All My Ancestors

Miriam’s most recent journaling prompt asks us to think about who and how humor works in our families.

This is a topic I should be an expert on. I wrote a dissertation on humor. The main thing I learned was that the dissection of humor is the only operation in which the patient ALWAYS dies. (That’s not original with me, by the way, but I can’t remember–or find–the source right now.) It seemed like a good idea at the time, but anyone who’s done that sort of sustained, intense project, soon realizes that there’s nothing funny about it, no matter the topic.

We laughed a lot in our family–it seemed to be a point of pride to get others to laugh, in fact. Not that we were/are all clowns, but we do appreciate a good turn of phrase. My husband is from a family that laughs as well. And he’s the youngest, so he’s the performer, as is our youngest son. Our older son and I tend to be the “critics,” though that’s typically phrased humorously as well.

*When you laugh, who do you sound like? Your father, mother, a sibling, or other relative?
I don’t know who I sound like. I suspect I sound like my mother–everything else has gotten to be like her as I’ve aged–my hands, my skin, my looks. I know I don’t sound like my siblings–one brother sort of grins and giggles and the other laughs a bit louder than him, but we don’t sound alike, though we can enjoy some of the same things to laugh at.

*Who in your family giggles? Belly laughs? Chuckles? Guffaws? Knee slaps or does some other large physical act while laughing?
My grandad used to slap his knee sometimes when he was laughing, particularly if it was something he thought you should be laughing at also. The only person I can think of who giggles is a most unlikely candidate–he’s a cousin who is a big, tough, (at least in his youth) cowboy. I couldn’t help joining in the fun when Willie giggled. My brother laughs a bit like him though he would probably clobber me if I said he giggles.

*Who has the most unique laugh in your family, and why
In my immediate family, our youngest son has the most unique laugh–it just sort of bursts out and is there before you know it’s coming.

*What kinds of things did your family laugh or joke about?
All sorts of things, including each other.

There’s also a tradition of telling stories about serious events but using a humorous twist. I wish I had a recording, for example, of my cousin’s tale about setting his house of fire right before Christmas. His daughter was getting married and his dad, who had cancer, was there. It reminded me of Ogden Nash’s tale of “The Night the Bed Fell.” The event wasn’t funny but the telling was hilarious–all the things going through his mind, his dad, my incorrigible uncle, facing off the official who wanted to replace his meds from the fire-damaged pouch, the interaction with the firemen–not funny, but hilarious in the telling. My husband has a few of those types of stories as well–the first wedding he performed had a bomb threat called in AND a tornado siren go off during the service. They had to evacuate the church twice, in pouring rain. You can imagine what the wedding pictures look like from that one!

*What best describes the style of humor in your family (dry, wet, ironic, silly)?
I’d say it is ironic and even sometimes sarcastic. It’s not mean-spirited but it does have an edge.

There’s some silliness, as well. My dad lived with us for a couple of years after my mom died. His stroke and aging made him all the more susceptible to my sons’ silliness–and they loved having the audience. He loved the antics of the pets as well–he chuckled when he told me about the dog stealing his sandwich off the counter while his back was turned as he was putting the sandwich makings back into the fridge. And then there was the time the hot air balloon came over the back yard and scared the dog.

*Did you ever have tickle fights?
Maybe one. At least with me. Because I probably beaned whoever tried. I always thought they were sort of mean–probably because I was on the receiving end as a child. And maybe it wasn’t all that much of a fight–I was just being tickled and I didn’t like it.

*Who were the practical jokers in the family?
My brothers were practical jokers when we were younger–I was probably a really good target. Once they left jelly beans on their bed that they knew I would eat. They’d made sure our dog had licked them first.

I’ve been known to pull a few myself–I used to tell my youngest brother that chocolate milk came from black Angus cattle–I suppose this is sort of a region-specific joke. Back in that time and place, Herefords were the most common and desired brand.

And I told my husband-to-be at the time that we didn’t sing our school song, we whistled it. He made the mistake of checking with my parents and then he married me anyway.

*What private jokes did you have as a family? What key phrases were giggle starters?
One of the things that can send us into gales of laughter is the mention of hearing aids, or talking about not being able to hear. Our grandad got progressively more and more hard of hearing as he aged. We were all gathered in my parents’ family room, and Grandad kept having us, or more likely, Grannie, repeat to him what was being said. My younger brother, the shrink-in-training at the time, said, “Grandad, have you ever thought about getting hearing aids?” To which Grandad roared, “An airplane! What do I need an airplane for?”

*What do you remember about your own children’s first laughs when they were babies? What silly things did you do to get them to chortle?
Almost anything could send son #1 into a fit of the giggles–getting down close into his face or rolling him around a bit or just talking silly. Son #2 was a tougher audience, but usually with some patience, he would laugh at the same things.

*What books, magazine, or cartoon strips were favorite humorous reads in your family?
We always read “the funnies,” in both the daily paper and the Sunday comics. My dad liked “Dennis the Menace,” “Alley Oop,” and “Nancy,” as I recall. My own sons like reading “Calvin and Hobbes” and it’s probably pretty telling that #1 son loved (and understood) Matt Groenig’s “Life in Hell” at a very early age. They both, along with their dad, like to watch “The Simpsons.” And they love to make fun of me because I don’t like watching it.

*What comedy television shows or movies were favorites in your family?
As I’ve said before, we didn’t have television when we were kids. But sometimes we got to go over to Aunt Eva’s and watch cartoons. I think I enjoyed more watching my brother giggle at Huckleberry Hound than I did watching them myself. Later, my aunt kept my oldest son when he was a little one, and she introduced him to Peter Sellers’ Pink Panther. He does a great Guy Gadbois to this day. My grandad loved Red Skelton–again, it was as much fun to watch him as it was to watch the show.

*Do you ever play games that get your family giggling up a storm?
Password, when played in a multi-generational setting, nearly always set us off into laughter. My grandad, no matter how hard he tried, just couldn’t keep his salty language under control during the pressure of the game, which, of course, sent us kids into gales of laughter–our mother, his daughter, was not so amused. We would practically wet our pants when he and my dad, his son-in-law, were paired up and trying to get the other one to say the magic word. And my grandmother would throw salt at my husband and walk backwards around his chair when she thought he was winning at cards too much. All cause for lots of laughing.

*Do you have digital recordings, videotapes, audio tapes, or home movies with family members talking or laughing in them? I’m a fan of Susan Kitchen’s blog, Family Oral History Using Digital Tools, and she has lots of good tips for preserving these recordings. Perhaps you should plan to do some recording at the next family gathering!
I wish I did have recordings of some of those card games and games of Password. So maybe it’s time to use my digital recorder at the next family gathering. I will say that one of the favorite recordings that makes people laugh in my family is the an old movie of me, at about age 3, gagging myself repeatedly while cleaning my sunglasses. I’m decked out in my two-piece sun suit, and just can’t seem to get those glasses smear-free.

*Besides preserving audio recordings (and perhaps posting them on your blog!), you can post photos of family members cutting capers, laughing, or joking around.
I have done some of this. My grandmother’s 4 sisters astride the horse at Knott’s Berry Farm is a good example. I think the Anderton’s always had a good time when they got together. My grandmother was not rambunctious, but she did like to laugh and make others laugh.

This was a fun reminiscence. I’m glad to be a part of a family that laughs–some of those times and the shared experiences make our lives all the richer. They give us a bond with family members who are no longer around but who can still make us smile when we remember some of our times laughing together. And the stories repeated give other family members information about those they may not have known first-hand. I’m so glad my great-aunt Edna told me the story about “fur-bearing Christians,” for example. I can still see the twinkle in her eye when she told me that tale.

And I remember going to sleep with a smile on Christmas’ Eve because from the living room, I could hear my two adult sons doing what can only be described as giggling as they were playing “Guitar Hero.”

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I’m looking for a fruitcake to arrive in the mail.

Not just any fruitcake–it has to be one from the Collin Street Bakery in Corsicana, Texas.

This fruitcake has lots of memories for me. To begin with, when I was in band (5th grade through senior year) in school, we sold these fruitcakes every year as a fundraiser. As far as I can tell, the sales financed our trip to Hemisfair in San Antonio my junior year in high school. (Who thought taking 200+ high school kids to San Antonio in the summer on school buses was a good idea? I remember melting in my wool uniform slacks and our chairs sinking into the asphalt.) It may have also financed some of our weekly trips to out of town football games and various contests. I don’t remember selling them to anyone other than my mother who loved them.

Fast-forward 30 years or so, my husband and I are driving my parents home from what proved to be my mom’s final visit to M.D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. We sail through Corsicana and Mom starts waxing eloquent about the fruitcakes. Hubbo turns around and we go back to Corsicana to buy a fruitcake. Mom, of course, says we shouldn’t and that just because she thinks one sounds good doesn’t mean that she can eat it what with all the chemo. But she digs into it and sure enough, a bite or two satisfies her. Six weeks later, she is gone, but the fruitcake stays in my freezer for 2 years. When the fog lifts, I finally gather up the courage to discard it, blue tin and all.

The next year, someone from our church sends us one in the mail. My sons start their “ewwwww, fruitcake” spiel, but I am comforted by the site of the tin and all the pecans and sugary fruit and memories inside.

I’m still waiting.

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This week’s peanut butter scare got me thinking about after-school snacks. And more.

Our mom didn’t work “outside the home” as they say–but I don’t remember any snacks awaiting us as we alighted from the school bus. I do, however, remember occasionally getting a couple of nickels to buy a coke and candy bar (those were the days!) after school. In the first grade, I got out of school at 2:30, but I had to wait in “bus room” until 4:00 when the school buses ran. The teachers rotated bus room duty a week at a time–I was terrified when it was Mrs. Ryan’s week–she flew into a rage one week and hit me when I got out the sewing cards to pass the time. I still don’t know why that was the wrong thing to do but I do remember the terror and not being able to explain to my great aunt who kept telling me how great a teacher she was. That was the 1950s and teachers were always right and nutrition didn’t preclude lots of sugary treats. It was one of those coke machines with the bottles lined up in a vertical row down one side of the machine and all you could see were the pop caps through the skinny glass door, and you pushed down a short, fat metal lever after you put your nickel in. It was a real luxury to get to stroll down the hall, past Mr. Wright, the Principal’s office, and all the other now-darkened 1st and 2nd grade rooms, to the snack machines standing just outside the cafeteria. Sometimes we bought peanuts and put them in our coke bottles–it wasn’t the food as much as it was another way to pass time until it was time to home.

The other thing I remembered was one of the times we got to go over to our great Aunt Eva’s after school. She was our Granddad Osborne’s sister and married to our Grandmother Osborne’s brother. Our dad worked for her husband Uncle George and we probably saw them more than we saw our Osborne grandparents because we often lived just across “the orchard,” (home of one pear tree and several failing elms and at least 2 of our tree houses) from them. We loved going to Aunt Eva and Uncle George’s–they had a television, a big yard, a piano and a pump organ, indulgent ways, two lily ponds in the yard–those terrified my mom but they fascinated me–see indulgent ways above –Aunt Eva had a yard full of flowers and a huge vegetable garden. She was also likely to have guineas and bantam chickens (sometimes she kept the chicks in a box in the chair beside her in the house) and very, very fat pug dogs, which her grandchildren called “JinglePig” because they wore so many tags as they waddled through the house. She did oil painting and china painting and had a kiln in her house and had little tiny bottles of Dr. Pepper under her sink out on the back porch that we had to walk right by to enter her house. We looked at those particularly longingly each time we went in. She let us paint and fired our tiles for us. We still have them. There was a big bell out in the yard that her parents had used to call the family and workers to dinner–they didn’t care if we rang it at will when we came over. One of my mom’s favorite stories was one day when she’d relented and let me go over for a visit, she asked me if I’d told all the family secrets (which gives you a read on how she felt about us kids going over there). My answer was “What family secrets?”

But I remember one day getting to go to Aunt Eva’s after school and her fixing my brother and I a snack–leftover biscuits from breakfast, some sort of meat–probably a piece of steak, lettuce, tomato, and what I found the strangest of all, French salad dressing. I can’t really tell you why that is such a vivid memory for me. Aunt Eva and Uncle George had a table that folded down from the wall–it was put down, my brother and I were perched there at the table, and there was a little room off where that table was, and in that little room was the stove and fridge and a little counter space, and when she brought those little sandwiches out, I just remember being so amazed that someone would put French salad dressing on a sandwich. In retrospect, I’m not surprised. Aunt Eva didn’t follow rules recipes, of any sort. And I have to admit to being that way myself. I find myself reading through recipes–whether for making food or building something or crafting an item–but then I start thinking about ways to “make it my own.” My visiting brother was looking at my house shoes the other day–I’d cut the toes out of them. I told him I was channeling Aunt Eva–they were hot but I still needed to have them to wear for the sole support. So I’d modified them. I thought she would approve. And I’ve been known to put French dressing on a sandwich now and then as well. I think she was just ahead of the curve of putting Ranch dressing on everything.

Back to peanut butter. My brother was the master of peanut butter for after school snacks. He had it down. He’d get out the peanut butter, the jelly, sometimes honey or syrup instead, get out the bread, and always a saucer and a knife. Through lots of experience, he’d mastered the precise proportions. First he’d scoop out the peanut butter. Just the right amount amount, scraped off on the edge of the saucer and then moved to the middle of the saucer. Next came the jelly or the honey. It was ok to use the same knife in the jelly jar because he could scrape off all the peanut butter on the edge of the saucer–it was usually strawberry jelly–our dad didn’t like grape jelly, but we did, so sometimes it was grape. But it could also have been apple butter or some other kind of jelly. Or honey. Or maybe even pancake syrup. Like I said, he had it down–he liked “mixing it up.”

And then he really did start stirring up the peanut and the sweet additive of choice. When it reached just the right consistency, then he started spreading it on the bread. It was usually white bread, of course. Sometimes it was saltine crackers, but usually bread. He topped it off with another slice, and with a glass of milk, he was set. There was never any peanut butter left over–he always got just the right amount for one sandwich and that’s all he ever ate. And he cleaned up after himself. What a guy.

I don’t remember what I ate–I know it wasn’t peanut butter. I really didn’t like peanut butter. I had a roommate who ate peanut butter for breakfast which I thought was slightly gross–she probably thought the same thing about my eggs and toast. I’ve grown to like peanut butter very much. But I remember my brother eating it often–he loved it. The peanut butter in my cabinet had the magic 21111 number. I probably won’t get around to sending in the lid, but I’ve pulled the jar out and bought a new one.

Amazing what the talk of salmonella can bring back.

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This is my brothers and me at the house where our great Aunt Lorene (of bladder training fame) was working as caretaker for an elderly woman in Beaver County, Oklahoma, probably about 1964. Check out the wallpaper in the background.This picture re-appeared out of my grandmother’s things–it was probably one my mom had sent her and she had it enlarged and framed which is how I found it.

The gifts aligned in front brought back all sorts of memories. The basket of apples, the horse and the clock, which also helped me date the picture, reminded me of Mom and Aunt Lorene “decorating” the room for the boys that had been built on the back of the house we moved into when we moved back from South Dakota. The year I was in the 6th grade, and that Thad was in the 5th, and that Mike went to kindergarten, we lived in an apartment above our grandmother’s country store in Canning, South Dakota. When we decided not to buy land there and stay, we moved back to Perryton to the small house my folks had lived in right after they married and that I’d come home to after being born. It was two bedrooms, and now it was too small for we three, so a room and (I think) another bathroom had been built on the back for the boys.

This mean bedspreads and curtains had to be made, so Mom and Aunt Lorene sprang into action–I don’t know if Aunt Lorene already had the fabric–it’s possible, but it was red with insets of horses and apple trees–hence the things under the Christmas tree. It was certainly a different time–I’m not sure 8 and 12 year old boys would go for that now. (Maybe they didn’t then, but they certainly didn’t say so.)

It looks like Mike and Thad have also been the recipients of an ear of corn with a harmonica implanted. I think the transistor radio was Thad’s, though I’m pretty sure I coveted it. And the walkie talkie-was undoubtedly theirs as well. The game of Concentration was undoubtedly a family game–I remember playing it a lot–it took forever to set up, but it was fun. I really didn’t have much call to use a muff in that part of the county, but I liked having it as a fashion statement, along with those glasses, don’tchaknow? Don’t think I wore the hat much–it would have mussed that great hair. I think there’s also a photo album of some sort and a some sort of Christmas ornament. Mike’s truck is red–to match their room, no doubt.

I wish I could seee the boys’ boots better–those and the Levis and the buzz cuts were constants for them. I sort of remember getting that lavendar outfit–out of some sort of polyester, as I recall, which was great since it meant no ironing–”wash and wear” we called it. And I’m pretty sure there was an argument about the hemline.

Youngest brother Mike recently told my sons that he’s looking at me like that because I’d just hit him and he didn’t know why–hmmmmm. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have done that.

Here’s hoping for the generation of some great family memories for you and yours this holiday–and that someone’s taking pictures.

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I think all families have stories about bathrooms and underwear. And they’re nearly always told with a grin.

Today we were leaving work and I stopped by the bathroom on the way out. I caught up with my colleagues at the elevator and of course comments ensued. But it reminded me to tell them about an assistant I used to have who always reminded me of how dangerous it was to get on the road without stopping by the bathroom first. I’m sure it would be problematic to have a wreck and suffer internal injuries with a full bladder, but somehow it just always seemed pretty low on my list of considerations as I got ready to get on I-35 for the 40 minute commute home.

Then, of course, one of the other colleagues related how her mother really had always told her and her sibs to have on clean underwear when they left the house. We never got that particular speech at home, unless we were going to the doctor, but it did remind me of my mom telling about taking her 2 aunts to visit their parents’ (and grandparents’) graves.

This would have been about a 4 hour trip. Sometime into the journey, Aunt Edna requested a bathroom stop, with which Mom promptly complied. When Mom noticed Aunt Lorene wasn’t getting out of the car, she asked her if she didn’t need to use the facilities.

“No,” came the reply, “I’m training my bladder.”

I don’t know if my mom laughed then, but I know she did many times later on, as did the rest of us.

This was so typical of Aunt Lorene. She was always training something. She got me started on a quilt of the state birds when I was about 10. I still have most of the pieces and I WILL finish it one of these days. (This project has been complicated by the fact that Aunt Lorene’s house burned with blocks for the states from Texas up through North Dakota). She taught me a how to make hospital corners and a great deal about cooking–she’d trained as an LVN in Albuquerque. She made lots of her gifts and I still like to make presents for others and treasure a handmade gift when it comes my way. She taught my mom a great deal about home decorating and making curtains and slip covers. She was a smart woman. But she did have that “training” gene. She was, after all, the sister to my grandfather who was referenced earlier as drilling holes before he drove in nails. Either one could fix or make almost anything, except peace between them.

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About a month ago, Brenda Dayne, of Cast-On:A Podcast for Knitters had a wonderful essay about knitting memory. I had a fleeting moment of thinking this might be about stretchy yarn, but Brenda didn’t disappoint. She talked about the memories that come when she knits–whether it’s what she was doing the last time she picked up the piece or the memories of the person who taught her to knit–the connectedness she feels as she creates. [Note: This doesn't begin to do justice to Brenda's elegant essay on the creative process and memories. Be sure to listen to it for yourself on her website.]

Today I was sewing and, as usual, my mind went to my mother and her old Sears sewing machine in the back bedroom in our house after we moved to the “big house” (not that big house–just one that more than doubled the 800 sq. footer we’d been living in). My mom and I didn’t get along all that well–what a surprise. Her trying to teach me wasn’t a smooth process–she came from a father who drilled holes in wood before he drove in nails, and I thought I already knew everything and certainly didn’t need her perfectionistic approach. Anyway, I thought I wanted to learn to sew and I proposed starting on doll clothes. She said doll clothes were too small and too hard so she thought I should start on an apron. An apron?!! Looking back on it, that’s probably her first sewing project in home ec in the late 1940s. I turned my nose up at taking home-ec–after all, I could already cook better than my mom and she could teach me to sew. Besides, it wasn’t quite cool to take home-ec, at least as far as I was concerned. But I still know how to gather a skirt and do a blind stitch and a hem stitch from that first project. Don’t know that I ever wore it. I also have an unfinished doll coat I “designed” in those beginner days–solid red on one side and reversible to red polka dots on white. Too small for any of my dolls, of course. So much for proving that point.

She learned to sew from her mother-in-law. She always said she was grateful for the teaching. My grandmother was an excellent seamstress–she bought good fabric and made beautifully tailored clothes–everything from her housedresses to her winter coats to her Sunday best as well as some of her hats and belts. I remember accompanying her on a couple of shopping trips to Amarillo, the big “city,” to shop for accessories–hats and jewelry, as I recall. I don’t remember seeing her wear any shoes other than her black tie-up, mid-heel oxfords, so I don’t think we shopped for shoes. I had no sense of style then–it was the 1960′s, man–what did I know?

My mom went with my grandmother to what was called Home Demonstration Club. They met in the member’s homes and I can remember being served some pretty yummy food. It was sort of like home-ec for grownups, I guess. They would sing the Texas state song (“largest and grandest” in those days), say the pledge to both the US and the Texas flags and probably called the roll. I just remember going into immaculate living rooms that had the shades drawn against the summer heat and listening to the “lesson.” It was usually a lesson on a particular sewing technique or some updated cooking method–I remember Mom and I trying out the hobo-meals one day after a club meeting–and then there was the time we used ham and pineapple rather than hamburger and potatoes. It was pretty good, as I recall, and a welcome change of pace from all the beef we ate.

Anyway, when I sew, I think about those two women. Memories of garments my mom made me through the years float through my mind–I remember opening a box when I was at college and pulling out a wonderful blue and green dress–even the buttons were blue with smaller green ones set inside. I loved that dress. Of course, it was double-knit–no more ravelly seams or dry cleaning or ironing. It’s probably still extant in a land fill somewhere. But I think of my sewing as a way to connect with those women–my maternal grandmother sewed a little but her skills weren’t up to those of my mom and my grandmother. It was a very proud moment one day when, as an adult, I asked my mom to sew something for me and she said, “Oh, honey, you sew better than I do now.” She may have just been trying to wriggle out of making whatever it was I wanted at the time, but I still like to replay that one.

She graduated to a much better sewing machine–I think she actually bought her Bernina after I did. I was married and we were moving, and I took out the $800 some dollars that were in my teacher retirement account and bought myself a Bernina based on the recommendation of a woman in our church. (It was probably a much better investment than leaving the money in that still struggling system.) I loved it from the beginning and I still have that machine. When my mom died, I wanted her machine for sentimental reasons, but that would have made 3 for me and that seemed a little excessive. My niece has it and I hope she gets to participate in the memory chain of the women in her life who have sewed–Mom certainly made her lots of clothes on that machine. And when my dad’s sister told my mom I couldn’t have my grandmother’s machine because I already had one, it really left a void for me. That was the one I really wanted–it might have had a motor on it, but the treadle was still there. The bobbin cases were smaller than a pencil and only about 1/4 as long. I didn’t want that machine to sew on, though I’m sure it still worked perfectly–as I said, my grandmother had cranked out some gorgeous garments on it–it was just the thought that this had been such a part of her life, and through my mother, one of her 6 daughters-in-law, part of mine. I did get a quilt top and I have her sleeve board. Oh, well. When my mom died about 8 years ago, it was a needle and a spool of thread that my dad chose to add to her side of the monument as an homage to that important part of her life.

So what am I to make of the fact that the garment I’ve been working on for a couple of weeks now doesn’t even come close to fitting? crap! [see doll coat above]

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