember. Just plain white gravy, made either for chicken/turkey dinners or hamburgers and gravy dinners. I watched her put the fat in the cast iron pan, add a little flour, and stir it up into a roux. She wouldn't have known what a roux was at all, but she made them perfectly. Then she added the appropriate liquid and the remaining flour and boom! There was the gravy. I stirred the final mixture many, many times so that it wouldn't burn, and I always believed that gravy was just that simple to make. Ha! My first solo Thanksgiving went very well except for the gravy. I could not get rid of the lumps to save my life. A gravy fiasco. I kept trying in subsequent years with no better luck, and then finally succumbed to the use of cornstarch. The last Thanksgiving we spent together, in 2009, she gave us all one final taste of perfect turkey gravy.
Biscuits seemed to appear with equal magic. Once again, I watched her all the time and figured I could do this, too. Could I have asked her for her recipe? Nope. She made biscuits from scratch and used Pillsbury's Self-Rising Flour and milk. I, of course, in my newly-married state, used King Arthur flour and wouldn't touch self-rising. I tried a long succession of recipes for biscuits, never finding a satisfactory, easy one. Biscuits almost completely disappeared from my dinner offerings. Now I use the frozen Pillsbury Grands, which don't even come close to mother's. And really, I should just buy some self-rising flour and have at it. I might achieve success now!
Giblets pertain more to my children than to my mother. Regardless of what gravy fiasco I was dealing with, my gravy always contained giblets. Apparently my oldest son thought that "giblets" was a word I had made up. Just another one of mom's quirks. Imagine my surprise one year when he came running into the kitchen on Thanksgiving, yelling out that giblets were a real thing. I didn't understand at first. He had just heard John Madden on the television, talking about how he was looking forward to getting home and having his giblets and gravy. "Mom! He said giblets!" We all had a good laugh that day, and, of course, as any good family does, we tell that story every year.
This year will mark a first for our family. We are gathering on the Outer Banks with my sister, brother, and a large number of our Harrison cousins. No one is making dinner. We are going to Mako Mike's for their full course Thanksgiving dinner. I'm perfectly happy to have someone else prepare it and then adjourn to the beach to digest it while watching the ocean.
Nevertheless, I know both the biscuits and the gravy won't measure up to mother's.
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Respect or Disrespect for the Flag?
I am not writing about pre-game ceremonies at athletic events.
I am, however, writing about how we as ordinary citizens use and display and respect the U.S. flag. In general, I have observed that many, many citizens disrespect the flag even when these same patriotic citizens believe they are showing superior respect.
How can this be, you might ask? In so many ways. I've noticed to a disheartening degree the pathetic lack of respect for the flag ever since the events of September 11, 2001. You might remember that suddenly American flags sprang up all over our country, like an overwhelming crop of red-white-and-blue mushrooms. Folks put flags on every conceivable item and in every conceivable place.
I completely understand this as an act of defiance against those who would destroy us. But when I saw how most of these flags were left outside day and night in the rain and snow, and allowed to droop into the dirt and mud, I recognized that citizens have no clue about the proper display and care of the flag.
If you wish to honor America by displaying our flag, please don't let it become dirty and bedraggled, with frayed or torn ends. Please.
Here are a few guidelines for displaying our flag, from the Flag Code:
The flag should never touch anything beneath it, such as ground, floor, water, or merchandise.
The flag should never be used as wearing apparel, bedding, or drapery.
The flag should never be fastened, displayed, used, or stored in such a manner as to permit it to be easily torn, soiled, or damaged in any way.
The flag should never be used for advertising purposes in any manner whatsoever.
No part of the flag shall ever be used as a costume or athletic uniform. A flag patch may be affixed to the uniform of military personnel, firemen, policemen, and members of patriotic organizations.
The flag should not be displayed on days when the weather is inclement, except when an all-weather flag is displayed.
The flag should not be draped over the hood, top, sides, or back of a vehicle or of a railroad train or a boat. When the flag is displayed on a motorcar, the staff shall be affixed firmly to the chassis or clamped to the right fender.
The flag should only be displayed from sunrise to sunset. If properly illuminated during the hours of darkness, the flag may fly for 24 hours.
When a flag is no longer a fitting emblem for display, it should be destroyed in a dignified way. You could contact an American Legion post or a VFW post for assistance.
As you can tell, seeing ragged, dirty, bedraggled, disrespectfully displayed American flags really bothers me. I've been known to point out to well-intentioned medical groups that the flags flying outside their buildings have torn and ragged edges. People mean well, but they don't know.
I'll have my flag flying for Veterans' Day, but only if the weather is fair. Check your flags for wear and tear and damage before then. Let's show true respect for this flag.
[I am now stepping down from my soapbox...]
I am, however, writing about how we as ordinary citizens use and display and respect the U.S. flag. In general, I have observed that many, many citizens disrespect the flag even when these same patriotic citizens believe they are showing superior respect.
How can this be, you might ask? In so many ways. I've noticed to a disheartening degree the pathetic lack of respect for the flag ever since the events of September 11, 2001. You might remember that suddenly American flags sprang up all over our country, like an overwhelming crop of red-white-and-blue mushrooms. Folks put flags on every conceivable item and in every conceivable place.
I completely understand this as an act of defiance against those who would destroy us. But when I saw how most of these flags were left outside day and night in the rain and snow, and allowed to droop into the dirt and mud, I recognized that citizens have no clue about the proper display and care of the flag.
If you wish to honor America by displaying our flag, please don't let it become dirty and bedraggled, with frayed or torn ends. Please.
Here are a few guidelines for displaying our flag, from the Flag Code:
The flag should never touch anything beneath it, such as ground, floor, water, or merchandise.
The flag should never be used as wearing apparel, bedding, or drapery.
The flag should never be fastened, displayed, used, or stored in such a manner as to permit it to be easily torn, soiled, or damaged in any way.
The flag should never be used for advertising purposes in any manner whatsoever.
No part of the flag shall ever be used as a costume or athletic uniform. A flag patch may be affixed to the uniform of military personnel, firemen, policemen, and members of patriotic organizations.
The flag should not be displayed on days when the weather is inclement, except when an all-weather flag is displayed.
The flag should not be draped over the hood, top, sides, or back of a vehicle or of a railroad train or a boat. When the flag is displayed on a motorcar, the staff shall be affixed firmly to the chassis or clamped to the right fender.
The flag should only be displayed from sunrise to sunset. If properly illuminated during the hours of darkness, the flag may fly for 24 hours.
When a flag is no longer a fitting emblem for display, it should be destroyed in a dignified way. You could contact an American Legion post or a VFW post for assistance.
As you can tell, seeing ragged, dirty, bedraggled, disrespectfully displayed American flags really bothers me. I've been known to point out to well-intentioned medical groups that the flags flying outside their buildings have torn and ragged edges. People mean well, but they don't know.
I'll have my flag flying for Veterans' Day, but only if the weather is fair. Check your flags for wear and tear and damage before then. Let's show true respect for this flag.
[I am now stepping down from my soapbox...]
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
A Return and A Farewell
I have not posted here in 2017. During these months away, I have been fighting cancer, including two surgeries, months of chemotherapy, and five weeks of radiation therapy. This year has challenged me and my family. Nevertheless, the treatments have been effective, and now I rejoice that there is no evidence of disease. I'm working on regaining my strength and stamina and returning to most of my favorite activities.
This post marks my return to the blog.
Tomorrow is All Souls' Day. With that in mind I would like to reflect once more on my dear Aunt Grace, about whom I wrote in my first blog post.
We said farewell to Aunt Grace in mid-September of this year. She had fallen and broken her hip, and just never regained her mobility. Many of you have watched this happen with your own family members, as they gradually fade away.
Aunt Grace blessed us all in those final weeks and days, true to her name and nature. My sister and one of my cousins met in Annandale to visit Aunt Grace in mid-August. By this time, she was receiving in-home hospice care and her bed was in the living room, where she could participate in daily life. We arrived at her front door and called out to her that the party was coming in. I could hear her unmistakable and infectious laugh, though it was more feeble than usual. We climbed the stairs up to the main level and there she was, sitting up in bed and watching television. The three of us sat down and enjoyed nearly two hours of conversation and reminiscing with her before she tired and we left. She took particular interest in hearing about how my sister and I were going to South Carolina to watch the total eclipse with my daughter and son. In 1970, our families had watched another total eclipse together at her house in Portsmouth, and Aunt Grace remembered it vividly.
We knew that when we said goodbye it would most likely be the last time. Yet we did not part in tears. Aunt Grace's body had nearly finished its race, leaving her gaunt and nearly helpless, but the sparkle of her personality and the grace of her spirit never deserted her. She was Aunt Grace right through to the end. She died three weeks later, peacefully, at home, with her husband and her two sons beside her.
I will miss her the rest of my life, but I am confident that she is rejoicing in her reunion with all those whom she has loved and missed. What grace she brought to all of us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)