Holy Hilarity, The Bible in 50 Words, Lanesboro,MN

Here is the front of yesterday's  bulletin,  Prince of Peace Lutheran church here in La Crescent where I've been attending (more later on my church search in MN) as we celebrated  Holy Hilarity Sunday.  I had never heard of this but it has  been their tradition for the past eight years, held the Sunday after Easter.  They say that long long ago in many Catholic, Orthodox and Protestant  countries Easter Monday was observed as a day of "joy and laughter."  It was the time to laugh at the devil because Christ had risen, God's supreme joke played on the old master, Death.  This practice evolved into the Bright Sunday celebrations on the weekend following Easter.  All that Lenten deprivation fades into joy.

Serendipity in action again as I had posted about my great Aunt Mary and her humor and laughter on Sepia Sat.  Aunt Mary would have loved this service as I did.  I have not laughed so hard at one time over and over continuously  for such  a long time.  It was tremendous and did me good! The entire  hour and half was hilarious with corny jokes and stories, jugglers, costumes, mimes, joyous music and presentations.  I admit to being skeptical as to what I might encounter, but from the prelude opening the service with Angie playing ragtime music on the piano to Pastor Mike's introduction ala Old Time Talk radio and Groucho Marx jokes, I was in! Even the young who don't have a clue about Groucho laughed out loud!    As I sat there, I thought that if  a person who never went to church would come to this service they would see true Christian joy and glee!  But then again as I shared with June after the service, a visitor might think everyone was nuts!  Pastor Barb has to be worn out from her miming and expressive costumes and changes.  Costumes and silly hats were tossed into the air to members of the congregation to don  from an  antique trunk  which had belonged to a Swedish immigrant, Thekla in the 1800's who migrated to Chicago, her name stenciled onto it with destination. Several youth and men hauled the wooden trunk  in and out of the sanctuary.  Pastor Barb's duet  with her husband of "I Love to Laugh" a sing along from Mary Poppins was absolutely gleeful and we were filled with the laughter as we sang along.  This is a service I would not want to miss in the future.  Oh and all that laughter generated a potty trip immediately following the service for me!

My happy mood stayed with me all day as I broke out in smiles over nothing at all; it's still here today as I recall corny joke such as typos from Church Bulletins, "Rummage Sale--get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Don't forget your husbands"  or "The peacemaking meeting had been cancelled due to a conflict."  That last comment would fit the Methodist church I left here in town, but more on that later.  I felt Great Aunt Mary's spirit along with me laughing through the day.

Here I share the Bible in 50 Words, part of what we read yesterday in the service.  I thought this and the  bulletin cover very worth sharing.

We drove our Grey Goose, our new HHR acquired to tow behind the motor home, over to Lanesboro, one of my favorite places. This photo is from February when we still had snow--long gone now to lovely green grass all around.   Lanesboro, MN  is an old town that has been resurrected with crafty artsy places shops and restaurants, but this is the off season with few tourists and the perfect time to visit. Bike trails abound and yesterday was a perfect day to walk along and get ice cream or other refreshments.  My giggles continued when I saw these hand crafted wooden spoons  in the window at one  Lanesboro shop.  Don't they make you smile?  Dancing spoons----& the dish ran away with the spoon!   Jerry commented that while I seemed to be lifted maybe I  was turning beyond the bend with my giggles.   Maybe I still am around that bend , but it's a good feeling. 

Here are just a couple photos  of Lanesbo including its famous waterfall, someone's RV atop the waterfall at another observation point, we were below in the abandoned park and fishing spot.  Its American Legion post #40, which makes it one of the first around was closed; we had not walked that way in the town before so it was a new  site to us.  And it's 1880-s firehall which has now been made into a restaurant.  Our favorite sandwich shop. German, Das Haus has not yet opened for the season so we did not get Reubens on their homemade bread--another time.

  I acquired an old "ooga--aooga"  rubber bulb horn to mount on my trike in one shop.  Watch out now around town as I use my clown horn....hilarity will abound.  Can't wait till I surprise friends with a blast from the past....and then there was Jerry, waiting patiently for me in this candid shot; fittingly he found an open saloon to which we adjourned for a glass pint of  liquid refreshment before heading home on this gorgeous day.

Sepia Saturday Week 18 Ostrowski Sisters (Click here to view others' posts)

Today I share the oldest photo I have of my beloved maternal Grandma, Rose Ostrowski Kochanowski (1895-1970) with her sisters and brothers, some of Frank Ostrowski’s children. I found this torn and ragged at the bottom of an old suitcase when I cleared my mother’s house in 2004; Mom had written the names on the photo who knows when. I was amazed to discover this and so wish I could have known about it when my grandmother was alive to tell where and when, etc.


This was the wedding of Rose’s brother Joseph to Catherine Buhl (Buehl) in New York. Date unknown. Joseph (1878-1957) is the oldest of Frank’s children from the first wife and appears to have migrated from Poland with his parents. I have not been able to identify the three young girls seated in front. The others are, seated left to right, my Grandma Rose, brother and the groom Joseph Ostrowski, the bride Catherine Buhl (sp?) and brother Ben Ostrowski (1883-1959). Standing are her sister Veronica (Vernie 1892-1961) who married Alex Roginski, brother Walter F known as Bill (1889-1956)who changed his name to Austin, and sister Mary (1891-1964) who married Thomas Janosky.

Rose, Mary, Veronica and Bill were Frank Ostrowski’s children from his second wife, Frances Swartz who was from either Germany or a German occupied part of Poland (1869- 1902). My grandma never distinguished half brothers or sisters; they were all family, all Ostrowskis and that was all that mattered.  By the way my line of Ostrowski's spelled their names with or without the "w" and several other variations... The sisters remained very close throughout their lives. Rose outlived them all except for the baby, Francie whom we saw on previous Sepia. Many Sundays I accompanied my grandma on the bus ride across the river so she could see her sisters Mary and Vernie. Sometimes they made the journey to my grandma’s house, but Aunt Mary’s house was bigger with a formal dining room so most gatherings were there. But my grandma would haul pastries and pies along that she had carefully made the day before. All the sisters could cook, but Rose was the best baker and so these treats were often  her  contribution to most gatherings.

Here are the sisters and their husbands in 1945 during one of Francie Mroz’s visits.

Seated left to right, Mary, Rose, Francie and Vernie; behind them their husbands ( left to right) Tommy Janosky, Teofil Kochanowski, Al Mroz, Alex Roginski.  This is the only photo I have of all the girls and guys together. Notice those old  cars to the side.

I recall little about Great Aunt Vernie except that she became very ill and bedbound at the last; I think she suffered stokes. Aunt Mary remains very vivid in my memories; she was always in a good mood and always smiling. Somehow she found the good and the humorous in everything. Whenever I would act silly or burst out into uncontrollable laughter as a child my grandma would say, “you are just like Mary she thinks everything is funny too!”

Actually whenever I would act out or up as in this photo of me with a purple costume wig and my Grandma Rose in 1961 after Granpap died, she would say, "just like my sister Mary!"  I had decided that we had enough of being sad and that  Granpap would not want us sitting and mourning.  My poor Grandma didn't find a lot to laugh about at the time, so I tried to cheer her up being silly. 

Aunt Mary’s laughter was so contagious that people caught it quickly just being around her. I remember Mary and my grandma washing dishes after a big family dinner and holding their sides doubling over with laughter at the sink. Rose threw her wet dish rag at Mary telling her to “stop making me laugh I am going to wet myself!” That only brought more laughter and my grandma’s mad dash to the bathroom. Today when I get an attack of the giggles I think of my great aunt Mary.

 I don't know how she kept a straight face for this snapshot of their 60th something wedding anniversary, Mary and Tommy Janosky. But he looks like he is about to laugh, maybe expecting something from Mary soon.   Rose kept this photo which featured the cake she had made for them and all the  pink roses.  



In that same suitcase was this old photo of a mystery girl, whom I believe is posed for Communion and who must be one of the Ostrowski's though no one could identify her.  She is certainly serious.   


As a result of these Sepia Saturday posts I have been contacted by some previously unknown relatives in PA, FL and OK; all part of the Ostrowski lineage. They were Googling and found me here. I hope that the same good luck continues so I can resolve more of this puzzle of my family.

Irons and dresses ??

Today’s been a grey wet day; while the rains keep on coming, the grass gets greener and our ground absorbs much needed water. This seems like a good enough day to tackle a shopping expedition.  My Sunbeam iron, purchased in CA at Costco for $25 January 2005 ( this I know because I have found the original booklet and receipt)  has been hinting that its time is about to come to an end—spitting water when it should be heating it to steam, messing up clean clothes and finally offering only the highest heat setting. I iron more now in retirement than I ever did all my years in career land when I dressed for work in suits and the like that required dry cleaning. Back then ironing piled up on the extra bed until I needed something or I ran out of hanging space on the door knobs. But now I iron most everything. I press my cotton t-shirts and occasionally iron pillow cases, always the ones for the guest bedrooms. I do a fair amount of sewing and quilting that involves pressing seams and the like too so it is necessary to have a good iron. My board is up at all times downstairs so the iron can be used whenever needed.


I think back to my childhood in PA when Monday was washday and Tuesday was ironing just like in the nursery rhymes and I had the chore to iron pillowcases, hankerchiefs, underwear and other odd things; it made no sense to me to iron any of that and I would tell my mother that “When I grow up I will only have clothes that do not need to be ironed!” I despised ironing and considered it the highest torture.  Why couldn't people blow their noses into  something that was not ironed just the same!  The nose doesn't care.  Back then ironing was a loathsome task that started by sprinkling clothes, which had been dried on the clothes line—now does that make sense to dry and then wet again? These wet clothes were then rolled, bagged into a dampened pillow case and placed in the freezer to be taken out one at a time to be ironed. Surely this kind of work was dreamt up by the likes of my mother to keep me in slavery. Mom was not interested in my commentary and sat calmly at the mangle pressing sheets while I ironed while  I vocalized constant complaints. If I could drag it out long enough she would be done with mangling and then take over ironing which left me free to pursue my interests. Child labor laws were unrecognized on Catalpa Street despite my protests. So it is all the more odd to me that today I iron willingly and like my clothes to look pressed. My ironing board is up at all times awaiting use.

I had decided that when my Sunbeam gave it up I would replace it with a Rowenta, the best iron on the market to my knowledge. Rowentas are made in Germany and the model I desired has a stainless steel plate, vertical and horizontal steaming, as well as a tiny point to get into crevices and folds. It is the story of my life that a need to purchase replacements never occurs when sales are underway, as when a month or so back Hancock Fabrics featured all Rowentas on sale.

Hancock’s had a 10% off coupon in the recent mailing, and I thought Sam’s Club carried Rowenta so I planned my route. First to Sam’s and then over to Hancocks if needed; both are in the same area, right across the small shopping area from each other. My luck was matching the dreary day; after no seeing an iron in sight at Sam’s I asked an associate, who walked with me to the aisle I’d previously cruised and who then said, “Well we only had one brand, a Rowenta but looks like we have none now.” That figures. So I trudge back out through the liquid sunshine and over to Hancock’s where I found the Rowenta Professional model on sale for $99, but that’s not the one I want. First of all it does not have an automatic shut off, which I consider essential. Although it is advertised as “just perfect for crafters and sewers with no shut off keeping it ready at all times”, this crafter and sewer tends to wander off to other things forgetting and could burn the house down. I’m only a phone call away from distraction at any given time! The model I prefer because I am sure this will be the last iron I have to purchase ever, is $159. Phooey, even with 10% off, that’s up there. I wander around and decide that perhaps I can iron just a week or so longer with the old Sunbeam and by that time maybe there will be other sales.

But I recall that I saw Rowentas at Sears, last year when I was replacing the downstairs vacuum cleaner. Well might as well drive down the road and across the highway to Sears while I’m out and about. Sears is at the mall but today not many are out having done their shopping before Easter. So I park in the back and enter, of course I am at the far end of the store from where the irons are stocked. Let me add that I have recently yet again somehow reinjured a muscle on my right leg along the calf and under the knee and it is highly protesting my walking along today after my Curves workout this morning. But I trudge along and find the irons, not before browsing through the clothing on display.

I have long ago relinquished all hope of finding any apparel to my liking besides my jeans and t shirts and even those get iffy as to fit at times. But when I’m out like today I always check around. In addition to the ever hideous display of women’s clothes, I notice something like a wrap dress, but I stand there in amazement. At one time I wore Dianne von Furstenburg wrap dresses which were quite stylish and fashionable, of gorgeous fabrics. But here are some wrap dresses made from low grade cheap cotton that leave me gaping with mouth wide open and then bring me to laughter.

These “dresses” resemble a poor imitation of the factory dresses that my mother and aunt wore in the 1950’s when they worked at Pittsburgh Plate Glass. I know this because just last year when my aunt passed away and we cleaned out her house, I found several of her old “Du-plate uniforms” which they sewed out of blue chambray and denim for heavier wear and which had lasted down through the ages. I tossed my Mom’s in 2004 when she passed; back then I was amazed to find them stuffed into the back of her closet. The women wore these at work and then in later years at home to clean the house or when they had a dirty chore ahead. This is back in the day when women wore house dresses. My mother and aunt were Teofil’s daughters and never ones to toss out what was not used up, so the dresses lasted years beyond their original purposes. In 2009 the last of these found their way into the estate sale or to the Goodwill store. But here is a copy of the ad of these Sears knock offs of the factory uniforms, which are being sold as something fashionable for today’s juniors to wear. I continue to be amazed at the lack of design ability today and surely Helen and Virginia are laughing from the Beyond. Perhaps they are smiling down in pity that somewhere in India or China underpaid sweat shop workers are sewing factory dresses for today’s fashion conscious young women to wear. I will now be prepared to control my laughter as I begin to see young women wear these cheap imitations of factory dresses.

And by the way I did purchase the Rowenta iron I wanted at Sears, at a lower price than at Hancock’s. The Sunbeam will be on its way to dumpsite burial.  There is just no comparison between the two but here they are; dueling irons.  Really no contest!  A Mercedes next to a Dodge Colt or something less.

Magpie 7 Click here to go to Magpie Post site for other writers' offerings

I could not resist a touch of memoir for this week’s Magpie. When we lived in Northern California the winters were predominantly grey fog and rain with some scattered sunshine. It was quite different from my childhood of four seasons in PA, or here in MN. We became accustomed to having two seasons, hot and foggy but spring was always a welcome green time of the year which vanished all too soon into the CA hillsides brown from heat and drought.

Across the American River Canyon, from us in Amador County outside of Sutter Creek was the charming Daffodil Hill. Many of these towns which were founded by the miners and followers during the 1840’s California Gold Rush were tiny places, almost vanishing but then revived into tourist attractions with shops and eateries. But Daffodil Hill had its own special gold attraction, the bloom of over 300,000 daffodil bulbs which had been planted over the acreage beginning in 1887 when Arthur and Lizzie McLaughlin arrived from New York. To merely say the hills were covered with the majesty of the golden blooms does not fully portray the glory of the golden glow of those acres of yellow, sunshine in bloom.

I had acquaintances whose parents lived in Sutter Creek and who introduced me to Daffodil Hill. This was before it became a tourist attraction, when it was a tranquil spot in the hills, a serene sight of golden flowers. Later as would happen all too frequently in CA , the thundering throngs of people in cars and motor cycles invaded the area by the thousands each weekend beginning in late March to view this phenomena. Trouble was this populace invasion, destroyed the ambience and disturbed the peace with traffic galore. So we no longer visited Daffodil Hill, avoiding the congestion of the crowds. Sitting in a car along a two lane meandering back hills road which has been transformed into a miles long parking lot going nowhere has never been my idea of a good time!

Believing that as one door closes another window opens, I decided that I would create my own private daffodil hill on our seven acres. That started my 20+ year tradition of planting daffodil bulbs each November around my birthday. First I planted an assortment of various bulbs, favoring exotic tulips. But come spring I was disappointed with sparse results. Here and there I had scattered ranunculus, Dutch iris and daffodils but zero tulips. When I took shovel in hand and dug up the area to inspect and determine the cause, I found not a trace of any tulip bulb, where I’d so carefully laid those months back. After more study and questioning lifelong foothill gardeners, I learned that the tulips were prime eating for the voracious gophers that ravaged our lawn and cultivated areas. I had provided them a wintry gourmet feast which they totally devoured. I was advised to dig deeper the next year and install a layer of wire mesh, aka chicken wire, and then add soil and amendments and then the bulbs. Then our elderly friend and previous owner of the hillside advised me that she had given up on tulips 40 years prior for this same reason and because they needed to be dug out and replanted each year.

With that lesson learned, but resolute to having my personal spring bulb bloom, that November I passed on tulips and planted more Dutch iris and daffodils. That Monday when I returned home from a routine long work day in the bureaucracy, Jerry remarked that I probably had not noticed excavation along my mini bulb hill along the front bank. No indeed I had not noticed that, because at that time of year I left in the dark and returned in the dark, but I went outside, turned on the garage lights, armed with flashlight to inspect. What a sorry sight awaited me with daffodil bulbs and iris tubers scattered over the ground and excavations all over that slope. Jerry had followed me outside and was standing aside as I gasped, “What the hell!” and other expletive deleted words that every gardener invokes from time to time! This time there was another predator, which happened to be hunkering sheepishly behind Jerry eyeing me. That August we had acquired our Great Dane, Ace, who became the dog of my life. But this evening, there he was in his blackness looking at me and leaning against Jerry’s legs. Evidently that morning Jerry, who left for his business in the daylight and checked the area before departing had found the evidence with dirt and mud all over Ace’s mug and paws. It seems, Ace smelled the bone and blood meal that I’d used while burying each bulb and while he did not eat bulbs, the pup had enjoyed digging in the dirt. Was I amused, hardly, but there was still time the next weekend to replant the bulbs. The next Saturday, I did so but also used another old gardener’s trick, moth balls planted along with the bulbs to keep the dog away. It worked because Ace did not excavate.

The next spring the bulbs bloomed and all was well. Well as well as it could be until the mischievous Ace and our other dog decided to race through the bulb beds or lay down amid the flowers. I have mentioned that we lived on a country hillside so we did not do flower boxes nor fence off my plantings. Besides Ace was perfectly capable of stepping over any small flower fence and our other dog was a jumper. My outbursts of displeasure taught them to keep away, mostly.

As I learned more about bulb gardening, I became even fonder of the daffodils which were known to naturalize and divide and take over an area. Furthermore, the daffodil stems and leaves as such were deer repellent another important feature in our country hillside. Thereafter, I continued to plant daffodils each November along with a few hyacinths and the Dutch iris. I had more than 20 hybrids of daffodils some in multi color, some with a greenish tinge but my favorites remained the King Alfred, golden yellows. I had a nice view of the bank from our kitchen table window, a few steps off the garage and enjoyed many bouquets from the beds of yellow.

Today in MN, November is too cold and the ground too hard for bulb gardening, I have decided after repeated failures. In 2005, our first fall and winter here, I purchased bags full of bulbs and buried them around the planters and even potted several. All this to Jerry’s protests that I not scatter them in the lawns where he rides his mower! Not a single daffodil bloomed. When I dug those bulbs I saw they had rotted in the ground, perhaps I did not plant them deep enough, and perhaps the bulbs were defective. The next year, I tried a couple more types without any success. So I have given up, for now and often we are off in the RV when it's optimal time to plant.  My focus has shifted.  No more golden blooms greeting the spring time. Of course, maybe there is a certain daffodil that is better suited to MN over winter---hmmm, more to learn.

Sepia Saturday Week 17 (Click here to find others Sepia postings)

Mystery Boy

Last week I introduced my granpap, Teofil Kochanowski. When I refiled his photos, I found three photos of the same little boy (at least I think it is) whom I believe was Teofil’s nephew and likely lived in Illinois where Teofil’s brother Charles Krolicki lived. Remember I said how my Polish ancestors changed the spelling of their names, well there we have it again, Krolicki from Kochanowski.

 No identification, name or date was written on the back of these photos. My aunt Virginia, who had the photos in her album had written, “I don’t know who this boy is.” I kept the photos when I cleared her house last year because of their age, which I am guessing to be early 1900 to about 1920. He looks like such a precious little boy and I can see my granpap’s blue eyes in this boy’s face. Someday I might solve this riddle but meantime, here is the mystery boy. This photo as you see, is inscribed to “Uncle Teofil” and says “Charles E 2 years old.” Look at him with hands in pockets of the over skirt bib type covering over his pants.


I suspect he may be the child of one of Charles Krolicki’s children. Among Granpap’s funeral memorials, was a memorial from H.M.Seagle in West Frankfort, Illinois. My attempts to trace this on Google located a Hubert Marion Seagle who married a Mary Louise Krolicki in December 1940 in Perryville, MO and died in W Frankfort, IL February 2008 at age 90. I can assume that Mary was Grandpap's niece,  Charles’ daughter.

There were two children of that marriage, Charles Edward and Patricia M. Somewhere on Ancestry or other records there may be a tie to this. Hmm, Charles Edward sounds like it might be this boy, but if they married in 1940 and Charles was born later, the photo would not be as old as I’d assumed. As happens with this genealogy, a possible answer often produces more questions. H M Seagle’s obituary reports that his son Charles Edward died April 1985.

Well if this is Charles, here are two more photos.

 If not Charles, then it is another mystery boy. I am speculating that this is the same little boy perhaps at four or five years of age. These two photos are postcards made by Flett in Atlantic City NJ as indicated on the back.

The boy is dressed up in what appears to be a sailor suit made big enough to allow room to grow, or perhaps a hand me down into which he has not yet grown. The high button shoes that show in the standing pose make me think this photo is way before 1940 as I first suspected. Iis it the same boy or not?

I have gone full circle, lapping myself, and come back to not knowing anymore about this little boy. Unless some unknown relative pops up, the mystery is all mine.   Here he is

Getting my Spring on with Memories to spare

On Saturday it was time to clear out the last of the  burgundy and gold that survived through St. Patty's Day and get my Spring on.  Because I have lots of trinkets and treasures to display and enjoy doing so, it is time to meet Spring inside.  The cold March wind blowing today amidst the sunshine precludes me from further outside yard work. I have cleared out the front flower box, trimmed all the winter ravages from plants along one side and most significantly clipped all the rose bushes and removed the tons of winter leaf mulch. This photo shows the barren rose garden, awaiting the growth and eventual blooms.  Pretty good dent on spring clean up is already accomplished, so I can retreat to my computer. I can use the respite from the wind and maybe my achy shoulders and hands will too.

While I was pruning roses, despite the protest from the arthritis in my hands, I was aware of how it is a "good thing" that I no longer have the 400+ rose bushes that I grew in CA. I loved them and considered them my therapy after long days in state government bureaucracy, but now I don’t require such respite therapy. Furthermore, I could no longer maintain that much gardening. My amusements have shifted here in MN for reasons of seasons and other interests. Someday we will get to travel more in the RV, taking more trips for pleasure and less to check on the elderly of my family. Well RV travel means not being here to monitor and care for gardens, so I am converting to a lower maintenance landscape which means fewer roses. Not being wealthy enough to afford a staff of dedicated landscapers and gardeners ala Martha Stewart, I have downsized my efforts from roses and even vegetable gardening. After all one has to be around to weed and harvest. There are enough fresh veggies at the farmer’s markets and stands locally to assuage my need for home grown items. While I may dream about strolling through lushly gardened grounds, it will not be my reality; instead I defer to the lawns which Jerry mows on his rider and I have relinquished further gardening attempts for a time. Things can change and I can return with a vengeance, but for now I will be content to limit my efforts.  Here with the umbrella bunny from Roberta, I  will begin to share my trinkets and interior  decor.

Now inside it is time to spring up as well,  and point out the change of some of my trinkets and treasures to match the season. Last weekend I brought out the bunnies to Easterfy the inside of our home. Jerry tolerates these spurts benevolently, with comments like, “Pat’s playing with her toys again.” Seeing Laurie’s over the top Easter mantle decor on her blog, inspired me to get busy. (see her blog at Bargain Hunting and Chatting with Laurie  http://bargainhuntingwithlaugieblogspot.com/2010/03 ) So, Saturday I bunny hopped around the dining and living room spreading my limited baskets full of Easter joy!

I changed the outside wreaths and am very happy with the forsythia wreath especially. This one is at the front door which we use the most. This leads me into a diversion about our two front doors, almost shown here. The “side” front if you will enters into a hallway and another and then through the kitchen while the main front goes into the formal entry and the living/dining room. I’ve not seen another home before this or since with two front entries, but we did not build this house. The original owner builders were quite particular; he was a master craftsman and carpenter and she was a fanatic about cleanliness and design. I suspect they felt that the side front entry was more practical while the main front more suited for formal entertaining, at least that’s the way it plays out with us. A comical aspect along with the two front entries is that each door has a doorbell and despite our owning this home for almost eight years, I still have not identified which door bell ring goes with which door. This results in my running to and fro to answer a doorbell which gives me a spurt of aerobic when there is a ring at a door, especially when I am downstairs writing like now and the door bell rings. This house is known to UPS and the mail delivery gal who always use the side front bell. Neighbors are accustomed to the garage door or the side front, having lived here longer than we have. However, children selling wares and others might wander to the main front. My penchant for making it easy on myself most often results to my opening whichever door I go to first, usually the side front, and waving at whoever is at the other door to walk back to me. I could and will at another time write more about the ways I manage to be confused in this 4,000+ square foot retirement home. But for now, I want to share some of my Easter bunnies and décor.

Mel commented on Facebook that  she understood the enjoyment I get from bringing out my collection of bunnies, it's the "memories."  She gets it.  Nearly all the bunnies were given to me by my best friend, Roberta through our career years; Roberta died in 2002 so every time I  bring out something that was a gift from her I remember her.  For a time she was really delving into minatures and so came many of the bunnies in my Easter parade on the corner of our mantel.  But look at  Big Bunny Mama Shopping, whom Roberta unleashed across the top of my desk one day when I was despairing of how I'd find time to shop for Easter cards!   We worked in downtown Sacramento which had a mall in walking distance and gift shops nearby and so that day off we went to shop for cards.  Today Bunny Mama Shopping still makes me laugh when I wind her up, and here at least 20 years later, she still works when wound up.  That's something else I love about this collection, nothing was made in China. 

A woman I knew in Penryn, CA  held craft fairs twice a year in her Victorian farm home to sell some of the numerous crafts she made.  This pink ceramic bunny was one of her works and the Polish Easter egg in front of it was hand painted maybe 50 years ago in PA by an elderly woman; surely a dying art.   Somewhere with the Christmas collections are the fabulous beaded ornaments of all shapes that this same elderly woman made.  Actually I could rescue some of those for display as Easter fineries and just might do that.  Today on the rare  occaisions when I do attend craft shows, I am annoyed at the duplications,  mass production, touching up of things made in China and lack of artistry.  Either the market has shifted dramatically or what people would sell is just not anything of interest to me. Maybe a combination of both. Then again I remind myself that I do not need to acquire anymore items.  Yet,  now and then someone cannot resist picking up something for me and sometimes that someone is myself.  My friends and I all agree that we must downsize and not acquire, but then something shows up that is just too tempting to pass.

One such recent example is this exquisite Czech glass vase of multi colors that my best friend, Sandy, in CA, procured last November for my birthday.  She apologized for adding to my accumulation, but she  went to an estate sale and when she saw this she thought of me. It has a spot of honor in the living room where the sun beams coming through the huge picture window shine and glisten across it.  Despite all the cut glass and crystal vases I brought from my aunt's home in PA, I had nothing in these color tones. I don't know whether or not Sandy intended to give me another task, but this Czech vase has accomplished that as I try to find different displays for it through the seasons.  This array uses blue glass marbles in the bottom to support 3 beribboned eggs on sticks and a small garland of ivy with beaded pink flowers.  The bunnies at the bottom came from our son, Steve.  Of course those bring a tear, as I recall him bringing them in  almost 25 years ago saying, "Sorry Dad, but I found more junk for Mom!" 

Some people do not collect and some do not decorate--they might be considered minimalists.  I have never been one of those; I am Teofil's grand daughter and have a genetic desire to collect, I can't imagine just using something one time and then tossing it.  I have decided that as long as I enjoy this and have the time and energy, what does it hurt?  Besides I have lots of storage space, so it is not a problem of where to store it until next year.  My  dining room presents a challenge, not because it is difficult to decorate but because I have a selection of permanently placed items, antiques, glassware,  leaded crystal.  I have tried to compensate with a smattering of bunnies and Easter angels. Those who know me are well aware that angels have been my primary collectible all my life.  So do not be surprised to see my "Easter angels" on the dining room table and sideboard.  They look springlike and so I use them at this time of the year.  The brown  ceramic bunny in the dish next to the gold roses reminds me of  Mikey, a little boy who lived  out the back side of our property in Newcastle.  He is a young man today in CT and we still hear from him, but I recall when he brought this bunny to me, wow 21 years ago!  I think when he  gets settled down and maybe has his own family I will package  up this bunny and send it to him; I expect he will be very surprised.   The smaller laughing bunny was from one of my staff long ago; it has the cutest grin. I posted many of these photos on Facebook, but that does not afford me the space to write about them and share my memories.  Notice all the doilies which are hand work from my Aunt Virginia and my grandmother.  If I did not decorate, I would have no use for these lovelies either. 

This will suffice for now.  Besides Jerry has just strolled by to  ask if I am going to continue to sit here or if I have dinner plans. He cannot understand how I can take so much time to write but then again he can because he knows my verbal fluency.  :)  Tonight will be a treat!  I think, as we will experience my own home made pizza.  So with this, last photo of a favorite bunny dish, I sign off and  ascend upstairs to the kitchen when the pizza dough has risen to nearly exiting its container.  Risen whole wheat dough awaits adornment with sausage, cheese and other finery!  Meantime here is my  prize bunny cabbage dish/candle holder that I bought in 1986 at an estate sale.  I wanted to give this to my grand daughter when we were moving from CA but knowing my DIL's proclivity for tossing I did not.    I can't imagine him being tossed into a dump somewhere.  He is awaiting his annual adornment of jelly beans and peeps.

Magpie tales Week 6 (Click here to read others' posts)

This week almost stumped me fully until I tried something very different.  Likely my  utter lack of handy ability frustrated my inspiration and almost blocked my weekly writing.  I can't wait to read  how others used it.   

Box of tacks awaiting a hammer

To anchor them, with a useful knock.

Left in the box, tacks jangle together

Sharp, pointy, spilling out without form or purpose.


But the tack taken from that box,

Attacked by a hammer’s quick smack

Can fasten, repair, reinforce and support.



Life’s sorrows are like tacks in the box.

Kept jangling together deep in the box of the heart

Sorrows' sharp pointed ends slowly siege the soul.

But sorrows shared with others who care

Are struck by the force of the hammer of prayer

Prayer and concern are the useful knocks

That fasten, repair, reinforce and support the fragmented soul.

The Mistress's Daughter a Memoir

“The Mistress’s Daughter” by A.M.Homes is a moving memoir in 238 pages, lyrical and poignant that I read in two nights. Look at that beautiful child on the cover and you know why this book caught my attention at B & N while I was checking over the non-fiction racks. I have never read anything by this author, but I would do so again; the cover of the book lists her other books and that she is a contributing writer for Vanity Fair. A.M. is 31 years old when her birth mother tries to contact her. Although she knew she had been adopted as an infant, there have been the never ending questions that roamed through her psyche throughout her life and now sitting in her parents living room and listening to them reveal the contact from the attorney who arranged her adoption. Her reactions and emotions range from wonder, anger, curiosity and through the entire spectrum. She learns that her mother was an unmarried young woman and that her biological father who had another family lived not far. All those years, so near and so far. This is a book for anyone to read who enjoys good writing and emotions in words. It’s a warning to anyone seeking out missing family members that life does not always end happily ever after and it is a book of encouragement for adoptees or those abandoned that you really are better off without the missing link. Yet it is a book for all of us who want to know more about who we are and how we got here.


The birth mother, Ellen, is not a likeable character but a very wanting needy person who would consume A.M. if allowed. The phone calls from Ellen become almost stalking. Her biological father, Norman, lives up to his “louse” image and does nothing to redeem himself. He promises to introduce A.M. to his family, to her half-siblings, but never does. He abandons her a second time in life. Reading her encounters with him gave me the impression that sex must have been the primary focus of his and Ellen’s relationship because he has the personality of a wart. Then again, it is a tale as old as the hills, Norman was the boss and Ellen, with obvious psychiatric short comings, worked for him. At one point in the dialogue A.M. addresses that their relationship had to be about sex only and she is the byproduct. All the discovery with the additional rejection and turmoil cause a despondency in A.M.

Meanwhile her parents torture themselves and her with “what ifs’ and A.M. develops a need to protect her mother from Ellen. A.M. allows herself to remember Ellen’s birthday each year but keeps her distance. When Ellen finally cajoles A.M. into meeting her for lunch, they are still worlds apart. A.M. thinks maybe an hour or two and Ellen visions a full day together. They meet at the Plaza Oyster Bar in New York at 4:00PM. A.M. arranges for a friend to come to retrieve her if she cannot escape Ellen gracefully. Ellen arrives wearing a rabbit coat and orders Harvey’s Bristol Cream to drink which leaves A.M. with more amazement that people really drink that. A.M. remarks that Ellen reminds her of Dusty Springfield.

Then there is Norman who is impressed with himself for some reason that is never made apparent. He lives consumed in a delusion of his own importance. He insists on a blood test to establish DNA at a shabby lab and does not even pay for it, nor will he later share the official results with A.M. He criticizes A.M. for not wearing jewelry of all things and says he would have taken her out for a nice lunch if she had worn something better. She comments that she is perfectly well dressed in linen pants and a blouse. Mr. Personality.

Some of the passages that make this a wonderful moving memoir:

pg. 10-11, “There is folklore, there are myths, there are facts, and there are questions that go unanswered. …………..How much was still being kept from me and how much had been forgotten or lost with the subtle erasure, the natural revision of time?”

pg. 38-39 “I am an amalgam. I will always be something glued together, something slightly broken. It is not something I might recover from but something I must accept, to live with—with compassion……………….It’s about fate, the life cycle of information.. “

pg. 68 “I used to believe that every question deserved an answer, I used to feel obligated to answer everything as fully and honestly as possible. I don’t anymore.”

pg. 91 “This is the world Norman lives in—faded but presumed aristocracy. The fact is, Norman is not upper class, and he is overextended.”

Pg. 93 “The fact is that whatever each of them is in this for has nothing to do with me. It is not about my need, my desire and for the moment I have had enough.”

My favorite quote is on page 69 “My birthday, the lighting rod, the axis around which I spin. I hold myself braced against it—an anti-celebration. “

The final chapter about her maternal (adoptive) grandmother, Jewel Rosenberg and her table, which A.M. acquires leads to her discussion of sitting at it with her own daughter. People who have lived otherwise normal lives within intact families should read this book to learn from someone who expresses how to become whole when parts are missing.