Fair Night

66 this morning and cloudy. The promised rain did not materialize. We had about 4 drops. Watering the gardens continues. The day turned sunny and nice. But no rain.

It's a quiet night on the ridge.

No neighbors' trucks, no cars, only one lonely four-wheeler venturing across all evening.

Why?

Because this is county fair week, and Friday and Saturday nights are the big nights--truck pulls, tractor pulls, who-knows-what-else-pulls. Biggish named bands performing. Big nights for livestock auctions. The carnival will be in full swing too, and the food vendors will be doing big business.

Which is why it's so quiet on Railey Ridge. Some local kids are in 4-H or FFA and have their animals and other projects on exhibit. For older people it's the bet opportunity to meet up with people they haven't seen in a while, especially during the pandemic.

For us, well, it's a time to enjoy the peace. The ridge is the way I remember from my earlier days here. No noise. Just us and our dogs and the quiet, quiet sky.

There are of course the night creatures' evening chorus. Tree frogs, bullfrogs, some kind of insect that's not a cicada--not our turn this year--and far off a lonesome whippoorwill. In the sky a jet blinks tiny lights, way up high, and a satellite makes it solitary way across the blackness. The moon is not up so the stars hold dominion and it's quite a show they're making of it. 

We, on the porch, sip our wine, pet the dogs, clear off the porch swing so the cat can get up there in "his" swing, and listen to the night sounds. No bands, no revving engines, no roar of carnival and equipment. 

I understand those who enjoy the fair. We used to be there every year, and every night of the fair's run, when our sons were young. We visited and cheered the pulls and exclaimed over the prices at the livestock sales and ate corn on the cob and barbecued chicken and ice cream. The boys were all over the fairgrounds, stopping now and again to ask for a few dollars and disappearing into the crowds. It was fine, back then, to let them run because it was a safe place. Or so we thought. I wonder now if it was really as safe as we thought but fortunately no harm befell our boys and they have fond memories of their days and nights during fair week.

Now, it's okay to not be there, but to be here instead. It's not that we're getting old, although we certainly are. It's more that we are more deeply appreciative of all that is right here, and that's okay too.

Although I do miss that barbecued chicken and cherry nut ice cream.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Hankies, Handbags and Memories

Ironing hankies for the booth this afternoon gave me some quiet thinking time. Ironing really is a zen thing, isn't it, especially when it's something simple like handkerchiefs.

The hankies reminded me of my mother, who always carried them tucked up her sleeve, in her apron pocket or in her purse. Hers were usually scented with Yardley's Lavender, and yes, she always ironed them, at least the ones I remember. As children, hankies were one thing we could afford to buy her for her birthday or Christmas so she was always well supplied. And when our granny taught us to sew during one of her extended visits from England, she started us out with hankies. I admit my first effort was nothing that would win a prize, but I was so proud of it. Eventually we graduated to making dolls clothes and later to using the machine to make skirts and dresses.

But I preferred to buy hankies for my mother rather than give her the clumsy ones I made. The five-and-dime store had such pretty ones, and they were only 19 cents. Printed with wildly colorful bouquets of flowers, they held me mesmerized just looking at them. Then there were the gorgeous flocked floral ones made of see-through nylon that were totally useless but so very elegant. Those were 39 and 49 cents. And the top of the line, the boxes sets of four, folded into fans inside of gold gilt boxes, some with embroidered flowers, others with monograms. Elegance times three, and only $1.19. But for a child of the 50's, that much money in our possession was as rare as having ice cream in winter.

Remembering Mom's hankies in her handbag got me to thinking about how different her purse was from mine. I wrote the other day about the odd collection of things in my handbag when I cleaned it out--everything from a pocketknife to pegboard hooks. Mom's was nothing like mine.

Peeking inside her purse was one of my childhood guilty pleasures. It seemed so grown-up and ladylike, two things I surely was not. Besides a pretty floral (and scented) hankie, there would be a round gold compact with a mirror inside, and a puff for applying the powder. The compact had a lacy etched design and closed with a most satisfying snap. In the same compartment of Mom's purse would be her lipstick, bright red hidden inside a smooth gold tube. So sensual!

Her glasses, a lady Buxton leather wallet (I never dared to touch that), a little vial of some Avon fragrance, tissues, a pen, and a comb inside a little case of its own, and that was it. None of the mishmash of screws, pencils, markers, measuring tape and other junk that occupy my bag. Even the purse itself looked lady-like, a good leather exterior with a gold clasp, and a handle that was NOT a shoulder strap. This bag closed with a lovely, solid snap.

Mom and me, 1988. She was so thrilled with the way I looked that day of my son's wedding. 

I wonder sometimes what my mother must have made of her rough-and-tumble oldest daughter. I wonder what she thought of my skinned knees and elbows, my harem-scarem rollerskating, my headless dolls and broken tea sets, and my choice to be called "Uncle John" in many of games with my siblings. I was a far cry from my English mother's idea of what a young lady should be. I know that my decision to move with my first husband to the "wilds of West Virginia," as she called it, made her very unhappy.

But today she would have been proud of me, as I carefully starched and ironed the handkerchiefs, aprons and other linens for my booths. She would have liked how neatly I folded them and hung them on a little rack for display. She would even have liked a lot of those hankies. As I grow older, I find myself surprised by the ways in which I am like her--my love of flowers and tea and of lace and soft pretty things, my pleasure in babies and china tea cups. So maybe the wild girl grew up to be more like the lady m mother so wanted me to be. I wish she was here to enjoy it; I am sure she would have heaved a sigh of relief that all her teaching was not in vain.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Remembering a Different Time

Me about this time of this story

The weather this week reminds me of a winter some 35 years ago. It was one of those cold, cold, cold spells and I was carrying mail as a substitute for a regular carrier who had retired. This was a rural route that traveled through no towns, only a few unincorporated communities. Most of the route was on one-lane roads, some of them narrow ridge roads with miles between mailboxes.

I loved carrying mail. I didn't mind the sorting and bundling or the long hours on the road alone. I liked the time to think, the rhythm of the driving, and I got really good at gliding my 4WD truck standard-transmission truck into the boxes at just the right place. I was pretty small back then, and it was a full-size pickup, so getting over to the window on the passenger side to put mail in the boxes was almost a contortionist's job. I had a system: I would pop the transmission into neutral and move my left foot to the brake. That allowed me to scoot over on the seat since I didn't need to hold down the clutch. Thankfully the truck (Michael J. Truck, his name was, a silver 1980 Chevy long-bed) had a bench seat. I left the window down most of the time so I didn't have to keep cranking it up and down. This was before power windows were so prevalent, and this truck had no bells and whistles like that. So in winter it was cold, in rain I had to be careful to keep the mail dry, and in dry weather I ate a lot of dust on the dirt and gravel parts of the route--about half of it, actually.

Route 3 was an interesting route. The former carrier trained me on its particulars, like the one lady whose mail he always carried to her door even though that was against regulation--and once a week she'd make hot rolls and have them ready when he came. Or the guy who lived about a half-mile from his mailbox--he'd turn the box sideways on a swivel mount, and when I put mail in it I'd turn it back frontwards. He'd look with binoculars from his house and if the box was straight he knew to come get his mail. This was also the place where I saw my very first cross-dresser, a middle-aged farmer who would dress up just beautifully with pearls, hose and lipstick sometimes and come out to greet me. I had never even known such people existed before. He was a nice man, although I thought the five-o'clock shadow under the makeup looked odd.

One winter morning really sticks in my mind. I was driving through town on my way to work and looked at the bank thermometer. It was -18 degrees, and here I was, going out to drive around for hours in the snow and ice with my windows rolled down. But I was warm, I have to say. I dressed for it. My clothes had to be warm enough, yet flexible enough for all that scooting and stretching on the route.

So I wore panty hose under long johns and jeans over that, 2 pairs of socks--one of them wool--in side boots with felt liners. I wore a long johns top with a flannel shirt, wool sweater and down vest. A toboggan on my head, but no gloves except driving to work because I needed my hands free.

Another thing I remember is putting chains on the truck. Even though it was 4 wheel drive, pulling off on the sloping road shoulder in ice and snow was tricky. So I would put chains on the right side only for parts of the route, and some days chains all around. I never had an accident and never slid into a mailbox although I did a lot of praying and white-knuckle driving sometimes.

Me and my boys and my truck. So young!

I carried mail as a sub for almost five years, often working long stretches full time, and I was sorry to have to let it go. But I was working full-time as a security guard by then and expecting my fifth son, and it was time to let it go. Had it ever been possible to get the job full-time, I am sure I'd have stayed til I retired. But then I would not have gone to college, not have become a storyteller, and probably never have started this blog. 

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Remember When?

A question on Facebook got me thinking about this: the things I remember that would leave people under 30 clueless if I mentioned them in conversation.

For example, duck and cover. How many of you remember the days of the cold war, when instead of fire drill we had air raid drills at school, and were supposed to duck under our desks, or go out into the hallways, and cover our heads? In case of a nuclear attack, you know. My friend Janet Smart has a new children's fiction book out on this subject, called, appropriately, Duck and Cover.

And bomb shelters. People actually built these bunker-type things in their yards. Not many people did it, but still. I have always wondered what good it would do to survive if the world's been nuked.

Tube TV--remember when the picture would shrink to a little dot and finally disappear? And stations went off the air sometime between midnight and 2am, and had a signoff, usually the national anthem? Then those stripes appeared.

Metal strap-on roller skates, with a key to adjust them provided hours of entertainment at our house. If the leather straps broke, we improvised. We also used parts from various skates to keep one good pair going. I loved to skate, twirling in circles, going so fast down a hill that I could coast for long distances, skating on only one foot...fun times.

TV dinners on aluminum trays. Those were all the rage in the 60's even though they tasted terrible. We didn't often get them as it was too expensive to buy them for our big family. But when we did have them, the Salisbury steak one was my favorite.

Teeter totters, the homemade kind. Dad made ours with a 30-gallon drum and a long 2x8 bolted to the top. A handle on each end, and we were set. We also liked to roll on barrels--stand up on one and "walk" to get it rolling. The thing is that if it was on a slope, the barrel would get going faster than we could run on top, and off we'd fly.

Dialing "O" and getting a live person on the other end. Those were the days, for sure!

Having to wear a dress to school because girls were not allowed to wear pants. And in our school boys couldn't wear jeans either. I remember when pantdresses came into style--basically a dress with a divided skirt. I made one with some pretty dark gray fabric and wore it to school. It was technically a dress, right? The assistant principal made me kneel down to see if the hem touched the floor. It missed by about an inch and he told me not to wear it again. Apparently he did this to many girls in that mini-skirt era and important parents complained, so after a few months I could wear my pantdress again.


Red China movies. At school, we'd be shown these movies all about the horrors of Communism and the threat of Red China.

Carrying a hanky. I had quite a few pretty flowered ones, and wish I still had them today as they are collectible now! Some were nylon with flocked flowers on them, absolutely so delicate and pretty. Useless of course, but who cared? I found some like that recently, and it sure brought back memories of standing at the counter at the Rohr's Five & Dime, wanting to buy a new one so badly but lacking the 39 cents needed.

Trixie Belden, Bobbsey Twins, and Five Little Peppers. I think I read them all. Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys too, old copies that had belonged to my father when he was young. Under 30's might know about Nancy and the Hardy Boys, but probably not Sue Barton, Student Nurse. I wanted to be a nurse back then and Sue Barton was my hero. I followed her through nursing school, various different nursing jobs, love and marriage, and even loved the name of her daughter, Tabitha.

This list could go on and on. What things do you remember that young people today might not know about?

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.