It may have started with the Great Smog of 1952. I was three, and the air of London had become so polluted from coal-burning fires, that people were dying. There had been smogs before; London’s fogs were famous and they’d … Continue reading
My holiday gift shopping is about halfway done, I think. It’s not easy, with six children, six grandchildren and various other people to buy for. But at least I’ve solved the problem of stocking stuffers, hostess gifts and the like. I have a little stack of Tangerines, so I won’t be caught out wondering what to give the person I forgot about. The tangerines are, of course, copies of Tangerine Tango, the lovely little book that contains some of my work. The book’s available at Amazon in either paper or digital form.
I’ve already written about some of the pieces in the book. Today, I’m going to give you a few samples of the articles about parents. We’ve all had them, and no matter how much we vow we’re never going to become them, it’s amazing how often we find ourselves doing or saying something that could only have been learned from them. I expect my own children have occasional moments like that, poor things.
From the time I was old enough to walk I spent my early days following Daddy around the yard. Each summer evening after supper, he’d leave the inside work behind and tend the flowers and garden. Never mind that he’d just spent all day working in someone else’s greenhouse – this was the work he loved. We’d putter in the yard together. I’d follow along while he carried buckets of water, sifted composted soil and scattered pink fertilizer around the stems of young tomato plants. I learned the names of every kind of petunia, marigold and tomato. Big Boy, Early Girl, beefsteak, and cherry tomatoes, all went into the garden behind our greenhouse. Tiny tomato sprigs that Daddy had painstakingly started in our cellar from seeds back in March were now brave little plants that grew into bushes under our care. At the end of our gardening, there would always be time for a wheelbarrow ride, then sitting in Daddy’s lap in the cool darkness of the porch until bedtime.
Today, I no longer grow tomatoes, but I have flowers. Perennial gardens of Black-Eyed Susan, Sedum and Euonymus edge the house and yard…(the rest is in the book…)
Chris Rosen had this to share about her mother(s):
Born in 1908, Gertrude Smith was a flapper. Barely 5’2” tall, her blonde hair was neatly combed into a Marcel wave ending just below her ear. She told me once or twice, that when she was young she was a “rebel.” Her ancestors were Irish coal-miners, who settled in Scranton, PA. She was widowed three times. Although I wasn’t actually raised by my birth mother, I visited her often and eventually at the age of eleven moved into her home. I was her last child, and these are some of the things she taught me.
“Signs are for sheep.” My mother could always find her way in, around, over or under a problem. She encouraged us to think for ourselves, never to take “No” for an answer, and to always hit back harder when faced with a bully. She did not suffer fools at all. When Nell (who was my foster-mother) and my mother first met as teens, she was sporting a black eye. When asked how she got it, Nell said, “Your mother could swear like a sailor.” They didn’t know then that both women would become my mothers.
“I’ll not only walk again, I’ll dance on your grave!” After losing her husband to a brain tumor, and surviving a near-fatal car accident in that same year, 1949, this is what she had to say to her doctors.
There’s much more to read in Tangerine Tango. Just the book to dip into over the holidays, when a refreshing break in someone else’s world can help pep you up!