Time marches on.
It's fall 2010 and the View has moved to Ohio for the start of school, colder weather and the run up to seasonal holidays. My mind is spinning with memories. I totally missed posting about Halloween. Oh well, there's always next year.
Next week is Thanksgiving. My family and I will celebrate this lovely, unique American holiday together here in Connecticut. We will start the day with our first annual Gillespie Turkey Trot at the beach on Long Island Sound. One of us is a marathoner and she will take her daily run while the rest of us walk, talk, people watch and enjoy the playground.
After that, it's home for brunch. Think waffles, maple syrup, eggs, sausages, perhaps a cinnamon roll-we may need to take another walk after all that food.
Dinner at our house is traditional fare with roast turkey and all the trimmings.
Here's one of my favorite, easy recipes to share:
Spiced Cranberry Sauce
1 12 0z. bag fresh cranberries
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
2 1/4 tsp. finely grated orange peel
1/2 tsp. kosher salt
Add 1/2 t. ground cinnamon, 1/8 t. ground allspice, 1/8 t. ground cloves, and 1/8 t. ground nutmeg.
Bring all ingredients to a boil in heavy medium saucepan, stirring often. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer until most of the cranberries burst, stirring occasionally, about ten minutes. Transfer sauce to medium bowl. Cool, cover and refrigerate. May be made up to one week ahead.
The warm spices in this version are the very essence of the holiday.
Now for the memories.
One of the things I will always remember about Thanksgiving on Scottwood, is that Dad would get up very early on Monday that week, and go to the local farmers' market to buy the biggest turkey he could find. I recall that it was often over twenty pounds, more like twenty-two or twenty four pounds. Dad was very proud of the size of our turkey and would be back from "market" as he called it, while we were preparing to leave for school. He would announce with a big smile, how large a bird he had found. We cheered and went to school carrying this piece of family news.
The turkey would be stuffed and put into an enormous electric roaster the night before Thanksgiving.
My parents would stay up late, chopping onions and celery and mixing stale bread cubes with herbs and butter. It took the two of them to wrangle all of that filling into the bird and place it into the roaster to slowly cook for several hours. We would wake up to the smell of roasting turkey. Heavenly.
We always had a big breakfast because the next meal was the Thanksgiving Feast, there was no scheduled "lunch" that day.
In the middle of the day Dad would load us into the car and take us to the zoo. This gave Mom time for herself and time to add the finishing touches on any of the menu that needed tending. We loved this outing. Dad could be very childlike at the zoo. We had to travel trough a tunnel under the road to enter and Dad joined us when we all yelled and screeched loudly in order to hear our echos. He loved the lion house and would lift each of us up high in order to get a better look at the beasts. Afterwards on the way home we sang and tried to imitate the elephants, tigers, and lions by mimicking their cries. We arrived home hungry, happy and ready for Thanksgiving dinner.
One of my jobs was to help set the table. We had a smallish dining room table and in order to seat and feed up to twenty or so for dinner, Dad had a table top custom made to be placed over our regular table. It was made of heavy wood and cut into two demi lunes, or half circles, then joined by hinges so that it could be folded in half. My brothers would go into the basement and carry it upstairs where it was laid over the table. We then covered the wood surface with newspapers, followed by white sheets and topped with an enormous, circular, white damask tablecloth. Finally we set out china, silver, crystal and linen napkins at each place. Place cards were always handmade. I remember one year, my sister Anne, (always creative) made up a little rhyme for each of us, without ever using our names. We had to guess who she meant by the rhyme. I loved mine and saved it for years, thrilled by what she wrote about me. "Small, blonde, with skin so light, in school this girl is very bright". I was eight years old.
That table was only for the adults and older brothers and sisters. The "little kids" had to sit at the dreaded Kids Table. I think I was there until I went to college! However, there were a few advantages of sitting with this elite group of children. If I had been allowed to sit at the big table, I would have had to clean my plate. As a child, I hated stuffing, and those vegetables and cranberry sauce and mince pie. At the kids table, no one noticed if I only ate a roll and two bites of turkey. Also, we could wreck havoc all we wanted and our parents were too occupied to notice.
Then came the daunting task of doing the dishes. There was no automatic dishwasher. Some of us simply made ourselves scarce, hoping nobody noticed we weren't helping, others stood in the kitchen with a towel over one shoulder, chatting but never lifting a dish, others just complained about the drudgery of it all. Everyone always tried to get out of helping, but somehow we all did our share and things were cleaned up in the end. Teamwork!
Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. (No gifts) With all the effort that goes into this one, special dinner, it's a wonder Americans still go through with it the last Thursday in November year after year. Yet I remind myself every day how thankful I am to have such a great family, many friends, my health, and to be a citizen of the USA. So all the preparation that goes into making the dinner and celebrating Thanksgiving is pure pleasure.
Here's something to think about. I read about a woman in Jamestown, RI, (where my late brother Fritz once owned a home) who for the last ten years has held a Thanksgiving leftovers potluck on the Saturday after the holiday. It could also be called Save the Best for Last. Some guests bring leftovers, some use leftovers to make something new, and some begin from scratch. She declined from the start to give food assignments. She decided she wasn't going to try to control it. It's what's in the refrigerator, why worry about weather people have a balanced meal or not? The range of what turns up is vast, her guest list tops sixty-five, and is one of the most sought out invitations of the season.
I love the idea. Think I'll try it next year.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Friday, November 19, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Water Sports
No one in the family was very athletic in terms of participating in organized team sports. By that I mean that we were not members of teams like the swim team, the football team, baseball, tennis, track, or basketball teams. We played sports as a family. We raced back and forth in the lake, we went sailing, we held relay races in the yard, we shot baskets in the driveway behind our house in Toledo, we played baseball on Acklin Ave. We rode our bikes all over the place, played endless games of hide and seek, and we ice skated for hours on neighborhood ponds and a frozen Lake Erie.
In the summer we swam every day. Non of us had lessons, we just learned by doing. Dad loved the water and would coax us to duck our heads under the cool, green lake at an early age. Then he would teach us how to kick our feet and use our arms to stroke through the water with swift movements. We loved it and always felt safe and comfortable in the lake.
Sometimes we would take one of the motor boats out during the week on a hot, windless day. We would speed out to deep water, drop an anchor and jump off the boat into twelve feet of wonderfulness, so cool and fresh that it was like a shot of sun, wind and freedom all rolled into one plunge. We would laugh and do cannonballs, trying to see which of us could make the biggest splash. We would dive, and then swim under the boat and hide from each other. It was exciting, innocent and just plain fun. We simply called this activity "deep swimming".
When Dad bought the Anderson (mentioned in an earlier post), we took up water skiing.
This boat had only a fifteen horse power motor on it, so it couldn't pull much weight. Lucky for me, I was a skin flint of a girl, perfect for skiing behind the Anderson. This was living!
Chris would drive the boat, up I went and off I skied. I also learned to cut the wake, my favorite part of the whole experience. I got to be pretty fair, and years and years later, well into my forties, I skied again behind our Boston Whaler. I was shocked and thrilled when I was able to stand up on skis again after about thirty five years. Proof that once a skill is learned, it is always with you.
The down side of all this was that our boat was too small to pull my older siblings who had more height and weight than I. Enter Uncle Ray's nineteen foot Lyman. Our Aunt Betty was Dad's younger sister. She and her husband, Uncle Ray, had no children of their own and they loved our family with all it's boisterousness and they showered us with attention and gifts. One summer, I think 1957, Uncle Ray bought this big boat that had an in board motor and a steering wheel and cushions, luxuries we had never seen. It sped along the lake at top speed, but the best of it was that it pulled everyone on waterskis and often pulled two at once.
We all thought this was just too cool, and begged Uncle Ray to take us skiing every time he came to visit with his boat. I remember that the skis we used were heavy, wooden and painted a bright yellow. One sunny Sunday, my brother Joe decided that not only would there be double skiing that day, but that I was to get on his shoulders while he skied. I was the lucky chosen one because I was the smallest. I thought this was a capital idea until I climbed unto his shoulders in the water, waited while the boat pulled the tow tight and then blasted off, pulling Joe and me out of the water. Suddenly I was very high up in the air, (Joe was over six feet tall) shivering with cold and terrified. He kept telling me to stop shaking. I couldn't. The truth is that I was, and still am, a total chicken. I didn't admit this before we went out on the water. You guessed it, we fell. It was my fault. They wouldn't take me again. After that I skied behind the small, slow Anderson. Perfect.
Further adventures of the Pier coming soon. Stay tuned for Local Characters, The Farmer, Linda, Fishing, Fashion, Tomatoes and more.
In the summer we swam every day. Non of us had lessons, we just learned by doing. Dad loved the water and would coax us to duck our heads under the cool, green lake at an early age. Then he would teach us how to kick our feet and use our arms to stroke through the water with swift movements. We loved it and always felt safe and comfortable in the lake.
Sometimes we would take one of the motor boats out during the week on a hot, windless day. We would speed out to deep water, drop an anchor and jump off the boat into twelve feet of wonderfulness, so cool and fresh that it was like a shot of sun, wind and freedom all rolled into one plunge. We would laugh and do cannonballs, trying to see which of us could make the biggest splash. We would dive, and then swim under the boat and hide from each other. It was exciting, innocent and just plain fun. We simply called this activity "deep swimming".
When Dad bought the Anderson (mentioned in an earlier post), we took up water skiing.
This boat had only a fifteen horse power motor on it, so it couldn't pull much weight. Lucky for me, I was a skin flint of a girl, perfect for skiing behind the Anderson. This was living!
Chris would drive the boat, up I went and off I skied. I also learned to cut the wake, my favorite part of the whole experience. I got to be pretty fair, and years and years later, well into my forties, I skied again behind our Boston Whaler. I was shocked and thrilled when I was able to stand up on skis again after about thirty five years. Proof that once a skill is learned, it is always with you.
The down side of all this was that our boat was too small to pull my older siblings who had more height and weight than I. Enter Uncle Ray's nineteen foot Lyman. Our Aunt Betty was Dad's younger sister. She and her husband, Uncle Ray, had no children of their own and they loved our family with all it's boisterousness and they showered us with attention and gifts. One summer, I think 1957, Uncle Ray bought this big boat that had an in board motor and a steering wheel and cushions, luxuries we had never seen. It sped along the lake at top speed, but the best of it was that it pulled everyone on waterskis and often pulled two at once.
We all thought this was just too cool, and begged Uncle Ray to take us skiing every time he came to visit with his boat. I remember that the skis we used were heavy, wooden and painted a bright yellow. One sunny Sunday, my brother Joe decided that not only would there be double skiing that day, but that I was to get on his shoulders while he skied. I was the lucky chosen one because I was the smallest. I thought this was a capital idea until I climbed unto his shoulders in the water, waited while the boat pulled the tow tight and then blasted off, pulling Joe and me out of the water. Suddenly I was very high up in the air, (Joe was over six feet tall) shivering with cold and terrified. He kept telling me to stop shaking. I couldn't. The truth is that I was, and still am, a total chicken. I didn't admit this before we went out on the water. You guessed it, we fell. It was my fault. They wouldn't take me again. After that I skied behind the small, slow Anderson. Perfect.
Further adventures of the Pier coming soon. Stay tuned for Local Characters, The Farmer, Linda, Fishing, Fashion, Tomatoes and more.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Labor Day and a Special Birthday
The summer of 2010 has flown by, don't know how that happened, but it seems I feel that way every Labor Day.
In June, the long stretch of sunny days and balmy evenings lay before me like a string of pearls, waiting to be tried on and savored. Suddenly it's the fourth of July and then, just like that, the season ends, the air turns crisp with a hint of fall.
In those days, school always started on the Wednesday after Labor Day. That meant that on the holiday, we had to leave Luna Pier and move back to our city life in Toledo. It seemed like just a few short weeks ago, that we were cleaning and moving into the cottage, and now it was time to pack up our clothing and food items, load both cars till their sides could split and drive the fifteen or so miles to Scottwood Avenue. But before that sad event could happen, we always enjoyed ourselves up until the inevitable departure.
The weekend was filled with the usual swimming, boating, water skiing, popsicles, Coca Colas, and general fun. There were always lots of friends and relatives coming and going. My older brothers would invite their pals from Toledo to visit for a swim and cookout. I was thrilled to see them because they were very friendly to me as the little sister, and didn't seem to mind my annoying presence. Being in high school, they brought their girlfriends along, and I was even more interested in the girls, and what they wore and their adorable haircuts. I longed to be that age-sixteen or seventeen, able to drive and just be cool. I was mesmerized, and clung to them as long as they would let me, and hated it when, at the end of the evening, they would get into their convertibles and drive off into the summer night.
My parents put on the usual spread for all to enjoy. Grilled burgers and hot dogs, baked beans, corn on the cob, fried chicken, deviled eggs, slices of watermelon, and chocolate cake.
We always had music at the cottage. I clearly remember lots of Mitch Miller and his sing-along albums. There were also soundtracks of Broadway shows like "My Fair Lady" and "Camelot". And who could forget the lush music of Louis Armstrong and his wonderful "A Kiss to Build a Dream On"?
Often, after dinner, we would go out into the yard, sit in a circle and have our own sing-a- long. There were usually sparklers, always stars, and definitely mosquitoes. Under the Japanese lanterns that were strung across the lawn, we would sing "Shine on Harvest Moon" and a round or two of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat", also, the slow and romantic "Summertime", the lively "The Bells are ringing" or perhaps a satiric Tom Lehrer tune. It was wonderful fun and created great memories.
Labor Day was also Mom's birthday. September 5, to be exact. Her birthday didn't always fall on Labor Day itself, but it was always that weekend. We celebrated in our usual festive way with food, family, friends, music and cake. Our family had (and still does) a set of three birthday songs, and we sang all of them for her loudly and with gusto. She loved it, and even though the weekend, with all it's cooking and cleaning up, and with the move back to "town" ahead of her, she absorbed all this merriment with joy.
This weekend marks my mother's one hundredth birthday! Hard to believe, but true. She was born in 1910 and died at age ninety. I adored my mother and I miss her everyday. Her devout faith and amazing strength are still an inspiration for me. She was extremely smart, an avid reader, had a great sense of humor, a terrific positive attitude, was beautiful, elegant, and glamorous. My mother was always ladylike and gracious, a fabulous hostess and cook and somehow she made it all look effortless.
So Happy Birthday Josephine Cora Hill Wenzler! I'll toast you this weekend with love and happy memories. Love and kisses!
In June, the long stretch of sunny days and balmy evenings lay before me like a string of pearls, waiting to be tried on and savored. Suddenly it's the fourth of July and then, just like that, the season ends, the air turns crisp with a hint of fall.
In those days, school always started on the Wednesday after Labor Day. That meant that on the holiday, we had to leave Luna Pier and move back to our city life in Toledo. It seemed like just a few short weeks ago, that we were cleaning and moving into the cottage, and now it was time to pack up our clothing and food items, load both cars till their sides could split and drive the fifteen or so miles to Scottwood Avenue. But before that sad event could happen, we always enjoyed ourselves up until the inevitable departure.
The weekend was filled with the usual swimming, boating, water skiing, popsicles, Coca Colas, and general fun. There were always lots of friends and relatives coming and going. My older brothers would invite their pals from Toledo to visit for a swim and cookout. I was thrilled to see them because they were very friendly to me as the little sister, and didn't seem to mind my annoying presence. Being in high school, they brought their girlfriends along, and I was even more interested in the girls, and what they wore and their adorable haircuts. I longed to be that age-sixteen or seventeen, able to drive and just be cool. I was mesmerized, and clung to them as long as they would let me, and hated it when, at the end of the evening, they would get into their convertibles and drive off into the summer night.
My parents put on the usual spread for all to enjoy. Grilled burgers and hot dogs, baked beans, corn on the cob, fried chicken, deviled eggs, slices of watermelon, and chocolate cake.
We always had music at the cottage. I clearly remember lots of Mitch Miller and his sing-along albums. There were also soundtracks of Broadway shows like "My Fair Lady" and "Camelot". And who could forget the lush music of Louis Armstrong and his wonderful "A Kiss to Build a Dream On"?
Often, after dinner, we would go out into the yard, sit in a circle and have our own sing-a- long. There were usually sparklers, always stars, and definitely mosquitoes. Under the Japanese lanterns that were strung across the lawn, we would sing "Shine on Harvest Moon" and a round or two of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat", also, the slow and romantic "Summertime", the lively "The Bells are ringing" or perhaps a satiric Tom Lehrer tune. It was wonderful fun and created great memories.
Labor Day was also Mom's birthday. September 5, to be exact. Her birthday didn't always fall on Labor Day itself, but it was always that weekend. We celebrated in our usual festive way with food, family, friends, music and cake. Our family had (and still does) a set of three birthday songs, and we sang all of them for her loudly and with gusto. She loved it, and even though the weekend, with all it's cooking and cleaning up, and with the move back to "town" ahead of her, she absorbed all this merriment with joy.
This weekend marks my mother's one hundredth birthday! Hard to believe, but true. She was born in 1910 and died at age ninety. I adored my mother and I miss her everyday. Her devout faith and amazing strength are still an inspiration for me. She was extremely smart, an avid reader, had a great sense of humor, a terrific positive attitude, was beautiful, elegant, and glamorous. My mother was always ladylike and gracious, a fabulous hostess and cook and somehow she made it all look effortless.
So Happy Birthday Josephine Cora Hill Wenzler! I'll toast you this weekend with love and happy memories. Love and kisses!
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Fourth of July at the Pier
I can't believe it's July first already. I have always thought of the July fourth holiday as being in the middle of the summer. Here in the Northeast, summer is just beginning. The local schools just ended their terms last Friday. So it really is the beginning of the summer of 2010. Tomorrow night at 9:00p.m. we will attend our local fireworks display under the stars over Long Island Sound aboard our boat, Cinnamon Girl. Always a fun evening with family, good friends and good food.
When I was a young girl, the Independence Day celebration was always fun filled with firecrackers, water activities, sparklers, ice cream, and wonderful summer food.
It seems to me that the weather was always hot and humid-perfect for the swimming and boating we would partake in as early in the day as we could.
My sister and I would dress all in red, white and blue. We each had new "keds" for our summer shoes. I always had navy blue and Emilie always had red. We'd wear red or blue shorts and contrasting blouses. Tshirts weren't as common as they are now. We wore sleeveless blouses that Mom ironed. And we would top it all off with colorful matching barrettes or bows at the end of our "pig tails".
Our family had a giant, and I mean GIANT, American flag. The dear old thing had 48 stars, and my dad and brothers would hang it from a wire strung between two huge old trees at the entrance of our yard. I loved the way it was always the backdrop in all the photographs taken on the 4th. I wonder what ever happened to it.
Dad loved firecrackers. He always had them around and would toss them out intermittently all during the day. This always startled us because he never gave us any warning as to when to expect a loud bang. Mom would get so annoyed at him for this. She was also worried that someone would get injured by one of his stunts. She'd be in the kitchen and we'd hear her scolding him about his lack of safety. He would laugh while she sputtered, and tell her not to worry so much and that he was being careful. I think he got a big kick out of this juvenile behavior.
My parents would be very busy getting ready for visiting family and friends. They always got distracted by their chores. This was good for little kids like me because no one was keeping a close watch on us. We could eat potato chips for lunch and they wouldn't notice.
We had an aunt and uncle (Dad's sister) who always came for the day and they would bring cases of soda pop in flavors the color of the rainbow. Red, orange, green, root beer, creme soda and coke. They also arrived with several gallons of ice cream, boxes of Popsicles, fudgesicles, drum sticks and ice cream bars, all packed in dry ice. We all thought we were in absolute heaven. we would spend the whole day just drinking cokes and eating junk food. It was the best.
Finally, it would be dinner time. Out came the trays of watermelon slices, ears of corn, fried chicken, grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, potato salad, sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, deviled eggs cherry pie, brownies and blondies. (recipe below)
Without ever sounding a dinner bell, we kids and friends would appear in the yard in late afternoon, after being on the water for hours. There we would gather around an old tree stump for appetisers and refreshments, then we would enter the main room of the cottage, the dining room, and load our plates high from the bountiful spread.
My parents always waited to eat until we dove into the food like "a pack of wolves". They would sit in the living room with Aunt Betty and Uncle Ray drinking martinis and relaxing, knowing they had finished the task of feeding everybody. When we were finished, they would dine while we headed to the lakefront to prepare our own neighborhood fireworks display.
Dad was sort of a good will ambassador at Luna Pier. I wrote about the raft we owned that was for all to enjoy, but he also built a dock at the end of our street for the neighbors to share. And he put on a fireworks display on that dock for the everyone to enjoy.
He would buy all kinds of colorful fireworks, sparklers, Chinese firecrackers, roman candles and shoot them off at sunset on the fourth of July. We would sit by the water, in the dark, holding sparklers and watching with wonder at the beautiful show. This was one of the few nights I remember being aloud to stay up so late.
I loved the fourth of July, still do.
Happy Birthday USA.
Enjoy this recipe:
JO'S BLONDIES
2 C. flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1/2 c. butter
2 c. brown sugar
2 TBS hot water
2 tsp. vanilla
2 beaten eggs
Blend flour, baking powder, soda and salt. Set aside. Melt butter, add 2 cups brown sugar, water and vanilla. Blend in eggs and add flour mixture. Mix well. Pour into a greased 9x13x2" baking dish. Sprinkle with one 12 oz. package chocolate chips. Bake at 350 for 35 minutes.
When I was a young girl, the Independence Day celebration was always fun filled with firecrackers, water activities, sparklers, ice cream, and wonderful summer food.
It seems to me that the weather was always hot and humid-perfect for the swimming and boating we would partake in as early in the day as we could.
My sister and I would dress all in red, white and blue. We each had new "keds" for our summer shoes. I always had navy blue and Emilie always had red. We'd wear red or blue shorts and contrasting blouses. Tshirts weren't as common as they are now. We wore sleeveless blouses that Mom ironed. And we would top it all off with colorful matching barrettes or bows at the end of our "pig tails".
Our family had a giant, and I mean GIANT, American flag. The dear old thing had 48 stars, and my dad and brothers would hang it from a wire strung between two huge old trees at the entrance of our yard. I loved the way it was always the backdrop in all the photographs taken on the 4th. I wonder what ever happened to it.
Dad loved firecrackers. He always had them around and would toss them out intermittently all during the day. This always startled us because he never gave us any warning as to when to expect a loud bang. Mom would get so annoyed at him for this. She was also worried that someone would get injured by one of his stunts. She'd be in the kitchen and we'd hear her scolding him about his lack of safety. He would laugh while she sputtered, and tell her not to worry so much and that he was being careful. I think he got a big kick out of this juvenile behavior.
My parents would be very busy getting ready for visiting family and friends. They always got distracted by their chores. This was good for little kids like me because no one was keeping a close watch on us. We could eat potato chips for lunch and they wouldn't notice.
We had an aunt and uncle (Dad's sister) who always came for the day and they would bring cases of soda pop in flavors the color of the rainbow. Red, orange, green, root beer, creme soda and coke. They also arrived with several gallons of ice cream, boxes of Popsicles, fudgesicles, drum sticks and ice cream bars, all packed in dry ice. We all thought we were in absolute heaven. we would spend the whole day just drinking cokes and eating junk food. It was the best.
Finally, it would be dinner time. Out came the trays of watermelon slices, ears of corn, fried chicken, grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, potato salad, sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, deviled eggs cherry pie, brownies and blondies. (recipe below)
Without ever sounding a dinner bell, we kids and friends would appear in the yard in late afternoon, after being on the water for hours. There we would gather around an old tree stump for appetisers and refreshments, then we would enter the main room of the cottage, the dining room, and load our plates high from the bountiful spread.
My parents always waited to eat until we dove into the food like "a pack of wolves". They would sit in the living room with Aunt Betty and Uncle Ray drinking martinis and relaxing, knowing they had finished the task of feeding everybody. When we were finished, they would dine while we headed to the lakefront to prepare our own neighborhood fireworks display.
Dad was sort of a good will ambassador at Luna Pier. I wrote about the raft we owned that was for all to enjoy, but he also built a dock at the end of our street for the neighbors to share. And he put on a fireworks display on that dock for the everyone to enjoy.
He would buy all kinds of colorful fireworks, sparklers, Chinese firecrackers, roman candles and shoot them off at sunset on the fourth of July. We would sit by the water, in the dark, holding sparklers and watching with wonder at the beautiful show. This was one of the few nights I remember being aloud to stay up so late.
I loved the fourth of July, still do.
Happy Birthday USA.
Enjoy this recipe:
JO'S BLONDIES
2 C. flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1/2 c. butter
2 c. brown sugar
2 TBS hot water
2 tsp. vanilla
2 beaten eggs
Blend flour, baking powder, soda and salt. Set aside. Melt butter, add 2 cups brown sugar, water and vanilla. Blend in eggs and add flour mixture. Mix well. Pour into a greased 9x13x2" baking dish. Sprinkle with one 12 oz. package chocolate chips. Bake at 350 for 35 minutes.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Five Boats and a Raft
Each spring when we arrived at Luna Pier to open the house for the season, we encountered a chilly, chartreuse green yard, damp with moss from recent rain.
Inside the house were traces of last summer: an old can of baby powder that said Macy's on the label, newspapers left near the pot bellied stove with a date of September sixth, dead flies and spiders in the windowsills, a faded bathing suit in a dresser drawer, and a few coins in the ashtray in my parents bedroom. In the kitchen there would be nothing except salt and pepper shakers, a lone packet of kool-aid and a canister of hardened sugar. It was as if the whole place had gone asleep, just about to wake up, waiting to pick up where it left off.
The enormous American flag was carefully folded and stowed in the shed, the croquet set with a missing red ball and the aluminum lawn chairs also had been put away for winter.
One wood canoe, two wooden row boats, a wood speed boat and the aforementioned wood sail boat, it's mast and boom stored over the rafters on the second floor of the house, were all turtled on sawhorses on the lawn.
These five boats were our entertainment for many, many hours on Lake Erie and we loved them and knew every creak and leak they had.
I think the canoe might have been the oldest of these crafts. It sat in the side yard along our split rail fence. It was painted white with a wide red stripe along the gunnel and the two seats were made of cane. I remember that it constantly leaked no matter how much caulking we stuffed into the holes. We didn't mind. Occasionally we'd carry it to the lake, deftly turn it upside down, gently put it on the water over our heads, and talk and yell to one another until we used up all the good air. What fun we had! I have a wonderful old photo of my parents with the canoe. Mother is sitting inside and Dad is standing in the water with one arm on the canoe and one around Mom. They look so vivid and happy, suspended in time and youth. Mom is in her bathing suit, wearing glamorous looking sunglasses, and holding the paddle. Under the photograph the year 1954 is written in Mother's script.
The two row boats were very old. I don't know their origin. Both were very heavy and painted gray and white. They also leaked, they had old oars and outboard engines. One was a Johnson five horse power and the second and older of the two, carried a two horse power motor.
We used them for fishing and put-putting around the lagoons and small inlets looking for turtles, snakes and minnows.
Sometime in the late fifties, Dad sprung for a "speed boat". This was big time for us, and we were thrilled because the sleek, new boat sported a fifteen horse power out board engine. Wow wee! Now we could pull water skis and zoom all over the lake as fast as lightening. This boat was always referred to as the Anderson-the name of the manufacturer.
Oddly, none of these boats were christened with a name. It was always just the canoe, the row boat or the five horse or the Anderson.
Which brings me to the sail boat, which did have a name. As I wrote in a previous post, my three oldest brothers, Dave, Fritz and Joe bought it with money they had saved from various jobs like paper routes or bagging groceries at Krogers. (In my earlier post I said that it was bought by two older brothers, but Joe informed me that he also had been in on the deal.) Dad was never much of a sailor, but the boys wanted to get into it. The Nipper was twelve feet long and resembles a cat boat with the mast far to the bow. It was painted bright, bumble bee yellow with black trim.
My brothers were teenagers and Dad would get on their cases about chores or their attitudes as all parents of that age group have to do. I was too young to remember much of this, but the story of naming the Nipper goes like this: the summer that the sail boat was new to our fleet, my brothers constantly responded to Dad's nagging by saying "No Sweat". Finally, in exasperation, dad went to the lake with a set of stencils and painted the words "No Sweat" on the stern of their boat.
We loved all these small but worthy water vessels for they provided us with innocent, harmless days on the lake, and I can imagine, provided our Mother with some relished free time away from us for a few cherished hours a day. I felt like I knew each boat like one knows a car or a bicycle or how you know a favorite old sweater. Mornings in June, Dad would leave instructions for what tasks we kids were to have finished by the time he got home that evening. When we came downstairs for breakfast, Mom would tell us that Dad wanted to have this or that boat painted with the first coat of paint. So paint we did. We would take the radio outside, put on our favorite station and get busy painting and listening to music. We painted them each spring, inside and out. We sanded and caulked and varnished with care and pride. Then we waited for the weekend when all were ready to be launched which was a big and fun day indeed.
Then there was the raft.
I'm mot sure how it came to be, but it consisted of a wooden platform of about eight feet square
which sat upon four large oil drums. The platform was painted gray and the drums were that same bright yellow and black as the sail boat. Our last name WENZLER was stenciled on the end of each of the drums. We would anchor it out into deep enough water so that we could dive off of it. It was sort of community property, meaning that anyone in the area could enjoy it. We often would swim out to and find other kids jumping off it and sunning themselves. Sometimes we would begin a game of "King of the Raft". You guessed it-the game was simple. Just shove everyone off the raft and the last person standing is "King." That person was always the biggest guy, but his reign lasted only until he lost to the best challenger. We swam under and around it, playing tag, or we would have cannonball contests. Falling and jumping, even being pushed into the cool water felt great and we always returned home happy and hungry. On rare occasions someone would pick up the anchor and move our raft from in front of our house to another location farther down the shore line. That would lead to a rescue. An army of us would jump into one of our boats and buzz out to get it back, telling the shocked poachers that we were the Wenzlers and to please not take our property. This event would end up as dinner conversation, each of us vowing to closely watch the raft so that the perpetrators couldn't get away with taking it again.
This is how it was in those early June days, year after year, at Luna Pier. We filled up our days with chores and goals to get those boats in the water as soon as we could so that we could get out on the lake and have fun.
As a child, spending summers at the Cottage was innocent, peaceful and safe. It was that sameness that made it an unchanging place in a changing world, a sanctuary.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Cottage
We always referred to the house as "The Cottage". It wasn't very fancy nor was it very large. There was no heat, no hot water, no shower, and no foundation (until later). In the early years the cottage was painted barn red with white trim. There was a flagstone walk up to the front door and a small stoop with a roof over it.
The front door opened into a large room known as the dining room with a big oval shaped dining table in the middle. To the left of this room was the living room, and to the right of the dining room was a small kitchen followed by a screened porch. The second floor of this rectangular structure was basically a dormitory. At the top of the stairs was a big room filled with beds. Two old iron double beds, and two narrow twin size beds, or cots, with one open closet in the middle. At one end was my parents room which had two double beds, a crib, a dresser and a nightstand. At their bedroom door was a white curtain which they pulled shut at night so they could have a little privacy. The other end of the second floor was what we called the "sleeping porch". It contained four army cots, covered with army blankets and this is where the four oldest boys slept. All the floors upstairs were wood which were painted gray. When we had a rain storm at night, my parents would go around closing the windows which ran all along the sides of the second floor. I used to love the sound of rain on the roof and felt so comforted by Mom and Dad going around to the windows and stopping to pull blankets up around us.
Every June, as we walked into the cottage for the first time, we were enveloped by the unmistakable smell that is hard to describe, but is a combination of wind, dust, water, sand, trees, fish, gulls, shells, old books, the sun the moon and the stars.
We would immediately take in the familiar items that live in the cottage: the old black and white photos hanging on the wall in the dining room, the old caps and straw hats on the wooden pegs behind the front door, the checkers game and playing cards on the bookshelves, the poker chip carousel, the large wall map of Lake Erie, that had a red circle drawn around Luna Pier with the words "we are here" written in red nail polish, big shells that were used as ashtrays, and the cardboard box that contained dozens of vintage postcards sent by family and friends from travels near and far.
In the kitchen was the cookie jar in the shape of a smiling cat and a milk glass dish shaped like a hen with a red hat and red beak. Everything was always the same and in it's proper lace, even the salt and pepper shakers. This is what was so calming about the cottage, that constancy and sameness that made it uniquely ours, where we were free to enjoy the sights and fun and sounds of summer.
We had a counter that overlooked the kitchen and this was known as the "bar". It had four yellow wooden stools and on regular week nights, we four youngest kids (Steve, Emilie, Chris, and me) ate our dinners there. It was the perfect spot to see everything that was going on and a great perch to watch my mother. She was a great cook and I used to love to visit with her while she prepared meals on a daily basis, but I especially enjoyed the weekends. This was when we had relatives and friends up to the cottage for boat rides and dinner. There was fried chicken, potato salad, huge trays of watermelon, fresh corn and tomatoes, deviled eggs, pies, and ice cream. I learned to love cooking by watching her at the cottage.
Here's one of her favorite recipes:
( I memorized this recipe as a girl and still make it today. I would call it a spread rather than a dip. It's delicious and always a crowd pleaser.)
Blue Cheese Dip
1 (3-ounce) package cream cheese, softened
1 (3 ounce) package blue cheese, softened
1/4 cup butter, softened
1 tablespoon brandy
Combine cream cheese, blue cheese, and butter; beat at medium speed of an electric mixer until smooth. Add brandy, mixing well. Serve with crackers or sliced apples or pears.
Enjoy!
The front door opened into a large room known as the dining room with a big oval shaped dining table in the middle. To the left of this room was the living room, and to the right of the dining room was a small kitchen followed by a screened porch. The second floor of this rectangular structure was basically a dormitory. At the top of the stairs was a big room filled with beds. Two old iron double beds, and two narrow twin size beds, or cots, with one open closet in the middle. At one end was my parents room which had two double beds, a crib, a dresser and a nightstand. At their bedroom door was a white curtain which they pulled shut at night so they could have a little privacy. The other end of the second floor was what we called the "sleeping porch". It contained four army cots, covered with army blankets and this is where the four oldest boys slept. All the floors upstairs were wood which were painted gray. When we had a rain storm at night, my parents would go around closing the windows which ran all along the sides of the second floor. I used to love the sound of rain on the roof and felt so comforted by Mom and Dad going around to the windows and stopping to pull blankets up around us.
Every June, as we walked into the cottage for the first time, we were enveloped by the unmistakable smell that is hard to describe, but is a combination of wind, dust, water, sand, trees, fish, gulls, shells, old books, the sun the moon and the stars.
We would immediately take in the familiar items that live in the cottage: the old black and white photos hanging on the wall in the dining room, the old caps and straw hats on the wooden pegs behind the front door, the checkers game and playing cards on the bookshelves, the poker chip carousel, the large wall map of Lake Erie, that had a red circle drawn around Luna Pier with the words "we are here" written in red nail polish, big shells that were used as ashtrays, and the cardboard box that contained dozens of vintage postcards sent by family and friends from travels near and far.
In the kitchen was the cookie jar in the shape of a smiling cat and a milk glass dish shaped like a hen with a red hat and red beak. Everything was always the same and in it's proper lace, even the salt and pepper shakers. This is what was so calming about the cottage, that constancy and sameness that made it uniquely ours, where we were free to enjoy the sights and fun and sounds of summer.
We had a counter that overlooked the kitchen and this was known as the "bar". It had four yellow wooden stools and on regular week nights, we four youngest kids (Steve, Emilie, Chris, and me) ate our dinners there. It was the perfect spot to see everything that was going on and a great perch to watch my mother. She was a great cook and I used to love to visit with her while she prepared meals on a daily basis, but I especially enjoyed the weekends. This was when we had relatives and friends up to the cottage for boat rides and dinner. There was fried chicken, potato salad, huge trays of watermelon, fresh corn and tomatoes, deviled eggs, pies, and ice cream. I learned to love cooking by watching her at the cottage.
Here's one of her favorite recipes:
( I memorized this recipe as a girl and still make it today. I would call it a spread rather than a dip. It's delicious and always a crowd pleaser.)
Blue Cheese Dip
1 (3-ounce) package cream cheese, softened
1 (3 ounce) package blue cheese, softened
1/4 cup butter, softened
1 tablespoon brandy
Combine cream cheese, blue cheese, and butter; beat at medium speed of an electric mixer until smooth. Add brandy, mixing well. Serve with crackers or sliced apples or pears.
Enjoy!
Monday, May 3, 2010
Times are changing
My last post had to do with the journey from our city home to our summer cottage. Our drive to the lake was always the same route along state two lane highways and country back roads.
Things changed one summer during the 1950s.
Our cottage stood on a street called First St. It was a dirt road and there were only four houses on it. At the very top of First St. sat a wood frame Catholic Chapel which was owned and operated by the Diocese of Monroe, Michigan. It was only used in the summer months to accommodate people, like our family, who came to Luna Pier just for the summer. There was only one Mass said on Sunday and we always attended it because that meant we could sleep later and not have to drive to the small town of Erie and St. Josephs Church. When I say wood frame, I mean it literally. This was a bare bones wood structure, painted white on the outside, while the interior had absolutely no ornamentation or statues or any kind of embellishment. What I recall vividly was that it was always crowded, always hot and there were no pads of the kneelers. For a five year old, this was the worst thing I had to endure.
Next to the chapel there was a tiny house painted pink and inhabited by a middle age couple who lived there all through the year. I can't remember their name, but I seem to remember thinking they weren't very friendly. They probably dreaded our arrival with all our noise and boisterous shenanigans.
Then came our house. It was a two story rectangular home painted barn red and trimmed in white. It had a smallish side yard with two large trees perfect for climbing, and a white picket fence in front of it along the road.
Next to us, at the end of the street sat a small one story dwelling that had some sort of siding on the outside that always reminded me of sandpaper. The name of that family was Perry. They were our next door neighbors all the years I was growing up. They also lived in Luna Pier all year long.
Across the street there was only one house, or I should say a large two family house. Before I came along, the place was owned by a huge Irish clan who came only for the summer and brought all their friends. My parents and older siblings used to reminisce about the days when the O'Dwyers lived there and all the fun they had together. That house was vacant for much of the fifties until a family moved in from Toledo later in the decade.
Our street was a dead end and behind it was an enormous corn field owned by a farmer named Cousino who lived at the far end of the field. That field was a great source of fun for us. We used to love to play hide and seek in the midst of it, all the while dreading being caught by the farmer because we knew he would yell at us and tell us to get off of his property. The corn field stretched all the way to the railroad tracks I mentioned in my earlier post.
In the summer of 1955 we arrived at the lake to find road scrappers and bulldozers and dump trucks lined up along the country lanes. President Eisenhower had started to build the interstate highway system and I75 was going to be put in right between the cottage and the railroad tracks. That whole summer we had all the noise it takes to build an interstate highway. All day long the trucks and dirt spreaders went back and forth behind our house, approximately one half mile away. As children, we were fascinated by the enormous machinery and power of the road scrappers noisily doing their work and we would go into the field and run to the edge of the work site to watch more closely with fascination.
After that, Luna Pier was never as quiet as before. We could always hear the interstate. Up until then, as we fell asleep, all we could hear were the raindrops tapping on the wooden roof during a summer shower, and now and then the lovely, soothing whistle of a freight train.
This intruder, this sign of progress, did not dampen our spirits. Our daily lives remained the same. In the evening we could see the sun begin to stretch farther and farther over the flat landscape toward the west. Often, after an especially beautiful sunny day, Dad would call us to one of the windows that faced the stunning red, orange and pink sunset. He would talk to us about the beauty and uniqueness of the world and the wonders it provided. And he would tell us that we mustn't take this sight for granted, after all, "if this sunset only happened every ten years, people would come from all over just to get a look at it". So true.
Things changed one summer during the 1950s.
Our cottage stood on a street called First St. It was a dirt road and there were only four houses on it. At the very top of First St. sat a wood frame Catholic Chapel which was owned and operated by the Diocese of Monroe, Michigan. It was only used in the summer months to accommodate people, like our family, who came to Luna Pier just for the summer. There was only one Mass said on Sunday and we always attended it because that meant we could sleep later and not have to drive to the small town of Erie and St. Josephs Church. When I say wood frame, I mean it literally. This was a bare bones wood structure, painted white on the outside, while the interior had absolutely no ornamentation or statues or any kind of embellishment. What I recall vividly was that it was always crowded, always hot and there were no pads of the kneelers. For a five year old, this was the worst thing I had to endure.
Next to the chapel there was a tiny house painted pink and inhabited by a middle age couple who lived there all through the year. I can't remember their name, but I seem to remember thinking they weren't very friendly. They probably dreaded our arrival with all our noise and boisterous shenanigans.
Then came our house. It was a two story rectangular home painted barn red and trimmed in white. It had a smallish side yard with two large trees perfect for climbing, and a white picket fence in front of it along the road.
Next to us, at the end of the street sat a small one story dwelling that had some sort of siding on the outside that always reminded me of sandpaper. The name of that family was Perry. They were our next door neighbors all the years I was growing up. They also lived in Luna Pier all year long.
Across the street there was only one house, or I should say a large two family house. Before I came along, the place was owned by a huge Irish clan who came only for the summer and brought all their friends. My parents and older siblings used to reminisce about the days when the O'Dwyers lived there and all the fun they had together. That house was vacant for much of the fifties until a family moved in from Toledo later in the decade.
Our street was a dead end and behind it was an enormous corn field owned by a farmer named Cousino who lived at the far end of the field. That field was a great source of fun for us. We used to love to play hide and seek in the midst of it, all the while dreading being caught by the farmer because we knew he would yell at us and tell us to get off of his property. The corn field stretched all the way to the railroad tracks I mentioned in my earlier post.
In the summer of 1955 we arrived at the lake to find road scrappers and bulldozers and dump trucks lined up along the country lanes. President Eisenhower had started to build the interstate highway system and I75 was going to be put in right between the cottage and the railroad tracks. That whole summer we had all the noise it takes to build an interstate highway. All day long the trucks and dirt spreaders went back and forth behind our house, approximately one half mile away. As children, we were fascinated by the enormous machinery and power of the road scrappers noisily doing their work and we would go into the field and run to the edge of the work site to watch more closely with fascination.
After that, Luna Pier was never as quiet as before. We could always hear the interstate. Up until then, as we fell asleep, all we could hear were the raindrops tapping on the wooden roof during a summer shower, and now and then the lovely, soothing whistle of a freight train.
This intruder, this sign of progress, did not dampen our spirits. Our daily lives remained the same. In the evening we could see the sun begin to stretch farther and farther over the flat landscape toward the west. Often, after an especially beautiful sunny day, Dad would call us to one of the windows that faced the stunning red, orange and pink sunset. He would talk to us about the beauty and uniqueness of the world and the wonders it provided. And he would tell us that we mustn't take this sight for granted, after all, "if this sunset only happened every ten years, people would come from all over just to get a look at it". So true.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Getting There.
I can't believe how long it's been since I wrote in this blog. Chrissy and Melisa were here over the weekend and convinced me to get back to it. I don't know where the time went, but I have truly neglected my writing.
Spring is here and that means summer is close behind. Summer means so many things to me. At this time in my life it means boating on Long Island Sound with my husband John and our many friends. We spend countless hours cruising the many interesting and beautiful ports up and down the Connecticut and Long Island coasts. I love being on the water and being there always takes me back to my childhood summers at Luna Pier on Lake Erie.
As I wrote earlier, the day after school was out in June, we packed the cars with everything and headed to "the lake". It was only a fifteen mile drive from our home in Toledo, but to me it seemed very far away indeed. In my earliest memories, we drove up on the Dixie Highway. This was a two lane road that crossed from Ohio into Michigan and the flat farmland. Almost as soon as we drove out of the Toledo city limits, we were in Michigan and the countryside. Gone were the industrial buildings and factories of Northwestern Ohio as we came upon farm after farm. As a child I loved this transformation. It seemed so exotic to see groups of cows and horses grazing and staring at the traffic as it passed. There were lots of corn fields and tomato patches and an occasional farmer wearing a large straw hat, and denim overalls, riding his tractor on the road. We also passed a section of road that had been hit by a tornado a few years earlier. There were two homes that had been badly damaged, and they sat untouched and empty. One had it's roof blown off and the other had it's front porch crushed by a fallen tree. As we passed, my mother would drive very slowly and we all would stare, wide eyed, at the ghostly sight of wind blowing through the shattered windows with torn and frayed curtains billowing about. Thinking about it even now sends a chill through me.
We eventually came to an intersection and turned right onto Luna Pier RD toward the lake.
Another two lane byway and more into the country than the last. This one was all farms, each one neat as a pin with its trimmed , lush lawn and perfectly plowed fields. Along with the usual barns and outbuildings, there was always a large farm house and often a small produce stand where the farmer and his wife would sell flowers and vegetables which were grown in the rich midwestern soil..
Pretty soon we would cross the railroad tracks and that meant we were nearly there. In those days there were no gates that came down when a train was near to protect cars from disaster, so my mother would ask us to watch out for an oncoming train. It became sort of a game for my sister and me. As soon as we got near the tracks, mom would say"Anything coming girls?" And in unison Emilie and I would begin looking right to left, calling out "nothing coming, nothing coming, nothing coming. . ." over and over. We would move our heads back and forth so fast that we saw nothing. I think we even closed our eyes.
We finally reached Luna Pier and could see the lake at the end of the road. Back in the 1920s and 1930s when my parents were young, there was an actual pier out onto the lake. Big bands, such as Guy Lombardo were brought in and couples could dance under the stars during the summer. The pier is no longer there, but the thought of all that beautiful music and dancing conjures up some lovely and romantic images.
The car turned left and we started the drive to the cottage along the lake. I can still see the gulls in the sky and the rickety docks in front of the small, modest homes. There were many wooden water craft sitting silently in the water, waiting to be taken for a spin. Just as many boats of all sizes and shapes sat in front and back yards hoping to get a fresh coat of paint for the season before being launched. The twisty, crazy eight road was not paved, but all gravel and full of holes. We passed all the familiar houses with our windows down (no AC) waving to friends we hadn't seen since September. Most of these people lived there all year and for them it must have been a sure sign that summer was here when the Wenzlers arrived. At last we could see our house and we would all let out a big cheer, very happy to be at the lake. Finally away from the routine of daily Mass, school, homework, paper routes, and Brownie meetings. These were the few precious months of lazy, hazy days, sleeping late, playing checkers, cards, Scrabble, hours of swimming, catching fireflies, and going barefoot.
Spring is here and that means summer is close behind. Summer means so many things to me. At this time in my life it means boating on Long Island Sound with my husband John and our many friends. We spend countless hours cruising the many interesting and beautiful ports up and down the Connecticut and Long Island coasts. I love being on the water and being there always takes me back to my childhood summers at Luna Pier on Lake Erie.
As I wrote earlier, the day after school was out in June, we packed the cars with everything and headed to "the lake". It was only a fifteen mile drive from our home in Toledo, but to me it seemed very far away indeed. In my earliest memories, we drove up on the Dixie Highway. This was a two lane road that crossed from Ohio into Michigan and the flat farmland. Almost as soon as we drove out of the Toledo city limits, we were in Michigan and the countryside. Gone were the industrial buildings and factories of Northwestern Ohio as we came upon farm after farm. As a child I loved this transformation. It seemed so exotic to see groups of cows and horses grazing and staring at the traffic as it passed. There were lots of corn fields and tomato patches and an occasional farmer wearing a large straw hat, and denim overalls, riding his tractor on the road. We also passed a section of road that had been hit by a tornado a few years earlier. There were two homes that had been badly damaged, and they sat untouched and empty. One had it's roof blown off and the other had it's front porch crushed by a fallen tree. As we passed, my mother would drive very slowly and we all would stare, wide eyed, at the ghostly sight of wind blowing through the shattered windows with torn and frayed curtains billowing about. Thinking about it even now sends a chill through me.
We eventually came to an intersection and turned right onto Luna Pier RD toward the lake.
Another two lane byway and more into the country than the last. This one was all farms, each one neat as a pin with its trimmed , lush lawn and perfectly plowed fields. Along with the usual barns and outbuildings, there was always a large farm house and often a small produce stand where the farmer and his wife would sell flowers and vegetables which were grown in the rich midwestern soil..
Pretty soon we would cross the railroad tracks and that meant we were nearly there. In those days there were no gates that came down when a train was near to protect cars from disaster, so my mother would ask us to watch out for an oncoming train. It became sort of a game for my sister and me. As soon as we got near the tracks, mom would say"Anything coming girls?" And in unison Emilie and I would begin looking right to left, calling out "nothing coming, nothing coming, nothing coming. . ." over and over. We would move our heads back and forth so fast that we saw nothing. I think we even closed our eyes.
We finally reached Luna Pier and could see the lake at the end of the road. Back in the 1920s and 1930s when my parents were young, there was an actual pier out onto the lake. Big bands, such as Guy Lombardo were brought in and couples could dance under the stars during the summer. The pier is no longer there, but the thought of all that beautiful music and dancing conjures up some lovely and romantic images.
The car turned left and we started the drive to the cottage along the lake. I can still see the gulls in the sky and the rickety docks in front of the small, modest homes. There were many wooden water craft sitting silently in the water, waiting to be taken for a spin. Just as many boats of all sizes and shapes sat in front and back yards hoping to get a fresh coat of paint for the season before being launched. The twisty, crazy eight road was not paved, but all gravel and full of holes. We passed all the familiar houses with our windows down (no AC) waving to friends we hadn't seen since September. Most of these people lived there all year and for them it must have been a sure sign that summer was here when the Wenzlers arrived. At last we could see our house and we would all let out a big cheer, very happy to be at the lake. Finally away from the routine of daily Mass, school, homework, paper routes, and Brownie meetings. These were the few precious months of lazy, hazy days, sleeping late, playing checkers, cards, Scrabble, hours of swimming, catching fireflies, and going barefoot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
