Today I am EIGHTY!

Nostalgia takes over as I let my mind drift into treasured memories.  I wish it possible to take you along to these long ago, yet as clearly as yesterday, wonderful times in my childhood.

If  lowly beginnings are a requisite to power and glory, then Jesus and I have something in common.  I wasn’t born in a manger, but in less than wealth.  My Mother’s name wasn’t Mary, but she was a Christian.  My Father’s name wasn’t Joseph, but he was a carpenter and a Godly man.  There was a handful who rejoiced at my birth; but my name didn’t go up in lights...and not much worth mentioning about me; but I feel GREAT AND ELEVATED because I am ONE OF BROTHER GARDINER’S LITTLE GIRLS.

I begin with a bit of history – mostly taken from one of the Gardiner Family Letters written at Christmas 1949 - by your Grandmother Gardiner.

...down on the farm on August 25, 1913, your Grandfather (Harry Ross Gardiner) and your Grandmother (Minnie Mae Azbill) were married.  They were very happy as they settled down to begin life together.  She thought him the sweetest of husbands and tagged him all over from early morning until after all the chores were done at night.  Her house held no attraction for her only when he was there with her.  She was his shadow for the first year - then their first baby came and it nearly broke her heart, she said, to have to stay indoors, but she had new duties.

Little Mary Frances was their pride and joy.  Her slightest wish was granted without questions asked.  If she desired a song to be sung at midnight, or any hour of the morning or anything that pleased her fancy, it was gladly granted.

As time went on little ones began to fill the house until it was like the Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe.  Children everywhere - nine in all.  To be sure the night entertainment stopped long before I was born.

Now Father had to work early and late to get enough food to fill all the little mouths and to clothe the children.  Sometimes the cupboard was like Old Mother Hubbard’s and sometimes it groaned under the load of good things to eat.

The years slipped by all too fast for them.  Young men began to come in swarms and one by one took all the girls away.  One tiny little girl slipped into the swarm of boys and captured their only son – then they were back where they started and she got to play “tag” again.

A postscript to Mother’s story by Lois:

It seems things didn’t change that much over the years and that the “firstborn” still desired a song to be sung at midnight.  So, when she was old enough to know better, this big sister convinced one little sister how lucky she was to be the “CHOSEN” one to sneak out with her thru the bedroom window after dark to meet secret loves.

Well, it seems a big sister had arrangements, but dummy little sister thought it would come together like in the fairy tales which big sister often told as bedtime stories.

So, after a long and boring wait on the curb, little sister’s only heart throb came when they were caught by huge father as they came back thru the window, shoes in hand so as not to awaken anyone – big sister with a broad smile on her face – little sister with a frown because her prince charming had not appeared.

Further, big sister married hers and to this day, I think, carries that smile.  Little sister is still wondering what was in it for her.  “Mary, if you are listening; you owe me.”

As a youngster of eight or nine, I sat one sunny afternoon on a hillside by our home in Missouri (St. Joseph) and watched officers of the law dump barrel after barrel of illegally “stilled moonshine” from the mysterious house on a high hill across the road.  To my young mind it was frightening and I pulled my legs up against my body, wrapped my arms around them and sat in silence as the dark drama continued.  Finally after many barrels had been dumped and toward evening they carried the outlaws away – I then dared to relax myself – seek out two of my best small friends and we timidly ventured into the vacated house across the road – high on the hill.

I will never forget my fright as we tiptoed up the stairs and imagined living there surrounded in secrecy and finally being taken away and put in jail for breaking the law.  That night in bed, in the comfort of my own home where rules were laid down and meant to be obeyed...Clean living, I thought, was the way to go.

On another occasion in the summer of 1934 I suppose, my friend Betty Wilcoxen and I were to meet friends for “coke and Nickelodeon” (music boxes played by putting in a nickel).  We often went to our “hangout” for afternoon fun; but I had to get permission even though I was probably 15. So we ran out to the big garden where my Dad was preparing the rows for the setting of onions.  Part of the preparation was manure – REAL and potent to make them grow.  My Dad bargained that we would be allowed to go after we helped plant the “sets.”  Well, who would want to go for coke and Nickelodeon among friends after manure setting?!

I admit, as a young girl, I was a dreamer.  In the days before public trucks to carry away things that were worn out - like old mattresses - we tossed them in the back yard.  Most people had them, and we were no exception.  Oh, what a wonderful place to lie on ones back, close your eyes to the sun and dream away.  Sometimes the clouds would partly cover the bright warm sun and allow a peek at the wonderful, friendly sky above – all was well because my dreams held such joy and happiness.

Although there were eight girls and one boy in my family, sometimes I liked to get alone and climb the friendly, rolling hills near our home in Missouri.  Green with grass and warmed by the sun, God seemed near as I limbed higher and higher and finally reached a peak where I would talk with Him privately and plan out my future – some of it He allowed in His great love and some He didn’t - in His great wisdom.

Our home was full of children and music and love.  Mother played the piano and Dad the violin.  Although my Father was a large man, he was very light on his feet and could (and would at our insistence) do the “tap.”  After our evening meal (which we always ate together as a family) we would take the gas lamp to the front room, hang it on the ceiling hook and gather around the piano for sing-along and a dance if we could get it.  Sometimes, often in fact, dad would read us stories from the Bible or some other favorite from “Guppies Readers” or “Aesop Fables” until it was time for bed.

If the house was cold in winter, my loving parents would warm our blankets by the old coal stove, wrap each of us it and we were transported in caring arms up the stairs to our beds of feather and handmade quilts for a good nights sleep.

My oldest sister, Mary, was the storyteller.  Also, she had more secrets that we did.  (Now I think she made them up.)  But, she had the promise of almost anything we had in exchange for a few of her stories - real or imagined.  I doubt that even she knew how one might turn out until she got there.  Maybe this held her interest too.  We did have favorites, though, and she repeated them many times, but we never tired of hearing them.   Mary has gone to Heaven now.  I can just see her sitting at Jesus’ feet listening to His stories – more likely telling Him one.  I can hardly wait to find out!

The clock on the wall tells me that is enough reflecting for today.  The hour also reminds me of suppertime at home.  The smell of fried potatoes and onions; green beans from Mom’s garden or corn on the cob and her wonderful apple pie or potato cake with chocolate frosting and – in the end I see the Lord’s grace and mercy following me all the days of my life!

I   Remember

The little village church where we sat together.
Christmas treats - brown bag filled with hard candy and orange.
Always Sunday afternoon company - sometimes they would nap with us before cold cuts and back to evening church.
The Holy Bible.
The Old Rugged Cross.
Saturday evening baths in a wash tub on the kitchen floor.
Whippings, crying, loving, laughter.
Flat irons.  Boiling water.  Steamy kitchens.  Lye soap.  Hard wash days.
Fried potatoes and onions.
Eating watermelon served from long wooden tables in the yard.
Real lemonade with chipped ice from the ice box.
Hoeing long garden rows.  Debugging potato plants.
Shucking corn.
Sears Roebuck Catalog.  Outdoor Privy.  Corn cob bins.
Coal-burning stoves with warming over and water reservoir.
Kerosene lamps.  Gathering eggs.   Churning butter.
Sliding down a rope from clubhouse in hay loft of barn.
Wringing chickens necks and singeing pin feathers.
Making mud pies and setting up shop with rows of empty cans.
Squeaky screen doors.  Flies.  Washing Dad’s feet for a penny.
Little Schoolhouse.  One teacher.  Recess.  Bell ringing.
Homemade bread.  Cake and fudge-making.
Storytelling.  Laughter.  Hide and seek.  Secrets.
Rooster crowing.  Morning devotions.  Tears and prayers - to bless our day and light our way.

ALL THE BEST A CHILD COULD HAVE!

THANKS MOM AND DAD.

Lois

This is kinda a pig tale because it just rooted its way into my memory.

It’s called a BRUSH WITH DEATH.  Sunday afternoon rides were common at our house.  All eleven of us piled into Dad’s sedan.  Finally it must have wearied under the load and just decided to take a rest on the railroad tracks and stopped dead.

We heard the whistle and saw the locomotive approaching all too fast.  Dad (in his bare feet) flung open the door; dashed to the front of the car and single-handedly pushed the car and the ten of us back off the tracks just as the approaching train whizzed by.

We returned home and said (or thought) our Sunday prayers of thanks to a God who used a Dad to perform a miracle.

Our lives were lived.  Some have been completed here on earth, but the memories are ours to keep.

Thanks Mary, Ruth, Florence, Esther, Milton, Betty, Donna and Barbara...

and now all the grand and great children.  In Dad’s words “There’s not a scrub in the bunch.”

Thanks Mom and Dad for the memories. 

Glenda Remembers:
Poor Mom had to always be the judge when Janie and I would buy new color books (just alike) and make her decide who colored the same picture the BEST.  (Boy, could we put the pressure on her.)  New color crayons, Oh! that was a real treat.  Those brand-new crayons with those sharp points.  We could really stay in the lines now.

Lynne Remembers:
Lois made me a gray corduroy “poodle skirt” and bought a pink sweater for me to wear with it.  If I twirled fast enough, it would stand out in a perfect circle...smile.  Before Glenda and I went to church camp in the summer, she made us matching nighties and robes. I think she also made us matching skirts and blouses.  Mom thought Lois “sewed perfectly.”  She had the first cuckoo clock I ever saw or heard, but she was the only one who was allowed to pull the chains to wind it.  Her cars were always big and new and clean.  She usually wore a suit and high heels.
Glenda, Janie, Diane and I decided to make fudge one night while our Mothers were gone.  (See, Milton, I have always loved fudge too.)  We got it to the “beating” stage and told Janie to put it in cold water in the sink and beat it.  So, she did - - she poured the fudge in cold water in the sink!   I watched as it all went down the drain.-- life’s disappointments learned early.

Gail Remembers:
Enjoying Jesus together.
Getting to be as “floral” in my descriptions as I want. 
Crying together at church and at Muffins.
High heels.
Those snapping eyes.

Barb Remembers:
Lois has always had a most elegant home that smells good.
She is the matriarch of the remaining family.  I suspect she has unknowingly brought many relatives back to their Christian roots.
Will she ever get “old?”

Robin Remembers:
Lois was rich!!  She was such a great saleswoman.  Mom always came home from Lois’ house wanting expensive lotion that smelled better than any lotion could smell.

Diane Remembers:
Lois’ huge, beautiful homes.  Her clothes and shoes and cars.  If I remember bright red nails - or maybe that was Glenda.  Let us not forget the day Janie and I were making fudge.  Mom used to run cold water in the sink and set the pan down in the water to cool the fudge.  I was telling Janie how to do it so she poured the whole pan of fudge into the sink of water.

Copyright © 2003-2008 philfrisk
Last modified: March 31, 2008