HAPPIER TRAILS….

Internet emails continue to circulate long after they first debut; so, I was recently reminded of a vacation highlight that we had visited during 1980; this was on the same trip in which my parents and my daughter would share their first Disneyland experience together.

Victorville was one of our stops.  We purposely deviated from the main highways toward Apple Valley to see the recently relocated Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Museum. From the moment we entered, we were in a place that was very un-museum like in its displays and its life size exhibits.  I have never again experienced the same feeling in any other historic collection.

I’ll never forget watching my mother “take in” a glass memorial case at the beginning of the self tour.  For some reason, I only remember two of the three children honored in that case: the military-clad elder son that the Rogers had lost and one other (also adopted) little Korean daughter who had died in a church-sponsored bus trip crash.  The third child was their little daughter with Down’s syndrome.  A sign of the times, medical technology was limited and she had lived only until age two.

As mothers, there was nothing more heartbreaking in our minds than the death of a child.  Mom and I let the men walk on ahead to keep My Only occupied; but we both knew what the other was thinking.  It had been a year of medical challenges for Only Bro, so we’d planned this vacation to temporarily remove our folks apart from the day-to-day concerns that were quickly wearing them down.

We had no idea what was in store that coming holiday season; for now, it was enough that we could step away from a glass encased memorial and move on to the next chapter.

With each turn, there were both recognizable artifacts and the family’s real lifestyle possessions, replicated in a respectful and welcoming manner.  We were not intruders; rather, we were guests invited in to observe and linger where we wished for as long as we cared to, in what I can only describe as the closest thing to walking inside the pages of a 3D family photo album that I’d ever experienced.

Signs helped narrate their home style.  George Montgomery had purposely designed the lovely wooden dining set with a spinning center lazy susan to accommodate a family with nine children. I was old enough to have remembered George Montgomery in his own movies; that he was a master wood crafter was not well known beyond the immediate movie industry.  So, the table setting was there, surrounded with the quintessential dining room wallpaper and décor one would have expected to find in an American family’s 50’s home. Roy and Dale were no different than their fans, it seemed.

I’ve never been good with fur; alive or dead.  So, to see Trigger still in the flesh and the family pet Bullet sitting there to greet us was a bit alarming for me!  I tried hard to hide my discomfort; but as children can be extremely perceptive, my daughter soon picked up that Mommy wasn’t really smiling very much as we discussed the two animals.  I’d never make a taxidermist, nor would I ever want to live in any room with glass eyes staring at me!

Thankfully, we passed the fury critters and came upon an old friend. This next object I gratefully admired; it was the very inanimate but precocious Nellie Belle.  Now, this was a hoot!  I could just picture ‘ole Gabby having left the parked vehicle right there!  The Sons of the Pioneers history wasn’t too far from this main arena; also adjacent were some of the lovely costumes that both Dale Evans and Roy had worn.  We adults even recognized the movie titles that they came from; only now we saw their actual lovely detailing in living color.  Once again, we were reminded of what it felt like to visit old family friends and gleefully await for the host and hostess to join us.

The day we visited, the greeters shared that Roy still came down to the museum to chat with his fans. This was not one of those days, but we were okay with that and thanked the greeters for their warm hospitality. The entire ambience of the museum was engaging enough for us, as the inside décor reflected honor and good taste; both personal and movie collectables had been preserved for the public to enjoy.   And enjoy them thoroughly we did.

Sadly, the two year old email that colored my memory of the Victorville attraction was the Christies Auction House summation of the demise of the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Museum in Branson.  Per Roy’s wishes, his children had promised that the exhibits would be sold off and the museum closed once the attraction could no longer pay its own upkeep.  Seems that not enough lil’ pardners even knew who Roy and Dale were;  not even in a tourist town like Branson, a place known for its traditions and reverence for all things Americana.

While few of us understand our personal stewardships will one day end, Roy had realistically foreseen that his earthly fame would eventually be replaced.  Like any good steward, he had prepared his children, lovingly giving them permission to make the difficult decisions when the times changed.

How fortunate we were to have shared some of the happier trails of yesteryear…

Valentine Mirth

For innocents awake to Friendship’s arms

Hearts are not just for February days

They are a bit of make-believe

To soothe winter’s uncaring ways

 

A bit of mulch, clay pots, will toy

Violets and lavender bouquets scent

To quiet inlets of a gardener’s soul

And ease a snowy discontent

 

Some wayward bulbs may yet instead

Break forth through frozen ground

Bare branches stretching out their souls

Refuse to hide! Small buds abound

 

The spring will once again infuse

The garden’s air with sentiment

So hearts ‘mid greens again amuse

Worn, loving hands only slightly bent

Seeing Red

Knowing Mom’s penchant for little things that were sentimental and greeting cards for all occasions, I decided that particular year I would send her a larger than life Valentine; actually, a door hanger for the folks’ front door.

I was taking a craft class.  This was going to be my big treat to myself at this time.  Though I didn’t care too much for sewing, I figured I could still pick up some basics.  I had always loved fabrics and envied the women who could spend hours at the sewing machine, fashioning something pretty for the home.  My perfectionist tendency had taken any possible enjoyment away years ago, so I rarely sat down at my Singer, knowing full well that I didn’t have the “laissez faire” attitude to just sew and not want to rip out each imperfect seam.

I purchased a yard of two Valentine shapes meant to be used for one heart-shaped pillow.  The design was similar to Pennsylvania Dutch, with red/pink tulips emblazoned on the heart.  Being the close-to-the-ribs frog I could be, I’d stretch the two pillow fronts into two heart hangings by using cardboard backing, some stuffing, lace trim and a stapler. AHA!  Cheaper by the pair; and within my household budget! So far, so good…

I worked on the Valentine Door hanger and, surprisingly, even the teacher thought it was rather clever!  I had completely circumvented the requisite sewing by using glue and staples; but even she had to admit the effect was overall holiday festive and perfectly suitable for a front porch door hanger.  I managed to finish the first one in time to mail down the completed heart for Mom’s enjoyment well before Valentine’s Day!

I could hardly wait until I would get Mom’s call.  In the meantime, I worked on my own, completing the lace trimming and hanging it up on our front door.  Success!   I could see it fairly clearly from across the street.  Mom is going to love this, I thought!  Imagine our both having matching Valentines on our front doors, emitting the welcoming love and hospitality that was so a part of our nature!  How neat was that!  Like my mother, I could get excited over little things.

Mine had been hanging up and in clear view of the neighbors who drove up our cul-de-sac for a few days before I received Mom’s thank you phone call.  Funny, but she was laughing as she tried to explain what had occurred the first day she hung it on the age-old nail above the glass window of the old door on Rubberneck.

What is so funny???

Mom tried to be subtle, but there was a slight problem.

Didn’t the heart look cute?  Had it arrived safely?  Was it OK?

Mom then contained her laughter and explained:  Daddy had driven up the driveway, walked up the steps, and seeing the oversize Heart in all its pink and red glory, had immediately determined that it looked like a target and would attract too much attention to our front porch, so he immediately insisted that she remove it!

Looked like a WHAT?

Apparently, Daddy didn’t want our home to attract any type of attention! The sixties may have been over with, but the seventies were just as screwy in his mind; and this was the Bay Area, not the North Valley.

The Valentine message that the hanging was to impart for the upcoming holiday was completely lost on my father.  Like this was a big surprise; I had watched this man over the years, one of many who waited until the last minute to buy “the wife” a Valentine.  He was always shopping late, when the selection was picked over and the dregs standing in the allotted card section were all that was left.  He was really very lucky Mom hadn’t hit him in the head with her large cast iron fry pan the year he came home with a Mahogany Valentine to My Wife that was meant for women with more melatonin…

Like I said, Daddy wasn’t exactly tuned in to the Hallmark thing.  But I was irate!  Certainly, the times were very different from the original Rubberneck years.  But a homemade Valentine as a target?  Yes, I’d been away from the Bay area for a few years, but give me a break!!!  Just who was Daddy listening to these days besides a few talk radio hosts and the local boulevard merchants?

Mom and I could not stop laughing at this current impasse.  No matter how we tried to see Daddy’s concern for the social behavioral changes that were occurring in the old neighborhood, neither of us could meet him halfway! Even with the most creative, out of the box thinking, I could not reeducate myself that my hand-made Valentine would be subjecting the family home to a dangerous encounter from a sniper or mugger or whomever Daddy feared might impede the relative safety of the old guard still living on the block.

How he had made the jump from the occasional stolen hubcaps or robbery of the corner liquor store to a current rash of cruising criminals looking for marked front doors with Valentine Hearts in the porch entry was beyond my comprehension!

I went down to visit over the years and, when the occasion was timely, I’d dig out the heart-shaped door décor from the bedroom closet, and then personally hang it on the front door.

Daddy didn’t like it, but he was outnumbered by the women of the house – even those of us who lived one hundred eighty miles away were now “three times seven”; we knew now to exercise our vote when necessary…

Growing Wiser

By January 6th, our tree was hanging on for dear life.  We never put it in a bucket of water. It stood on its own wooden stand on top of the marble and cherry Victorian table.  The silver tips were very brittle and drooping long before the Feast of the Epiphany arrived.

Time to put away the gifts that were still displayed under the table’s cabriole legs.  Normally, anything red or pink was mine.  I had the dark hair and brown eyes.  Brat had blue eyes, so everything blue was hers.  Apparently, this formula had been set into practice years before; I never believed there was any breaking it ever until the year our neighbor bought us matching yellow sweaters. WOW! What a treat not to open a package and see red.  Imagine: Yellow! At Christmas time! Who’d have thought it?

I was absolutely delighted! Wearing the same sweater as Brat was bearable, as we had worn matching outfits before.  In a past Christmas photo, we girls were dressed in a matching plaid and pleated skirt and blouse sets; we posed in front of the table legs with our two giant dolls from family friends who had decided to spoil us! The dolls were really big, almost as tall as we!  Obviously, we were very impressed.

Unfortunately, we were not quite as enamored of the blackboards that Mommy and Daddy had given us.  They sat untouched for the first few weeks; the only time we’d touched them was to move them with the rest of the new stuff into our bedroom.  A couple of weeks after that, Mommy observed that we were not paying any attention to the boards at all.  They leaned against the wall, their slates still perfectly clean.

Mommy announced in her very parental voice that if we were not going to play with them then she might as well give them away to little children who had nothing to play with and would appreciate having a new toy for Christmas.

((((BOING))))

The message comprehended, we immediately set about, drawing and writing and coloring in our designs on the two boards.  We didn’t even have colored chalk, but we learned to shade and texture the farm animals, dinosaurs, and other things we drew.  Over the year, we entertained ourselves quite a bit at the blackboards, slowly realizing that black boards weren’t too bad a plaything after all; they did indeed offer lots of fun!

Nothing like a good parental threat to encourage that creative urge…

We Had a Thing for Guy

The folks prided themselves on knowing what good music was; they each had strong musical ability. My dad had sung in a barbershop quartet, competed, and won a chance to sing professionally.  He’d have traveled the country via the Orpheum Circuit – had one of their guys not turned chicken, gone into hiding, then appear only after the contract opportunity had expired.  Mom used to say that the guys had a beautiful blend; and how sad it was that no recordings existed of their performances.

Consequently, music in our home was defined as the good kind, which meant that every Saturday we watched Lawrence Welk and every year without fail, we tuned in to the one and only Mr. New Year himself, Guy Lombardo, televising live from New York, with His Royal Canadians, leading the crowd in celebration on New Year’s Eve.

Before Dick Clark, Guy Lombardo was the musical host that America liked to watch.  His manner was friendly, tempered and refined; old tapes from his earlier celebrations exist on the net.  I watched and remembered just how warm and welcome he made you feel…almost as though he was actually inviting us to sing along with him!  He did invite the viewers at home repeatedly, to sing and enjoy the popular band tunes.  Some of the ones that I remember were Red Sails in the Sunset, Always, Sioux City Sue, and Harbor Lights, one of Mom’s very favorites.  Mom’s voice was soft but her memory was like a trap.  The words flowed along with the memories.  Brat and I sang along, since we knew most of the songs, having been brought up on the top ten tunes from 1900 on!!!  Obviously, I Want to Hold Your Hand was not among the approved collection.

Brat and I would watch the couples, dressed in their finest party attire, ballroom dancing at the Waldorf-Astoria, singing along to the music and wearing funny hats.  My entire concept of New York was of this celebratory spirit that permeated our West Coast home each year on this Eve.   I really loved my window into the East Coast’s elite; the gaiety of what I thought was exclusively from high society proved not to be totally accurate.  A good many attendees were middle class, just living and loving and welcoming another year of only the best that American Life promised!

Of course, Daddy was already asleep, so we girls stayed up with Mom every year to welcome in the New Year.  We struggled to stay awake because we knew that Mom would bring out the fancy little aperitif glasses and let us have a taste of sherry once midnight arrived.  Always, about five minutes before, she’d awaken Daddy so he could join us in the living room, click our little aperitifs, and wish each other a Happy New Year with a kiss on the cheek.  Of course, Mom had to tell Daddy just how beautiful the music had been that evening, relating all the tunes we’d heard.  Daddy managed to stay up long enough to appease Mom, then walk off promptly back to bed.

It took us longer to sip our little bit of sherry; we were not really into the taste of liquor at so young an age; it was just part of the family ritual.   Staying up was harder than we wanted to admit, and ultimately, we’d fold up a few minutes right after Daddy.

But not before we’d heard the last refrain of Auld Lang Syne and Guy’s thanking us for joining him once again to welcome in another year…

It was our pleasure.

Seeing Through the Frost

So, I walk within my garden; it is cold; and I am chilled!

I’ve still earth, but seek a memory of the birds’ last summer trill.

I’ve an old tree standing there.  Will I once more see it leaf?

The surrounding ground seems spent; I am filled with winter’s grief.

 

I suppose should I just wander past, and clean the pathways here,

I could wake one morn to Spring!   The sun would melt away my fear.

You have left me but a plot of land.  What have I to gain from toil?

It’s then I grasp your guiding words:   what I sow will grace the soil!

 

 

 

24-7 Entrepreneurial Bliss

Less any reader be misled, I truly do understand that the term 24-7 was originally coined to advertise a business or service entity’s round the clock availability to its clientele.

As a public service to other working-at-home wives, allow me to clarify for the men in our lives the normal signs of a female telecommuter after two days into her workday week.  Ladies, whether you accidentally print this snippet and place it in the bathroom library or decide to tape it onto the inside lid of the butter keeper is entirely your choosing.

This past year, I’ve struggled weekly to effectively communicate to My Rogue just what my scheduled work week is.  Granted, I call my own breaks now and then, but I still operate on a daily routine.  My original 1.3 mile commute may have ended, but in my perspective, the few steps from bedside to desk still qualify as a legitimate, gear-switching beginning of another workday, worthy of respectful quiet and even a modicum of awe for the self-motivation repeatedly displayed by one’s hardworking spouse!  But I digress…

Of COURSE I can pursue my freelance writing assignments in between the political banter and the occasional commercial blasts, Honey… it’s okay: keep the radio at Volume 12. I’ll just work around it; should my I phone ring, I can run over to the master bath, shut the pocket door and run the fan if I have to so I can hear my caller…

Who would have thought that sitting at one’s desk would imply one is focused on the task at hand? I sit at my desk and, truth be told, I don’t always type.  Sometimes I pause, waiting for the right word to come.  Sometimes the pause turns into a minute or two while the wheels slowly conjure up the desired adjective; sometimes the word never appears.   Okay, okay, so I’m just not moving, and neither are the piles of paper, but I AM still thinking…

This is not a sign that I am bored or in a stupor; nor does it suggest that I am available to look up the landscaper’s’ phone number; the same number that we should have written down in our address book several years ago when we first hired him; the very same one I look up every time and we fail to record because our address book is never on the same floor that we are.

More coffee? NO PROBLEMO; a second pot of coffee coming right up, Honey!  I used to brew a new pot mid-morning in the office; why should I consider it any trouble now? Especially when you can’t put the book down until you know who the killer was…  You know I’ve never been a feminist… (but I’m beginning to reconsider some of the finer points).

What was once the quintessential “home desk” with all the pretty keepsakes displayed like in Sunset is now completely covered with post its, stacks of incoming baskets, memos, dr. appointment cards and notes, and a few grocery ads… Like the meeting of the intercontinental railroad, the final spike connecting this woman’s prioritized tasks has been hammered securely! Home and work now collide daily on my same track. I’m wheeling and dealing the intermingling of moneyed tasks with un-moneyed tasks and piles of unfinished tasks.  WHAT paperless society???

No dear, I’m not going anywhere right now; just looking for something…

I’ve decided to take a break – I set the timer for ten minutes – should be enough time to find that old dental guard of mine if I can remember what drawer I stored it in… it can’t be lost; I paid four hundred dollars for that thing in 1985… no way would I toss that thing away; used to wear it to protect my teeth from grinding at night… THERE it is! Wonder if these things work during daylight hours?

After a 90 minute lunch break (half the time will be spent meal planning, using every little bit of leftovers in an effort to prepare something edible and enticing for us both), I’ll go back up stairs and begin again, but not before I decide to take another supplement or two to keep my energy up through the afternoon.  Drat.  The last multiple vitamin; will need to add this item to the grocery list. I return to my desk, find a pen but can’t find the list I began yesterday…could have sworn I filed it with the coupons…

I realize then that it is suddenly quiet.  The radio has been turned off.  I can hear a soft snoring coming from the bedroom.  He isn’t reading. He is napping.

Sounds like a plan…