How Do You Promote Your Events?

Several years ago I had a speaking engagement out of town. It was a great a time of fellowship with some truly wonderful ladies and I learned a little something about advertising as well.

There were about 160 coming in the doors for a light supper followed by my talk (My Ship's Come In But It's An ARK!). Many came up to me to say hello and I thought it was because I stuck out in my bright peach suit. I chose it to wear so that I would look "springy" and fit in with their theme. But then one lady allowed for a much better explanation.

"Hi!" she said. "You must be our speaker. I recognize you from the ladies room."

"The ladies room?" I hadn't been there yet.

She nodded. "Yes. Your picture has been on the back of the stall doors for weeks."

How do you promote your events?

Act of Love Remembered

[A story from my days as a florist. Love this memory]

Funny how things sometimes just pop into your mind for no apparent reason at all. It happened to me Sunday morning in church. I don't know what triggered the memory chips but I suddenly remembered a customer I used to have when I owned a flower shop.

The gentleman was in his 70s maybe early 80s and was a retired dentist. At first when he came in for what became his weekly visits, he would only choose a small bouquet of flowers or a small arrangement. I imagined he was courting someone. He would say things like, "She likes yellow flowers," or "She'll like the smell of these."

As time went by, some personal information was exchanged. That's how I learned he had been a dentist. It was in March when we were talking that I learned the truth about his lady. It was his wife. We shared a birthday--St. Patrick's Day.

One day he phoned to say he was not going to be able to make it into the store to pick up his flowers. I don't remember the reason. I believe he might have been ill. He asked if we would deliver them. I was excited to think I would finally meet this lady who was so adored she received a weekly bouquet of flowers. When he gave the address, my heart stood still a moment. It was a home for Alzheimer's patients.

The secret out, he said sadly, "She won't know who they are from even with my name on them, but I know she will enjoy them."

There is probably a wonderful love story there but I think Nicholas Sparks may have written one already--The Notebook. I fondly remember the dentist. May God richly bless those whose love goes beyond what life may cruelly hand to them.

Are You A Souvenir Shopper?

True confession: I hate shopping. I know. I feel like I'm a traitor to my gender but I've never much cared for shopping of any kind. I joke that I'd rather stay home and clean toilets than go grocery shopping. And shopping for clothes? I hate the trying on and the thumbing through racks of stuff that rarely looks good to me. So when it comes to souvenir shopping, well, I did it as a chore for a while.

I do on occasion buy a souvenir though when we travel. For a while I decided that I should collect something special. After all, everyone else had all sorts of collections--dolls, Lladro figurines, bells, spoons, etc. I was feeling the peer pressure. That was when I decided to combine my love of wood with starting a collection of wooden souvenirs from the places we visited.

Along the way I accumulated enough wooden pieces to get a good bonfire going. I did set limits though. The piece had to be from wood native to the country and made by an artisan of the place. I found a boomerang made by an Aborigine in Australia, a canoe carved by a fellow in Papua New Guinea, two wooden shepherd carvings (one for each trip) from Oberammergau, Germany, a knot of wood that looks like a heron from Mexico, a vase of mahogany from an island in the Caribbean (can't remember which one now) and the list goes on with much less impressive pieces.

I knew I was getting into trouble when in a rush to buy a wooden souvenir from one of the Caribbean islands I found later, when I turned it over, it bore the mark "Made in Costa Rica." A few years later we actually visited Costa Rica. I decided I didn't need a souvenir. Already had one.

Today, I have started discarding some of the less meaningful wooden souvenirs. They were purchased because, well, I had to have a souvenir. Didn't everyone? I no longer buy souvenirs just to have something from each place we visit. I'm not home enough to look at them. I don't need the extra work dusting them off. And since they don't really mean much to my kids, I could envision them starting their own bonfire with them.

Pass the marshmallows, please.

It Don't Mean A Thing. . .

Sometimes a song gets stuck in your head. I can understand that especially if you happen to hear that infamous Disney World song that shall remain nameless so it doesn't start replaying in our heads. What I don't understand is how I can wake up with a song in my head. There's been nothing I know of that's triggered it.

Now once in a while I've gotten up in the morning with a hymn or chorus to a hymn stuck there. I figure that might be because the first thing I do in the morning is have my devotions. If my mind is set on scripture and prayer then of course it would make sense for a melody like that to start my day off. Not the case the other morning. I woke up to It Don't Mean A Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing. Huh??

Now there's not a whole lot of words to that song as I can see but the Duke says all you gotta do is sing and it doesn't matter if it's sweet or it's hot--or was that not? Not would fit since I don't always sing on tune. And rhythm? Well, I may have had some at sometime years ago. These mornings though, it's gonna take a lot more to get all my joints going just to get me to the coffee pot.

It was a nice start to the day that morning though. There was a little lighter step in my day--a little swing maybe like in the days when I could actually dance.

Enjoy the youtube play. Maybe you'll get a little lift to your step today too.

My Mother's Great Adventure

{Lots of smiles every time I remember this story.]

Mother's Day is around the corner and maybe that's why my mother's been in my thoughts lately. I think I owe a lot of my travel itch to her. When we were little, Mom used to pop us into the car and we'd "get lost." I'm still not sure if we were literally lost on those day trips or if she just did that to make it adventuresome. With my mom, it was hard to know. She was a great storyteller. (I think I owe that to her as well.)

Today I had to cross over a bridge to get to the Lowe's I was headed for. The bridge always brings back memories of visiting my uncle who lived on the other side about 20 minutes from our house although at my young age then, it seemed like hours. The bridge has been modernized. Gone are the iron rails that I remember, replaced with concrete sides, but the memory of our first trip over that bridge with Mom driving lingers.

Mom may have had a learner's permit--or not. Dad was teaching her how to drive which in itself must have been quite a feat for their marriage to survive. We had a stick-shift Chevy. (Dad was a Chevy man all the way). It was the weekend and Dad had decided to go fishing. I'm guessing that there was a little tension over that because Mom decided she wanted to go visit my uncle and his family and she still didn't have her driver's license.

Mom packed my brother who was about 2 or 3 and myself (I was about 7) into the car and we headed out to Uncle Harry's house. I don't remember Mom having any trouble until she spotted a couple of policemen directing traffic at a crossroad near our destination. She panicked a bit, popped the clutch at the wrong time and stalled the car in the middle of the intersection. She then proceded to flood the engine in her haste to get it restarted.

Now as Mom embellished the story, she said, "The cop got in the car and tried to start it again. He sniffed the air--I think to see if I'd been drinking because my face was so red. I told him the baby (my brother) stood up (no child restraints back then). He and his partner then pushed me off to the side of the road and told me to take it easy and try to start the car in a few minutes. Thankfully, they never asked to see my license. The car started again and I made it to Harry's."

Joe and I were threatened with "death" if we told, but eventually the story came out. And I later learned that she tried to get Uncle Harry to drive her back but he wouldn't. He also wouldn't give her an alternate route. Now I'm not sure if she went back the same way. I suspect that might have been the first time we "got lost."

A Three Year Old's View of DIsney

[Our grands have grown a lot in the nine years since I wrote this.]

As I sat one afternoon waiting for a parade to begin in the Magic Kingdom, I was talking with my three year old grandson, Caleb, and I suddenly realized that sitting down, I was just about his height. What was it he was seeing? I snapped the picture on the right. He was seeing lots and lots of legs. Nondescript legs. Some had jeans, some were bare to the length of their shorts. How in the world can a child be absolutely sure he has the right pair belonging to his own parent?

Actually I ran into that problem with our youngest, Annalise (18 months). She desperately wanted into the arms of the man standing next to me who had an almost identical red striped Polo shirt as my son. "Sorry, honey," I soothed, "right shirt, wrong daddy."

Imagine meeting the Disney characters when you are three and only about three feet tall. That would be like one of us at six feet tall looking up at a furry costumed giant of 12 feet or more. "And they want me to turn around with my back to this guy and smile?!"

The kids do catch a break in the restrooms. Disney is one of the most handicapped friendly places I've ever seen. There are lots of low sinks where a three year old can feel like giant as he washes his hands and reaches for towels.

I applaud the pluckiness of three year olds. Although there's a little fear and trepidation, they plod ahead and stretch their imaginations and their anxiety levels. Disney's counting on it.

For A Woman (Or Man) Your Age

[Another look back at a post from 2005. I'm a little better getting my checkups now. At my age, I have to be.]

My husband's very faithful about getting his yearly checkup with the doctor. I'm not as good. After skipping a couple of years, I decided to bite the bullet and make the appointment. Part of the problem was that the doctor I was really beginning to feel comfortable with moved out of town. (Hope it wasn't because of me.)

I found another doctor much closer to home and covered under our insurance policy (gotta love those insurance agencies). The appointment went well. I gave blood at the lab and signed up for the mammogram and, at the suggestion of the doctor, a bone density test. The bone density is so that we will have a base line to judge whether or not my bones are thinning or I'm just shrinking from drying out in the hot sun (I wish--we have 12" of snow today).

When Bob comes home from the doctor's office, he's usually a little agitated because the doctor uses the phrase, "...for a man your age."

"What is that supposed to mean," he rants. "For a man your age. You just don't want to hear 'for a man your age'."

I generally humor him and soothe the bear in him with some chocolate chip cookies.

So, the other day, I finally get my report on my bone density test and what does it say? "You have normal bone density FOR A WOMAN YOUR AGE."

Where are those chocolate chip cookies?

The Lone Sneaker

There it was in the middle of four lanes of traffic--the lone sneaker--sitting forlornly on the cold pavement waiting to tell its story. How does one sneaker find itself in the middle of a street separated from its mate?

• It was tossed out the window as a joke by a passing car full of teens
• It held on to the roof of the car where someone had rested it while they opened the door and then finally fell off exhausted, bouncing across the asphalt until finally coming to rest against the median strip (the mate fell off earlier)
• A dog, thinking it great fun to tease his master, ran off with it in his mouth only to become confused by the traffic and dropped his prize in the middle of the street

So many possibilities stream through the mind when you wonder how one lone sneaker can end up in the middle of the street. But wait--perhaps the sneaker chose to sit there and watch life fly by speculating on where all the cars are going.

It's Another Birthday

It’s a simple math problem. How many decades are in a century? First you have to know that there are a hundred years in a century and a decade is made up of ten years. So there are ten decades in a century. Today I turn 7/10 of a century old. To put it another way, I’ve lived for seven decades. Or I’m beginning the eighth decade. Any way you look at it it’s a long time.

I don’t mind too much. Every day that I’m vertical and can put one foot in front of the other I’m thankful. It’s been an interesting experience, this aging thing that is. It was a shock a while ago to look into the mirror and wonder if I might be turning into a Dalmatian. Since I’ve always been an outdoors type person it was only logical that I would eventually get age spots. I hoped that they would look like freckles but that was not to be. Yup, more like a Dalmatian.

I always heard that gravity was the enemy but now I know it firsthand.

A new acquaintance, Arthur Ritis as one of the characters in my novel says, is letting me know he’s around. Some days a little more than others.

I still have all my teeth! If I were a horse that would be worth something. I even have all my wisdom teeth much to my dentist’s dismay. He finally tired of me saying “If it ain’t broke, don’t try to fix it.”

We have a rule around our house. We don’t discuss our meds, the number we have to take or what our newest ailment is with others. That’s old people talk and even though we have both reached that seven decade mark, we don’t need to bore others with our aches and pains. Theirs are probably worse than ours anyway.

As I lathered up my legs the other morning to shave I wondered if I would still be doing this in my eighth decade (should I be so lucky to make it that far). Shouldn’t there be a cut off year where shaving isn’t necessary? Haven’t I reached that yet? 

Of course one of the things that bothers me the most is being called elderly. It hasn’t happened to me personally yet but every time I see a newscast that talks about someone in their sixties and labels them elderly I want to shout, “No! Not elderly!” Old or older maybe, but elderly just adds insult to injury. Does seven decades qualify? I hope not.

So, I’m getting older. I’ll go kicking and screaming into the next decade and be thankful that I can kick and scream although I can’t kick as high as I once did and screaming never got me anywhere. And I’ll be thankful that I have someone to share this next decade with for as long as we can. At seven decades though we don’t take out long warranties for anything we buy.

Did I mention I got a bit wiser along the way? A little more wisdom is the greatest gift of counting more birthdays. You tend to understand a bit better what’s important and what really isn’t. Age—not so important. Enjoying the age, yes.

Now if I could just remember where I put my keys, my sunglasses, and oh yes, what was your name?

Laughter - The Best Medicine

[Another look back at a really early post]

Well, it is confirmed. Laughter truly is the best medicine. I knew that! Now we have real proof. According to the reports on the news, researchers have found that the arteries widen when we experience laughter thereby putting our blood supply to the heart and brain at a healthier level.

Now come the complications. Does this mean that the theater will charge more for a comedy than an action movie? Will comedians demand more money? Will they have to be licensed as health care givers? Will this open the doors to a private specialty practice? Will malpractice insurance be available should they fail to treat the patient with a sense of humor?

And, what does this do for all those tort lawyers? I can see the commercials now. "If you, or someone you love, saw Vin Diesel in The Pacifier, and it failed to make you laugh, your arteries could have been seriously damaged. Call us. We can help you recover financially."

Now, that's funny.

There's A Thorn In My Side

It's Christmas time and I cannot help but remember my mother at this time of year. She was Mrs. Christmas, Mother Christmas, Grandma Christmas. Whatever name you want to apply. She thrived on colored lights, lit candles, wrapping paper and bows, cards, pine trees and trimming, hand knit Christmas stockings, and the list goes on.

Mom passed away thirty years ago but that first Christmas after her funeral in September still pierces my heart. About a month before Christmas, I received a call from a friend of hers who said she didn't know what to do with some gifts my mother had ordered from her. Mom had bought seven light weight jackets, one for each of our kids and Bob and I, and asked her to embroider our names and the name of our sailboat on the jackets. They were all finished and paid for if I wanted to pick them up. I did. And I wrapped them and experienced the most bitter sweet moment of my life when we unwrapped gifts that year.

While time has passed--lots of time, there is still that little pinch each year at this time. I know there are many others who go through the same emotion each year because of losses in their lives. I spoke with a man recently who lost his wife several years ago and couldn't understand why it still hurt so much. For some reason the verse in 2 Corinthians 12 came to mind where Paul talks about having a thorn in his flesh.

Sorrow and grief is kind of like that. It pokes us at times and often when we don't expect it even if it's been many years since our loss. Like a thorn that's been embedded in the flesh, it hurts a lot at first, then lessens but every so often, it pinches us again but as God told Paul, "My grace is sufficient for you."

The memories God has graced me with of my mother make that pinch of grief bearable. So I will think of Mother Christmas and all her quirky ways of showing her love through our holiday season and thank God for her. We've all outgrown our jackets but we'll never outgrow the memories.

Futile Fridays

It's not just wandering the world that makes me a writer wandering. I also do a lot of ruminating. Writers need that. It develops plot lines, characters, and quandaries for characters. It also leads to thinking more deeply about life and the journey--or not. Take the case of Friday.

Friday used to be a great day. It was something to look forward to each week. It signaled the end to a lot of chaos created by kids, school, work, schedules, etc. On Friday everything seemed to ease off and even though there might be some things planned for a weekend, it still meant some time of rest or at least a break from routine was coming.

The kids grew up, left home, and routines changed--a bit. There was still a hubby to get off to work and Friday was still a time to look forward to. The weekend meant a couple of mornings to sleep in and time to spend together. And then came retirement.

Don't get me wrong. I love that we are retired. I love that we have all of our days together now--well, mostly I love that. Sometimes I do miss a little "me time" and pushing my own grocery cart around the store. But retirement has made Friday just a day like any other. Actually, it is less attractive because many of those working people are out and about and making popular places a lot more crowded.

Gone are the days of the Friday movie date. Instead we enjoy Senior Mondays at the movies. We sleep in whenever we want to although we do keep to a routine somewhat. Like Bob's favorite saying," When you're retired you can't tell when you are on vacation," it's hard to differentiate between a weekday or a weekend.

So you see Friday is kind of futile except for football season when it signals a football Saturday and usually a football Sunday. Go Bucks! Go Browns! Maybe Friday's not so futile after all.

The Best Of . . .

There are some nights it's hard for me to fall asleep and I try everything from counting up and down to a hundred in English and German to making up story lines for another novel. The other night I tried something different-listing the best ofs, biggests, etc., in our travels. Here's some of what I came up with.

The best cup of coffee -- Singapore McDonald's. Really! It was a cappuccino in a large ceramic cup with a beautiful design drawn in the milky froth. On the other hand, the most expensive cup of coffee was in Venice where we paid $15 USD because we didn't know a cover charge was included.

The best road trip -- While Ireland and the National Parks were wonderful I'd have to say New Zealand wins this one. (Even though, my friend, we had to fly to get on the road.)

The most romantic meal -- Our anniversary dinner on the Piazza Navona in Rome. We ate at one of the outdoor cafes and listened to wandering musicians. I can't remember what we ate but I remember the beautiful night and the lovely music.

The biggest thrill--I know. To many of you this is probably not so thrilling but it was a challenge for me. Climbing the Sydney Bridge.

The best view from a hotel room--This will probably sound crazy but on one visit to Las Vegas we were upgraded to a better room at Ceasar's and we had a window that went from floor to ceiling and could see down the Vegas Strip. It was a spectacular view at night. We don't usually book rooms with a view in order to save money.

The largest hotel bathroom--I would have to say the Marriott in Quito, Ecuador, wins here. While we have had several beautiful hotel rooms on precruises, the one Celebrity put us in for our Galapagos trip was amazing. A suite, it had a sitting room, a huge bedroom, and a bathroom that had a tub, a shower, two sinks and enough room for a dozen people.

The smallest bathroom--Gotta watch those old English bed and breakfasts. I can't remember which one it was, but I do remember a bathroom obviously tucked into what used to be a closet. You had to leave the door open while you brushed your teeth because you couldn't bend over the sink otherwise.

The most expensive meal--This is a tie in my mind between a meal we had in Venice where we were told the seafood dinner for two was the special of the day but weren't told the price and then the evening we went up in the Eiffel Tower for dinner. Ah, but the view was terrific and the food tasty.

Well, that's a bit of what I came up with before I finally fell asleep. What would your list look like?

Lost In Translation--Made Up For In Smiles

One of my favorite signs in English I've seen as we travel is one that was actually truth-in-advertising. In Turkey just outside of Ephesus where local merchants were displaying their wares there was a large sign hung over a display of watches. It read, "Genuine Fake Watches." Here are some signs seen by others that locals translated into English for the tourists.

• At a Budapest zoo: PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS. IF YOU HAVE ANY SUITABLE FOOD, GIVE IT TO THE GUARD ON DUTY.
• Information booklet about using a hotel air conditioner in Japan: COOLES AND HEATES: IF YOU WANT CONDITION OF WARM AIR IN YOUR ROOM, PLEASE CONTROL YOURSELF.
• On the grounds of a Nairobi private school: NO TRESPASSING WITHOUT PERMISSION.
• In a Mumbai restaurant: OPEN SEVEN DAYS A WEEK, AND WEEKENDS TOO.
• In a Tokyo bar: SPECIAL COCKTAILS FOR THE LADIES WITH NUTS.
• Advertisement by a Hong Kong dentist: TEETH EXTRACTED BY THE LATEST METHODISTS.
• Advertisement for donkey rides, Thailand: WOULD YOU LIKE TO RIDE ON YOUR OWN ASS?
• The box of a clockwork toy made in Hong Kong: GUARANTEED TO WORK THROUGHOUT ITS USEFUL LIFE.

Travel is never boring. I can only imagine the chuckles we English-speaking tourists bring to others when we try to speak in their language.

My, How Flying Has Changed

As I continue to weed through old files on my computer and reorganize them I'm finding things I started and never finished. Some are vignettes of trips long ago. Here is one I started about a trip to Disney back in 1983 or 1984. Air travel is certainly different today. Do you see the significant change?

WELCOME TO THE FRIENDLY SKIES

 

            The plane bumped as it taxied to the runway. Don’s head was glued to the window. From behind I could see the deep dimple in the side of his cheek. The pilot’

s announcement that we were ready for take off sent the stewardesses scurrying to their seats.

            Andy kept readjusting Don’s head so he could see out the window. As we started down the runway, Andy held his watch up to check the time, I supposed—no it was to time the take off. I smiled.

            “Look, Don, we’re in the air.”

            “Yeah,” Don nodded. “That side too!”

            Scientifically, Andy noted that we were now flying between two cloud layers. If his older brother, Rob, were sitting here, he would be naming the types of clouds and spouting the average temperature outside and probably calculating the humidity at this altitude. I glanced down the aisle. Rob was buried in a book. His twin, Ron, however, hormones surging was zeroing in on available girls in the right age range.

            I knew I had made the right seat choice as I noticed Cheryl leaning across the aisle, asking questions of her dad. He would probably be asleep soon and wouldn’t even hear her anymore. Her constant line of questions would have driven me crazy.

            My ears popped again. The roar of the jets changed as we reached cruising altitude and leveled off. The no-smoking sign went off.

            Frantically, the smokers around me began to light up. I took one quick breath of fresh air before the cloud of smoke settled in.

            We played musical chairs as the family vied for the one window seat we had gained. Rob took his turn as we neared Orlando. His running commentary on geography and topography kept Andy entertained until landing. 

So does anyone miss the cigarette smoke? Not me!

How Do You Hug A Six Foot Teenager?

The date on this essay is 1986. The son I wrote about is now 40+ and is facing the beginning of the teenage years with his son. I smiled when I found this as I was cleaning out old files. My grandson is eyeball to eyeball with his mom and won't be long before dad probably finds himself there as well.

HOW DO YOU HUG A SIX-FOOT TEENAGER?

When did it happen? My nineteen-inch baby suddenly grew to seventy-two inches. Sixteen years doesn’t seem like such a long time now. I wonder. Will it take me another sixteen to get used to this new size?

I smile as I remember my 5’3” mother coping with a 6’1” teenager—my brother. We had three steps up to the kitchen from the side door entryway. When she needed to emphasize her authority as the parent, she would catch him before he got up the stairs, blocking his path in the narrow door until he understood the message.

I have no steps so I need to find other creative ways of dealing with our new size difference. I’m a little taller than my mother but I still get a crick in my neck standing next to my son while talking to him.

In his book, “How to Love Your Teen,” (Campbell?) emphasizes the importance of eye contact with your children. Establishing eye contact is probably the most important way of seeing the love. It shows in another’s eyes. I want to be sure he sees that love in mine so I try to find ways of being “eyeball to eyeball” whenever I can.

Touching is another important part of parenting. A loving touch expresses warmth and concern that words could never reveal. Head patting does tend to go out of style as they begin to stretch skyward, but a hand placed fondly on the arm adds the emphasis of concern and love and brings even greater attention to what you are saying.

Touching a teen can bring an unexpected response in a parent also. In a moment of pride for an idea my son expresses, I reached up to cup his face in my hands and tell him how wonderful I thought his idea was. As my hands touched his face, my words were lost in confusion. My hands were touching the face of an adult male with a “three o’clock” shadow not the baby soft skin I remembered.

A bumper sticker proclaiming “Give hugs, not drugs” made me realize that the taller my son was getting, the less I was hugging. But, then, how do you hug a six-foot teenager?

I started a hugging campaign. “Ron, I love you,” I said when he came home from school that afternoon reaching out to stop him for a hug. Awkwardly, he bent over to hug me and I felt myself going on tiptoes to reach his neck.

Next I tried the old “sit next to him on the couch” approach to sneak a hug. That seemed to work a little better. He didn’t have to bend over so far.

I found a one-arm technique around his middle worked pretty well. But, somehow, it didn’t seem to convey the kind of affection we once expressed when he was able to climb up on my lap, wrap his arms around my neck and put his head on my shoulder as I embraced him in a full bear hug.

The little boy is still there inside the body of the man he is becoming. I hope a part of him will always remain. I hope the man will never outgrow the need for hugs. I know his parents won’t.

How do you hug a six-foot teenager? I’m not sure. I just know you do.

Traveling Back In Time - WWII Nylon Stockings

I grew up wearing nylons. They were never silk stockings. By the time I was old enough for them, silk stockings were definitely a thing of the past and nylon stockings ruled. According to an article at American WWII.com, rayon was used as a substitute for a time but they didn't fit well and tended to sag and "form knees of their own."

A team of researchers at DuPont worked for a decade to find a suitable solution. One day Julian Hill pulled a rod out of a mixture of coal tar, water, and alcohol to find a filament stretched between the rod and the solution. Voila! Nylon!

The first nylon stockings hit the shelves in New York City in May, 1940. Of course once the war began, nylon went into use mostly for parachutes, ropes, and tires for the military.

The nylon stockings of the 40s and 50s had a seam running up the back of them that was always a challenge to keep straight. I remember in the early days of my teens, some girls just used an eyebrow pencil on the back of their legs to make it appear that they had stockings on. The "seams" stayed a lot straighter if you had a steady hand.

It wasn't long before garter belts (except for the fancy Victoria Secret type) were a thing of the past and, with the discovery of lycra, pantyhose became the popular norm.

Traveling Back In Time - WWII Margarine

Research for the historical novel, Ruby, I'm writing has been fun although it does slow me down. The little details are fascinating. I owe this discovery to a lady at our church who is just a few years older than I and remembered having to take what she called lard and mix it with a little yellow capsule of dye to make it look like butter.

Margarine actually got its start in France in the late 1860s in response to a challenge posed by Napoleon for a cheaper spread than butter that could be used in the military. Hippolyte Mege-Mouries responded with a combination of animal fats and a few other things. He named it margarine.

Later it was found that vegetable oils were even cheaper and hydrogenation made them into a solid. The new margarine was introduced into the United States in the 1870s. When the new margarine became an even less expensive alternative to butter, the dairy association protested and brought laws into effect that prohibited the use of yellow dye in its production to distinguish it even more from the butter product. The work-around was to package a capsule or wafer of yellow dye with the margarine and let the consumer add it to the margarine. Of course the job usually fell to the children of the home which is why my friend remembered it so well.

When butter was rationed during WWII, margarine became the alternative and was popularized even more in 1941 by the National Nutrition Council who declared it to be healthier. Lots of people objected to the flavor of the margarine however and I'm sure my dad had to be one of them. When the flavor was improved he still objected to not having "real butter" in the house. My mother insisted that she only used it for cooking when he found it in the refrigerator and then quickly unwrapped the stick and put it on a butter dish so he wouldn't know he was using the margarine. I'm not sure if he gave in or truly didn't know. I'm thinking he gave in. Dad grew up on a farm and while not in Wisconsin (who didn't lift the ban on yellow coloring until 1967), he still would have know the difference, I'm sure.

By-Gone Travel Days

Once in a while it's fun to reminisce about our travel days with kids. There was the trip to Niagara Falls where we ended up sleeping in the station wagon the first night, Disney Worlds with the three boys where we tried to explain to the booking agent as we planned ahead that we would have two more kids the next time, and the memorable vacations spent in North Carolina, the Smokey Mountains, and sailing the Great Lakes (well, some of them) with five kids.

They must have been memorable for at least one of our boys because his wife says she gets tired of hearing that "my mom and dad took me there." They have since made their own memories with their two kids--mostly in Gulf Shores, Alabama.

We did Disney several times until the oldest boys were really a bit too old to enjoy the experience. We've returned on our own once and a couple of times with all the kids and grands. It's changed since the early days. One of our friends described it as "stroller hell." Still we may venture back, off-season of course, and try it out just the two of us again and reminisce.

Our North Carolina trip near Nags Head was fun. We introduced the kids to fresh shrimp prepared on the grill. The boys loved pulling the heads off. We were near a National Park or thought we would be but found that the section nearest us was closed so any scheduled activities we wanted to do meant driving a half hour in either direction to the nearest ranger station. The kids did learn to snorkel there. And of course we thoroughly enjoyed the beach.

In the Smokey Mountains, our mountain retreat came with a hot tub that was a real hit with the kids as well as mom and dad after we put the kids to bed. We spent several quiet evenings there with a view of the sparkling stars in the sky. Our favorite memory is taking the kids fishing in a stocked trout pond. You no sooner put the hook in the water and you would pull out a fish. Now there were five of them fishing and it was near impossible to watch what they were all doing at the same time.

Finally the man in charge came over and said, "Ma'am, do you know that we charge by the pound? How many fish do you want to take home?"

We stopped--immediately. It was well worth the cost though as we had a great trout dinner that night and no one complained that we were eating fish.

I love to watch my kids take their kids traveling. What a joy to know that the fun of discovery of new places is not lost to the next generation of world travelers.

My Problem With Time Travel

If you follow me on Facebook, you know that I've been working on a historical novel that takes place during the Great Depression and the start of World War II. The setting for the most part is Cleveland but with a trip to San Diego. It has been quite a challenge to travel back in time to do the research especially since I don't have a time machine. But along the way I've found some really interesting things.

Cleveland's Terminal Tower is still a landmark of the city and has the RTA rapid station that services east and west ends of the area located in its lower level. At one time, it was a passenger train station as well but did it exist in 1932 and 1942 when my character, Ruby, needed a train ride? A little traveling over the internet and I had my answer. Yes. Excavation was begun in 1924, steel construction in 1926 and the Terminal Tower opened in 1929. Of course back then it was all known as the Cleveland Union Terminal.

Okay, now I know she can catch a train from there but will she have enough money to get her to San Diego in 1942? As I traveled again through time on the internet, I struggled to find a list of fares for that time period. Lots of schedules--no fares. Then I came across a group of entertainers, all women if I remember correctly, who traveled cross country for less than $100 on a train. Unfortunately I didn't bookmark the reference (and can't remember the search words) but it was enough information to know that with a little fictional seeding, my heroine could make it to San Diego from Cleveland.

History was not my most favorite subject when I was in school and I can safely say there was only one small section of one college history class I found interesting. Some of the facts from the past I've waded through for the novel have been fun and interesting but I find myself slogging through WWII history now to connect my characters with some of the battles and put two of them in the same place at the same time. This part is not fun and reminds me of why I didn't like studying history to begin with. This may be my only historical novel.