Memories of Chicago Novembers

 

I urge people to write family stories, and I always will, but you should also write your memories of a certain time in life. These memory pieces do not need to have a beginning, middle, and ending like a story must. 

Today, I'm going to share my November memories, written and revised some time ago. Perhaps my piece here will trigger memories for you of what November was like when you were growing up. Tell about the place, the weather, what your family did in that month, how you celebrated Thanksgiving, or if not, why not? As our poster today tells us, our memories gain in value as time goes on. 

November in Chicago

The crisp, sunny days of October somehow slid into damp, gray ones during November in the Chicago area where I grew up. The sun played hide-and-seek in the late autumn and winter months, mostly hiding. Wind swept across Lake Michigan, bringing a chill that seeped through warm, woolen jackets and into the bones. Fallen leaves swirled around our feet with each new gust and naked branches dipped and swayed like ballerinas. We walked faster on our way to and from school. Once home, Mother often commented that we had roses in our cheeks, nice way to describe chapped skin. We paid little mind to our rosy cheeks once inside our warm apartment. 

Each of the five rooms in our third-floor apartment had a large radiator with an on-off knob on the side, and a deep, narrow pan for water that hooked over the back to increase humidity. We had steam heat, fired by a huge coal furnace in a garden level basement. The coal man inserted a chute from his truck into a window. He sent the coal rumbling down the chute while several kids gathered around. The apartment janitor stood at the delivery end of the chute in the basement. Once this scary looking, coal-blackened man finished, the kids ran to the basement door to witness the next step in bringing heat to all our apartments. The janitor, grabbed a big shovel and fed the furnace from that huge heap. He let us watch for a few minutes, then snarled at us. “Get out of here now. No place for you kids.” His fierce look sent us scattering. Once, during a coal strike, we wore coats and hats inside, waiting in vain for the hissing sounds of heat coming through the radiators.

We celebrated Armistice Day every November 11th, commemorating the armistice signed to end WWI at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month, 1918. Even after WWII, Armistice Day remained as November 11th. Now, we call it Veterans Day. There are still parades and meals to mark the day.

At school, we studied the Pilgrims’ first Thanksgiving—history and art class rolled into one. Some classes had replica feasts.

My Thanksgiving menu now remains the same as when my mother or aunts prepared the dinner—turkey roasted to a golden brown and stuffed with a moist dressing redolent with sage. Aunt Adeline made French dressing, a spicy sausage added to it. We savored mashed potatoes and rich gravy, sweet potato casserole, homemade yeast rolls, cranberry sauce, a salad called Seafoam made with lime jello, cream cheese, mashed pears and whipped cream. Our vegetables were usually green beans. Pumpkin pie with real whipped cream finished the feast. 

We alternated hosting the dinner with my dad’s two sisters who lived near us. My five cousins, three brothers and I had a wonderful time together, despite the wide range of ages. After dinner, we were shooed outside to play, even when it was very cold. I suspect the adults sat around and drank more coffee, nibbled on the leftovers and did all they could to put off the dish washing time.

No dishwashers, so all the women cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes with towels made from flour sacks. When my female cousins and I got older, we were drafted  to help. Chattering women and clattering dishes, that’s what was heard in the kitchen after dinner. The men plunked themselves in comfy chairs and listened to the radio or a small black and white tv, and often napped.

Once married, I thought about asking my extended family to our house for Thanksgiving. I hesitated for fear of upsetting my mother who had cooked countless Thanksgiving turkeys. My aunts had passed away, so Mom was always the hostess. One year, I worked up the courage to suggest it, and Mom threw her hands skyward and said, “Finally! I’ve been waiting for someone to invite me for Thanksgiving for years.” 

Now, my children sometimes make the trip to Kansas for Thanksgiving. We use a few shortcuts and we load the dishwasher instead of drying dishes with flour sack towels, but the grandchildren revel in being with cousins just as I did all those years ago. The faces around the table may be different, but the same warmth of a family gathering to give thanks and spend time together is there. May it ever be so.

NOTE: There will be no new posts until Monday, November 28th. Enjoy your holiday weekend.

 

Making My First Pie--A Memory

 

I love today's photo because it brings back a memory of me at age 4 making my first pie (with help). I have written a short memoir piece--short as opposed to a book-length memoir. It's my memory, but it also tells something about my family and the time when it happened.

You can write a family story about a memory. When something triggers the memory, don't just let it pass on by. Ponder on it a while. Close your eyes. Can you see the place where the memory took place? The people involved? Yourself? Once you've given some thought, start writing the first draft. As you write, more of the memory will come to mind. 

As an example, my story is below. Maybe it will trigger one of your own. 

My First Pie--Made With Grandma’s Magic

I’ve made countless pies in my life, but the memory of the first one is as clear as a sunny April sky. I was a pre-school child, growing up in the WWII years. My mother and I spent our mornings at my grandmother’s neighborhood bakery.

Grandma started her bakery in a tiny apartment kitchen in a Chicago suburb during the Depression years. When her home business grew, she rented a building large enough for a working area and a display center. My mother and her brother helped with the baking, and a young Czechoslovakian girl named Adeline waited on customers. Occasionally, Adeline baked, too. They weren’t professionals but turned out delectable cakes, pies, cookies and breads day after day to supply the neighborhood. The door in the display room opened and closed repeatedly through the day.

 

By the time I turned three, I’d stand on a large metal flour canister next to Grandma. I watched while she mixed, rolled, and formed cinnamon rolls, dinner buns, and loaves of bread. I looked on intently as she mixed pie crust and prepared fruit for her fast-selling pies. If I talked too much or got in her way, I landed none-too-gently on my bottom on a bench alongside a long picnic table used for tea breaks. And there I sat, watching from afar, until Grandma nodded her head which was crowned with a coiled braid. When she offered me a tiny glimmer of a smile, I scurried back to my perch next to her.

She offered me tastes of many of the goodies in the bakery. I nibbled on cookies, bits of cake, and rolls, but my favorite was pie crust. It didn’t matter if it was part of a pie or only the crust itself. If a pie shell came out of the oven with a crack in it, Grandma allowed me to break it into pieces and eat it when cooled—a wish come true. To make a pie of my own was yet another wish, so I watched very closely when Grandma made pies.

Grandma placed the pastry dough on a floured board, then she shaped it into a big round powder puff. She floured the rolling pin before applying pressure on that ball of dough. She rolled up and down, then sideways several times. The circle got thinner and larger, and when Grandma laid the rolling pin down, I handed her the pie tin. She folded the pie crust in half and lifted it with ease into the pan. Zap! She flipped the folded half over to cover the pan, and then her hands flew as she fluted the edge and pricked the center with the tines of a fork several times.

“Don’t forget to do this or you’ll have big bubbles in your pie shell,” she reminded me many times. I listened carefully for she seemed a wizard, performing magic with all the things she baked.

If Grandma was making a fruit pie, she didn’t prick the bottom crust. She mixed apples or peaches or apricots with sugar, a bit of flour and some cinnamon, then piled the fruit high in the pie crust, adding generous pats of butter. The top piece of pastry received special treatment. Grandma used a small paring knife to cut slits and tiny holes in a decorative pattern in the center of the crust before she folded it in half and lifted it onto the waiting, fruit-filled pie pan. Then her fingers worked their magic as she fluted the edge before sliding the newest pie into the oven. 

Finally, a day arrived when Grandma put her flour-covered hands on her apron-covered hips and said to me, “Isn’t it time you made a pie? You’re four years old.”

 

A tiny shiver traveled up my spine. “By myself?”

 

“You might need a little help. Adeline can show you what to do.” She pointed toward Adeline who waited nearby.

Adeline set a huge flour canister on the floor and lifted me onto it. She had everything we needed ready and waiting--a small, tart-size pie tin, a rolling pin, flour, and the pie crust dough. She folded a flour sack dish towel in a triangle and tied it around my waist. Then she said, “OK, roll out the dough, Nancy.” 

I shook my head. “We make a powder puff first.”

After forming the dough into a round, I picked up the rolling pin, a smaller version of Grandma’s, and I started to roll it across the dough. But it stuck! Before Adeline could tell me, I said, “I know what we need--flour on the rolling pin.” I pried the wooden tool from the crust, floured it and tried again. I did it exactly as Grandma had done so many

times as I watched her. I rolled up and down, then sideways and up and down again, but I didn’t have a perfect circle. It looked so easy when Grandma did it.

I didn’t have time to cry over that fiasco, as Adeline assured me it would be all right. “Now fold it over and put it in the pan,” she said.

 

That part I did with ease. She handed me the bowl of apples, already mixed so they were sweet and spicy. I dumped them into the pie shell, but half of the apples landed on the counter. I scooped them up with my flour-covered hands and piled them on top of the ones already in the pie shell. I remembered to flour the rolling pin before attacking the pastry for the top of the pie. This time Adeline put her hands over mine and helped me make a better circle, not perfect but better. After she cut slits in the dough into a letter A, I folded it in half and carefully picked it up. Plop! Down it went onto the apples. Adeline showed me how to pinch the pastry together around the edges to make a fancy finish. My fingers didn’t have the magic like Grandma’s, and my edge didn’t look nearly as pretty, but Adeline told me it looked very fine for a first pie. I clung to her side when she showed it to Grandma and waited to see what she’d say.

 

Grandma looked at the pie for a long time. “It looks like a nice little pie. You did a good job.” 

My heart swelled at those few words.

 

When Adeline slid my pie out of the oven, the cinnamon and apple aroma filled the air. I could see the filling bubbling through the slits in the golden-brown crust. “It has to cool before you can eat it,” she warned.

“I’m taking it home to my daddy,” I told her. “It’s all for him. Every bite!” 

Although my father seldom ate dessert, that night he had a piece of my pie. “It’s the best I ever ate,” he said.

 I have made many more pies over the years. One of the nicest compliments my mother ever paid me was when she tasted one of my pies, laid down her fork, and said, “You make wonderful pie just like your grandmother.”

  

I couldn’t help but think of the many times I watched Grandma create pies, and I was both pleased and proud she’d shared her magic with me. 

(C)

A Christmas Memory For Chocolate Lovers

I'd like to share a Christmas story today. It's one I had published in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book in 2013. Who doesn't love chocolate? All the stories in the book highlight chocolate in some way. My story is one that happened the Christmas I was in third grade. My dear mother told the story many times over the years and then I wrote it.

Do you have a special Christmas memory? Have you written about it? Why or why not? Many of those special moments in life can end up as a published story, or even another one to put in your Family Memories book.

Here is my story. I hope you enjoy it.  The picture is me at about age 10, although I must have been 8 at the time the story happened.

Nancy 

A Spoonful of Fudge

Spiral back in time with me to a mid-December day in 1948 and relive one of my treasured memories. With our teacher’s guidance, my third-grade class planned the Christmas party, which would be held on our final day before the holiday break. Our classroom already looked festive thanks to a live Christmas tree decorated with our artwork. Cut-out paper snowflakes adorned the tall windows, and in free time we’d made construction paper chains which we used to decorate every available space in the room.

But now the most important part of getting ready was upon us. Miss Marshak asked for volunteers to bring Christmas napkins, cookies, and punch.

 “Now what else would be good to have at the party?” she asked.

A boy in the last row hollered, “Fudge!”

At his one-word answer, I sat up straight and waved my hand in the air. When Miss Marshak did not call on me immediately, I bounced up and down in my chair and gestured furiously.

 “Yes, Nancy,” she finally said.

“I’ll bring the fudge. My mother makes the best fudge in the world.” My mouth watered at the thought of the creamy, rich chocolate candy my entire family loved.

I could hardly wait to get home and tell my mother that I’d volunteered to bring fudge for the party. She’d be so excited to share her special fudge with all my classmates. I barely felt the cold December air as I hurried along the six blocks from school to our apartment building. My feet scarcely touched the stairs as I sailed up the three flights to our door.

Mother stopped peeling potatoes when I burst into the kitchen. I announced the great news, but I didn’t get the reaction I’d expected. Her face paled. “Fudge? Isn’t there something else you can bring?”

“No. Other people signed up for the rest.” My excitement deflated like a pricked balloon.
What could be wrong?

Mother shrugged, picked up the potato peeler and said, “It’s all right. I’ll make the fudge.”

The December days slid by, one by one. I helped Mother put up our Christmas decorations. Dad took my brothers and me to pick out a tree, and Mother spent her days wrapping packages and baking special cookies and Christmas cakes. At school, we practiced for our part in the all-school musical program, read Christmas stories in reading time and created our own in Language Arts period. Giggles got louder as Christmas surrounded us.

Finally, the day before the party arrived. Our teacher went over a checklist to make sure everyone remembered what they were to bring the next day. How could I forget? I’d thought about the chocolaty, wonderful fudge Mother would make every day. I could almost taste its smoothness and the lingering sweetness it left.

When I got home that afternoon, my baby brother was crying, and Mother looked about to cry along with him. “What’s wrong?” I asked. My worry centered not on the baby or my mother but on the fudge.

Mother sank into a kitchen chair. “I’ve made three batches of fudge today, and none of them worked. They’re all too soft. I can’t send it to school.”

I had no idea why she was so disturbed. Fudge was always soft and gooey. We spooned it up every time we had it. “Why?” was all I could think to say.

“Nancy,” my mother said, “fudge is not meant to be eaten with a spoon. It should be firm enough to pick it up in a piece and pop into your mouth. I beat and beat it, but it’s like it always is when I make it. Too soft. And I made it three times today!”

Tears welled in her eyes, and my baby brother reached up and patted her cheek. Maybe even he knew how bad she felt. How could I bring the fudge to school? I loved my mother’s fudge, but maybe nobody else would. Maybe they’d laugh when they saw it. I worked up my courage and asked, “What are we going to do?”

The next morning, I carried a big pan of fudge and 21 spoons to school.

 The soft candy was the hit of the party. After we had our punch and cookies, everyone gathered around the cake pan of fudge, spoon in hand, and dug in. My fears were never realized. One of the boys licked his spoon and said, “You were right. Your mom does make the best fudge in the world.” Echoes of agreement sounded around the circle. We dipped our spoons for more.

Some years later, Mother began to make a new fudge recipe that contained marshmallow crème. The ads promised it was foolproof--firm fudge every time. They were right, but the spoonfuls of soft fudge we’d eaten all those years before remained my favorite, and I never forgot how my mother found a solution to what might have been my biggest third-grade disaster. It wasn't only fudge she'd given me that December day.

Easter Memories

Me on Easter 1942

Do you remember when little girls had new spring coats and hats to wear for Easter? The one I'm wearing in the photo above was navy blue and white. My dad always said this was his favorite picture of me. It's a most unusual one because I am looking so pensive. Usually, I was chattering and smiling. Maybe I wasn't quite sure about that strange man--the photographer--who was taking my picture. 

We lived in a third floor apartment in suburban Chicago so the Easter Bunny hid the eggs we had dyed on Easter Saturday in coffee cups filled with hot water and dye tablets. We soon learned all the hiding places, including our dad's shoes, and gathered the brightly colored eggs in no time at all. My brothers and I usually received a small gift from the Big Bunny, too. A comic book, a paper kite, or those balsa wood planes for my brothers. Maybe a bottle of bubbles to blow through a wand for me. We didn't have the large amount of chocolate the kids today get on Easter.

When Easter fell in March or early April, we donned colorful spring dresses and coats to walk to church in sharp north winds, even a little snow on occasion.

On one of those bitter cold Easters, I had a new aqua-blue spring coat and hat that I’d looked forward to wearing. Mother told me it was much too cold to wear it. “You have too far to walk to church. You’ll freeze,” she said.

I begged and begged. “Please let me wear it. I’ll wear a sweater underneath.” Tears slipped from my eyes as I waited for her to give in. They were genuine, not a ploy. Wearing that new coat was a monumental need at that moment at age eight.

Mother relented, but I did have to wear the sweater I’d proposed underneath my lightweight, pastel-colored coat. I think I was very glad to have it as my brother and I headed to church to hear the Easter story once again. 

My family never went to church on Easter Sunday. Or any other Sunday! Mom had been raised Methodist and Dad in the Catholic faith. Neither one would join the other so they stayed home and sent my brothers and me to Sunday School at the Methodist church. As I got a little older, I stayed for the church service, too. I spent many weekends with a cousin my age whose family was Catholic, so I went to church with them. I married a Lutheran whose family went to church every Sunday. I joined the Lutheran church and go regularly to this day. It's been one of the biggest pluses of my marriage. 

Even with no church service, my family celebrated Easter with a big meal. At least one of my dad's two sisters and their family joined us in our small apartment for a mid-day dinner. Somehow, we all fit around the table that literally groaned with food placed in the center. Round and round those serving bowls went, adults helping the younger children fill their plates. My Uncle Jimmy piled his plate high, swung his tie from the front to the back of his shirt and dug in. He barely came up for air until the plate was cleaned of food. Then, he wiped his mouth and mustache with his napkin and waited for the dessert he knew my mother would bring from the kitchen. 

We usually had a large baked ham that my mother scored two ways to make diamond shapes. Then she put a whole clove into the spots where the lines intersected, glazed the ham with mustard and brown sugar and baked until it was just right. Sometimes, she put slices of pineapple on top of the ham along with the glaze. Scalloped or Au Gratin potatoes were served with the ham. I now wonder how in the world she managed to fix both those items in the small oven we had. Sometimes, Mothers can work miracles. We had at least two vegetables, a jello salad, and homemade yeast rolls to round out the menu. Dessert could be cakes or pies made the day before. The adults sat around the table with coffee cups being refilled over and over after dessert was finished. The kids were sent outside to play in our apartment courtyard or at the city park a block away. 

As my girl cousins and I got older, the playing outside was exchanged for helping with the dishes in our tiny kitchen. No dishwashers then. Instead, we had a sink full of soapy suds and a drainer with clean dishes for the ones with big flour sack dish towels to dry. After that was done, one of the dads drove us to the movie theater, dropped us off, then came back to pick us up after we'd been entertained by one of the great Hollywood musicals of that era. 

The rebirth of springtime flowers, trees and bushes still symbolizes the meaning of Easter for me. Christ’s resurrection created a rebirth for all Christians, and as He taught us to love one another, I also think of the love of family as part of our Easter celebrations. It isn’t only the ones of my childhood but for today, as well. 

Have you written your Easter memories to pass on to your children and grandchildren? If so, good for you. If not, consider making this the year that you do it. 

October Musings--Memories Of A Chicago Childhood

A good time to write a memoir or add to your family stories is when a new season arrives. Here, in the northern hemisphere, it's fall. I sometimes slip back into my childhood years and what life was like during this season. I've posted a short piece on what life was like in my Chicago suburb in the 1940's and 50's during October. 

Maybe reading it will spur a bit of inspiration for you to write your own memories, whether it be to submit to a reminiscent type of magazine or only to add to your Family Stories book so that your children and grandchildren will have a glimpse of what your childhood years were like back in "the olden days" which is what they think of our growing-up times. 

October Musings

By Nancy Julien Kopp

Do you remember when October meant burning leaves? We lived in a big suburban apartment building without many trees around it. The janitor raked the few leaves to be seen, but I’d pass homes where piles of burning leaves left a pungent odor that tickled my nose. Or I’d see kids take a flying leap into the center of a raked pile, shrieking with glee as they did so. I envied them.

Every October, our Girl Scout troop took a field trip to a local forest preserve. Country kids had nature all around them, but we city scouts journeyed to a small piece of the same, hidden from city sights and sounds. It was as if someone had gathered a piece of forest, rolled it up, and brought it to the city. Once there, they unrolled it, the trees popped upright, and city children could pretend they were far away. Pure magic!

We hiked through the woods there, identified trees and plants, were warned to watch for poison ivy. We gathered around a crackling fire to roast hot dogs and marshmallows on the end of a stick. Girl Scouts learned to prepare S’Mores with graham crackers, Hershey’s chocolate bars, and blackened marshmallows. Sometimes we’d prepare a meal on the grated grill in one of the forest preserve shelters. My favorite was a dish called Bags Of Gold. It was a big pot of canned cream of tomato soup, and Bisquick dumplings made with a cube of Velveeta cheese in the center. That hot soup and the soft pillow-like dumplings with their golden cheese center was my favorite outdoor meal. I never had it anywhere but on the Girl Scout field trips. Somehow, that dish belonged to outside eating, not to be done in our kitchen at home. I’m sure it would never have tasted as good as it did in the crisp October air.

October also meant Halloween parties where the most popular game in the late 1940s was bobbing for apples. I really hated that game, but everyone had to try. I had long hair, curly and auburn red, and no matter what I did to avoid it, I managed to have wet curls before I captured an apple between my teeth from the tub of water. I’m sure there were other games played, but those miserable little apples floating merrily around the tub have are one of those memories better pushed into the deep recesses of my brain.

At school, our art classes concentrated on leaves and pumpkins, witches and black cats all during October. The teacher read scary stories to us and we made plans for our Halloween parade and parties. Every class in the school lined up the day of the party wearing costumes of various kinds, most of them created from things we had at home. Nobody bought a costume. We marched around the outside of the school with some of the mothers watching. Dads didn’t take off work for school events then like they often do today. We didn’t feel deprived not having our fathers see us in the parade. It was just the way it was. We’d get back to our classrooms and play games, including that awful bobbing for apples, and then have our treats. Usually frosted sugar cookies made to look like pumpkins, apple cider and a nut cup filled with candy corn and peanuts.

When darkness descended, it was Trick or Treat time. Big kids took little brothers and sisters along. Our apartment building had sixty-two apartments and we rang the doorbell of all, up and down the stairs in each vestibule. Great exercise, but we only looked at it as a means to get lots of candy. Mother put it all in a big bowl and allowed us only a piece or two each day until it was gone.

October in Chicago brought chilly mornings and evenings, but often pleasant afternoons. We had some cold, rainy days, too. It was time to bring out the flannel pajamas, sweaters and jackets. October brought a blaze of color that soothed the soul, and as the leaves dropped and swirled in the winds, we knew winter waited just around the corner. 

Write About Summer Memories

                                                                    Summer's Song

Sing to me of

marshmallow clouds

and rainbow skies,

of baseball games and

ice cream cones,

buttercups and

ladybugs

Tell me about

white sand beaches

and clear blue lakes,

county fairs and

lemonade stands,

lightning bugs and

thunderstorms

                                      ---Nancy Julien Kopp

Right now, we in the northern hemisphere are switching into summer clothes, end-of-school festivities and ready to jump into those things we only dream about on cold, winter days. 

I haven't done a post on your childhood memories to be put into your Family Stories Book for quite some time. Today seemed like a good time to do that. Think back to your growing-up years. The questions below should help trigger some memories that you can write about and add to your book. Or it may trigger an idea for a poem like mine above, or a story.

• What did your school do to mark the end of the school year?
• Where did you swim?
• What summer chores did you have?
• Who did you play with on summer days?
• Did you read books?
• Were you into sports?
• What kind of foods did you mother serve in summer?
• Did you go on long hikes or bike rides?
• Do you remember big summer thunderstorms?
• Did family come to visit during the summer?
• Did your family visit others in your famly?
• Did you hve an annual family reunion?
• What was it like in your house on very hot days?
• How did you cool off?
• What were your favorite summer beverages?

Bakeries On My Mind

I have bakeries on my mind this morning. You know how something triggers a memory, and then that one dredges up another memory? Before you know it, your head is filled with memories tripping over each other. 

It all began when the sister of a childhood friend of mine posted notice of a death on her facebook page. The man who died at only 62 was the youngest son in a family that lived next door to my family for many years in a Chicago suburb. His older sister is the same age as my middle brother. She had Friended me on facebook some months ago, so I went to her page and sent a private condolence message. In it, I told her that one of my fondest memories of her family is that her parents gave me my wedding cake as a gift when I was married, nearly 48 years ago.

Bud and Lorraine owned the bakery in our neighborhood shopping district, three blocks from our houses. We ordered the cake from them because it was the best place to do so as well as the owners being neighbors and friends. What a surprise when they gifted us with the cake. That kind and thoughtful gesture was typical of them. 

After writing the note, I began to have mental snapshots of the small bakery where waiting in line was not a problem since there were so many delectable goodies to look at. Besides what we saw, the blend of baked goods aromas tickled the nose and whet the appetite. Every child was given a cookie by the clerk behind the counter. My mother bought a loaf of bread there every day, and sometimes she'd bring home crullers or kolaches that our family of six adored. Mother did a lot of baking at home, but those two delicacies were not in her repertoire. 

I delved farther back into my memory bank to my very early years and the small bakery that my grandmother owned. I've written several stories about that heavenly establishment. My mother worked there on weekday mornings, and she took me with her. Imagine having a small child running loose in one of today's big bakeries! There were rules and I was expected to follow them. Most of the time I did, but sometimes....well, that's a story in itself. 

What all this is leading to is that we all have something that was special to our families, and those memories and reminiscences give us a resource for stories we write. Mine happens to be bakeries, but your family might have had a connection to auto repair shops or Mom and Pop grocery stores or neighborhood beauty shops. There are so many things from our long-ago everyday lives that we can write about. And the stories can be serious, humorous, or even sad. Use the great trigger I remember... when thinking about one of these subjects and you'll be surprised at how many long-buried memories rise up to meet you. 

Tomorrow, I'll post an essay I've written about lessons I learned in my grandmother's bakery. 

Love In A Box

Happy Valentine's Day. I'm posting a Valentine story that was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Fathers and Daughter's book a number of years ago. The story has been published a number of times since then and in several foreign countries. It's a very simple story, a childhood memory, but it has triggered some Valentine and family memories for readers. 

Love In A Box

By Nancy Julien Kopp

When I was a little girl, I found love in a box all because of a class assignment. On a Friday night I made an announcement at the dinner table. The words bubbled out in a torrent of excitement I could no longer contain. "My teacher said we have to bring a box for our valentines on Monday. But it has to be a special box all decorated."

Mother said, "We'll see," and she continued eating.

I wilted faster than a flower with no water. What did "We'll see" mean? I had to have that box, or there would be no valentines for me. My second grade Valentine's Day would be a disaster. Maybe they didn't love me enough to help me with my project.

All day Saturday I waited, and I worried, but there was no mention of a valentine box. Sunday arrived, and my concern increased, but I knew an inquiry about the box might trigger anger and loud voices. I kept an anxious eye on both my parents all day. In 1947, children only asked once. More than that invited punitive measures; at least in my house it did.

Late Sunday afternoon, my father called me into the tiny kitchen of our apartment. The table was covered with an assortment of white crepe paper, red construction paper, and bits and pieces of lace and ribbon from my mother's sewing basket. An empty shoebox rested on top of the paper. Relief flooded through me when Daddy said, "Let's get started on your project."

In the next hour, my father transformed the empty shoebox into a valentine box I would never forget. Crepe paper covered the ugly cardboard. My father fashioned a ruffled piece of the pliable paper and glued it around the middle. He cut a slot in the lid and covered it with more of the white paper. Next came red hearts attached in what I considered all the right places. He hummed a tune while he worked, and I kneeled on my chair witnessing the magical conversion of the shoebox and handing him the glue when he needed it. When he finished, my father's eyes sparkled, and a smile stretched across his thin face. "What do you think of that?"

My answer was a hug and a "Thank you, Daddy."
 

But inside, joy danced all the way to my heart. It was the first time that my father devoted so much time to me. His world consisted of working hard to support his family, adoring my mother, disciplining my brother and me, and listening to every sports event broadcast on the radio. Suddenly, a new door opened in my life. My father loved me.

 Monday morning, my mother found a brown grocery sack to protect the beautiful box while I carried it to school. I barely felt the bitter cold of the February day as I held the precious treasure close to me. I would let no harm come to my beautiful valentine box.

My teacher cleared a space on a long, wide windowsill where the decorated boxes would stay until Valentine's Day. I studied each one as it was placed on the sill, and none compared with mine. Every time I peeked at my valentine box, I felt my father's love. My pride knew no bounds. There were moments when the box actually glowed in a spotlight all its own. No doubt the only one who witnessed that glow was me.

Every day some of my classmates brought valentine cards to school and slipped them into the slots of the special boxes. The holiday party arrived, and we brought our boxes to our desks to open the valentines. Frosted heart cookies, red punch, valentines and giggles filled our classroom. Chaos reigned until dismissal time arrived.

I carried my valentine box home proudly. It wasn't hidden in a grocery sack but held out for the world to admire. I showed it to the policeman who guided us across a busy city street. He patted me on the head and exclaimed over the box. I made sure everyone along the way took note of my valentine box. My father had made it for me, and the love that filled the box meant more to me than all the valentines nestled inside.

From that time on, I never doubted my father's feelings for me. The valentine box became a symbol of his love that lasted through decades of other Valentine Days. He gave me other gifts through the years, but none ever compared with the tender love I felt within the confines of the old, empty shoebox.

Write Your December Memories

I turned the page on three calendars this morning. Suddenly, the last month of the year is upon us. Some of us will celebrate Christmas this month, others will  looks forward to Hanukkah or Kwanza. Whatever we commemorate this month, we all have memories of years past. This is the perfect day to take a few minutes and write a rough draft about your December memories. If you started your memory book last January, this month will give you a full year of memories. What a perfect gift for your children and grandchildren! 

Start thinking about what your life was like during the month of  December during your childhood. What chores did you do in the winter months? What kind of clothes did your mom insist on in December? What special foods did your family eat in December? What kind of parties did you host or attend? What did your classroom look like in December? 

Did your family attend special holiday performances at school, church, or a theater? Did all your friends celebrate the same way you did, or did they recognize a December holiday different than your own? What were the secret places your mom hid gifts? Did they stay secret? What kind of weather did your area have in December? What did you do on the holiday itself?

I hope these questions have triggered some memories for you. Now, it's time to start writing about those things that have come back to you. Only yesterday, a friend told me she rode a pony three miles to school when she was a child. What a wonderful experience to describe to her grandchildren in her memory book. She'd have pluses and minuses to traveling to school that way.

Tomorrow, I'll post my December memories. 

Memory Book--November

We're well into November. Have you written your childhood memories of this month? If you started doing it last January and continued each month, you should have a nice booklet in the works for your children and grandchildren to cherish for years to come. Or, the memories that you write about can be turned into publishable material for magazines like Good Old Days or Memoir Journal. (The links will take you to submission information).

If you haven't tried this, a good way to begin is to think back to your growing-up days. What was the weather like in November? What kinds of activities did you do in school that month? What kind of clothes did your mom insist on in November? What special foods did you eat? How did your family celebrate Thanksgiving? The more you think about it, the more memories will come. Include your early adult years, too.

Here's one I wrote a few years ago which includes childhood and beyond:

November In Chicago

By Nancy Julien Kopp

The crisp, sunny days of October somehow slid into damp, gray ones during November in the Chicago area where I grew up. For some reason unknown to most of its inhabitants, the sun played hide-and-seek in the late autumn and winter months, mostly hiding. Wind swept across Lake Michigan, bringing a chill that seeped through warm, woolen jackets and into the bones of both young and old. Leaves which had fallen and not been raked yet, swirled around our feet with each new gust of wind, and naked tree branches dipped and swayed like ballerinas announcing that winter would soon begin. We walked faster on our way to and from school, and Mother often commented that we had roses in our cheeks when we arrived home, nice way to describe chapped skin. We paid little mind to our rosy cheeks once inside our warm apartment.

Each of the five rooms in our apartment had a large radiator with an on-off knob on the side, and a narrow deep pan that hooked over the back which Mother filled with water to bring the humidity levels up. Our large building had steam heat, fired by a huge coal furnace in a garden level basement. I guess you’d call it a half-basement. There was a window in the furnace room where the coal man inserted a chute from his truck and soon sent the coal rumbling down the chute while a group of us kids gathered around to watch. The coal man stood guard outside, and the apartment janitor stood at the delivery end of the chute in the basement. The coal man’s face matched the product he delivered making the whites of his eyes stand out prominently. Once this scary looking man finished, the kids ran around to the basement door to witness the next step in bringing heat to all our apartments. John, the janitor, grabbed a big shovel and fed the furnace from that huge heap of coal. He let us watch for a few minutes, then snarled at us. “Get out of here now. No place for you kids.” And his fierce look sent us scattering. Once, there was a coal strike, and we had very little heat for several days. We wore our coats and hats and even gloves inside until we heard the blessed sound of pipes rattling and radiators hissing once again.

We celebrated Armistice Day every November 11^th, commemorating the armistice signed to end WWI at the 11^th hour on the 11^th day of November, 1918. Even after WWII, Armistice Day remained as November 11^th. Now, we call it Veterans Day and it’s celebrated the second Monday of November. There are still parades and speeches, breakfasts and lunches served in places like the American Legion Hall, but somehow it doesn’t have the same meaning as it did when I was a child, and the date remained constant.

The next big event in November was Thanksgiving. We celebrate now much as we did then. The menu remains the same as it was when my mother and my aunts prepared the dinner—turkey roasted to a golden brown and stuffed with a moist dressing redolent with sage. One of my aunts made an additional stuffing that she baked alongside the turkey. This one was a family recipe from the French side. Sausage added to it gave it a spicier taste. We had mashed potatoes and rich gravy made from the turkey drippings, sweet potato casserole with a marshmallow topping, homemade yeast rolls, cranberry sauce, a salad called Seafoam made with lime jello, cream cheese, mashed pears and whipped cream. Our vegetables were usually green beans. Pumpkin pie and apple pie finished off our feast. Real whipped cream topped the spicy pumpkin pie, and vanilla ice cream and perhaps a piece of cheddar cheese graced the plate with the apple pie on it.

My father had two older sisters who lived in the Chicago area with their families, so we usually celebrated Thanksgiving with one or both of them, trading homes from year to year. My five cousins, my three brothers and I had a wonderful time together, despite the wide range of ages. After dinner, we were shooed outside to play, even when it was very cold. I suspect the adults sat around and drank more coffee, nibbled on the leftovers and did all they could to put off the dishwashing time.

No dishwashers in those days, so all the women pitched in and cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, often with towels made from flour sacks. When my female cousins and I got older, we were drafted into the kitchen to help. Chattering women and clattering dishes, that’s what was heard in the kitchen after dinner. We were probably better off, as we got some exercise after eating so much, while the men plunked themselves into chairs and listened to the radio, and in later years, watched the small screen TV we had.

Occasionally, it would snow on Thanksgiving Day but seldom enough to keep anyone from getting to wherever their dinner might be.

When I got married, I thought about asking my parents and my brothers to come to our house for Thanksgiving, but I hesitated to do so for fear of upsetting my mother who had cooked countless Thanksgiving turkeys. My aunts had passed away, so Mom was always the hostess. After a few years, I worked up the courage to suggest it, and Mom threw her hands skyward and said, “Finally! I’ve been waiting for someone to invite me for Thanksgiving for years.” After that, when we lived close enough, Thanksgiving for the extended family that lived nearby was at our house.

Now, my children both make the trip home for Thanksgiving every other year, bringing their families to share in the Thanksgiving traditional menu. We use a few shortcuts now, and we load the dishwasher instead of drying dishes with flour sack towels, but the grandchildren revel in being with cousins just as I did all those years ago. The faces around the table may be different, but the same warmth of a family gathering to give thanks and spend time together is there. May it ever be so.

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Fourth of July Memories

I wrote about my Fourth of July memories, of things we did as kids a few years ago. I'm the oldest of four and the only girl. Childhood years are few when we look at the overall scheme of our lives, but they leave us with tremendous impressions and memories, all of which make us the adults we are today. I've posted my thoughts of this holiday below. Hope everyone has a great holiday and remembers what it's all about. Maybe you can write about your own memories of this day.

Fourth Of July Memories Come back with me to the1940’s and early 50's era in Chicago. During the first few days of July, my younger brothers and I walked to the neighborhood Woolworth’s store to buy a very important item for our Fourth of July celebration. We had to make our purchase no later than July 3rd, for all businesses closed on Independence Day.  We walked on the creaky wooden floor, smelling the penny candy lined up in glass cases near the front door. Straight to the back of the long aisle, we found rolls and rolls of colored crepe paper--red, white, and blue, of course. We bought several rolls with money we’d saved. Once home, we stashed our purchase for the next day. The first thing after breakfast on the Fourth of July, we clambered down the three flights of stairs from our top floor apartment to the basement where our bikes were kept. Bump, bump, bump—up the steps from basement to courtyard we went with our two-wheeled bikes. Down went the kickstands, and out came the rolls of crepe paper to decorate. We wove the colored streamers in and out of the wheel spokes, and fastened more on the handle-bars, then stepped back to see which one looked best. Decorating our bikes for America’s holiday left an indelible impression of patriotism in us. Other kids in our building worked on bikes, too. We rode all over the neighborhood, up and down alleys and sidewalks showing off our handiwork, not caring how high the temperature might be.  We spent the rest of the day like any other hot, sultry summer day. We ate popsicles to cool off, walked to the park where families sat on the lawn with picnic lunches and waited impatiently for the sun to go down. Dad had gone out earlier to one of the only businesses open—the fireworks stand. Money was usually scarce in our family, but Dad always found some extra to buy firecrackers and sparklers for us. No doubt, he enjoyed them as much as we did. Darkness finally descended over our city, and once again, we hurried down the three flights of stairs. Not just kids this time, but our whole family. We gathered in the alley beyond the apartment courtyard along with several other families.  Only Dad lit our firecrackers, although I’m sure my brothers wanted to try it. One I loved was a pinwheel which Dad stuck into a telephone pole. When he lit the fuse, the entire thing whirled round and round, throwing sparks in every direction. Little firecrackers on the ground did nothing but make popping noises, but the Roman candles gave us the real show. Big noise and showers of colorful sparks which delighted us. And finally, Dad lit sparklers we held. I loved whirling them round and round, watching the designs the sparks made. All too soon, they burned down to the end and we rushed to get another until the boxes were emptied.  We knew why we decorated our bikes, why people went on picnics and why we had fireworks on the Fourth of July. Our parents talked to us every year about what it meant to have Independence and how a war years before was fought and won to ensure that we lived with freedoms like few other nations. We grew up knowing there was a serious side to the holiday. The Fourth of July was a special day we looked forward to every summer.