When the zinnias were tall and arranged in the large green glass vase mom put on the dining room table, the tomato plants were  producing heavy bright red Big Boy tomatoes.   Both the wax and green beans were ripe and ready for eating as well.  Mom was wearing her straw hat and her dutch windmill apron and she dressed me in a white short sleeved blouse and a black patterned skirt she made.   I wore white socks and brown oxfords and my mom tied and rubberbanned my fine hair into two uneven braided pigtails.   We were going picking.  It was a hot August afternoon and as we strolled between the huge staked bean and tomato plants in our garden, I filled my container with beans while mom loaded her spread apron with all the tomatoes  it could hold.   Most of the time we would have to take our load over to the back steps, fill two large baskets and come back for more.  The plants were prolific and I do not remember a time my parents needed to use chemicals to combat bugs, worms or disease.  

When we had gleaned the ripest beans and tomatoes mom and I sat on the back steps in the bright sunshine to play our “game“.  This was the fun part.  With the paring knife mom cut the ends off each very long bean and piled them into another empty basket next to me.  With my fingers, I broke them three times into four pieces, and then dropped them into the extra big kettle.   Each time I broke a piece mom and I said, “snip, …snap,… snur”!  Soon we brought all the fresh produce into the kitchen.   Mom poured boiling water over the tomatoes as I watched the skins mysteriously peel off before  she preserved them.   I covered the beans with a big plate and placed them in the refrigerator.

Some of the tomatoes mom saved and sliced on a plate, serving them cold with lots of salt or even sugar, the way she liked them.   For many dinners to come my mother cooked “lovely beans” as she called them, green and yellow wax beans served hot with lots of melted butter and salt.  No one ever mentioned cholesterol or high blood pressure and nobody ever had to force me to eat my vegetables!

East End Creamery was practically an icon in our town. Past down three generations, it set the standards for great hand made ice cream long before Ben and Jerrys. It was eternally in the same spot, only one block from my house. The owner the original Mr.Wonka with a bald head and a merry disposition was a sheer pleasure to work for and a delight to be around. With his loving consent I could eat as much of anything I wanted. He was my favorite boss. How do you work in a store that has thirty-two hand made ice cream flavors in 1966 and not eat them all? He was a wise boss.

Vanilla had twelve egg yolks in each gallon and was kind of the base white to add other colors and flavors to and the choices went everywhere from the typical butter pecan to dill pickle. I ate every ice cream flavor in sugar or waffle cone and all the sherbets, all the sundaes, malteds, the banana splits, root beer floats, phosphates, all fudgecicles and paddlepops and every popsicle, dreamcicle and rocket pushups in the store. In addition I ate as many nuts as I liked from a three tiered rotating nut machine, kept warm under a heating element. Thank goodness I had a young metabolism and I worked hard because I don’t remember gaining a pound.

Like the other Mr. Wonka, my boss made a few different varieties of chocolate for his ice cream. This was special chocolate, chocolate that would melt at room temperature. It had to begin soft so it wouldn’t get too hard to crack a tooth once frozen in the ice cream. On one end Mr. W would pour the liquid chocolate into a network of pipes and on the other end he added the French vanilla cream and somehow in the middle it became chocolate chip ice cream.

Because I didn’t have enough perks at work one perk was getting to eat the left over chocolate in it’s raw form. My boss would ask the guys to clean out the hardened chocolate left in the pipes. They unscrewed the tubing and dropped the chocolate into the dry ice freezer where it became solid rock in pipe form. When plopped into the mouth these ice cold chunks went to body temperature in about a nano second. This was a 10 on the chocolate melting in your mouth meter. Move over you Dutch and Swiss truffle makers!

Ah… the summer of ’66, I had it made; my customers loved my cones, I had the most amazing free treats and the cherry on top, while everyone else was sweltering, I was cool!

Funny, I don’t care so much for ice cream now.

Despite the use of a different word to describe a bodily function, at home  we all were  pretty free to express ourselves.  It was the Dutch way.  In my house my father was a super blaster and could pierce the air with the loudest winder one could imagine.  It was unbelievable.  He would be upstairs and I would hear him in the basement.  This was a common occurance.

  I am thinking, who grows up in a family  that doesn’t  pass gas?   Even the queen of England farts!  Though my parents learned that in the new world people were more discrete about farting in public or even using the word there were exceptions,  like when my uncle Bill came over. 

The rules suddenly changed.  Everyone was free to fart right there in the living room as loud as one liked because my father’s older brother Bill never adopted the modern way of thinking about farts.  He passed gas freely, almost defiantly no matter where he was and it was  a trumpet blast that sounded for blocks.  To be kind everyone passed gas when uncle Bill was over.

Uncle Bill and aunt Alice visited usually after church on Sunday nights.  Uncle Bill was a big guy with steel colored hair he combed back from his forehead.  He had a large nose and deep set eyes and along with his gas he always brought a big lit cigar.   In the middle of a serious and animated dutch conversation he  would literally lean to one side and let it rip.   What was remarkable was that no one would  flinch.  The conversation had no break.  Everyone would continue talking as if it never happened.  This was always a mystery to me because of the sheer explosive  volume of my uncle’s farts.   I would be rocking around  in suppressed laughter in the kitchen with my girlfriend.  Maybe if I had been an adult I wouldn’t have found it so funny but I think not.  I think I would have still laughed hysterically.

Our yard was any little girl with a vivid imagination’s dream, filled with a remarkable variety of flowers. Accept for the white of winter snow there was a hardly a time when pink, white, yellow, purple and red blossoms did not festoon the old white house’s front and back porch, yard borders and gardens. The heady scent of lily of the valley with its tiny catkins of delicate miniature white bells covered almost half our front yard.

The strong floral scent of wild roses creeping up lattices, intertwined strands of pink pearls on both sides of our front porch mingled with the indescribable perfume of purple lilacs growing heavily like bunches of grapes hanging from giant tree-like bushes. Running around the perimeter of our house were thick clusters of white star like flowers which bloomed every year along with deep velvety red, yellow and orange tiger lilies and very small violet colored mertyl. Before it became an endangered species, mom even coaxed purple trillium to grow amongst deep green moss in shaded patches were the ground stayed moist.

Instead of fences or walls, between our yard and our neighbor’s yards were pink and white spirea, large white snow ball bushes which always covered the ground with a carpet of white dots, thick blossoms of light pink, violet and white hydrangeas and daubs of bright yellow forsythia.

In the back yard dad grew his multi-colored zinnias, marigolds and a tall shock of bright pink peonies next to the garage’s side door. Along with deep bluish-purple morning glories tangled over an old wire fence by the alley were furry hollyhocks with wrinkled blossoms in the palest shades of pink, violet, yellow and red. They stood proud like tall octogenarians. Sometimes joining them were even taller sun flowers.

During the summer of my forth year these flowers were more than yard decorations for me they were part of the main attraction. Out of the garage I wheeled my red radio flyer wagon with the white wheels, my small red tricycle and my dark blue doll buggy with the accordion top. I carried out as many of my dolls, along with two or three yellow and pink doll blankets that I could carry. After carefully draping the blankets over the edges of the wagon and lining the inside of the doll buggy I picked arm loads of flowers to add as decoration for my event. Pink and white spirea and large white snow balls hung over the sides of the wagon and edges of my doll buggy along with tiger lily and lilacs. With some twine I tied the trailer to the buggy and the buggy to the back of my tricycle

I dressed all my baby dolls, some that said, “mama”, in the prettiest dresses and hats I could find and centered then properly in both my floats. The best dress and hat from my life size baby doll was saved for the bell of the ball. My sweet patient kitty was most cooperative for me when I dressed her in dolly’s finest, a hand made red taffeta dress with a lace collar and puffed sleeves. I tied the red velvet doll bonnet with the white crocheted trim on Ms Kitty’s head making a large bow under her furry little chin and propped her up in the middle of the wagon amidst the snowball flowers and spirea.

I slowly peddled my tricycle with the gaily decorated buggy and red wagon trailing behind, up and down the block from the edge of one alley to the edge of the other alley and back again. Ms. Kitty, being the best cat in the world sat proudly on her throne in the middle of the wagon amidst a galore of flowers and a motley group of dolls. She was as still as can be without making the slightest peep, but then she looked ever so pretty in my dolly’s red dress and hat and she was queen of the flower parade. “Wave your paw Ms Kitty!”

Neighbors clapped and cheered until my mamma came out and rescued Ms. Kitty. Poor Ms. Kitty must have felt immense relief to have dolly’s dress taken off because she leapt out of my mamma’s arms still wearing dolly‘s hat. Even so she was the best bell of the neighborhood ball.

Our destination was a swamp, a small natural marshland developers had left untouched.  Densely packed with trees and underbrush, complete with winding footpaths around the wet bogs, it was a place where every kind of wild flower still bloomed, frogs and insects flourished and rare birds made their nests.  I looked forward to Sunday afternoons and all the new things we would discovery together.

We entered a mysterious canopy covered land filled with unique life.  Little birds chipped sweetly overhead and insects hummed hymns. Only tiny patches of sunlight sparkled through the leaves of cedar and dogwood trees but it was enough to see the magic hidden underneath.  My mother knew the names of the wild flowers, the insects and the birds.  We found Jack in the pulpit, cattails, small purple violets and mysterious little pond skaters that skimmed over the still surface of sedentary water.  Under the surface was a flurry of activity.  Little black heads with tails swam everywhere.  Mom came prepared with a glass jar she dipped in gently to catch a few, filling the rest of the container with swamp water.   “Soon these small wiggling heads will become frogs.”, she said.

We walked on through the quiet little knot of forest following the path stopping to pick up a small damp stick to pry up a swath of furry deep green moss for my mother‘s garden.  Mom put it in her brown paper bag while I held the clear jar of swimming tails. We walked on until we were once again in the sunshine. These were the days when nature was bountiful and not yet protected but my mother collected her bits of wild life with a sacred respect and love.

In the spring, we would pick bouquets of bright yellow forsythia for me to draw and paint on large sheets of white shelf paper.  The pollywogs mom and I watched closely every day.  We would release them once again in their swamp home as soon as they grew legs so they could become frogs.  I trusted they were the spring peepers I would hear on our next walk.  In the late summer, we would find milkweed pods to gather.  When we got home we would carefully open them, taking some of the inside fluff out to glue on the outside forming tails on the pods for little birds.  Mom always had a supply of tiny blue beads we would add for eyes.  In the late fall we would bring home bunches of cattails to place in vases on our upright piano. In a few weeks, they would plump into puffy brown kitty tails from the heat in our house.  From early spring until the snow came our nature walk was our weekly adventure.

Now this swamp is gone, leaving a sweet memory in the minds of those fortunate enough to have known it as children.  What most children now can only experience from the words in a book I experienced intimately.  My mother gave to me the most cherished gift, a love of all things living.

A little girl once scrambled to hide secretly under a wild mulberry bush and silently dream.

Fifty years later the deeply creative spirit of her mother lives on.

My father was furious and I knew he would be driving like holy fury over the pitted alley to avoid being an embarrassment in front of the congregation.  Not being seated by an usher,  catapulting down the aisle  just as the preacher announced, “Let us open with a word of prayer….” gave him ulcers.   This was a church where no one spoke once in the sanctuary and all heads turned towards anyone coming in five minutes before the dominie climbed the pulpit.  I had the car door barely closed and dad was  backing up like a wild man grateful once again the car wasn’t parked in the garage.  His foot was a lead weight on the car’s gas pedal.

Our neighbor Mr Warners was standing in his back yard watching us like a bird of prey.  Predictably dad backed  into his poor lilac bushes ripping off branches that had looped around the car’s back bumper.  He ran towards us, fist raised, red with anger.  Dad knew of course what just happened, what always happened but didn’t have the time right now to calm down the neighbor.   He would have to deal with this later.  We were late for church.  A dust cloud rose behind us and we were gone.

Later that day, after Mr Warners gave my dad a thorough talking to,  my father promised to finally fix the matter the very next day.

Monday night after work in the trunk of the car was the ugliest, rustiest old rubbish barrel I had ever seen.  I wondered what this barrel was for since we already had one standing behind the back fence for burning our rubbish and leaves.   This one though was a special rubbish barrel.  Dad backed the car up slowly in the driveway lining things up, eyeing in his plans very carefully.  After he figured out mathematically  the best placenment in front of the lilac bushes for the old oil barrel he reached in the  chevy’s trunk , hauled out the bush blocker and the problem was solved.  Mr Warners was happy.  A beat up back bumper was worth a contented neighbor.

Most kids give themselves their first hair cut when they discover a scissors.  This never occurred to me probably because I was too busy using the kitchen shears cutting everything else like my cat’s fur and my doll’s hair.   My big sister Connie gave me my very first hair cut at age seven.  She was in her first month of Dodgon’s beauty school for hair and  ready to try out what she was learning on a live person. I was chosen because I was too young to object and our parents were out shopping. I frequently became the subject of experimentation for my much older siblings.  It always started out with good intentions.

So Long, Long Hair

Connie sat me on a kitchen chair and wrapped a large white bath towel around my shoulders, clipping it tightlyin place  around my neck with a clothes pin. In beauty school she had  learned that cutting the hair in  layers  made a great look.  She had to do this quick before our parents showed up.  My hair went flying in all directions, chop, chop.  She went back and forth trying desperately to even my hair on both sides, cutting it shorter and shorter until soon I felt the air on the back of my head and noticed nearly all my hair on the red and white tiled floor beneath my chair.  Connie frowned as she lowered the scissors.  I felt my head and thought for the first time that maybe this had been a mistake. 

Dad Walks In

Dad was angry.  My mom cried as she stared at me.  My sister defended her actions trying to convince everyone my hair looked better than before, then finally that it would grow out quickly because I was kid. Both parents said it looked  like a butcher had cut my hair.   I ran into the living room to have a look at my  first  hair cut in our large buffet mirror.  I saw my ears through chunks of mangled hair.  As a kid I thought it no big deal,  I didn’t mind it, I could live with it.   In fact I  kind of liked my new look.

Dad Becomes Damage Control

To this day I never fully understood why my father was so compelled to make me “look better”, probably because it was a Saturday and the next day people in church would question my parents about the hack job on my head. I guess because dad gave my brother’s buzz cuts he felt qualified to clean up my sister’s mess but judging from what I already knew about his fix it ability, things were not going to be good.  I didn’t want this and protested loudly but dad was boss.

Bowl Cut

The kitchen was completely silent while my dad put a bowl on my head.  After checking different sizes for just the right fit, he settled on one that came a few inches above my ears.  He decided the biggest damage was the back of my head. No one spoke as my father used the razor to shave the entire back of my head in one neat swath from the top of one ear to the top of the other.  He removed the bowl to do some additional touch up work.

He could not have been more pleased with his even shave job.  Dad was as proud as the kid who stuck his thumb in the dyke and saved Holland.  My sister and mother  stared sympathetically at me.   This was worst than I thought.  I jumped up and ran into the bathroom.  I got a small hand mirror out of the vanity drawer,  stood on the toilet and  turned around  to see the back of my head in our larger bathroom mirror over the sink.  I may have been only seven but I was certain that in 1957 little girls did not have boy haircuts.  Even worse my dad had shaved the back of my head into a huge bald horse shoe shape.  I burst into tears because I couldn’t glue my hair back on.

Bald Torment

I was deeply embarrassed the Monday I went back to school.  Everyone pointed at me and laughed even after I explained it was a special “Dutch cut”.  Kids can be cruel.  If  it had been winter I would have worn a knit cap all day but it was early October and still warm so for about two weeks I  used my left hand to cover the large bald area on the back of my head hoping my class mates would forget about it.  I never dropped it.  I remember holding my hand firmly on the back of my head  while  in line to use the classroom pencil sharpener. When it came my turn I had to drop my hand away so I cranked the handle with lightening speed while a few kids snickered.   I vowed  if I ever had kids of my own I would never give them a Dutch cut!

Our next door neighbor’s dad was fresh out of television repair school and fortunately for me the first on our block to get a brand new Zenith TV. Every night trying not to give away too much of my excitement, I would sneak out after supper and silently climb our neighbor’s front porch steps. After leaning against their porch swing I would settle in for a half hour of The Sid Cease Show, Art Link letter or the Bob Cummings Show. Why were so many television shows named after men I wondered?