I remember my grandmother asking me that question – under what circumstances I have no idea.
I asked her what she meant…and she explained.
It was the term used back in her day. When soap was made in large blocks. A slice for personal use was called a cake. She preferred Camay. And later on, Ivory.
Cakes of Soap 2019
And…oddly enough…now that I think about it…she was also the grandmother who made all of her grandchildren’s birthday cakes.
Every year. From scratch!
We chose the flavor.
Mine was coconut.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #43: Rain
What is rain?…
RAAAIIIN!!
RAAAAIIIN!!
RAAAIIIN!!
A warm July evening…
A small boy dashed from one puddle to another…his voice pitched high with excitement. His wispy blonde hair matted from the downpour.
Be careful Buddy!…
He jumped back from the edge of the concrete steps…onto the lawn. The ground soaking wet. He hopped. One foot. The other foot. Arms waving.
Do you like the rain?…
He stopped. Gaze fixed. On the grass. The garden. The fence. Through the rain drops. Watching. And listening. The summer shower hitting the porch. The roof. Dripping down his forehead. His nose.
He blinked fast to clear his eyes.
Short legs planted firmly. Arms spread wide.
His body momentarily a statue…
RAAIIN!!
Another hop. A small jump. A twirl. Fingers patted the evergreen bush.
The ground spongey. T-shirt stuck to his tummy. Shorts soaked.
The brick walkway puddled.
Splash…one blue sneaker. Splash the other one.
A two-year old’s happy tap dance. A smile plastered in place.
Do you like the rain?..
RAAIIN!!
Where’s the rain coming from, buddy?
SKY!!
Little wet hands reached out.
Unfolded.
Palms up…
RAIN!!
Do you like the rain?..
He paused. Pointed and…turned to his parents.
His outstretched arms raised in celebration…
A Victory V…
…and a final shout…
This post inspired by Cee’s B&W Photo Challenge. The topic: Cute Factor
Cute Factor! How could I resist this challenge? Absolutely impossible.
As soon as my daughter became mobile, she’d crawl…and eventually run…to the front door when she heard her daddy come home from work.
Carrying his guitar. After a long day teaching teenagers how to play notes and chords and…eventually…What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor.
She was ever curious about this guitar which was so often in her daddy’s lap. Capturing his attention. As he practiced and made music. While he sang. To himself. To her.
At times – apparently deciding that enough was enough – she’d toddle over to wherever he was strumming. Press her fingers on the strings…silence the music…and demand, as only a tiny child can…No tar daddy! Daddy would take a short break.
When he left the guitar case propped open next to the living room wall…
our little girl often made use of this just-the-right-size-for-a-toddler seat.
Nancy Merrill is hosting a photo challenge. The theme this week – Ducks in a Row
IN A NEW POST CREATED FOR THIS CHALLENGE, SHARE A PHOTO OR TWO (OR MORE) OF SUBJECTS IN A LINE OR ROW.
Several years ago I was honored to attend my niece’s wedding. A beautiful lavish event. Complete with a live band and spacious dance floor. My favorite part of the reception.
I wandered around taking photos from different vantage points. I caught this line of revelers about to start kicking in a unison dance. The bride, groom, aunt, siblings and grandmother.
Are we here to eat or play cards? You haven’t got a ghost of a chance. Throw one away you won’t have so many. Don’t bend the tickets!
Punt! Discharge!!
Card games: May I…Pinochle…Hearts…
Always accompanied by my grandfather’s litany of patter. To keep squirmy card players at attention. Snack crumbs to a minimum. Playing cards unbent. Always with a smile; however small, tugging at the corner of his mouth. The corner not clamped tight on a lit Pall Mall. The smile winning out at the last directive – discharge in lieu of discard – to get a rise out of my mother who was predictably horrified every time. Snickering ensued amongst the rest of us. Every time.
My grandfather – Opa – was a talker. A rabid card player. And so was I.
He did not offer endless pieces of advice…but a few come to mind:
The Ticket
I was 21 and had just started seriously dating the man I eventually married 3 years later. I was home that March on my college spring break…and spent a weekend visiting Opa and Oma. As we shared a booth waiting for pizzas at a local restaurant, he sat directly across from me. Oma was on my right. The conversation shifted from his questions about my nutrition classes…to questions about my romantic boyfriend. Who had sent a dozen yellow roses. To me. At their house…FTD!
What does he do? He’s a musician…
Uh, huh…? He’s going to be a music teacher when he graduates this year.
Okay that’s good. Opa’s expression at this point relaxed somewhat, but remained neutral. I suspected he was hoping I was in love with someone who would earn lots of money. Obviously that wasn’t going to happen. Never mind what my career would bring…but I was a year away from graduation at that point.
And then he got to it…
Shifting in his seat, he leaned forward. Looked straight at me, his glasses sliding down his nose.
His blue eyes bored into mine.
Honey.
Remember This.
Wait For The Ticket.
Immediately Oma kicked him under the table. Muttered his name in a warning.
Waiting for my reply, he repeated:
Wait For The Ticket.
Never breaking his gaze. Uncharacteristically serious.
I nodded. Not really embarrassed, I kept my reaction as noncommittal as possible.
He didn’t want me to repeat his history.
Breastfeeding Is Best
Opa was beyond excited at the prospect of becoming a great grandfather. When I was expecting my first child, he would check in with me every so often to ask about my health. And plans for the baby. Including what the baby’s diet would be. I told him I was planning to exclusively breastfeed. He was thrilled. Your Oma breastfed your mother for a year!
He was one of the first people I called when my daughter was born. His first words…after congratulating me…were:
If You Breastfeed Her For The First Year Everything Will Be Fine!
Papa showed me how to play the classic simple song. A waltz actually. On his piano.
Sitting right beside me. Just the 2 of us.
At his big old house in Cincinnati, Ohio. One warm day in the 1960’s during a rare family visit.
I was only 8 years old. I wish it had been the first of many lessons.
Papa, my paternal grandfather, was born March 9, 1886 in Chicago, Illinois. The middle child of five. I don’t know much about his early life except he met Grammy when passing through her small rural Tennessee town. He often traveled by train from Cincinnati, working as a lumber inspector for his brother’s company. He rented a room in my grandmother’s childhood home during stops in Graysville. He eventually won her over…and that was that!
Papa and Grammy married and raised my father and his older sister in Cincinnati, where Papa owned and operated a lumber company. No small feat for a man with only an 8th grade education.
I probably saw Papa maybe a dozen times before he died unexpectedly at the age of 78. Cincinnati was very far away from where I lived on the east coast. Visits did not happen often. The last one was a whirlwind car trip a few weeks before he died.
Papa and me
What do I remember about Papa?
He was a short quiet man with kind brown eyes. Papa loved to put on his cap and go for long walks. Sometimes he asked me – just me! – to join him. During one of those walks, he stopped, plucked a wide blade of grass from a nearby patch and carefully positioned it between the sides of his thumbs. He pressed his thumbs together…held them up to his mouth, took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks…and blew out…. It whistled!
Was this magic?
He then plucked one for me. And waited calmly until I was able to make it whistle all by myself.
I’m (obviously) still impressed all these years later.
I learned how to play chopsticks on the piano during one long…patient…lesson with him. Later, in their sunny kitchen, we’d sit across from each other by the window and play double solitaire. Or a new card game he taught me called 7Up. At the metal table with the shiny sides and checkered formica top.
Papa and me circa 1958-59
Sadly our connection was short lived, but fortunately he left his loving stamp on my memory…and my heart.
Happy Birthday Papa!
Fishing in Tennessee
[ps…Papa would be thrilled to know…that coincidentally…his middle name is the same as his great great grandson’s first name…and…also coincidentally…they were both born on the 9th day of the month…]
This post inspired by Cee’s B&W Photo Challenge. The topic this week: Tender Moments
Being a big sister is not always easy.
I know that from experience, as I was a big sister 4 times. By the time my youngest sibling was born, I was in high school and became more of a surrogate parent than a sister.
My daughter was almost 6 when her brother was born. Five and three quarters! she would be quick to remind us.
The transition to sharing parental attention was a challenge I understood and tried to make as smooth as possible for her.
Without shortchanging her little brother.
Well, my husband and I got lucky. And with some guidance on our part…their relationship blossomed from the start. Her love for her brother was palpable. As was his for her. Not without some healthy competition of course. And normal periodic friction. Racing to the front door to be first. To the car for the front seat (Shotgun!). And down the stairs to see what Santa brought.
But there were also the quieter moments. Looking at picture books.
Playing games. Giggling at secret jokes.
And sitting under the backyard trees exploring what was hidden in the grass.
Big sister age 6½…exploring nature with little brother…age 1¾
Their childhood together lasted until he was 12 and she was 18 and left home for college. Nineteen years ago.
But their connection remains solid to this very day.
one letter UP ~ diary 2.0 