Grandma L's Diary

I read through Grandma L's 1960 diary.  I'd have been four that year.  I dog-eared the pages where she was complaining about my parents, who were doing it all wrong.  Also pages that contained OMG.  I may post some of it here.

I'm definitely going to type it up somewhere and then throw the book away.  That will only leave about two dozen to go. 

Help Me! I Opened THAT BOX Again!

I opened that box again.  The one with all of the letters that Grandma L kept all those years.  The one with envelope after envelope of pictures.  The one (shudder) with the eleven diaries. 

I am pomising myself, now, that I will repack the box into a smaller box before I go to bed.  I will not leave this spread all over my desk and stacked on the floor around my chair.

On the up side, I filled a wastebasket with pictures that I won't be keeping.  And I filled the recycling wastebasket with envelopes, clippings, a handful of letters (that I read to make sure there isn't anything in it that I'd want to keep), and a bunck of the smaller boxes that were inside the big box.

I feel pretty good about that.  I still have a stack of photos to sort and scan.  And I still don't have a working scanner.  They can go into the nifty card-sorting boxes that I bought recently.  The rest can go into a smaller box.  That will fit on a shelf in my closet, rather than out in the garage. So I can keep picking at it. 

So.  A little guilt for spreading this stuff around again.  A little pride that I've gotten better at culling photos.  It doesn't hurt that Grandma L had a habit of multiple copies.  A lot of the snapshots that got tossed tonight are copies of views I already have scanned, sorted, and indexed in the box file.  That helped. 

The diaries will be dealt with last.  If I wanted to feel really virtuous, I'd take out the wastebaskets before I went to bed.  We'll see. 

Are We Seeing a Pattern?

A couple of posts ago, I posted pictures of handmade toys and guessed that my Grandmother had made them.  I do not have difinitive proof, but I have more evidence.  While digging through the bins with her things in them, hoping that my new, sterner resolve would let me release a few, I found these.

The pale one on the bottom, left, is the dog in the other post and the one on the on the right is the rabbit.  As I say, not complete proof, but suggestive. 

Those were not the only patterns in the bin.

The page in the upper right is an invoice and the yellow envelope has the address of a craft supply company on it.  Several people have mentioned that she earned money doing crafts while her children were small.  I've only seen two or three invoices, though.  And as thourough as she was keeping other things, that may be telling.

She kept the patterns, though.

She kept lots of patterns.  Those little, cup-shaped envelopes each has a pattern.  Sometimes more than one. 

Shamrocks.  Dogs.  Scimitars.

The larger patterns may have been for toys, but the little patterns in the envelopes were for making felt jewelery.

I don't know how big a fad it was, but during the Depression and WWII, it was something that you could make if you couldn't afford real jewelry.  She obviously bought some of the patterns.  And some of the labels say they were her own design or that she had modified the design.

 

Some of the patterns are on scrap paper.  You can tell this one used to be a paper bag, that one was a cardboard shirt facing. 

 

Some of the jewelry patterns were a bit flamboyant.  Others were more restrained.  Embroidery, sequins, and beads were used to upgrade the felt to jewelry status.  She also kept samples.

 

 

 

As you can see, political correctness was a concept that was decades in the future.  Sometimes it's good to be reminded.

 

I've already recycled the paper patterns.  I may be able to sell some of the toys and jewelry at an antique shop where I've seen similar things.  I'm also ready to try to sell the baby blankets and baby clothes.  And if not, maybe the thrift shop.

 

I don't know why the thrift shop seems a little less respectful than the antique shop.  It does, though.  Maybe it's because it will take more effort.  The thrift shop has a drop off area.  I wouldn't even have to get out of my car.  I will have to talk to the owner of the antique shop.  We will have to look at the pieces together.  It will feel more like saying goodbye, I think. 

 

 



Definitely Keeping

Just because I mentioned it, and I have pictures -

These are clothespin dolls that Grandma L made.  I don't know if she tried to sell any.  She made sure that all the grandkids had them.  At least, she made sure all the female ones did.  I have one male cousin on that side, and he might have been skipped.

It's also possible that he wasn't.  Back when a new Barbie (tm) meant they had added Ken or Skipper to the line, Grandma L made sure that each of her grandchildren had the new Barbie (tm) as soon as it came out.  My cousin, being a boy, did not play with his.  We had not the first clue that this would be a benefit to him.  It those times and that place, the idea of children's toys being collectable would have seemed looney. 

But when my cousin reached college age, there they were - all those different Barbies (tm) sitting in the closet in their original packaging.  Not a hair out of place, not a plastic pump missing.

He sold them and bought a set of golf clubs.  So if he missed out on getting a clothespin doll, he wasn't entirely bereft. 

Not Guilty Yet

I'm of two minds about these things.  They are handmade felt toys.  There's a very good chance that my Grandma L made them.  Or at least some of them. 

I can't imaging any child playing with them.  The felt would fall apart.  On the one hand, keeping them as a kind of tribute wouldn't be a bad thing.  On the other, what kind of a tribute is having a bunch of things stuffed in boxes where no one sees them?

They're cute.  But they're not the only handmade things that she left. 

They were in boxes at her house that I had never seen.  Then they were in boxes at my Aunt's.  Now they're in boxes at mine. 

When I was in a quandary about other items for another relative, my sister suggested making a shadow box.  In that case, I think I'll eventually do that.  In this case, I'm not so sure.

I keep starting sentences with, "these are cute, and all . . .", but I'm not really sure that they are.  The idea that they're stuffed animal toys is endearing.  And the idea that they were made by our grandmother is nostalgic.  But they're worn and aged.

 

And with Grandma L, you don't know that the wear came from kids playing with them.  She made crafts to sell at more than one time in her life.  These could have been samples that got worn by knocking around in the box.  I think that if they had belonged to one of her children, they would have had a label.  That was certainly the case with the baby clothes, baby shoes, rattles, and locks of hair. 

 

Well, they've been memorialized here. If I do toss or sell them, I've kept the images. I may send the pictures to cousins and siblings to see if anyone else remembers or wants to keep them.

 

I suppose they don't quite qualify as antiques.  My father was born in 1930, so that puts an upper limit on their age.  I'm fairly sure they were made long after that.  But you never know. 

So here they are.  I haven't found any evidence that she made the patterns.  She both developed her own patterns and used purchased ones, for other craft things she did. 

Most of the patterns she developed were flat, or mostly flat.  She had a knack for drawing.  Oh, the background runners came from the other side of the family.  Those may or may not have been done by a different grandma.  I'm going to have to decide about them, too. 

Comments on Blue Belle's

Man, pictures take forever to load. We won't go over my learning curve regarding editing them into a post.

My first thoughts on this little booklet are tri-layered. That usually happens when I think about anything Grandma related. On the ME layer, the booklet was written on school-type paper and then rolled up and kept for, I'm guessing, 82+ years. It is yellowed, friable, and permanently curled into a tube. It is also in the recycling, now that I've typed it up and logged it here, with a copy on my hard drive in the genealogy folder.

I sort of resent the amount of time it took to do that. There was a good bit of wrangling and weighting down involved in just getting each page to lay flat for its turn at immortalization.

On the Grandma layer, it's both touching and sad that she kept it for so long. She really did have an urge to create. She became more than pretty good at drawing and painting, and did handicrafts her whole life. I haven't seen any other stories, or much of her writing, besides letters and wills. (I'll tell you about those some day.)

According to Uncle L, she supported herself and her children, at least for awhile, by making felt "jewelry". It's hard to guess how much time she put into that, though. She also made Barbie (tm) clothes and fancy clothespin dolls.

Like I said, she had an urge to create. Unfortunately, she also had an urge to go drinking with servicemen. (No, I’m not implying that she got drunk.  I have no clue about that.  I’m just saying that she liked to go to bars and that her eyes would light up when recalling men fighting over her.) So she never put in the time to get serious about trying to make a living with her drawings.

The third layer is the voice of my Dad, complaining. At some point he decided that his personal troubles were all her fault. After that, well, let's just say he complained about her a lot. I'm not going to talk about him much until I've got most of Grandma and Aunt D's stuff sorted. He's a whole different kettle of guilt.

---------------

Now let's see if I have anything I want to say about the story, itself. The plot is, of course, a hot mess. That's not a phrase I usually use, but it's a phrase that I don't seem to be able to veer from using in this case. It's a hot mess. I really hope that she was in the low end of her teens when she wrote it. I wrote stuff that was just as bad in my low teens, but I don't think I kept any of the really stinky stuff.

Of course, Grandma had more of a weakness for Romance novels than I ever had, so she would have liked it for that. Grandma kept me supplied with romance novels during junior high and high school, mostly with old style Harlequins and Georgette Heyer. I kept them in Wrigley's Gum boxes (the big packing boxes) under my bed.

At one point, Dad put his foot down, saying that if any more came into the house, an equal number had to leave. I was fine with that. I don't think I ever re-read them. Even so, when I moved away to college, and donated them to the local library, there were more than a thousand of them. (The library was thrilled. They became "honor" checkouts - not tracked - and there were apparently a number of little old ladies who just loved them.)

I read them as a cheap way to travel for a twelve-year-old. The stories were always set in England or Australia or somewhere else I'd never been. And the regencies, especially, were pretty good vocabulary builders. (Lately, I was tickled to see Terry Pratchett add that little bit of information to one of his books. It was Unseen Academicals.)

I never read them as romances, or even novels of manners. I suspect that Grandma did, though. For me, after the first dozen or so, it was too obvious that the characters were acting out a formula. The people and relationships never seemed real.

So - back to the story. The plot was a hot mess. The word cowboy was never stated, but everyone but Belle (or Belle's) talked cowboy. The hero shot the heroine and had to open up her shirt to discover that she had boobs. With eyesight that bad, it was a wonder he hit his target. But everyone else made the same mistake, so maybe in the time of the Flapper (the early 1920s), boobs were passé, even cowgirl boobs..

I will not speculate on how Belle got on a wanted poster, why her father was kidnapped, or why everyone knew the owner of the Circle R Ranch, but no one knew that he had a grown daughter. Wall Rock was the foreman of the Circle R, for Pete's sake. This is a bigger oversight than missing a set of boobs. I will also not ask what self-respecting Spaniard would name a town La Crane.

She must have liked the name Wall Rock, because she started so many sentences with it and never shortened it to Wall unless someone, say, the Sheriff, was talking. And Wall was a special guy: able to hide his horse in a clump of bushes, ambidextrous, and a soft touch for a sob story.

The heroine must have been wildly attractive for a woman with no cleavage. He decides not to turn her in to the Sheriff for the $5000 reward before she even wakes up after he shot her . . . again. Even though she had shot him. Rather than holding that against her, or even saying ouch, he's ready to assume . . . what? I'd say he thinks she's too feminine to be a criminal, but she just shot him. Then got shot without saying ouch herself.  That sounds manly to me.  Or maybe in The West, bullet wounds are just the casual punctuation of conversation. 

I feel so cheap taking pot-shots at this story. It was obviously written by someone very young. At least I earnestly hope that Grandma was close to twelve when she wrote it. She told me once that when she was young, she and her best friend made a pact to run away to The West and marry cowboys. This story would fit right in with that frame of mind.

As that kind of story, I think it's cute. "You'll need a yarn and a pair of lies" isn't a bad line. Neither is "I stopped him, but the pony got away with him." At twelve, there's plenty of time to learn where to put apostrophes.

Blue Belle’s

 - - a story written by L P - -

<< I don’t know when this was written, but it was written longhand on plain paper folded into a chapbook.  It was sub-headed:  A Novelette.  I’m guessing that she would have used the name H if it had been written after 1929.  I’m going to make an effort to refrain from editing as I type.  It’s possible she was very young when she wrote it. >> 

Wall Rock foreman of the Circle R. ranch, halted on a small knole, on either side grew tall elm, oak, and willow trees.  The faint clatter of horses hoofs striking against the hard earth came to Wall Rock halted on the narrow trail.  Dismounting he concealed his horse in a clump of bushes.  Moving swiftly, and keeping under cover Wall Rock pushed his way cautiously along the trail.

Rounding a bend in the trail revealed a small stream of water creeping from a stone wall.

Here Wall Rock paused, large boulders were strewn around him, he hid between two of these as a rider came into view.

The stranger rode a dainty, little blue roan.  He was riding hard and the horse was covered with lather.  Wall Rock stepped from between the boulders as the horse drew near.  “Hands Up!”  The rider urged the horse forward at greater speed.  Wall Rock fired, then once again.  The rider fell heavily as the horse reared suddenly into the air.

Holding his left arm tightly with the fingers of his right hand, he arose, his lips tightly closed and determined.  He was of small statue, about the height of five feet five inches.  His hat which had fallen off revealed beautiful golden, wavy hair.  His deep blue eyes looked into Wall Rocks black ones, for just a second.  “Well stranger I reckon I know who Yuh are.  I seen yuh’re picture on a poster with $5000 reward.  I’ll cash in on that tin ware.  Wall Rock had seen the poster at the sheriffs office in La Crane.  Reach for the moon Sonny I cain’t take chances of yuh’re decoratin’ me with yuhr B. B’s.

Wall Rock lead the horse back to where his own was picketed.  Nice poney yuh got here Son.  Blue Belle’s, what does that mean,”?  he asked as he gazed upon the name written in small gold letters across the front of the bridle.  But he received no ans.  Wall Rock didn’t mind, he could, and would talk.  As he mounted his horse he took his had away from the bridle of the other horse, in an instant it had leaped to one side, one soft call from its master and it dashed forward.

Wall Rock fired, the shot went wild.  He raced after the stranger with his own chestnut colored horse, but Blue Belle’s gained rapidly until at last Wall realizing it utterly futile, gave up the chase.

He had ridden back perhaps a half mile when he was halted by a group of men, whom he recognized as the sheriff and two – deputies and three men from neighboring ranches.  “Hey Wall did yuh see a pritty fella on a swell little hoss?”   “I reckon he was headed, this here way.” “Yuh just missed him, he went thet way, Wall pointed behind him.  I stopped him, but the pony got away with him.”    . . . . . . . .

Two weeks later Wall rode into La Crane again “Another hold up huh!’ ‘The sooner yuh git thet fella the better fer yuh Sherriff.”

Sherriff Tabor a large man with grey eyes and a black mustache which nearly covered his face, greeted Wall kindly

Then.  “Will you help?”

Wall hesitated “I tell yuh what if I see him I’ll stop him.”

Several persons had glimpses of the horse and rider, although none were able to catch him.  This was the third hold-up in La Crane during that last eight days.

Next morning Wall Rock had scarsly left the circle R. ranch when the rider crashed through the timber.  At sight of Wall he attempted to get into the timber again, Wall fired, the riders hand flashed down up and fire seethed through the air an instant later, the report of a six-gun filled the air.  Wall Rocks right arm hung useless, in a half second another report sounded  Wall gun in hand walked over where the rider had fallen   I guess my left hand’s peart near’s good as my right he muttered to himself.  He bent over the stranger.  Not dead he breathed.  He knelt beside him, blood streaked his shirt on the right side.

Wall Rock started to open his shirt in neat, small letters on the chest were the letters B. B.  He opened the shirt a little farther.  “God a girl,” he leaped to his feet, looked around as though not knowing what to do.  Looking down he knew he must stop the blood and try to fix the wound, not a large one, he went in search of water.

He came upon a water hole a quarter of a mile farther on filling his had, he returned to make as soft a bed as possible on some boughs of Willow tree.  Searching the girls saddle, he found a small ring with B. B. on it also.

Blue Belle’s he mused thinking of the bridle taking her blankets, which also had the initials B. B. neatly embordered in the corners, he finished making the bed.  Then gently, he lifted her and lay her upon it.  He washed her face in some of the cold water he had carried from the distant water hole.  Her eyelids quivered, and she regained consiousness.  He felt a queer tug dangerously close to his heart, what caused it?  He didn’t know. Suddenly she sat up asking, “What are you going to do call the Sherriff?”  “No I am not” he answered.  She whistled, the horse lifted its head and looked at her inquiringly.  “Come here Blue Belle’s.”  The horse crossed quickly to where she sat, nosing around her lovingly.  Blue Belle’s and I are pals aren’t we Blue?”  The horse put its nuzzle against her cheek gently nibbling for answers.

What is your name Wall asked at last.  She hesitated for an instant looking at him carefully.  Then “I guess I can tell you,  its Belle Blue, you see I named Blue, the opposite she is a wonderful horse, isn’t she pretty so neat and dainty a real blue, and her dark mane and tail!”

“Yes pretty!  Wall affirmed ‘Wait Pony I’m not going to hurt you” he said, as he attempted to lay his hands on her neck she drew away. “Oh Blue is always sny of strangers.”

Wall stood evidently in thought, at last he turned.

“Blue, that’s the name of the owner of the circle R.  He disappeared a month ago, we have been lookin’ for him ever since.”

“I know, the girl sighed he is my father I know where he is but I’ve been gathering evidence against the fellow who has been staging these hold-ups, he is the one who kidnapped ‘Daddy’.  I had gathered all the proof needed and was on my way to La Crane to have him arrested.  I have been searching for proof and was hot on the trail when you shot me.  I cut across to catch him when he passed this way with the loot of the last bank robbery I came this way for it is about ten miles shorter than the other way, and I am convinced he doesn’t know this old trail, few do.  He will be along any minut now.

After a wait of perhaps ten minutes they heard twigs snapping.  Across the opening a man was seen stalking cautiously, leading his horse.  Although they could see him they were hidden from his view by a clump of spruce trees.  Wall gasped, for it was on of the Deputy sheriffs, one of the most trusted men in La Crane.  Wall Rock leaped angrily forward, “Hands up he rasped.  The Deputys hands went up immediately.

“Whats the matter Wall, what hev’ I done”?

“Tell that to Sherriff Tabor yuh’er need a yarn, and a pair of lies.”  A nice gent yuh are trying and willing to have a girl lynched to save yuh’re dirty sneakin’ hide.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Two months later - -

Wall Rock sat on a spirited black horse while Belle sat on Blue to his right.  They had rode across the Circle R ranch and now sat looking the sun going down  “Wally do you remember just two months ago today?”

We say I do he said putting his arm around her.  Butt that’s over.  He’s doing prison duty now, and our Dad home an – and yuh’re goin’ to marry me ain’t yuh Belle?”  Blue stepped closer to the “Black Major, at a pressure on her side from Belles leg.  Belle laid her head against Wall’s shoulder.

“Yes Wally.”  He kissed her.  He reached down and patted the horses neck it neighed softly.  “My Blue and Belle he said in a whisper Blue and Belle or Mrs. Wallace Rockell.”

The End.

What did people do before they could forward each other email glurge?

They sent each other clippings.  I haven't found any clipping wars in Grandma's box of yellowing letters, but I remember her engaging in a few. 


This is a clipping found tucked into one of the letters sent to her, from one of her friends.  It is suitable to this blog because I'm having trouble throwing the silly thing away, for some reason, and I expect that once it's enshrined here it will be easier to let it go.  I have no idea what newspaper it was clipped from.  And at this point I'm not sure which decade it came from.  It was either the thirties or the forties.


HE'D BUILD FENCE AROUND HIS WIFE


Here is what Francis Mac. Jones, well-to-do Angeleno, threatened to do to his wife, Cornelia, according to her divorce complaint filed in Superior Court yesterday.


Build a 10-foot fence with barbed wire topping it.  Put Mrs. Jones inside the enclosure.  Then when men came to see her, they would tear their clothing on the wire -- and Jones could identify them.


Mrs. Jones asked $25,000 attorney fees and appropriate alimony, her husband, she asserted, being worth $750,000. 

-------------

Update - I found another clipping in which a man asked the local police to lock up his wife until the Navy ship in port had sailed because she liked sailors too much.  The police declined.  Together with a few clipped cartoons, this makes a trend. 

Things I've learned about the Grandfather I never met

I'm also going to list things that I probably knew, but hadn't thought about for awhile. 

1. He was in the Navy.  He was assigned to the U.S.S Colorado according to the letters sent from 1930 to 1932.  About every sixth letter he talks about needing to get out of the Navy to be home with the people he misses.
2. He was a fiend for run-on sentences.  They read fine, because I read them as if they were broken up. So I didn't really notice until I typed a couple of them into my notes.  I'd have added paragraph breaks to some of those sentences.
3. He uses the words gee, keen, and swell a lot.  He often starts sentences (or clauses, in his run-ons) with gee, well, or heck.  He used sure as an intensifier, as in 'you're sure swell' or "it's sure keen." 
4. He always writes 'to' instead of 'too.'  (Yes, I do get paid for technical editing.  Why do you ask?)
5. He leaves the apostophes out of most of his contractions and the few he includes tend to end up before the N rather than after it.
6. "I sure have got those blues again . . ." ; ". . .well I should hope to smile."; ". . . well it all counts on twenty."; "I'm an honest square shooting man. . ."; ". . . desperately in love. . .".
7. More than a few people called him Red.
8. His ship was berthed in Seattle when his son (my Dad) was born in Bensenville, Illinois.  He didn't see him until he was 4 to 6 months old. 
9. He and Grandma called my Dad "Little Pal" (with the quotes) before he was born and for about half a year after.
10. In 1931 he usually started his letters to Grandma with:  My Honey Bunny Boo. 
11. I can't send money this week because - things will just be perfect when we finally get together - you're nearly perfect - you're an angel - I almost never leave the ship so I won't be tempted - I get crazy jealous when your letters mention other men. 

This is from Grandma's letters.  I remember other bits and pieces from Aunt D's things, but I'm not going to open that box now.

People wrote each other poems in the 30's

2/23/30 From John E. Hardy on the U.S.S. Colorado to his wife, Lily

Never Forgotten

Honey, don't think that I've forgotten,
If I don't write every day;
For my thoughts are always of you
Although I'm far away.

Don't ever think that there's another
Who can take the place of you
No matter where I go or roam,
Always will my heart be true
To baby, you and home.

At present I'm in the Navy;
My future is unknown.
But always my thoughts are of you,
As I long for you alone.

So, while we are waiting; sweetheart
Think of me and don't feel blue.
For when I've finished this duty,
I'll be coming back to you.

When ocean waves do break and roll,
And your face I cannot see,
Kindly look into your mirror
And kiss your dear self for me.

Though miles and miles between us lie;
And we are so far apart.
Remember that it is me dear
That sends this, with all my heart.


It's kind of sweet seeing the Grandfather I never met get all sentimental over Grandma.  There is a small, cynical voice saying, hey, the man was a sailor.  They probably swapped poems for sweethearts.  There are more semi-colons in that poem that in all of the rest of his letters.  On the other hand, a bunch of them are placed for decoration rather than for grammar.  And his other letters are all extremely sentimental.  So I'm just going to assume that it's genuine and not even try Googling it. 

February 15, 2010 Monday

(Still from the old log)

I am seeking comments from E and K on “the silverware”.  This is not Mom’s silverware, which is a complete set in a nice box.  This is five pieces of unmatched silver-plate that Aunt D was storing, all wrapped up in a drawer.  I have no idea if any of it ever belonged to anyone.  If it used to be Grandma L’s, then Uncle L would have taken it up to Aunt D to look after.  I’m going to have to decide whether to use any of it or to keep any of it. 

They are the following (with markings):

A scalloped large serving spoon with scrolling where the bowl attaches to the stem, and raised dots along the outside of the stem. (Rockford S.P.C 0.5  then a star – small enough that I had to get E to read it – and he had to take off his glasses).  The silver plate has worn off of the ridges in the scallops and gouges in the bowl.

A scratched and stained butter knife (Tudor plate Oneida Community).

A slotted, scalloped, scrolled small spoon (sugar spoon?) National double tested Silverplate.  

A matching spoon and fork serving set, with no decoration except on the stem ((eagle?) Wm Rogers (star), with an I S separately).  They are scratched, stained and may have worn through the plate in places. 

Eric just shakes his head and has no comment.  He says he doesn’t care about it. 

Katie says that I should clean them before I make any decisions.  Her Mom has a bang-up method of cleaning them without scrubbing.  (Looking back from November 2011, I suspect that they got put in the basement for storage.)

The Guilt Continued

Still posting from the cusp of 2010.

That clears a bit of the flotsam on my desk. It’s December 31, 2009 and now is a good time for clearing, even incomplete clearing. I’ve ended up with a fair bit of Grandma L’s stuff, as I mentioned last post. I inherited it from Aunt D when she died last December 18 (2008). I don’t think I’ll ever think of Christmas without thinking of Aunt D.

Aunt D had no children of her own and was always involved with her nieces and nephews. She always gave really good presents. Not only were the presents good, they were wrapped with fancy wrapping. No one else in the family used such fancy wrappings. We suspected that she paid to have them wrapped at Sears or maybe even a fancier store. There were metallic papers and intricate bows. There were plastic poinsettias and fat ribbons.

No two boxes were alike, unless it was done deliberately. Sometimes if she got, say, me and my two sisters a similar gift, the boxes might be wrapped identically. This was different from everyone else’s presents. Everyone else had a few rolls of flat paper wrapping and curling ribbon. So there was little variety in the wrapping, mostly.

There was one mitigating factor to that, though, and that was Aunt D. We always saved the paper, ribbons, and decorations from her boxes. They could be cut down to wrap smaller boxes in other years. So our plain wrappings were boosted by her hand-me-downs. Oh, and we saved the boxes, too.

Later, much, much later, I learned that she was a shopaholic and that her spending had been a burden on my Uncle L, her brother, and my Grandma L nearly all her adult life. My Dad, her other brother, had pulled away, giving her nothing but advice and criticism when she overspent.

Oh, look. Grandma L had for some reason tucked a newspaper clipping of the death of Phillipe Cousteau, Jacque Cousteau’s son, into the Christmas Story book. She’s hand dated it Fri. June 29-’79. My youngest son, Eric, would be born November of ’79. I have no idea why she thought I, or my sons, would need the clipping. It’s going into the recycling.

Grandma L used to send me and the boys CARE packages – boxes with ‘useful’ things in them. There were find-a-word books, which the boys enjoyed, and which could be bought for a quarter at the drug store. There were packets from Kentucky Fried Chicken, with a knife, spork, napkin, and wet-wipe in each one. I forget what else the boxes were stuffed with. Usually nothing to terribly useful. But she would collect the items and mail them and the kids did enjoy getting them.

I’m listening to Principles of economics, translated, by the Standup Economist on YouTube, to cheer myself up. My YouTube favorites are sort of like getting a box from Grandma L. Not too terribly useful, but very cheering.