:Family Matters

September 23, 2007

A thought of absolutely no consequence has just occurred to me, not that that doesn’t happen on a regular basis, sigh. In fact, I would have to say, in all honesty, that that is the size of most of my thinking rather than being ‘profound’ thoughts that amaze and astonish all to whom I offer them up. For whatever it is worth, here then is my thought, do any of my sisters remember where mother kept her cast iron frying pan when she wasn’t using it?

Gotcha’ didn’t I. Well, perhaps not as she kept it in the oven for as long as I was at home so I can’t see why she would have changed just because I left to attend school at the BYU in 1958. The real meat of this is “Why”? Why did she keep it there? I know I asked that question of myself on more than one occasion as I would heat the oven, forgetting that the frying pan was in there, and then have to deal with the removal of a super hot pan before I could continue with my baking. Mother never offered any apologies for this, to my mind, wacky idea but she did try to explain more than once that a cast iron pan should never be washed because if it was it would lose its ‘season’. Okay, while I could understand that I still preferred, in my innocence, to think it wasn’t a good idea because who knew what kind of germs could be lurking under the crusty stuff that remained when one was done frying something. It is plain to see that we never died from cooking in what might now be considered an ‘unsanitary’ pan, so maybe, after all, she did know something I didn’t.

By the way did you see the news blurb the other day that suggested that children might have a lot more allergic reactions now, unlike when my sib’s and I were young, because we are too clean? We insist that everything be wiped down with a clean rag at the very least and a bleach solution if one really cares about their family’s health?

Of course this leads to one of my pet peeves with today’s cookware—‘Teflon coated’ which is the modern world’s answer to cast iron only like most things modern it is guaranteed to last no longer than the life time warranty that comes with it, failing to mention that the life time they are referring to is the product not the person who buys it unless said person is unlucky enough to meet an untimely death. Teflon does not last even if one buys and then remembers to use plastic utensils in an attempt to prolong the life span of said pan. Oh, I agree, they are nice to use when they are new and they are indeed a snap to clean but it never fails no matter how careful I try to be that there is soon a scratch which having arrived on the scene feels lonesome and so invites its relatives in for a visit and before you know it you have to throw the pan out because eating Teflon is not healthy and will therefore void the warranty one has with one’s maker—you know the one that I mean. The one that says that you have my protection when you do what I say but the way I read it that means you don’t sit around imbibing Teflon bits on a regular basis.

After much contemplation I have therefore come to the conclusion that I will add Teflon pans to my list of things I will never purchase—as they rank right up there with Kirby vacuum cleaners which said vacuums and the sellers there of give me nightmares to this day. I am rather careful; to keep this ‘no buy’ list short as I am afraid if I don’t I will find myself out of items to buy. (I would really like to add anything made in China but that really would have me up a creek as most everything is made there now and while I believe in principle there is a limit to how principled I can be when everything is made in China.)

I know this can happen because of the position that I have found myself in when it comes to watching movies as I have said that I will no longer watch movies with stars who have, because of appearing in said movies, more time and money than they know what to do with and so they turn their attention to political activism and causes that I can’t support. Not, to be absolutely truthful, that my movie attendance has added much to their wealth as I rarely visit my local theater. However, it is the principle of the thing. This has resulted in my list of liberal/left leaning actors and actresses and the movies they are in growing longer and longer until I am now to the point where I can’t in good faith watch anything filmed after 1990. At least Harry Potter is still good to go and I hope will remain so until after the last book is filmed as I have seen all of them up to this point.

So what do I use to fry foods these days? Why a cast iron griddle which sits on top of my stove when not in use. We have had it for years now and been thoroughly delighted with it. I expect it will outlast me as well as MGH and be passed on to one of our children and then on to theirs in perpetuity. As for cleaning, every once in a while I or MGH stick it in the sink and run hot water over it as we try to scrape away most of the gunk that tends to build up after frying. If we limited our cooking to just bacon and pancakes we wouldn’t even have to do that but as we don’t we do make a stab or two at alleviating what could become a really ugly situation. Viva cast iron! Our parents did know what they were doing.

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There is a mellowness that comes with summers end. A relaxing of the intense burst of energy that was the hallmark of the preceding weeks as growth comes to a standstill except for a few valiant weeds that continue to fulfill the measure of their creation by putting out seeds on stalks that grow ever shorter and shorter until they, who would grow taller then me if allowed, are now mere inches from the ground. It is a time for summing up. For taking stock of what has been produced and so I find myself looking at my bit of ‘Eden’ with its sage brush, which we are encouraging and cheat grass which we are trying to get rid of and rejoicing at the progress made this summer—without me for the most part which is humbling as I had begun to have a quite proprietary air about the whole area—as if the plants there could not survive without me. But they did because of the determination of MGH(MyGoodHusband) who faithfully moved the hose that supplies the life giving water that keeps any growing thing alive through the punishing heat of the summer sun in this high desert country. He also wielded the hoe and saw that the weeds were kept in check which I much appreciated.

I quite like this quote from Dorothy Gurney, “The Lord God planted a garden In the first white days of the world, And he set there an angel warden In a garment of light enfurled. The kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the bird for mirth, One is nearer God’s heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth.”

Why this should be so, is of course, as individual as each gardener. For me it has come to represent life’s meaning played out as the seasons pass. The eternal struggle between good and evil, deciding which is which, for I have discovered to my sorrow that a plant that I think should be saved, and therefore good, often takes over when I have destroyed its competitors becoming extremely tenacious in maintaining its ‘place’ there after. This of course places it on my ‘black’ list which means it is doomed for extinction if I have anything to say about it, which I do, as it is my ‘Eden’ and I can pick and choose its residents as I please.

The fat robin, who always arrived so early every Spring, has disappeared. I miss him even though it means that we have had a few strawberries grace our table as a result. I liked to watch him from my kitchen window, while fixing meals or washing dishes, as he stalked up and down the patch stopping now and again to sample the berries along his route. He was quite possessive and quick to chase any other birds away that dared to venture into his kingdom. I hope he is happy in his new home.

I arrived home to find my house plants thriving. This was in spite of the fact that both Sherman and MGH were watering them—each without the other’s knowledge which meant there was serious overkill for some of the plants. Sherman was so good about seeing that his dad was well cared for while I was gone. He even delayed starting a new job in St George which would keep him much closer to home than the one here in Cedar, until I was back again. He would cook up a giant size pan of what he calls ‘hard tack’ for his dad. When that would run low he often stopped at a burger joint and purchased a hamburger and fries just to make sure that his dad had something to eat that day. This was in addition to the good sisters of the ward inviting him to their homes for Sunday dinners with their families when they realized he was on his own. There of course, went my idea that MGH might just possibly lose a little weight if I wasn’t there to cook for him. (I did make arrangements for Meals on Wheels to come during the week which he eventually canceled. Not that I think he minded all that much as they some times served beets which are his least favorite vegetable. To my amusement/amazement he told me that he ate them because they were included in the price of the meal and he didn’t want to waste his money which is why he will die a wealthy man and I won’t.)

Our daughters took turns cleaning for their dad. Dawn came in May and really tackled some hard projects although, mindful of my feelings, she assured me that she didn’t find ‘things’ all that bad (As with so many things the devil is in the details here—the crucial word being ‘all’). Sylvia came in June with the remains (Bryan & Franklin) of her once large family while she and Tom were making the ‘grand tour’ which is what you have to do if you want to see your children who have moved far away. She was here long enough to prepare meals which she placed in the freezer so that her dad only had to heat them up when he was hungry. Marie and Dan were here in July, the same weekend as Rob and Mark, and together they spent a day and a half putting in the trim around the floor and doorways downstairs. What a great family we have! Their help and concern has been much appreciated!

I miss my friend Jewel Butterfield. She came into my life when Evelyn, who is my visiting teaching partner and I were assigned to visit her in 1997. She was a newly baptized member of the church and very, very lonely having left her beloved California, where as a girl, she lived close enough to the ocean to be able to go for a swim just by walking down to the beach from her home, in 1995 to provide a mother’s love and support for her youngest son who was experiencing some personal problems at the time. We were given this assignment because we were nearest to her in age, she was 77, and it was hoped that we could relate to her better than some of the younger sisters had. Like many who live by themselves she was starved for someone to talk to. We soon learned to allow for an hour and a half visit so that she could share with us her joys- which seemed to be few, and her woes-which were legion.

Her beloved husband, Norman, died when he was in his 50’s which left her a widow for over 40 years. She very badly wanted to meet and marry someone about ten years younger then her so they could go dancing, which she loved—but she never did. She supported herself as a school secretary until she reached retirement age. She then sold real estate. She became estranged from two of her children which resulted in their not communicating with each other for many years. One of the saddest things I heard about her death is that she did not want them notified until after she was buried. She had never ceased to love them or miss them.

She was quite proud of how long lived her family was ‘except for her mother, poor thing’, who was often the victim of her father’s ill temper when he came home drunk. “It was not at all uncommon”, she told us, “for her family members to live into their late 90’s”, not to mention the fact that her grandmother, who was psychic, told her that she would live to be 95.

I wish it could have been so for her but it wasn’t to be as she passed away July 17th of this year at the age of 87. Like the robin who is now gone, I hope she is happy in her new home.

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The following was written at my request on September 10, 2007 by MGH(My Good Husband) DeVon F. Andrus,

Essentially, we always thinned our own sugar beets. Dad would occasionally respond to various programs sponsored by the school or the sugar beet company and once in a while a few kids would show up on their own, but none of these ventures ever produced any real help. During the years of World War II my nephews, Darnell and Ray Andrus, a neighbor boy, Keith Lewis, and I thinned the great bulk of our 30 acres of beets. My brother, Tone, would drop by for a few minutes once in a while to give us encouragement by thinning part of a row, but he was working so many hours at his own occupation that he couldn’t do more than sort of wish us well.

Hoeing beets was another story. We had a lot of other farm work to do and Darnell and Ray went to work on the thresher with their dad when it began operating. I did quite a bit of hoeing, but we depended on itinerant laborers for most of the beet hoeing.

One summer a young Indian couple hired on to hoe our beets. They had a couple of small children and asked permission to pitch a tent on our farm at the Orgill place across the road from the State Prison. Since there was no potable drinking water available there, we hauled a fresh ten gallon milk can of water for them every day.

Having that close contact with them we observed that the young woman was nine months pregnant. Even so, she went to work in the field with her husband every day. One day, when we were cutting hay, we saw the young woman leave the beet field about mid morning and retire to the tent. When she returned to the field a short time before noon, she was carrying the baby who had previously been awaiting birth wrapped in a blanket on her back. She had taken time out to deliver her baby, all by herself, and then returned to work in the field.

She never missed any more time from the field the rest of the while they were at our farm. She did sit down in the row every once in a while to nurse the baby, but that is the only time she took off.

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I have really appreciated Mary’s input about things we shared in common from the now, quite distant past of our youth. Over the years I have grown to appreciate her willingness to help with family history efforts. She is unstintingly generous with her time and continues to reach out to me even though I often lapse into long periods of non-communication. I am amazed at the amount of work she is able to get done in a day, her wide range of interests, her willing service to her church and community. She is truly an amazing woman who I have come to depend on for ‘tidbits’ of information as I wend my way through these memories of yesterday while trying to resurrect them for my children who tell me that I never told them about my growing up years. I suppose they are correct but for an excuse I offer MGH(My Good Husband) whose gift of story telling is legendary and who kept us regaled with his boyhood memories while they were home with us. My own lack of a comparable skill, which is also legendary, resulted in my making way for his brighter light.

Having been brought up with the maxim ‘that it is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt’ I have chosen to remain silent rather than have this glaring limitation found out by those I hold most near and dear. Imagine my great delight then, when my sister Barbara admitted one day to me, when I was lamenting my struggles in this area, that she also was afflicted with the same condition. Oh what a relief it was to find that I was not alone. So okay, you are now wondering just how much can you believe of what I have written concerning my past. The answer is, most of it, taken of course with a grain of salt. These are the things I remember. They are how I perceived them as a child. I find that enough time has passed that I cannot always remember what happened to whom or the exact date and so I sometimes assign happenings to the wrong person or put them in the wrong year. This isn’t intentional and is why I have hoped my sisters would respond with their recollections in the hopes that out of the various pieces we might weave together just what it was to grow up as ‘the Gano girls’. I never thought the things that happened to me/us would be of much interest to others but I have come to realize that these memories will perhaps help our children gain insight into our lives and times and why we believe/act as we do and perhaps provide a cautionary tale for them as well.

My memory of names and dates completely escapes me just when I need them the most so you will have to be satisfied with what I can give you even though you might wish for more. To show you what I mean, Barbara called me not too long ago and asked this question. “Can you remember how often we bathed when we were at home? Was it just on Saturday or more often?”

This completely took me aback and I honestly have to answer that I don’t remember. I can remember that as little girls, part of our bed time routine was to wash our feet, made necessary by our going barefoot so much of the time as this helped keep the bedding clean. We even had a white enamel dishpan that we used for this purpose. I can remember this dishpan hanging on the wall in the kitchen, when not in use, of the little brick house at 610 E 4th Ave there in Mesa—I am sure that this was done other places as well but this is the earliest memory that I have of it. Perhaps I remember this because of the scorpion bite Darlene received while having her feet washed. The scorpion was small enough so that the curved rim of the pan hid it from view and allowed it access to Darlene’s tiny leg where it promptly bit her. This necessitated an emergency run to the hospital where she was in some danger because of her age and size. Why it waited to bite her instead of her older sisters was the topic of much conversation in our family for a long time. (I did have my own run in with a scorpion in one of my saddle oxfords which dad had just finished polishing for me. The thing that saved me was that it was a large one and had no room to maneuver into stinging position as well as my thick white socks.) She couldn’t have been more than two or three, if that, when this occurred but it was another bit of fuel to feed the fire of the jealousy that Barbara and I felt toward her as mother was again required to devote much of her time to Darlene’s care. This, inordinate amount of time spent on our young sister began when Darlene nearly died as a very small baby from, what I remember being told, was diphtheria. She was hospitalized for this although I don’t remember for how long. I can remember hearing my parents talk about the difficulty she had swallowing and breathing. It was very scary for my parents and not at all surprising that so much time and care was lavished on her. From this distance and time I can understand and appreciate this but as small children Barbara and I felt very left out and neglected which led to our joining forces in seeing that Darlene felt our wrath in many subtle and not so subtle ways. We were really, really awful to her as we were growing up. As a result Darlene has some very negative thoughts about her older sisters and I can’t say that I blame her. Of course, it didn’t help matters that she had mother’s lovely thick dark hair and brown eyes as well as a very pretty face along with a charming, outgoing personality. She was more like mother than Barbara and I in that regard and because of this as well as her frail health; she garnered much concern and attention. That was, however, no excuse for us to act as we did. I don’t know that Barbara and I made a conscious choice to be so mean to Darlene but ‘whether or no’ it has left consequences in its wake, the most serious of which is that Darlene will have very little to do with her older sisters telling others that she finds them ‘intimidating’. Sigh.

I find it interesting to contemplate the fact that while I can’t tell you how often we bathed I can describe for you the various bathtubs that we used as we moved from home to home. Showers were not an option when I was little as the homes we lived in were not equipped with this ‘luxury’. There was an exception, isn’t there always, to this and that was when we lived in Gilbert, Arizona where we moved after leaving Snow Flake. That house had no tub which might indicate it had no indoor bathroom, but here I draw a total blank. It did have an enclosure around the windmill that pumped water from the well which had been equipped with a primitive shower head. I can remember the light coming in through the cracks between the boards which had been thrown up to provide privacy which it did, mostly, but mother was always uneasy about the situation. There must have been some kind of a storage tank connected with it as well which provided the luxury of sun warmed water—at least at first. I can remember mother showering with us there and how fast we hurried to get through before the water turned cold. I am sure we did not appreciate that we were on the ‘cutting-edge’ of being environmentally correct in our use of solar power. We just knew we needed to hurry.

Doing the wash involved heavy work for women even when they had a wringer washer. I can remember mother’s visceral dislike of flannel sheets. When I asked her why, she told me that it was because too often they went on the bed at the beginning of winter and didn’t come off until warm weather arrived. For some reason she seemed to blame the sheets rather than their users for this unhealthy situation. Even so I couldn’t help but think that they would have been warmer than the slick, white cotten sheets we used on our beds in those cold Iowa winters in our unheated bedrooms.

My parents were very clean in their habits but some of the practices they followed would be looked upon as strange in our modern world with all its conveniences. I can’t help but wonder if we could do as well if the clock were turned back on us, for whatever reason, and we had to do ‘without’ our washers/dryers/dishwashers/air-conditioners/furnaces etc. I’ll bet we’d do with a lot fewer clothes, don’t you! She washed the sheets on our beds every week doing all the work involved in this by herself when we were little but gradually turning over to us the responsibility of seeing that the sheets were stripped from the beds and taken to the utility room where she saw that they were washed and ironed. Yes, we ironed all the flat pieces that went on our beds on what was called a mangle which allowed that particular task to be done in a fraction of the time that it takes to do it with an iron and an ironing board.

I can remember the day when she told Barbara and me, we were living on the farm then, that she was tired of having to remind us to change our sheets—from now on we could take care of that ourselves or sleep in dirty beds! To her credit she left us too it and to our credit we kept our sheets changed and our beds made, at least most of the time. Just as an aside, that’s about the level of difficulty we challenged our parents with as we were growing up—oh that it were so today when it is so easy to get in serious trouble. We’ve lost something of value haven’t we as we’ve gained in technology? I bet many a classroom teacher would give a month’s pay to have their most serious class room management be, throwing spit-balls/ trash on the floor/chewing gum. . . as was the case when I attended school in the ’40’s and ’50’s.

As to how often we bathed–who knows. Probably not nearly as much as we do today. Does it really matter? We had ‘clean hands and a pure heart’ which is, after all, what is most important.

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September 5, 2007

Sunday evening last I had the most delightful conversation with one of my Granddaughters, Kristi who lives along with husband Jonas and baby Dallin in the Phoenix, AZ metropolitan area. Having just experienced the joys of living in the desert with its unremitting/utterly unforgiving heat this summer and worse still having the air conditioner break with the temperature hovering around 116 degrees she asked, “Grandma, how did you stand the heat when you lived in Arizona as a little girl?” This took me somewhat aback as I had never really thought about what we did or didn’t do when it was hot. When I lived there as a child the temperature just was what it was. There is so much in a child’s world that is totally beyond their control that acceptance of what is becomes second nature.

While the new home in Mesa had a swamp cooler which provided much welcome relief the last few years we lived there, for the larger period of time before then we basically ignored the heat. Sleeping porches were an important addition to many homes of the time at least the home we lived in at 610 E. 4th Avenue had one on the side of the house as well as along the back and I know that it was not alone in having this feature. To be honest, I never realized what relief these add-ons provided to those who were so fortunate as to have them. With its large screened area that allowed the cooler night air access to where my sisters and I slept I don’t really remember being uncomfortable at night. During the day when it was really hot outside I seem to remember that we followed the shade around the house as we played with our dolls that were often set up to a small table where they were feted with imaginary meals served from a child’s size tea set that had gaily painted flowers painted by way of decoration that faded under use and neglect but continued to hold the water we generously poured from the tea pot to the cups we had set out under the large old tree in our back yard. We spent a lot of time playing outside as mother was a great believer in children getting plenty of fresh air which she considered quite beneficial for our health. (Probably her sanity as well).

With the advent of air conditioning I often find myself shivering while attending church meetings as the cold air flows down upon me resulting in my snuggling up to MGH husband as I attempt to access the heat he puts out while clad in his Sunday suit. When he is off attending to his duties at the singles wards of the Third University Stake, my lips turn a rather grim shade of blue as I sit by myself. What a thing to complain about. I can remember as a little girl sitting in the 7th ward chapel that was just down the street from us to the left as one faced East 4th Avenue. (We used to laugh about the different wards we were members of during the eight years we lived in Mesa. This was because as church membership grew in Mesa new buildings were built to meet the need. I can remember attending the 2nd Ward which was several miles from us and then the 5th ward which was within easy walking distance and then the new 7th ward, again in easy walking distance down the road from us the other way.)

Going through Grandma Waddington’s big black purse, which held the most amazing items helped keep us entertained during the long evening meetings of my childhood. Why she let us paw, for we all did, through her things I don’t know but perhaps it was her way of helping us be quiet as the meeting went on and on. Those were the days when Sacrament meeting was held in the evening and were often two hours or more in length if the speakers really got into expounding their point. This was quite awhile for little bodies to hold still let alone listen to the talks being given from the pulpit. I can remember hearing dad saying with a shake of his head, more then once, “the mind can absorb no more then the seat can endure” after some of the longer meetings. To his credit he tried to be considerate of the congregants when he had the responsibility of being the speaker for a meeting which he often did as he fulfilled his various callings in the church. I can’t say for sure but I think at some point he must have been a member of the Stake High Council because I can remember him telling us how he attended a meeting in our stake which he thought was his assignment for the evening only to discover that he was in the wrong chapel. I can’t remember any more then that but he made it sound quite amusing as he recounted this mishap. At any rate I can remember that Grandma had a small collapsible tin cup that she carried with her. This cup was about a half inch deep when folded in upon itself but could be expanded so that the rings which fit tightly together would allow for one to have a drink of water if a source was handy which was infinitely better then using one’s hand which works and I know this because I have done it on more than one occasion in my youth but no longer as I have discovered ‘germs’. I never saw her use it but I know it afforded us much entertainment as we would examine it carefully while making it into a cup and then causing it to fold back in upon its self. She also had a folding fan in her purse which again we could spend a lot of time examining as we would fold it out and fan the air around our faces to cool ourselves off until tiring of the exertion required to effect this breeze we would cease our efforts replacing the fan and hunting for the lemon drops which Grandmother carried with her most of the time. Grandmother had quite a sweet tooth and always had a bag of candy with her which I don’t think made mother too happy as she strictly controlled what we were allowed to have unless we got to Grandma’s stash while she wasn’t looking.

Many of the ladies carried fans with them. While some were like Grandmother’s and folded in upon themselves quite elegantly when closed only to open to display colored pictures upon their surface when fully spread out. Most of the fans were quite utilitarian. They were of round cardboard which one used by holding onto the flat piece of board, which always made me think of the tongue depressor that the Doctor used to hold my tongue down when looking at my throat which I was all too familiar with as I often had frequent bouts of tonsilitus as a girl, was glued to the cardboard. These often bore the logo of the local funeral home who gave them away as a form of advertising. Sounds strange, I know, in today’s world but they were much appreciated as the heat settled in around everyone. What a sight must have greeted the eyes of the evening’s speaker as his eyes took in these fluttering fans as they moved slowly back and forth.

Grandmother also carried a hankie with her. Most women did. These were of varying sizes and decoration. Everyday ones were quite utilitarian. Just a square of cotton or linen which was kept tucked up a sleeve/ a pocket if available/or in a waist band so that they were easy accessible. Some of these had a printed pattern quite often of flowers. Sunday ones often had elaborate crocheted edging which were proudly displayed as testament of their owner’s skill. I still have mother’s collection of hankies which became mine when we divided her things between us after the funeral. Besides being useful to wipe noses or tears, when clean and dry they could be folded into the cleverest little doll in its own little swing. I can remember that we kept Grandmother as well as mother busy folding their hankies into these little dolls which we would carefully play with until they fell apart at which time the whole process had to be repeated again.

Crops were planted and tilled, chores were tended to, washing was done, and meals were prepared as those who lived there adapted to the climate and learned to live with it. I am sure we could have been quite miserable in the heat and probably often were but it is hard to miss (air conditioners, for example) something one has never known.

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