"You're Breeding A Scab On Your Nose"

Betty, Ramona and Ronald, Summer, 1950

 I wasn't quite seven years old in this picture - proudly holding up my baby doll and playing dress-up in one of my Mom's skirts - but I had already heard my Mother say those magic words: "You're breeding a scab on your nose." The admonition is termed a 'quaint Midwestern colloquialism' and means "You're asking for trouble and you're going to get it." Mom would more often use an old adage to warn me I'd better quit what I was doing than to threaten me outright with a spanking. And what might most often merit such a warning at the tender age of seven? Oh, probably teasing or fighting with my little sister; maybe pestering my ten-year-old brother while he was trying to build a model airplane or read a book.

Dad, Ron, Mom holding Leslie, Betty, left, Ramona right. Summer, 1954. (Note 14-yr-old Ron is almost as tall as Dad.)
  

By the time I was ten, my transgressions were more egregious - they would have included sassing, whining, dereliction of duties (chores), physical and verbal altercations with Betty, disobeying orders and any other "testing of authority" I could come up with.

Whining may have been chief among the reasons Mom would give me a warning. "Why do I have to...."; "I don't want to..."; She's not doing her share...."; "It's too hot...(cold) (early) (late)". She would only have to say I was "breeding a scab on my nose" and I knew I'd better quit whatever I was doing to irritate her.

I do my share of reading English novels and I have often wondered why we whine and the English whinge. I assumed they were derivatives of the same word, but they are not. Whinge comes from Old English hwinsian: "to wail or moan discontentedly", while whine traces to an Old English verb hwinan: "to make a humming or whirring sound." When  hwinan became whinen in Middle English, it meant to wail distressfully; whine didn't acquire its 'complain' sense until the 16th Century.
Whinge retains its original sense but now puts less emphasis on the sound of the complaining and more on the discontent behind the complaint. Whinge or whine, Mom would still be giving me the 'breeding a scab on your nose' warning.

I was lucky to have a Mother and two Grandmothers who had some kind of old saying for almost every situation. I just wish I could remember them all. And I wish someone could tell me the meaning of another one of their sayings: "Laugh before breakfast; cry before supper."

Fishing in Detroit

 Earlier this month I wrote about double cousins, mentioning that there were Mauderly-Ridnour double cousins. Pictured here are two of them with their spouses (and a nice stringer of fish). On the left is Murl Kendrick and next to him his wife, Martha Mauderly Kendrick. Next to Martha is my grandmother, Delphia Means Ridnour and my grandfather, Joseph Rufus Ridnour.
Martha's parents were Joseph Mauderly and Ida Ridnour. Grandpa Joe's parents were Kathryn Mauderly and Rufus Ridnour. Joseph and Kathryn Mauderly were brother and sister as were Rufus and Ida Ridnour. Therefore, Martha and Grandpa Joe were double cousins.

 The four of them were visiting Murl and Martha's son-in-law and daughter, Dates and Cleo Lessner - the two extras in the middle of this picture - at their home in Detroit, Michigan. I don't know if they caught the fish in the Detroit River or elsewhere.

What I do remember hearing about were the trips they made into Canada while they were in Detroit. To me, it meant they traveled "way up North" when in reality they actually went South to get to Windsor, Ontario, Canada from Detroit. (Windsor is the southernmost city in Canada.)

Knowing my Grandfather Joe's fear of crossing bridges, I'm sure he didn't relish going over to Windsor on the Ambassador Bridge. At the time of its completion in 1929, the two-mile long bridge had the longest suspended central span in the world. The style of the bridge is a combination of Art Deco, Streamline Moderne with some Gothic architecture thrown in.
Grandpa might have appreciated the beauty and engineering marvel of the bridge but he probably preferred going to and coming from Windsor via the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel under the Detroit River.

I'm not sure of their reasons for visiting Windsor, but with their interest in gardening and especially Grandma's passion for flowers, it might have been to visit some of the many large parks and gardens located along the waterfront. Known as The City of Roses, the Liebeszauber (Love's Magic) pictured above was designated as the City of Windsor Rose. It wouldn't surprise me if this was one of the many roses Grandma once grew.

As a youngster, I always enjoyed being around Grandpa's double cousin and her husband. They were fun loving people. Murl tried to teach us how to climb through a broom handle - a trick I don't think any of us ever accomplished. And if we ever came home and found a pile of junk in front of the door, we knew they had stopped by and found us gone. We'd say, "Murl and Marthie were here." It was Murl's way of letting us know we'd missed out on seeing them.

Droit de Colombier

Droit de Colombier - the privilege of possessing a dovecote - at one time was a symbol of status and power regulated by law. (Colombier is the French word for pigeonnier or dovecote.) I never wanted it as a status symbol, I just wanted a dovecote and its attendant residents for the pleasure of watching and hearing the doves. This picture of a circular stone dovecote is at Bemerton Farm near Quidhampton, Wiltshire, Great Britain.

While in Ireland in 1994, I stopped to visit Aillwee Cave in The Burren in County Clare. This dovecote was located near the car park. When I came out of the cave late in the afternoon, these doves were perched atop their abode. I love the stacked stone colombier. Doves and pigeons were kept as a food source. Squab can still be found in haute cuisine restaurants.

Having a fancy stone dovecote would be nice, but I would even settle for one built in part of a barn like this one east of Decorah, Iowa. If I ever had raised doves, I know I wouldn't have eaten them - though I did eat pigeon one time at my Aunt Leona's when I was young. And Mom wrote in her diary on Christmas Eve, 1936, "Caught pigeons this evening. Got 20."  She doesn't tell how they were prepared (Pigeon Pot Pie?) or whether they were for Christmas dinner.

As I said, I would just enjoy watching them; perhaps playing with them as this girl is doing in the painting Teasing the Doves by Emile Munier (1840-1895). This picture was painted in 1895 - one of the last produced by the French artist.

I certainly wouldn't race them, either. I might band them just in case they didn't find their way home from a flight. I've always wondered if this pigeon found its way back to its home dovecote after it rested for awhile on my deck three years ago.

White doves are the symbols of peace, love and as messengers. Even if my middle name, Irene, didn't mean peace, I would still love doves, still listen for their message and still wish I'd had a dovecote.

Foggy, Foggy Dew

The fog was already lifting when I took this picture this morning, but the dew was still heavy upon the grass. I've always loved the fog. Remember Carl Sandburg's poem: "The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on."? Such imagery in so few lines.


Foggy, Foggy Dew was an English ballad published around 1815 which has many versions. Burl Ives had a hit with the song during the 1940's. He once spent a night in jail in a Utah town for singing it in public. It was deemed too bawdy.

There are also two Irish versions known as Foggy Dew. The first has these lyrics:


Oh, a wan cloud was drawn o'er the dim weeping dawn
As to Shannon's side I return'd at last,
And the heart in my breast for the girl I lov'd best
Was beating, ah, beating, how loud and fast!
While the doubts and the fears of the long aching years
Seem'd mingling their voices with the moaning flood:
Till full in my path, like a wild water wraith,
My true love's shadow lamenting stood.



But the sudden sun kiss'd the cold, cruel mist
Into dancing show'rs of diamond dew,
And the dark flowing stream laugh'd back to his beam,
And the lark soared aloft in the blue;
While no phantom of night but a form of delight
Ran with arms outspread to her darling boy,
And the girl I love best on my wild throbbing breast
Hid her thousand treasures with cry of joy.


The second version which is the one I relate to was written by Charles O'Neill after the Easter Uprising of 1916. Listen to Sinead O'Connor and the Chieftains perform their version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13MQFCfCYdQ

The only time I don't like fog is when I have to drive in it. What about you, do you like fog?

Peplums Are Making a Comeback

 "Peplum, a short overskirt or ruffle made popular in the 1940's, is making a comeback. While the idea of adding extra fabric at your hips may seem unappealing, the flounce actually helps slenderize your waist and create a feminine shape." When I read that on my home page yesterday, I immediately thought of my Mother's black crepe dress with a peplum. I'm sure it dated from the 1940's.

The black dress Mom has on in this picture from December, 1965, isn't that dress. I don't know if Les and Mom and Dad were attending a funeral, but that is my guess. (That's about the only  time my Dad wore a suit.) I'm also speculating that her black peplum dress may have been one she purchased to wear to funerals - perhaps her Grandfather or Grandmother Means or to her father-in-law, George's - they all died during the '40's.

I do not remember ever seeing Mom wear the dress, but I do remember her showing it to me and telling me the extra material below the waist was called a peplum. I thought that was such a funny word. I could tell the dress was one she considered special. And even though she never wore it, she would never let Betty and me use it when we were playing dress up.
Maybe it was like some of the clothes I have hanging in my closet - something she always thought she would get back into some day. I wish I had asked her why she kept it - what meaning it held for her.

If you asked me if I ever had a dress or jacket with a peplum, I would say, "No, that's just not my style." But that is because I think of them being like the ones on this suit pattern or the dress at the top of the page.

I would never have thought about the JH Collectibles jacket I bought at Goodwill for $3.00 as having a peplum, though technically it does. A peplum is a short overskirt attached to a fitted jacket. Often the peplum was flared, suggesting a greater curve to the hips, (not something I need) typically worn with a skirt that also flared. In other styles, the peplum fits closely to the stomach and hips leaving the emphasis on the tight waist and are worn with straight skirts - or with slacks as I wear mine.

One of my spring cleaning projects is to clean out my closet. I'm going to donate all those clothes I don't wear - the ones I thought I'd get back into someday - even ones I've kept because they were once favourites of mine. But I'll still keep a few items that have special meaning even if I never wear them again - just as Mom kept her black crepe dress with the peplum.

Queen of the Underworld

Because I only listen to books while driving the short distance to and from the Y or the grocery and while on the treadmill at the Y, I don't like to choose books with too many discs - it takes me forever to get them all listened to. That's why, when I saw there were only five discs in the audio version of a book by one of my favourite authors, I thought Gail Godwin's Queen of the Underworld to be perfect.
Stephanie Zimbalist (remember her from the TV series, Remington Steele?) narrates this version. At first I wasn't too sure about listening to her voice, but she sounded like a young woman just out of college and when she got to the Spanish speaking Cuban parts, she was very convincing - not that I can speak Spanish.
"In the summer of 1959, as Castro clamps down on Cuba and its first wave of exiles flees to the States to wait out what they hope to be his short-lived reign, Emma Gant, fresh out of college, begins her career as a reporter. Her fierce ambition and belief in herself are set against the stories swirling around her, both at the newspaper office and in her downtown Miami hotel, which is filling up with refugees."
It didn't take long for me to get interested in the story line. I could relate to the time period and that the heroine was a young female journalist. To be honest, I don't think I gave much thought to the refugees fleeing Cuba at the time it was happening. Did I realize they had to leave all their possessions behind; that many of them were forced to give up ancestral lands? Even though I heard and read about it, I didn't really appreciate what was going on. It makes me want to read more about the Cuban Revolution.
Godwin introduced so many interesting characters - the Holocaust survivor who makes custom perfumes, the Georgia country girl who is groomed to be the madam of an upscale bordello, Emma's 'aunt' and the aunt's boss who are smuggling arms for the Cuban resistance, the other reporters at the Miami Star and the once wealthy refugees who take menial jobs in order to survive. Just following through on any of their stories  and Emma's would have made an outstanding book, but the book just ends leaving everyone dangling. I want to know what happened to the former madam and all the other characters. From reading several reviews, I know I'm not the only one disappointed in this book.
 In addition to making me want to learn more about the Cuban Revolution, it also made me wonder what my life might have been had I gone on to college and pursued a degree in journalism.

 Julian Barnes is the author of nine books, but this is the first time I've read him. He had been shortlisted for the Booker Award three times and last year won it for The Sense Of An Ending. This is a book about memory, aging, time and remorse. It is a book, that if I owned, would have sections underlined and notes in the margins. For example: "It strikes me that this may be one of the differences between youth and age: when we are young, we invent different futures for ourselves; when we are old, we invent different pasts for others." It isn't a very long book - only 163 pages - but it isn't a book you want to speed through - or if you do, you want to go back and start over as soon as you finish. It is a book to think about.

The real surprise read was Stephen Wetta's first novel, If Jack's In Love. Through most of the book, I felt it was just another coming of age story about a twelve year old boy and his first love. Jack has more than the usual family problems - his father and older brother act in ways that get the family labeled as trash. Their yard is overgrown and piled with 'treasures' collected from the curb-sides by Jack's Dad. The father loses his job and picks fights with the neighbors. The brother is a long-haired hippie doper who is the prime suspect when a clean-cut, preppy classmate disappears.
Jack is a smart kid who gets the best grades in school, but he is picked on and outcast because of his family. His romance with Myra is ruined because it is Myra's brother who disappears and Jack's brother who is charged with murder when the body is found.
I was especially caught by the ending of this novel and by the author's note immediately following the end. It may be his first book, but I hope it is not his last.

The Ethic of Reciprocity

I had the unwanted chance to practice the ethic of reciprocity yesterday - or as I learned it as a child, The Golden Rule: "So in everything, do unto others what you would have them do to you" (Matthew 7:12)  If you enlarge the above image you will see the heading is "Creston Police Department." Yep, kiddies, Grandma had an accident.
As I was backing out to leave the Y yesterday morning, I lightly bumped the car next to mine. I got out to look and saw there was a very slight dent above the wheel on the right, front (passenger side) fender and no damage at all to my bumper.
Had the other car been parked within the lines, I would not have hit it at all. They had pulled into and through two parking spots so they were headed out - but way out beyond where they should have been. I started turning as I was backing just like I've done multiple times before and would have been fine if the other car hadn't been sticking out into the travel portion.
Was I at fault? Yes, because I should have been paying more attention. Were they partly at fault for sloppy parking? I think so, but maybe I'm just trying to justify my own action. What I don't have to justify is that I did the right thing: I could have driven off; no one saw the accident. But I called the police and made out an accident report. The other driver couldn't be found, so the policeman left a note for her to contact them.
When I got home and told Bud about it, he thought we might want to pay for the damage if it was minor and not turn it into our insurance company in case it raised our rates, while my thought was, "Why do we carry insurance, then?" But I could see his point.
I talked to the other driver today. The estimate to repair that little dent is almost $600. I called my insurance company. We have earned the "First Accident Forgiveness" benefit due to being accident and violation free for the past five years, so hopefully our rates won't go up.
Did I consider even for a moment just driving off and not reporting the fender bender? Yes, I did. But I knew I wouldn't feel right about it even if I could justify it being partly their fault. As Confucius said: "To know what is right and not do it is the worst cowardice."

At least if I had to have an accident, it was a minor one. Thank goodness neither car looks like my brother's did a couple years ago.
There's another quote which applies: "Character is doing the right thing when nobody's looking." Even if our insurance rates do go up, I'll still be glad I did the right thing and reported my accident. I want to be true to myself* and to set a good example.

(*To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man." William Shakespeare, Hamlet)