Where's Momma?

I heard the lovely poem below today on "Country Gold" with Randy Owen. I raced to work so that I could write down the name of the poem and share it with everyone. It is Mother's day today and lots of flowers, cards and dinners were shared with their best lady, Mom, around the country. But to those of us whose mother's have passed away, we have our memories.  Whether Mom was an angel or the devil at times, she was still Mom.  Most of all, we loved her and there is no greater gift than love.

      

Comes in flying from the street; 

"Where's Momma?"

Friend or stranger thus he'll greet:

"Where's Momma?"

Doesn't want to say hello,

home from school or play he'll go

straight to what he wants to know:

"Where's Momma?"

Many times a day he'll shout,

"Where's Momma?"

Seems afraid that she's gone out;

"Where's Momma?"

Is his first thought at the door--

She's the one he's looking for, 

and he questions o'er and o'er,

"Where's Momma?"

Can't be happy till he knows;

"Where's Momma?"

So, he begs us to disclose

"Where's Momma?"

and it often seems to me 

as I hear his anxious plea, 

That no sweeter phrase can be:

"Where's Momma?"

Like to hear it day by day;

"Where's Momma?"

Loveliest phrase that lips can say:

"Where's Momma?"

and I pray as time shall flow,

and the long years come and go,

that he'll always want to know

"Where's Momma?"

 Written by Edgar A. Guest 

A Hair Raising Story

It is said that hair can be our crowning glory. Why does hair have to be so much of who we are?  It begins at birth when a child is born with an enormous amount and it is declared “Look at the hair on that kid.”  I’ve seen hair that was grey, brown, black, blonde, and even pink. Some hair is straight, curly, coarse, fine, thick or thin. Some religions cover their hair for modesty and others are not so strict. My mother told me that I complained about my hair as a child and I even used a swear word when I tried to comb it.  Now that I am past 50, it is thinner than ever before with spots of exposed skin peaking through and to be honest it’s distressing.  However, I find the lost hair somehow growing in places that I never expected. 

me at 12 years old

I’ve always had “thick hair” envy.  Women would walk past me with manes so thick they couldn’t find a band large enough to encompass their pony tail.   I would look at their hair longingly and bemoan my thin hair fate then reach upwards to touch mine and was always disappointed.  The hair clips in the store were too big for my meager locks and would drop to the floor as soon as I fastened the clasp.  My thin, fine tresses lay limply around my face and on humid days it was matted to my scalp.  Of course, I had to have a cowlick into the mix as well.  My bangs never lay flat no matter how hard I tried.  

I’ve used gel for lift, perms to perform miracles, and enough hairspray to finance the manufacturer’s trip abroad for a year and yet I kept trying to find help for my deficit.  

During the late 60’s and 70’s I wore my hair long and parted in the middle. Not such an attractive style for everyone.  Then there were those awful school pictures that were taken year after year.  My hair was either oily, flat, or the photographer didn’t know where my best side was.  There is something about hair that makes one want to burn all of their school pictures.

As the years began to add up my hair gradually became shorter until I decided to take the plunge. When I was 21 I decided to have my hair cut short.  I was working at the shoe store then and made an appointment with a stylist before work one day.  Afterwards, I went to the Health Food Store down the street from work and I saw my boss shopping.  “Hello Alice,” I said, but she didn’t recognize me.  “I’m Jeannie,” I insisted. Many of the regular customers that came into the shoe store didn’t recognize me either that day. In the evening when I came through the kitchen door my father saw me for the first time.  Dad was sitting in his favorite chair with his black framed glasses perched low on his nose while he was reading the morning paper. As he looked up at me over his glasses his jaw dropped.  It took him a few minutes to let the drastic change in the length of my hair adjust in his mind.   He never said a word.

me at 21 years old

A few weeks later, I rode along with my parents to a store.  My mother went inside while my father and I waited in the car.  My father watched me in the backseat through the rear view mirror. He turned around and looked at me very closely.  “You look good with your hair like that,” he said, “You really do.”  My dad never complimented me before regarding my appearance.  I was thrilled and thanked him shyly. I pondered his words for many years to come.  From then on I kept my hair short because my father approved and he never wasted words when they were unnecessary.

I should be thankful for the amount that I have.  My situation could be worse.  The cause of my hair loss is due to female patterned baldness, per a dermatologist’s diagnosis, which has greatly affected my perception of old age.  I didn’t come into this world bald and I expect the same amount of hair on my head when I leave. Oh please?! 

Crippled Inside

One thing you cannot hide is when you're crippled inside.

John Lennon

Not Looking Back

When I walked through the kitchen door at 9:30 that morning my father burst out laughing. I was not amused.  My father was standing on the sidewalk outside of the kitchen window with his friend Brock from work when he noticed that I had come home early that day. I secretly had a crush on my father’s friend and I didn’t want him to witness my humiliation.  My toes hurt and I desperately needed to take off my shoes.

“What happened?” Mom asked.  “I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I quit.” I responded in a defeated tone. “You should see what those women look like that work there. They were awful.”

 “You’re not made to work in a factory,” my father said while he and Brock were still laughing outside at my expense. 

I am girlie, even for a girl. My free time was spent reading poetry and romance novels imagining my own Mr. Darcy or John Thornton waltzing up to my door and sweeping me away.  I dreamt of wearing those beautiful costumes from times past and living the genteel life. My head was in the clouds, far from the reality of life.  For as long as I can remember, I always wore skirts and dresses because I wanted to look like a Jane Austen character.  Wearing them made me feel feminine and I did it for religious reasons too.  I could count on one hand the slacks that were included in my wardrobe.

Me at the shoe store with handmade clowns from a customer

I graduated from high school in January of 1978 when I was 17 years old and began working at a small discount shoe store on Broadway called The 350 Shop. The store was owned by Alice Meadows, who was nearly 60 when I came on board.  I was the only full time employee and another girl came in for a couple of hours after school. 

Me at the shoe store

My beginning wage was $2.50 an hour and my take home pay was less than $100.00 a week, but for a teenager I felt rich and this money enabled me to buy clothes and those precious books that I spent endless hours reading.

Alice Meadows and Me 

My contact with the public was nearly non-existent before working at the shoe store and nothing could prepare me for how people really are in life. The clientele ranged from nuns to drag queens, and Disco Harry, a local celebrity, came to the store quit often, even though we only sold women’s shoes. People can be scary, even women.  I watched in horror as hefty females with puffed feet and toes like sausages tried to cram their oversized extremity into shoes that were much too small for them.  Many men and women that came into the store had rough features, were loud or threatening and their manners were brutish, I was terrified of those people.  My parents were country folk and my mother’s outbreaks were mild compared to what I witnessed at the store.  After enduring the public for a few years, I wanted to do something else with my life.  

Ed Meadows (Alice' husband) and me

I began applying at a lot of company’s around town.  My father worked at Fruehauf Corporation on the city’s south side and he liked it very much. Maybe, I would like working at a factory as well, I thought to myself. I was told about a company in New Haven called Bennett’s, which was a clothing factory and I went there to fill out an application.   It was 1983 and I was on vacation from the shoe store for two weeks when someone from the company called me about a position.  I decided to try it out since I didn’t have to give up the shoe store job and I had two weeks to see if I would like working in a factory environment.

It was July and extremely hot. When I woke up at 5 a.m. for work it was already 80 degrees. The expected high for the day was near 100. When I arrived at the factory I was surprised to see that only women worked there. Someone brought me to my station, which was a steam press. A large blower attached to the ceiling was the only cooling and heating element in the building. It was extremely hot inside even though it was early morning. The blower was operating at full blast but didn’t make a difference in the sweltering factory. Sewing machines were scattered all over the floor with a pile of fabric next to each machine.  I was shown how to use the press and noticed that my station had three piles of fabric pieces beside it.  Observing the height of the piles alarmed me.  I was starting a job already behind, which put me in a panic mode.  I had to wear pants with closed toe shoes.  By the time of the first break, I was drenched in sweat.  My clothing clung to my body as if I had stepped out of a pool of water and my perfectly coiffed hair lay flat on my head. Sweat poured down my back and legs which ran like a stream to my socks.  I was miserably hot and sticky.

I looked around the factory as I pressed the fabric.  The women looked hard and unfeminine.  One woman stood out from the rest.  She was probably in her 50’s and looked old to one who is only 23.  Her brown hair was braided and wrapped around her head. I couldn’t tell what era here clothing was from, I think maybe she was an old hippy from the 70’s, at least her outfit was.  She was wearing patterned pants with a smock top.   Then I glanced around at the other women working around me and they were wearing tattered jeans and old worn out tee shirts.  It was then that I had an epiphany of my future and it scared me.  I don’t want to look like those women, I told myself. If I stay here then I will definitely end up resembling them and I am not about to go down that road.

When I came home, I headed straight for the shower.  I put on a blouse and a skirt, my favorite attire and thought about my next move.  My family asked about my first day while we were eating dinner. I mumbled that work was okay. That evening I went to bed early, exhausted from the work and the heat had taken its toll on me. 

The next morning was a repeat of the day before.  The sun was high in the sky and was beating down upon my small place of the earth at the early hour of 5 a.m.  I drove to work, dreading the day.   

Upon arriving at the factory, I went directly to my station.  I tried to prepare myself for working in the immense heat, but I couldn’t do it.  I was miserable.  The sweat began pouring as soon as I started operating the press. My toes were hurting because my shoes were too short.  It didn’t take me long before I convinced myself that I wasn’t going to like working at the factory.  I just couldn’t see myself there.  When the first break came at 9:15, I told my boss that I wanted to go home and will not be coming back. She offered to let me sew together garments at one of the machines.  Then the vision of the woman that I wanted to avoid resembling when I was middle-aged crossed my mind.  I grabbed my lunch and purse then headed towards my car.  When I turned the key in the ignition, I felt a sense of relief, and then I put the car in gear, not ever looking back. 

English Seed Cake

I baked two of these cakes this evening.  One for the birds and one for me. As you can guess the first one was a complete flop.  I hate it when that happens.  Anyway, I just found this recipe in a book called, The London Ritz Book of Afternoon Tea, by Helen Simpson.  This recipe has existed in various forms since the Middle Ages.  It has caraway seeds, which gives the cake a distinct flavor.  I rather like this cake and shall be making it to have with tea or coffee. 

Ingredients:

8 TBS butter (1 stick of butter)
2/3 cup of sugar
2 large eggs, beaten
2 tsp caraway seeds
1 1/4 cups cake flour or all purpose flour
3 TBS cornstarch or rice flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp cinnamon
6 inch round cake pan about 3 inches deep (I used a square pan)

Preheat oven to 350 F. Grease the cake pan and set aside. Cream together the butter and the sugar. Add the spices, baking powder, and rice flour.  Mix well. Next begin adding the eggs and the flour a little at a time, alternating with add a little of the eggs and a little of the flour until it is mixed well.  Lastly, fold in the caraway seeds. Pour the batter into the cake pan.  Bake between 40-60 minutes or until the center of the cake is firm.  Let it cool on a wire rack and then sprinkle with powdered sugar or leave plain.  Enjoy!

Facebook and that Infamous "Like" button

The picture came from here

I am a very sensitive person.  Maybe hypersensitive is more like it. My family thinks that I am a drama queen, and yes, I can wear that crown quite proudly. People like to share their thoughts and feelings with friends and family on Facebook. However, there is something that happens frequently that really gets to me; No, it gets in my craw (American slang, sorry). We've all seen it and maybe you have done it more frequently than you know.  You see a post on the website and you hit that infamous "like" button.  Oh look my friend posted a pretty picture or a lovely quote and your mouse heads toward the button without your mind being engaged. However,there are some people who hit the like button whenever someone puts a death notice on line. Really? This is something that I never understood. You honestly "like" the fact that Aunt Bessie died or you cannot muster the strength to type a little comforting statement such as: I am sorry for your loss? I can hear it now. "I don't know what to say" is your excuse, so, you instinctively hit the "like" button. 

If we could just think about the pain that the other person is experiencing on the other side of that post maybe we could say something comforting instead rather than just pushing a button.  What are your thoughts?

Raising the Ceiling

Some days it seems to pour down with all that the worst that the world can dish out.  Today, I want to start out with the positive.  There are possibilities in every situation, even the ones that don't seem so uplifting. While listening to NPR (National Public Radio) on my way to work, I heard one of the guests quote the saying below.  I felt uplifted all day. Personal things are going on with my family that I wish would never happen.  It is scary. I don't know the outcome, but I know that I am going to help fight the battle even if it takes every ounce of strength that I have. I must, it is the least that I can do...

Falkirk Wheel in Scotland: The Canal Connector

The picture came from here

There is an amazing rotating boat lift in Scotland which is the only one of its kind in the world.  It is called The Falkirk Wheel. It was designed to reconnect the Fourth and Clyde (both canals built in 1777) canals with the Union canal (complete in 1822).  When they were completely done there was a difference of 79 feet in elevation between them.  Something needed to be done to correct the problem. The planners wanted to design a unique boat lift that would connect the canals going east and west so that they could reach Glasgow with greater ease.  

It has two arms that has a tub which fills with water. The tubs are filled accorcding to the Archimedes' Law. That means the tubs are balanced.  Boats enter the tub and then the rotation begins. The rotation takes about 15 minutes to complete. Imagine all the planning that it took to put this kind of wheel together.  I found a video on Youtube that I thought would help give a visual for it. 

What a great way to see Scotland! Anyone up to a boat ride?

Working Man's Hands

A couple of weeks ago I researched photographing hands on the internet.  I came up with a few ideas and thought about a friend who would be able to help me.  I made some notes and waited for my friend to come over. 

My friend has working man hands. This man repairs machines all day for a living and when the day is over his hands are, well, gross.  Dirt and grime is stuck underneath the nails and cuticles.  When he came over, I asked him if I could photograph his hands. 

Afterwards, when we were looking at the photographs and he said that he didn't realize how dirty they were. I assured him that was the look I was going for in the photographs. 

Real men sometimes have dirt underneath their fingernails and it is OK. 

A Mosaic covered House

The Journal Gazette did a write up about a house in Los Angeles that is truly one of a kind.  I have always liked mosaics and eventually I will try to do one. Aziz and Louise Farnam from Iran began gluing tiles to the outside of their bungalow 13 years ago.  They were inspired by the tiles and lavishly decorated mosques from their native country.  I have to admit when I went to Morocco the tiles there were awesome. I would love to see what the inside of this house looks like.  

Hmmm this gives me an idea...What I would like to do is put some decorative tiles around the front door of my house. This is something that they do in Morocco and I really liked the idea, especially if you live in a place where all of the houses resemble each other. 

What started out as a hobby exploded into this unique beauty. 

Once the first mosaic was put in place the couple began scrounging around for more tiles, plates, and figurines.

                       The pictures came from experiencingla.com