Sentimental Sunday

I thought you would enjoy seeing my Family Tree Gallery. This was actually at its first stage. Today it is much larger. As I come across an ancestor (grandparent), I add them to the wall. And there are quite a few now!

This gallery is in a long hall in our home. And it contains photographs of both my ancestors, and my husband's. I always feel great comfort in passing the photographs as I walk by. It's as if they are saying, "I'm so glad you remember us!".

Do you have a place in your home where you hang ancestral photographs?

Sentimental Sunday

Sentimental Sunday

(I am unable to give credit to who took this photograph, I simply saw it on Pinterest, and saw that it had been shared. I was unable to trace its source, but would like to personally thank whoever took it. It brought back a flood of memories!)

When I was a child, I grew up in a home where Mom had to be both Mom and Dad nearly all of the time. Not because my Dad wasn't in the picture. But because my Dad was away serving his country in the US Navy. He was career Navy, and I will ever hold the Navy dear to my heart, as I do the Army (I was an Army wife for 12 years!)

Navy memories grow deep in me. See all of those men and women lined up on the deck? That is how they come into port. Sailors in their dress uniforms. And they were always at parade rest when entering port.

It always amazed me at the accuracy of the timing of the ship's arrival. Mom always made sure we got there early, but almost to the exact minute, you would see the tugs boats come into the harbor guiding those megalithic beasts of ships safely to the pier. And waiting on the pier were the wives and children of the sailor's. There would first be the cry from someone, "Hear they come!" as the tugboat would come into view with the ship. The ship would be slowly guided by tugs and helmsmen safely into its slip at the pier, and the anchor would drop and the ropes tied. You would hear mother's telling their children, "Do you see him? There he is! There's Daddy!"

We would be dressed like we were going to Sunday School! It was a special occasion. Our loved one was coming home from being gone for months at a time. (We once figured out that in my first 16 years of life, my Dad spent all of 18 months at home.) So, I really didn't get to know my dad as a real person (and not just Dad) until after I had married and he retired.

But my Mom, bless her, she never let us go a night without praying for Dad when he was gone. She never let us forget that he was doing his part in the Navy during the Vietnam War. His pictures were placed all about the house. It was as if we knew everything about him, and loved him, but we simply couldn't see him. At that time, letters were the only communication we had with Dad. Yes, there was a time after the pony express when letter writing was still commonly practiced! No cell phones or computers! I know, I'm telling my age!

I wish I could describe, so that you would understand, the excitement that filled the air as we waited for Daddy to disembark from the ship. I don't think a ship ever pulled into port that we weren't able to see Dad standing at the bow.  We would wave and cry out loudly when we saw him. Mom would get all teary-eyed. And when they were finally released for shore leave, Dad would come bounding down the gangplank, and run right to us with arms open wide. "How's my girls?" he would say breathlessly to Mom, my sister and I. And then, just like in the photo above, Dad would suddenly grab Mom, and they would kiss. And I grew up knowing what love looked like. It was that breathless anticipation of waiting for your husband to come home! It was that teary-eyed look when you caught your first glimpse of him! It was that feeling that you have to run to get to your family, because you couldn't stand another moment apart! It was love!

Mommy has passed on now. We weren't ready to let her go, but God knew it was time. And Dad, well, he's surviving. Every now and then he will get teary-eyed and say "Sissy, I miss her so much!", just like Mom would say, "I miss your Daddy so much!" when we were little girls.

And in my mind's eye, I can see Mommy standing on the pier waiting. She isn't alone. She has loved ones all around her, telling her to just be patient, cause the ship will be in shortly! She's waiting for him I know. And for my sister and I, and our brothers, and all the rest of us. She'll be there when the ship arrives with me one day. And I won't be able to hold myself back. When that gangplank drops, I'll come running to her with my arms open wide!  And I'll be home. Where we'll never have to be separated again.

Do you have a sentimental memory which makes you wish you could go back in time and relive? To experience it for the first time all over again? If so, please feel free to share it with us here. We'd love to see your experiences!

Sentimental Sunday

Easter 1964

With Easter fast approaching, I thought it would be fun to take a look at my favorite Easter picture that my Mother took of me.

For those of you too young to know, I was miserable in the double layered can-can slip beneath the dress. They were stiff and held your skirts out into that ever so cute bell shape. The dress was a satiny material with pale baby blue bodice and lace at the neckline. The skirt was of the same material but striped in baby blues, baby pinks and white. My white gloves were bunched in my hands. And my parasol handbag hung on my right at,. You can't see the white lace socks, and white patent leather shoes. You can see the white lace fascinator on my head. (Yes, that's really what they were called. And no decent young lady went to church without something covering her head back in those days!)

I also carried my little Bible with me, which isn't in the photo. It was a hardback Bible with a painting of Jesus and the little children on the cover. My Mother taught me to read with that Bible. And Bible memorization was a HUGE part of my upbringing.

Each Sunday we were dressed in our very best dresses, shoes gloves. If I did not wear a fascinator, I wore a small kerchief looking cloth that was pinned to my hair (we were very strict old school Baptists.) In just a few short years (before 1970 I'm sure) we stopped covering our heads, and went without hats or fascinators or scarves. Times were a'changing.

Mother always got us ready when we were small, and we would have to sit and wait for her to finish getting ready. Ever try to keep a 3 year old and 5 year old sitting still? Well, she would turn on the television. And in those days there were Gospel Singers on television before time for church. We would sit and sing along to the songs we knew. See, it really wasn't that hard to keep us entertained!

When Mother came out dressed, I always thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. And she was stunning. Tall and slender. I didn't realize back then that we didn't have enough money to buy our dresses, and that Mother made them. I just know how much we were always told how pretty our dresses were. Mother had this uncanny ability to look at a catalog picture of a dress, and make it herself to look exactly like the photograph! When I was in high school, I wanted a particular dress for the school prom. It was way out of our budget (I think it was like $50 back then!) Mother told me not to worry. She'd see I had it. And I did! When I arrived at the prom with my date, all of the girls came running. "Oh my goodness! I saw that same dress in the catalog, but my mother said it was too expensive! How'd you get your Mother to buy it for you? Your parents must be made out of gold!" No one ever knew that Mother made that beautiful dress simply by looking at the photograph in the catalog! (Give me a sewing pattern and I can do a good job. But throw down some material and tell me to make a dress, and it's going to come out looking like a potato sack! Ha ha.)

I look at this picture, and I can see my eldest son. I didn't realize how much like me he looked when he was little! Of course he is no longer little (He turns 38 this year!)

Easter was always a fun time with my Mother. Daddy was usually gone (he was full time, career Navy, and was at sea more than he was ever home!). But Mother made it a special time for us. She always made up for Daddy not being there.

Some of my fondest memories of my Mother when I was this age, was playing with Barbie dolls. Still a relatively new doll, my Mother would sit in the floor with my sister and I and play Barbie dolls with us. We didn't have Barbie cars and jeeps and houses back then. So, my sister and I took cereal boxes, and cracker boxes and made Barbie cars (I was favorable to her Cadillac, which a cornflake box made such a nice one!) My sister had Barbie drive a van. Her van was made from a saltine cracker box. Barbie sometimes had a pull camper, which we fashioned from a large oatmeal can. Tins from vegetables were washed and turned upside down, and Barbie had chairs. Mom bought a bag of Barbie shoes for us once. And then sat for days cutting out and sewing together whole wardrobes for Barbie! She even made Barbie handbags to match her outfits! She once took an apple crate, and divided it up into "rooms", and papered every room with a different fabric for wallpaper. And then handmade Barbie furniture! Yep, we had a Barbie house well before Mattel ever thought of it!

And my Mother loved to play jacks with us. Did you ever play jacks? I have such short fat hands, even today, that I am lousy at the game. But I have tried. I don't think I ever could get past fivesies. Mother on the other hand had long slender fingers, and she could scoop up 12 or more jacks at a time! She was the best at it!

I did get to be pretty good with pick-up-sticks. Do you remember those? They were great for hand/eye coordination!

Oh, I wish I had pictures of my Mother doing all these things with us!

I remember one Easter Sunday that started out warm and beautiful. And after church, Mother had made a picnic lunch and we were going to go to the Azalea Gardens and have a picnic and walk the miles of trails. Azaleas were already in bloom, and this had become our yearly thing to do. Well, as we were driving the short couple of miles to the garden, the wind began to pick up. And by the time we arrived, it wasn't only windy, but raining cats and dogs as well! Mother turned from the front seat and looked back at me,'Scoot over Sissy, we're all climbing in the back seat for our picnic!' Without missing a beat, my Mother climbed over the front seat, spread out the picnic blanket and began to open up our lunch basket. We played 'I Spy" and sang songs until the windows were completely fogged up! It was the best picnic I can remember as a child!

I later had a picnic with my husband which was just as exciting. It was Father's Day and I wanted to do something fun. So we were going to go on a hike and then eat a picnic lunch in the state park. It could have been a disaster except for his quick wits, and fun loving self. We decided to eat first. Every picnic table in the park was in use! So, we climbed down the embankment and sat on the river bank and ate. It was all very romantic and sweet! Then he carried our belongings back to car, and we started out on a hike. Just a short 4 mile hike. We were almost a quarter of the way through a long climb, and I was in front, when the ground suddenly fell away from beneath my feet. It was nearly 100-feet to the rocky bottom below us. Somehow I managed to get turned toward the face of the cliff, and got my toes and fingers dug into the shale enough to prevent me from falling any farther than I had. I was about 10-feet below the path. I was scared to death! But he was Mr. Cool. He was on his belly, and was leaning way over the edge and holding onto the back of my pants at the waist! 'Climb!' he commanded. 'Come on and climb! You can do it!' And I did. Because of him I was shaken, but I was unhurt. (You would think in a park as crowded as it had been, there would have been someone who would have come around about then! But nope, we were totally isolated there!) Still, it is one of my favorite picnics with my hubby! Maybe because he was/is my hero!

And my Mother was my hero! Always there to help me. Always there to make me smile. To make me laugh. And to love me.

This Easter will be my second without her. She went to Heaven in July 2015. I look forward to it. But it will never be the same without her there. I still miss her Easter Bunny baskets. And her Easter ham.

And I miss hearing her tell why we celebrate Easter every year. She would read the crucifixion with such sorrow. And then she would read the Resurrection. Her voice became 'jubilant'. That's the only way to describe it! And she loved to hear me sing the Jamie Wilson version of 'Ain't No Grave Can Hold My Body Down'.

Getting closer and closer to that Trumpet Sound Mama! I miss you!

Sentimental Sunday - Grandma Bean

Me, with my Grandma Bean and my baby sister, Eydie

Grandma Mary Elizabeth Faudree Bean

June 03, 1898 - January 01, 1975

Some of my fondest memories are of my Grandma Bean. Here she is holding me, and my baby sister. I was about 24 months here, because Eydie doesn't look to be more than a month or so old. (We were born 22 months apart.)

I can remember going to visit Grandma when I was very little. (She came to live with us when I was only five.)

I would get to sleep in the front parlor, in Grandma's bed with her. There was a big old warm morning stove in there, so in the winter time we stayed toasty warm. Eydie slept upstairs in an attic bedroom with Mom and Dad, and there wasn't any heat up there! Brrr!

When I was about 2, not long after Eydie was born, my cousin, Johnny, and I were playing in the front parlor. And as things happen with little ones, I ended up catching myself on the hot woodstove. My right palm literally burnt to the stove. (They tell me that my Dad had to scrape my palm off the stove with a pocket knife afterward.) I ripped my hand away, and the pain was unbearable! I can remember it hurt so bad that I peed my pants. Now, mind you, I was only about 24 months old, but I was most upset about my peeing my pants than the burn! I cried over that. I remember the pain being so bad, and crying out loudly, 'Mommy, Daddy help me! Anybody help me!' over and over again.)Then I can remember Mommy holding me in the car, while Daddy drove us to Union, to Dr. Guy's. He took us right in. I can still see the place in my memories, and even smell the alcohol antiseptic smell.

Dr. Guy put Silvadene on my hand, and of course, the pain stopped instantly. He bandaged my hand. I remember that the only thing showing was the tip of my thumb, and he told me, "You'll have to get your Mommy to knit a cap for your thumb so it doesn't get cold!" (To this day, my right hand is significantly smaller than the left.)

I remember how fluffy Grandma's bed was. It had a feather tick mattress on it. Daddy would pick me up and toss me into the softness. He'd kiss me goodnight and tell me to scootch all the way over to the far side of the bed (against the wall) so that Grandma would have room to get in when she came to bed.

I remember the living room suite that Grandpa had bought Grandma when they were married. It sat in that front parlor. It was a heavy, dark mahogany color, with chocolate brown horse hair cushions. They weren't soft, but scratchy! Years later Mommy took the set and refinished them, and made all new cushions for them. After I had children, she gave me the set, and I was young and stupid and gave it away. How I wish I still had it!

Grandma would come and snuggle up to me when she came to bed after I did. She would tell me stories, and we would giggle until one or the other of us fell asleep. She was always the first up.

She had a very tiny kitchen by today's standards, but for the time period when the house was built, about 1800, it was large enough. There was room for a wood cook stove, and a small refrigerator, and a work table, and a small standing cabinet. Grandma could make the best biscuits and gravy! And there was nothing that made me happier than when she taught me to bake homemade baked custard! Oh, it was so good!

Grandma didn't have running water. Instead, there was a galvanized pail, and we would walk to the little mountain spring that ran near the house, and where the water bubbled up, we would dip the bucket into the pool of water and carry it back to the house. A metal ladle hung on the side of the bucket once in the house. When you wanted a drink, you simply took the ladle and dipped the water from the bucket and drank from the ladle. The water was always ice cold when it was fresh from the spring. And I remember it had a slight iron taste to it. Not bad, but mineral rich. It was so good!

In what would have been the dining room was another big bed. Here was where my Uncle slept. When he wasn't there, then Mommy and Daddy would sleep there because it had a big stove in that room. Grandma had a big long plank table. My sister still has it today. There was a long bench across the back to sit at the table. And in the front and on the ends were chairs. Grandma kept an oil cloth on the table. Better than any vinyl tablecloth you can buy today! Oilcloth was heavy and lasted a long time. (My Mommy once made me a 'sit-upon' for Girl Scouts using oilcloth and a thin cushion. Everyone was envious of me, because unlike theirs I could tie mine around my waist and never be without a dry, soft seat in the woods.)

In the dining room wall, just above the bed, were three drawers built into the wall. About 24-inches wide, and about 12-inches deep. Perfect for table linens and such. My sister is at this moment having her kitchen remodeled. And she is putting those three drawers into her kitchen wall. I almost cried when she told me that. I didn't even know that they still existed! A small legacy added to her kitchen!

When I was five, my Grandma Bean came to live with us. She wasn't particularly elderly. Well, not by my standards today! Born in 1898, she was 66 when she moved in. We were thrilled to have her!

In the spring, she and I would go out into the lawn and pick dandelion greens. I would still do it today, but I have a dog. So, believe me it's not an option! But today, I always manage to get spring mixed greens that have dandelion in it. For years I made dandelion wine. It was more of a fermented fruit punch, and had to be watered down due to the sweetness. But once it was fermented, it could pack a punch! But that was made with the flowers, and not the leaves.

I can remember Grandma always wearing white canvas sneakers. And they were always spotless. ALWAYS! I learned that she took baby powder and sprinkled it onto the canvas shoes and would rub it in with her powder puff.

She always smelled so good! She wore White Shoulders perfume. I can't smell it now without thinking of her.

She rolled her hair by simply making little rolled up curls around her finger, and then using bobby pins she would pin the curls to her head. Her hair was very fine and thin.

She had the best jewelry ever! Large beaded necklaces, and clip on earrings. Brooches that were so pretty! And when she passed, I received her wedding band. I wore it until 2005, when my niece was getting married, and I passed it on to her. Now she has a daughter who will one day get her great-great-grandmother's wedding band!

I can remember as a little girl asking my Grandma how come she didn't have a Grandpa for me? I remember she touched my face and told me that Grandpa went to heaven before I was even born. I knew about Heaven, and about Hell, by that age. But I couldn't understand why he didn't wait around to meet me or my little sister. Grandma said 'Jesus needed him more.' And with that I was satisfied. (My Grandpa Bean died 5 years before I was born.)

Grandma had once taught a little girl who didn't speak. So she had learned sign language. She tried to teach me, but I was impatient and wouldn't sit still long enough to learn it. Of course, now I wish I had!

Grandma loved to sing with others. One of my favorite memories are of her, and my Grandma and Grandpa Dreher all sitting in the den in our house in Virginia, singing hymns together. I was simply enthralled! Grandpa had a baritone voice, and my two Grandma's were these sweet soprano voices. It was like Heaven opened up for me and I was listening to angels sing! Daddy audio taped it. But eventually the tape disintegrated. I would have loved to have a copy today!

Grandma began to go down pretty fast when we moved back to West Virginia. She was so excited to get here. And when she saw her beloved Peter's Mountain, she knew she was home. We lived half-way between where she grew up, and where she lived with her own family. Mommy and Daddy couldn't have picked a better place.

Then Grandma began to get sick. Her mind began to slip. I was 14 when it started. She would sit for hours on end, and not say a word. The doctors told us she had "hardening of the arteries". They didn't have medication then to combat this. Today, when plaque begins to build in the arteries, your doctor will put you on statins to lower your cholesterol, and usually a lower dose aspirin, if not a blood thinner. But the technology just wasn't there.

Bless my Mommy. When Grandma got down and in the bed, Mommy did everything for her. She couldn't have shown more love if it had been one of her children, rather than her mother-in-law.

One day, Grandma was more lucid than others. She asked to have help to get up. Mommy got her dressed and brought her out into the dining room, where she sat and talked so coherently! She asked Mommy if she would "shingle" her hair. Mommy cut her hair into the many layers she wanted. And while Mommy was cutting her hair, Grandma told of us of a time when she asked my Grandpa to cut her hair. (There was a good difference in their ages, and Grandma always called him 'Mr. Bean' or 'Daddy'.) She said that Grandpa had been clipping away at her hair, at a rather fast pace, when suddenly the scissors dipped and he clipped off the very top of her ear. Well, of course we thought she didn't know what she was saying. But we looked, and sure enough, just the very tip of her right ear had been gone! But she laughed about that. Telling us how worried he was that he had really harmed her.

Because she was so alert that day, Mommy asked her what she would like to eat. Mommy told her to pick anything in the world that she wanted. Grandma said simply "I'd like some popcorn." So, of course, the popcorn popper came out (remember the old electric kettle that you put oil into and popped corn?). Mommy popped a huge large bowl of popcorn. And Grandma ate and ate!

Mommy then asked her if she'd like to call her sister, Aunt Veda, who was the only sibling left of the family at the time. And Grandma got to talk to her sister for the last time. It was October.

That night Grandma went to bed early, as she always did. And we talked about what a wonderful day it had been! When the next morning came around, Grandma didn't know any of us, except for my sister, Eydie.

She was bedfast again. And she gradually grew worse, until in December she was hospitalized twice. On the last time, it was the day after Christmas that she had to be put back in the hospital. We all gathered around her bed. And on December 31st, Mommy asked her if she knew any of us. She knew us all by name, except for my uncle. But she especially knew my sister, who she called her 'baby doll'.

Late that night we left her to go home for a few hours. Not even remembering it was New Year's Eve. And within the first hour of the New Year, the telephone rang. It was the hospital telling us that Grandma had passed peacefully. I think we all regretted we hadn't stayed with her, instead of coming home.

On the 3rd of January 1975, it was bitter cold. The ground couldn't be dug, and they used dynamite to blast a hole open to get to soft enough earth to dig her grave.

Our Pastor, Joe Larue, preached her funeral. It was a beautiful sermon. We cried. But when we stood by the graveside, my sister and I just fell apart. I was 15 then. My Grandma had been part of my life for 10 years, and I didn't want her to go. Even knowing Heaven would be so much sweeter with her there, wasn't a consolation for me then. Mommy and Daddy were busy comforting my sister, and I started to run away from the graveside. I simply couldn't bear the loss. I didn't get far, when dear, dear friends caught me and let me sob in their arms. (They are gone now, too.)

It was hard the first few years when New Year's Day rolled around. Grandma was the first thing I associated with New Year's Day. But many years have passed. I still remember her on New Year's Day, of course, but the memories I have of her throughout the rest of the year are such happy ones, that the sadness is gone.

I've tried to instill in my children the sweet, sweet spirit that my Grandma had. She never spoke badly of a single person. At least not where I ever heard! And others have told me the same thing.

She fiercely loved her family. And she loved God.

I hope that others can say the same of me one day, for that is a spirit to aspire for.

Senitmental Sunday

On the front road, second from the left, is my Uncle Billy Dreher. He now lives in West Virginia. And fourth from the left, is my Aunt Marion, who has passed.

On the back row, from the left, is my pretty Mommy. She was about 5 at this time. Then my Grandmother and my Grandfather.

I love looking at this photograph. There is my Mommy so sweet. And my grandparents so young!

This phot was taken at a Dreher reunion about 1943.

Sentimental Sunday

I probably post more on here about my sweet Mommy than anything else. This is one of the last photographs I ever got the privilege of taking of her. (Lois Velleda Dreher Beane 1938-2015).

I can't help but think of Mommy on Sunday's. My earliest memory of her is being very small (before I was 2 because my sister was born when I was 22 months old, and at this time I was the only baby!), and sitting on her lap. Everyone who knew my Mommy knew she couldn't sing her way out of a tin pail, but she'd certainly try! My memory is of her singing 'Jesus Loves Me'. I recall her telling me the Bible stories of little children. David as he was a shepherd, learning to play his harp, and killing the lion with nothing but his slingshot! Cain and Abel being the first two children ever born on earth! Mary, the mother of baby Jesus, only 13 when she found she was with child. Jesus at 12 astonishing the scholars in the Temple with his vast and curious knowledge.

She told me about Daniel and the lions den, and what the power of prayer could do. Deborah, a prophet and a judge (what? you mean no women's lib?). Ruth and the magnificent love story, not only of Boaz her new husband, but the great love she bore for her mother-in-law, Naomi. (I was so blessed to love my husband's mother! What a great blessing to love someone!)

She recalled Joseph and his coat of many colors, of his brothers throwing him in a pit and covering his coat in blood to trick their father in to believing he was dead. But he was then sold into slavery. And because he was faithful, God brought him up to be the pharaoh's overseer of his house! Talk about a ladder climber!

Then there was the story of the talking ass. The little donkey looked at Balaam and spoke like a man! Balaam believed he had to listen to God then!

Jesus, gathering the little children into His arms saying, "Suffer them to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of God".

Jesus, bringing the dead girl,  Jairus' 12 year old daughter, back to life!

Jesus healing the sick and the lame.

Jesus causing the cripple man to pick up his bed and walk.

Jesus spitting in the clay and causing the blinded man to see.

Jesus teaching us how to pray.

Jesus dying on a cross (I always cried, and I probably always will). Being buried in a dark, cold tomb with a huge stone placed at the opening.

Jesus, rising from the dead on Easter Sunday. I always got goosebumps from that! (Again, I probably always will!)

Can you see a theme here? Mommy taught me about Jesus. About becoming a Christian. Reading the Bible to me every night. Making sure my prayers were said. Making sure I was in Sunday School and Church, and to Bible School every summer. And lastly in a Christian school.

20 years before she passed away, Mommy had a brain aneurysm. The repair to the aneurysm caused her to have multiple strokes. It robbed her of many parts of her memory. Short term memory became almost none at all. But she could tell you the day she accepted Jesus into her heart. And she could remember the words to so many hymns and sang along when I'd sing for her. She remembered every day to say her prayers, although sometimes it would be nothing more than "God, I don't know how to pray today, but You know what I need and those I love needs. Amen." She said grace for every meal, "Come Lord Jesus be my guest, Share this food that God has blessed. Amen." And she read her Bible every single morning of her life. Sometimes she could read only a single verse, others she would read all day long.

She couldn't always remember my name, but she'd say, "There's my little girl!"

Mommy had to retire when her aneurysm ruptured 20 years before her death. But prior to that, she was the director of a county council on aging. If you are familiar with that program, you will know that they do everything in their power to make the lives of the senior citizens in their area more comfortable. They provide so many services, that I can't begin to name them all. Many times Mommy would go to work at 4 or 5 in the morning, and not be home until well after dark. She'd had to take someone to a physician's appointment, because there was no one else to do it. Or she'd load up a van, and take those more able, on a trip to the seaside, or to a museum, or to an outdoor drama.

And it wasn't just her job. Mommy tried to help anyone who asked for it, or who she saw had a need. If there was a death, Mommy cooked up a load of food and took to the family. She even packed boxes of her home canned vegetables and took to those who were without. I've seen her "clean out the house" for someone who had lost everything in a fire. I've seen her help a new widow who didn't know where to turn to. I've seen her take charge as a Christian scout team for the church's children. Taking the teens to outings. Teaching Sunday School. Pass out commodities to the community.

I've seen her come home from work and take my five little children all home with her, even though she was tired, just so I could study for nursing school. And she'd keep them overnight so I could study without interruption as long as I needed.

I've seen her offer her last dollar to a man who said he needed something to eat, that was standing on a street corner. I've seen her offer a bum a cup of hot coffee and a free meal in a diner, just because he looked hungry. I once saw her take her coat off and give it to a woman who was walking down town with 3 little babies. They were bundled warmly, but the woman didn't have a coat, and she was shivering so badly. Mommy didn't hesitate. She pulled her coat off and put it over the woman's shoulders. The woman told Mommy she couldn't take her coat, but Mommy insisted. Even though she'd have to stop at a store and buy herself another before she could get home.

I've listened to Mommy give her testimony in church. She told of how she'd been unable to talk until she was 11 years old. She had a bit of an odd sounding voice, and she was often asked, "You have a strange accent, where are you from?" Mommy would always smile, and say, "from Indiana". Truth is, my Mommy was a walking talking miracle. She was born without a voice box (larynx). Even the physicians couldn't believe she could speak. Xrays confirmed this diagnosis. I've seen them myself. When she was 11, Mommy was sent away to school to learn to talk. She was taught how to speak by vibrating her tongue against the roof of her mouth. They would put marbles in her mouth, and she would try to make sounds around the vibrating marbles. Eventually they would remove the marbles one at a time, over an extended period, until she was actually talking without a voice box! Today there are other mechanisms, even an artificial larynx, that can be used. But back in the 1940's, there simply wasn't much in the way of help. But she was able to speak so lovely! (Can you imagine the health codes today if someone were to try to teach someone with a mouth full of marbles?)

Mommy had many health problems during the course of her life. Including being born premature. She weighed only 2 pounds at birth. Her father wouldn't even hold her until she was six months old, because the doctor had told him that she would die. But Grandma put her in a shoebox lined in flannel, and would heat bricks and placed them in flannel around the shoebox. She made an incubator thus. And Mommy thrived!

She was pronounced dead at one time. And she had an out of body experience when it happened. I was away in Europe at the time, so I was not witness to her miraculously coming to. Much less being able to tell everyone every word that was spoken, even what they had been doing while she was dead. And she told of the beautiful white light, and family members she could see. And the sudden rush back to her body, and the longing to stay in the light.

I've seen her so sick and tired all she could do was fuss. (That year she tried to pass off some garland on a palm tree as the Christmas tree, if not for my sister and I our little brothers wouldn't have had a Christmas tree that year!) I've heard her say things she regretted later. She wasn't a saint. And she was far from perfect.

But, like most children, my Mommy was perfect for me. And for my sister and brothers.

Well, I've said enough about Mommy. I've got to go and find the tissues. After all, I'm just a sentimental old fool.  And this Sunday, I'm missing my Mommy.

Sentimental Sunday

Way back when I was a child, it was customary to have the minister and his family over to your home every so often, for Sunday dinner. It gave the pastor's wife the chance to rest without cooking, and helped you to really get to know your minister as well.

My family was no different. I often remember Mom having the pastor to Sunday dinner.

When I was younger, Mom would fry up two chickens ahead of time and then warm them in the oven before serving them. (We didn't have a microwave until after I got married!) She'd often serve baked beans, or pinto beans as a side dish. Cornbread of course, Maybe potato salad, or macaroni salad. Some greens. Sweet tea. And a cake for dessert.

Back then, unless you went to the butcher and had it cut up, your chicken came whole. The neck and giblets (liver, heart, and gizzards) came stuffed into the cavity of the bird.

It would start out looking like this:

And it ended up looking like this:

Today, it's almost a lost art to find someone who can actually cut up a chicken correctly. The above is done correctly. When cut correctly, a single chicken can feed a family of four to six without anyone leaving the table hungry.

It was my Daddy who taught me how to cut up chicken. He said he used to cut it up for my Grandma when he was growing up. So whenever he was away at sea, it became my official/unofficial job to cut up the chicken for Mama to cook.

And my Mama, who had little talent in the cooking department, could do this superbly! I loved her fried chicken!

Mama used her electric skillet. She said it was because she could set the exact temperature on it, and get the chicken to come out cooked crispy on the outside, but tender and juicy on the inside. And she certainly knew her strengths in that department, because this is about the only thing Mama made repeatedly for the Pastor, until I got older.

As a teen we moved to the country. And Mama's Sunday dinner for the pastor changed. She cooked pinto beans in the pressure cooker with some ham, or ham pieces. And my skills were still needed. It was my job to always make the cornbread.

To suit Mama, the cornbread had to be the only recipe she knew. I wasn't supposed to try anything different. Her recipe worked, and wasn't no sense trying to fix something that wasn't broke!

It had to be baked in a well seasoned skillet. (I still use Mama's skillet to this day!)

After it was baked, it was allowed to cool for a few minutes, then inverted on plate and sliced for serving before placing it on the table.

Everyone loved that cornbread. Even the pastor. (One Sunday he preached about a woman's virtue's, and used my cornbread as an example. I was 15, and tried not to get a big head over it, but at 15 I couldn't help but be proud of it!)

The recipe? I'll never forget it. It's about as simple as it comes. And no, it's not the healthiest version, but it is the tastiest!

Preheat the oven to 350-degrees.

Mix together:
1 cup stone ground cornmeal (the really gritty stuff)
1 cup self-rising flour
2 Tbsp. granulated sugar
In a separate bowl mix 1 -1/2 cup of sweet milk or buttermilk and 2 eggs. Then mix with dry ingredients.
Place the skillet on the stove burner and melt 1/2 cup lard in the skillet (yes, I said lard). Once melted, swirl the liquid lard all around the interior of the skillet, and poor off the liquid into cornbread mixture and stir well.
Pour the batter into the skillet.
Bake for 20-30 minutes, until golden, and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Thank you Mama. It's still the best cornbread I've ever eaten!

Sentimental Sunday

My baby girl, 32, has left the nest. Again. She has moved out several times, but has needed her Dad and I to help out, and come back home for love and support. But this time, I think she's moved out for good.

A beautiful young lady, Crystal was born in 1984, in the post hospital at Fort Stewart, Georgia. The youngest of my five children.

She may have been spoiled a bit more than the others (I think Mother's tend to do that with either their eldest or their youngest for some reason). But she is generous to a fault. If needed, she would give you her very last dime.

Smart, witty, and fun to be around, we have an especially close relationship. And I am feeling the empty nest harshly for the first time. I wonder just how many quick selfies like the one above we will have from now on.

I miss her already.

Sentimental Sunday

This is a rare photograph, if not the only photograph, of my Mom's family all together at once.

Mom was the youngest of five children. The eldest was 14 years older than Mom, and she used to recall her brother Billy as being the one to whom she was closest, as he was only 2 years older.

The photograph was taken with a Kodak Instamatic camera about 1968. It is a little fuzzy, but I treasure it still.

From left to right:
My grandpa, Henry C. Dreher (1902-1977)
Ethel Dreher McCutchen (1924-2012)
Arthur C. Dreher (1926-2013)
Laura Marion "Maryann" Dreher Grose (1931-2006)
Billy Leon Dreher (b. 1936)
Lois Dreher Beane (1938-2015)
My grandma, Irene Banet Dreher (1906-1989)

The occasion was the only family reunion I remember Mom's family having. My grandparents lived on a farm then, and we all camped about in one way or another to stay. Little Indian River ran through the property and we swam for hours! We also canoed. And we had a giant fish fry! I remember Mom being the fish "fryer". Dad had caught a big old catfish, and Mom was frying it up, and it flipped out of the skillet (any of you fisherpeople know what I'm talking about when you fry fresh fish!). It landed on Mom's foot, and as I recall blistered it pretty good.

It was such a precious time! If I could revisit a time in my life when "all was well with the world", this would be it!

Do you have such a time you would like to be able to revisit? If so what would you do differently, if anything.

I would sit down and ask my Grandpa more questions about his family. I'd love to find about more about his grandparents and great-grandparents.

Yep, it was a great time!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Sentimental Sunday - All Those Orphan Photos

I am sure I am not alone when I say I collect the photographs of my family. I have, literally, thousands. And, of course, along the way, there have been those photographs which were unidentifiable. Oh, they came from numerous sources. They were, perhaps, found in a box of grandmother's old photographs; or Uncle's tobacco box after he passed away; or tucked in some distant cousins Bible.

I cannot bear to part with any of them, thinking that perhaps one day I will find the identity of these individuals. And so, for the next few weeks, I will be posting some of this collection on Sentimental Sunday's. I can't think of a more appropriate title!

Unknown Woman