Thanksgiving Memories

 My computer problems are finally solved. I have been without this trusty laptop for almost three weeks due to various snafus. But today, my IT guy here at Meadowlark brought it back to me with a new hard drive and a whole new look. I'm going to have to spend some time figuring out the how and why of this seemingly new laptop. Posting on my phone was too difficult, too time consuming. So, I apologize for the lack of posts these past weeks. 

Thanksgiving is only two days away, and I've been thinking about Thanksgiving celebrations of my childhood and those when my own children were young. It's a perfect topic to write a family story or a slice of life piece about what this annual feasting day was like for your family. 

I grew up in a Chicago suburb in the 40s and 50s, and life was a bit different. Slower paced perhaps but we weren't aware of it then. Looking back at the Thanksgivings of my growing-up years, I have a warm feeling.

My father's two sisters and families lived not too far from us, and my mother and the aunts took turns hosting Thanksgiving. The six adults and 9 children of various ages gathered together on what was often a dreary day outdoors, typical of the Chicago area, but full of sunshine around the holiday table inside. 

We lived in a two bedroom, third floor apartment with a decent sized dining room, but a miniscule kitchen that had a formica table. Somehow, my mother prepared the large dinner in that tiny kitchen, and there was room for everyone to sit at one of the tables. The aunts brought side dishes sometimes, but often Mother created the entire dinner. We had turkey, of course, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, a vegetable of some kind, a delightful salad called Seafoam made with canned pears, lime jello, cream cheese, and whipped cream. A holiday staple for our family. Dessert was, of course, pumpkin pie with a dollop of real whipped cream on top. Mother also made dinner rolls of one kind or another. Parker House was the one she made the most often. 

After dinner, the men lounged in the living room, the kids were sent outside to play, cold or not, and the women did all the dishes by hand. No dishwasher. When my cousin, Carol, and I reached early teens, we were drafted to the clean-up committee. I remember the laughter and chatter as we dried the silverware, while the women took care of the china plates. How we all fit in that little kitchen is a wonder to me today. How my mother created such wonderful holiday meals in it seems almost a miracle. 

We didn't expound on the meaning of the holiday as we gathered, but we all knew what it was about. All of the cousins had learned about the Pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving feast in school from kindergarten through sixth grade. Maybe each person around those two tables were silently grateful for food and family and a time to be together. 

Thanksgivings at my Aunt Adeline's became memorable, too. She and Uncle Tom and their four children lived in a large, old home with a big farmhouse kind of kitchen. This aunt was a wonderful cook, known for the best gravy ever. We didn't have the Seafoam Salad at her house, but the rest of the menu was the same. They had a big yard, where we kids were sent after the big dinner, while the adults at the table drinking coffee and picking at what was left. 

Thanksgiving in those years meant family and food which is pretty much like it is today, but the food prep and clean-up is more streamlined. Still, women in the kitchen and the men around the tv is pretty much the same. During the 40s, the men gathered around the big console radios we all had instead. 

Consider writing about your Thanksgiving memories for your children and grandchildren. Count your blessings as you prepare for this holiday, hopefully with family or friends. 

The Cinnamon Bear--A Christmas Memory

 

Memories are treasured, but Christmas memories seem to take on a special appeal to all who celebrate. If you have a different winter holiday to celebrate, your memories of the times you rejoiced and gathered with loved ones are much the same. 

Christmas memories deserve a special section in your Family Stories Book. You do have one, don't you? If not, no time like the present to start writing and saving your memories in a 3-ring binder so that you can easily add new ones as time goes on. 

Today, I want to share a Christmas memory of my own. It was only a small part of our family's Christmas traditions and festivities, but it is a treasured memory for me. It's one my mother mentioned many times when I was an adult, married, and a mother. It finally dawned on me that my special memory was just as special to her. 

The Cinnamon Bear  

In the mid to late 1940s in Oak Park, a Chicago suburb, I hurried home each day after school to listen to the next 15-minute episode of The Cinnamon Bear. I did this every year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, even though I knew the story well. It felt so good to walk into our warm kitchen knowing a new episode of my greatly loved story awaited.

During the holiday period, the story was broadcast six days a week right up to Christmas. I sat glued to the big console radio in our small apartment living room to follow the story of Jimmy and Judy and an Irish teddy bear named Paddy O’Cinnamon. Only days before Christmas, the silver star on the twins’ Christmas tree is missing. The children and the Cinnamon Bear travel to Maybeland to retrieve the precious family star. They fall into one misadventure after another until the star is found and returned to grace the top of their Christmas tree. 

I loved books and stories so it seemed only natural that I would become besotted with this serial. The Cinnamon Bear story became a Christmas tradition in our family. I think my mother listened right along with me as she made dinner preparations or baked Christmas cookies in our very tiny kitchen. As my younger brothers got older, they joined me every afternoon, pushing for top position by the big radio. Why we thought we had to sit practically pasted to the speakers is a wonder. We could have heard it anywhere in our apartment, but being so close somehow made the story more real to us.

From our seats by the radio, we could see our own Christmas tree. An angel, not a star, topped our tree every year. I knew I would have felt as unhappy as Jimmy and Judy if our angel in her pink dress and golden wings suddenly disappeared. I developed the habit of checking that she was right where she belonged every morning before I went to school and again when I returned home. 

Now, when I think of the story, the scent of Christmas baking comes along with the memory for my mother baked wonderful Christmas cookies, cinnamon rolls and coffeecakes. and fudge which never got firm no matter how long she beat it. In December, our kitchen could have won a prize for Best Aroma of the Season. 

When the daily episode finished, my brothers and I pored through the Sears Christmas catalog, marking our fondest desires with our first name initial. Not once, but day after day adding a few new items but never taking any away. Santa would choose which item was best for each of us. We were certain of that.

The Cinnamon Bear did not air on Sundays, and sometimes it seemed a very long time from the Saturday episode to the Monday one. I knew what was going to happen, but I listened with great anticipation each day. I came to know Jimmy and Judy and Paddy O’Cinnamon as dear friends year after year. They always found the silver star and our pink angel never left the top of our own Christmas tree. 

A Family Recipe For Writers And Others

I saw this Family Recipe yesterday in a woman's magazine so looked to see if I could find it online. It popped up immediately in many forms.

Since I am always urging writers to write Family Stories, this seemed quite appropriate. We don't always have happy stories to write about family members or situations. Some writers would want to steer clear of that type of story. I don't think they should because the difficulties in our families are what makes people who they are. It would be a special story if you could write about an unhappy situation that got resolved.

Take a look at each of ingredients for this Family Recipe and see if any of them might trigger a memory and the inspiration to write about it.

• 3 cups of forgiveness:  I hope you do have a story about forgiveness related to your family. Forgiving amounts to a lot of love. I have a Chicken Soup for the Soul that is about forgiveness and how it came about.
• 1 gallon of loyalty:  One of my published personal essays deals with my dad teaching me the importance of loyalty. I'm sure many of you have a similar story about how you learned something about being loyal.
• a pinch of hope:  If even a tiny bit of hope is within us, we can push ahead. Did it ever happen to you or a sibling or part of your extended family?
• a spoonful of laughter:  Surely many of us have humorous happenings within our families that we can write about. Laughter changes many a tense time.
• endless love:  We hope that, no matter what occurs in a family, love can soothe the problem. Love is powerful if we use it wisely. Do you have a story about how love triumphed in a prickly situation?

Ponder on this Family Recipe today. I hope it will have some meaning for you and that it will motivate you to write something new today.

A Childhood Memory Of Finding A Christmas Tree

Do you have memories of going with your family to find just the right Christmas tree? Maybe it was on a snowy night, cold and clear. Or perhaps a Saturday afternoon when you went out to the country to cut down a tree. My family went to the same tree lot every year. Today's story is about the simple act of a family finding the right tree which has stayed a fond memory. You, too, can write about the same topic. Let your family know what it was like when you were growing up. 

A Christmas Tree, A Pink Dress and Golden Wings

By Nancy Julien Kopp

 In the 1940’s, we city folk didn’t cut down a tree in the fields but kept our own tradition. On a cold December evening, Dad announced that it was time to find a Christmas tree. My two younger brothers and I grabbed heavy coats, hats, gloves and snow boots, and flew down three flights of stairs to our 1939 Plymouth. Our excitement bubbled over in giggles and hoots.

The corner lot Dad drove to, normally empty, now held dozens of evergreen trees. The pines and firs seemed to have appeared magically, lined up like the toy soldiers my brothers played with.  A wire had been strung around the lot and bare light bulbs attached. There was plenty of light to allow buyers see the assortment of trees that would decorate the homes in our neighborhood.

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The proprietors, who were also hunters, had erected a wooden teepee-like frame in a prominent corner to display two dead deer and a black bear. They were hung from hooks and occasionally swayed when the wind gusted.

My brothers and I marched round and round the frozen animals.

“Go ahead, touch it,” Howard dared.

   

My hand reached within inches of the thick, matted fur of the bear, but I quickly drew it back. “You first,” I challenged, but Howard only circled the animals, hands behind him.

Meanwhile, Dad walked the rows of trees, pulling a few upright, shaking the snow off.

He called to us and we crunched across the snow-packed ground

 Dad held a tree upright. “No,” we chorused. “It’s not big enough.”

We followed Dad and thumbed our noses at several other trees. “Not big enough,” we repeated, stamping cold feet to warm them.

The owner ambled over, so bundled up he looked kin to the dead bear. He kept a cigar clamped in his teeth and wore gloves with the fingers cut off, so he could peel off dollar bills from the stack he carried to make change.

Dad shook the man’s hand and said, “OK, let’s see the good trees now.”

The burly man moved the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, rolled his eyes and finally gestured for us to follow him.

We scooted across the pine-scented lot to a brick building. The man opened a door, and we tromped single-file down a long flight of concrete steps.

Even more trees leaned against the walls. Dad pulled out one after the other until he found a tree that we three children deemed “big enough.”

Silence now, as the serious part of this adventure commenced. Dad and the cigar chomping man dickered about the price. Finally, money changed hands, and Dad hoisted the tree. We jostled one another up the steps to be closer to the green treasure.

Dad fastened the tree to the top of the car with the rope he’d brought with us. The boys and I knelt on the back seat, watching to make sure the tree didn’t slide off the roof of the car during the short drive.

Once home, Dad hauled the tree up three flights of stairs to our apartment and put it on our small outdoor balcony. We’d wait until close to Christmas to bring it in and decorate the branches. Several times a day, I peered through the glass door to check that no one had stolen it. Why I thought someone would climb to the third floor balcony to steal our tree is a wonder.

Days later, Dad carried the tree inside and tried to put it in the stand, but it was no use. The tree was too tall. It should have been no surprise, as it happened every year. He always caved to our chorus of “not big enough.” Dad found his favorite saw and cut several inches off the tree trunk. When he put it in the stand, it rose like a flagpole, straight and tall, nearly touching the ceiling. There was a collective “Ahhh” from the entire family.

Dad hummed a Christmas tune as he strung the many-colored lights, then Mother helped us hang sparkly ornaments, and we finished with strand upon strand of silver tinsel, being warned to place it strand by strand. “No throwing it at the tree,” Mom said. Near the finish line, we did throw that tinsel when Mom went to the kitchen. It was great fun to toss it and see how high we could throw.

Finally, Dad climbed a step-stool and placed the last piece on the top. What joy to see our special angel with the pink satin dress and golden wings. The tree was so tall that her blonde hair skimmed the ceiling. I visited her every day while the tree was up. There were days when it seemed she smiled at me. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without her.

That sweet angel got lost somewhere over the years. Most likely, she’d become tattered and torn, and Mother discarded her long after we children had grown and left home.

Now, my husband brings our tree upstairs from a basement storage closet. Artificial, always the same height, never needs to be made shorter. It’s easier, but I miss those cold, snowy excursions to the tree lot with my brothers. I still put an angel on top of the tree. She’s nice but not quite the same as the one with the pink dress and golden wings. Not once has she smiled at me.

Graduation Memories--Write About Them!

G R A D U A T I O N

It's that time of year when graduations pop up like mushrooms on a dewy lawn. We attend these ceremonies for family members and friends and even go through them ourselves. This recognition of an accomplishment in our education should be a memorable occasion.

It's something you can write about for your Family Memories Book. Whether your own graduation or that of a sibling, child or grandchild, it's an occasion to highlight in your life journey. A few people have had the blessing of attending the graduation of one of their parents. One of my sisters-in-law waited until the last of her three children had finished college before beginning her own college education. She went straight through undergraduate work and the Master's Degree program. Needless to say, her family and her extended family were all quite proud of her. 

I graduated three times--from 8th grade, high school and college. All three events are vivid memories even though they happened a good many years ago. 

I attended a Kindergarten through 8th grade elementary school so our graduation was capping 9 years of being educated in Lincoln School, 9 years of moving from grade to grade, 9 years of relationships with others in that school. The school required that each girl make her own graduation dress in the Home Economics class. The girls spent each Monday morning working on the dresses, while the boys were in Industrial Arts. We selected our own pattern and fabric. After being in the class for nearly two years, we were suppose to be capable to make a dress. My dress was pale pink with a Peter Pan collar, capped sleeves and a wide circle skirt. Our teacher used a yardstick to measure the correct placement of the hem for each student. Miss Johnson placed the yardstick on the floor, then marked the spot on each girl to let her know where to put the hem. She didn't allow for the fact that we were all different heights, however. She marked every single one at the same mark on her treasured yardstick. With a skirt as wide as mine, and most of the others were the same, it took a long time to pin the hem and then sew it by hand making sure our stitches did not show on the right side of the fabric. I was the shortest girl in the class at the time and my dress fell to below my ankles. The tallest girl found herself with a dress above her knees, unheard of in 1953. We took our dresses home and our mothers insisted they be worked on again. Several inches had to be cut from my dress and the hem totally redone. By me! The tall girl, Gail, came to graduation with a huge ruffle that had been added to the bottom of her dress. By her mother! Even with the near disaster, our mothers must have been very proud to see us march down the aisle in a dress we'd made, wearing our first high heeled shoes. We all wore our dresses to the 8th Grade Graduation Dance the next night.

My high school graduation class differed in that we did not wear caps and gowns. Instead, the class of 750 marched down the aisle, passing under a rose arbor used for the occasion. Boys wore dark suits with a red rose boutionniere and the girls wore floor length white formals. Each girl was given a dozen long-stem red roses to carry. If a girl could not afford a dress, the school had a fund to help. There were rules as to the type of neckline the dress could have. Not too low, not strapless, not revealing. Teachers met the grads in the school hall as we lined up, handed out the roses and checked dresses. They kept a handful of lace and other fabrics to stuff into places they felt the public should not see. My dress had a high neck in front but dipped to a V in the back. I was terrified they'd add something to the back so I stood with my back to the lockers lining the wall whenever a teacher with an eagle eye walked by. A few of my friends had additions to their gowns, like it or not. 

College graduation gave me the only opportunity to wear a cap and gown. We graduated outdoors on a very hot June day, so hot that most of the girls opted to not wear a dress underneath. Off we went in our undies and full-length slips and our black gowns. At one point in the speeches, I rested my arm across my middle and jumped when the flesh touched the oh-so-hot zipper on the gown. Perspiration trickeld down faces, under arms and other unmentionable spots. 

I hope that these few memories will trigger graduation memories of your own, whether yours or someone else in your family. My son almost missed his high school graduation, but that's a story for another day. Take time to write something new for your Family Memories Book. 

Easter Memories

Have you written Easter memories for your Family Memory Book? This is one I wrote a few years ago. 

I’ve been thinking about the Easter celebrations of my childhood years in the Chicago area during the 1940’s. 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 Easter mornings, 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 parents never attended church

with us. Theirs was a mixed marriage—Dad was Catholic and Mother Methodist, and neither ever gave in to the other. But we kids all attended the Methodist church and Sunday School. Dad polished our shoes every Saturday night so we’d look our best on Sunday mornings. He buffed them to a high shine and lined them up in the living room.

The day before Easter, we dyed eggs in glorious colors. Coffee cups filled with hot water, a dye tablet and a splash of vinegar covered the kitchen table. We arranged the eggs on a big platter with artificial grass as a nest. The Easter Bunny would hide them while we slept that night.

The Easter Bunny usually brought us a few chocolates, jelly beans and a new comic book. He also hid the brightly colored eggs in our living and dining rooms. What fun it was to discover the decorated eggs, one or two of which we always found in Dad’s shoes left out overnight.

Later in the day, aunts, uncles and cousins joined us for a special dinner. Mother usually fixed a leg of lamb or a big ham, glazed with brown sugar and mustard, cloves inserted in the scored top. Many side dishes weighed down the dining room table-- scalloped or mashed potatoes, two or three vegetables, a jello salad, homemade rolls, pickles, olives and pickled beets, and a springtime dessert of some kind, cream pies, berry pies, or a cake with whipped cream frosting. The aroma of all these good things filled our small apartment.

When we were all too full to move, it was time to do dishes. No dishwashers, but all the women pitched in and they were finished in no time. Maybe not all the women. I had one aunt who always announced she needed to use the bathroom as soon as the cleaning up began. Off she went, and she never appeared in the kitchen again! The clatter of dishes and the chatter of women filled the tiny kitchen. My cousin, Carol, and I were drafted at an early age to dry the silverware, a job neither of us liked. We hurried through our task so we could walk to the park to play the rest of the afternoon.  Occasionally, we finished our Easter celebration by going to the movies. We sat transfixed at the fabulous musicals starring Betty Grable or some other glamorous star.

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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. We will be spending this Easter holiday with our daughter’s family, going to church, having a celebration dinner, and being together. Not so very different than all those years ago.

Remembering A "Birth" Day

Forty-six years ago today, our son was born. That's not his picture above but looks very much like he did at that stage of life. The day was unseasonably warm for February in the Chicago area. I distinctly remember being grateful for the sunny, pleasant day as I could no longer button my winter coat when I went to my scheduled doctor appointment. Pull as I might, the buttons and buttonholes would not meet over the mound in my middle. It was 1968 and the baby was not due for another full week, but I'd had contractions off and on for days. False labor pains was the term used then.

That afternoon, the doctor told me the baby might come at any time. I drove home thinking that maybe tomorrow I should get a few things made ahead so Ken would have quick and easy meals while I was in the hospital. Women stayed 5 days not this one and out method of today. 

Ken normally went to a mens' service club dinner meeting on Monday nights but those little twinges had started up again, so I suggested he skip it on this particular night. We had stuffed peppers for dinner that evening, a favorite of mine. The twinges I'd had were getting stronger and more regular. I'd take a bite, then put my fork down and wait. I knew that you shouldn't eat once labor started. But I wanted that stuffed pepper in the worst way. I'd take another bite, then lay the fork on the plate again. I finally quit eating but reluctantly. We watched one of the big shows on TV at the time--Laugh-In. By the time the show was over at 8 o'clock, I told Ken we'd better go to the hospital. I'd packed a bag earlier in the day so it didn't take us long to be on our way. 

The same nurses were on duty as had been only 14 months earlier when our first baby was born with a serious birth defect. She lived only seven weeks. These wonderful women knew how special this birth would be for us. I felt confident that all would be well this time. My doctor had repeatedly said that the baby was a girl. "No, it's a boy," I'd respond each time. 

Two and a half hours after we arrived at the hospital Kirk made an appearance, crying lustily. When the doctor announced "It's a boy!" I immediately responded "I told you so!" No ultrasound testing in those days so the moment of arrival brought a surprise to parents. No husbands in the delivery room either. A nurse rushed out to relay the news of a healthy son to Ken. Our joy was so great that after Ken had gone home to call the grandparents, I lay awake all night, too excited to do something as mundane as sleep. I was flying high and couldn't come down off that cloud of elation. The window in my hospital room was raised a few inches and it suddenly got chilly in the room. I looked over to see snow piling up on the outer windowsill. Just then, a nurse came in and slammed the window shut. "End of yesterday's moment of spring," she said.

Mothers remember the birth day of each of their children. There is a theory that women don't remember the pain of labor once the birth has occurred. Maybe so, but all the rest stays with us, neatly filed away in our memory bank until something triggers it. Today, being our son's birthday, triggered these memories for me. 

If you have not written the story of your child's, children's, birth(s), do it soon. Put it in your Family Stories Book. Births, weddings, funerals--all of those deserve individual stories to be kept for generations to come. Your childrens' and grandchildrens' family history can only be detailed by you. Whether you are the mother or father, if you are the writer in the family, make sure there are pages that tell the story of these ever so important days. 

A Thanksgiving Memory Story

I have a few Thanksgiving stories that I've written over the years which I'm going to share with you every few days this week and next. Hopefully, it may trigger some memories of your own that you can write and put into your Family Memories Book. 

Turkey in the Raw

By Nancy Julien Kopp

One Thanksgiving dinner stands out in neon lights in my memory bank. It can bring a blush to my cheeks, even forty-one years after the fact.

My husband’s father passed away in the spring of 1972. I knew the first holiday without him would be difficult for my mother-in-law. She had not been adjusting well to a life without her spouse. What better way to help our children’s grandma through Thanksgiving than to gather her three sons and their families at our house for the day? Five of the seven grandchildren were preschool age, and two were slightly older. The house would be filled with children playing, adults talking and the soothing balm of a turkey dinner. We’d make this a good holiday for Grandma. I issued the invitations via phone and began to plan a special day.

By Thanksgiving Day, I’d baked and done the pre-cooking. Now the turkey, filled with a moist sage stuffing, roasted in the oven. White potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and a green bean casserole were close to being ready. Nutmeg and cloves scented the corner of the counter where the pumpkin pies cooled.

“When do we eat? When do we eat?” the kids pleaded more than once.

I consulted the scrap of paper where I’d jotted down the amount of time the turkey needed. “Pretty soon,” I told them.

The aroma of the roasting meat added to our hunger, and I placated the entire clan with sodas, juice and appetizers and some adult beverages.

Finally, it was time to take the turkey from the oven, and what a beautiful bird it was-- big, browned, and beckoning. I called my brother-in-law, known as “Best Carver in the Family,” to the kitchen. One sister-in-law mashed the potatoes, while the other made the gravy. Toddlers scurried around us yelling, “Is it time now?” My husband and his oldest brother were glued to a football game on TV. Grandma sat stone-faced on the sofa, bent on feeling sorry for herself and being as miserable as she could on this day when we were gathered to count our blessings and spread a little love. Chaos was beginning to form here, and I began to feel a little flustered.

As I was trying to move the little ones into the family room, my brother-in-law uttered words that sent a chill straight to my bones.

 “This turkey isn’t done. It’s raw in the middle.”

Silence suddenly reigned. No one said a word, but all eyes were on me. The unspoken question “Well, what you are going to do now?” reverberated in my head.

So what does a person do with a partially cooked turkey, side dishes ready for the table, and a houseful of very hungry people? I flew into action. First, I put the cover on the roaster, popped the bird back into the oven, and turned up the heat. Lids went on the already cooked dishes, and we fixed hot dogs for the children, who probably enjoyed them more than the big dinner anyway.

An hour later, we resurrected the turkey, reheated the side dishes and sat down to eat, minus hot-dog stuffed children. The seven adults gathered around our dining room table ate to satisfaction and then some. The children appeared like magic when the desserts were served. Grandma managed to eat her dinner and join in on the conversation, not exuberant but not crying either. I hoped she counted her blessings, for many of them sat nearby.

I’d sensed complete disaster when I knew the turkey wasn’t cooked through, but in the end the family togetherness took precedence over all other things. I’d planned the day so that Grandma would be surrounded with those she loved, and it didn’t really matter that I’d miscalculated the time for cooking the turkey. But I’ve never forgotten it, and every now and then, the story of turkey in the raw generates laughter and some good-natured teasing—one more bond within our family.

Something To Include In Your Family Memories Book

Fox News posted this photo on facebook this morning. The royal baby that so many waited for this past summer is to be christened today. Prince George, pictured with Mum and Dad, looks pretty calm for such an auspicious occasion. 

For those of you who are Christians, have you written about the day each of your children was baptized? Those special moments deserve space in your Family Memories Book. Even if they happened many years ago, I'm willing to bet each mother and father still have a clear memory of the day. Don't each of your children deserve to have a written memory of that day, too? 

Perhaps other religions have a similar day--maybe a dedication ceremony of some sort. If that's the case, you could write about that special time in your child's life. Some Christian denominations do not have infant baptism, but you can still write a fine story about the baptism of a son or daughter who is approaching or in their early teens. 

My son was born in early February, and his Baptismal Day was March 10th. We had given a lot of thought as to whom we would ask to act as his sponsors, or godparents. An older couple who were good friends to us became Kirk's godparents that day, and what a good choice we made. They were a very special part of his life for a long time. Grandparents, aunts and uncles came to share the day with us. One of Ken's brothers and family got lost on the way to the church and never made it to the service. I kept turning around hoping to see them come down the aisle of the church after the service had started. No such luck. We never saw them unti we arrived back at out house for the big dinner afterward. As I think about it now, many more little details come to mind. I haven't written the story for my son yet, nor one for my daughter, but it's going on my To Do List right now.

Karen was born the end of November and her Baptismal Day was December 26th. I didn't need to look up the dates, as they are etched into my memory even these several decades later. Karen's godparents were the same as Kirk's. My friend offered her own christening dress for Karen to wear. She said she'd wished she had thought of it for Kirk's special day, too, but at least one would get to wear the beautiful long white gown. I was thrilled to use it but also terrified the baby would spit up formula all over it. She didn't but it I still worried. Once again, family and friends were invited to this day after Christmas event, but our crowd dwindled one by one as a virulent flu bug was making the rounds at that time. Our phone rang several times that day with cancellations. The main characters for this event all made it, however, and our little girl was duly baptized in her godmother's baby gown. Again, there are more details I can add when I write this story for my Family Memories Book. 

Hopefully, my memories here might trigger some of your own. If you haven't already written a story like this for your own book, maybe it's time to do so. Let's hope Kate will write a story for Prince George to read many years from now. Then again, maybe she'll just have to clip several out of the UK newspapers. One of the perks of being a celebrity! 

A Birth Day Story For My Family Memories Book

Jordan--age 10

Happy Birthday to my granddaughter, Jordan, who is 10 years old today. I've been thinking this morning about the day she was born. Her mom called me very early in the morning, before I was even out of bed, to tell me they were on the way to the hospital. Being their first, I figured I'd have plenty of time to get there, despite the 2 hour drive, before Baby made her appearance. 

I arrived at the hospital around 9:30 that morning and shortly after, the other grandmother came to wait with me. The grandfathers were a different story. One was on a business trip and the other said he'd be there later (my husband). So, there we sat, two grandmothers, spending the morning talking about all kinds of things. I think it was the time when she and I got to know one another very well. Her son, my son-in-law, popped into the waiting room every now and then to give us an update on the labor progress. I'd stopped to see my daughter when I arrived, just to let her know I was there. Then I left the two of them alone. Part of me wanted to be with this child of mine for the birth and part of me wanted the two of them to share this experience alone. It was enough that my daughter knew I was only steps away in the waiting room.

Around noon, the elevator doors opened and out stepped three of Karen's good friends, two had been bridesmaids at her wedding a year and a half earlier. They were more nervous than either one of the grandmothers. Finally, they had to go back to work. Minutes after they'd left, Steve strolled into the waiting area, and I do mean strolled--acting so nonchalantly. Holding out a camera to us, he said, "Do you want to see her picture or meet your granddaughter in person?" 

We two grandmothers jumped to our feet and sped down the hall to the room where our new grandchild waited. Hugs and smiles, pictures and chatter--we were all on a high at that moment. Even Karen, who'd done all the hard work, looked joyful, yet content. In minutes, Ken walked through the door. He'd missed being there for the birth time, but he got there to see his newest grandchild. The other grandfather was on a plane back to Kansas City later that afternoon, and he met Jordan early that evening. 

Turns out that Ken delayed in coming to the hospital because he wanted to be there "when it was all over." Coward! Still, his happiness was as great as what the rest of us had. 

And me--I called my mother soon after the birth to give her the happy news, not realizing that I was so overwhelmed with emotion that I could not get the words out. My poor mom was far away, holding onto a phone with no one able to speak on the other end. I managed to tell her that the baby had arrived and Karen was fine, but after that, the emotion welled up and I could not speak for the lump in my throat and tears that streamed. Relief and joy intermingled at that moment. When I finally managed to get control, the great grandmother and I had a good talk. 

Jordan has been a light in our lives for ten full years. The sunny, fall day that she was born will continue to be a forever memory. One that will go into the family stories book for her to read many years from now. Maybe someday, she'll write a family memory story of her own about something she did with her grandparents. 

May Brings Many Memories For This Writer

Lily of the Valley--May's Flower

May happens to be my favorite month of the year. It's my bithday month but it's also a month of rebirth and planting in the northern hemisphere. April has its ups and downs with weather, while May is generally pretty wonderful. Warm but not hot yet here in the midwest. In the northern Illinois area where I grew up, May was when the flowering trees put on their greatest show. 

Because we lived in an apartment with no yard to plant in, I satisfied my thirst for living things on my six block walk to and from school four times each day. No eating lunch at school then. I traveled the same route each day and watched the trees and bushes with tiny buds, day by day, waiting for them to burst into blossoms. One of my very favorites was a huge Snowball Bush nestled next to a large two story house. I looked forward to the show that bush put on each and every May. More than once, I considered snapping off a small branch to take home to my mother but somehow I resisted the urge. And believe me, that urge was monumental at times. Surely they wouldn't miss one little twig I'd tell myself. I'd picture handing the flowers to my mother. She'd be so happy. I had myself convinced until a black cloud passed over that picture. She'd want to know where I had gotten the beautiful offering. If I told the truth, I'd be in big trouble and if I lied, I'd probably be found out later and be in even bigger trouble. 

My friend lived in a house that had a yard and flowers. There were tulips and irises in beds along a fence. Lily of the Valley lined one side of the freestanding garage. One day, the girl's mother asked me if I'd like to take some of that sweet-smelling flower home. A thrill ran right up my spine when she asked and I quickly answered in the affirmative. She gathered a nice bouquet for me. I hurried home clutching my gift and made the three flights of stairs in record time. My mom's face lit up when she spied the flowers in my hand but in a flash, she asked me where they had come from. No problem there, I told her the truth. We had no flower vases as we rarely ever had any flowers, there was no extra money for my dad to buy flowers to bring home. Mom filled a glass with tap water and gently placed those flowers in it. They held a place of honor for days in the middle of our kitchen table. 

This is the kind of story you can write for the month of May to include in your Family Stories Memory Book.  It's just a very small part of my growing-up years, but when my grandchildren read it, they will know a little more about me and the kind of person I am/was. 

What May memories do you have? There are many special days this month. Does one of them bring back a memory. Something you may have forgotten over the years. This month we celebrate May Day (today), Mother's Day, and Memorial Day. In more recent years, we've also added Law Day (today), Armed Forces  Day, and Cinco de Mayo. Many graduations take place in May, also. Do you have a story about your graduation? A family tradition on Memorial Day? A memorable Mother's Day? 

I posted a memory piece on May at Our Echo some years ago. If you'd like to learn more about my memories of this month, including a birthday gift that made my face flame, click here.

Inspiration For A Story

My Grandmother

Writers find inspiration for stories in strange places sometimes. My maternal grandmother has been the inspiration for several stories I've written. Most are true stories so have been in the creative non-fiction category. Grandma died when I was only twelve, so my memories of her are condensed into those dozen years.

But one inspiration turned into historical fiction for kids. It wasn't Grandma herself who inspired the story. Instead, a pretty little china dish with red roses and green vines in the center provided the notion for writing Just Plain Sarah Jane.

The dish had been in my mother's china cabinet from my childhood on. When Mom was getting ready to move to North Carolina in her 80's, I helped her sift and sort through her possessions. When we came to the small dish, she told me the story of how her mother had come to own something so lovely.

One day in the early 1900's, Grandma stopped by the general store in the small coal mining town where she lived. The owner greeted her by saying "Hello Elizabeth. I hear you got married." Grandma confirmed that it was true. She and Alex had married. The general store owner told her he'd like to give her a wedding gift. He looked around the many items in his store. Rather than giving her something practical, he selected the small, china dish with the roses in the center, scalloped edges shaded in blue. Grandma treasured that dish, passed it on to her daughter and then it came to me. In the family of a coal miner, I'm guessing there were very few things of beauty. Money bought the necessities with none left over for pretty things.

After the dish came into my keeping, I kept it on a table where I could see and enjoy it on a daily basis. One day, I brought it with me to the desk where I wrote. I typed a detailed description of the dish and thought about Grandma going into that general store, oh so long ago. Before I knew it, my fingers flew and a story for middle grade children took shape. I revised it a few times and read it to my critique group. They gave it a thumbs up.

The story was published once several years ago, and yesterday, it was featured as the story of the day at Knowonder! magazine online. You can read it here. If you read it and like it, click on the stars at the end to vote for the story.

Writers use a number of things as inspiration for a story. Family members, places, events, illnesses, tragedies, weddings, christenings--those are only a few. It's up to the writer to see them and use them.

What have you used to inspire a story you've written?

Fourth of July When I Was A Kid

I'm posting a memory piece for today that I also posted last year on July 4th. Some of you will have read it then and for others, it will be new. It's about the way we celebrated this holiday back in the 1940's. It was a simpler way of life, a slower pace, but it had a lot going for it. Maybe it will trigger memories of your own childhood celebrations. If it does, write about it for your family memory book. 

Independence Day In Chicago--What We Did and What We Learned

By Nancy Julien Kopp

Come back with me to the1940’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 3^rd, 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 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 fancy bikes, 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 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 several 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. Even so, it was a special day we looked forward to every summer.

Update Your Family Memory Book

Me at age 10

It's time to think about adding to your Family Memories book. I'm a big proponent of writing about your memories so that your grandchildren and beyond that generation will know what life was like in your growing-up years. A painless way to learn a bit of history. Do it month by month, or even holiday by holiday. Keep it together as a book. Make it as plain or as fancy as you like. What's important is the inside content. Add pictures or let your words bring the visual images.

Here are a few of my May memories:

The Merry Month of May

May is my favorite month. I was born in May, my parents were married in May, Mother’s Day comes in May, my youngest brother was born in May, and I had many a memorable Memorial Day celebration in May. Let me tell you a little about each of these events.

I always loved having a May birthday in my growing up years because it was not too close to Christmas and it arrived just prior to summer. That meant I often received new summer clothes as a gift from my parents. I loved opening those gifts looking for the surprise inside, usually something in rainbow sherbet colors to complement my fair skin and auburn hair. But the year I was in sixth grade, I opened a birthday package at the dining room table with my mother, father, and two younger brothers all watching. I untied the pink ribbon, opened the box and spread the tissue paper. There lying in all its glory was my first bra. I looked at it, then around the table at my family, and I felt the heat creep up from my toes to the top of my head. My face flamed in humiliation. I slammed the lid on the box and moved on to the next package. To this day, I cannot imagine why my mother did that to me. But there were other special birthday memories. One occurred that very same year. It was 1951 and my 12^th birthday. A classmate had a birthday 3 days prior to mine, so we had a combined birthday luncheon that year. We had an hour and fifteen minutes for lunch, so it was not problem for all the girls in our class to walk to Carole’s house where our mothers waited with food and drink, cake and ice cream. We’d given an invitation to each girl in the class and also invited our teacher—Mr. Biddinger. He was the first man to teach in our grade school and became the most loved. The girls all brought a gift for each of us, but I have no idea what any of them were. Mr. Biddinger brought both birthday girls a gift that I’ll never forget. He handed each of us a white box, and nestled inside was a corsage made of two spicy scented carnations held together by a pink ribbon bow. It was the first corsage I’d ever had, and the thrill it gave has lasted to this very day.

My mother and father celebrated their first anniversary two days after I was born. They’d run away and eloped a year earlier, been married secretly for six weeks. One day my grandmother confronted Mom and with ice in her voice said, “You’re married, aren’t you?” Mom nodded her head, and there must have been fear spreading throughout her limbs. Grandma glared and told her, “Then you’d better go live with your husband.” Her two older brothers were angry, too, that she’d married that no-good guy, and they refused to speak to him. But the day after I arrived on the scene, the entire family gathered at Mom’s bedside, admiring yours truly lying in her arms. My two uncles reached across the bed and shook my dad’s hand. Suddenly, he was part of the family, and the three men became the best of friends. Even Grandma relented and decided to accept him. Babies soothe many a troubled heart.

Mother’s Day comes in May, too. And I’ve had some miserable ones when my children were going through their teen-age years, and then there have been some that are dear to my heart. When I was in college, I went home with my roommate on Mother’s Day week-end during my Senior year. I went because she asked me and we had a ride to her hometown. It was a week-end away and didn’t cost me a penny, and in those college years, each penny was carefully counted. It wasn’t until years later that I learned how hurt my own dear mother had been that I had chosen to go home with my roommate instead of coming to spend the week-end with her. At the time, it never crossed my mind that she’d be hurt, and years beyond, it was too late to make it up to her. It still bothers me.

My baby brother was born two weeks before I turned sixteen, an unexpected addition to our family. I had two brothers already and I wanted a baby sister in the worst way, but along came Jimmy instead. The moment I laid eyes on him, I loved him, and I still do. He’s in his fifties now, but he’s still my baby brother and always will be. He’s the only one who didn’t witness me receiving my first bra at my 12th birthday celebration.

May finishes with Memorial Day week-end. Every year from kindergarten through eighth grade, all the students in Lincoln School marched by classes to Carroll Playground across the street. Every class selected a boy to carry the American flag and a girl to carry a bouquet of flowers to lay at a commemorative plaque honoring all those who had attended Lincoln School and had given their lives during WWII and the Korean War. A solemn ceremony accompanied the laying of the flowers. In those days Memorial Day was always May 30^th and we had the ceremony the day before, which just happened to be my birthday. Because of that fact, I was chosen to carry the flowers almost every year, and the strange thing is that no one ever complained. It was accepted, and it made me feel so very special. The parade of classes, the patriotic songs, the many American flags waving, the speeches, and the floral offerings all instilled a great sense of patriotism in me that lasts to this day.

Yes, May is a very special month for me with memories that warm my heart.  Always was and always shall be. At least, I hope so.

Sixteen Candles On Her Cake

Today is our oldest granddaughter's sixteenth birthday. Alexis was born in St. Louis but has lived in the Dallas area with her family for the past fifteen years. She's on the Dance/Drill Team at her high school. She's at a football game last fall in the picture above.

All grandparents are proud and maybe a bit prejudiced about the talents of their grandchildren, and we're no different. She's a good student, a kind and thoughtful person, and loyal to both family and friends. May she always keep those traits.

She was born on a Friday evening, and early the next morning we were in the car on our way to St. Louis. I knew it would be exciting to have a grandchild, but I had no idea of the overwhelming emotion I would feel when I held her for the first time.

I cradled her close and looked into her face as she fixed her eyes on me. Emotion rose up so quickly and with such strength that it nearly undid me. All I could think of was This is the child of my child. I spiraled back many years and thought of the first time I held her daddy after his birth. How thrilled I was and now here was that same great joy all over again.

There have been many happy moments and memories made when we've been with Alexis off and on these past sixteen years. The other day I wrote about creating memories with our two youngest grandchildren as we care for them this week while their parents are gone. Memories are one of the most precious treasures we have. Preserve them. Keep them in your memory bank and write those stories about your family memories so they'll be saved for others.

Happy Birthday Alexis!

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.