Archive for history

Time Travel

May 23, 2013 · Filed under fiction/poetry, history, humor, memories, nostalgia, Uncategorized · Tagged , , , , , ,

Copyright - Danny Bowman

“I must be dreaming!” I said to myself as I walked around the corner of the old brick building and saw the aging phone booth.

“I haven’t seen one of those in years!” Cell phones had pretty much sent phone booths the way of the dinosaur.

Even though I never had the cause to use them much, they did hold a sweet ring of nostalgia.

I walked up to the phone booth, running my finger over the fading red paint on the surrounding box. I smiled as I saw the push button dial, even with the buttons, it seemed quaint.

“What? 50 cents?” I sighed. I looked up to see the modern building and knew I was in the present time after all.

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Forgotten Misery

May 21, 2013 · Filed under history, nostalgia, prompts, Uncategorized · Tagged , , , , , ,

 Thomas McCord's house "The Grange," built in 1819 and situated opposite Black's Bridge, at the first lock of the Lachine Canal, Nazareth Fief, Montreal, QC, 1872

It stood alone in the barren plain. Since I was a child, my mother had wondered what the structure was, and why my grandpa had saved the photo of his father standing there by the steps.. Was it a church? The oddly shaped windows and door seemed to make that a possibility. What about the apparently hexagonal room that served as the second story? Was there a third wing to the structure that could not be seen?

Even in the tattered photo, the building was obviously abandoned, its siding tattered, a few broken windows, eerie, haunting. Why couldn’t I have found this picture when my grandpa was alive? He lived to be 91, we labeled so many photos together, from civil war era battle fields, to boxes filled with faded mementos that cousins sent to him. Each was hoping beyond hope that he could identify the people in the ragged box they had found in an old closet. He often did-why was this one never labeled? Why was it tucked in an envelope at the bottom of his grandfathers chest?

Years went by, the photo forgotten, now rested in the bottom of another drawer in the stained and faded envelope. As I lay reading by candle light, my teen walked in with an old book he had found in the discard pile at the school library.

“Mom”, he whispered, so as not to startle me, “something about this picture looks familiar, do you know what it is?”

I took a deep breath, and peeked at the cover of the faded old book. Ukrainian History. That just didn’t strike me as having anything to do with anything I recalled. Then I thumbed through the dusty book and saw a chapter titled “Famous famines in Eastern Europe”

I gasped. I hesitated to turn back to the picture. What could that have to do with my grandfather? Slowly, I turned into the candle’s glow to get a better view. It was the same building, it had to be, surely no other building looked like that one. My great grandfather wasn’t in it of course. The script below the photo was in Russian, with an English translation below it. Prague, 1933: Grain famine caused by Stalin’s troops.”

“My great grandfather wasn’t from Ukraine.” I said as I looked at my son. What did that picture have to do with my family, again, I asked myself why there was a photo of that church in my grandfathers chest.. I turned the page. On it was a painting of a lady with a foreign name-one I recognized from my study of family history. Underneath the photo was her name, and the inscription, ‘”One of the few survivors of the great famine of 1933” Then it hit me-the genealogical connection that I could never find-the missing link that no one would talk about.. My great grandmother had come to America, changed her name and painfully put her past behind her.

I handed the book back to my son. “I don’t know.” I said to my son. “Perhaps you just saw it in a history book.”

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The Ballerina Clock

May 16, 2013 · Filed under children, fiction, history, memories, nostalgia, postaday, prompts, Uncategorized · Tagged , , , , , , ,

The Ballerina Clock

I don’t usually go in for garage sales, but something about the hand painted sign attracted me. I pulled into the long dirt drive lined with cars, and headed toward the door of the 1960′s rancher,wondering what was drawing me to this house.

At first, it was just the usual, nick-naks, old clothes, furniture, books, a few silver vases, photographs. Then I saw it! A ballerina clock, like my aunt had once had. It was beautiful. I had missed it at my aunts sale when I had to go change a diaper. I know she would have wanted me to have it-I should have just taken it at the family preview, but I didn’t.

The clock was about 15 inches high. It had a windup on the bottom and played “Fur Elise”. I had wanted it for my daughters so badly! A ballerina came out a door and danced to the song when the clock was wound up. I truly thought it was one of a kind.

Of course, I will never know if this ballerina clock was my aunts, I doubt it. But it was now mine!

I carefully placed the clock, wrapped in old newspapers into a cardboard box and sat it gently in my car’s trunk. I couldn’t wait to finally give it to my daughter!

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Estate Sale

May 9, 2013 · Filed under history, memories, nostalgia, prompts, Uncategorized · Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Copyright-Ted Strutz

Today, an estate sale sign sat in the yard of my childhood friend. Thirty years ago, we all loved to go to Katie’s house. Wonderful memories filled my heart.

I stopped and walked in the door to the sale. It was as if I had gone back in time. Picking a few things that I remembered, I paid for them and returned to my car.

My hands were shaking. How quickly life goes by. Those treasures now sit on my mantle. What will happen to them if, one day, an estate sale sign sits in front of my house?

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Victoria’s Castle

May 1, 2013 · Filed under fiction, history, mystery, paranormal, postaday, prompts, Uncategorized · Tagged , , , , , , , , ,

FLASHFRIDAY prompt Skull Hotel kent-bonham

She sat in the chair, staring at the wizened old lawyer.

“Zats vat it says” he uttered in his very European accent, for the third time. “I leave my great neice Victoria, who bears my name, my hotel in Winterthur, Svitzerlund.”

“I didn’t even know I had an Aunt Victoria!” Vicki exclaimed. “And where the heck is Winterthur, and what hotel?”

He handed her the photo, his hand shaking. It was the hotel she had seen on Modern Murder Mysteries on her favorite TV show last week.

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Earth Day, 1969-2013

April 23, 2013 · Filed under children, gardening, grandchildren, history, holidays, local news, memories, nostalgia, postaday, prompts, struggles, Uncategorized, youth · Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I remember the first Earth Day. I was in Junior High, in the downtown area of my city for the first time, my generations first step away from our neighborhood elementary schools. It was the year schools were integrated in my town. How excited we were, to be part of this first Earth Day, we were the “babies” of the “hippie” culture and were anxious to be considered part of the idea behind Earth Day-cleaning up the environment, getting back to home gardens and self-sustaining ideas. Of course at our age, our ideas were limited, as the concept of waste and growing up in a throw away society was our world.

We had just begun to think like adults, have our own ideas and concepts. This is one of the very first days I remember with my mind in an “adult” format. I will never forget it. In celebration of Earth Day, our art class went out and sat on a grassy bank in front of our school and were told to draw pictures of what downtown looked like. I am sure there were kids who were just glad to be outside, but for me, sitting on that hill drawing a picture my perception of the small city was eye-opening. I had lived there all my life, but for the first time, I REALLY looked at my city. I noticed the huge church next door with the domed roof, I looked out at the dogwood trees blooming on down the hill on our school grounds I looked back at the small chipped-rock playground where “recess” and P.E. were held.

Suddenly” my city” became more than simply “my neighborhood. There were still rows of 20′s era building lining the streets beyond the school. There were woods and grassy areas behind the area where the old brick school building set. A red brick wall divided our school grounds from the street below. s I took this all in, the world seemed like a much larger place for the first time in my 14 years of life. i noticed a possibly homeless man wandering the sidewalk beyond the school. His clothes were old and tattered and he appeared to be rather unaware of where he was or in what direction he was going. Having grown up a protected only child who spent her time shopping uptown with my mother, I had given little though to life outside my safe urban world. There were no real “malls” in my town, a few “shopping centers”. No drunks staggered down the streets where I lived. Being “Homeless” was something that happened “somewhere else”, not in my town.

We had a speaker on that first “Earth Day” that introduced us to the concepts of taking care of the world we lived in. In 1969, the world was beginning to seem much smaller and it was happening very quickly. I could not imagine, at that time, how quickly those changes would take place. There were three black and white channels on TV, huge, unsightly receptor antennas stood on top of our homes to bring them to us. Telephones had dials and curly cords. No one that I knew had a microwave, although, I imagine some of the “rich” kids” did. Most moms didn’t work unless they “had to” or at least until their kids were old enough to get off the bus and stay home alone until she got there. Now, letting even a 14 year-old come home to an empty house gives moms an uneasy feeling. I lived in a very innocent world.

There were many more Earth day celebrations in my future, all in an increasingly frightening, yet more aware world. We planted trees, cleaned up river banks, volunteered in homeless shelters. We became aware of the world around us. Sadly, the opening of the door to the fact that we MUST start taking care of our world, was the beginning of the end of the innocent world I grew up in. The old brick Junior High was torn down the next year. The hill was leveled, along with the woods and playground. An interstate now “by-passes” the tunnel through the mountain, which long separated my side of town just as the high bridge across the river separated us from the other side of town.

Integration was the rule and we were at its inception. The concept of Middle School replaced Junior High. There were several big race” riots in the remaining years old my secondary education. Surprisingly, I don’t remember having problems with people with different colored skin. I do, however, remember that though we went to “same” schools, we rarely did things with children who were of a different color form u, or from a different part of town. Earth Day songs played by John Denver Appeared. The whole concept of saving our world from pollution and saving our poor from deprivation became a project for various civic groups.

Earth Day, in 2013 is very different from the first Earth Day. The focus, has ironically returned to its roots, but it is now organized, with special events, a more modern focus. As I talk to my grandchildren, who are still young, and to my teen, who is the age I was at earth Days inception, their world is already a much bigger place. News spreads fast, violence is everywhere, most moms have to work, cable TV, cell phones, technology in general are a part of their world from the time of their birth.

Still, I feel something very important is missing from their more protected, more violent, more technological world. There is an expectation of “things”, there are less moms fixing dinner for the family as they talk about how their day went. The is a lack of innocence, a lack of closeness and dependence among each other in families that to me is simply sad. Everyone is in their room playing with their ipods, ipads, computer games or watching recorded programs from Cable TV. They are not together, not reading books to the little ones at bedtime, not growing up appreciating the bonds of family or the importance of relationships with real people.

I would like to see Earth Day become part of a new trend towards family, community, doing things because they are right or good, rather that to get extra credit in school or bragging rights at the office. I would love to spend a day, heck a lifetime with my children and grandchildren able to savor the simple things in life, like sitting on a hillside drawing pictures with a pencil and table. My daughter, now the mother of two, won a regional prize or a report with the topic, “We must learn to ‘baby’ “Mother Earth”.

Today, I feel a good topic would be, “We must learn that ‘family life’ exists beyond electronics”.

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Victorian Romance

April 8, 2013 · Filed under awards, fiction, history, nostalgia, postaday, prompts, Uncategorized · Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

She slipped down the stairway that emerged from the lowest level of the castle. Surely Papa would be busy by now and that lazy idiot guard of his, Hathaway, would likely be in a drunken stupor at his “post”in the cove-like area at the bottom of the stairwell.

Hopefully, Jesop would have had equal luck getting out of his home on the other side of the valley so they could meet up where the bridge crossed the ravine between their families fortresses.

To have to go through this ridiculous, and quite dangerous routine to meet up was beyond pathetic.

After all, she was 17, and would spend the summer in London during “the season” this year, (an obvious excuse to find suitable husbands for the daughters of the well to do in the area). My goodnesss, he was 26, the oldest son of a prominent banker, already working at the bank and being well trusted and trained by his over-protective father.

But, still, this lamplight adventure continued on into its 5th month, ever since the ball held in Sheldon Hall at Christmas, when Isabelle had literally run into Jesop, trying to get away from the party into the carriage house where rumor held it that a much more interesting gathering was being held by the younger set than the prim and proper event having been so meticulously scheduled by their parents.

She had laughed nervously, that cold night as she tripped over her maroon gown heavy made with many layers of cloth and held out stiffly by whalebone settings, sneaking down the last set of stairs to where the guard had already been taken care of. Jesop had heard her attempt to come quietly down the stairs and had waited, in the shadows to see who it was. .

Having liked what he saw, Jesop helped her up and they raced through the courtyard to the carriage house which was already filling with young couples who had gotten the message. “thought the grapevine” that the real party would be held.

Just as Isabelle reached the edge of the bridge, Jesop appeared and whirled her around in delight. “How are you, my love?” He whispered as she reached up and kissed his cheek. “Quite well,” she said breathlessly, looking back to make sure she hadn’t been followed, and watching to make sure that her lamp was not too near her hair or dress.

Jesop held her hand as they returned to the secret room they had discovered not long after meeting, where they could build a small fire in the grate and enjoy each others company for a little while as the moon shown down outside. Most likely it had once been the quarters of a groomsman or such.

Suddenly Jesop turned as the wooden planked door began to open. “Papa!” Isabelle whimpered, as she saw the tall stately Earl Montford walk in. Jesop and Isabelle looked at each other with a look of sheer terror.
“Well,” laughed the earl as he put his cane aside and walked towards the fire. I see there will be no need wasting our summer in London “during that horrible ‘season’ society insists upon having, seeing that you have already made a quite suitable choice of companions.”

Isabelle and Jesop looked at each other with sheer relief.
“Yes, Papa. We have.” smiled Isabelle, here heart still pounding.


“I assume nothing inappropriate has been going on these past five months,” the Earl laughed.

“You knew?” stuttered Jesop, shivering, even in the light of the warm fire.

Surely you don’t think I became an Earl through my stupidity!” he laughed. “I expect you will be announcing your engagement as soon as possible,” He stated.

“Oh, yes, papa, Isabelle said as she hugged her father with relief and delight.”

The warm spring moon was full and bright as Papa followed the young couple back up the moss-covered stairway and into the main house. Though the young couple didn’t see it, papa’s eyes were bright and his smile filled with delight. He remembered well the night his father had caught him with Isabelle’s mother and all the wonderful years that had passed since he was first witness to both his fathers wisdom and love.

She slipped down the stairway that emerged from the lowest level of the castle. Surely Papa would be busy by now and that lazy idiot guard of his, Hathaway, would likely be in a drunken stupor at his “post”in the cove-like area at the bottom of the stairwell.

Hopefully, Jesop would have had equal luck getting out of his home on the other side of the valley so they could meet up where the bridge crossed the ravine between their families fortresses.

To have to go through this ridiculous, and quite dangerous routine to meet up was beyond pathetic.

After all, she was 17, and would spend the summer in London during “the season” this year, (an obvious excuse to find suitable husbands for the daughters of the well to do in the area). My goodnesss, he was 26, the oldest son of a prominent banker, already working at the bank and being well trusted and trained by his over-protective father.

But, still, this lamplight adventure continued on into its 5th month, ever since the ball held in Sheldon Hall at Christmas, when Isabelle had literally run into Jesop, trying to get away from the party into the carriage house where rumor held it that a much more interesting gathering was being held by the younger set than the prim and proper event having been so meticulously scheduled by their parents.

She had laughed nervously, that cold night as she tripped over her maroon gown heavy made with many layers of cloth and held out stiffly by whalebone settings, sneaking down the last set of stairs to where the guard had already been taken care of. Jesop had heard her attempt to come quietly down the stairs and had waited, in the shadows to see who it was. .

Having liked what he saw, Jesop helped her up and they raced through the courtyard to the carriage house which was already filling with young couples who had gotten the message. “thought the grapevine” that the real party would be held.

Just as Isabelle reached the edge of the bridge, Jesop appeared and whirled her around in delight. “How are you, my love?” He whispered as she reached up and kissed his cheek. “Quite well,” she said breathlessly, looking back to make sure she hadn’t been followed, and watching to make sure that her lamp was not too near her hair or dress.

Jesop held her hand as they returned to the secret room they had discovered not long after meeting, where they could build a small fire in the grate and enjoy each others company for a little while as the moon shown down outside. Most likely it had once been the quarters of a groomsman or such.

Suddenly Jesop turned as the wooden planked door began to open. “Papa!” Isabelle whimpered, as she saw the tall stately Earl Montford walk in. Jesop and Isabelle looked at each other with a look of sheer terror.
“Well,” laughed the earl as he put his cane aside and walked towards the fire. I see there will be no need wasting our summer in London “during that horrible ‘season’ society insists upon having, seeing that you have already made a quite suitable choice of companions.”

Isabelle and Jesop looked at each other with sheer relief.
“Yes, Papa. We have.” smiled Isabelle, here heart still pounding.


“I assume nothing inappropriate has been going on these past five months,” the Earl laughed.

“You knew?” stuttered Jesop, shivering, even in the light of the warm fire.

Surely you don’t think I became an Earl through my stupidity!” he laughed. “I expect you will be announcing your engagement as soon as possible,” He stated.

“Oh, yes, papa, Isabelle said as she hugged her father with relief and delight.”

The warm spring moon was full and bright as Papa followed the young couple back up the moss-covered stairway and into the main house. Though the young couple didn’t see it, papa’s eyes were bright and his smile filled with delight. He remembered well the night his father had caught him with Isabelle’s mother and all the wonderful years that had passed since he was first witness to both his fathers wisdom and love.

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Message from the Past

April 1, 2013 · Filed under Civil War, fiction, fiction/poetry, genealogy, grandchildren, history, memories, mystery, Uncategorized · Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

Image

Twenty years must have passed since Miriam had walked up that rail to the old Mill. It had been her “Thinking Place” as a teenager, a place where she could go and ponder over things that only the very young or very old have time to contemplate. It was an early April day after a brutally cold winter in the Southern Appalachians. Many of the mountain roads had been impassable for months, so the access road that wound around the mountain had been closed most of the winter.

The thought came to Miriam that it wasn’t really safe to ramble alone in this area, largely abandoned since the turn of the century. She had heard that black bears had been driven to the area by the influx of wealthy retirees from Florida and new England. But memories of the old grist mill, the rusting wheel, still upright within it’s stone walls, the heavy mill stone, encircled with metal, kept her moving.

She had not doubt that they would still be there, but wondered about their condition. How many people were still alive who even remembered the mill? How many of them would bother to go there? She sat on a lichen encrusted stone and closed her eyes to rest. Thoughts of her grandfather telling her about the mill filled her mind. Even in his days, it had been a relic. His grandfather had taken grain there not long after the Civil War. She heard her grandfather’s voice correct her.“War between the States.” he had said. “No use in talkin’ like them Yankees.”

She crossed rivulets of water that cascaded down the creases in the forest floor as they made their way to the larger stream where the mill had operated. Wagon tracks were still visible where animals had walked and horses had strode from the stable that now sat about a mile below the old mill. The early spring flowers huddled under oak trees and thrust their heads up to catch the brief rays of sun that shadowed the forest floor before the leaves began to shade it again.

At last, she heard the rushing of the stream as it spilled over stones lining the river by the old mill. She picked up her step as she came close to the mill wheel. The moss-covered rocks that surrounded the old wheel had always fascinated her, and the vibrant sounds of rushing water made her heart fill with memories of her grandfather’s tales and her prized “Thinkin Place.”

Carefully, she dodged the briars that had gown up around the area where the mill house once stood. She tried to imagine the men lined up along the road, smoking homegrown tobacco in hand carved pipes. She could hear their horses whinny and stomp as they waited impatiently in front of the wagons of corn and grain. Miriam turned as she heard a rustle up the pat, but it was only a squirrel shuffling winter’s collection of leaves. She placed her hands gently on the remains of the wall around the mill wheel and turned, with her legs facing the ancient wheel.

She noticed that on of the square stones across from her seemed to have worked its self out a bit from the others. Curious, she cautiously worked her way down the slope, holding the wheel for support as she walked. She held onto saplings and pulled herself up to the other side. The moss-covered rocks were cool and damp as she placed her hands against them for support.

Miriam looked around for something to loosen the protruding rock with and found a rusted piece of metal, crooked at one end and a small hole drilled in the other. Just for a second, she found her mind wondering what it had been, but the protruding stone regained her attention. She knelt and worked the metal scrap back into the moss that filled the cracks. With a jolt, the stone moved out a bit more and Miriam excitedly worked the metal scrap in a little further.

With a little work, the rock slid out into her hand. It was heavier than she had imagined, but she carefully laid it down beside her feet. Holding to the top of the wall, she bent down and peered inside the opening where the rock had been. Amidst an indention lined with rotting wood, she saw the shape of what looked like a metal box. She gently worked the rotted wood away from the space it had protected all of these years and lifted out a rusted box, complete with a padlock of equally poor condition.

Carefully, she sat the box on the top of the rock wall. Struggled up the mossy side and held her tiny treasure. “What was in the box,: she thought as she rushed through the empty blackberry vines as they grabbed at her sweater. As she reached the top of the trail, she saw him, breathless, wordless staring at her. Hiding the box beneath her sweater, she whispered a breathless “Hi.” Not knowing what to do, she awaited an answer. None came.

He held out his hand to her and smiled, “Let me help you.” Heart pounding, she held out her free hand and he pulled her to the trail way. “Haven’t seen a brown and white hound dog, have you?” He said. With relief, she shook her head. “Sorry, I sure haven’t.” “Went huntin last night and my best dog didn’t come back to the road this mornin.” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s ok.” she sighed as she regained her composure. “I’m Aaron,.” the young man said. Live down on the horse farm in the cove. Still guarding her treasure box, she looked at him and smiled. “Miriam” she told him. “Just thinking about my younger days, visiting places my grandpa told me about.” “Come by the farm sometime.” He shouted, as he walked on down the path, we’ll go on a horse ride together sometime.”
“I’ll do that, she said, waving as she went back up the mountain. For a moment, her fear had made her forget the treasure box. She made her way on up the hill, anxious to get back to her truck.

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Requiem for a Sycamore and Poplar Tree

March 31, 2013 · Filed under awards and prompts, children, gardening, grandchildren, history, hope, nature studies, nostalgia, seasons, struggles, Uncategorized · Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

Fifteen years ago, my dad had to cut down a Sycamore, giant and majestic, that he had planted when he built the house in the 1950′s. He left a very high stump, which soon sprouted and the new branches, themselves became a problem. They got in the way of power lines, blocked the view of ‘ and the mountains. Everyone fussed at dad, but he continued to just “trim” back the limbs.

Now my son has built a house next to my father and has become concerned that a tall poplar that dad also planted nearly 60 years ago could fall onto the house or damage property if we don’t cut it down. Not only is dad’s heart broken, I find myself grieving it too. I now understand dad’s feelings. It isn’t just a tree, even a majestic tree, it is a collection of memories, a diary of sorts. They are two trees, one ruined, one soon to be that deserved to be giants in some preserved forest. I see both myself and my children gathering sycamore balls, poplar blossoms, the trees were part of what “home” meant”

I have no answer, I have thought of ways to donate the wood and such but have found no affordable options. When I see a tall tree, still safe in the forest, I smile. And, as with the Sycamore tree, I can’t help but hope that sprouts will appear from that immense root system and at least be a reminder of what was and what should be.

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An Irishman’s Laugh

March 17, 2013 · Filed under awards and prompts, children, grandchildren, history, humor, memories, nostalgia, postaday, Uncategorized · Tagged , , , ,

To say that my great grandfather was a n Irishman went back a few generations.  His family began their trip tow hat was the the “colonies” in the 1700′s. Yet, they kept their Irish customs, the Irish brogue and considered themselves ” Irish” despite generations of being in America.

I used to give my grandmother a “Saint Patrick’s Day” card every ear.  It always brought a smile to er face and a good story of her fathers love for the Irish heritage that had been handed down to him largely by oral history.

My grandmother always loved to hear her father’s laugh when something that aggravated him happened.  A a father of 12, he would laugh and ay, “At least I don’t have any red-headed children.”

I always though that was an odd way to be thankful.  As the generations progressed, quite a few red-headed descendants appeared.  I am sure he would have loved them, and with a jolly Irish laugh, think of another way to be thankful for the little things that go right.

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