Category Archives: Memory Keeping

Whatever Happened to the Dewey Decimal Number System?

11 Saturday May 2013

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Nancy Drew Mystery SeriesReading in first grade consisted mainly of simple phrases like “See Dick and Jane” or “Run Spot run” from my first grade primers, read out loud to practice the newly learned words in front of my classmates and Miss Whitman. Long before my entry into school Mother introduced me to the pleasure of reading and the Dewey Decimal Number System. Listening to her voice, I absorbed the transference of the black ink into my imagination and embraced the value and joy of reading at an early age.

Regular trips to the library occurred on alternating Saturday afternoons as Mother and I traveled to downtown Evansville to exchange and select books for the next two weeks. A large stack of ten to twelve books sat between us on the car seat with their plastic sheaths protecting the book covers and the delegated Dewey Decimal numbers marking their spines. We made the thirty minute trip on those alternating Saturdays knowing some of the books were overdue, but Mother responsibly paid her penny a day fine for the mere pleasure of being able to finish a book she had started. She read every day, and most afternoons she curled up on the couch with her nose stuck in a book while we played outside. She preferred reading to the usual afternoon soap operas popular in the day, and as soon as she finished reading one book, she began another. She ceremoniously made her way through the selected stack of borrowed books every week, while I had my own stack to conquer during that two week period. My love of reading took root and I haven’t stopped since.

During one of our trips downtown Mother told me the story of not being allowed to read certain books as a child from her hometown library in Kentucky. The Grande Dame, my grandmother, was very prim and proper, so I can imagine that D. H. Lawrence’s “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” or Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World” were on the list of forbidden or scandalous books. Mother’s curiosity apparently got the better of her and she solved this dilemma with creative rebellion. She bragged to this library sidekick that she merely found a book, which was larger in size than the forbidden text, and surreptitiously kept the smaller book hidden inside its spine. She read the books of her choice without fear of being caught or exiled from her beloved library. She touted that she read every book in that small library and I believed her. I was witness to all the books she brought home from that much larger library in Evansville, so the conquering of forbidden books in Kentucky seemed quite likely to have occurred.

Mother particularly enjoyed mysteries and crime novels, so once I was stung by the desire to read as a child, I followed in her footsteps reading the Nancy Drew mysteries series. And like her, I read anything I could get my hands on. Nancy Drew was accompanied by the Hardy Boys, the Bobbsey Twins, Trixie Belden and many others. The characters described on the pages of the children’s novels became slices of adventure, mystery and friendship in my own world of make-believe and fantasy. As I searched for my own nook or cranny in which to read, I escaped the routine life of the Midwest in the fifties and traveled to adventures yet to be experienced.

The rest of the neighborhood kids played ball, built tree houses, ran through the forbidden cornfields behind our house and searched high and low for just the right branch for a sword or fishing pole. I patiently waited for construction on the tree house to end, and then retreated to the solace of the swaying trees where I separated from the rest of the kids and escaped to my beloved books.

Wrapped up in the lives of my favorite characters, I pretended to track down the thief in Carolyn Keene’s Nancy Drew series, and ended up reading and owning each of her novellas. I rode horse back with Trixie Belden through her neighborhood adventures, and I helped the Hardy boys capture the criminal. I learned about the special bond that the twins Bert and Nan, and Flossie and Freddie shared, and accompanied them on their exploits. As the years passed, I graduated to more sophisticated and classic reading while the fascination with the written word grew and the adventures it created never left me. The treasured escapades of the characters brought special moments to my childhood, and I continue to honor the value of the written word and the precision with which pen strikes paper creating a new or different reality.

Thank you Mother and Carolyn Keene. You inspired me forward to enjoy authors of all times and most genres. Sorry Stephen King-I don’t read the macabre. I read classics graced by the brilliant words of Jane Austin, Ernest Hemingway, or Edith Wharton. I read contemporary authors such as Thomas Wolfe, John Updike and Margaret Atwood who make me contemplate life differently, and make me wonder at both the genius, complexity and at times, the stupidity of humans. I enjoy the authors who provide insight into both successful and failed relationships, and I never underestimate the role that the much-needed mindless distraction and laughter in print plays in life. We need you Sophie Kinsella, Jennifer Weiner and Janet Evanovich. And where would we be today without the poignancy and humor of Nora Ephron. Her skill and talent at laying out the perfect word at the perfect time was absolute. And Harper Lee, to you, I applaud the eloquence with which you described the lives of the notable characters of the small Alabama town where prejudice and conscience collided in my favorite of books “To Kill a Mockingbird”.

Rediscover the Dewey Decimal Number System or fire up a Kindle. Listen to an audio book filling your mind with visions of action, suspense, love, and the cornucopia of human emotions. Honor ink to paper, keystroke to screen, abbreviations to text, and word to heart in the power of the written word; a story, a tale, a life, a mystery-no two versions exact. Just read.

“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”
– Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome (1911)

Rescue Me-Cats and Dogs and Other Strays

28 Sunday Apr 2013

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Yordy, George and BQ

Yordy, George and BQ


Long before rescue cats and dogs became vogue, the Strange family was doing its fair share to ensure full stomachs for any strays that happened to cross our threshold or beg for food at the front door. This included humans as well as cats and dogs. It rarely mattered how much food or money we possessed at the time, there was always room for one more-at the table, on the floor, in the bed.

We began our family menagerie with a pet parakeet of multiple shades of blues, greens and yellows. Tweety Bird, as I remember, resided in the kitchen in a plain square cage that housed a small perch and swing, a mirror, a small glass tube that offered daily hydration, a bowl for seed and an oval-shaped piece of cuttlebone that provided additional nutrition. The floor of the cage was covered in last week’s newspapers, positioning the Strange family as early adopters of recycling. Tweety tweeted on a regular basis with his simple “good morning” and other cocktail conversation.

Daddy carefully covered the cage each night to quiet Tweety’s verbalizations and uncovered it each morning with his first cup of coffee. We eventually added other pets to our family and parakeets became extinct in our home. Goldfish, painted turtles and dyed baby chicks periodically arrived, but it was the cats and dogs we repeatedly gravitated towards.

Our first dog was a beautiful, pedigreed, red cocker spaniel, named Ginger. We planned to breed her when the time came, but in the meantime, she was small enough to reside indoors with two children and two adults. Ginger traveled freely outdoors and ran through the neighborhood without restriction or complaints from others. Apparently, no leash law was in effect at the time and as long as a dog sported a collar with tags, none of the neighbors worried about the possibility of dog bites or rabies. At night, she stayed in the house, even though she had her very own doghouse in the backyard. Although the theft of a pedigreed dog was not uncommon in those days, I don’t believe the possibility of being stolen was the only reason she remained indoors.

Not long into her existence and on one of her carefree romps, a man traveling down our street, hit her as she ran in front of his car. He had the decency to stop and find her owners. Because of that kindness, Ginger survived the injury, but the accident did not leave her unscathed. Her rear back leg was shattered and the only way to ensure future mobility was to replace the bone with a metal pin. Forever after that, Ginger literally ran stiff-legged, just like Chester Good in the most popular television show of the times, Gunsmoke. This disability, while inconvenient, did not interfere with her ability to do anything, including breed, as she delivered several litters of pedigreed and non-pedigreed puppies in her lifetime. It was on those carefree romps through the neighborhood that occasionally found her “in the family way.”

Regardless of the father’s status on the pedigreed spectrum, when it was time for the puppies to arrive, we made certain she stayed indoors. We moved her into the small utility room that housed the washer and dryer, and made a bed for her out of blankets, with her favorite toys close by.

As small children, Sissy and I and waited anxiously for the puppies to arrive, peeking into the utility room to check on her throughout her labor. Not really understanding the mechanics of a pregnancy, labor or delivery, we were rewarded nonetheless, by witnessing the birth of her puppies, with accompanying “Ahs” and sometimes an “Ow!” as the slightly bloodied creatures arrived. Weighing about half a pound, the sleek and tiny puppies, with eyes closed, wriggled on, under and over each other as they navigated their way to Ginger’s teats. Sometimes we were present for the arrival of the small creatures and at other times, our parents awakened us with the news that Ginger had delivered her puppies in the night.

Copper, black and white spotted, ebony black or a blonde tan, we were always surprised and amazed by the variety of colors represented in her litters. Occasionally, a puppy would not survive, and after a period of tears, we ceremoniously placed the small creature in a shoebox and buried it carefully in the backyard, marking its grave with a cross made of two sticks, bound together by twine.

The year Ginger was scheduled to deliver near the July 4th holiday, Daddy kept a close eye on her and carefully guarded her during that entire evening. Each year the sounds and lights of the fireworks boomed across the sky above the cornfield separating our backyard from the state mental hospital, where the fireworks were launched. From previous years, Daddy knew the noise accompanying the light show frightened her, as she shivered and cowered in response to the booming blasts of the gunpowder-laden fireworks. He did not want any unforeseen accidents to occur if she went into labor, and accidentally crushed one of her newborn pups.

Years later after Ginger had died; George came into our world as our first rescue dog. Prior to that, we had rescued our fair share of stray cats, but never a dog. My friend David found George scavenging for food at a local McDonald’s and brought him to me. Another boy brought me a carp once, so I don’t know if the bearing of animal gifts was pre-adolescent foreplay or if these boys knew my family was a sucker for an animal in need. The carp didn’t live long, but George remained with us for years. Truly a mutt, he was one of the best dogs we ever rescued.

As time went by and we left home for college and our own lives, Mother and Daddy returned to the preferred Spaniel breed they loved and brought Oliver Strange home. He was a beautiful brown and white Springer Spaniel. Spoiled rotten, he had full run and reign of the house. At times, I jealously thought he received more attention than the rest of us, but after all, we were gone and he was there, filling a void for the empty nesters. Dublin and Lady followed in Oliver’s paw prints and both were as completely spoiled as his or her predecessor.

I cannot remember all of the pets over the years, or even what happened to each of them. Some were buried in our back yard, some disappeared and some visited the vet and never came home. What I do know is that love comes in many shapes and sizes, colors and temperaments. Sometimes love barks or mews and sometimes love makes no sounds. Mother and Daddy taught us that in how to care for those less fortunate than us, and how to protect and support those who cannot do so for themselves.

I look at my family now and this is what I see. My two cats, Belle and Sebastian, named after an obscure rock band, rescued at birth and deposited on my doorstep when Blakey went to New York. Then there is Gabby, a small loving dog, rescued from a shelter by Sissy’s family. MJ the black cat, rescued by my nephew in Texas, who is so glad to have a home, even though she now has to share her abode with the new puppy, Hank. Chee-Chee, a mixed breed cat rescued from an ignoble situation, malnourished and abused, who is now pampered and cherished by Blakey. Parti Strange, who was abandoned in Arizona and rescued by Yordy and her husband, to join their beloved Springers – Indiana and Maddie-who co-habitate very nicely with Bowie, the cat. The famous racing Daschunds of Indiana, Duke, Duchess and Reggie-adored by B.Q. and his wife. And Elvis has not left the family. Seems he is still alive and well with B.Q. and the daschunds, where he has accepted that it’s “A Dog’s Life”. And last, but not least, Bentley and Daphne-two Chihuahuas-living large in Indianapolis. From Tweety Bird to this-sixteen Strange pets in all!

Love abounds in our homes-then, now and hopefully forever. And, for that homeless, abused or neglected cat or dog,-I would imagine there might be room for one more-on the floor, in the bed, in a back yard, on a porch….. Remember those less fortunate and rescue please.

Medicine, Old Wives’ Tales and Special Concoctions of the Fifties

13 Sunday Jan 2013

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My great-grandfather W.A. Proctor, M.D., practiced medicine for more than twenty years in the late nineteenth century in Homer, Kentucky before settling in Auburn, Kentucky with my great-grandmother, Annie Chick and their eight children. While I never met either of them, stories of their lives were part of the oral history of my family. In the fifties, medicine was taking its rightful place in history as the Salk vaccine was introduced and children received the recommended vaccinations to prevent smallpox, polio, diphtheria and other debilitating diseases of the time. There was debate as there is now, but the realities of polio were severe and life-threatening and the eradication of the disease was a significant milestone for those of us living in the United States.

While the progression of modern medicine continued with each new discovery or drug, the reliability of homeopathic medicine solved many of the problems then, as it still does today and continues to have its remarkable place in history, alongside the advances in modern medicine.

In the 50’s there were no nurse advice lines or internet searches for the latest cure or treatment for the common cold, stomach ache, minor bumps and bruises, or the undiagnosed malady of the day. There were no urgent care centers either, so a trip to the doctor was reserved only for desperate situations, and home remedies were used for milder ailments.

When Sissy and I were sick with an upper respiratory infection, Mother generously rubbed camphor oil on a cloth, or quite possibly a rag, and safety-pinned the cloth to the inside of our pajamas against our tiny flat chests which rattled with fluid when we coughed. The coolness of the camphor against the skin and the mild anesthetic effects of its ingredients helped alleviate some of the discomfort of the illness. The continuous sound of mist escaping from the humidifier that rested on the floor, aided our breathing, as we relaxed into an easier sleep.

A camphor oil rub for a congested chest, baking soda for a bee sting and warm Jell-O® for a case of diarrhea; these were the remedies of the day. My favorite was the warm Jell-O®. Mother boiled water, poured the sugar crystals in a bowl and stirred in one cup of boiling water, followed by either a cup of cold water or a cup of ice, into the bowl. She stirred the ingredients until the crystals dissolved and cooled. Still warm, she then split the concoction in two; one serving for each of us.

Of course, that was if we were both sick at the same time. Inevitably, because we shared the same bedroom, and by virtue of our closeness in age, we often passed the virulent bugs back and forth between us. In the fifties, it was not uncommon for parents to want their children to pass communicable diseases between all of the siblings. It was much easier to deal with two kids with chicken pox at the same time than it was to have incidences of the illness spread out over days and often weeks.

Sissy always seemed to attract the disease first, which always left me with wanting to give her something. More than likely it was because she was older and went to school, and I stayed home with Mother, unexposed and uncontaminated. My eventual contracting of a disease was not an issue because once Sissy brandished the symptoms; I followed the same path with the identical rash, fever, lethargy or whatever symptom was typical for that disease. When Sissy contracted the mumps, I slept with her solely for the purpose of contracting the disease. I never came down with any symptoms, but years later when a job required proof of immunity, a blood titer revealed that yes, I had contracted the mumps at some point in my life. Once again, I was the victim of sisterly contagion.

Besides warm Jell-O®, bananas, milk toast and a broiled T-bone steak were on the menu when we  experienced an illness.  I have no idea why a broiled steak was on the menu, but from our sick beds, we smelled the mixture of odors coming from the kitchen as Mother prepared the steak and Jell-O® to settle our stomachs and to keep trips to the bathroom at a minimum.

Mother herself was rarely sick, but I remember once when she was confined to her bed and Daddy was off to work, the two of us were left to care for her. We were no more than five and seven at the time, and we certainly couldn’t re-enact the broiled steak, milk toast or warm Jell-O®, yet we repeatedly retrieved bananas from the kitchen and spent the day curled up beside her, our heads lying on her chest. Even sick, she seemed to be taking care of us, providing the protection, warmth and security that only a mother can give while passing the old wives’ tale from her generation to ours.

Since the fifties, medicine has changed greatly and many of those practices, old wives’ tales and homemade concoctions have been replaced by medications, treatments and cures. We have vaccines that protect us from many diseases, and today we do not urge the passing of one disease to another for any reason.  We have technologically advanced hospitals, urgent care centers, nurse advice lines, and even telehealth to keep us well. Most importantly, we have healthcare workers that are dedicated and committed to their professions and to the patients and families they care for when they are ill, injured, or dying.

Today’s COVID-19 brings us unprecedented times and challenges, and we need everyone’s contributions, creativity and innovation, and dedication to meet the task at hand. To that end, let’s honor and support our healthcare workers today as they continue to care for us and those we love. From the doctors and nurses, to the med techs, the therapists, the lab and radiology technicians, the person who cleans the hospital room, the person who prepares the food for the patients and visitors, and every other person who works in a hospital, let’s not take lightly the sacrifices they have always been willing to make for us. Let’s do what we can to keep them safe and healthy, so that if and when we need them, they will be there for us.

Dedicated to all of the people I have had the privilege and honor of knowing and working beside at Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta, Miami Children’s Hospital, Kids Health First, the MUSC Shawn Jenkins Children’s Hospital, and the Medical University of South Carolina. Be safe and well.

Christmas and the Gifts for Life

26 Wednesday Dec 2012

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Mother and Daddy celebrated their wedding anniversary several days before Christmas making that time of year, special in many ways-anniversary, Christmas, then New Year’s. Regardless of our financial circumstances, Daddy always gave Mother an anniversary gift. And, whatever the gift, it was always wrapped, sporting a bow.

Once the adult celebration passed, my parents lavished their total attention on us. In our small house, we had no fireplace upon which to hang stockings, but we always greeted Christmas morning with a living room overflowing with presents, meticulously wrapped and sporting holiday bows. Our parents assured us that a lack of a fireplace and chimney would not deter Santa’s visit, as he would quite simply venture through the front door, left unlocked for that special night. We anxiously went to bed, leaving a plate of cookies and milk for Santa, and restlessly wrestled with ourselves until we fell asleep. Quietly constructing bicylces and other toys and wrapping gifts late into the night, the secrets of parenting on Christmas Eve remained sacred for at least another year.

Santa brought the eight-millimeter movie camera and projector around my eighth or ninth Christmas. On Christmas Day and for years afterwards, Sissy and I hammed it up in amateurish style, kissing each other under the mistletoe, dancing to Elvis Presley and showing off our new baby brother. The sounds of his crying and the crooning of Elvis were absent from the showing afterwards, but the laughter in our eyes were the silent sounds that illustrated the happiness that flashed across the screen.

In one of those first clips, I remember how Mother stood, with one hip out to the side as her hand rested strategically on her waist. The other arm hung at her side holding a beer, which she tried to conceal from view. She posed, she grinned, and she saluted her audience. We rarely saw Mother drink anything but coffee or iced tea, so we viewed these antics on film as unfamiliar and strange, but funny at the same time.

In that particular piece of celluloid Mother, seemed tall and quite thin with long brown hair that framed her face and highlighted the attractive grin that complimented her facial features. She had an oddly shaped nose, which detracted slightly from her looks, but her remarkable smile illustrated her character and personality. Her teeth were straight across the top except for that one crooked tooth-her left lateral incisor to be exact-which rotated slightly toward the four front teeth. My grandmother and maternal aunt also touted that one crooked tooth-a family trait that passed from one generation to the next.

As I recalled Mother’s silly stance on that Christmas Day, I thought about another time when I watched the old films of my childhood and remembered a not so perfect time in our lives when Mother was very ill and I was home for a visit. With the exception of the whirring of the projector, the images appeared on the screen in silence. Two little girls stepped out of the house holding the hands of a small blond-headed boy between them. One of the girls was red-headed and the other was dark-headed. The girls were wearing matching dresses and their hair was pulled back into curled ponytails, tied with a bow. I remembered those dresses. Mother made them for us. Sissy hated the color because of her hair-redheads were not supposed to wear pink-but Mother used the fabric because she liked me in pink.

Behind the three of us, Mother stood waving and smiling with that infectious grin of hers. The four of us, then waved simultaneously as though cued by the invisible cameraman. It was Daddy, of course. And Sissy, in her usual fashion, turned her head away, put her hand up to her face, and ran back into the house. Laughing to myself, I remembered how she always did that when she did not want her picture taken. I looked back at my own image, standing there smiling and waving to my father.

As I stared at the film, I saw in my own smile, a very familiar face. The two expressions were almost identical even though twenty-five years separated them in age. The teeth were straight except for that crooked left lateral incisor, which rotated slightly toward the center. The infectious grins stared back at me and I realized the greatest gift I received from my mother. It was not wrapped and it did not have a bow, but its value has been remarkable. I share this gift as often as I can-with my family, with my friends or with a stranger in need, giving back to others the gift Mother graciously gave to me.

Thank you for my smile, Mother. Thank you for my beautiful smile.

Thanksgiving Day and Turkey Necks

22 Thursday Nov 2012

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As children, Thanksgiving Day began very early for us as we either traveled to Kentucky to visit family, or we celebrated at home. At home, turkey was served around two o’clock in the afternoon, which meant the turkey went into the oven very early in the day. Our turkey was always the iconic Butterball brand from Swift and Company, where Daddy worked. The company awarded their employees a turkey or ham on holidays, so the family was guaranteed a big, fat juicy turkey on this day. Daddy took charge of preparing and roasting the turkey, and making the dressing and giblet gravy. Those dishes were his specialties, and he started around 6 AM to begin his preparations for carefully roasting and basting the turkey throughout the day. The aromas of boiling giblets and melting butter woke us and we joined in the preparations, mixed in with frequent interruptions to watch the floats, the marching bands and the celebrities in the Thanksgiving Day Parade on television.

Mother executed the process of baking the pies, the sweet potatoes and the green beans. As very young children, we usually enjoyed the jellied cranberry sauce that came in a can, but as her culinary tastes changed, she experimented with homemade cranberry relish, which included chopped nuts and oranges, and “a little bit of this and that.”

If we did not stay in Indiana for Thanksgiving, we traveled to Kentucky to visit our aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. Trying to visit both sets of grandparents in one day created a bit of a logistic nightmare for us. Nevertheless, we successfully ended up visiting everyone in one day.  Daddy carefully planned the visits, because we knew we would eat a Thanksgiving meal twice that day; lunch at Mamaw’s, and then later in the evening, we ate dinner at Mama and Poopdeck’s, where we spent the night. The next year, we switched the order of the visits. Two Thanksgiving meals in one day made it overall, quite the caloric laden holiday.

Mother and Daddy instructed us “not to tell” either set of grandparents, that we had already eaten Thanksgiving dinner. I am not sure why we couldn’t just say we had already eaten, but it was extremely important to our parents to ensure that each of their parents, in turn, assumed they were the primary providers of the turkey and its trimmings.

Both of my grandmothers were fantastic cooks; they treated us to real butter and whipped cream, turkey dressing thick with the juices of the organ meats, and sumptuous pumpkin and pecan pies. We didn’t worry about cholesterol and calories in the fifties and the journey through the smorgasboard of holiday foods and the ritual of the family gathering was certainly worth a few pounds more.

When we went to Mama and Poopdeck’s for Thanksgiving, there were always many extra people there. Cousins, great aunts and uncles, neighbors and friends. The adults sat in the dining room and the kids ate at a smaller table in the kitchen. I remember one year in particular when Mother’s sister, Kay, and her family celebrated Thanksgiving with us in Springfield. There were nine kids that year, as the youngest on both sides and the family had not been born yet-no Yordy or John.

My cousin, Nancy Jean and I were in the kitchen sitting on stools watching Mama prepare the organs and extraneous body parts for the giblet gravy-a nasty task. She placed the liver, the heart, the gizzard, the giblets and the neck in a pot of water, salted and peppered the concoction and boiled the parts until they were thoroughly cooked and tender. We smelled the aroma of the steam as it wafted throughout the kitchen and watched her work her magic with the preparation of the food. No one in my family ate the turkey neck. It was the one body part that was discarded or reserved for the current dog of the house. Apparently, when there are six kids in a family, no food is wasted or thrown away so when my cousin, Nancy Jean proudly announced she was going to eat the turkey neck, I stared at her in surprise and retorted “No one eats a turkey neck-that’s for the dog.”

Nancy Jean was older, tall, and skinny, and always portrayed this air of confidence and independence that I admired. I tried to convince her of the indelicacies of eating a turkey neck, but regardless of my advice, when Mama retrieved the neck from the pot,   she eagerly picked up the neck and devoured the tender meat on the bone. All I saw was dark, stringy turkey meat that did not look the least bit appetizing. Nancy Jean threw down the gauntlet and proudly finished off the neck, challenging anyone to try to stop her. I was not going to stop her-she was older and taller than me.

The irony is that she has been a vegetarian for decades and would now never consider eating any part of a turkey, let alone a neck. I suspect that the last turkey neck she ate was in Mama’s kitchen in Springfield, Kentucky in the fifties. The memory of that particular Thanksgiving remains with me and reminds me that this holiday is about family, sharing our blessings in life and celebrating the people we love.

Nancy Jean was named after Mother, who died on Thanksgiving =Day in 1990. John F. Kennedy died on this same date in 1963. Mother loved John F. Kennedy, and I like to imagine that he came down to greet her and guide her through her next journey. On this special day, I hope Nancy Jean enjoys this Thanksgiving day with her family and friends and thinks about her Aunt Jean.   

As for me, I am off to Sissy’s for the day. Her husband is in charge of the turkey, and Sissy and I have the rest of the meal covered.  I am thankful that I only have to eat one Thanksgiving meal, but the cranberry relish will be less than perfect. Mother never wrote down her recipe, and no one has successfully duplicated the exact taste or texture.  I am certain it was “a little bit of this and that” with, as always, she threw in that special Strange touch. Happy Thanksgiving to all!

 In loving memory of our mother

Jean Procter Quirey Strange

4-29-25 to 11-22-90

Nancy Jean-Kentucky Cousin, Namesake and Vegetarian

The Grande Dame-My Other Grandmother

21 Wednesday Nov 2012

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Mama

The dictionary defines a grande dame as a “highly respected elderly or middle-aged woman,” which absolutely describes my other grandmother, Georgia, or as we called her, Mama (with the “a” pronounced as in the word “hat”). Of course, she would deny the elderly part of the description and preferred being considered middle-aged. She always lied about her age anyway, and we never knew how old she really was until she died.  Elderly or middle-aged-it did not matter to us.

She was definitely elegant in that southern way of hers, and beautiful. She was royalty in her own right-if not in her own imagination. She was always dressed exquisitely and with perfectly applied make-up in place. She had beautifully manicured nails on feminine dainty hands and she moved them gracefully as she spoke in a slow, more formal manner. Her silvery tinted hair was always impeccably coiffed and contributed to her stylishness. She loved the color purple and had many outfits in one shade or another of the color. Her hair actually had a tint of purple to it, so the combination of colors from head to toe, suited her perfectly. Jewelry adorned her ear lobes, neck, wrists and fingers. She was rarely without various pieces of jewelry at any given time. She wore a silver bracelet that had a charm for each of her eleven grandchildren, with our names and birth dates inscribed on the charms. Perhaps the inscriptions helped remind her of her grandchildren’s  birthdays, but then again, probably not. She wasn’t exactly Johnny on the Spot when it came to remembering our birthdays, but she had other great attributes.

Besides loving to fish, play bridge, cook and engage in typical grandmotherly activities, Mama loved to smoke and drink. And regardless of its impact on her health, she loved her Kentucky bourbon and had a fondness for vodkas, particularly in a Blood Mary. At one family gathering, I remember her asking me, “Do you think I could have one more of those Bloody Marys?” I readily obliged but reduced the amount of alcohol in that second drink, which was the prudent and responsible action. I was not going to be responsible for a broken hip.

She also loved to go to the horse track, which is probably where we inherited our love for the ponies. The track smelled of horses and the crowd of people fighting to buy that one lucky ticket; in that arena, she was in her element. She could smoke and drink to her heart’s content, and bet on horse after horse in one afternoon. Like Mother, Mama always won a race or two, or three or four, but the trick was to get her to quit betting and go home with her winnings. She chose not to listen to reason and usually stayed to place that next bet, on that next long shot. She just had too much fun at the track, and more often than not, she lost everything she had won and went home empty-handed. Happy, but empty-handed.

As small children, when we visited her in Kentucky for a weekend or holiday, Sissy and I always knew we would have to bathe when we arrived and put on the dresses Mama had bought for us.  This made Mother so mad and she complained about this the entire trip to Kentucky. Mama wanted us to look pretty as she paraded us around the neighborhood visiting friends, and I guess that meant wearing a dress. Apparently, slacks or shorts were unacceptable for such a visit and regardless of what we wore-when we arrived, we would have to change our clothes.

I loved soaking in her bathtub, which was an old-fashioned claw foot tub with a rubber stopper on a chain. For me, bathing in that tub was elegance personified. I also loved getting dressed up and visiting the neighbors who would greet us from their chairs or rockers on the wrap around porches of the day.  The neighbors always knew we were coming so Mama must have prepared them ahead of time, ensuring their rapt attention during our visits. Remember, I am the Leo, the plain brown-haired daughter, so I loved visiting and showing off my new dress. Mother named Sissy after Mama, so I know it was also a treat for my grandmother to introduce her namesake to everyone.

As we grew older and the other two babies arrived, the dress code lessened and we were not required to parade about the neighborhood as much. Mama and Mother were always fussing about something or another, whether it was making us wear dresses or some other issue that caused friction between them. That age-old dynamic between mothers and their daughters was to be expected.  At the end of the day though, I would not be who I am today without my Mother, who would not be who she was without the Grande Dame, my Mama-purple hair and all.

Time to get dressed. I’m having lunch with a friend. A hot bath, a new dress and visiting with a friend. I think I will order a Bloody Mary, too.

Kentucky Cousins

06 Tuesday Nov 2012

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The word Kentucky conjures up words like blue grass, bourbon, the Kentucky Derby, basketball, fried chicken and biscuits and gravy. For me, the word Kentucky is deliciously peppered with childhood memories of visiting my Kentucky cousins. There were sixteen of them and they lived just across the Ohio River in Elizabethtown and Louisville, Kentucky. We visited them once or twice a year and it was often difficult to see them all in any one visit, but it was always a memorable adventure.

Seven of my cousins were on Mother’s side of the family, and all of them were my Aunt Kay and Uncle Bill’s children. Daddy had three sisters and a brother and between all of his siblings, there were nine children. Almost Even-Steven on both sides.

We usually traveled to Elizabethtown because that is where most of them lived. On holidays the Louisville cousins, who were on Daddy’s side of the family, traveled our way to join in the event so we were always surrounded by many aunts, uncles and cousins during our visits.

As a family, our vacations generally revolved around weekend or holiday trips to Kentucky. We piled into the car with our suitcases packed in the trunk and began our two hour journey across the winding, two lane roads between Indiana and Kentucky.  As a small child, I hated driving to Kentucky because I would get motion sickness every time we traveled. I sat in the back seat with my siblings and tried every position possible to keep from getting sick. I traveled with my pillow and tried to sleep, but with two or three siblings fighting for the limited geography, it was impossible to get much rest. We weren’t constrained by seat belts or car seats in those days and often I nestled into the space on one side of the middle hump on the floor, and tried to sleep in that limited compartment.

When not sleeping, we played “I Spy” and counted cows on each side of the road. When we passed a cemetery on our side of the road, we lost our cows. When we saw a Brahma bull, we earned twenty-five points. The game lasted until we became bored or when we left the rural countryside of Kentucky and traveled through smaller towns with no cows.

When we arrived at our destination, I happily emerged from the confinements of the car, waiting for my stomach to settle back to normal knowing that delicious food was on the agenda.

Because we had to share our visit with everyone, we often spent much of our time in Kentucky going back and forth between multiple houses. The greatest benefit in the constant movement between the various houses was the food-we never went hungry on those visits. Everyone fixed food for us and we were not allowed to refuse the generosity of our aunts and grandmothers who had spent much time preparing a feast.

While my siblings and I never felt pulled in multiple directions, I am certain there was fierce competition for our time.  My parents never wanted to show favoritism toward one family over another, so inevitably we visited with everyone, even if only for a brief time. While we split our time between the two sides of the family, I  recognized that Mother liked to be at her sister’s house and Daddy liked to be at his sisters’  or his mother’s house. As for the kids, we didn’t really care. Each family welcomed us graciously and made us feel at home and special. We feasted on Aunt Dorothy’s German chocolate cake and played cards at Aunt Kay’s. We watched Uncle Delma, Uncle Charles and Uncle Russell bring in their catch from their squirrel hunting or fishing adventures. We ran around the countryside-playing hide and seek with Janet, Ronnie and Patty. Our parents drank iced tea and visited with their siblings and their spouses.

At Mamaw’s we ate green beans and sweet corn. Biscuits and plum preserves. Sweet pickles and fresh tomatoes. And, when we couldn’t possibly eat one more bite of food,  we traveled another hour and a half to Springfield to visit Mother’s parents, Mama and Poopdeck, where we began the feasting all over again.

Our cousins were older, the same age and younger than us. There were more girls than boys, thank goodness. They visited us in Indiana when they could, and we returned the hospitality the best we could. They grew up just like we did and today they live all across the United States and in Europe. They have spouses, children and families of their own and they have their memories as well. Some of them are fans of the Kentucky Wildcats and others are fans of the Louisville Cardinals. They love their basketball and they love their horseracing. Many of them religiously celebrate the Kentucky Derby, placing their bets and toasting the day with a tumbler of Kentucky bourbon or a mint julep.

Today, we don’t see each other often and when we do, it is more often at a funeral than a celebratory event, but we still hug and kiss and laugh with each other and “Remember when…..”  Our lives are separate, yet joined by the special ties of family and history.  They are forever woven into my past; I hope they will continue to be part of my future.  To my Kentucky cousins-a toast and a smile to all the delicious memories of our family!

In memory of my beloved Bobby

July 18, 1950-November 6, 1968

Then There Were Four….

23 Tuesday Oct 2012

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October rolled around with the anticipation of another addition to the Strange family. The 1961 World Series ended with the New York Yankees winning in five games and Halloween was around the corner.

Earlier in the year-on Easter Sunday in fact-Mother and Daddy told us the news.  They were both thirty-seven years old and even though that is not considered “old” in today’s world for having a baby, thirty-seven was considered to be outside of the preferred age for  women to bear children back then. Besides, our family was already complete. We had two girls and one boy and another baby was not on the agenda.

Nevertheless, at eleven and twelve, Sissy and I were thrilled with the thought of another baby in our house-provided it was a girl. BQ was already four and the novelty of having a brother, in all of his mischief-was over.

In our new Easter garb-which I clearly remember as a beautiful yellow and white dress with embroidered yellow flowers on the white bodice-we walked up and down the street to our best friends’ houses to broadcast our news. Little did we know nor understand at the time, the fragility of life and our roles in caring the life that would be coming home in a few months.

This time, it was a girl as she finally arrived on October 23. I waited eagerly for her to come home from the hospital, being so excited about the chance to be finally be a big sister. The excitement didn’t last long as our parents told us  there was a problem. She apparently was born with a herniated “something or another” and she needed an operation. An operation on a baby! We had never heard of such a thing as that. We were now scared and confused as trepidation slowly made its way into our home.

For whatever reason, the operation could not take place for six weeks and during that period; we could not let our baby cry. If she cried too much, the herniated “something or another” could strangulate and she could die. With this additional information, we defined our responsibility quickly-our baby was not going to die. We would not let that happen.

For the next six weeks in the Strange household, we carefully, lovingly and with a significant grasp of the gravity of the situation, set about to care for our baby. We passed her back and forth between usanytime she whimpered or even began to cry. Mother to Daddy. Daddy to Sissy. Sissy to me. And back again to Mother. I am not sure what Mother did during the day when we were in school and Daddy was at work, but we managed to keep her quiet and satisfied for that very long six weeks in the autumn of sixty-one.

The day of surgery finally arrived in early December. We understood the seriousness of it all and only wished for our baby to come home safe and sound. The surgery was a success and when she arrived home a week later, the only indication that anything had ever been wrong with her was merely a three-inch incision on her lower abdomen. We saw the stitches tightly sewn, holding the two sides of the surgeon’s precision cut together. Three inches, while not much bigger than a pill bottle, appeared enormous on her small body, while the overwhelming weight of fear disappeared from from our small shoulders.

The incision healed and we now heard the healthy cries of our new baby throughout our home.

Years later, we teased Mother and Daddy about spoiling her so badly. She would get away with things that the three of us would never have gotten away with, and in spite of their protestations to those facts, we knew that she truly was the baby of the family and the spoiling began the first day she came home from the hospital.

Today, technology and medical advances have improved the potential outcomes for many new babies who must undergo surgery for a variety of reasons-a liver transplant, a cardiac defect or a herniated “something or another”. This is now and that was then. Then, when there were now four.

Happy Birthday Yordy! No crying allowed-even if it is your fifty-first birthday. I love you!

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Get Us to the Church on Time!

07 Sunday Oct 2012

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I am rarely late. Most people I know will attest to that. In fact, most of the time, I am early for whatever event, meeting, appointment or movie I plan to attend. For whatever inner drive causes me to be punctual, I like to think the habit is a by-product of my religious upbringing or my mother. She was late to everything.

We attended a small United Church of Christ on Green River Road in Evansville and most of the people who attended the church lived close by in the neighborhoods bordering the church. We lived miles away or so it seemed that far to me as a child. We went to Sunday school, Bible school, Wednesday night church potluck dinners and a variety of other church activities. Church was part of the social fabric of our lives and upbringing. And on Sunday morning, we were always late to church.

The challenge of getting four children ready and out the door for anything can’t be much different from today.”Where are my shoes?” Don’t forget your money!  Let’s go, let’s go, we’re going to be late,” were common themes in our house on those chaotic, rushed Sunday mornings. And no matter how hard Mother and Daddy tried, we always ceremoniously walked into church while the choir was singing the introductory hymn. My parents led the way, and the four of us trailed behind, with my sister and me hanging onto the smaller hands of the youngest two. We walked straight to the back of the church where seats were still available in the crying room, where young mothers with their babies and younger children watched the church proceedings through a large glass window separating them and the accompanying noise of unhappy babies and toddlers from the rest of the congregation.

In the crying room, there were no nicely polished wooden pews. We sat on folding metal chairs and listened to the scratchy voices of the minister, the choir and the deacons through a speaker positioned just above the glass window. The mix of ambient noise between the two spaces included the cries and whimpers of babies and children from inside the room, and the snoring old men out in the treasured sanctuary.

The crying room wasn’t much fun.  There were no pencils or cards for drawing, and there was no opportunity to slide along the slick pews or to lie down if enough room was available. Drawing, sliding and napping were favorite distractions during the hour-long monologue from the pulpit, for which we had little to no understanding. And the singing, in that small room with babies crying and mothers shushing-unbearable. Nevertheless, because we were always late, that’s where we spent many Sunday mornings.

Nevertheless, we still were to participate in the passing of the collection plate-the church certainly wasn’t going to ignore the potential contributions in that room-and communion. Sinners all of us I am certain!

Men in dark suits entered the room for just those two occasions. First they brought the velvet lined silver bowls to collect the money and envelopes, and next they arrived with the round wooden trays which had small openings to carry the small glass vials filled with unsweetened grape juice. Lastly, they brought another silver tray filled with the communion companion, the white wafer that was supposed to taste represent bread but instead tasted like paper.

As we marched into the back of the church on those Sunday mornings, I was always embarrassed by our tardiness. I sensed that the whole of the congregation stared at us and talked about how the Stranges were always late to church. Little did I know or understand at the time that more than likely, every family, young and old, looked at my parents and remarked on the fact that they faithfully and successfully managed to get four children to church, regardless of the time. The fact that my parents wanted us to learn the value of faith, kindness and generosity was less about where we sat, and more about what we learned when we were there. I guess that made up for our tardiness.

I don’t attend church on a regular basis but am moved on occasion, for one reason or another, to attend a service. It can be at a Methodist church or a Catholic church-I am not particular about the denomination. I am more interested in the experience and often merely looking for the solace and comfort that being in a church can bring. When I do go, I am always on time, but I head towards the back of the church to sit in one of the last rows.  I like it back there. It feels right to be there sitting quietly in a nicely polished wooden pew with a new mother and her sleeping baby.

Lies and Lessons

25 Tuesday Sep 2012

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Mother didn’t know how to swim. When we went swimming on family night at the Eastside Park swimming pool, she never ventured past the three-foot depth marker, preferring to watch us swim into the deeper water holding onto Daddy’s neck and shoulders, lying against his back. The public pool offered free-swimming lessons beginning in June and Mother wanted to take advantage of the offering. She understood the importance of being able to swim, and she didn’t hesitate to do anything that ensured our safety in and out of a body of water. There was one small problem-a child had to be five years old to take swimming lessons and I am a Leo. My birthday is August 10 and I was only four at the beginning of the summer of 1955. My sister, Georgia, was already six and Mother didn’t want her to miss another summer without swimming lessons.

Today of course, we throw babies in the pool very early, hoping to instill a familiarity with water at an early age; no age requirements in place. Nevertheless, in the fifties, rules were rules and according to the rules, if a child wasn’t five by June, that child couldn’t participate in the free lessons at the public pool.

Mother was apparently determined and I imagine carefully laid out her plan. No birth certificate was required; a verbal statement was sufficient proof of age. Besides, who lies about this sort of thing? Surely not a mother.

The out building stood at the top of the concrete steps marking the entrance into the pool. My sister and I stood on those steps wearing our bathing suits and flip-flops, and holding our towels and bathing caps. We stood anxiously with the rest of the crowd waiting for the dark green shuttered doors to open for business. Mother stood between us holding our hands. As the doors opened, Mother leaned down and whispered in my ear, “When they ask you how old you are, you say five. Your birthday is in April and you are five. Remember, you are five. And, when I tell them how old you are, don’t say anything when I say you are five.”

We patiently waited in line for our turn. As the crowd moved forward, the swimming instructors greeted us as we went entered the building and lined up to register for our free lessons. There were no computer databases to check, no forms to fill out, just a mother’s word; the swearing-in of her births. I vaguely remember all the details of the event, but I clearly remember that when I was asked, “How old are you?” I looked up and said, “I’m five.” I am certain Mother’s heart was racing and a secret smile crossed her face. She directed us forward and left us at that point as we walked toward the locker room to shower before getting into the pool. We showered, walked outside and separated, as we split up into the designated age groups-one for the five years olds and the other for those older.

Mother reappeared outside the chain link fence and pressed her face closely up against the metal fence watching us intently for the next hour until the end of the lesson. I remember the crisscrossed lines that marked her forehead as she proudly and anxiously watched her precious cargo in the water.

This was the only time in my life that Mother asked me to lie. In fact, at all other times, she forbade it. She surely had her reasons that day and whether it was out of necessity or just a need to make her children safe, for my part, I will never know.

I am not a great swimmer, but I love to swim. I love the coolness of the water on my heated body and I love to glide through the water pushing the water away from me as I head toward the end of the pool. My own children began swimming as infants. My daughter was on a summer swimming league for 14 years from the age of four.  I spent many Thursday nights in the summer encouraging her to swim her best and beat her competition in races across a 50-meter pool. I loved to watch her glide effortlessly across the water. She earned a drawer full of ribbons and a box full of trophies to prove that she swam, and swam well. I know that Mother would have liked to watch her swim and would have been very proud of her aquatic feats.

Those green shuttered doors at the Eastside public pool opened for two little girls and a young mother over fifty years ago.  While the three of them waited patiently for the doors to open, I can only imagine that my mother hoped she wasn’t making a mistake in asking her child to lie. Now as I think about that transgression, I can safely say that the little white lie was well worth the risk. I never regretted my part in the deception, and I know that as I propel myself through water, both safely and confidently, had it been me, I would have done the same.