A Question of Longevity

I suspect I am tied to paper for the rest of my life.  I love using a computer for some things but others just need paper and pen.  For example, a calendar book.

About a dozen years ago I bought a book similar to the one to the right.  It suited me perfectly with its monthly and weekly 2-page spreads.  Monthly for a quick glance at major events, weekly for to do lists and appointments.  I tried to buy one the next year but that style was not to be found in stores nor online.  I guessed they discontinued making them.  Even then there were probably few people like me who loved the physicality and ease of paper calendars.

So, being resourceful and having enough computer and word processing skills to create a similar book, I set out to duplicate the calendar book I loved.  I succeeded and have been making them annually ever since.

These books get pretty racked up by the end of a year:  I shove the book into and pull it out of my purse, make notes, pencil-in and erase entries, and sometimes paste in bits of paper.  The wire binding and flexible cover allow me to put a pencil between the pages before I close the book.  Handy.  It's all very handy.  If you like paper.  And probably faster than your digital calendar.  My doctor once asked me when I'd had a particular exam.  When I couldn't remember the date, she started looking through my digital records on her computer.  I pulled out my calendar book and found the date in no time.  She bemoaned needing to change to digital medical records.  I find computers are faster for some things, paper is faster for others.

I've probably made at least a dozen of these books.  I cut the paper to size with a paper cutter, punched the holes with a hand paper punch (about 5 pages at a time), used a punch to round the outer corners of all the pages and the cover, made divider tabs for the months, and made tyvek envelopes with holes punched along the side to go at the back of the book for miscellaneous items.

This year I learned of a local company who, for a price, would cut a ream of paper to size (3 calendar book pages per 8½" x 11½" sheet) AND punch holes in all the pages AND include the wire bindings cut to size.  I considered the cost of all of this and the time I spend to make one calendar book each year.  Imagining a whole ream's worth of calendar pages ready for printing and binding almost made me giddy.  It seemed like a dream come true.

And then I realized that having a whole ream of paper cut to size for calendar books would give me 1500 pages and allow me to make 18 books!  Eighteen!  I started to chuckle when the absurdity of having paper and bindings for 18 years' worth of books hit me.  I'll be turning 70 in a few weeks.  Will I still want calendar books like these when I'm 88?  Will I even be able to make them at that age?  Will I even be alive in 2038?

I had the whole ream cut and hole punched.

But the idea of longevity has been swirling around in my mind.

• How long will I live?  Will I be alive in 18 years?
• How long will I be physically capable of creating these books?
• How long will I be mentally capable of creating these books?
• How long will I have a computer/computer program capable of making the calendar pages the way I want them?  The longevity of computer programs seems to be decreasing quickly.  Perhaps the old WordPerfect word processor I use will not be compatible with some new computer I'll need in a few years.
• Will we even be using computers in 18 years, or will we all be using small devices like cellphones and tablets?
• How long will my interest in jotting down to-do lists and appointments last? 
• In 15 or 16 or 17 years, will I have finally converted to a digital calendar?
• And no, I'm not in the least concerned about the longevity of the paper in these books.  They're for my use, not for posterity's sake.  If they last longer than I do, my daughters will probably throw them away, or, if they look through them first, chuckle at what they find inside.

My most recent ancestors have lived only into their 70s or early 80s, but I have earlier ancestors who lived into their 90s.  Am I as healthy as they were?  Or are there other factors at play in their long lives?

We never know how long we'll live, what our life span will be, what we'll be able to accomplish in a lifetime or near the end of our lives.  I guess, long or short life, the point is to live it, enjoy it, do our best and try to keep getting better from one day to the next.  That's my plan.  And I hope to continue making and using my paper calendar books.

Wishing you a long and happy life!

--Nancy.

Copyright ©2020, Nancy Messier.  All Rights Reserved. 
Do not copy or use any content from this blog without written permission from the owner. 
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Little Miss on a Stone Wall

This little miss, sitting on a stone wall with her dad next to her, is not posing for a photograph.  She couldn't care less about the photograph, the view, the scenery, or the fact that her dad is squatting next to her making sure she doesn't fall.

No, not her.  Her focus is on Teddy as she adjusts his blanket. 

There were no deletes with film photography, only more photos.  These days, we would probably never save digital photos like these.  

It looks like they drove on, arrived at a different stone wall, or the same stone wall further along the road, where little miss sat and, finally, with Teddy's blanket adjusted properly, she posed for the camera with a smile.

These photos are dated 1952 when little miss would have been about two and a half.  The locations were not recorded.

I'm contributing this post to Sepia Saturday 476 : 29th June 2019.  Click through to see more old photographs (with or without stories).

--Nancy.

Copyright ©2019, Nancy Messier.  All Rights Reserved. 
Do not copy or use any content from this blog without written permission from the owner. 
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Hannah, the Airedale Who Loved Me

One of the things I love about family history is that its scope is broad enough to include stories and photos about all aspects of a person's life, including their pets.  If I had a photo of an ancestor with a pet, and especially if I had a story to go with the photo, I would consider it part of my family history.  With that in mind, I'm sharing a personal experience.

The two-year-old Airedale who came to our home as a foster girl in spring, 2008, was rough around the edges, to say the least.  She'd been tied to a tree with her brother for the first two years of her life, neglected, and most likely abused.  Thankfully, her rescuer had groomed and clipped her so she was clean and fresh.  But she did not know her name or recognize any words or commands.  She was not housebroken.  And she was afraid of everything -- steps, doors, walls, kitchen utensils, the computer mouse, lights, the TV, a sheet of paper, a change in flooring, men, hands, noises both loud and quiet, anything that moved, and anything new....  And everything was new to her!  We recognized fear when she tried to move away or hide, and worse, we could see the fear in her eyes.  It didn't take two hours for me to begin thinking about how soon we could find her a forever home (that wasn't ours).

I spent her first night sleeping on the floor with her because I wanted her to feel as comfortable and safe as possible in this new situation.  I was surprised that she nestled right next to me.  When the sun rose the next morning Hannah yawned, stretched, stood, almost smiled, and did a little playbow.  Her eyes were alight with joy and, dare I say it, love.  I sensed that she recognized me as pack leader and felt that she belonged to this new place in her world.  That was when I began to fall in love with Hannah.

So Hannah stayed and blossomed.  Her timidness with new people continued but she overcame so many of her other fears.  She gained confidence little by little -- safe throughout the house, safe in her fenced-in yard, safe for a walk, safe with me.  She learned her name and the basic commands:  come, sit, down, wait, and stay.  She also learned to "say please" with a sweet head bob.  (At mealtimes I asked her to sit and wait, say please, then I kissed her on the forehead and gave her the okay to eat.)  She loved squeaky and stretchy toys and often invited us to play.  Sometimes she was just as pleased to play by herself, grabbing a tissue box or one of her stuffed toys and tossing it around.  We used to laugh when she did this, which only encouraged her to continue or repeat the behavior.  Never laugh at an Airedale's antics:  it only encourages them.  Airedales have a great sense of humor and never seem to mind playing the clown if someone's laughing.

I consider it no small compliment that Hannah chose to love me above everyone else in our home.  She liked to be wherever I was, watching or interacting with me, and came to find me if I moved from a room while she was napping.  She gave wonderful hugs.  There's nothing like a hug from an Airedale!

In December, 2018, Hannah was diagnosed with kidney disease, spindle cell cancer, and the dreaded lymphoma.  Dogs with lymphoma usually live only four to six weeks after diagnosis.  We had the blessing of nearly six good months with her.  The past few weeks her health declined until we had to make the sad and difficult choice to let her go.  

I spent most of Hannah's last night on the floor nestled next to her.  I didn't want her to feel alone and I especially wanted her to know that she was--and is--loved.  It seemed like we'd come full circle.

Being Hannah's adoptive mom has been one of the best experiences of my life -- both a blessing and a joy.  How I love and miss her!  I'm beyond grateful for Hannah, the Airedale who loved me.

--Nancy.

Copyright ©2019, Nancy Messier.  All Rights Reserved. 
Do not copy or use any content from this blog without written permission from the owner. 
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Celebrating Fill Our Staplers Day

One never knows what will become fodder for a family history story.  Today's designation as Fill Our Staplers Day turned my thoughts to the two staplers we use in our home.  One is old, the other even older.

This older stapler comes from my childhood home.  I don't remember using it when I was living at home (but then I don't remember using a stapler at all when I was younger).  I don't know its history, either, but I suspect my father bought it when the need arose.  It came to me when my siblings and I were clearing our parents' home nearly 20 years ago.  Though sometimes temperamental, I love using this old, sturdy, reliable Swingline.

The engraving on the front tells me it's a Swingline Speed Stapler 3.  Information on the bottom indicates it was made by Speed Products Co., Inc., of Long Island City, New York.  According to several patent numbers the inventor was Stephen A. Crosby and the assignee was Speed Products Co.  The patents were registered in 1941.

The box of staples that were with the stapler were purchased from Cross Office Suppliers, 1916 Youngstown Road, Warren, Ohio.  It's still nearly full.  I guess we didn't staple much when I was a kid, which may explain why I don't remember using it.  (It gets plenty of use these days.)

This Bostitch is our old stapler.  We bought it at Sam's Club about 25 years ago.  It was sold with six boxes of staples.  It still works but the hinge at the back is broken so I have to lift the top to put paper in place to staple it. 

Our preschool-age younger daughter, Brenna, was very interested in this little gadget when we brought it home.  I told her how it worked and what it did then handed it over to her.  She gathered paper, markers, scissors, and stapler.  At first she stapled one piece of paper (many times) just for the fun of pressing the lever and finding a staple in the paper.  But it wasn't long before we were gifted with little books and booklets, some of them in envelopes she had made by folding and stapling paper.  Little treasures.  I realized the true value of this purchase:  it occupied my curious pre-schooler and also fueled her creativity. 

One day not long after acquiring the stapler we had visitors.  Brenna was willing to sit and visit only so long and then her creative mind and energetic body insisted she play.  She busied herself cutting and folding paper, stapling along the sides to make envelopes, then putting little gifts inside.  One of the visitors noticed this use of staples and suggested that we might want to put the stapler away so she wouldn't use up all the staples. 

This incident makes me chuckle because our visitor had no way of knowing that we had six boxes of staples.  What family of four needs six boxes of staples?  Each box was enough to put a staple in 10 reams of paper.  How long would it take to use 5,000, let alone 30,000 staples?  I can't remember using those staples and throwing away empty boxes but we must have.  And yet we have the better part of one box left.  After more than 25 years!

Not one to miss a silly, little-known, independently celebrated holiday to which I can attach a family story, I filled both of our staplers today.  How about you?  You don't want to miss celebrating Fill Our Staplers Day, do you?

–Nancy.

Copyright ©2020, Nancy Messier.  All Rights Reserved. 
Do not copy or use any content from this blog without written permission from the owner. 
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Taking It for Granted -- Or Not

Water!  The stuff of life.  We can't live without it, of course.  And these days I tend to take it for granted.  I turn on the faucet and there's water, and plenty of it.  But when I was a child we didn't have public water services in our small town.  People used wells or cisterns and we used the least necessary to do the job, whether it was cooking potatoes, bathing, or cleaning.

Those families who used cisterns, like ours, had to purchase water by the truckload.  Mom or Dad would call the "water man" and a day or two later the truck would lumber into our driveway to deliver our water.  (The truck that delivered our water was similar to but smaller than the one at right and was black.)

Our cistern was near our house on the other side of our driveway.  On top of the ground was a cement slab perhaps 30" square with a hole probably no larger than 10" x 12".  A piece of wood (I think) covered the hole and a large rectangular rock on top of that held the cover in place.  Beneath the cement slab was the cistern itself going deep into the ground.  It was a hole perhaps 6 feet wide and I can't guess how deep.  The cistern was lined with either cement or stones.  Though we were cautioned to stay away from it that didn't prevent me from taking a peek when the cover was off.  But it was so dark I couldn't see anything.

In a recent post I mentioned that my father had to clean the cistern because a neighbor boy claimed to have thrown a cat into it.  Another challenge with the cistern was that sometimes we ran out of water.  I remember one winter morning we turned on the tap and there was no water.  Mom was beside herself.  My sister and I suggested we just go to Gramma's house, two doors down.  My mother forbade it.  I think she didn't want to lose face with her mother for not having ordered water in time.  But we were in luck because it had snowed the night before.  We filled containers with snow and my mom heated it on the stove so we could wash before going to school.

"City water," as we called it, eventually arrived in Mineral Ridge.  We felt like we were hot stuff to be able to take a bath in more than an inch of water. 

I did not take water for granted when my husband and I lived in El Salvador for nearly a year.  When we arrived at the home of our host we were told that the water would probably be off for several hours during the day.  We never knew when those hours would be but, as it happened, only rarely was the water off when we were home.  (When we were there in the late 1970s there were no hot water heaters.  We showered in cold water.)

Six weeks later we moved to a room in a very tiny town in the country.  There was a central public water source which most villagers used.  It was usually the children who carried empty containers to the water, filled them, and returned with them to their homes.  The girls carried them on their heads, the boys on their shoulders.  We marveled that little 5-year-olds carried gallon containers (weighing 8 pounds) and 7- and 8-year-olds carried two gallons or more.

The family from who we rented our room was a little wealthier than most and had water piped to their home.  However, it was not truly indoor plumbing because it went to one end of their walled patio, a section which had a roof over it.  Against that wall was a toilet, a shower (both open air except for the back wall and door), and a pila.  In the photo ate right the woman is standing beside the pila that we used. 

To explain, our pila was essentially a concrete box to hold water that was about 24" by 36" by 36" deep.  It had a faucet to turn the water off and on.  Since there was not always running water, the pila was filled when water was available.  Beside and attached to the pila was a 6" deep, flat-bottomed "sink" for laundry, dishes, etc., which had a drain.  When dipping water out of the pila we had to be very careful not to contaminate the water with soap, or anything else, for that matter.  When I washed clothes I laid each piece in the sink, used a container to dip water from the pila to get the clothes wet, then used a bar of soap to roll over the clothing.  And then I scrubbed them, dipped more water to rinse them, and wrung them out by hand.  I tell you I was thrilled to see the end of hand-washing clothes in a pila.  

In the photos of the pila, above, the woman in the top right photo is using the sink to wash clothes.  Not all pilas had ridges on the bottom; some, like the one I used, was smooth.  In the bottom photo, second from the right, you can see the pila on the right with the sink on the left.  In the center bottom photo, the pila is in the center with a sink on either side.

I washed our dishes in the pila and collected water from it to clean our house.  Pilas were also used to bath babies.  Once a neighbor child, a toddler of about 18 months, was angry and screaming.  Her sister picked her up, sat her in the sink of the pila, and poured cold water over her.  I was surprised to see her begin to laugh.

I try not to take water for granted these days.  When I remember my mom having to call to have water delivered by truck, watching children carry it from a public source in jugs, or having had to wash clothes in a pila, I'm so very grateful for fresh, clean, running water in my home.  When I think of those times, then I don't take it for granted.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.  Click through to this week's blog post and see the memories and insights others have posted this week.

Photo of water truck courtesy of Wikimedia.
Photos of pila from google search results.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2016 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.
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Furnace Street Neighbors

This week's topic for Saturday Night Genealogy Fun (hosted by Randy Seaver of Genea-Musings) is remembering where we lived as children and who our neighbors were.  He invited us to tell a story about one or more of our neighbors.

During all of my youth I lived at 16 Furnace Street (later 1433) in Mineral Ridge, a small village on the southern border of Trumbull County, Ohio.  Furnace Street runs east from Main Street/Route 46.  Our house was the first on the north side of the street.

The Youngs (I think their last name was Young) lived in the house on Main Street at the corner of Main and Furnace Streets.  Their back yard abutted our side yard.  They were an older couple without children, but they kept a dog in their yard with a doghouse for protection.  A few times they asked me to take care of their dog when they needed to be away from home for a few days or a week.  One morning I went out to feed the dog and give him fresh water and found him just lying there.  It was alarming.  He had died during the night.  I was not responsible for his death -- I had given him the care required -- but I felt terrible.  The Youngs were very kind when they returned and assured me that the dog was old.

They also had a rock that to my childhood eyes seemed huge.  It was in the shape of a triangle with the point at the top.  We kids loved climbing up on the rock and jumping to the ground, arms extended, yelling "Geronimo!" as we jumped.

The Youngs had Rose of Sharon trees in their year.  I never liked Rose of Sharon trees.  I don't know why except that it wasn't from any particular association with the Youngs.  

The Yosts lived in the Methodist parsonage across Furnace Street from the Youngs and cattycorner from our house.  Needless to say, the father in the family was the minister at the church.  They had a son named Charles who was about my age and a younger daughter, Mary Jane.  We played together at least occasionally.  As you can see, there was a dirt hill behind their house between the parsonage and the church.  I remember playing there more because of this photo than from any actual memory.  Charles also had a wonderful tricycle -- even larger than mine and with an attached basket -- which we sometimes rode.  It's possible that I was at least a little envious of that trike.  I think the Yosts moved before I started school. 

The Stephens (or Stevens) lived beside the parsonage and across from our house.  There were the parents and two boys, both older than me by a few years.  The Stephens operated the Isaly Dairy shop on Main Street where they sold ice cream, popsicles, candy bars, penny candy, pop, and sandwiches.  A single scoop of ice cream in a pointed cone cost 5 cents;  a double scoop in a flat-bottomed cone cost 7 cents (until it went up to 10 cents).  How they ever kept their patience with us indecisive little kids buying penny candy I don't know.  Their yard was a haven for violets which they gave me permission to pick.

When I was very young our family's water supply was not public water but was purchased and hauled by the truckload and poured into a cistern near our house.  Mom was more than careful about water usage -- there was little waste in our home.  One day one of the Stephens boys told my sister he'd thrown a cat into the cistern.  What an awful thing to do!  After draining the water from the cistern my father lowered a ladder, climbed down with cleaning supplies, and found no cat.  That boy!

The Stonestreets lived in the other side of our duplex for a number of years.  There were the parents and two boys in the family:  Billy and -- I can't remember the other boy's name.  Billy was my age and we often played together on my swing set or in the sandbox.  We pulled each other in my wagon or rode my trike.  I think the family moved before I started school because I don't remember him being in school with me.  Strangely enough, I have more childhood photos with Billy than any other children.

The Brocks lived in a house on Main Street  beside the Youngs.  Their back yard was fairly long and met ours at the corner.  Frankie was a year or two older than me but we often played together, too -- the usual sandbox, swings, trike, wagon.  He lived there longer than any of the other children in our neighborhood and I think, when we were a little older, we played cowboys and Indians. 

The Hancoxes were a sweet older couple who lived alone in the house next to ours across Merchant Street.  Their house sat back from the street, toward the rear of their lot.  They had a tall cherry tree in their front yard and grew petunias in a flower bed near their porch.  (I don't favor the fragrance of petunias, but not because of the Hancoxes.) 

They had both been married before and each had a child from the previous marriage.  When they remarried they had a son who lived in nearby Niles and he and his wife had a daughter named Linda, about two years older than me.  Linda visited in the summer for several weeks at a time.  She went to bed very late and didn't get up till noon.  I would have done the same had my parents let me but they didn't and her sleeping late was a frustration to me.  I'm sure her grandparents got tire of me checking to see if she was awake every hour or so from 9 a.m. till noon.

The Bakers lived across the street from my grandparents.  My memory tells me there were just Mrs. Baker and her adult daughter, Jean.  Mrs. Baker loved to bake and often shared her baked goods with my grandmother.  She introduced us to no-bake cookies, but not knowing their name, we called them Mrs. Baker's Cookies.  (Don't you love our creative name for them?)

When I was a little older, perhaps 10 or so, there were several children who lived in my grandparent's triplex for brief periods of time.  Other children lived streets away so it took a little more effort to arrange playtime than when I was younger and the kids lived next door.  From about the time I was 8 or 9, riding bikes probably took up more of our time in the summer than any other activity.  We also played cards -- war, rummy -- and a few board games. 

Thanks to Randy Seaver for creating Saturday Night Genealogy Fun and for inventing the fun topics.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2016 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved. .

About Stories at RootsTech 2016

There were two presentations at RootsTech this weekend that I thought dovetailed into each other.  The first was Bruce Feiler's keynote address on Thursday.  His presentation was interesting and entertaining but for me, the heart of his ideas came toward the end when he spoke of integrating family stories into our everyday lives.  Not just stories about the good, happy, easy times, but also stories about the hard times, the times of sorrow, the times when we or someone in our family overcame a challenge.  I liked his ideas about how stories of our experiences help us create, and possibly direct, our memories.

I first "met" Bruce through a New York Times article a few years ago and, being strongly impressed, wrote the post, Good Reasons to Tell Family Stories.  Here, below, you can watch all (or part) of his keynote address.



The other presentation that impressed me so strongly was David Isay's Friday keynote about StoryCorps.  He tells what it is, how it came about, and showed several videos that were recorded at StoryCorps locations.  Most impressive is that all the videos are being saved at the Library of Congress.  Watch his address to learn more.



After listening to both presenters the thought that settles on my mind is that there are different kinds of stories we can tell about our own lives and/or the lives of our ancestors.  Some are the big stories of our lives, stories about the major events, the monumental moments, the stories that will stay with us forever for having effected us so strongly.  Other stories are of little events, brief interactions, tiny experiences from our lives, stories that, in one way or another, made us who we are.

I think both are important to record.  (It matters not whether we have a receptive audience now:  sometime someone will appreciate and perhaps take inspiration from our lives.)

Julie Goucher's Book of Me meme a few years ago was helpful because it offered prompt suggestions to record stories.  But then a journal's a great way to record stories, too (which makes me ask myself why I'm not currently writing in a journal on a regular basis).  When I was writing my own Book of Me posts one of my daughters commented that she liked those best of all my posts. 

Our descendants will appreciate our stories, which can be powerful and provide insight into our personalities.  Are you recording your own stories?  Are you recording your unwritten ancestors' stories?

--Nancy.

Copyright ©2016 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.
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Dear Teddy

It's National Teddy Bear Day and since Teddy was such an important part of my young life, I wanted to give him his day in the sun.

I don't know who made Teddy or where he was purchased, how old I was when he came to me, or who gave him to me, but Teddy became my adored favorite stuffed animal.  (You know how an adult always hopes to give the favorite gift to a child?  Whoever gave me Teddy must have felt great pleasure to see how favored he was.)  He was a constant companion through several years of my childhood.  He went everywhere and did everything with me:  out to play on the swing or in the wagon, to dinner, to bed, traveling in the car.  If I went, Teddy went.  (Except on that one miserable vacation to Niagara Falls when I was three.)  He appears in photographs from about the time I was two until I was about five or six. 

Here are a few photographs in honor of Teddy.   

I'm about two, at right.  One of my parents lined my friends and me up along the side of a building facing the sun and told us to smile.  It was hard to squint and smile at the same time.

The children, left to right, are Frankie B., me, and Billy S.  Teddy did not mind being up-side-down, just so long as he was with me.

Teddy and I are composed and comfortable sitting on this rock wall.  But this photo has a sister snapshot in which my father is squatting beside me while I am engrossed in adjusting Teddy's blanket.  I appear to be totally unaware that we were being photographed.  When you're two or three, there are priorities 

This photograph was not from the miserable trip to Niagara Falls.  On that trip when Teddy was left behind, my parents bought a large panda hoping it would calm my despairing heart.  It did not.  The panda was too unlike Teddy to offer comfort.  That trip to Niagara Falls was the last traveling vacation our family took for at least three years.  During those three years we spent a week or two staying at a cottage on nearby Lake Milton.  We were close enough to home to retrieve Teddy, if necessary.

Not long ago I found Teddy packed away in a box of dolls.  The poor bear.  With so much attention he's threadbare in places.  Some of his body parts have been stitched and restitched countless times.  His eyes are scratched and he is more wild-eyed than I remembered.  But the smooth spot on his ear that I so often rubbed is just as smooth as ever.











Dear Teddy, what a comfort you were to me.  Happy Teddy Bear Day.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2009-2015 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.
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Early Wheels

The only surviving photo of the tricycle of my childhood, possibly the only photo ever taken of it, was the one at right.  Truly, it's a photograph of our Boxer, Lady, getting into my mom's clothespin basket on our back porch.  The tricycle is just part of the background.  Still, I was thrilled to find the photo. 

I loved that trike.  It was big, probably about 20 inches wide, and it was sturdy with a platform on the back where a friend could stand and hold on while I pedaled us along.  Because it was so big I rode it till I graduated to a regular-sized bicycle.

There were only two drawbacks to my tricycle.  The first was that our driveway was gravel.  It was too hard to pedal and I eventually gave up trying.

The second problem was that the other easily accessible, flat, smooth place to ride was our back sidewalk.  It extended from the driveway, across our back yard to the neighbor's porch, so it was a nice long stretch.  It was great for one person to walk along but it was a problem for my trike.  What was the problem?  It was exactly -- exactly! -- the width of the back wheels on my trike.  If I steered very carefully I could stay on the sidewalk.  If not, one or the other of the back wheels went into the little groove beside the sidewalk.  I either had to push hard on the pedals to get it our of the rut or get off the trike, haul it back onto the sidewalk, and get on again.  I think that narrow sidewalk helped develop my steering abilities.

Fast forward to my first bicycle.  It was a hand-me-down:  it had been my sister's before it had been mine, and my aunt's before it had been hers.  Probably built in the late 1930s or early 1940s, it was a black, heavy, wide-wheeled, clunky bike with a wide seat and wide handlebars.  No photos of that bike exist, either, but the one below (except for its rust) looks very similar to it in style.

What I remember most about the bike is that I desperately wanted to ride it when I was too short to sit on the seat and pedal.  I suppose it was at least a 24" bike and, therefore, not one a 6-year-old could easily ride.  But I was determined.  I would walk it over to the porch steps, step onto the first or second step, get my feet on the pedals, and somehow practice balancing.  It didn't take me long to get the hang of balancing and pedaling, standing on the pedals because I was too short to sit.  I was off.  I can only guess the panic my mom might have felt.  Still, what a sense of accomplishment I felt.

One summer my brother, good brother that he was, took it apart, sanded it, and painted it fire engine red for me.  It wasn't quite like having a new bike but then, I didn't need a new bike as long as I had a usable bike to ride.

That bike had a twin boy's bike which my brother rode.  I wonder whatever happened to those bikes....  I wonder what memories my brother and sister have of riding them.

This is a post for Sepia Saturday 273.  Pedal over to find links to other bloggers' old photos and memories.

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2015 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

First Movie, Favorite Movies

Once, when I was young, possibly 4 or 5, I remember my father taking my older brother and sister to a movie.  I didn't know what movies were or why my mom and I were staying home.  It must have been a Monday night because the next morning my mother ironed.  I ironed, too.  I practiced ironing on my father's handkerchiefs and some other small items.  It was not the first time I'd ironed but it was the first time I burned my finger.  Of course I cried.  My mom took me upstairs, administered to my finger, then brought out a box of popcorn that my father had brought from the theater the night before.  It was my first introduction to popcorn and became an instant favorite.

My first experience attending a movie theater was when I was perhaps 5 or 6.  My parents took me to a double feature.  I think the first movie was for people older than I was.  I don't remember its title but I remember that men were on a sailing ship and one of them was whipped.  It was a dreadful experience, especially seeing those images larger-than-life in a place where I couldn't run and hide. 

Thankfully, the next movie was light, joyful, and fun.  It was Walt Disney's "Song of the South" and I loved it.  I haven't seen it since that first viewing.  I understand it's not sold in the United States but is available in England and one or two other countries.

As I was searching online for a video to post I learned that there's a great controversy over "Song of the South."  It's sad that it is so.  In my memory it's a joyful movie about two children and the antics of several personified animals told by a loving and lovable grandfatherly gentleman.  How I wish adults hadn't adulterated it with their narrow and prejudiced views.  My thoughts here, of course, are based my viewing of the movie decades ago when I was a child.  Perhaps I would have a different view of the movie if I watched it now.

This was one of the first movies to combine animation and live actors.  In the well-known song, "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah," you can see Disney's success.  Here it is for your viewing and listening pleasure.



At Song of the South you can learn more about the movie, the actors, the characters, the music, etc.  And here you can read more about the controversy that surrounds "Song of the South." 

Some of my other favorite movies include (in no particular order)

• "Temple Grandin"
• "Cranford"
• "Hobson's Choice"
• "Letters to Juliet"
• "Fiddler on the Roof"
• "The Whales of August"
• "Anne of Green Gables"
• "Wives and Daughters"
• "A Room with a View"
• "Fried Green Tomatoes"
• "Second-Hand Lions"
• "Sabrina" (with Julia Ormond)

Did you see "Song of the South" as a child?  If so, what did you think?  What are your favorite movies?

This is another post in The Book of Me series, created by Julie Goucher of Anglers Rest. 

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2014 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

Early Bird, Night Owl - Musings

Family history research has temporarily come to a halt.  In fact, nearly every non-essential activity in my life has come to a halt -- except the wondering, imagining, and musing about my ancestors and their lives.  For a few weeks I am working at a full-time job which begins every morning at 8:00 a.m.

This would be fine if I were an early bird, a morning person.  But I am not.  I am a night owl.  It's what my body tells me works best.  I usually go to bed between midnight and 2:00 a.m. and get up between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m.  I get between seven and eight hours of sleep and it all works perfectly.  When I can do it.  But I can't do it these two weeks.  So I've been going to bed around 10:00 p.m. with the intention (and the hope) of getting eight hours of sleep.  Unfortunately, I toss and turn for the first few hours, finally fall asleep at about 2:00 a.m., and awake after less than five hours sleep to find that I have a headache.  (This is not a poor me post.  Really.  I'm not complaining, just giving background to help you follow the thread of my thoughts.)

I've never been a morning person.  My mom had the hardest time waking me when I started school -- and I had a hard time waking myself as I grew older.  As a young child with a bedtime of 7:00 or 8:00,  I would lie awake tossing and turning, finally falling asleep much later.

I attended college orientation with my mom who, when it came time to complete a schedule request, suggested that I take morning classes so I could have the afternoons free.  What was she thinking?  What was I thinking?  Maybe she thought it would help whip me into shape.  Those were the days before electric alarm clocks with snooze buttons:  I set three wind-up alarm clocks to go off at 10-minute intervals. 

After my babies were born I was thrilled to be able to nestle them in bed while I slept a little longer in the mornings.  Whether it's nature or nurture, neither is a morning person.  Both had to alter that tendency while in college and for jobs, but given the opportunity, both would go to bed late and get up late.

Is the concept (and/or the reality) of morning person/night person relatively recent?  Did the advent of electricity and artificial light change the sleeping/waking habits of people?  Or have there always been people who were early birds and night owls with preferred times to be awake and to sleep?  I suppose it's possible that nearly everyone was a morning person 100 or 150 years ago when the time after sunset was usually dark (except for the use of expensive candles and oil lamps).  Or perhaps a body eventually adjusts when the need arises?

If I had night owl ancestors, how would the night owl dairy farmer have managed a farm of cows that needed milked early every morning?  Or managed the planting and harvesting, both jobs that require daylight?  Did the night owls go through their days feeling tired and having headaches?  How did my night-owl ancestors manage when they couldn't be night-owls?

In agrarian cultures like that of our ancestors a century ago, life happened during the day.  I think that's the norm these days, too.  The expectation seems to be that people get up early and begin work at 8:00 a.m., sometimes earlier.   There's not much consideration for the person whose body tells her that sleep should begin at 1:00 or 2:00 a.m., and so we drag along.

If a body really does adjust its sleeping habits when the need arises, by the end of these two weeks maybe I will have become a morning person.  That would be a surprise to everyone who knows me.

Are you a morning person or a night owl?  Do you know if your ancestors tended toward one or the other?

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2014 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

The Pets I Loved - Book of Me

about 1953

My first one-on-one experience with animals was probably when I was about three and my parents took us to see newly-born Boxer puppies.  Not long after that a little female came to live with us.  My parents, or perhaps my brother or sister, gave her the name Lady. 

I don't remember much of her puppyhood but she grew to be a good friend and companion by the time she reached adulthood.  My father carefully trained her to know the perimeter of our yard, where to "do her business," to walk gently on a leash, and to obey some basic commands.

1958

Our neighborhood was relatively small and there was little traffic on the side streets.  Lady was given free rein to move about our unfenced yard as she pleased.  My parents let her out in the morning while they ate breakfast and when she was ready to come back in she barked at the door.  On rainy or snowy days my mom insisted that she sit on a rug or newspaper just inside the back door until her feet were dry.

Occasionally Lady came back inside after breakfast with breath smelling as if she'd been eating garlic.  Mom didn't cook with garlic and Lady had no access to local garbage cans, most of which had secured lids.  No one could figure out where she might have eaten garlic.  A few weeks later my father was talking to one of our relatives who lived near the opposite end of our street.  He told my dad that he sure enjoyed Lady's morning visits.  He invited her in and she was a very well-behaved visitor.  Of course my father was surprised because he hadn't realized Lady had wandered from the yard.  Further discussion revealed that Lady stopped by the homes of several other families each morning, too, and Dad discovered that last night's dinner at these different homes was incentive for her morning excursions. 

Lady was a gentle dog but she was also a good watch dog.  I remember once being in the back yard with my mom while she was hanging laundry.  There were two lines of sheets blocking the view to the driveway and front yard plus another line or two of clothes waving in the wind.  Suddenly Lady barked and charged.  I was alarmed but my mom quickly went through the rows of sheets to find that a salesman had come into the yard unannounced.  Lady warned but did not bite.

about 1954

She had an easy-going, sweet temperament and was fun to play with.  We sometimes played tug with a rope, chased each other around the yard, or walked to the post office together.  She obviously liked to investigate, though I don't know what she was hoping to find in the clothespin basket, at right.

1966

In later years we would sometimes find Lady lying in front of the back porch door with the cat curled up between her legs.  If we awoke her and called her attention to the situation, she would often act very embarrassed.


Lady lived to be about 18.  My father was particularly heartbroken at her loss but, of course, the rest of us had sorrowful hearts, too. 

There were also a series of cats in our family, some of which I dressed in doll clothes and pushed around in a baby buggy.  How my 4- or 5-year-old self managed to put clothes on a cat I'll never know.  Maybe they were just passive cats.

Put, 1967

The cat I most remember is Put.  My brother-in-law worked at a farm and offered to catch one of the farm kittens for me.  At the barn doors I watched the kittens for a few minutes.  All of them were wild and watchful, afraid of us.  When I saw the tiny, grey, wooly one I knew she (or he) was the one I wanted.  She was elusive and fast but my brother-in-law was persistent and faster.  When he finally handed her to me she announced, with a hiss and a scratch, that she wanted nothing to do with me.  I patiently taught her that she had no reason to fear me and that I would provide her with delicious food.  It didn't take long to tame her.  She became a sweet friend. 

There were other animals in my childhood -- cows on my uncle's farm; my grandmother's dogs; my cousin's bird; a friend's pony -- but none were as dear to me as Lady and Put.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

This is another post in The Book of Me series, created by Julie Goucher of Anglers Rest.  (See list at http://www.anglers-rest.net/book-of-me---geneabloggers-prompt-list.html)

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2014 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

Time to Think, Places to Think - Book of Me

There are times when I must concentrate on the work at hand -- making a difficult recipe; paying bills; organizing my plan for the day; or considering which route will be the best for the day's errands.  But there are other times when my mind can focus on a particular train of thought beyond the necessities of the day -- or on no thought at all with free range to think about whatever topic wanders into my mind.


The best time for deep, reflective thought is when I have private, solitary, uninterrupted time.  Peace and quiet do wonders for my soul and my mind. 

On those rare nights that I don't fall immediately to sleep after collapsing into bed I may lie awake for a time thinking and pondering.  It begins with whatever comes to mind and evolves into more focused thought, then back to a wandering mind.  And then I (usually) drift into peaceful slumber.  There are some mornings when I'm not hurried by a commitment and may stay in bed a little longer letting thoughts overtake me, gradually focusing my mind as I choose.  The quiet evenings before falling into sleep and the relaxed, unhurried mornings after coming into wakefulness are delicious, delightful times.

While driving, or while I'm riding and the conversation dies away into quietness, I often find myself deep in thought.  It cannot be busy city traffic nor bumper-to-bumper on the interstate, but almost any other driving gives me quiet time to think.  The long freeway drives are best. 

Another favorite place to think is the shower, but only if I'm not rushing to meet deadlines.  On mornings without commitments I may stay a few minutes longer in the shower, letting my thoughts wander where they will.  They usually gravitate to living family, ancestors, and thoughtful prayer.  I sometimes surprise myself at the depth of thought that comes during a five-minute the shower, especially if I put my mind to it.

Where do you do your best thinking?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

This is another post in The Book of Me series, created by Julie Goucher of Anglers Rest.  The topic for this post was "Where do you think?"

--Nancy.

Copyright © 2014 Nancy Messier. All Rights Reserved.

Written on Paper - Book of Me

We practiced form by making capital-sized, continuous ovals across the width of the paper, first in a clockwise direction, then counter-clockwise.  We were not to raise our
pencils as we formed those as-perfect-as-possible ovals.  We practiced lower case ovals in a similar manner.  Then each letter had its turn for practice, each repeated across the page, each separately formed.  I competed with myself each time we practiced handwriting, hoping to improve each letter and make it look just like the example.

None of my grade school papers survive.  The only evidence of my early handwriting abilities is this Elementary Certificate from The Peterson System of Directed Handwriting.  My mother loved saving certificates, bless her heart.   

During my senior year of college while working on a B.S. in Education, I was required to take a handwriting test.  I was shocked to learn that I'd failed.  At left is handwriting of about the same time.  You can see that my letters wouldn't have matched the standard:  the tall letters and capitals were too short.  I thought the writing was fine then but looking at it more objectively now I can see why it failed.

These days my handwriting is usually a combination of writing and printing, especially if I'm in a hurry or making a note just for me.   I can write more attractively and usually do when sending a note or letter with a greeting card, but most of my writing consists of notes to myself so I write for speed and ease.  I find it takes more effort and some extra time to write beautifully. 

One recurring thought as I was compiling this post was this:  if I had been a census taker I would have printed everything and all words would have been legible.  At least I like to think that's what I would have done.  But maybe I would have just put the information down as quickly as possible.

A year ago I shared a post showing signatures of some of my literate ancestors and x's of some of my illiterate ancestors.  Times have changed since the mid-1800s when many of my ancestors were illiterate.

Times are changing again.  I have heard the rumor that handwriting is currently not being taught to public school children.  I was discussing this with an acquaintance and he commented that there wasn't really a need for children to learn to write since most everything was typed.  I objected and he asked me why children should learn handwriting.  I told him my thoughts:

• Learning to control a pencil and form letters helps improve manual dexterity and fine motor skills.  
• It teaches patience and the success that comes after effort.
• Learning to write and read handwriting will allow children to read writing written decades ago, such as handwritten family history documents (which turned out to be an important point for him).
• Those who know how to write will be able to sign their names.

Another thought came to mind later:  I think being able to write by holding a pen or pencil in hand and manipulating it to form letters into words written on paper is half the requirement of being literate.  I don't think it's enough to be able to type letters and words on a computer.  (But then I'm a little -- okay, maybe a lot -- old-fashioned.)

Perhaps handwriting is outmoded and an anachronism but I don't want to believe it and I hope it's not true.

This is another post in The Book of Me series, created by Julie Goucher of Anglers Rest.  Thank you, Julie.

--Nancy.

© 2014 Copyright by Nancy Messier. All rights reserved.

You Just Can't Trust It - Book of Me

You can trust that every single morning the sun will rise.  Even if it's cloudy, it will be there.  And you can trust that in December winter will begin and the days will get longer, and that in June summer will begin and the days will get shorter.  The seasons will follow each other every single year of our lives in an unfailing cycle.  You can trust the sequence of the sun and the seasons.  You can bet your life on it.  But you just can't trust technology.

I'm thinking of technology in a broad sense, to include more than just electronic devices.  I include microwave ovens, refrigerators, washers and dryers, televisions, automobiles, telephones, refrigerators, audio systems, computers, cameras, cell phones -- all of them.  You can't trust them because sometimes they work, sometimes they don't, and you can never tell when something will malfunction or even just quit working altogether.  The best you can do is take good care of what you own and hope and pray you're never left in a lurch because technology failed.  (I think I hear someone saying, "Back up your files!" which is good advice but it doesn't prevent technology's malfunction or failure.)

My first introduction to technology was probably at birth when electric lights glared into my newly opened eyes.  My next experience may have been a few days later when I rode home in a car and, later still, heard the voice of an unknown person speaking or singing over the radio.  During my young years I benefited from food cooked in an electric oven and preserved in an electric refrigerator.  I heard the hum of an electric Singer sewing machine, and had warmth from a coal fire because coal was delivered by a man driving a dump truck.

By the time I was five I regularly saw people in a box in our living room.  (See photo at left with box on right.)  I eventually understood that it was a television and did not have little people inside and I also learned that there were no people in the radio.  I had answered the ring of the telephone and spoken to my grandmother through it.  I'd also helped my mother with the wash using her electric wringer washer.  Non-technological clothespins were still used to hang the clothes on a clothesline to dry:  no electric dryers yet.

My father seemed able to repair nearly all of the above types of technology devices except maybe televisions.  He seemed to have an innate ability to understand the workings of things and repaired them speedily and efficiently.  When electronic equipment became popular he either didn't have the interest or was too old to think of repairing those things that broke.

In my teen years I enjoyed a battery-operated, transistor radio which I could carry with me if I chose.  Next came 8-track tape players and cassette recorders/players.  I remember my father's first introduction to a cassette player.  I'd brought it home on loan and showed him how it worked.  He was so surprised.  We recorded several conversations and then listened to the recordings.  It wasn't long before he bought his own recorder/player.

When videocassettes became available we could watch movies we chose instead of according to the schedule and choice of broadcasting companies.  Then DVDs came along and we had even better viewing options than with videocassettes.

In high school I learned to type on a manual typewriter.  Later, while working in an office, there was a lovely electric IBM Selectric typewriter which offered several different fonts because of an interchangeable ball.  My next experience with more office technology was an early Apple computer.  I didn't like it.  After spending days and days typing an inventory of laboratory supplies, the inventory disappeared.  Gone, never to be seen again.  That was the beginning of my distrust of technology.  Those who knew computers couldn't find how it disappeared or to where and so I began the laborious and time-consuming processes of typing the entries in once again.  Eventually, in that same office, I was given a computer of my own to use.  Learning its ins and outs was trial and error -- classes were not offered.  I played and learned and was surprised and pleased (wow, it can do this!) and sometimes frustrated and disappointed (why does it do that?!).

Technology keeps advancing.  Sometimes I'm completely pleased, as with digital cameras, cell phones, scanners, and, generally, with computers.  But I have a healthy distrust of all things technology because I never know when they won't work or why.  It seems as time goes on, the slightly older technology becomes more reliable.  Or maybe we just get used to it, or learn how to use the devices better.

I try to imagine what my great-great-grandparents thought about locomotives, electric lights, indoor plumbing, gasoline-powered automobiles, Brownie cameras, telephones, and electric-powered appliances.  Maybe they were as surprised by and distrustful of those innovations as I sometimes am of our modern technological innovations.  Or maybe they welcomed the labor-saving aspects of washers and dryers, stoves and refrigerators.

Perhaps all of those were challenges to my parents and other ancestors when they were new, modern, and untested, but I doubt they caused them as much trouble as modern technology seems to cause me!  I just don't trust it to always do its job reliably.  (But I'd rather have it than not.)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

This is another post in The Book of Me, Written by You series, created by Julie Goucher of Anglers Rest.

The topic for this post was Technology.  The suggestions were:   What technology changes did your ancestors see?  What technology changes have you seen?  Did your family own one of those early changes? – such as television.  Do you like or dislike technology?  What do you think has been the best technological change in your lifetime and historically?

--Nancy.
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Red, Please - Book of Me

When people ask me what my favorite color is I usually say red.  (In my heart of hearts red is my favorite color but other colors sometimes tempt me, which explains why I don't always say red.)  I love red in nearly all its tones, tints, and shades.  But red is a powerful color, sometimes an overpowering color if it's the only color.  I was going to use a Mark Rothko painting for this post but it was just too strong.

I don't have a lot of red in my home though it sometimes (well, maybe frequently) appears in tablecloths, pillows, and rugs, but never as wall paint or as the only color on large pieces of furniture or carpets.  And I don't usually wear red. 

Because it's such a strong color I like to see red combined with, oh, let's say, green, my second favorite color.  Not just any green:  greens that are evenly between yellow and blue or leaning toward blue on the color wheel.  I don't think my love of the combination has anything to do with Christmas -- it's just that green energizes red, and vice versa, especially with more green and less red.  Either way, together they are vibrant, happy. 




















To my eyes, red also looks beautiful with tans, greys, browns, and colors in the ivory/cream range.

My third favorite color is cream.  I am cautious to claim cream, though.  If it leans toward lemony yellow, I turn my back.  Several years ago yellow was a color I could barely look at but I'm warming up to yellow, at least the ones toward the golden/orange side of the color wheel.   From butter to afternoon sun....

















And then there's blue.  I'm still working on liking blue....  I know many people think of blue as a restful color but it generally seems depressing to me, especially in its paler versions.  Deep, intense blues that lean just slightly toward green can be beautiful.  The Prussian shades are lovely.

Color and personality?  Some people have hinted (without saying it in so many words) that they think I have a strong personality.  I don't know how that can be when I'm an introvert....  Maybe people who like red do have strong personalities.  Maybe my favorite color will change and one day it will be ... some color other than red.


This is another post in The Book of Me series, created by Julie Goucher of Anglers Rest.

The topic was Favourite Color.  Suggestions for discussion in responding included:  Do you have a favourite colour? and if so why?  Do you like vibrant colours or darker colours?  Do you associate anyone with a particular colour?  If so who and why ?  Does your favourite colour reflect your personality?

Images above top, then left to right:

• "Her First Lesson" on Rawleigh's Good Health Guide and Cookbook, from the Digital Scriptorium and the John W. Hartman Center for Sales, Advertising & Marketing History, Rare Book, Manuscript, and Special Collections Library, Duke University.  Part of American Memory at the Library of Congress. 
• "Tea Table in Garden" by Esther Borough Johnson
• "Geraniums" by Frederick Childe Hassam
• "Reading" by Nicholae Vermont
• "Morning Sun" by Harold Knight

--Nancy.
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