In Remembrance-Veteran’s Day

Tags

17th Airborne Division, Battle of the Bulge, The Golden Talons, Veteran's Day, WWII

My siblings and I were born after WWII and as young children we never knew or understand the real significance of the war to our father nor to the country he defended. It was not until we were older that we grasped its import to yesterday and today’s world.  While studying history in school, reading books about the war, viewing documentaries or watching movies, our education of this event grew exponentially as we grew older. We rarely heard our father’s very personal stories and experiences; he shared few. 

We knew he was a paratrooper with the 513 Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 17^th Airborne Division. He earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. The 17th Airborne Division, known as “The Golden Talons-Thunder from Heaven” activated on 15 April 1943 after training at Camp Mackall, North Carolina. The Division was under the command of Major General William Miley, and they arrived in the United Kingdom on August 24, 1944. Our father was nineteen years old. 

As a young soldier he participated in the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes Region of Belgium. Winston Churchill referred to this as the “greatest American battle of the war.” On December 23, 1944, the division was flown to France by emergency night flights and moved to an area near Rheims under the command of General George Patton’s US Third Army. On Christmas Day the division was ordered to take a thirty-mile defensive position running along the Meuse River near Charleville, France. The 17^th Airborne Division also participated in Operation Varsity, during which he and fellow soldiers were dropped behind German lines near the town of Hamminkeln, Germany. The orders were to capture the city. 

We knew he encountered Nazis and most probably killed or wounded some, but he never discussed that part of the war. Once when I was older he quietly described what happened to paratroopers who landed in a tree-alive or dead-and were discovered by Germans. The details were scarce, the horrors were loud and clear. 

We also knew he had a war trophy because he showed it to us. War trophies were common then and included many items, both legal and illegal. Soldiers were allowed much leeway in taking home property that belonged to the enemy. Today, there are strict rules in place regarding war trophies.

His war trophy was a large Nazi flag with a large Swastika in the middle. He either secured it after liberating or conquering a city. We do not know. As children we would drag the flag into the living room, spread it out over the floor, and jump up and down on it screaming “Bad Nazis, bad Nazis.” My memories of this are somewhat vague, but I do remember the size and the stark brightness of the flag’s colors. I understood, while somewhat naively, that Nazis represented evil and unjust crucifixion against people who were different; to this day the hatred by Nazis continues and is still seen across the world in the news and other digital communications invoking a shock wave similar to that which traveled throughout Europe and the West under Hitler’s reign. 

Eventually our father  donated the flag to the Evansville Museum of Arts and Sciences, which sat on the banks of the Ohio River in downtown Evansville. I remember seeing it once on display with other items from the war, but it is likely no longer on display. After he earned an Honorable Discharge, he came home to Kentucky, married our mother and began a family. In the early 50s he moved to Evansville to raise a family. He had four children and five grandchildren. Today he has six great-grandchildren he never met. He would have loved each and every one of them. 

For the rest of his life, he chose to never fly in an airplane. On Father’s Day in 2012, his son BQ, and grandson Evan, jumped from an airplane with parachutes-in-tandem to celebrate Father’s Day and honor his memory. My brother jumped with a picture of our father in uniform in his pocket as he skydived into the clouds. My brother described it as one of the most amazing events in his life because he was with his father on the way down to earth. 

Unless you stand in the shoes of a soldier, you cannot possibly understand the motivation to be a soldier, the loyalty, dedication, and strength it requires to be one, nor the pain and suffering endured during and after combat. On this Veteran’s Day, let us remember those who have sacrificed their lives through service or death. Thank them for their service, as we thank our beloved father for his. Always in our hearts. We hear your “Thunder in Heaven.”

Sissy, Sudi, BQ and Yordi.

In Honor and Memory of Pvc. Allen Reid Strange

513 Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 17^th Airborne Division. 

Born February 3, 1925-Died April 21, 2005

80 years old 

Shaving somewhere in the Ardenne Region of Belgium

Third from left, top row

Pvc. Allen Reid Strange

Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard!

Tags

clinical research, communicable diseases, Dr. Jonas Salk, eradication of polio, physicians, polio vaccine, scientists, vaccines

Slapstick humor by classic comedians like Abbot and Costella, Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, and the Three Stooges regularly entertained us in the fifties after arriving in Hollywood, years before, when it was called vaudeville. Through the unsophisticated, low resolution cinematography of black and white, the humor of these comedic pioneers came to life on the big and small screens across the country as we witnessed the emergence of entertainment preserved on film. 

In our home, we grew up loving the Three Stooges and often memorialized their skits in our own reproduction of the bumps, falls, head slaps, near eye pokes, accompanied by the cacophony of sound effects which flowed in their rapid-fire dialogue. Who could forget the newly arrived physicians at the Los Arms Hospital—snicker, snicker—and the relentless call to duty, which resulted in chaotic scrambling, bumping, and maneuvering across the screen? The call to service, “Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard!” was the trademark of that particular schtick. 

As children we often missed the subtlety of the adult humor embedded in the jokes and the choreography of their harried antics, and even though we knew that Shep, Curly and Moe were not real doctors at the Los Arms Hospital, we laughed. The Three Stooges were about silliness and fun, and the “going to a real doctor” was about measles, mumps, chicken pox and polio. While the Three Stooges were carrying on up on the big screen, the possibility of a communicable, debilitating illness stared directly into the faces of children in the fifties.

Each summer as children celebrated their escape from the routine of school, parents experienced a renewed fear of a polio outbreak. Polio was one of the greatest public health crises in history since the end of WW II, and parents anxiously watched for any telltale signs of the disease with the advent of the summer and its rising heat. 

The common fear about public swimming pools and other gathering places for children was not unfounded. In 1952 alone, there were nearly 58,000 cases of polio reported in the United States. Our very own mother was terrified of polio because she had two young children, and polio was very real to her. 

The threat that resulted in that fear actually lived across the street from us in the form of Mike, a young adolescent who lived with his parents—a victim and survivor of polio. While Sissy and I roamed the neighborhood on bikes or skates, Mike struggled to walk from the front door of his house to the street’s curb to catch the school bus. There was no bike for Mike. He did not roller skate down the sidewalks laughing and enjoying life with the rest of us. He didn’t run with us when we played tag, hopscotch, kickball, or hide ‘n seek. He was older than most of us, but even so he was probably only about twelve years old, and even at that young age, a lifetime of disability awaited him. His sandy red hair and wire-rimmed glasses already made him stand out as someone who was different, but it was his uneven gait that plainly told of the difference between him and the rest of us. He was only able to walk with the aid of metal crutches that encircled his upper arms while his hands rested on handles positioned halfway down the crutches. He bore the full weight of his small and twisted body on those two arms and hands. Both legs were atrophied and deformed. One leg dragged behind the other as he pulled the opposite leg in front of the other in an alternating pattern as he maneuvered the sidewalk to the driveway or curb. We usually saw him by himself, or with his parents, but he occasionally traveled across the street to just say hi. I was only around five at the time, but I was vividly aware of the impact polio had on his body. I recall very little else about Mike. His family lived in that house across from us throughout my childhood and with the exception of an occasional wave of the hand, contact with the family was minimal. In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder if fear dictated the distance between the two families. 

Sometime in the 50s, after Jonas Salk perfected his vaccine following clinical trials involving more than one million children across the globe, Sissy and I lined up for our doses of the miracle drug at our pediatrician’s office. Dr. Lynch was an elderly white-haired physician sporting wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a white lab coat with his stethoscope conspicuously wrapped around his neck. His office was located in one of the old Victorian houses that still exist today in the historic downtown area of Evansville. 

A portion of the downstairs living space was converted to an office and exam rooms. In the waiting area, underneath the stairway to the second floor, a small playroom was outfitted with a small solid oak table surrounded by child-sized chairs. Geometrical wooden blocks lay on the table, on the floor and in a box next to the table. Wooden puzzles and books also graced the small book shelves lining the walls of the cubbyhole. While we played, Mother sat in the waiting room reading a book allowing us to be distracted by play prior to our visit with Dr. Lynch. There was no oral option for the polio vaccine at that time and the hypodermic needles of the time were not small—anxiety in place—and trypanophobia in tow. 

Whether or not Dr. Lynch was a visionary is hard to determine because in the fifties, people lined up to ensure their children were vaccinated regardless of the risks of the vaccine. Some parents reacted with hesitancy just as they do today, but most parents understood the devastating effects of polio, and it was not a life that parents desired for their children, or themselves. The value Jonas Salk brought to the world back then was heralded as almost hero-like in nature because he brought a promise of hope to parents throughout the world. Across the globe today, the complete eradication of polio is in the very near future because of Jonas Salk and others. 

In remembering sandy-haired Mike with the wire-rimmed glasses struggling to walk and not being able to experience the typical joys of childhood, I can’t help but think that Jonas Salk was actually a hero and a savior. Certainly not for Mike—Salk’s discovery came too late—but certainly a savior for the millions who have received the vaccine since April 12, 1955, when news of its success became public. 

Perhaps another savior will take Salk’s place and he or she will find a cure for Autism. Perhaps HIV will be eradicated because a new vaccine will be discovered. Perhaps a cure for Multiple Sclerosis will be the next greatest discovery and those with the disease will be relieved of the “not knowing.”  Whatever transpires in the world of scientific discovery, we will owe that success to the dedication of scientists, physicians, researchers across the globe. We will not owe anything to the likes of Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, or Dr. Howard or other actors of the stage. 

Remember the Three Stooges only as they were and are meant to be remembered—merely entertainers; actors looking for an audience; performers hoping to get a reaction. Honor the true heroes of science and medicine in your academic medical centers, at the community hospital, in the physician’s office, at the urgent care centers, in the ambulance, in the pharmacies, and anyplace else where the true scientists and healthcare providers practice “for real.”  

“Salk spent his last years searching for a vaccine against AIDS. He died on June 23, 1995 at the age of 80 in La Jolla, California. His life’s philosophy is memorialized at the Institute with his now famous quote: “Hope lies in dreams, in imagination and in the courage of those who dare to make dreams into reality.”

About Jonas Salk

Big Orange

Tags

big orange bread truck

Big Orange

Remember when fresh milk and bread were delivered straight to your house by a real person in a large, branded truck? This custom of making that personal delivery began long before cars and trucks were invented by way of the horse and buggy. And, up until the 50s and early 60s that custom continued. As so many ways of doing business rapidly changed during the middle of the 20^th century, the personal delivery of goods became a thing of that past. With the transition to larger and well-stocked grocery stores, the demise of the old bread truck was inevitable. 

But then there was Big Orange. And its owner. And a group of teenagers who just wanted to have fun. 

We were 16 or 17 at the time. It was 1966-67, and Evansville was an average sized, Midwest town, with the usual activities and adventures for teens. Not exactly a thriving metropolis, but rather a quainter town with good middle-class values. 

Football games, basketball games, the Surf Club on Green River Road, McDonalds, the Armory on Sunday night for dancing, the drive-in movies. We would often meet in these locations and spend the night cheering, dancing, talking, eating, making out and just being average teens. Parents dropped us off at our intended destination. Or a girlfriend or boyfriend with a driver’s license would pick us up and serve as the group’s driver for the night. There were never more than four or five of us in a car. No SUVs in those days and no one wanted to drive their parents’ station wagon. Just ask Dorothy. No thanks, L.A. and Marjorie, Dorothy liked to drive her green MG-only one other passenger allowed. 

But then there was Big Orange. Big Orange was a retired bread truck owned and operated by our friend Dwight. Tall and impressive with an engaging smile and a curly top, we put our trust in him as he guided us through our years of mischievous fun. 

And there were always more than four or five of us. 

In that truck there was always Bonnie, who later married Dwight, and Don and Martha; Jimmy and Dorothy; Me, of course; Jack, David, Jenny and John; Mike; Rosie, too; Becky, Sally, Robert, Ron, Jon and Mary Jo-I’m sure; and so many more that I can’t even begin to remember everyone who shared in our adventures. 

We would meet up someplace where we could leave our cars-maybe the high school parking lot, or the Frisch’s Big Boy, or another designated spot. Dwight would pick us up and off we would go. I don’t recall seat belts, and I don’t remember if there were even any seats, but there might have been these straps to hold onto while riding. Anyone remember?

Off to the cemeteries we would go to round up the spirits, and to perhaps drink a few underage spirits as well. Yes, there was drinking, and smoking. I for one confess to that “inappropriate behavior.” There were also loads of mischievous fun. Rolling houses with toilet paper was very popular back then. Imagine what you could accomplish in a shorter period of time with 10 people doing the deed, rather than two or three. Safely in and out, and quickly-that was the goal. Rolling a house was not necessarily done for spite or revenge. Sometimes we did it to just say “We like you! Ha! Ha!” 

The egging episodes were a little different. Generally reserved for Halloween, of course. We had all outgrown trick or treating, so going out on Halloween night to egg “your friends” was a whole different level of mischievous fun. I do remember one Halloween when the boys were in Big Orange and some of the girls were in Dorothy’s parents’ station wagon. We certainly wouldn’t go out egging in the MG. Needless to say, the boys slaughtered us with the eggs. We were outmatched and outrun, and we had to return an odiferous, rotten, egg smelling station wagon back to L.A and Marjorie. They were not happy. 

Riding in Big Orange wasn’t all about mischief though. It was about being with friends laughing, sharing memories, and spending time together. We were never stopped (or caught) by the police for breaking any laws, we kept curfew, and Dwight safely returned us home to our parents. 

I hadn’t seen Dwight in many years. Probably not since the last reunion in 2000. He married his high school sweetheart; Bonnie and they remained in Evansville, later Newburgh, and raised their family. I left Evansville for college and life in the big city. He passed away this week, and as I heard the news from old friends across the country, I couldn’t help remembering what fun we had in that big orange bread truck, and how many of us hold those memories in our hearts. 

When I searched for his obituary online and saw the picture accompanying the many kind words describing his life, I was reminded of that tall, impressive boy of 16 with the curly top and the engaging smile. Time only made both more special. I hope that he is resting in peace, and his family is comforted by the many great memories he gave to all who knew him then and throughout his life. 

In Memory of Dwight Rounder

February 1, 1950 to March 14, 2021

As remembered by Sassy Strange 

First Job-Lasting Memories

Tags

corn huskerslotion, cross-pollination of seed corn, detasseling corn, southern Indiana

Scanning my annual social security statement, I think back to my first official, “paying job.” Well actually, my first paying job was as a babysitter for children in our neighborhood, at a rate of 50 cents per hour.  My real, official, social security card required-job was detasseling corn. For those of you not from the Midwest, this is a “thing,” and still exists today, although it is a more sophisticated industry than that which we experienced back then.

There were four of us—Sissy, Anne, who was Sissy’s best friend, my friend Jenny, and I. We signed on to detassel corn after Anne’s father arranged for us to work for a local seed company during the summer. The company was about 30 minutes from our hometown of Evansville, which meant we needed to commit to getting up very early and heading down the road before the sun had barely peeked over the horizon. The best news of that summer job was that it paid 85 cents an hour, which was a far cry from babysitting wages and dirty diapers. The better news was, if we stayed on-board for the entire detasseling season, we received a bonus, and that sounded like a great deal.  

Mother prepared bag lunches for us every day, which more than likely consisted of cherry preserves on white bread with margarine wrapped in waxed paper. This “not so healthy” concoction was a typical lunch staple for us whether it was camp, school or detasseling corn. Easy to prepare and inexpensive. There may have been chips, fruit or Hostess Twinkies in our lunches, but am  certain that no sandwiches made with mayonnaise would have made the list. Mother was very particular about unrefrigerated mayonnaise. That is a different story.

Regardless of what was in our lunch bags, we were pumped for this adventure. More money, out of the house all day spending time with friends, and the potential to yes, meet boys. This job was for all takers regardless of gender, and we would be joining a group of teens from across the area. Hopefully we might have a boy or two on our crew. The real goal was to make it to the end of the season-whoever was part of our crew-and collect that bonus. Needless to say, we didn’t know what was ahead of us, nor that the attrition rate for dropping off was fairly, and the ability to stay onboard the entire season had its challenges.  

Let me count the ways Elizabeth Barrett Browning!

 We had no choice but to get out of bed before the sun came up in order to ready ourselves for the early morning commute. Our parents were on carpool duty because we weren’t old enough to drive, and they gladly rotated that responsibility between them.  The  four of us, with lunches and water in tow, scrambled into our ride for the day and made off down the road to the cornfields of southern Indiana and whatever awaited us.

For those of you who don’t know what detasseling corn entails, the best explanation I can give is that it  helps in cross-pollination of seed corn. We were tasked  with removing the tassels, which is the male part of the corn stalk, and then throwing them on the ground, so that they could pollinate with the female part of the corn, which sits lower on the stalk. Every other row was detassled to allow for this  process. I’m sure you totally understand now. If not, you can find a video on YouTube further explaining the process. Isn’t the digital world grand?

On our first day, we were assigned to a crew, which included the four of us, several other teens, and a supervisor. The supervisor drove the “tractor-of sorts” riding down multiple rows of corn at a time. We stood in metal baskets which stood level or just below the top of the stalks. Two of us were assigned to each basket and as we drove through the rows, we pulled the tassels out and discarded them quickly in order to not miss that next corn tassel. It was as simple as that.  

The weather was hot and humid, and the work was grueling and hard, but it was also fun. We acquired a bit of perseverance along the way , a lot of patience, and new friends.  No smartphones, no iPods, no luxury. We worked a full day and usually left dirty, dusty,  tired, thirsty and hungry. I imagine at some point during the drive home, one or more of us fell asleep leaning on the shoulders of one another.   Staying up too late at night was not an issue. We were exhausted.  

That was the routine on sunny days. On days that it rained or after a night of drenching rain, we walked through the fields on foot. No one told us we would have to walk through muddy corn fields, with a level of heat and humidity that enveloped and stifled us. Pull down the stalk, pull out the tassel, swipe away the bugs, and try not to cut your hands, arms and legs on the sharp corn leaves filling the small spaces between the rows. These were the worst days of the summer.

My friend Jenny only lasted one day. She was always fair-skinned and unlike me, who tans easily and rarely burns, she looked like a red tomato after just one day. The combination of heat and sun just did her in. No one faulted her for quitting. She was one of many casualties of the detasseling brigade.  

Throughout the summer, we experienced aching joints, bad weather and calloused, cut hands. A shower or bath at the end of the day was a great relief. Our supervisor told us about Cornhuskers Lotion® for soothing our aching hands, and we went through bottles of it. An emollient , it  was originally developed by Iowa corn farmers whose hands were regularly exposed to harsh condition. Still made today, you can find it at Walmart for $2.79 a bottle-so the ad declares. 

Thank you Iowa farmers! Your invention was a life saver; I don’t’ know what we would have done without Cornhuskers Lotion®.

In spite of the challenges,  we made it through the season, and we received our bonus. And, we actually returned the following summer for another round of cornfields. Minus Jenny, of course. 

Since that time, the retelling of the story of detasseling corn has provided great cocktail conversations as an adult. Taking on responsibility and commitment, being a team player, seeing a job through  to the very end, and learning the value of a dollar earned as a result of hard work–all of these components of that experience served us well. How many girls do you know who took to the cornfields in the early sixties and ended up as girls with advanced degrees and stellar professionals in their fields of study? I know at least three. Maybe everyone should take a stint in a cornfield, detasseling corn, and experiencing a different way of life. It was a valuable life lesson and not a bad gig after all.

In memory of Anne, Sissy’s long and enduring best friend and our fellow farm laborer. May she rest in peace.

The Importance of Cranberries

Tags

Cranberry relish recipes, Cranberry sauce, November 22, Thanksgiving Day

As a child you witness moments between your parents that you don’t fully understand because the subtleties of the adult relationship are naturally beyond your youthful comprehension at the time. Surprisingly though, in my own innocence, during moments of nuanced flirtation between Mother and Daddy, I saw instances of very personal, private and special moments between them. They could be dancing, or laughing or just talking, but the one I remember the most was the banter back and forth between them when the topic of “the biscuit in a jar” came up.

This usually occurred while we were gathered around our small kitchen table and the skill and talent of Mother’s cooking came into question. It might have been a story about the accidental burning of toast (which was not uncommon in our house), the failure of a meringue, or the toughness of the T-bone steak broiled in the oven. Whatever the prompt, the bantering took on a familiar essence. Sometimes I viewed it as “being too hard on Mother” and at other times, I saw it as flirtatious teasing. “That biscuit is as hard today as it was the day she baked it,” began the familiar quote from our father.

Once we heard that statement, one of us would jump up from our chair and retrieve the old Mason jar from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, where that biscuit had resided for as long as I could remember. Dusty, crumbly and hard as a rock, the retriever would shake the jar as a testament to Daddy’s declaration, while the biscuit knocked back and forth against the glass in a contrecoup fashion, further releasing more dusty ingredients of yesteryear. We would laugh, the jar would be returned to the top shelf and our meal would continue. Mother took this teasing in great stride and other than exhibiting one of her famous smirks, she laughed along with all of us.

Regardless of the state of that first biscuit at conception and years later, Mother’s overall skill and success in the kitchen far outweighed that one failure. She was never much for recipes, unless they were written on a scrap piece of paper tucked in a drawer, or from the page of a magazine, torn out and tucked in perhaps a different drawer.  I also don’t recall the existence of a cookbook in her kitchen. Overall her culinary attempts were more extemporaneous and experimental, rather than precise and calculated.

Nevertheless, her methods were effective, as through watchful eyes and repeated attempts, I learned how to make a cheese sauce, a cream pie, deviled eggs and many other tried and true dishes. No written recipe required.

Unfortunately, her famous recipe for cranberry relish escaped us all. Perhaps it was because she made it up, or it was so simple that she didn’t need to write down the ingredients or directions. Or its makeup changed from year to year. We will never know.  You see, it was Thanksgiving when she left us, and her cranberry relish went with her.

It was not unexpected.  We just did not expect it to happen on Thanksgiving. That should not be the day you say goodbye to your mother. It is a day of thanks when you gather around family and friends, and you give thanks for all that you have, and you eat turkey and dressing and pumpkin pie and cranberries, and sometimes bring out that old biscuit in a jar.

For the four Strange kids, our Thanksgiving feast evolved from the canned cranberry sauce of old to a deliciously crunchy relish made fresh from cranberries. Nuts, oranges, sugar and other ingredients blended together to serve as an all-important accoutrement to the holiday meal. It became her signature Thanksgiving dish and it was unequivocally the best cranberry relish ever.  But, on that Thanksgiving day in 1990, there was no cranberry relish and we suddenly realized the importance of cranberries in our lives.

Each year, since that day we have been searching for second best. Sissy and I discuss our holiday menus for the day for our respective families in our respective cities, and we share the latest and greatest-so we hope-cranberry relish recipes we have found in this season’s Bon Appetit or on the Food Network-often asking the question “Did Mother put xxxx in her cranberry relish?”

At times, we go outside the bounds of a traditional relish and follow recipes with untraditional ingredients such as jalapenos or radishes-BTW don’t try radishes-they just don’t work. Or for me, I just try to make up my own recipe throwing in “a little bit of this and little bit of that” using Mother’s famous method of creative cooking. Sometimes the results are edible, and other times not. It’s definitely a crap shoot.

What I have learned in my quest, is that Mother definitely used cranberries, and there were nuts in that relish, and perhaps some kind of Jell-O. Which flavor? Only Mother knows. Beyond those ingredients, it is pure guesswork.

As you prepare for Thanksgiving this year, remember to tell your family and friends that you love them. Be thankful for all that you have, and be kind and generous to those with whom we share this earth and this life.

And, if you have any great recipes for cranberry relish, please send them my way. I am still on that quest and searching for the second best cranberry relish ever made. Maybe this year I will get it right!

In loving memory of Jean Quirey Strange
April 29, 1925-November 22, 1990

Golf’s Greats

Tags

Big Bertha, Brooks Koepka, golf game, golf glove, U.S. Open

It is on this late Sunday afternoon in June, Father’s Day and the last day of the U.S. Open golf tournament at Shinnecock Hills in New York, that I am reminded of how much my father loved the game of golf. It was not unusual to find him in the backyard hitting practice balls, made of plastic, hitting ball, after ball, after ball. He used real balls at times, but after he accidentally hit me in the calf with a line drive, he switched to plastic balls which rather floated in the air and never went very far or with much force.

I don’t remember exactly when Daddy started to play golf, but his first set of clubs was a hand-me-down set from an acquaintance. His love for golf exploded and after that, anything related to golf was a great gift choice for Father’s Day.  He never had the luxury of belonging to a private club where caddies were hired to carry bags, or battery-operated carts were used to take the players around the golf course. His children, my siblings, were his caddies-from oldest to youngest. At one time or another all of us had the pleasure or charge of carrying his bag, walking alongside of him at almost every public golf course in town. No carts, no hired caddies. Just his kids and his golf buddies.

We knew all his golf buddies and were entertained by stories about their rounds. One was a terrible cheat, according to Daddy. Another was a terrible golfer and always asked for a Mulligan. The ones that were better than him, were respected. He tried to teach Mother how to play but that didn’t work out too well. She wasn’t very good at the game and preferred to be playing bridge while he played golf.

I was probably 9 or 10 the first time I went with him to the golf course. I didn’t really have to “carry” his bag as he used one of the hand carts for his clubs, but I got to pull out the club he asked for, or hand him a ball, or replace a tee that had been destroyed by the previous shot. When we were out in the middle of the golf course, away from curious eyes, he would throw out a spare ball and let me hit it, providing instruction and guidance along the way. He taught me how to hold a club. He taught me how to putt. He taught me how to clean my balls packed with mud and dirt, and he taught me how to play fair and square.

Years later, my father suffered a devastating stroke and never played another  round of golf again. It was around the time that Curtis Strange-not a relative-earned his back-to-back win at the U.S. Open. Even though Daddy never played another round of golf, he never quit trying to hit golf balls in the backyard. He certainly couldn’t hit the ball as far, but he did a pretty good job of it in spite of his disability, holding the club in his left hand.

Today, Sissy and I play golf at a par 3 course close to her home in southwest Florida. She uses a hodge-podge set of clubs that she bought at a pawn shop several years ago. I have a real set of clubs, golf shoes and a golf glove. We don’t actually play a full round of golf, nor totally adhere to the real rules of golf. We play best ball and end up not counting beyond 10 if things get really bad. The course has multiple water hazards and we joke about how many balls we lose in those man-made ponds. Sissy usually drinks bourbon, while I’ll have a vodka or a beer. We try to make friends with every other golfer on the course that day, joking about our golf game. Most of them want to join in our reverie.

When I tell people that I love to watch golf on a late Sunday afternoon the response I most often get is “Golf is so boring on TV.” I couldn’t disagree more with that sentiment. To me, it is calm and relaxing and allows a wind-down from the weekend’s activities. It reminds that there are gentlemen in this world who are honorable and kind, and win their reputations through hard work and perseverance.

It has been thirteen years since I lost my father and on every Father’s Day I try to find some way to honor him. Today I went to a driving range, at a public golf course, and hit a bucket of balls. I put on my golf glove, intertwined my fingers exactly the way he taught me, and kept my eye on the ball as I followed the motion of my swing in my shadow.

My golf game? I can hit a nice 8 iron and putt fairly well. A hybrid is my favorite club, and I am still working on perfecting my drive with my Big Bertha.

After the bucket was empty, I went home, and watched the last round of this year’s U.S. Open.

Congratulations Brooks Koepka and “Happy Father’s Day” to fathers everywhere. Take your kids with you to the golf course, if you can. It will place you in the category as one of golf’s greats.

To the greatest golfer I knew-Allen Reid Strange

 

 

 

Hearts, Flowers and a Box of Chocolates

Tags

box of chocolates, Forrest Gump, Hearts and Flowers, Valentine's Day

 

The traditions of Valentine’s Day have long been ingrained in my heart and life and have always included a box of chocolates. As a child, Daddy never failed to buy the ubiquitous heart-shaped box of Russell Stover’s chocolates for Mother on Valentine’s Day. The bow on the box may have changed through the years, sometimes adorned with plastic or paper flowers, but the red, satin-covered, heart-shaped box remained the same. Upon delivery of the box, usually at the end of the day when Daddy walked through the door with sweets in hand, we always knew that we would also share in the treats and a hug. We, of course received our own Valentine treats in the shape of multiple-colored candy hearts which touted the typical Valentine phrases of “Be mine” or “I love you.” But as you might expect, as children, we were definitely more interested in sampling the various shaped chocolates from the red box.

 

Each year, one simple rule was in play even though we knew exactly what we weren’t supposed to do. “No squeezing the candy to see which filling was contained within and then putting it squeezed-side down back in the box.” Who could blame us for trying? Caramel was everyone’s favorite and if you picked a candy with mocha or strawberry nougat, you were stuck with it; you either ate it or gave it to someone else. With this rule in place, it didn’t us take long to decipher that the candies covered in pink or white were definitely not caramel, and the ones wrapped in foil were more than likely filled with a nut or some sort crème.

 

Mother was always the first to select, and by her side, smaller sets of hands pointed to the ones we thought were caramel-filled. “Pick that one, it’s a caramel,” was the Valentine cry, even though that declaration may not have always been the most honest-thwarting discovery of a caramel was often the intent of the proffered advice. If you happened to pick a candy that you didn’t like, there was always someone who would jump in and claim the prize and double the pleasure.

 

Regardless of the filling, one by one the brown paper wrappers were left absent of candy until eventually the containers were empty and the heart-shaped box, discarded.

 

The tradition of the red, hearted-shaped box of chocolates continued for years, and it wasn’t long before we learned that the caramels were always square or rectangular in shape, the nut fillings were oval or wrapped in foil, and the crème fillings were always round. The mystery of which filling was in which candy became less and less of a mystery and more of an exact science after years of practice and inaccurate selections.

 

To my surprise, somewhere along the line, my son continued the tradition we had shared with our parents, and I started to find my own box of Russell Stover’s Valentine chocolates on the kitchen table, on my dresser, or in the mailbox when distance between us prevented a personal delivery. It didn’t matter that it probably cost more to mail that box of chocolates than it cost to purchase the box. Like my father, my son has seen to it that a box of chocolates is always present on Valentine’s Day.

 

Forrest Gump was right. With a box of chocolates you never know what you are going to get. Except for the Strange kids-we knew exactly what was hidden in those chocolates. To this day, square is for caramel, oval is for nut, round is for crème and Valentine’s Day is for love. Celebrate with someone special. I’m off to check my mailbox.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bad Hair Day

Tags

bad hair day, cutting banks, home permaent, pixie cut, Toni Permanent, wave lotion

The definition of a “bad hair day in the fifties was very different from today’s version. We didn’t have hair salons that offered every possible adventure in hair coloring and styling, which today’s salons offer and charge large amounts of money for sheen and fluff. In the fifties, hair was cut, curled, washed and dried at home and Mother was the resident hair stylist. She had no training, of course, but no one seemed to care. If bangs needed to be cut or hair trimmed, she brought out her trusty scissors-that is, if she could find them-and did the deed.

She was my mother and I loved her of course, but she wasn’t very good at cutting bangs. In fact, she was “downright awful.” All I have to do is look at all my pictures to verify that fact. The pixie cut was all the rage back then (apparently) because in most of my early photos I sport a very short haircut, with even shorter, and more often than not, crooked, jagged bangs—Mother’s signature. Jagged, crooked, uneven, botched-whatever they were-they were definitely not straight. She either had an early case of palsy or she just didn’t know how to cut a straight line. The basic problem was that once she cut them, she couldn’t take back the deed. Sissy and I were stuck with crooked, too short, uneven, awful bangs-for at least the next eight weeks.

I managed to live with the crooked bangs, but the worst of the bad hair days arrived when Mother grew tired of the pixie cut and decided to perm my hair. Sissy was lucky because her hair was naturally curly. Remember, she was the redhead. Me? Fine, brown hair which was straight as an arrow. For whatever reason, Mother decided to experiment with a Toni. That’s what we said back then. “I’m getting a Toni.” The home perm—the calamitous, horribly frightening home perm, the thought of which still gives me shivers to this day.

The infamous Toni Permanent Kit. The square cardboard box was fuchsia and black, and contained all the necessary ingredients to permanently ruin my hair. First there was the wave Lotion, pink plastic curlers (to match the fuchsia of the box), and papers (which resembled the same type of paper used to roll cigarettes or other smoking materials), and step by step instructions.

Separate the hair into small sections

Cover with the paper

Wrap the curler around the paper, making sure the paper remains in place

Wrap the hair from its end to the scalp; clasp the curler in place, then soak the rolled hair with the wave lotion.

Simple enough, right?

Simple, yet probably carcinogenic, based on the overwhelming caustic smell of the chemicals.

The last time Mother gave me a Toni was right before my third grade annual school picture. Each year, the school sent a notice home announcing the date the photographer was scheduled, and Mother always made certain we were dressed in our best clothes, with hair combed, and faces absent of food or toothpaste. That particular year, Mother decided to give me a perm. I may have actually asked for one but who remembers the details. Unfortunately for me, the perm did not go so well. Totally frizzed out and sticking straight up in all directions from my scalp, my hair was fried. Not only did I have thick, unattractive glasses, I had to wear to see one inch in front of me, I now had the worst hairdo at Hebron School. Unruly and horribly frizzy, Mother ended up pulling my hair back from my face using a tortoise shell plastic headband.  Now I looked like an alien who couldn’t see. The photographic results were a disaster. .

When the proofs came back, I didn’t want any of them, but my parents bought the package as usual. The one 8 x 10 (to display at home), two 5x7s (to send to the grandparents), and multiple wallet-sized photos (to exchange with classmates). I refused to exchange any pictures with my friends and kept the unwanted photos in my desk.

Mother eventually quit cutting my bangs and perming my hair, and let me grow out my hair into a long ponytail. We began visiting her friend Florence who had a beauty shop set up in her basement, and the days of the frizz were over.

Back in the eighties, I decided to get a perm for some reason. Curly hair must have been back in style. The results were not much different than back in the fifties—my hair was horribly fried and totally unattractive. It took months to slowly and methodically erase the effects of that perm, and no wave lotion has touched my hair since.

I still prefer my pixie cut and have come to terms with the fact that my hair is fine and straight and yes, still brown through the magic of other chemicals saturating my head and scalp. Sissy still has that beautiful curly hair and the Toni Company has gone out of business. The rumor is that the chemicals in Toni’s wave lotion damaged the hair.

Thanks for that update, Sherlock.

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Want Not With Milnot®? Cheesecake Phenomena

Tags

cheesecake recipies, graham cracker crust, Jell-O® in cheesecake, Milnot®, Philadelph® cream cheese, Smuckers, www.cooks.com

Cheesecake in the Strange house was made with Milnot®. “What?” you say. Where was the New York style, the white, chocolate cheesecake, the Amaretto cheesecake topped with almonds? Where was the calorie-laden cheesecake of today’s obese America? The answer quite simply is-that variety of cheesecake was absent, unknown, never heard of before in the Strange family. All we knew growing up was that cheesecake was made with Milnot® and lemon Jell-O®. Didn’t everyone eat that brand of cheesecake?

Mother’s cheesecake was simple and allowed our less than agile hands to occasionally help her whip up the cool, delicious dessert. For those of you who are not aficionados of canned milk, Milnot® was a brand name for a canned evaporated milk product. It was very inexpensive and was a constant staple in our kitchen.

Of course, Mother also used the proverbial Philadelphia Cream Cheese for our simple cheesecake. Once the cream cheese softened at room temperature, she folded the whipped evaporated milk into the prepared Jell-O ® and stirred all the ingredients into a buttery, yellow liquid. While she whipped and stirred, Sissy and I crushed the graham crackers with a rolling pin and added melted butter to the crumbs. We took turns gingerly patting the crumbled crust into the bottom and sides of the rectangular pan as the crumbs started to congeal with the hardening of the melted butter. Mother then poured the liquid mixture into the pan and we sprinkled the remaining crumbs over the top of the blended ingredients. It would take several hours for the mixture to set in the refrigerator, and we eagerly awaited Mother’s announcement that cheesecake was ready. Sometimes before dinner, Mother allowed us to take a spoon and take one bite out of the corner of the pan to satisfy our cravings. At dinner, no one mentioned that one of the corners of the pan was missing its filling.

When it was time for dessert, Mother cut the final product into squares, which jiggled slightly as she placed the dessert on the plate, and it was passed to our waiting hands and watering mouths. The deliciousness of that cool, light sweetness. Ah, the memory is so sublime!

As an adult, I was eventually introduced to the classic rich taste of the New York style cheesecake, but I still occasionally ventured into the past and made Mother’s version. Many years ago, I prepared this cheesecake for dinner guests and when served, I was quite impolitely informed by one of my guests that the dessert was not real cheesecake, to which I responded “Really?” I was not only surprised at the arrogance of my guest, but I thought to myself that Mother’s version of cheesecake was certainly real to the Strange kids. We loved our Milnot® cheesecake and often begged for more than one helping, not realizing that it wasn’t real by other people’s standards.

Recently, I whipped up three packages of cream cheese to make a real (very calorie-laden) cheesecake remembering the light, lemon-chiffon taste of Mother’s recipe. I didn’t imagine that Milnot® was still available in the grocery stores of today, so I executed an online search to discover whether Milnot® had met its demise or was still in existence.

Surprisingly, I found that Milnot® was in fact “alive and well”, albeit the company is now owned by Smuckers, and still available for purchase at grocery stores or through Smucker’s Website at https://onlinestore.smucker.com/. In addition, through www.cooks.com, the recipe has been preserved in perpetuity.

Once I knew of its continued existence, I decided to go in search of this treasure at my local Kroger and celebrate the simplicity of that favorite childhood dessert. As I set out on my quest, with spirits high, my mouth watered and I thought about Mother standing in the kitchen, carefully explaining the less than complicated steps to creating our perhaps not-so-real cheesecake, and I was thankful. In that moment, I was thankful for her love and for the fact that she gave me the opportunity to revisit my childhood with smile on my face, a yearning in my stomach and a place in my heart to keep the memory alive. This Jell-O-Milnot version of cheesecake may not have been real to my long ago guest, but it was very real to me. Hey Sissy-the next time we are together, do you want to go get some Milnot®? I have a yearning to crush some graham crackers and whip up a cheesecake.

Milnot® Cheesecake (www.cooks.com)
1 (3 oz.) pkg. lemon Jello®
1 c. boiling water
1 (8 oz.) pkg. cream cheese
1 tsp. vanilla
1 (13 oz.) can of Milnot®
3 c. graham cracker crumbs
1/2 c. butter, melted
Dissolve gelatin in boiling water. Chill until slightly thickened. Cream together cheese, sugar and vanilla; add gelatin and blend well. Fold in stiffly whipped Milnot®.
Mix graham cracker crumbs and melted butter. Pack 2/3 of mixture on bottom and sides of 9 x 13 x 2 inch pan or larger. Add filling and sprinkle with remaining crumbs. Chill overnight. Can top with fruit.

Enjoy!

Summer Boredom

Tags

clay sculpting, Hebron Elementary School, Popsicle, potholders made on a loom, summer boredom

With the heat and humidity of summer came boredom at the midpoint of our vacation from school. I am certain Mother’s nerves were frayed and our constant pleas to be entertained weakened her parental shield of patience. Accustomed to the daily schedule school offered, boredom and time on our hands caused sibling squabbles, mischievous adventures and lazy afternoons spent whining and complaining. Our favorite refuge from inactivity and unrest was the summer recreational program sponsored by the local school district. The morning or afternoon sessions allowed us and all the neighborhood kids to escape our mothers for several hours a day, for which I am certain they were grateful.

In preparation for the trip to school, we carefully tucked our allotted coins in a vinyl, oval shaped coin purse (slit down the middle for entry by the coin) and headed for the dusty, exciting adventures that awaited us on the playground of Hebron school. Either walking or riding our bikes, we only traveled a half-mile to reach the school and no one thought twice about our going alone on the half-mile journey. In the late fifties, everyone considered walking to school to be safe and routine. During the school year, the route was a straight shot down Congress Avenue with patrol boys and the school guard waiting to guide us safely across Lincoln Avenue each morning. All along the route, parents escorted their children out the door, mentally noting and checking on all the other children who passed by each morning. In the summer, there was no school guard but our favorite teacher, Miss Whitman, waited for us and the other kids to arrive for the daily arts and crafts, games and treats.

Tall and commanding, merely because of her height and not her demeanor, Miss Whitman, uncharacteristically wore shorts or pedal pushers (aka Capri pants), a whistle around her neck, and her ubiquitous glasses during these summer sessions. She skillfully managed all the kids who arrived and split her time between refereeing the ad hoc softball game, watching us travel up and down on the teeter-totter or teaching arts and crafts. Occasionally other teachers helped, but many days she managed the crowd of kids by herself.

When we arrived at the school, we selected our activities for the day based on how much money Mother had given us. Some days we just played games because we had very little to spend, and saved our small allotment for a bottled soft drink or an ice cold Popsicle to help stave off the heat and sweat of the day.

Outdoors, we played baseball, marbles and jacks. We jumped rope or swung on the swings, jumping off when we reached the apex of the rotation, seeing who could land the farthest away. Tag and kickball or just sliding down the slides, we exhausted the options available to us as well as exhausted our small, toned and fit bodies.

When the heat became unbearable, we retreated indoors to the classroom that was converted into the arts and craft room for the summer. Indoors, we made cloth potholders on a loom or plastic braided key chains, carefully weaving the materials under her guidance and instruction. We played with clay, sculpting shapes, tiny replicas of animals and small fortresses to prepare for battle. Imagination and creativity personified. Small hands remained busy under the guise of a caring teacher.

I don’t know how many potholders Sissy and I weaved during those summer tromps up to school, but Mother and Daddy used them religiously in the kitchen, never complaining about the fact that they weren’t very good at protecting their hands against the heat of an iron skillet. The woven loops of cloth caught on fire if placed too close to the oven’s heating elements, and being made of 100% cotton and not flame retardant fabric, this happened frequently. Neither parent complained. The plastic braided key chains probably ended up in a drawer somewhere, forgotten and eventually discarded. We didn’t carry keys and the braided chains were either too long or too short to be functional. Colorful, but not very functional

After several hours of play, Sissy and I depleted, sweaty and dusty headed home. Mother greeted us at the door, asked about our day and graciously accepted our gifts. We never knew how she entertained herself in those few hours without us, but my guess is, she enjoyed the brief respite away from her girls with her nose in a book; traveling to her own adventures from the boredom of summer. I wonder if children today still make potholders for their mothers. I think I will check Amazon and see what I can find.