War and Love

This is a short love story. She had already had more experiences than women twice her age. Her first husband had died in a wreck within the first year of marriage. Young girl from Ashland City, now she had left her home to do her part for the war effort, in the Ford Plant in Detroit where they were building the B-24 bomber airplanes. Little did she know the future that was to be. They met and knew almost at once they were to be together for life. He worshiped her as she did him...

War rations, time cards, and pay stubs from a time that seems so long ago - 1943.

Their wedding day - October 7, 1944

His adoration, her devotion. Their life, such a beautiful union as one, until his death 20 years later.

Goldfinch on a Snowy Day

Here in Middle Tennessee we had a bit of a snowy day yesterday and the birds were very active at our feeders. This little guy was just too cute!

To see the rest of  my Snowy Day photos don't hesitate to venture on over to my photography blog :

p.w. ponath photography (listed above).

Through the Years

Family antiques used by my maternal grandmother and great grandmother.

CHRISTMAS...Light for a Dark World

The Birth of a Savior, Jesus Christ the King!

Jesse

Dark of December

I heard a bird sing

In the dark of December.

A magical thing

And sweet to remember.

'We are nearer to Spring

Than we were in September,"

I heard a bird sing

In the dark of December.

                                       by  Oliver Herford     

  

The Cedar Chest

The old chest...oh the memories it held. From the time I was just a little girl, I remember it always being somewhere present in our house. It went from different locations from within to being outcast to the attic. But it was always a part of the mystery to me to see what charms it held. Always just out of reach but for moments in time when it could be explored. Always told to leave it alone....I'm sure for fear of the danger of pinched fingers or becoming an entrapment.

Over the years it became damaged, scarred, and weathered until recently my husband took on the task of repairing and refinishing it so it can once again become a treasured piece of history to be used and cared for and on display in the heart of our home.

Love - Intangible?

I think not!

Cheekwood

It's been a while since I posted on this blog and decided I'd share a post that I also did on my photography blog Maeflower Photo Journal. I have purchased a new camera and my first photo shoot was a trip to our local attraction Cheekwood Botanical Gardens and Museum of Art. I hope you enjoy the photos and feel free to visit my other blog to view a more complete gallery of the days trip.

After soooo many years!

For more years than I like to think, we have had a commercial storage unit for all those things that just don't quite fit in the garage! Well it finally has ended....

Our building has been delivered.

This one is now empty and the keys turned in.

With the addition of a lattice skirt, flowers in the window boxes, 

an extension of the ramp, 

and a whole lot of STUFF, this one is now filled!

I guess that's one more thing we can mark off our TO DO list and one more step toward actually getting CARS in the garage!

Monday's Child is Fair of Face ~

The wait is over.....8 lbs 6 oz Sarah Hannah. God's Gift. Thank you Lord.

Anticipation...

like Christmas Eve on a snowy evening....My first grand baby Sarah Hannah will be delivered in the morning. Ah what will the future hold?

Christmas 'Round the House - 2011

C is for Christmas, Cats, and Canines ~

Christmas Memories

As I've had thoughts of Christmas, memories from my past keep crowding in my mind. As I have one memory, others come that I haven't thought about in years. For my latest post, I'm going to start listing the memories. They aren't sorted or sifted as to good memories or bad, happy or sad....they are just thoughts from past days of childhood, friends, and family....

The Nativity Scene at Centennial Park in Nashville
Candlelight Service at church
Going downtown to the department stores to see the Christmas displays
Harvey's Department store Christmas with Santa and the elevated train to ride above and see Toyland
Visiting nursing homes and "shut-ins" with mementos and Christmas presents
Mother's wonderment on the Christmas morning she awoke to find a very special Nativity scene under the tree.
A Beagle puppy
The Christmas Story
Daddy's last Christmas
A Davy Crocket make-believe play suit worn to church one Christmas that fell on Sunday.
Combat boots - slept in for nights afterwards
The orange and walnuts always in the stockings; not exciting but a tradition of simpler days
Singing 'round the piano
Caroling house to house
Egg Nog and Boiled Custard
Becker's Christmas cookies and cakes
The Christmas Parade with Daddy in it.
"Seeing the Lights" (driving around looking for the good ones)
Picking the tree and Mother getting the best price in town!!
Going to the cemetery to place fresh Christmas wreaths on family graves
Daddy's Honky Tonk lights
The ice skating pond display
Cutting my own tree - alone and crying
The Christmas of "no money"
Presents from Frank
Visiting my sister in Birmingham and going to their church for a special Christmas program
Toy catalogs from Sears
Christmas morning ALWAYS at home
Icicles being placed on the tree in PERFECT formation.....NO clumps!!
The traditional Cherry Cordial gift always for Mother
The Christmas BOX....gifts from one family to another and then the box being used the next year to send to another family member. The box is getting pretty beat up but it will continue to contain a gift to one from another across the miles.
The Christmas Bells, always hung on a doorknob

(Photo of the Nativity at Centennial Park, from the Internet)

Revival!

As mentioned in my prior posts, my mother always had so many stories to tell of her life that I am including some of her stories here as some of my blog entries. After much prompting from  my sister and me, we convinced her to put her thoughts and stories in writing. So at the young age of 81, she wrote her first story. Here is another of her writings and a glimpse of yesteryears and of fading traditions. Hope you enjoy this one.

ONE OF THE MOST MEMORABLE DAYS OF MY LIFE

By Veronica West

Oh, what a week of excitement in this little village of about 500 people where I lived until age 15. A sleepy little town on the banks of the Cumberland River, on the opposite side a beautiful bluff, or mountains as a band of gypsies coming through one time called them. No just Sydney's Bluff is what we call them. This was to be the most exciting yearly event, the one that was about to take place. No not Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus surpassed this event that is about to happen in the late summer months - hot, but in the cool, shady, grassy lawn of the court house it was quite cool. This little town was the county seat of Cheatham County.


Everyone who professed to be a Methodist was involved but for this one event I suppose all people participated - A revival only do you hear that word much any more? Seems a few return now and then. I always wondered in later life why they ceased. I remember attending Billy Sunday's at The Ryman Auditorium and our huge church had a most memorable one in the fifties. My dear husband, 2 daughters, and I attended every service. The preacher had a beautiful voice and his lovely wife, so charming, played the harp. Believe me the walls of that Sanctuary reverberated with all the sweet sounds. The preacher had a soft but firm modulated voice. I believe more people joined the church that time than at any other time in its history. Why did we become so sophisticated? We still have Billy Graham and his momentous ones .


Now to return to the particular one. Preparation time was so exciting all the children scurried to see the raising of the huge tent. Maybe, they would get to help the roustabouts secure the cords to the stakes. Then all the wooden benches from our church and folding chairs from funeral home and other churches were put in place. You see all the town would be involved - not just the Methodist Church. Next the upright piano was put on the raised platform that was constructed. The crocheted cloths placed meticulously on top with, of course, candlesticks. The bare floor would be covered with some of the most expensive carpeting from the local mercantile store. Countless hymnals then the thin, Cokesbury ones that any denomination is familiar with. We still use these in my Sunday School class - no newly adopted ones can take its place. Then the lectern with its huge Bible and a cross in front of it and oh, I almost forgot six or eight large ferns from my mother's yard. I always thought them so pretty - maiden hair, Boston and others. Then the dear decorating committee of buzzing ladies would stand back and adore, suggest, criticize, change until finally they agreed every thing was just perfect.


While all this was taking place, my grandmother and other ladies were preparing delicious food for all the dignitaries that would be visiting. Of course, fried chicken, country ham, fried corn cooked in an iron skillet, potato salad, tomatoes, all the fresh garden vegetables, gallons of lemonade and mild, fancy home made breads, biscuits, corn bread sticks and on and on ad finitum. Pies all the berry ones, apple, chess, chocolate and angel food cakes. I can remember the competition among the various ladies because each would want their food to be the best for the preachers, this was their Christian duty.


I was so proud that my parents were involved; my grandmother's food, my mother's decorating talent and my father even though a devout Church of Christ helping in the Courthouse yard as well as sending out letters and fliers. He was the postmaster's son. Now my pride was shattered because I never said a word but often wondered why none of the visiting dignitaries, delegates, preachers, song leaders never were overnight guests in our home.


Then my simple little mind would think about it. Maybe, our small little clapboard house on the lower end from the square on the narrow main street not fine enough. It seemed to me and I think still is some 80 years later the north end from the square the finer, richer houses and on the south end good people, plain like our family. Then I'd toss my head and think but I know ours is the happiest family in the whole world and my friends love to come to play with me so we were not social outcasts. I knew that my parents were better educated and too, our small abode would be filled to overflowing with friends and family from all over coming to be with us that particular week.


The revival would have morning sessions, home for lunches, rest, back in tent at 3:00, home and then the evening ones. The big events about five, the little dirt roads leading into the town would, in my eyes, be equal to a large traffic jam in a big city today. Very few automobiles had just come in, but all other means of transportation - mainly wagons because more people could come. Split-bottomed chairs in the back of the wagon lined up in rows and blankets spread on floors for children. It would be quite late when they would return home.


Shall I try to describe some of the people attending and where they would choose to sit. Up front would be the bankers, lawyers, ministers, medical doctors, elders , deacons, funeral director. Then next rows mostly the very devout church members, let me draw aside for a moment to tell you about the dearest soul, a tiny little frail lady seemed to me then at my tender age of 12, she must have been about 80. She was the mother of the printing family. The Clark family - her son and his family had a small printing company.


The Clark family were leaders in my church had twelve children one of them my best friend. They always seemed poor even though a good business, it exists until this day and every person subscribed to this little local paper. The children would sometimes come to school dirty. I had to spend the night with my friend because she stayed with me often but I dreaded it always to go to her house. Their lamp chimneys always seemed dirty consequently rooms would be very dark and cast weird shadows on the wall. Not very comfortable chairs, beds hard, not many toys or games or fun things but what good Christian people. One sang in choir, two taught Sunday school, three or four deacons, and one led the Sunday night youth group.


Now back to the matriarch; she would seem to be in same little outfit, black silk skirt, little black shirt-waist (called then) and a tiny little hat. I can see it but can't describe it. Little straw, no brim, some net and ribbon about it all very black and little black mits and small draw string reticule. Why did I bring her in? It is because she always shouted and my mother would remark I truly feel Mrs. Clark is so moved by the Holy Spirit that she really feels that way. She would begin to jump up and down on her tiny little tip toes, wave those little hands and say "Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, Glory hallelujah." The crescendo would increase louder and louder.


Now to continue the seating - teachers, church members, guests about midway the tent the young folks who were considered big enough to behave could sit away from their parents. The small ones would be placed by their parents on blankets spread on the cool grass at their parents feet. This I could never understand - the men it seemed  to me that needed to be inside and hear better - the so called men of sin, (today's street people) reprobates, profligates not quite that low, but who drank, cheated on their wives never attended any church any time, but they would surely turn out for the revivals arriving early, tether their horses outside, stay in the wagons until services began and then would inch up close to the tent just outside the flaps where they could hear.


I never knew if any were ever approached and invited in if they were event given any church related materials but they were certainly drawn thee by some power. I seemed to always feel sorry for less fortunate people, but always feared saying much about it to my parents. In my little impish way I wondered if they dared be imbibing while they were out there. Anyway I felt the church failed them in some way.


Now lets pretend the service begins the fourth night of the fifth and last session. The buzzing has ceased. I'm seated next to my little childhood sweetheart, Robert and Freddie my very best friend and Nancy (my Clark family friend), Martha, my rich friend - her grandfather owned the banks and "Boss" of the church. Jerry the miller's son had money and looks, but no brains. James whose father was ticket master at the depot and took the telegram messages that came in by telegraph.


Let's go right to the sermon. All the preliminaries being carried out, the minister arose, took his text which I remember absolutely nothing about. In fact, I seemed to remember none of his words except sin-sin, coming to the Lord and it seemed all night I had a nervous, churning inside me. I can explain part of it this way. At a certain age in our denomination, children are supposed to take training in a preparatory course and at the end of it ready for church membership. My name was on the Cradle roll. I still have my little certificate. I was Christened at an early age, had attended church and Sunday School all my life, but I went to my mother and dad, all my friends are talking about this course they're taking preparing to join the church. I don't understand it at all and do I have to go, Mother? She replied, "No you don't, not until you are ready and really want to, and you will know when. This will please your father and his family greatly because they were devout Church of Christ members and believed a person should understand it before deciding. My father having gone to a Bible college preparing for the ministry really knew the Bible.


Now, back to the sermon on sin-sin. I really wasn't grasping it yet. I had never been a bad person. I had never stolen anything, murdered, committed adultery - whatever that big word meant - just something ugly, I guessed. I felt that all my friends were staring at me. Well, the preacher finally ceased preaching. 0h how glad I was that's over, now we will soon be leaving. That was not God's plan. Then Miss Kathleen, the wife of Mr. George, my Sunday School teacher, began to play the piano. I dearly loved them both. It seemed as she played, her music sounded sweeter than I had ever heard it before. Then all the songs, "I Am Coming to the Cross," I Am Thine Oh Lord." I had never liked that song, the "Revive Us Again." I had loved that song. It was fast and peppy and I could really jazz it up on my piano (that is unless my father happened to be around). Just let my friends and me be around that piano on that chorus, "Hallelujah, Thine to the Glory, Hallelujah, Revive us Again," so my mind had run away with me I was almost saying goody, goody now let's get out of here and go home, No, not God's way. Then the soft sounds of "Softly and Tenderly," it seems Miss Kathleen was playing it just for me. I knew all the words and had always just sung them for the sweet, melodious tones; but now I was really listening. "See on the Portals, He's watching and waiting, waiting for you and for me, come home, come home, ye who are weary come home." Then hits of second verse pleading for you and for me. Then the chorus getting softer and softer, near the end I looked around at my friends. What should I do? I'm still hesitant, that aisle is too long, will they laugh at me? No, I'm not ready yet, then the third stanza "the Moments are Passing, Passing from you and from me." Finally the fourth stanza, "Oh, for the wonderful Love He has promised, Tho we have sinned, He has mercy and pardon." Then "Just as I Am Lord," followed by "Almost Persuaded." I think I'm an o.k. kid I've never really sinned have I? I think again about sin. At age 12 I've sinned, how about that time you and Zora ran off at lunch time from Nancy, who was one of your very dearest friends, but you wanted to be ugly and sneak away from her so you and Zora planned to run and hide behind a big, big tree in the school yard and eat your lunch and talk about her and her dirty, stringy hair.


Sin, well it surely wasn't very nice. What about that time you and Freddie went to the fair and sneaked in that booth where the hoochie coochie girls were putting on their show? You knew something was happening, something sexy or something, you didn't even know the word s-e-x. What about the time you slipped a handful of white beans from the barrel at Mrs. Ragan's store and your grandmother made you return them. You hadn't thought of it as stealing. Sin is that sin? What's happening? No, I'll turn it all off and then the soft notes of Jesus is tenderly calling thee home, calling today, calling today, why from the sunshine of love will thou roam further and further away - Refrain "calling today, calling Today".

I've stepped over Robert's feet. I'm in the aisle going up to the altar. Should I? Am I ready? Tears were in my eyes. Will my dad be pleased with me? I'm passing by where my mother, grandmother, and he are sitting. He smiled, all is o.k. now. I'm glad!!! On I walk with sweet sounds of "Come Home, O Sinner Come Home." I am there with a few others both old and young. I only know I felt good. Then of course, we knelt and seems the minister walked around, placing his hands on our heads.


Then of course, the follow up and training the next week ending with our baptism the following Sunday at a nearby creek. This also pleased my father's family as I had always believed this way immersion, not sprinkling even though I had always attended the Methodist Church with mother and maternal grandmother, I knew I liked many beliefs of my father's church. Coming from the small town I had never seen a baptistry until when in later years was teaching school and our building burned and we were teaching in various places. The third grade was in a nearby Church of Christ. A co-worker came and called me. She had opened a door on Monday and there was this room filled with water - believe me we hastened to call the janitor and get it  locked for fear one of the little children might roam in by mistake and be drowned.


Some say this was an emotional challenge. What, I don't know. I only know I'm glad it happened. I don't feel that that one event changed my life drastically, and I certainly turned from God in my later years several times and committed several terrible sins. I always had the assurance and went to my minister, prayed, repented, asked for forgiveness and continued to be a person my earthly as well as my Heavenly Father would approve of and call me a "child of God in whom I'm well pleased."

Flowers from the Past

As mentioned in my prior post, my mother always had so many stories to tell of her life that I have decided to include some of her stories here as some of my blog entries. After much prompting from  my sister and me, we convinced her to put her thoughts and stories in writing. So at the young age of 81, she wrote her first story. Although somewhat long, here is another of her writings. Hope you enjoy this one.


THE PART FLOWERS PLAYED IN MY LIFE
By Veronica West

My maternal grandmother and my mother about whom I've referred often in my stories had a deep love and understanding of flowers. Even though I was born in a small rented clapboard house, the yard was always beautiful. In this part of my story I shall be talking of its gardens often. My mother was an artist. It was the style in the the early 1900's to decorate the ribbons used on bassinets or on little pillows or pillow cases, so my mother was always giving new babies these rosettes, ribbons painted with delicate forget-me-nots. So even before my birth, while still in her womb, I'm sure these ribbons must have been in her lap, and the tiny brush in her hand as she fashioned the flowers and as she worked on my tiny little baby book, a little 4" by 6" pink cloth with these little sprays of white and pink blossomss and "Our Baby" painted in   white, as she anticipated my birth. Later in life upon opening and thumbing through the book, one finds, name, place of birth, time of birth, parents, height, weight, first picture, etc. Next came baby's gifts - the usual things - lace cap, silver spoon, picture frame, and then these three gifts which always seemed a bit odd:  a bunch of violets, a bunch of jonquils, and a bunch of hyacinths. It must have been an early spring for these flowers to have been in bloom as I have a February birth date. Maybe these friends did not pay me a visit until I was older. See as I write this I am 81 years old. All these people and my parents are dead, so I'm imagining who brought them to me. I imagine Aunt Beck (Rebecca) our laundry lady who adored my family brought the hyacinths. Miss Robbie, to be my piano teacher beginning when I was 9, possibly brought the jonquils. Aunt Fereby gave me the violets. She was a sort of amazon African-American who roamed the streets of our little town. She knew everyone and everyone knew Aunt Fereby. She always appeared seemingly from no place offering her services for free in any way she could help. Often she was found caring for the sick (and a real nurse she was), visiting to see the new babies and newcomers to our little town. Everyone loved Aunt Fereby. She was always clean and I'm certain she invented the style called "layered clothing". It seemed she would have more different skirts on at the same time - some long and full, covered with shorter ones, then a few over them wrapped sarong-like. Then of course she had 3 or 4 different sizes and shapes of aprons, then to add to her ensemble: 2 or 3 long sleeved black, brown or gray blouses or men's shirts. She wore some type of tight skull cap - very tight fitting, or more often a large stretched stocking folded over and over. On her feet were huge flip floppy shoes - toes cut out by her. I always felt she must have had terrible corns. Aunt Fereby was highly respected by all, particularly the business men of the community. I've enumerated my first introduction to hyacinths, jonquils and violets, which remain some of m favorite flowers today. And let's not forget the darling little forget-me-nots on the crib bows and my baby book.


I think my next association with flowers would have to be about at age 3. My mother had gone to the big city to do Christmas shopping and I was in the company of my beloved grandmother. She was a marvelous storyteller, entertainer and she would read to me many stories, but also she had her many chores to get done. My father would be coming home form the Post Office for his lunch, so she had gone to the kitchen and I was in the adjoining small bedroom. Oh goody, goody - all alone! Now let me look around. What is the most beautiful object in this drab old room, with a huge old bed, dresser, table and chairs towering over me? Ah! what have I found on this little, neat "tabouretNarcissus. I love them still at age 81, and will refer to them again later in this story.


My next awareness of the beauty of flowers came at about age 6. It seems I was always dressed up in lovely, fancy dresses that were carefully hand-made by my mother. This particular time I was dressed in a gorgeous white batiste dress with a long waistline and a large blue satin sash ending in a huge bow over the left side. A large round Bertha edged in round-thread lace was around the top of the dress at the neck. Black patent leather shoes and 3/4 length white silk socks finished my outfit. My black straight hair cut short with bangs Buster Brown style was shining as an ebony crow. A silver locket was around my neck. I'm sure my parents thought me such a beauty they ran immediately for their box-type No 2A Brownie Kodak camera. Now to find the proper place for the photograph. Ah! Here in front of the large bay window stood a huge rose bush much, much taller than I. They placed me very close and I outstretched my small hand quite discreetly, fearful lest one of those huge thorns should prick my fingers. The blooms were the faintest pink. I remember only seeing that same tint in the center of a conch shell. In no hothouse have I ever seen more perfect blossoms. They reminded me of the ones on Miss Hattie's Sunday hat. Having prepared the soil for the bush with the proper amount of soil, sand and fertilizer, my parents would set the small shoots in place. They would keep the shoots under a fruit jar to protect them from the elements. My parents knew all the requirements. I never quite understoond why their flowers were always more abundant and perfect in every detail. I can't remember the names. Seems this particular one was Queen Anne, my favorite. Then there was American Pride, American Beauty and Promise.


Now let's move on about two years later. I was so consumed with my love for the many, many plants and flowers, I begged to have my own little plot of soil. When the time came for preparing the garden, I was allowed to go to the corner market and to choose a packet of seeds. My grandmother read carefully the directions on the packet. She cautioned me to drop the specified amount of seeds the exact difference of space between them. Then came the task of covering over with the soil, making ready for watering. So at intervals I continued to water. It seems I never grew tired and I never forgot it was with God's intervention supplying the sun that at the proper time I would begin to see the little shoots emerge from their bed. I was ecstatic! I watched eagerly as each day passed and first the buds and then the blooms of the Balsam flowers shone their proud faces. My mother always called them Balsam. Today everyone refers to this flower as Impatience. The first time I , as an adult glimpsed it growing in a garden, I remarked about the pretty Balsam, and all my friends yelled “No, that's Impatience.” To me it will always remain as my first flower grown in my garden – Balsam. I'll never understand the why, but throughout my life I never sowed another seed, nor planted a garden. But I was always surrounded by gardens created by my mother that would have surpassed any English garden. I became familiar with a large number of flowers. I think I'll comment on some of them now.

One of my favorites, in addition to the ones already mentioned, are Nasturtium. I must interject my first experience with them. As I was an only child I often had to accompany my mother as she visited friends in our little village. Her favorite friend was Mrs. Annie Mae, a beautiful lady, always dressed impeccably who lived in a much finer home than ours. I was a devil when around her and it was because I was so jealous of the time my mother spent in visits with her. I wanted to share their conversations and to be the center of activities. Mrs. Annie had shiny hardwood floors, covered with Oriental rugs and a Victrola enclosed in a shiny polished console. On top of this console was an ecru crocheted doily my mother had giver her. In the center of that doily sat a hand painted blue vase. My mother taught art and china painting and Mrs. Annie studied with her. I always got to watch my parents load and fire the kiln at night. In that beautiful vase were the golden nasturtiums so gracefully arranged. On the wall she had painted a picture of the still-life. I would sit and gaze at this corner of the room as she and mother would carry on their boring, gossipy conversation. Mrs. Annie loved me and I knew it even though she often said I was incorrigible. She never did have any children. She told me, when I became an adult, of times I pushed her off our porch. She knew it was because I was a child and wanted her to talk to me. I bit her on one visit. I never knew until I had children of my own and was visiting Nance (Mrs. Annie Brinkley's nickname) and she told me when I married she was not quite as wealthy as they had once been and that she knew how I loved that vase. It was really a round fat squatty china one. She and her husband were hurrying to come to town (my family had left our small town and moved to the Capital of the state), and she had very carefully wrapped the vase in white tissue paper preparing to place it in a box, and she was crushing the paper around it when it slipped from her hands and crashed on the bare floor. She finished the story by telling me she sat down and cried and later chose me a small piece of cut glass to bring me. I could imagine that vase filled with the lovely nasturtiums in my home. My mother had a few in her garden in the city but I never remembered any as I did the round, blue vase in Mrs. Annie's "parlor".


Now I've become 15 years old, and due to my precocious childhood skipping grades, I'm to graduate with honors (26 in the small county high school class). I was to be Valedictorian. My mother had made my dress, which resembled a Prom dress of later years. It had white satin short skirt with beautiful lace over it, with a long bodice below the hips with a white rose on the side. I watched her meticulously make the rose, taking strips of material and shaping it around and around until the finished product - a perfect rose. Each of the 14 girls was to have one long-stemmed red rose. Not me. I was very much in love, even though just 15, with Robert Murray. R.M. as we called him had an older sister who lived and worked in the nearby city. So she made sure Robert sent me a dozen pink roses with Baby's Breath and a large pink bow. Never had I been so thrilled?

The whole evening which started out so heavenly turned into a nightmare. There were many gifts to open, a dinner with friends before leaving the house, and my mother giving me a dose of paregoric to steady my nerves. My father said she had given me too much of that and that I would fall asleep. The piano bench and the No2A Brownie Kodak were brought into the yard and I was seated for photographs with my lovely flowers in my lap. What bliss!! What impatience!! I would not get to see R.M. until we got to the school. We had no car so we walked the mile in old shoes to keep my white shoes clean. And I almost forgot - I had on my first long full-fashioned hose. I had worn 3/4 length socks and pleaded for the hose. Let's imagine now the scene at our high school. It was always a highly accredited one - never any trouble for a graduate to gain entrance into any prestigious university. Oh! there comes R.M. to meet us. My parents and grandmother went on into the auditorium to get ringside seats. R.M. motions me into the library. Naturally I was so eager to kiss him (puppy love or was it? I never really knew.). and to thank him for the lovely flowers. But I could see he was downcast, hurt. He told his agony. At the last minute the "mean, old" algebra teacher had failed him and he'd been told he would not get his diploma. There had been times when students had received blank pieces of paper to save the dishonor of friends knowing the story. So he was telling me he was going home and not staying. I knew his mother and sister were already seated and were not even aware. I begged -I pleaded selfishly for him to just sit on the stage and I even considered getting the entire class to boycott and not even go near the graduation. The teachers appeared at the door to line us up and the music started. I kept looking back and just to please me he marched in, head erect, and sat on the stage and heard me deliver my address.

Later in life his sister told me that was the saddest day of her life and had she known, they would have taken him and gone home. I always loved him. I always loved the beautiful roses, knowing I was the only girl who had received any. He had a car, so we drove to my little home together and I was so proud of him and the entire class - his poor little face so red, as diplomas and names called out, but I kept smiling at him. He was a sweet boy, blond curly hair, small features, nice background. It's true he did not study as he should. He drank a little, never around me. There were other boys in class far dumber than he, but he was from the country and no father to fight for him.


By now my life becomes completely changed. Our family left the little hamlet and moved near the University I was to enter in the fall. To finish the R.M. story, he came also and got a job. We continued dating for two years - movies, lunches, swimming, concerts, football games - still in love. Marriage was planned in two more years. I had taken ballroom dancing lessons. This fatal night arrived. There was to be a big dance in Kentucky. One of the boys who had helped in the studio when I had my lessons was going with his date. The dance teacher begged my father to let R.M. and me go, too. My father was quite skeptical but gave his consent very reluctantly. This was to be an indescribable time for me, for that very night I felt I had become an adult even though I was only 17.  I danced with many, many boys because I had become a good dancer.

Sumner, the boy who drove, danced a lot with me. He was a large, handsome one in a white, linen suit.  Poor, poor R.M. It seems I began to feel very differently about everything. When we arrived back in the city, Sumner's date and R.M. were taken home first because Sumner and I lived near one another. Something snapped in me, however I continued to date R.M. It must have been about 6 months later, Sumner finally called and asked for a date. I walked on air the entire week. I studied so hard and practiced piano so diligently, I did not date until weekends. 

The Saturday finally arrived. I went to class on campus - was out at noon. My father picked me up. We had a car by then. We arrived home. Our nice brick home had a side porch with double glass doors entering the dining room. As you entered those doors one could see directly across the length of the living room. As I skipped up the porch, opening the doors, what a sight to behold and what a thrill! On a large octagonal table with a tapestry runner sat the largest pot of bluish, purplish hydrangeas I had ever seen. It was near Easter. I exclaimed "Mother, what is this?" I found the card and tore it open - "Love, Sumner". My pretty dozen roses at graduation faded into oblivion. I spent the rest of the afternoon getting primped for my date. I was always clean, neat, had nice clothes, but this was to be a metamorphosis. I'm emerging from my cocoon - no young girl feeling anymore. We went to a movie with his brother and sister-in-law. I felt a little ill at ease. I didn't seem to be as experienced as they. I felt very country, but they were very nice to me. We,parted with the "I'll call you". This turned out to be the start of a romance led to marriage, and R.M. went back home to the country. I saw him several years later, he married and went to World War II and our paths never crossed. My flowers were always on that table almost every Saturday from then until our marriage 2 years later. He loved my mother and it was mutual.


I will tell you about their project. I called it "Mother's Rock Garden" with 150 different wildflowers. I found a list after she died of when and where we found the flowers. Sumner's parents owned some land in an adjoining county. He took a crew of Negro helpers and dug up huge rocks, loaded them into a truck and brought them to our home. Day in and day out they all worked diligently placing each rock in its proper position. It ended up being two fish ponds with a waterfall, with water lilies from the gardens in Centennial Park. Mother shared things with the gardener there.

My father, maternal grandmother and I were just spectators in this project. It was Mother's and Sumner's, except when we would have family picnics searching for wildflowers, not to ruin and destroy,  because you see ecology is nothing new to me. At age 6, I was taught and had explained to me the balance of nature. My mother, who had quite a green thumb, knew exactly how to dig them, how to leave the soil and roots around them, and then how to transplant them from their favorite wooded spots to soil and conditions they were accustomed to in the rock garden and around her pools. At her death I found a tiny notepad and a tiny, tiny pencil where she had listed 102 wildflowers growing in her garden. I knew practically all of them by name. Did I need to learn this in a course in Botany? Wasn't this much more vivid?

I screamed so loudly on one of these expeditions that my father, who was a little cowardly and not too fond of these jaunts said, "Oh, no - I knew it. The 'Baby' (as I was always called) has probably come across a snake!" My tiny, bold grandmother, who had lived through the Civil War triumphantly and run a farm, and who, in her own words "wasn't afraid of the 'very old scratch'', ran to my rescue to find nothing more than I had found the first Jack-in-the-Pulpit for the day. Oh, the pride as spring beauties, mayapples, wild columbine, Dutchman's Breeches, bluebells, anemone, jack-in-the-pulpit, dog tooth violets to name a few filled out that garden. This was truly a work of art and showplace for countless visitors who came streaming in on Sunday afternoons just after our dinner.

Well I must close this chapter of my life. My life changed drastically after this as, Sumner was killed in a motorcycle accident. I don't seem to remember any affect of flowers on me from his funeral pall of white lilies and red roses - his favorite flowers. Life was shattered. I sat in our small music room late at night sitting by his coffin. Some 50 years later as I write this it seems the fragrance from that pall still is wafted upwards in my nostrils.


I have no memory of any more flowers for awhile. Oh!I do remember. I visited a dear friend of my father's in Cleveland, Ohio. She had visited my aunt in Nashville and I fell in love with her. She was then about 60 and the cutest little thing I had ever seen. She had lived a hard life, had lost her first husband when she was young. She had lost her only daughter when the daughter was 16. She had adored this beautiful girl. She went every week to the cemetery and took flowers and also put fresh flowers by her picture in the apartment. I
called her 'Aunt Nan'. She seemed to fall in love with me and it was mutual. I always felt that somehow I replaced her beloved daughter. She had worked in Halle's - I believe was the store - some big, fashionable ladies' apparel store in Cleveland. Here she learned all about lovely clothes and dressed beautifully. In the course of time she met a very rich Jew, vice President of Republic Steel. So she, whom I call 'Aunt Nan' and 'Uncle Julius' invited me to visit them in their very swanky apartment in Cleveland. I stayed one month and this
is the most wonderful time of my life. I was really wined and dined. She taught me all the finer graces. They took me everywhere. We spent one weekend at Niagara Falls. All their friends were high society and rich; however, gambling had overtaken them and they were about to lose these friends. I dated every night and if not I went with them to some of the places I shall now describe. One was the Harvard Club, where you only wore dress clothes - black tie for the men and evening dresses for the ladies. Membership cost $1000 back
then. That was very exclusive, but sad to say, they frequented some not so elite. One in particular they called "Himmelsteins" for the fat, jovial German owner. Here we would go to play Bingo for $1000 card pay-offs. Now don't be fooled - very few went home with the winnings. You see, Bingo was only the cover up. Later, Bingo would be ended. The majority of the players went home. Then the night really began, as a good many of the richer customers paid dues and belonged to a private club. Then you left the huge room, where we had
been, and went through a back door. You presented your membership card. This beautiful, buxom blonde German girl sat at a beautiful desk. Under her right foot was a button or something. I never quite figured it all out but she would inconspicuously press with her right foot and the entrance door to another room would open up and you would enter where all the Las Vegas type gambling was taking place. Aunt Nan played them all but she preferred roulette. What a sight this little lady made - gorgeous clothes, dripping in diamond jewelry, cigarette always hanging from her lips. If not a cigarette, constantly chewing gum to the rhythm of the dice rolling and stopping while they landed on the red or black numbers. See it was in their blood.

A regular ritual took place every night before we left home. It would start at the dinner table. "No we aren't going tonight." They knew full well the routine. She would dress. He would nap on the living room sofa. Then she would awaken him and here we'd be off. I got a little bored at these evenings until that is one evening. I was standing at the dice tablet just watching and to my utter surprise I kept hearing this jargon from the croupier. Place your bets now, hurry up, make up your minds. The beautiful young lady in the black net dress place your bets. Step right up - don't be frightened. Everybody wins over and over and over." Well it suddenly dawned on me - the little young, inexperienced girl. My mother always made me lovely clothes, after I had designed them and told her just what I wanted. This was a short pleated skirt a black satin slip underneath and the top of the blouse of the slip was a flesh colored crepe which looked very risque for me because it looked as if bare on the shoulders of the dress even though it was buttoned up high with jet black buttons and had a round, Buster Brown, white pique collar.

The croupier's name was Bill. I'm sure I must have blushed allover. I never did bet, but on his break he made it a point to ferret me out and oh! my heart was about to leap out. Fortunately, he knew I was with Aunt Nan and he adored her. He told me night after night about that darling little old couple there. My oh my, I got a liberal education in a short time. I could write a book about the outcome of that meeting. He gave me money and I learned a little about playing. I was what they call a She'll(I think it was) for the house, in other words, a come on player for the house. He would give me my stack of chips and let me have a winning streak and that would draw the crowd.

Of course this dumb little girl was awestruck by all the glamour, and then, with Aunt Nan and Uncle Julius a little leery about it, I began to date Bill. I was scared stiff but oh the places we did go and what an education I got. You see all of this was connected with the underworld one night we were walking downtown window gazing and this big huge black stretch limo stops abruptly and calls Bill over to the curb. They all knew me oh my mind was whirling just like in the movies I could imagine Al Capone and all the cohorts in the car and I was Bill's mole (silly me). He never told me what it was about. He said they only needed him to work early shift next night. He took me to the race tracks just at dawn to show me the trainer taking the horses around for early practice. What an experience, dew and mist over the track, then the sun slowly emerging.

Oh! I'm sorry this is about flowers isn't it? Back up now to Mrs. Himmelsteins lady friend. Aunt Nan told me all the story. He had brought her as a very young Fraulein over from Germany. He took care of her. As she matured, she became his mistress. Aunt Nan said his wife was a gorgeous looking lady but he never allowed her to come to the gambling establishment. Now for the part flowers played in this story. They had no direct part of my life but the impression they made on me. Each night she looked like a fashion plate. I'm sure she was made up and hair coiffured every night by a professional, on her desk a beautiful floral arrangement. Not just your usual "bunch of flowers". Each night something different and the color of the flowers would be accentuated by her gown which would pick up the same colors. I shall always remember my first experience with the flowers, Bird of Paradise, a small translucent tall vase and about 3 standing proud and erect. The flower, she explained to me (remember I thought I knew flowers through my mother's knowledge of them) were Bird of Paradise. I began then to love them. Her gown picked up the bold blue, white and gold. Her shoulders and arms were quite bare, looking like alabaster. It was quite easy to see Mr. Himmelsteins fascination with her. Another night another flower grown. Mostly she told me quite profusely grow in Hawaii - Anthurium. I never really learned to care for this one. Colors too bold that queer shade of a sad red, so stiff, so bold, so odd and then I well remember even though 50 years ago her dress, to me quite ugly but very colors of the flower. The colors a kind of russet and saffron just didn't appeal to me. Rather cold. Her dress just didn't seem to blend with her alabaster skin and golden hair usually swept high on top of her head, a kind of french roll, rather severe, I often thought how beautiful it would be if down and could flow loosely over her neck and shoulders but never. Maybe she thought she was a bit too large and old for that style. I have been lucky enough to have only had one Bird of Paradise to call my very own. How stately and gorgeous they were.


I have no memory of any flowers for another twelve years. You see this is when Bill, the love of my life, the father of my two adorable daughters came along. After a whirlwind romance of three months, I was a bride again. We had met on the 4th of July at a USO. I was a teacher of many years in Nashville, working in a defense factory in Detroit for two summers. He was stationed at a nearby Air Base. I was married in a small chapel in West End Methodist Church with some 65 guests. My beautiful bridal bouquet consisted of the first purple-throated orchid I had ever owned, surrounded by stephanotis, and three tube roses. They had been my deceased father's favorite flower. Oh their fragrance! The exultation was almost equal to the time I had seen Sumner's hydrangeas, when a bell boy came to our bridal suite with another fresh corsage - another orchid.

Now time passes on - glorious, happy days after the honeymoon. I put my flowers in a large book and pressed them and still have them in a desk drawer. Two years later, the natural course of events, and I'm in the hospital with the first proof of my undying love for Bill - a darling bundle of joy - 6 pound girl had arrived - Margaret. Almost as lovely was a white milk glass candy jar which arrived at my hospital room filled with
miniature sweetheart roses. It was so pretty and unusual. The lid to the candy jar was turned up and it looked like a large fan spread out. I loved that candy jar, but unfortunately, over the years, it was broken. Now shortly afterward in my new baby hospital stay, a large bouquet of one dozen red, red roses arrived to welcome the new baby. They came from our dear family friend, Frank, who had made his home with my family for many years. He was almost like a member of our family and we loved him dearly. He had come down from Canada in the 1930's and I had met him at that time. He became a naturalized American citizen at the outbreak of World War II, and served the US in action in various countries overseas. He is buried in a cemetery plot by my parents, as I had an odd lot and he did not want to return to Canada. He was just like a brother to me. In fact, I taught my daughters to refer to him as Uncle.

Life goes on - a second daughter came to bless our union - Paula. I don't remember anything about flowers in the hospital, but I vividly remember the first Sunday we got out for Church after her arrival. Two corsages of cymbidium orchids arrived - one for me and one for big sister Margaret and a tiny nosegay of sweetheart roses for baby Paula. Daddy said my pregnancy so confining and he wanted me to spruce up and really look
dashing for church. I thought we did. I had a new beige suit, a new pink straw hat and the babies were attired in handmade outfits. It was a glorious Sunday of Church, friends greeting, picture taking, an outing to the park and home for dinner.

To close this chapter of love and devotion for twenty years of bliss with a perfect husband, at 41 he was chosen to go live with his Heavenly Father, leaving a broken-hearted family behind. I can see a huge pink roses and white lilies pall standing in front of the vestibule of West End Methodist Church. I have often wished I had not gone to the expense of this gorgeous pall as the minister insisted I use the burial cover for the coffin
which Miss Effie Morgan had recently bought and presented to the Church. So I carried out his wishes. Then the US flag and Mason's apron later draped the coffin at the cemetery.


Flowers! Happiness! Sadness! I should like to close my thoughts on flowers by remembering as years passed by - daughters grown and married - a new generation and one chilly Spring morning being greeted at my back door by a darling little 5 year old grandson named for his maternal grandfather. So Bill greeted me with outstretched hand with a neatly wrapped bouquet of fresh jonquils which his mother had grown, cut and arranged for him to bring to me. What a joy! What a gleam in his eye as he outstretched his little hand for me to accept. "Grandmama for you." Of course a big hug and many, many kisses and thanks and praise followed.


So you see I've come full cycle in my life from receiving jonquils at my birth until jonquils at age 83. I shall close. Please (I hope everyone loves and memorializes flowers, i.e. real ones, as I do - no silk ones, no plastic ones, no artificial ones. When I go for that final sweet repose, I hope there'll be a bower of flowers near me and over me. I'll smell their aroma and slip away into Heaven's open gates to join all the past loved ones of my life!