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´`*:»§« >

Cece was you on Napster the other night? Asa D............LOLASAS Thanks so much for posting these recipes. I was diagnosed today with diabetes. I am in a total state of shock and will have to "un- learn" 34 yrs. of cooking, shopping, and eating-- FAST. I certainly know I am in the company of a lot of good people, and if anyone wants to offer advice, I will welcome testimonies, recipes, DIABETIC FOLKLORE !! The other day I bought a magazine put out new, by Prevention magazine. It is the same shape and weight as Prevention, but it is called OUTSMART DIABETES. I don't know why I bought it (Guardian Angel knew something I didn't?!!), but had forgotten I bought it until right after the doctors call. Cleaning off my stack of papers, there it was !! So, I really appreciate your recipes Kath, and will be going into the archives, looking at them with a different perspective. No candy for me !! Cece ----- Original Message ----- From: Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> To: <FOLKLORE-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Wednesday, May 16, 2001 5:54 PM Subject: [FOLKLORE FAMILY] Mango-Banana Smoothie (diabetic recipe) > Mango-Banana Smoothie > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== Your Listresses: Missi <Richiele3@aol.com> Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> »§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

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´`*:»§« >

The Happy Gang by Christine Fox, as told by Jerome Korff My father was dead, and I was in a quandary. Where would I be able to find a minister, priest or rabbi who might be persuaded to say a few words at the funeral? Dad was a guy who often told me he only attended church for weddings, christenings and funerals, having been "churched out" as a young man. When I asked him to explain, he told me that as a youngster, the son of first-generation German immigrants, he had been required to attend too many services. He had to attend English services and Sunday school and German services. He developed an aversion to organized religion after several years of Lutheran religious instruction. Lent was strictly observed in the household of his childhood. He vowed to himself that when he reached 21, he would forego church services except for the aforementioned occasions. I was seated in the funeral director's office, pondering how I might entice a clergyman to bury Dad. I considered violating a confidence and telling the pastor of the Lutheran church about Dad's anonymous contributions. I did his taxes for him every year and he would never claim the deduction, stating, "Son, the Bible tells us, 'Let not your right hand know what the left is doing.'" Perhaps I could tell some of the clergy in town that my father always seemed to be attending funerals. There were many times when I thought he might be a bit daft. During the Depression years, when I was a kid, he was always going to a funeral. Sometimes he went to two or three a week! He always told us he had to go pay his respects to the departed. While the other men in our neighborhood spent their time at the Elks', Masonic Lodge, or K of C meetings, Dad was off to a funeral parlor. I dreaded the time I reached my 50s and 60s if I had to bury as many friends as Dad did. I concluded that he must have met a good clergyman, one who might be persuaded to speak. The funeral director handed me Dad's personal effects, the few things found in his trouser pockets. I counted the bills. They seemed so few when I recalled how he always reached into his pocket to give someone a handout. The wad had always appeared thicker, somehow. His pocketknife flooded me with memories--how he constantly used it in the men's clothing store where he worked, cutting labels off suits and trousers, slicing string after he'd wrapped a package, snipping a fishing line after he'd tied on a new lure. Most of all, I remembered him teaching me to carve my initials in a birch tree while on a family picnic when I was 5. That knife had been his old, trusted friend. The wallet was full of the usual--driver's license, car registration, membership cards to civic organizations and a 30-year volunteer fireman's card. The shocker was a card he no doubt had picked up at one of the numerous funerals he'd attended. It was the 23rd Psalm. The card was well worn, indication that he probably read it many times. For a man who never attended church, it seemed a strange thing for him to be carrying. I told the funeral director of my dilemma. He looked at me for a few moments and then made a remark which caused me to laugh. He said, "Don't worry about a minister. Your dad was a member of the Happy Gang." Oh Lord, I thought, the Happy Gang! I'd seen these clowns in operation over the years. A better name for them would have been "Kuhn's Beer-Drinking, Gambling, Chowder-Eating, Fishing and Marching Society"! The club held a monthly meeting, and Pa always came home a little woozy, having drunk too much. These pals of his had bought a summer cottage in Canada and had a huge fishing boat built to their specifications. The most important part of the boat was the icebox where the beer and whiskey were stowed. Dad always looked forward to these trips, and always returned with fish, a hangover, and more money than he'd left home with, a result of his poker winnings. And usually he came home with some portion of his anatomy sprained as a result of falling in or out of the boat. Dad had been a member of this club for a good many years. Their prime purpose seemed to be to have a good time. And now this funeral director, who also was a member of this illustrious crew, was telling me I had nothing to worry about. He said all the details of the funeral would be looked after by the Gang. While walking the few blocks back to Dad's house, I was troubled. My aunt, Dad's sister and a devout churchgoer, was waiting back at the house. She definitely would not understand my failure to obtain clergy! A car horn was beeping at me. I recognized the Cadillac limousine as it pulled up to the curb at my side. The passenger was the Monsignor of the Catholic church. He motioned for me to come sit in the car with him. He said, "I knew your father well and I want to express my condolences. I would be deeply honored and forever in your debt if I could be allowed to say a few words at your father's funeral." I was speechless! In shock, I thanked him. I wondered what my aunt's reaction would be when I told her the Monsignor wanted to give the eulogy. I was off the hook, as I had him as "an ace in the hole." My wife, wearing an enigmatic smile, greeted me upon my arrival home. She told me I had had about 15 phone calls that I must return as quickly as I could. When I looked at the list of callers, I thought she was pulling my leg! All had been from clergymen of various faiths. When I called, each said essentially the same thing the Monsignor had: He had known Dad and wished to speak at his funeral. I wondered if he had been giving them all clergy discounts on the clothing he sold them. When I returned to the funeral parlor for the wake that evening, I was met by a priest. He explained that a huge number of Catholics wished to pay their respects and wondered if it would be OK to provide a kneeling bench before the coffin. I had no objection. During the next two days, the bench was never vacant. My next surprise was seeing the type of people who came to see him. I noticed two men standing in the doorway, and I wondered if they were lost. Neither appeared to be a leading denizen of the town. In fact, they were down-and-out bums. I approached them and asked if I could help. They told me they had spent the last money they had to ride a bus 30 miles to get to the funeral parlor. I thought something about them seemed familiar. Then I realized they were wearing clothes that had once hung in Dad's closet. Now I knew what had happened to most of his clothes. He had given them away! We had to unlock the clothing store to get him a white shirt. While looking at these two men, I thought back to some of the things I'd known Dad had done during his lifetime. Particularly, I recalled 1933, the Great Depression, the year after my mother died. On my birthday, in freezing mid-March, he was going to treat me to a movie and a hot fudge sundae at the Sugar Bowl afterward. This was to be a real treat! Dad was working alternate weeks, earning $15 a week. On the off weeks, he went door-to-door, trying to sell coal. If he sold a ton of coal, he earned 50 cents commission. After the movie, we walked across the bridge spanning the Erie Canal, which was frozen solid. We hurried to keep warm, our breath puffing like locomotive exhaust in the frigid air. As we passed a storefront, a man came out of the doorway where he had been sheltering himself from the wind. He had wrapped old newspapers around his shabbily clothed body in an attempt to ward off the chill. Icicles hung from a five- or six-day growth of beard. He asked my dad for a handout. Dad reached into his pocket and took out his last 50-cent piece. He looked at me, then to the man, then to the coin in his hand. He handed the money to the man, saying, "Here, old-timer, get yourself a hot meal at the diner down the street and then try to get a cot at the Sunshine Mission." Without stopping at the Sugar Bowl, we resumed our walk home. I glanced at my father, who had tears trickling down his cheeks. I tried to assure him that I didn't mind that we weren't able to stop for the sundae. He stopped beneath a streetlight and turned to face me, his overshoes squeaking in the snow. He bent down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Sonny, I'm not crying about the ice cream. I'm crying for that poor man who has nobody and is down on his luck." He continued, "Remember one thing as long as you live: You are your brother's keeper." I was shaken out of my reverie when one of the men standing in front of me told me they had no way to get back to Buffalo and the flophouse where they lived. I gave them each a dollar. One of them said, "You really are your father's son." I consider that one of the finest compliments I've ever received. I couldn't believe the tremendous number and variety of people who came to pay their last respects. Among them were all of our city's leading businessmen, the mayors and councilmen from towns within a 50-mile radius, firemen, policemen, doctors, lawyers and more indigents. The floral tributes spilled out of Dad's room and overflowed into all the other rooms of the funeral parlor. The funeral director was forced to begin placing new arrivals on the front porch. He remarked that if they kept coming, he'd have to start putting them out front in the snow. Five delivery vehicles, four of which were commandeered from other funeral homes, were required to deliver just a fraction of the bouquets to local nursing homes and hospitals so we could make room for more. What had this man done during his lifetime to warrant this show of respect? I was clueless. All I knew was that he lived all his life in our small town, had dropped out of school to become a mill hand, and was a star baseball pitcher who was about to sign with the New York Yankees until a mill accident injured his leg and ended his potential professional athletic career. He then worked the remainder of his life as a silent partner, clerking in a clothing store. He had done nothing of great significance. Why all the tributes now? The final night of the wake, I was sitting in the rear of the nearly empty room. A man entered and approached the casket. To my recollection, he and Dad had never exchanged a pleasant word. They insulted each other mercilessly when they were together. I wondered why they had never come to blows. He stood silently by the casket, starring down at my father. Sobbing, he reached down and placed his hand on Dad's. "Well, ole pal, this is the first time I've ever seen you without your hands in your pockets, reaching for some money to help someone less fortunate. You must have worn out your trouser pockets a million times." He continued, "I'd say I'm sorry for the way we always kidded each other, but I know you enjoyed it as much as I did. I love you, old friend, and I thank you for all you did for me the last 50 years. Goodbye for now. Maybe, someday when the Happy Gang is together in heaven, we can all go fishing again." He turned to leave, then saw me sitting in the dim corner. He approached and pulled up a chair. He said, "The Happy Gang has asked me to tell you about your father. Have you ever wondered why he was always going to funerals when you were a kid?" He began by telling me about one of Dad's evening stops en route home from the clothing store. Because we owned no automobile, he walked to and from work. On his way home, he would stop by Kuhn's Cigar Store to buy his evening paper. If he had the money, he would wager a few pennies, a dime or nickel on "the numbers," a lottery based on the day's baseball scores. If the winner was lucky, he could win as much as $500 or $1,000, a fortune in the 1930s. I remembered that shortly before my mother died, Pa won enough to treat us to a week's vacation at Crystal Beach in Canada. It was no luxury trip, but we had a great time, on our only family vacation. One day, Dad was in Kuhn's when he overheard someone talking about a local resident who was to be buried in Potter's Field, the city's graveyard for indigents. There would be no funeral, no headstone, few mourners (if any), and only a cheap casket. Such were the rewards for an impoverished life. Dad expressed a proposal to some of the men in Kuhn's. He was playing a nickel on the numbers that day and if he won, he would donate the winnings to "the club." He started the treasury that day with another nickel. Most of the men in the store scoffed at his idea. But the following day, he learned his had been a lucky number. He donated the proceeds of $50 to the club. Whether or not this was an omen, his winning prompted a few of the doubters to join him. They met and established the rules of their organization. It was decided they would limit their membership as the Rotary Club did. They would invite two men from every profession in the city but would leave open membership to any clergyman who wished to participate. From each member they collected 5 cents a week for operating expenses. If a member played the numbers (they all did), he would have to wager an equal amount to buy an additional ticket for the club, and if he won, he donated all the proceeds to the club. If his regular wager won, he donated 10 percent to the club. What to name the club was one of their biggest decisions. Many names were suggested and rejected. Finally, someone suggested they name it after the owner of the cigar store, since he would be treasurer. He had severe asthma and had undergone some type of surgery for it. The resulting operation left him unable to smile. No one knew, from looking at his expressionless face, what his emotions were. Everyone called him Happy. Hence, the Happy Gang was born. Things began to change for the better in the city. When someone died who was destined for Potter's Field, they stepped in. They purchased a suitable burial plot, supplied the casket and services of a funeral home, and attended the wake and burial. They provided appropriate clothing to be laid out in for a man, woman or child. In addition, they saw to it that the family had a few dollars to tide them over those difficult times. If a John Doe was found frozen to death beneath the bridge, the Happy Gang claimed the body. Their attorney members filed whatever papers were required. The unknown was treated in the same fashion as a respected community member. Occasionally, word reached them that a woman in town had been deserted by her husband. Left with no money and children to raise, these women sometimes turned to prostitution. The Happy Gang contributed money to these desperate, needy families. They never let it be known to anyone outside the club what they were doing. They adopted Dad's philosophy, based on Christs words about not letting your left hand know what the right is doing. When World War II came, the Happy Gang turned their attention to the war effort. They conducted scrap drives and volunteered their treasury to the American Red Cross, the Salvation Army and the USO. After the war they established scholarship funds. Quietly and without fanfare, they donated their time and money to clean up prostitution and gambling in town. They continued with their assistance to the less fortunate. They also played--on the water in the fishing boat and at their summer cabin. They had annual picnics. They played nickel-and-dime poker to relax. They had earned it. And now it was my turn. The man told me the Happy Gang wanted me to accept a membership. Openings in the Gang were available only when a man resigned or died. My father's membership was open to me if I wanted it. He told me many men in the city had been waiting for years to join. But as my father's son, the members thought it fitting to invite me in order to continue his spot. I was uncertain. I could see the respect and love the people had for Dad. I was honored that they considered me for inclusion. We walked to Dad's casket. I looked down at his face, and thought I detected a vestige of the little smile he always seemed to wear. I knew he would have wanted me to do the right thing. I had not earned his place in the Gang. I knew that other, much older men who had unselfishly supported the Gang without benefit of membership, were more deserving than I. I turned to the man and told himthey should award Dad's spot in the Gang to one of those men. He looked at me for a moment and then said, "Yes, you are your father's son."

The Gift by Lee D. Pirolozzi Sr. The year was 1933, and school was out for the summer. The boy was 8 years old, dressed in patched knickerbockers, not uncommon for that time. His home was a tar paper shack built in a field, 200 or 300 yards from the road. The boy lived there with his mother and father. They were dirt poor, without electricity, running water or inside plumbing. But even without these "necessities," the boy looked to be healthy, clean and happy, ready to take on another bright summer day. His plans were formulated when he saw a bunch of his friends, mounted on bicycles, loaded down with bats, balls and gloves, obviously headed for the ball field. The boy called to his mother that he was leaving and ran across the field at full speed. The boys on the bicycles did not see him and were rapidly widening the gap between them. It was times like this that he wished he had a bicycle, but he knew that it was not to be. The old man on the porch had watched this scenario many times, but today he shouted to the boy, "Come here, boy!" The boy stopped to see who had called. The old gentleman repeated his summons. The house, which sat 100 feet or so from the road, had a porch that ran the full width of the front. A weather-beaten railing with several missing rungs was broken at the one corner. The man sat on an ancient wooden rocking chair, smoking a corncob pipe. An aged coonhound with bloodshot eyes watched the boy as he approached the house. The boy stopped at the bottom of the steps. Standing silently and respectfully as he had been taught, he waited for the man to speak. The antiquated chair protested loudly as the old man leaned forward to get a better look at the boy. The boy was curious. Why had he been called today? He had seen the old man and his dog around town and sitting on his porch, as today, smoking his corncob pipe, but he had never paid any attention to him. Today, he stood at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up into a ruddy, lined face, a face weathered by many years of hard work. "Don't have a bicycle, do you, boy?" "No, Sir." The old man carefully laid his pipe down on the porch beside his chair. He reached down and scratched the hound's ears and got up. "Come on, Joshua, let's go see if we can help this young man." The boy was surprised at how tall the man was as he stood up. He followed him as he went around the corner of the porch and headed for the huge, white bank barn. Joshua followed, sniffing at the boy's heels. Two large doors hanging from rusted rails were wedged shut by long, round logs leaning halfway up on each door. The man removed one log and slid the door open. The squeaking rollers brought about a flurry of screeching and squawking and a cascade of feathers and dust as the pigeons scurried for safety. Sunshine streamed in through the cracks between the wide boards, exaggerating the falling dust. The barn, even though it had not housed livestock for many years, had not lost all of its flavor. The pungent odor of old straw and hay mingled with the scent left behind by the horses and cows. Only one part of the cavernous building was used for storage--the area where hay had been stored when this was a working farm. While they waited for the dust to settle, the boy scrutinized the massive, hand-hewn beams that framed the structure. He was awestruck by its size. It didn't look so big from the road. A wooden snatch block hung from a cross beam, high over the main floor. A rope threaded through it was tied to a rail below. Alongside a primitive hay baler, a wooden fanning mill balanced itself on its three remaining legs. They entered the barn and the old gentleman pointed to a pile of farm tools stacked against the wall, covered with dust, pigeon droppings and spider webs. Among the hodgepodge, the boy could see the frame of a bicycle. The black paint had been chipped and scratched, and the handlebars were rusted. "Dig it out and it's yours," the farmer said with a smile. With the old coonhound sniffing at every implement, he carefully played "pickup stix" with an array of forks, rakes and shovels. He finally extracted his prize and put everything back. It was a 28-inch machine with wooden rims and two flat tires that were badly checked by years of storage and neglect. There was no way he could ever hope to replace them. The old man saw the look of despair on the boy's face. Without saying anything, he started to look around the barn. The boy watched with interest. The old man found a coil of garden hose hanging on a peg and brought it to where the bicycle lay. The pneumatic tires were tubeless, and shellacked to the rim. The method for repairing flats was the same back then as today: forcing a piece of rubber coated with rubber cement into the hole in the tire with a long, needlelike instrument. The "fix" was allowed to dry and the tire was pumped full of air. The boy watched with all the inquisitiveness of an 8-year-old as his fairy godfather turned the bicycle over on its seat and handlebars. He reached into his overalls for his pocketknife. He cut each tire, very careful not to cut too far. When he was satisfied that he had cut each tire about halfway through, he squared the end of the hose and inserted it into the tire and forced it around until the end showed up again at the origin. He cut the hose and forced the split end around the inside of the tire until it was opposite the cut. He repeated the process on the other tire. With sweat dripping onto the floor, he found an oil can and oiled the pedals, chain and bearings. He turned the rear wheel with the pedals and when he applied the coaster brake, the wheel squealed to a stop. He straightened himself up and wiped his face with a huge blue handkerchief. "Well, boy, can you ride?" "Yes, Sir." Turning the vehicle onto its wheels, he pushed it toward the youngster. "Let's see you ride it up and down the driveway." As the boy put the mounting pedal up, the man's mind raced back to another little boy doing the same thing in a time long past, when the bicycle was new, its shining frame reflecting the sun. He smiled with the deep satisfaction of knowing that he had made two little boys happy. He almost shouted his son's name as the boy approached the street, but the boy stopped and turned around and labored his way up the incline. He watched as the boy approached him. The grin on his face was all the thanks he needed. Many years ago, another child had grinned his gratitude at his father, but that was long ago, before influenza had taken him away. The boy did not know about the man's son and the bicycle until many years later. The boy thanked the man, but it was not necessary. His smile was thanks enough. The gift was indeed from the heart, a truly precious gift. I was that young lad of 8 so many years ago. I thumped and bumped for many miles on that old bicycle whose tires were inflated with a rubber hose instead of air. I always stopped at the old farmer's house whenever I saw him sitting on the porch. One day I thought I saw him in the backyard and I stopped, but it was somebody else. The man told me that Mr. Johnson had gone away. I found out later that he had died. I hope he wasn't looking down the day Bill and I were riding double. With Bill at the controls, we crossed the railroad tracks and rolled down the embankment onto the highway into the path of an oncoming automobile. Bill was scraped up a little and I got a sprained ankle. We both survived, but the bicycle was damaged beyond repair. Wherever you are, Mr. Johnson, thanks for two great years of bicycling and for making a young man's wish come true, way back there in the Good Old Days.

May Baskets by Rose Gibbs May Day! Whatever happened to the wonderful custom of hanging May baskets that I remember so well? When I was 10, in 1941, we girls in our small village of Woodland, Mich., looked forward to May 1. That was the day we made May baskets, filled them with wildflowers picked from the nearby woods, and then hung them on the doorknobs at the houses of relatives and family friends. I remember that particular May Day for a special reason. My girlfriend, Phyllis, came home with me from school. My mother gave us some flowery wallpaper she had saved. Phyllis and I cut and pasted together several small, cone-shaped baskets, and then pasted handles onto them. (Back then, our paste was a small bit of flour mixed with water until thick and smooth.) While the baskets dried, we hurried to the woods and picked a bag full of wildflowers. When we got back to my house, we spread the flowers all over the kitchen table. We had a good time making colorful bundles out of the flowers and placing them in the wallpaper baskets. Then we started off on our mission to grace several homes with our lovely May Day gifts. The object was to carefully approach a house, hang a May basket on the doorknob, knock or ring the doorbell, and then run like crazy so the recipient wouldn't see who the giver was. When Phyllis and I began delivering our baskets that May 1, we went to two favorite teachers first: Mrs. Hilbert, a Sunday school teacher, and Mrs. Spindler, our fifth-grade teacher. Our village sidewalks were lined with maple trees that were just the right size for skinny girls to hide behind. We hung May baskets on their doorknobs, knocked, and then ran to hide behind the trees. We stood there giggling until we heard the door open, a call of "Thank you!" and the door close. Then we moved on to deliver the rest of our precious gifts. We didn't know back then just how precious those wildflowers were. Years later they were put on the endangered species list, and it became illegal to pick them. When we were older, sharing "remember when" stories with our elders, we were surprised to hear that children who gave May baskets weren't the only sneaky ones. We had never dreamed that our May basket recipients would close their doors and then watch out a window to see who had left the basket. In those days, girls always wore dresses. On this fateful day I had chosen to wear my favorite dress. It was green and had a pleated skirt. The insides of the pleats were green-and-white paisley. I loved to feel the pleated skirt swishing around my legs as I walked. Phyllis and I had such a good time that evening, hiding and watching with affection as our May baskets were discovered. Then came the event that made this memory. As I was running to hide after hanging one of my last May baskets, I tripped on an uneven piece of sidewalk and sprawled flat. I not only skinned my hands and knees, but I ruined the last basket--and I tore the skirt of my favorite dress. Mother said it was beyond repair. I cried harder over my loss than I did over my physical wounds. I don't recall that I ever hung May baskets again.

That Buttermilk Pie by Donnie Kingman The smell of good things cooking greets us as we step up on the back porch at Grandma and Grandpa's house. "Come on in," Grandma says as Grandpa holds the screen door. We pass through the dining room into Grandma's kitchen. The good smells are coming from chicken and green beans cooking on the old wood stove. "Sit down," Grandma tells Mama, who is holding my baby sister. This is a special time for my two younger brothers and me, getting to come to Grandma's house. She always makes us a pie. Grandma's pies are good. She makes wonderful dried-apple pies and peach cobblers made with thick, buttery crusts. But buttermilk pie is my favorite. "You kids must be hungry," Grandma says. "Get yourself some bread and meat off the cabinet." Grandma keeps a meat platter with fried ham or bacon and cold biscuits on the kitchen cabinet. My younger brothers, William and John, take their ham and biscuits and go outside. They want to go with Daddy and Grandpa to look at the chickens. Mama and Grandma are chatting. Grandma is short and round. She's wearing a pink cotton dress that makes her brown eyes shine. Her long, dark hair is wound in a knot on top of her head. Mama is tall and strong. She's wearing her new blue striped dress and has brown, bobbed hair. Grandma looks at me and smiles. "You look pretty in pink," "It's like yours, Grandma. Mama made it." "Something smells good," Mama says. "We'll have chicken and dumplings and green beans for dinner. I've got plenty of buttermilk so I thought I'd make two buttermilk pies," Grandma answers. I smile. Grandma, wearing her white bib apron, says, "I've already made the crust. We ain't got much else, but we got plenty of milk and eggs." In West Texas, 1927 is a year without much rain. Crops are poor, but Grandpa has 500 white leghorn laying hens to supplement their income. As Mama adds mesquite wood to the cookstove, she says, "Donnie, run and get us some wood. The wood box is about empty." I run to the woodpile, load my arms with short, round sticks, and hurry back so I won't miss anything. I hear Mama saying, as I bring in the wood, "What can I do?" "Will you bring me some butter and buttermilk from the milk pan?" Grandma answers. The milk pan is a 30-inch-square zinc pan, 9 inches deep. It sits on a table in the dining room near the kitchen door. It holds water to keep the milk and butter cool. Grandma is standing by the cabinet with a big bowl, a spoon and fork. "Grandma, how do you make buttermilk pie?" I ask. "Well," she says, "for each pie you use about 1/2 cup butter . . ." She puts butter in the bowl and adds 1 1/2 cups sugar and 2 eggs. After beating them with a fork, she adds 2/3 cup buttermilk and stirs it all together. "That's all there is to it. She pours the mixture into the prepared piecrust and carefully places the pies in the hot oven. "Hope this oven is all right," she mutters. "Sometimes it's too hot and sometimes not hot enough." (In my modern oven, I bake the pie at 415 degrees Fahrenheit for 15 minutes, then lower the temperature to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and bake it for another 40-45 minutes, until the pie is golden-brown on top.) Mama says, "When you're ready, I'll make the biscuits. Nothing makes biscuits as good as fresh-churned buttermilk." Mama puts my baby sister on a quilt on the kitchen floor. "First, I'll make the dumplings," Grandma answers. "Why don't you scrape the potatoes to go on the beans?" I sit on the floor, play with the baby, and listen. "Grandma, I smell pies." "Oh my Lord, I hope I haven't let them burn!" I'm up and beside her as she opens the oven door. They are golden-brown and slightly rounded on top--and they smell good. "They're beautiful," I say. I learned that word in first grade. "Grandma, can I set the table in the kitchen?" I like to eat in the kitchen where it's warm and the good smells are. "If you want to," she answers as she drops the dumplings into the boiling chicken broth. "Finish setting the table and go call the men to get ready for dinner," Mama tells me. Dinner is our noonday meal and she has the biscuits ready to go into the hot oven. "Dinner is ready," I call to the men at the chicken pens. Soon they are on the back porch washing and getting ready to eat. "Wash your face and hands," Daddy says to my brothers. We all sit down at the table. "Looks good," Grandpa says. "We're lucky to live on a farm where we have plenty to eat." Food is on our plates and everyone is eating. Everything tastes good. The grown-ups are talking. I think of a little song and sing, "I like to come to Grandma's house, to Grandma's house." "Donnie, don't sing at the table," Daddy says. He turns to Grandpa. "We sure need rain. I don't know how much longer the crops can last. Pa, do you see any signs of it raining anyway soon?" "There's going to be a change in the weather by the end of the week," Grandpa replies. "There was a ring around the moon last night." He watches the sun and moon and changes in nature for weather signs. There is a lot of talk about dry weather. Now it's time for pie. Grandma cuts us big pieces. I slowly take a bite.

Horseshoes by John Potter Jr. I think everyone who is at least 60 years old has played horseshoes. When I was a kid, you could see horseshoe pegs on every playground and in most backyards. My first year out of the service was 1946. Our coal-mining town, Jobs, Ohio, had nothing left but a church and a small store. The big mines had played out many years before. The men got together and decided to put up a building so we would have a place to loaf. We put pegs outside for horseshoes. The only regulations about our game concerned the shoes and the distance between the pegs. We had no boxes or clay. When some of the fellas met at the "shanty," as we called it, a game of horseshoes would start. But it never failed; every once in awhile, somebody would say, "If you want to see good pitching, you ought to see Millie Mitchell and Ed James over at Murray City." I used to get tired of hearing that, although I didn't doubt it one bit that they were probably better than most of us. It just happened one evening that Willard "Wid" Sorrell and I walked over to Murray City to a little beer garden where all the young people hung out. To get there, we had to walk by the horseshoe court. We were kind of early, so we decided to stop for a while. The only people there were Ed and Millie, and they were waiting for anybody that came along to have a game. So, we thought, we had nothing to lose, and we could see just how good these fellows were. I think we surprised ourselves as much as we did them when we beat them. They were good, all right, but that game we were a little better. I suppose they wanted revenge, so they talked us into another game. We won that one, too. We were hot that night! Wid was hotter than I was, but I think the boxes and clay pits had a lot to do with it. We left after that, and I never remember hearing anybody brag on Ed and Millie again. By the way, they were probably 15 years older than us. We were happy that night. Our little town of Jobs had several horseshoe pitchers better than me. Most horseshoe pitching today is in tournaments. But I never heard of a tournament back then. Those were the Good Old Days.

The Cottage Years by Alice Morse On one side of the lake there is a Six Flags Theme Park with four new roller coasters, and on the opposite side is Sea World. Geauga Lake in Ohio is a springfed, freshwater lake over 90 feet deep, named for the county in which it is located. Geauga is an Indian word meaning raccoon. There wasn't always so much tourist activity in the small community by the lake. In 1924, the year I was born, my parents and grandparents built a cottage in this community. When I was growing up, summers there were a constant joy, with family and friends. Everyone liked to swim in the lake. It was so clean and cold. Afterward we would ride home on the running board of Dad's car to dry out. We still have pan lids with wooden knobs painted yellow, and an old corkscrew and can opener with painted yellow handles. These are reminders of the cottage years. My grandmother loved to paint. As a result, we had a colorful, cheerful summer home with rockers gray and red, tables green and pink, and everything in the kitchen yellow. It went well with blue-and-white checked curtains on the windows and coverings on the shelves. There was no electricity at first. Grandmother painted by the light of oil lamps. We had a kerosene stove for cooking and used a large tub in the car to carry ice from an icehouse. Rainwater was collected in a big barrel and piped in to a hand pump at the sink. It was wonderful for washing hair because it was so soft. A shower was also rigged to the rain barrel. We took milk cans to a spring for drinking water. Later, we found a spot for a well with a dowsing rod and we had an outside pump. Our outhouse was deluxe--real toilet seats, linoleum on the floor, pictures on the walls and a magazine rack. But the wooden door latch sometimes slipped, and a person might be locked in for a while till he or she was missed. The luxury of indoor plumbing didn't arrive until 1950. On weekends there were usually picnics and parties, with much laughter and singing. We played badminton and croquet while the men pitched horseshoes and played baseball. We had two straw suitcases full of dress-up clothes and costumed ourselves in them to perform hilarious skits. As time progressed, 35mm slide shows replaced magic lantern shows and everyone brought favorite pictures to share. Eventually radio and then television entered the cottage, but we still played records on the old wind-up Victrola. We got sweet corn, chickens and milk from nearby farms. The milk wasn't pasteurized, but no one ever got sick. The cream was thick for whipping, too. Mother made pies from the elderberries we gathered. Next to the cottage were three Northern Spy apple trees, which provided shade and late apples for applesauce. Dad had a hammock between them and my grandfather built a sandbox under them for the children. We always had dogs. One of them had her three puppies in the living room. Raising them that summer was great fun. Dad loved flowers and had beautiful gardens in the front and back. He planted gourd vines along a fence. We dried the gourds, painted them with bright colors, fastened them onto strings, and used them to decorate our porch. One year, Dad tried to raise Louisiana bullfrogs, thinking he could sell them to restaurants for frog legs. He dug two ponds, but the frogs left during the winter, so that was the end of that. Then he connected the ponds to make one lovely big one that attracted much wildlife. In addition to the songbirds, a mallard duck came every year to raise a family. A blue heron fished from the bank. A woodcock strutted along by the water too, unafraid of us. There were muskrats in the pond and the boys sometimes trapped them. Lythrum lined the shore, and we enjoyed the purple blooms bending in the breeze and reflecting in the water. Now they say this loosestrife chokes out cattails, but it didn't seem to bother ours. Beyond the pond were open fields, and on the Fourth of July we could stand in the backyard and watch fireworks being fired from a small park by the lake. In August we gathered there to watch meteor showers. When friends reminisce with me, they often say, "Remember what fun we had at the cottage?" And I do.

Old-Time Home Remedies by Dorothy Anna Birkholz When I walk through the stores, I am amazed at all the remedies for headaches, colds, sore throats, cuts and pains that fill the shelves. I am 82 years old. In my younger days we had no such things. I remember so many home remedies and the few things that could be bought back then. When I had a cough, my mother would thinly slice a big onion into a bowl. Then she would put in a cup of brown sugar and place a plate on top of the bowl. The next day she stirred the mixture. The juice of the onion melted the sugar and made a syrup. Mother would give me a tablespoonful when I coughed. I liked the taste and often sneaked a spoonful when Mother went into another room. When I got a sore throat, my mother put some honey in a cup and added lemon juice and whiskey. She then boiled some water, poured it into the cup and stirred the concoction well. I sipped this slowly and it soothed my throat. When my grandmother had a sore throat, she put a large spoonful of Vaseline in her mouth and swallowed it slowly. I am glad my mother did not give that to me! When I had a stomachache or gas, Mother put a tablespoon of baking soda in a cup of warm water. I had to drink it all down at once. It tasted terrible, but it cured my problem. The only laxatives I remember were Castoria and castor oil. I sure hated the taste of those! Baking soda was used for itchy rashes and insect bites. It was mixed with a little water to make a paste that was spread on the skin. In later years, a medicine called Lempke Drops came onto the market for upset stomach or gas. It looked like iodine and smelled like ether. You put sugar in a spoon and then added a few drops of the medicine. After you swallowed the sugar you had to drink a glass of warm water. It tasted awful but it sure did help. I do not remember this next cure, but my mother told me about it. When I was about 6 months old I got pneumonia. The doctor came to the house, as they did in those days. He laid me on the kitchen table and told my mother to slice onions into her large, black, iron frying pan and heat them on the stove. When they were warm, he spread them on my bare chest and covered me with a blanket. As soon as the next batch was heated, he brushed the ones off my chest and put the warm ones on. He did this for about an hour. Mother said I smelled terrible, but she could not wash or bathe me and had to keep me wrapped up in a blanket and keep me warm. She said it worked and I was well soon after. When I got a cold sore, my mother put on some Camphor Ice. It was a clear salve and came in a little tin box. It had a strong camphor smell. I also used my father's styptic pencil, which he used if he cut himself shaving. It looked like a piece of white chalk. I wet the tip with water and put it on the sore. It sure did sting! The only headache medicines I remember were aspirin and Bromo Seltzer. You could buy 12 aspirin in a small tin box, and my mother always carried one in her purse. When Vicks first came out, everyone thought it was wonderful. Mother rubbed it on my chest when I had a cold. She covered my chest with a piece of flannel and then covered me with several blankets. The vapors helped clear up my nose, too. As for cuts and scrapes, we had Carbolated Vaseline, which was good for healing scraped knees and elbows. Then Unguentine came out for burns and cuts. It came in a little metal tube. There were no Band-Aids. A strip torn from an old worn sheet was wrapped around the finger, arm or leg. About 6 inches from the end of the bandage, we tore the end in two and tied the ends together with two knots. It did not look too nice, but it was all we had. When they came out with adhesive tape later, we then used a strip of it to hold the bandage. The tape came on a metal roll. It was hard to remove from skin; it really hurt when we pulled it off. They had iodine in those days too, but few people used it because it sometimes burned the skin. It also stained the skin brown. Things sure were different in my day, but somehow we all managed to get by OK.

JACK'S TALES Tall Tales and Stories from the Rocky Mountain Fur Trade as told by Jack Stone WHEN RENDEZVOUS IS DONE I guess I would have to say that Rendezvous is probably the best time of the year. In Spring and Fall, you is out trapping them Beavers, and in Winter you is in Winter Camp, but it ain't quite the same as Rendezvous. Rendezvous is kind of like Christmas and your Birthday and the 4th of July all rolled up into one. I am always glad to see them fellows that I ain't seen since the last Summer and hear what they has been doing and share a few stories and lies. I trade my Beaver plews for all the supplies I am going to need for the next year: coffee, tobacco, a new shirt, lead, powder, some beads and vermilion, and other such items. Then there is always enough credit for some of that rotgut liquor them traders bring out. I don't know why we drink that stuff. It tastes awful, but we drink it anyway. There is always plenty of contests: running and knife throwing and shooting and such, but it seems like I am always too drunk to ever hit much of anything! After supper, we sit around the fire and play music on tin whistles and fiddles, and sometimes we even sound like we know what we is doing! I'd have to say that Rendezvous is the one thing I really look forward to each year, but it is always over too soon. Way before I am ready to leave, folks is packing up their goods, the Indians is taking down their tepees, and the traders is packing up all our beaver plews to take back to St. Louis. It seems to me that it's them traders that make all the money and us trappers just can't never get ahead. Them St. Louis traders don't give us half enough for our pelts, and they sell us goods for 10 or 100 times what they pay for them. But it's better than going all the way to St. Louis ourselves to sell our furs, I expect. We always seem to get everything we need for the next season. I don't know what we would do with that extra money anyway. Well, the Indians is taking off for the Fall Hunting Grounds, and the traders is going back to St. Louis for the Winter to get more supplies so thay can cheat us trappers again next Summer. Us trappers is thinking about getting ready for the Fall hunt. But I'm sorry to see everybody leave. You always wonder whether or not you're going to see your friends again or if they is going to get killed by hostile Indians or Grizzly Bears or starvation. You know it's going to be a long Winter. But then you think about next Summer's Rendezvous, and somehow everything seems just fine again. THE WINTER I DONE FROZE TO DEATH Back in 1824, we spent the Winter with the Crow Indians up by the Wind River. We was having a right good time, but along about the end of February, I guess them Crows got sick and tired of us. They told us that if we continued on to the West, we'd find Beavers that was so thick you didn't even have to trap them. You could just hit them over the head with a big stick. That sounded mighty good to us, so even though it was still the middle of Winter, we saddled up our ponies and loaded up our mules. We tried to go over Union Pass, but the snow was so deep that the horses kept sinking right up to their bellies. We had no choice but to turn around and go back. I don't think them Crows was glad to see us again, but they did give us better directions. They told us that if we went south alongside the Wind River Mountains, eventually we would come to the end of the mountains where we'd find a flat open prairie. I guess thet call that South Pass now. Well, that was all well and fine, but as long as the mountains was to the west of us, at least they cut the wind. But as soon as we got out on that wide open prairie, there wasn't nothing stopping the wind, and it was driving sleet and snow and ice in front of it. I ain't never been so cold in my whole entire life. We hadn't had nothing to eat in three or four days. There wasn't no animals out there in that blinding snowstorm. They wasn't so stupid as to be out in the middle of a blizzard. Which don't say much for our intelligence. We couldn't even stay on our horses. The wind would blow you right out of the saddle. So we finally gave up and got off our horses, wrapped ourselves in our buffalo robes, and tried to get as close together as possible to stay warm. But you couldn't stay warm. The wind was blowing snow down inside my shirt; snow was piling up inside my ears; and my teeth was chattering so hard I thought they was going to chatter theirselves right out of my mouth! And it still got colder. But after a while I didn't feel so cold no more. Then I felt a little warm, and then I didn't feel nothing at all. And I realized that I had froze to death. The next morning, them other fellows got up, and they seen that I was froze. I guess they was sorry that I was dead, for I had not been a bad companion. But they still didn't have nothing to eat. And so, in a lull in the wind, they got some firewood, and they built up a fire. They got a pole, and they tied me hand and foot to the pole. Then they put the pole up over the fire. Well, after a while I started to feel a little warm. Then I started to feel right good. But then I smelled something that smelled a little scorched. I eased open my eyelids, and I seen what a predicament I was in! There I was tied hand and foot to a pole; the pole was suspended over a fire; and if somebody didn't do something right quick, I was going to be well done! So I started yelling and hollering, and them other fellows came over to see what on earth was going on. They seen that I wasn't froze no more, so they kicked some snow up over the fire, and they put the fire out. They took down the pole, and they untied me. But they still didn't have nothing to eat. And I'll tell you - I didn't feel real good for a couple of days. In fact I felt kind of like Death - warmed over!

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 >

www.flylady.net ----- Original Message ----- From: Pat Childs <pchilds@concentric.net> To: <FOLKLORE-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Thursday, May 17, 2001 7:47 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´`*:»§«

yup...and it works ----- Original Message ----- From: Cece <mawcee@mindspring.com> To: <FOLKLORE-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Thursday, May 17, 2001 7:31 AM Subject: [FOLKLORE FAMILY] Just wanted to know 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´`*:»§«

Guess I'm just gonna have to try 'em! Munchkin ----- Original Message ----- From: "Kath" <mzmouser@home.com> well shoot~! How bout them mushrooms, huh~? <LOL> my mail box went beserk...... no idea why it sent multiple times.... kath > Jean's Marinated Mushrooms

Some of us OLD timers remember when Asa came on the original Homespun list and he thought LOL meant lots of love so he used LOLASAS...lots of love Asa style!!! Pat Las Vegas > Cece--- I know what LOL is; what is ASAS? >

Hi Cece. :-) I joined, but there were so many emails coming in I had to quit. I wasn't reading them on time, and that is kinda the whole point. <G> :-) Kath........ Ex-Baby :0) > 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

dedicating this to Janis. :-) Your post made me think of this song. kath >From: "Turk McGee" <turkm@ij.net> > I just ordered two of these babies. I'm so excited!! > I'M SO EXCITED Pointer Sisters http://perso.infonie.fr/r-daneel/Midi/Excited.mid

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´`*:»§«

Heeheehee~! :-) Thanks Mary. :-) I thought maybe I'd made ya'all sick of em. <G> :-) kath > Guess I'm just gonna have to try 'em! > > Munchkin > ----- Original Message ----- > From: "Kath" <mzmouser@home.com> > > well shoot~! How bout them mushrooms, huh~? <LOL> > my mail box went beserk...... no idea why it sent multiple times.... > kath > > > Jean's Marinated Mushrooms