Thanks Pat. :-) {{{{{{{{{{Pat}}}}}}}}} LOL~! :-) 9 mil is a pretty close estimate. ROTFL~! It seems like that much sometimes anyway. I tried the folder trick, but just ended up with lots of folders..... <sigh> now they are all sitting on the other computer. I guess I'll need to try to move them over to this one somehow. Not to fear though....I have a whole new bunch of mail~! <G> Since I moved back to my old computer, which is really the new one that I used to use but it kept breaking but now it's fixed, anyway, since I moved back here, I can access both the @home and earthlink in one mail box. It sure gets confusing though. (like it wasn't confusing enough for me before ) <G> :-) kaffie PS. will you please tell Sharon I said Hello. Gosh, I don't think I've seen her since the old Fireside days...... > Like I believe you can't keep up with 9 million pieces of mail a day > just because you have ADD???? <VBG> You are forgiven, Kaffie!!! > > Pat > Las Vegas > > Kath wrote: > > > Pat and All, > > I have ADD too. (makes for a good surfer but *not* a good > > housekeeper) > > The Fly Lady is Great~! THE FLY LADY IS GREAT~! > > Boy, I sure wasn't putting her or her lists down....... > > I flunked out is all. > > Don't hit me, please. > > Kath ....back to the corner. : ( > > > > > Absolutely!!! Sharon and I both have ADD, as does my son and one of > > > hers. She is overwhelmed all the time and so far behind she is > > almost > > > catatonic about it. I live alone, she is raising her ADD son and his > > two > > > children (one 9, one 1). She needs help! > > > > > > Bless you! It ain't funny. > > > > > > Pat > > > Las Vegas > > > > > > Cece wrote: > > > > > > > The site is www.flylady.net I know you probably saw Kath's response, > > > > but for me I delete the emails just by looking at the subject line, and don't > > > > let them overwhelm me. <

Thanks Pat. :-) {{{{{{{{{{Pat}}}}}}}}} LOL~! :-) 9 mil is a pretty close estimate. ROTFL~! It seems like that much sometimes anyway. I tried the folder trick, but just ended up with lots of folders..... <sigh> now they are all sitting on the other computer. I guess I'll need to try to move them over to this one somehow. Not to fear though....I have a whole new bunch of mail~! <G> Since I moved back to my old computer, which is really the new one that I used to use but it kept breaking but now it's fixed, anyway, since I moved back here, I can access both the @home and earthlink in one mail box. It sure gets confusing though. (like it wasn't confusing enough for me before ) <G> :-) kaffie PS. will you please tell Sharon I said Hello. Gosh, I don't think I've seen her since the old Fireside days...... > Like I believe you can't keep up with 9 million pieces of mail a day > just because you have ADD???? <VBG> You are forgiven, Kaffie!!! > > Pat > Las Vegas > > Kath wrote: > > > Pat and All, > > I have ADD too. (makes for a good surfer but *not* a good > > housekeeper) > > The Fly Lady is Great~! THE FLY LADY IS GREAT~! > > Boy, I sure wasn't putting her or her lists down....... > > I flunked out is all. > > Don't hit me, please. > > Kath ....back to the corner. : ( > > > > > Absolutely!!! Sharon and I both have ADD, as does my son and one of > > > hers. She is overwhelmed all the time and so far behind she is > > almost > > > catatonic about it. I live alone, she is raising her ADD son and his > > two > > > children (one 9, one 1). She needs help! > > > > > > Bless you! It ain't funny. > > > > > > Pat > > > Las Vegas > > > > > > Cece wrote: > > > > > > > The site is www.flylady.net I know you probably saw Kath's response, > > > > but for me I delete the emails just by looking at the subject line, and don't > > > > let them overwhelm me. <

I got it Missi~! :-) Thanks. Woo-Hoo~!!! :-) Dang gal friend, you make that 4x4 look good~! <nck-nck~!> ;-) Yay~! Samantha will soon be here~! :-) Have to make up for lost grand-baby time. kaffie > lol can't say i have not enjoyed the brake.. > samantha is coming soon!! > can't wait > got my pics from trip back ill send you the only one im in.. > lol > love u > missi > > > > > > > > > > > > > > Thank you Missi. :-) > > I don't mind the bounces. (I'm the worst offender.) LOL~! :-) > > ( I average about 3a day when I post a lot. ) <boing-ee-boing> > > How did you put up with me~? <BG> :-) > > It's not bad with the cable modem. Don't have to wait for them to > > download. > > No worries Matey~! :-) > > {{{{{{{{{{{Missi}}}}}}}}}}}}} > > love you > > kaffie > > > > > yuck ill take it back any time ya want kaffie > > > your a sweetie thanks for all u do hun. > > > kisses > > > missi

Heeheehee~! :-) I better get my Paddington raincoat and hat on. Vicki has water b'loons and she's a wild woman~! LOL~! :-) kath > Maybe I will anyway, just for good measure! Don't go hidin' behind Granny > or Elsie -- I'll throw 'em anyway! vicki > > > SSSSSSSSSSSSSSPPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAATTTTTT!!! > > > GOTCHA!!!!!!!!! > > (vicki runnin' like the devil is after her!!) > > > hey girl!! love you too but if you call me a brat again, i'll throw a > water > > balloon at ya!! haha vicki > > > > > > > :P > > > brat! > > > love you > > > missi > > > > > > > > > > A brunette, who decided blondes really do have more > > > > fun, went to the salon to get a bleach job. When > > > > she got home, her husband admired her new blonde > > > > locks. "Thanks, honey," she said. "I hope you realise how > > > > much pain and suffering I had to go through to > > > > become a blonde." > > > > "Pain and suffering?" said her husband. "How much > > > > pain can there be in becoming a blonde?" > > > > "That was the easy part," said the new blonde. > > > > "What hurt was when they drilled the hole in my

No need to apologize. One of the BIG hazzards of e mail. No tone of voice and no body language. I know you are not down on it. It is not for everyone. You are a great motivator in your own right, as is Missi. I will take it upon myself to SALUTE you two for your efforts on Folklore. It has added a new dimension to my life. You can come out of your self- appointed time out, and know I was never upset. XX_OO Cece ----- Original Message ----- From: Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> To: <FOLKLORE-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Thursday, May 17, 2001 12:33 PM Subject: Sorry~! : ( Re: [FOLKLORE FAMILY] Just wanted to know > Oh Cece. I'm sorry if I sounded down on it. : > > I'm not~! I think it's a ***fantastic*** idea~! > I just couldn't keep up with it and keep up with all the mail I get. > I'm the one that's broke...... not the FlyLady~! > Please please please forgive me~! > Sorry Cece. > Kath........headin' for the corner~! : ( > > ----- Original Message ----- > From: "Cece" <mawcee@mindspring.com> > To: <FOLKLORE-L@rootsweb.com> > Sent: Thursday, May 17, 2001 8:01 AM > Subject: Re: [FOLKLORE FAMILY] Just wanted to know > > > > The site is www.flylady.net I know you probably saw Kath's response, but > > for me I delete the emails just by looking at the subject line, and don't > > let them overwhelm me. OVERWHELM-- I think that is a good word to describe > > housewives who have the problem of getting things done. They are > > overwhelmed. The e mails are gentle reminders of things to do. You > start > > out slow, at your own pace, and delete as you go, knowing you have not > built > > up to the the full Fly Lady status !! Beginners are called Fly Babies. > For > > those who love the computer, as I do, it is perfect. I don't know how the > > main Fly Lady would get the attention of someone who was hooked on books > or > > TV !! > > > > For those of you who think it seems silly-- I have given this a lot of > deep > > thought. I think there are quite a few of ADD adults walking around in > this > > world, who have no clue that ADD might be their problem. This program can > > help people who have low self esteem, because they have wondered "what is > > wrong with me?" Everybody can use a little crutch, and in this case, a > > little mop and broom !! > > > > Cece > > > > > > ----- Original Message ----- > > From: Pat Childs <pchilds@concentric.net> > > To: <FOLKLORE-L@rootsweb.com> > > Sent: Thursday, May 17, 2001 10:47 AM > > Subject: Re: [FOLKLORE FAMILY] Just wanted to know > > > > > > > Cece, what a wonderful idea!!! My sister, Sharon, is always wishing for > > > direction in organization in her household activities. PLEASE tell me > > > about this so I can turn her onto it!!! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! :-D > > > > > > Pat > > > Las Vegas > > > > > > Cece wrote: > > > > > > > Hi! > > > > > > > > Have any of you joined FLY LADY yet? It is a e mail program to help > > > > housewives organize their day. Some people have a built in, God given > > > > sense of timing and direction, while others do best with lists, > > > > encouragement, and now, in the age of computers,-- E Mail. > > > > > > > > I was just wondering if there are any Fly Babies here. Thanks, Cece > > > > > > > > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== > > > > Your Listresses: > > > > Missi <Richiele3@aol.com> > > > > Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> > > > > »§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== > > > Your Listresses: > > > Missi <Richiele3@aol.com> > > > Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> > > > »§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« > > > > > > > > > > > > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== > > A friend: someone who likes you even after they know you. > > »§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« > > > > > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== > To Subscribe or Unsubscribe: > send email to FOLKLORE-L-request@rootsweb.com for List or > FOLKLORE-D-request@rootsweb.com for Digest. > Leave the Subject line blank, and in the message write only "subscribe" > or "unsubscribe" without quotation marks. >

Happy Birthday Carrie. !!!!!! Love ya, Elsie At 07:22 AM 5/17/01 -0400, you wrote: >Today is Thursday, May 17th, the 137th day of 2001. >There are 228 days left in the year. > > >TODAY IS CARRIE CORSBY's BIRTHDAY >HAPPY BIRTHDAY CARRIE!!!

Like I believe you can't keep up with 9 million pieces of mail a day just because you have ADD???? <VBG> You are forgiven, Kaffie!!! Pat Las Vegas Kath wrote: > Pat and All, > I have ADD too. (makes for a good surfer but *not* a good > housekeeper) > The Fly Lady is Great~! THE FLY LADY IS GREAT~! > Boy, I sure wasn't putting her or her lists down....... > I flunked out is all. > Don't hit me, please. > Kath ....back to the corner. : ( > > > Absolutely!!! Sharon and I both have ADD, as does my son and one of > > hers. She is overwhelmed all the time and so far behind she is > almost > > catatonic about it. I live alone, she is raising her ADD son and his > two > > children (one 9, one 1). She needs help! > > > > Bless you! It ain't funny. > > > > Pat > > Las Vegas > > > > Cece wrote: > > > > > The site is www.flylady.net I know you probably saw Kath's > response, > > > but > > > for me I delete the emails just by looking at the subject line, > and > > > don't > > > let them overwhelm me. OVERWHELM-- I think that is a good word to > > > describe > > > housewives who have the problem of getting things done. They are > > > overwhelmed. The e mails are gentle reminders of things to do. > You > > > start > > > out slow, at your own pace, and delete as you go, knowing you have > not > > > built > > > up to the the full Fly Lady status !! Beginners are called Fly > > > Babies. For > > > those who love the computer, as I do, it is perfect. I don't know > how > > > the > > > main Fly Lady would get the attention of someone who was hooked on > > > > books or > > > TV !! > > > > > > For those of you who think it seems silly-- I have given this a > lot of > > > deep > > > thought. I think there are quite a few of ADD adults walking > around > > > in this > > > world, who have no clue that ADD might be their problem. This > program > > > can > > > help people who have low self esteem, because they have wondered > "what > > > is > > > wrong with me?" Everybody can use a little crutch, and in this > case, > > > a > > > little mop and broom !! > > > > > > Cece > > > > > > > > > > > > > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== > > Your Listresses: > > Missi <Richiele3@aol.com> > > Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> > > »§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« > > > > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== > For questions about this list, contact the list administrator at > FOLKLORE-admin@rootsweb.com > »§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

The site is www.flylady.net I know you probably saw Kath's response, but for me I delete the emails just by looking at the subject line, and don't let them overwhelm me. OVERWHELM-- I think that is a good word to describe housewives who have the problem of getting things done. They are overwhelmed. The e mails are gentle reminders of things to do. You start out slow, at your own pace, and delete as you go, knowing you have not built up to the the full Fly Lady status !! Beginners are called Fly Babies. For those who love the computer, as I do, it is perfect. I don't know how the main Fly Lady would get the attention of someone who was hooked on books or TV !! For those of you who think it seems silly-- I have given this a lot of deep thought. I think there are quite a few of ADD adults walking around in this world, who have no clue that ADD might be their problem. This program can help people who have low self esteem, because they have wondered "what is wrong with me?" Everybody can use a little crutch, and in this case, a little mop and broom !! Cece ----- Original Message ----- From: Pat Childs <pchilds@concentric.net> To: <FOLKLORE-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Thursday, May 17, 2001 10:47 AM Subject: Re: [FOLKLORE FAMILY] Just wanted to know > Cece, what a wonderful idea!!! My sister, Sharon, is always wishing for > direction in organization in her household activities. PLEASE tell me > about this so I can turn her onto it!!! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! :-D > > Pat > Las Vegas > > Cece wrote: > > > Hi! > > > > Have any of you joined FLY LADY yet? It is a e mail program to help > > housewives organize their day. Some people have a built in, God given > > sense of timing and direction, while others do best with lists, > > encouragement, and now, in the age of computers,-- E Mail. > > > > I was just wondering if there are any Fly Babies here. Thanks, Cece > > > > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== > > Your Listresses: > > Missi <Richiele3@aol.com> > > Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> > > »§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« > > > > > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== > Your Listresses: > Missi <Richiele3@aol.com> > Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> > »§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« > >

----- Original Message ----- From: Naomi U Rowland To: LBooth@netcarrier.com Cc: ESims2@advanta.com ; nursenuke@webtv.net ; Packspence@aol.com ; lgmadden@netcarrier.com ; no'donnell@advanta.com Sent: Friday, May 18, 2001 4:30 AM Subject: Fw: Bathing Suits for Women CHOOSING A NEW BATHING SUIT > > Apparently a true e-mail a woman wrote to her friend after shopping for > a bathing suit. > > I have just been through the annual pilgrimage of torture and > humiliation known as buying a bathing suit. When I was a child in the > 1950s,the > bathing suit for a woman with a mature figure was designed for a woman > with a > mature figure - boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as > engineered. > They were built to hold back and uplift and they did a good job. Today's > stretch fabrics are designed for the pre-pubescent girl with a figure > carved > from a potato chip. The mature woman has a choice - she can either front > up at > the maternity department and try on a floral suit with a skirt, coming > away > looking like a hippopotamus who escaped from Disney's Fantasia - or she > can wander around every run-of-the-mill department store trying to make a > sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of fluorescent > rubberbands. > > What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice and > entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room. The first > thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch > material. > The Lycra used in bathing costumes was developed, I believe, by NASA to > launch small rockets from a slingshot, which give the added bonus that if > you > manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protected from shark > attacks. The reason for this is that any shark taking a swipe at your > passing midriff would immediately suffer whiplash. > > I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder > strap in place, I gasped in horror - my bosom had disappeared! > Eventually, I > found one bosom cowering under my left armpit. It took a while to find > the other. At last I located it flattened beside my seventh rib. The > problem > is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature woman is meant > to wear her bosom spread across her chest like a speed hump. I realigned > my > speed hump and lurched toward the mirror to take a full view assessment. > > The bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately, it only fit those > bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out > rebelliously from > top, bottom, and sides. I looked like a lump of playdough wearing > undersized cling wrap. As I tried to work out where all those extra bits > had come > from, the pre-pubescent sales girl popped her head through the curtains, > "Oh, > there you are!" she said, admiring the bathing suit...I replied that I > wasn't > so sure and asked what else she had to show me. > > I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of masking > tape, and a floral two piece which gave the appearance of an oversized > napkin in a serviette ring. I struggled into a pair of leopard skin > bathers with ragged frill and came out looking like Tarzan's Jane pregnant > with triplets and having a rough day. I tried on a black number with a > midriff and looked like a jellyfish in mourning. I tried on a bright > pink pair with such a high cut leg I thought I would have to wax my > eyebrows > to wear them. > > Finally, I found a suit that fitted...a two piece affair with > shorts-style bottom and a loose blouse-type top. It was cheap, > comfortable, and bulge > friendly, so I bought it. When I got home, I read the label which said > "Material may become transparent in water." I'm determined to wear > it anyway.....I'll just have to learn to do the breaststroke in the > sand. >

No, it wan't me. I have it loaded, but haven't figured out how to use it. There are a few Cece's floating around. We have a CiCi's Pizza here. I wish that was me!! Cece--- I know what LOL is; what is ASAS? ----- Original Message ----- From: Asa Daniel <asadaniel@worldnet.att.net> To: <FOLKLORE-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Thursday, May 17, 2001 10:35 AM Subject: Re: [FOLKLORE FAMILY] Mango-Banana Smoothie (diabetic recipe) > Cece > > was you on Napster the other night? > > Asa D............LOLASAS

Hi! Have any of you joined FLY LADY yet? It is a e mail program to help housewives organize their day. Some people have a built in, God given sense of timing and direction, while others do best with lists, encouragement, and now, in the age of computers,-- E Mail. I was just wondering if there are any Fly Babies here. Thanks, Cece

A Different War by Jean Poynter It was another time, another place and a different war, but I can still remember standing in the bright sunlight, shading my eyes and watching for Uncle Charlie. Where was he? The sun was crossing the sky, a golden globe in a sea of blue, its rays burning everything without mercy. A slight breeze came in small gusts, making 10,000 acres of wheat ripple like a golden ocean. The toddlers began to cry, and one by one, they were taken inside for naps. "Do you think something happened to him in that newfangled auto?" someone asked no one in particular. "Maybe Charlie got sick and had to stop," someone else said. I got to worrying myself. Maybe I was never going to see him again. Maybe he didn't like me anymore. Then, one of the older boys perched high in the apple tree let out a holler, "I see someone coming!" It was like watching a long, smoky zipper separating two pieces of cloth as the little Ford came steadily up the lane. World War II was going full blast. Pearl Harbor had come and gone. Charlie's three older brothers had been drafted and were fighting in the South Pacific and in other places that the grown-ups talked about. One by one, the boys, all in their 20s, left the old, weather-beaten ranch house that sat in the middle of a vast stretch of land. Ten miles from Sprague, Wash., it had been homesteaded by my German ancestors in the 1800s. Uncle Sam had given Uncle Charlie a deferment because he was the last son at home. That didn't set well with him. He said he could fight as well as the next guy. One day he hitchhiked into town and joined up to fight the Axis. The family was devastated; I was bewildered. I was about 5, and I didn't understand why my favorite uncle and best friend had to leave. Somehow, I felt I was to blame and I hid in the hayloft, crying and sucking my thumb. My parents were divorced, and later, my mother gave my grandmother custody of me. Now Uncle Charlie was leaving me, too. "Jeanie, there are just some things a man has to do," he said when he found me. "It won't be for long, and I'll be back before you know it. Why, I couldn't leave your grandpa and grandma and you! And what would I do if God hadn't made these fields? You'll understand when you're older." He lifted me easily to his tall shoulders and we followed a well-worn path along the fence line that led to the main road a half-mile in the distance. "I'll betcha you could stay home if you really wanted to," I said, trying hard not to cry. The next morning, Charlie took me out to the watering trough to swim. It was big enough to water eight to 10 draft horses at a time, and it was 3 feet deep. Once every two weeks, Charlie had to drain it, scrub the green slime from the bottom and sides, and fill it full of fresh water straight from the pump where the spout was positioned over the edge of the concrete. Now, someone else would have to do it. "I still betcha you could stay home if you asked," I said, sniffing and whining. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and turned away from me, trying to hold the moisture in. I didn't understand that in order for Grandma, Grandpa and me to live in a free society, Charlie and thousands like him had to go to war to protect that right. He let me swim twice as long as usual and my fingers and toes were like wrinkled prunes when he carried me, soaking his shirt, back to the house. The next day he was gone, leaving a painful emptiness behind. I haunted the bunkhouse where he had slept with his older brothers and then some of the harvest crew, hoping I would find him in his bunk, his legs too long and his feet hanging over the end. Time passed and one by one, Charlie's older brothers came straggling home--one on a cane, one with malaria and screaming nightmares, and the other in a heavy cast, walking with crutches. None of it made sense to me. "Grandma, what about Uncle Charlie?" I asked one day, getting right in her face. Grandma looked away from me like she always did when I mentioned Charlie, making the sign of the cross. It was as if she sensed something the rest of us never voiced. Then one day, the mailman drove right into the front yard in a cloud of dust and grasshoppers, and handed a telegram to Grandma. He squeezed her hand and then he was gone. She told us later that he had the saddest look on his face. Grandpa and I were up on the thresher, me in his lap, with three teams of horses pulling us when I saw Grandma coming. Wheat chaff flew everywhere, billowing from the animals and the machine. I could barely make her out but I knew it was Grandma by her bright cotton dress. "Grandpa, look!" I pointed. He reined in the horses and jumped from the seat, holding me lightly as he hit the ground. "My God, Mama, you look sick! What's wrong?" 'It's our little Charlie!' she cried, shoving the telegram at him. 'He's been hurt, bad!' She kept sobbing and Grandpa kept reading the paper over and over. I started to cry, and then I was screaming in long, high-pitched wails that floated across the fields and made the birds fly from their tree nests and rabbits scurry for their holes. 'I want my Uncle Charlie!' I demanded. 'Where is he?' 'How bad do you think it is?' Grandma cried, ignoring me. 'What can we do?' 'All we can do is wait. It says here that he's been sent to the Veterans Hospital in Walla Walla, Washington, for treatment.' Leaving the horses in the field, Grandpa hurried back to the ranch house, Grandma and me running behind him. He cranked up the phone and asked everyone to stay off the party line, that his boy had been badly wounded, and he needed to find out just how badly. Grandma rang the dinner bell and the men on the harvest crew came running; they knew it was too early for supper and that something was wrong. Everyone gathered in the big kitchen, all 32 hands, their hats in hand, anxious to hear about Charlie. 'It appears that our boy, Charlie, is blind and paralyzed, and we don't know if it is temporary or not. His tank took a shell and caught fire. When he jumped from the turret, the tank rolled on him and his men had to dig him out of the ground. 'Now, I know that we always pray at mealtime, but let's all throw in an extra word for Charlie. He's gonna need all the help he can get!' It was the quietest meal I had ever seen. Some of the men picked at their food while others ate in silence, their thoughts somewhere with a young man who was fighting for his life. Charlie was a hero, no doubt about that. Family and friends came and went, offering sympathy and support. I tried to stay out of the way, but I wanted to know about my Uncle Charlie. 'What does paralyzed mean, Grandma?' She started crying and couldn't answer me. Finally, one of my aunts sat me down and tried to explain it to me. I finally understood that there might not be any more rodeos, riding horse-back and roping for Charlie. There might not be any more long walks to the mailbox while I sat on his broad shoulders. Walla Walla was too far away for anyone to go see Charlie, so we all waited, going about our daily lives. Grandma lost weight and got big circles under her eyes. Sometimes at night I could hear her moving around downstairs, an occasional dim glow from the oil lamp cutting feebly through the darkness. One by one, Charlie's older brothers got married and brought their wives home. The babies started coming and it seemed like there were diapers everywhere. I was delegated to errand girl and baby sitter while the women worked in the kitchen, cooking, baking and carrying firewood to stoke the range. Sometimes, just to have some peace, I would sneak away to the barns and cattle pens. Another harvest and another winter came, blizzards devouring the land in great gusts of snow and wind. I spent a lot of time huddled by the stove, wrapped in one of Grandma's handmade quilts. In the morning, when I first got out of bed, my breath visible in the air, I scurried and tumbled down the steps to the first floor, leaving behind a half-inch of ice on the inside of my bedroom window. One of my uncles took his family and moved into town where he had found a job in the steel mills. No one ever said it, but ever after that, I looked at him as a traitor. I couldn't understand why he left the fields. After all, they had always been a part of Charlie. Then one day a phone call came. It was Uncle Charlie. 'I'm coming home tomorrow,' he told Grandma. She dropped the phone and Aunt Helen had to take the call. I ran out to the fields to tell Grandpa the news. I had mud up to my knees, but I didn't care. It was springtime and my Uncle Charlie was coming home. Work was done for the day. Grandpa brought some of his homemade brew up from the root cellar and everyone celebrated. The following morning, when the rooster crowed and the hens were scratching, I was up and moving. I kept following Grandma from stove to table and back again until she stopped and braided my hair. The women were already setting up tables on the front porch and in the shade of the apple tree. Throughout the morning, they piled them full of food, covering it all with dishcloths. The morning dragged slowly as first one person and then another walked to the head of the lane, shaded his eyes, looked and came back. We were all starting to get hungry but no one had the nerve to brave Grandma's wooden spoon. She used it with talent. The babies were whining and fussing and the grown-ups were bickering, but over nothing of real importance. One by one, people were stretching out under the apple tree and in whatever other shade they could find. Finally, well after lunchtime, my older cousin saw a car coming up the lane. Everyone jumped up and ran into the sun. We waited with bated breath, but then we could see it was only the mailman. He had a Sears catalog that wouldn't fit into the roadside mailbox. Then someone said they were going to eat, no matter what Grandma said. She stood in front of one of the tables and shook her wooden spoon at us. 'Nobody is getting a bite to eat,' she threatened, 'until Charlie gets here!' 'Ah, come on, Mama, we're all hot and tired and hungry,' Uncle Tom coaxed. 'I'll beat you if you come near!' she retorted. Uncle Ted, easily a foot taller than Grandma, could have taken the spoon away from her, but he respected her too much. Now everyone was standing around, smothering snickers and giggles, choking back laughter, watching the drama between mother and son play out. 'Hey, Ted!' Frank called from the back of the crowd, 'better watch Mama 'cause she's got that look in her eyes!' 'Don't you make fun of me, Mister!' she cried. Everyone got quiet and backed away, watching that spoon. Uncle Ted was 6 foot 3 inches in his socks and he weighed almost 200 pounds. Grandpa grinned and kept his mouth shut. Then it happened. Another car was coming up the lane. When the little Ford pulled into the yard, there was no doubt about it. It was Uncle Charlie. But what had kept him, and why had he been three hours late? Everyone crowded around the car - and there she sat, the prettiest thing I had ever seen. Charlie had brought his new bride home, a nurse who had taken care of him in the hospital. He introduced us to Crystal and she jumped out of the car from the driver's seat with a smile, the friendliest smile a stranger could give. She went to the back of the car, opened the trunk, and everyone crowded forward, trying to see in. I was part way back in the crowd, and all I could see was that she was struggling with something. Then a couple of men stepped forward and offered to help. They sat Charlie's wheel-chair on the ground. I had never seen one in real life, but this one was a mess. The wheels were full of mud, weeds and wheat stalks. Then I knew where Charlie had been. While everyone was talking and greeting the newcomers, I squeezed my way up to the front. I was standing a few feet away from Charlie, looking into his blue eyes. Why, he isn't blind, I thought. He's looking right back at me. Charlie could see! 'Uncle Charlie, can you see me?' 'Yes, Jeanie, I can see you. I got my sight back a year ago.' He grinned and opened the door. I climbed up on his lap, even though I was getting too big for that. His legs were bony, and leaned to one side. A strap held them together below his knees. He looked weary, and his head was too big for his shoulders. 'What took you so long?' Uncle Frank said, looking so much like Charlie. 'Everyone was worried. Couldn't you wait to see your wheat?' Charlie looked down at his legs and then quietly he said, 'I've got the rest of my life to wait.' Grandma was hovering close, tears streaking her face, and he held his arm out to her. She rushed into it and hugged him tightly. Then Charlie sat me back on the ground. Then he swung his legs out with his hands, grabbed the arms of his chair, and lowered himself into the seat. His shoulders rippled with the effort. He patted his leg and I jumped back into his lap. Uncle Doug, so much like Grandma, stepped forward and started pushing Charlie up the dirt path toward the front porch. Charlie waved him away, and although it was a struggle, managed to wheel himself and me to the bottom step, where he stopped and gazed over the fields. The sun was already dropping toward the west, and the scene - the family crowd, the little Ford, and me on Charlie's lap - would have made a per-fect Norman Rockwell sketch. 'It's just as I remembered it,' he said, looking at the old house and the fields behind it. The years passed. My grandparents sold the ranch and moved into Spokane. Charlie and Crystal bought a small home in the valley, and the rest of the family moved on as well. Being my father's child, I left home at 14, came back, left and came back again. Whenever Charlie or Crystal opened their door and I was standing there, they never turned me away. I was a rebel. I seldom did what Uncle Charlie wanted me to do, but he was always there for me. Then one summer, when I had descended on Charlie and Crystal for the umpteenth time, they talked me into staying for a few weeks. Charlie was going prematurely gray; streaks and flecks of silver spattered his black hair. His precarious health was more fragile than usual. Sometimes I would find him sitting in the back yard, his hands folded in his lap, looking over the 5-acre parcel of land that he and Crystal had made into a small truck farm. Every summer they hired teen-agers to pick the vegetables and berries. One day I was picking raspberries and Charlie was sitting in his wheelchair at the end of the row watching me pick. He was unable to come any farther in the soft dirt. He had been talking about mundane things like the weather and market prices. Suddenly, he fell silent and I looked up. Then he started talking, and it seemed like he kept talking faster and faster. Charlie had dropped his head, perhaps ashamed to show his true feelings. Maybe he thought it wasn't manly, or maybe he just didn't want me to see his face, afraid he would be too vulnerable. I'll never know. One thing was certain: He was hurting inside. When he finally looked up, his face was twisted like he was in physical pain. There was berry juice all over me and I kept squeezing fruit between my fingers, making the mess worse. I was trying not to show the pity I felt for this man who had been like a father to me. I hated myself at that moment. I hated that helpless feeling of knowing that Charlie needed something I couldn't give. "At first, when I couldn't see or move, I didn't want to live," he said. "I kept thinking of those endless fields of wheat that stretched beyond the horizon like golden bands; bands that I might never see again. Then I realized that I could still smell them, and hear the rustle of the stalks as the breeze blew them against each other. Then one morning I woke up in my hospital bed and started screaming. I could see light and shadows. I realized God hadn't forgotten me. 'My eyesight got better and better, and one morning I woke up with the sun shining in my face.' Charlie kept talking, like everything had to be told at once, like he didn't dare leave anything out. His words tumbled over each other and, by now, I had stopped picking, and I was sitting in the dirt on my heels, fascinated by what I was hearing. 'All I can remember, Jeanie, is waking up and hearing the sounds of shovels digging nearby, and I could hear the men's voices, kinda hushed. Then someone said something I'll never forget: 'Hey, Sam, this poor devil's heels are up behind his head!' 'Then I knew it was me they were talking about,' said Charlie, 'the rodeo rider, the farm kid, the hayseed that didn't even smoke. My mind flooded with a thousand kinds of fear, but I kept my mouth shut because I didn't want anyone to see me cry.' With those words, Charlie summed it up. I had never realized the extent of Charlie and his heroics. I don't think he did, either. It was as if he had removed himself from that person for all those years. But everything that had been bottled up had finally spilled over, and I felt ashamed because I had taken him so much for granted. Charlie has been gone for many years now, having died in his sleep at 53. But he is as alive today as he was then, and I still miss him terribly. He left a hole in my heart that I've filled with the memories of him and his golden band of wheat.

Lydia Pinkham's Fabulous Compound by John Dinan It didn't come as a surprise when Radcliffe College's Schlesinger Library became the repository of the papers of Lydia Pinkham, of Vegetable Compound fame. It didn't matter that her fabled "medicine" contained no vegetables and wasn't a compound; Lydia Pinkham is deemed by Radcliffe as a woman who has done much for womanhood by developing and marketing her fabulous concoction. When asked why Radcliffe wanted Lydia's papers, the curator's eyes opened wide in surprise: "Why, for all she's done for women, of course." During the turn-of-the-century years, patent medicines proliferated over the American landscape. Almost every community had a regional brewer of some elixir or other that could cure anything and everything from flat feet to a leaning chimney. While these "medicines" were worthless as remedies for any ills, real or imagined, it has been suggested that the alcohol base (often as great as 21 percent) provided a certain psychological sedation and the geniality of a cocktail at a time when female drinking was frowned upon. After the panic of 1873, Lydia, faced with severe economic hardship, put together a mixture she called "the greatest medicine since the dawn of mankind." Selling for $1, her Vegetable Compound was touted as a mighty elixir for all Victorian "woman problems": "Some of the conditions which disappoint the hope of children are displacement of the womb, constriction of the ovaries, local catarrhal conditions, obstructed menstruation, and abnormal growth of tumors." Lydia suggested that women take the compound daily and "let the doctors alone;" in fact, much of her pitch was based on a distrust of the medical profession. What was in this compound? The formula, locked behind double-steel doors in the Lynn, Mass., plant, revealed a hodgepodge of roots--life root, Senecio gracilis; pleurisy root, Aselepias tuberosa; false unicorn root, Helonia dioca; and so forth--and the magic touch of ethyl alcohol, "used solely as a solvent and preservative." This formula was adjusted over the years to comply with various acts and laws as they were promulgated, including the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906, and the regulations of the Bureau of Chemistry, circa 1914, keeping the compound one step ahead of the law. Meanwhile, the powerful American Medical Association took a what-the-heck attitude: "Another day, another ingredient, but still essentially the same old female weakness nostrum. Grandma used it, her daughter tolerated it, but her granddaughter should know better..." (AMA Journal, Dec. 17, 1938). Given all of this, what is the value of the Lydia Pinkham papers? The answer lies in the personal correspondence solicited by Lydia. The Pinkham factory employed all female help, including the staff hired to answer questions in the fashion of a Dear Abby column, and thus provided a history of sorts of women's preoccupations of the day. The Pinkham papers are ensconced in the Schlesinger Library, but ample copies of booklets, trade cards, etc. published by Pinkham can be had at paper shows for only a few dollars. Two of these publications contain user dialogue: Facts and Fancies and Lydia E. Pinkham's Private Textbook Upon Ailments Peculiar to Women. One testimonial read thus: "Eight years ago I got into an awful condition with what the doctor said was falling of the womb. I would have spells of bearing-down pains until he would have to give me morphine, and when I could not stand that they would put hot cloths to me. The doctor said I would never have any children without an operation. A neighbor, who knew what your medicine would do, allowed me to give Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound a trial. I did so and I have never had a return of my old trouble. The next September I gave birth to as healthy a boy as you can find, and now I have two more children." The fabled Vegetable Compound delivers once again! It was the principle product of the Pinkham line of nostrums, which included a blood purifier, liver pills and a sanative wash. According to Lydia E. Pinkham's Private Textbook Upon Ailments Peculiar to Women, the maladies that could be treated effectively by Pinkham products ranged from anemia to rheumatism and included kidney diseases, colds, impure blood, mental derangement, hysteria and nervous disease, sterility, tumors and dyspepsia, to name but a few. Lydia was an influential woman in Lynn, Mass., involving herself in the spiritualist world and civil rights activities. Most of the purveyors of patent medicines found themselves wealthy and influential people. In at least one case, a town was named after one of these people: Ayer, Mass., home of Fort Devens, was cut out of Lowell, Mass., and named after "Dr." Frederick J.C. Ayer of Blood-Enriching Sarsaparilla fame. Lydia sold her patent medicine well into the 20th century and, with the respectful archiving of her papers by Radcliffe, her immortality is assured. The bottom-line question of whether or not the compound did any good can be answered "Probably yes." The power of suggestion coupled with the medicinal effects of an afternoon cocktail probably did much to create a generalized euphoria. And who knows? All those roots may have had some curative effects after all. Just look at the proliferation of "natural remedies" available today, and how major drug companies investigate barks, herbs and who knows what else!

Egg Shortage by Vera Easton In 1906, when the North Dakota homesteaders came by train or by wagon, many did not bring chickens. But my mother had managed to bring along a few prize laying hens. We didn't have many eggs, but we did have enough for our small family to eat or bake with. Easter was two weeks away. We kids wanted to dye some eggs. Mama told us, "Yes, we can, but you must have only white eggs." Our mixed chickens gave us all shades of white, to quite a dark brown. So, we watched every day for pure white eggs. Now, every chicken does not lay an egg every day, so some days we found only one white egg. On a good day, we might find two or even three nice white eggs. We put them aside to save for dyeing. We had more than a dozen to dye on Easter eve. "We'll do it after dinner," Mama said. Dyeing eggs in those days was a bit more complicated than it is now. We didn't have all the pretty colors and fancy directions. We found other ways to make them red, pink, green or blue. We used scraps from calico dresses, or some colored paper that came in an apple box, or even--would you believe?--the peeling from a big onion. Any or all of it was wrapped around an egg and boiled, and in that way we made pretty Easter eggs. The weather was beautiful. The door stood wide open. Someone looked out that door and saw a wagon coming our way. Mama thought it must be a load of Indians; they often came in winter. They came closer. Papa said, "No, it's not Indians. It's the Danford family." There were three kids and their mother and father. They were cousins on Papa's side. They lived on a new homestead, too, about 10 miles south of ours. Well, of course, they came for supper, and certainly they were not going home 10 miles on a dim prairie road after dark. Mama was not prepared for company. Our sod house was one small room. But Mama was a good manager. She made a good supper with home-cured meat and potatoes. Mama and Papa stayed up until the wee hours, visiting and playing cards. We kids lay anyplace on our only two beds and fell asleep. My bed was little, but so were we. Little Ada and I could sleep together there. The Danfords had brought lots of blankets and quilts, and together they made a bed on the floor. Papa and Don and their little boy slept there. Mama and our baby and Ida and her baby slept in Mama's bed. It was lots of fun getting all settled, but that's how pioneers managed. Morning came sure and soon. We had not had time to dye eggs; besides, on Easter Sunday morning, everyone must eat eggs. Mama's supply ran out. She looked at me and quietly I gave her my box of nice white eggs. We were two disappointed little kids, but we didn't squawk. We just watched them gobble our eggs. They enjoyed them, for they had not an egg or a chicken at their homestead. We missed coloring eggs, but we liked feeding hungry people. Our eggs were a real treat for them.

The Mother of Invention by Eleanor P. Heath I grew up on a farm, the eldest in a family of seven. Money was never plentiful. In those days, when the Depression was just beginning, I heard many familiar adages, like this favorite of my grandmother's: "Make it do or do without." My mother's was "Necessity is the mother of invention." I saw her put that notion to work as she concocted nourishing meals with what she had on hand. She also sewed and made over clothing to furnish us with a wardrobe that was ample and stylish. Marrying and starting a family during the Depression, I applied these same rules to my own situations. Then, during World War II, I got a job teaching at a small rural school. However, I had to have a car to travel the six miles to school. I was fortunate to find a secondhand car that was within my means. My husband, being mechanically inclined, did a few things to it and declared it ready for me to drive. One Saturday, when I was driving my mother to a small town a few miles from home, I had a chance to show her how resourceful I had become. The car had been running faithfully for a few weeks; my only problems had been flat tires. I had learned to change them when I was not lucky enough to have someone come along to help me. I intended to replace them as soon as money was available. But now, suddenly, the car stopped without even a cough or sputter. Mother was sure we must be out of gas, but I assured her the gauge worked perfectly. She began to flutter like a mother hen. She had never driven and was not very mechanical. "What can you do?" she asked. "Should you walk home and get someone to help?" I could see she was not going to be any help--and there was no phone at home, so calling was out of the question. Leaving her in the car, I got out and, with an air of bravado, lifted the hood and peered in. That engine tried to stare me down, but I was not to be out-done by a tangle of wires, a few spark plugs and other unidentifiable parts. Ha! That little glass jug on top of the carburetor was empty, and I knew it had to hold gasoline. Looking around, I saw a chain hanging with loose ends. I remembered my husband telling me that he had to make over some of the motor parts and shorten the linkage to the fuel pump. I just had to find something to put that chain together. I didn't believe a hairpin would do. I stared at this mess of "innards." Then, imagine my surprise to see a small metal pin lying there. It looked like my missing part. The two ends of the chain were soon put together and I took my head out from under the hood to inform my mother that I had located the problem and we were practically on our way. However, there was still one small problem: How to get gas into that little glass jug on top of the carburetor? There was gas in the tank, but how to get it from there to the jug? I had no hose to siphon it with. I looked around in the backseat for help. My youngest was a baby, and there sat a stack of diapers, but how to get the corner of one into the tank? One day, while changing a tire, I had found the longest-handled screwdriver I had ever seen. It was just right to poke a corner of a diaper into the tank with. Three trips to dip and wring it into the jug filled it nicely. Getting into the car, I stepped on the starter. The engine started immediately. As we started down the road, Mother sat back, folded her hands and, with a sigh of relief, said, "You know, dear, necessity really is the mother of invention."

The Real McCoy by Juliana Lewis Do you know how we came by the long-used expression "the real McCoy"? It originated in the early 1870s, and was first used in reference to a young black American mechanic, Elijah McCoy. As a young man, McCoy expressed great interest in steam engines and spent long hours experimenting with them. At the time, most machines had to be stopped when they needed oiling, which was done by hand. This was time-consuming and quite expensive. McCoy began to work on a way to supply an uninterrupted flow of oil to the machines' moving parts while they were still in operation. His labors resulted in the development of a small cup with a stopcock that could provide oil, drop by drop, to the moving parts. His invention became widely used on stationary engines, railway locomotives, steamship engines and factory machinery. Any piece of heavy machinery that wasn't equipped with the McCoy lubricator was considered incomplete. Before long, railroad and factory inspectors examining a new piece of machinery began to ask, "Is it the real McCoy?" The expression spread and was perceived to mean "the real thing." Eventually, people extended the phrase to include many things other than machinery. McCoy was born in May 1843 in Ontario, Canada. His parents, former slaves in Kentucky, escaped to Canada in 1837 by way of the Underground Railroad. Once settled there, his father signed up with the Canadian Army. After serving the British government in this capacity, he was awarded 160 acres of farmland upon his honorable discharge. Elijah attended school and worked on the farm until he was 15 years old. After his 15th birthday, he was sent by his parents to Edinburgh, Scotland, where he studied mechanical engineering. After five years, he returned as a master mechanic and engineer. He worked in Canada for a year before seeking employment in the United States. McCoy accepted the best offer and became a railroad fireman on the Michigan Central Railroad. Observing that wood was used as fuel and that men stood on the running board to pour oil onto the steam chest of the engine, he put his mechanical mind to work on ways to improve lubrication. After two years of experimentation, on June 23, 1872, he received his first patent. Continuing to perfect his ideas, he obtained six more patents for lubricators within the next several years--a total of 57 during his lifetime. At first, locomotive engineers were reluctant to use his inventions simply because a black man had invented them. But despite their objections, the new lubricators were installed under the direct supervision of McCoy himself. Between 1872-1915, most railroad locomotives, in America and in many foreign countries, were equipped with his inventions. In the following years, McCoy received much recognition throughout the mechanical-industrial world. He was also well known by the youth of Detroit. As a counselor of teen boys, he showed little patience with any boy who put everything upon his back and nothing in his head. He firmly believed that anything was possible for those who applied themselves. Even at the ripe age of 80, he remained remarkably active and stood perfectly erect. Through persistence, McCoy succeeded during a period that was difficult for most black Americans. When the best engineering positions were closed to him, he did the next best thing by becoming a fireman, and made the most of his opportunity. The outcome was an internationally known master mechanic and inventor. His accomplishments, like his lifestyle, were genuine--the real McCoy.

"Air-Raid Warning Yellow!" by Peggy McClain Frailey "Air-raid warning yellow!" Those words meant that an air-raid drill was under way, as part of America's home-front defense plan during World War II. I was about 9 years old when my hometown of Mount Union, Pa., conducted its first "blackout," or nighttime drill, in the spring of 1942. The federal government had determined that the Eastern Seaboard, including Pennsylvania, was vulnerable to enemy attack and needed to be on the alert. These blackouts were both exciting and scary for us kids. My 12-year-old sister, Nancy, and I would pull down all the blinds in the house, close the curtains as tightly as we could, and turn off all the lights. Outside, streetlights were extinguished and storefronts darkened. All traffic was stopped. My dad was an air-raid warden, so at the first signal, he would grab his helmet and armband and rush out of the house to his post. My sister, my mother and I would sit in the dark in the living room and wait out the drill, which could run anywhere from 15 minutes to half an hour. It seemed like an eternity. My imagination worked overtime during those darkened minutes. I crawled under a coffee table, hoping it would protect me from any bombs the Nazis might drop on our house. We knew it was only a practice drill, but it seemed very real to us. And our imaginations raised all kinds of questions: "What if this is the real thing? Is our dad all right out there in the dark, maybe facing German soldiers?" We strained our ears, listening for the drone of airplanes like those we saw and heard on the Movietone News at the movie theater--or, God forbid, for the blast of bombs being dropped. My two brothers were in the Army, and the younger one was overseas, so I can only guess at the fears these drills must have caused my mother. It was always a relief when the all-clear signal came through. We could turn on the lights, open the curtains and blinds, go out on the front porch and watch the streetlights come on again. Mount Union was a small brickworks town in south central Pennsylvania, located along the Juniata River in Huntingdon County, off Route 22. The town was strategic to the state's defense production. Brickworks at both ends of town turned out bricks for the kilns of the big steel plants that engaged in defense production. The Pennsylvania Railroad's main line ran through town before crossing the Juniata to the east, between Mount Union and Kistler, and an automobile bridge spanned the river between Route 22 and the north end of town. A small airport lay on the outskirts. There were several documented "sightings" of spies and saboteurs in our area. A woman who worked in the library was interviewed by the FBI after reporting that a stranger had come into the library and looked at maps and photos of bridges. When photographs of a group of captured German saboteurs appeared in the newspaper, a local schoolboy recognized one as a man he had seen leaning against a house sketching something while he studied the nearby railroad overpass near the middle of town. During the practice drills, the local air-raid wardens stood guard at the bridges and airport, and at all the local intersections and entrances into town. These wardens became "certified" after special training, and they had the authority to enforce all the blackout regulations. My dad, Fred McClain, was appointed chief air-raid warden for Huntingdon County in the fall of 1942, and Civil Defense became a focal point in our home life. We kids were very patriotic and took a lot of pride in helping the war effort. My father appointed my friend Sally and me as junior air-raid wardens, daylight duty only, meaning that during daytime drills, we could be sent out as messengers. We had armbands and certificates and felt very important, although we never did see action. Our telephone was part of the county's "land telephone communications system." As such, we were a dispatch center for the air-raid signals coming in from the state or county civil defense centers. We never left the phone unattended. Whoever in the house happened to take the first warning call was instructed to get my mother to the phone immediately. She relayed the call to key people in the surrounding communities. There were four color-coded signals that could come over the phone: the preliminary "yellow" air-raid message, which was the first call to come into our home; the "blue-light" caution, which came 15 minutes later; the "red" message of warning, which meant that an enemy attack was under way; and finally, the "white" all-clear signal. The signals were sounded as 5-second blasts with 3-second intervals over a period of 2 minutes. Sirens or whistles were set up in communities throughout the county, but some rural areas were out of reach of the blasts, and this was a troublesome problem for the civil defense council. Most of the air-raid exercises were planned, although some were unexpected. Sometimes the state civil defense council determined when they would be conducted, and sometimes the county council initiated a drill. At first, the dates and times were advertised extensively in the local newspapers. Follow-up accounts about the drill's successes and problems appeared over the next few days, after the civil defense committee had met to review the situation. An ongoing problem was the inability to hide the lights of the kilns at the brickworks. Also, some businesses refused to cooperate with the "lights out" order and were fined. And there was an occasional problem with lighted passenger trains crossing the bridge over the Juniata, thus exposing the bridge. Though the drills were taken seriously, they did have their comic moments--especially drills that caught us by surprise. One summer day in 1943, my aunt, uncle and two cousins were visiting us from Philadelphia. My uncle liked to tease, and my aunt often became impatient with his antics. Their last name was White, and as such, it was a good target for jokes about the air-raid "white" signal. On this particular day, my aunt happened to answer the phone when the preliminary warning for an air-raid drill came through. My uncle had walked downtown and my mother was upstairs, away from the phone. "Air-raid warning yellow," came over the phone line. "All right, Jack, I know it's you," my aunt replied. "I repeat, air-raid warning yellow," the voice said. "Cut it out, Jack. I know it's you. What do you want?" My aunt was in no mood for jokes. "Ma'am, this is air-raid warning yellow!" The voice was insistent. "I'm going to hang up this phone," my aunt announced. Fortunately, Mother got to the phone just in time, having heard my aunt's side of the conversation. My dad had some explaining to do at the next civil defense meeting, but he straightened things out and our house continued to be a telephone dispatch center until the war ended. Few of those air-raid wardens, like my father, are still with us. My friends have memories of their fathers serving in various volunteer civil defense jobs. Besides the air-raid wardens, there were civilian plane spotters, who were trained to look for and identify aircraft flying in the vicinity. Some of my friends were messengers during the drills. It was a time of intense patriotism, not only for adults, but for us kids, too. Now I know how fortunate we were that the air-raid drills were only practice and that we never had to endure real bombings, like so many of our generation did in other countries.

Getting Even by Audrey Corn My little sister, Jennie, committed an unpardonable crime. She read my diary. Back in the 1940s, when Jennie and I were growing up in Brooklyn, N.Y., parents were not afraid to teach their children right from wrong. Mama gave Jennie a good tongue-lashing, and when Papa came home from work, he said Jennie couldn't go to the picture shows for a whole month. Jennie cried bitterly when she found she'd be missing both Judy Garland and Margaret O'Brien in Meet Me in St. Louis. I was glad for Jennie's punishments but they didn't ease the hurt. Jennie had read about my secret crush on Victor L., and I vowed to get even with her if it was the last thing I ever did. I bided my time until Auntie's party on Sunday. Auntie was very young. She'd married Uncle the minute he came home from the war and now she wanted to make a good impression on his family. I already loved this charming new aunt. She was sweet-tempered and generous, and she treated children like they really mattered. But I wasn't thinking about Auntie when I grabbed the seat beside Jennie at the dinner table. Cousin Emmy was sitting on Jennie's other side. The two of them were telling knock-knock jokes and for awhile they paid no attention to me. This suited me just fine. Earlier that morning, I'd sneaked into Mama's garden and collected a bunch of ants inside a Good 'n' Plenty box. Jennie was scared stiff of bugs, but I hardly minded them at all. Now I pulled out my candy box. The next time Jennie faced around to speak to Cousin Emmy, I gave the box a quick shake over Jennie's mashed potatoes. When my sister turned back to her dinner, she took one look and let out a shriek that would have awakened the dead. Conversation stopped. Several relatives, including Auntie, leaped from their chairs and crowded around my sister. Mama was first on the scene. In a flash, she grabbed Jennie's dish and ran to the door. Auntie followed right behind Mama. When the two returned, Mama tried to make light of the situation. Auntie, however, looked heartsick. "I don't have bugs in my kitchen," she pleaded. "Of course you don't have bugs!" Mama soothed. The other relatives sympathized with my young aunt and added their own words of comfort. But Auntie could not be consoled. I felt dreadful. I'd wanted to get even with Jennie, not hurt Auntie. Mama's eyes rested briefly on me and I knew she had guessed my thoughts. I looked away. A moment later, my mother's voice cut through the hubbub. "I've figured out how those ants got onto Jennie's plate. They're my fault," she said. Mama had everyone's attention! She went on. "I thought fresh-cut roses would look mighty pretty on the dinner table so I picked some. But when I set them out, I saw they had ants. Naturally, I threw them in the garbage." Mama drew a deep sigh. "I was too late. The damage was done." I stared open-mouthed at my mother. We hadn't picked flowers for Auntie! But Mama's confession had the desired effect. Auntie's guests calmed down and soon the room echoed again with happy voices and laughter. Only Papa, Jennie, Auntie and I knew Mama had fibbed. I dreaded going home after the party. Whatever punishments awaited me, they weren't going to be pleasant. But Mama didn't mention the ants and the longer she stayed silent, the guiltier I felt. Maybe Mama knew that a spanking would bring me absolution. Maybe she sensed that once I "paid" for my crime, I would cease to repent. It took me better than two weeks before I could look Auntie in the eye. I didn't like living with a guilty conscience, but whippings hurt even worse. So the next time I got into trouble, I hoped Mama would rely once more on my conscience. However, Mama was nobody's fool. She quoted me Grandma's favorite adage about spare the rod and spoil the child. Then she gave me a first-rate licking. Our parents made sure we learned right from wrong back in the Good Old Days.

Country School Picnic by Dorothy Behringer When our country school was over for the year we always had a big picnic day. We really planned that day. We decided a week or more in advance who should bring what to eat. Everyone brought something different. We had "cleanup day" on the last day of school. We always cleaned everything up, inside and out, so it would be ready next fall when school resumed. The blackboards were wiped clean with a damp cloth, and the floor was swept clean with smelly green sweeping compound. Everything was checked out and straightened up. When the inside was done, we went outside and tidied the whole school yard, teacher and kids alike. That day she was one of us. Every bit of scrap paper or junk was picked up. We raked with rakes we had brought from home. By the time we were done, all that was left were the stones and green grass. We never had to have janitors at our school. We kept it clean. When we left school in the spring it was always in order for the fall classes. Then the picnic day came. Most of the mothers would come. Usually we headed for the coulee (woods). Most times we walked down into the coulee, as it was a short mile or so from the school. We'd find a shady place down under some big trees, spread a blanket or two on the ground, and spread out all the food we'd brought. Once that was done, kids ran every which way. The best place was the little creek that ran all summer long. All of us had to dip our feet in that. When we tired of wading, we played lots of games, ran lots of races and even played softball. When noontime came the mothers called and kids showed up from all directions and down from tree branches. It was time to eat. We built a small bonfire and roasted wieners and marshmallows. They tasted so good along with all the other food. We had every kind of food one could want. Later, someone would drive into town in their Model-A Ford and come back with a canvas bag that held cans of ice cream. It stayed good and cold in that canvas bag until we could eat it. We ate ice cream until it was all gone. We very seldom had ice cream at our house, so it was a wonderful treat! Other years when we had our picnic, one of the fathers would come to the school with his cattle truck. Most of the food was put into the cab, and we'd all climb into the truck box. Then off we'd go, yelling like crazy. He would drive us off to someplace farther away than usual, and what a time we had! We would go for miles--food, hollering kids, bugs and all in a stinky cattle truck. We yelled at everything along the way. When we passed another car or person on the road, all of us kids yelled and waved. They must have thought we had "lost it"! Why, we even yelled at telephone poles, cattle and horses! Can you imagine a truckload of kids yelling and waving at telephone poles and animals in the pastures? Oh, we were noisy! I can sure remember how I felt that last day of school when I carried my papers and things home. And how good I felt when we all had cleaned up the mess we had made that whole year, inside and outside our school. Everything was left "shipshape"! Close your eyes and think of your last day of school. See it, feel it, remember it.

Peach Tree Tea by Selma MaCarthy The summer of 1937 was a magical one for me. I thought the world was my oyster. During the long, hot summer, the older kids in our neighborhood went swimming in Freize's pond every afternoon. It was heavenly, cooling off in the clear, cool water. The sandy beach was great for sunning and socializing. I can still smell the summer breeze that swept over the pond, making little ripples as it kissed the willing water. Those were happy, carefree days that gladdened our hearts and bonded friendships. Some of the kids brought inner tubes and floated on the pond, paddling with their hands. We didn't have a car, so I didn't have an inner tube. I felt lucky to have a hand-me-down swimsuit. We were dirt poor, but I didn't care. I was happy with simple pleasures that didn't cost a penny. Harold Turner had an inner tube. He floated all over the pond. Sometimes he would let me use it for awhile. I thought this was wonderful. He was probably the nicest boy in our neighborhood--except for my first love, Kennie. One hot afternoon I was anxious to get to the pond to swim, but my mother had walked downtown to look for fall school clothes for me. She didn't have much money, but dresses were just 69 cents in J.C. Penney's basement. Even so, that was a goodly sum back then. I grew tired of waiting for her to return. I decided to leave her a note and head for the pond with my good friend, Virginia Bowers. We were having a super good time playing water tag and flirting with the boys. Harold was floating around on his inner tube. Kennie was there, too. I was in hog heaven, splashing around, watching my handsome sweetheart. I can still see his flashing blue eyes and that beautiful smile that showed his gleaming white teeth. Somehow, the sun turned his honey-colored hair to gold. I was just entranced with him. I've never been in love with anyone the way I was with him--it was just magical. Everything was going great until I looked up and saw my mother standing on the shore with a switch in her hand and a stern look on her face. I knew that I was in trouble. I climbed out of the water and ran over to her. "Selma, you know you're not supposed to go swimming without permission, don't you?" "Yes, Mother," I said, starting to sniff, hoping I would get her sympathy and avoid a switching. I failed on both fronts; I got a healthy dose of the "peach tree tea." I ran for home through the cornfield, jumping over the short cornstalks, with Mother and the switch right behind me. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I must have been a funny-looking sight as I hopped along, trying to dodge the switch and cornstalks. The loud guffaws from the pond only added to my misery. Harold told me later that he nearly drowned laughing. When Mother and I finally reached home, she said she hoped I had learned my lesson. I had, and I still remember my embarrassment. But I would give anything to go back and relive those wonderful days. My sweet memories remain, though sometimes they are bittersweet. Maybe the good Lord will bless me with a few of those magical days in the hereafter.