Christmas in Scotts Mills, 1947

This is one of my favorite Christmas memories...waiting for Grandpa Louie to show up with a freshly cut Christmas tree.

A Good Eye

“The perfect Christmas tree? All Christmas trees are perfect!" – Charles Barnard

Sometimes Grandpa could be as grumpy as a troll.

“Why does it take you so long to get those baking powder biscuits in the oven?  My stomach’s rumbling,” he’d grouse, while Grandma continued to cut out perfect circles of dough with her jelly glass.

“Why do you have to practice right now? You can see I’m taking a nap,” he’d grumble from the green velvet parlor sofa. My big sister, Patti, would glance heavenward, and then give me a wink as she quietly turned the lid down over her keyboard.

If I caught him casting a baleful eye my way, I’d quickly set down my “Children’s Activities” and scurry to the shed for an armload of split logs to refill the wood box.

But I’ll always remember one special December in l947 when we all lived together in an old Victorian house in Scott Mills, OR, and Grandpa began to twinkle like a North Pole elf. He offered to drive us to Salem to pick out a few new Shiny-Brite ornaments at JC Penney. He beamed at Grandma while she treated her fruit cakes to a dousing of brandy and then rewrapped them. He even encouraged Patti to play “Silent Night,” which, he told us, came from Austria, just like him.

A few days before Christmas he announced it was time to bring home a tree. My sister and I clamored to accompany him to choose one, but he refused our help.

“I’ve got a good eye for the perfect tree,” he claimed, tossing on his navy plaid Pendleton jacket. “You can trust me. You just start stringing the popcorn, because I’ll be back in no time.”

We waved goodbye as he nosed his ’46 Ford pickup up the hill towards the woods, then headed for the kitchen. The previous afternoon Grandma had popped corn in a kettle, then let it sit overnight to dry out. Now she helped Patti and me thread our needles, and took a nap herself as we girls spent the afternoon stringing garlands. I slid the berries and popped kernels down each segment of thread, and then Patti tied the segments together. Her long slender fingers were much better at securing the knots.

By the time we’d used every berry and kernel, it was almost dark and Grandpa hadn’t yet returned. Grandma went with us outside to drape a few garlands around shrubs and bushes to feed the jays and crows and chickadees. A few fluttered over for a nibble and squawked out their appreciation.

“Don’t worry, girls,” Grandma said, noticing our worried glances towards the woods. “Grandpa’s just taking his time to find the one tree that will be just right.”

When he still hadn’t appeared by dinner time, Grandma dished up the crusty macaroni and cheese that she knew we both loved, and we all munched together. 

Just before bedtime we heard the pickup sputter up the driveway. We all ran outside. Grandpa hopped out and waved a hand toward the bed of the truck.

“It’s about eight feet tall, and shaped as pretty as a bell. It’s a Noble fir. We’ll leave it here for the night and put it up in the morning.”

“Grandpa, what took you so long?” I glanced up at the sky. I saw it was so cloudy that Grandpa couldn’t have found the North Star if he’d gotten lost.

“It took a little while to find the perfect tree. And this one is. You’ll see when we get it up tomorrow.”

When Patti and I got to our bedroom and changed into our winter flannel pajamas, she turned to me.

“Don’t you know why Grandpa’s in such a good mood at Christmas? And why he stayed out so late today?”

I wrinkled my forehead. Was there some mystery here that I hadn’t known about? I shook my head.

“Christmas is the one time Grandma doesn’t scold him if he drinks a little brandy. Couldn’t you smell him when he got home? Didn’t you notice how red his face was? He’s probably been sitting out in the woods in the cab of his truck singing Christmas songs to himself.”

If a nip of brandy made Grandpa more cheerful, it was just fine with me.

Until Christmas Eve my favorite place was right under the tree. After supper I loved to curl up on the soft scarlet chenille blanket Grandma had draped around the stand, and read my magazines and story books. I’d take in the tree’s rich piney scent. Then I’d roll over my back and watch the lights twinkle. I’d pretend I was a woodland creature, a chipmunk or a squirrel, safe and snug, protected by the fir’s mighty branches. Sometimes I’d even drift into sleep. Grandma claimed she came into the room once to hear Grandpa and me snorting together like a pair of weary reindeer on Christmas morning.

The night before Christmas Patti played every carol we knew while we sipped hot chocolate and admired the festooned and garlanded tree with its topper light, an angel with gold wire mesh wings and skirt. I think Grandpa had added a little brandy to his cup, because his face grew flushed, as Patti had pointed out.

The next morning we opened our presents. Patti and I each received a box of chocolate covered cherries and a bag of peppermints. I got a new baton and Patti a Brownie camera. We both unwrapped a book and a Gibson Girl striped shirtwaist, mine pink, Patti’s blue. Santa had been generous.

Patti and I went to the Christmas morning service at the Friends Church. Then that afternoon, after we feasted on turkey and candied sweet potatoes, Patti snapped photos of us all and of our presents. Then I crawled back under the tree. I read the first chapter of my new book, “Dandelion Cottage,” and was entranced.

I remember how I rolled over and stared up through the branches of the fir. I took a deep breath of its wonderful aroma, and popped a peppermint into my mouth. I thought about the characters in my book as I listened to Patti, at her piano, sing “Away in the Manger” and “White Christmas.” Grandpa snored softly on the sofa.

I realize now that Grandpa indeed had a good eye for a perfect tree. Even though it’s true that he reverted to his old grumpy self after New Year’s, I’ve never forgotten that particular tree. Nor those magical days when I lay beneath its boughs where I saw, smelled, heard, touched and tasted…Christmas. That perfect tree was the best Christmas gift ever.

Chrisrmas 2017

A Birthday Supper at the White House

When my beau, Dr. Frank Stern, mentioned during our evening goodnight phone call that he'd like to go to the White House for his birthday dinner, I'd been startled. Surely he wasn't thinking about a jaunt to the nation's capital for a Big Mac and Diet Coke with POTUS. Frank certainly loves Coca Cola and long has been an international collector of Coke memorabilia. But still, there are limits to his enthusiasm.

"The White House?" I asked, pausing significantly. Then he confided that this was the name of an Italian restaurant in nearby Anaheim that had reopened earlier this year after being restored following a devastating fire. It's located in a 1909 home designed by Dosithe Gervais, a designated historical landmark. I learned, surfing its website, that indeed United States presidents have dined here, including Jimmy Carter and George W. Bush.

Moreover, the Anaheim White House, under owner Bruno Serato, for a decade has ensured that hungry children receive an evening meal. Frank mentioned he'd heard its owner frequently is on the premises, greeting patrons. He wondered if we'd have a chance to meet Bruno.

I glanced at the menu online. Hmmm. They offered anchovies with the Caesar salad. That sold me right away. Plus we could choose among a variety of beef, pasta and other entrees.

"OK," I agreed, "I'll make a reservation."

Frank is well-known throughout Orange County, and a standing joke between us is that we can't go to a play, a movie, a concert or a restaurant, without him running into somebody he knows, either through his two decades as a rabbi at Temple Beth Shalom, his work with Orange County Interfaith Network, or as a professor at Cal State Fullerton and Orange Coast College. But we didn't expect to find anybody on a December Thursday night at this elegant venue in Anaheim.

Frank, me, Donna Wolffe, Bernie Horwitz

We were wrong. Frank's record continues to stand. Just as we were about to be shown to our table for two when we were approached by a woman who shares Frank's December 13 birthday. She'd been very active in the sisterhood at Frank's former synagogue, and his children grew up as close friends with hers. She was celebrating that evening with her friend, Bernie Horwitz, who had been president of the Board at Temple Beth Shalom in Santa Ana when Frank had been rabbi there. We ended up joining them at their table for four, and celebrating the double birthdays together..

Frank and I indeed relished our Caesars, with their accompanying rice "taco" shell, and split an entree of braised beef. As a surprise, the restaurant provided both Frank and Donna with beautifully garnished birthday platters. Since Frank isn't fond of custard or caramel, he gave lucky me the miniature crème brûlée, which I happily devoured while he polished off the tiny cakes.

We also were serenaded by carolers, who asked us if we had requests. The trio of women in Victorian costumes, sang "Joy to the World," and a couple of other songs for us. 

This certainly proved to be a memorable birthday evening. And, yes, we got to meet Bruno.

For more about the Anaheim White House and its history:
http://www.anaheimwhitehouse.com/our-history/
 
The Only Restaurant In The World That Serves 4000+ Free Dinners To Children In Need Every Night! Over 2.9 Million Free Dinners Served To Date In 77 Locations

Two illustrious gentlemen, Dr. Frank Stern and Bruno Serato

 For more on the Anaheim White House and Anaheim history: https://anaheimhistory.blogspot.com/2015/05/anaheims-white-house-restaurant-untold.html

Sensible Shoes

Dr. Mary Jane McIvor

As I'm readying my Christmas cards for mailing, I'm thinking about all the relatives I discovered this year, some living and some historical. Here's a story I wrote this past spring about finally discovering who one of Grandma Gertie's stories actually was about.

Sensible Shoes

“A raindrop landing on your cheek is a kiss from someone that lives in Heaven and is watching over you.” --Unknown

Not long after my husband died, I agreed to chat with a psychic. Ordinarily I nurture a healthy skepticism about messages from the great beyond. Nonetheless, for years I’d known this psychic as a fellow writer, an editor of anthologies I’d written for, so trusted him. He’d wanted to experiment with telephone readings and asked if I’d volunteer so he could hone his skills.

Toward the conclusion of our brief session, he astonished me.

“Ken wants you to know he’s content on the other side,” he’d reassured me, “but there’s somebody else approaching. An older woman wearing dark clothes and sensible shoes. Maybe your mother?”

I chuckled. “Nope. Mama wore high heels even to vacuum the living room and clean the bathroom. She looked exactly like the homemakers in the 1950s TV appliance commercials.”

“Grandmother, then? She says she’s been watching over you, that you’re following in the tracks of a long line of strong women who’ve shared your determination to succeed.”

“Grandma Gertie won a county fair prize once for her lemon meringue pie,” I replied, puzzled. “She was an excellent cook. But I don’t know if I’d call the sandals she favored sensible.”

“No, I’m getting an image of sturdy low-heeled high-top lace-ups, no frills,” he said. “Really sensible. Good for lots of walking over rough terrain.”

“I’m sorry. I’m bewildered. I can’t imagine who it could be. Neither of my grandmothers were outdoors people, nor any of the aunts.”

“Well,” the psychic added, “She says the women who came before you are proud of you and who you’ve become.”

“Who I’ve become?”

“Yes,” the psychic paused. “She’s aware you write stories about your life. And that you’ve traveled all over the world.”

I smiled. I couldn’t imagine why my anthology tales or my globetrotting would have captured the attention of anybody in the hereafter. My psychic friend had known these facts about me though. I couldn’t help but wonder if his imagination had carried him away.

Nonetheless, skeptic or not, I’m always delighted at the thought of pleasing somebody, even an ethereal soul I’d never known. The notion of a guardian angel ancestor buoyed my spirits for days. But after relating the comforting allusions to my late spouse, plus the amusing details of the rest of the reading, to a few close pals, I tucked away the memory of this conversation.

Over the next decade I continued to travel, and I continued to write. From time to time I’d wonder about the woman the psychic had referenced. Was she still tracking my life here on Earth?

This past spring, my current beau and I returned from an arduous trip to Hong Kong and Sri Lanka.

“This might be our last trip, honey,” I’d warned. “My lower back and feet are starting to give out.”

“Maybe one or two more,” he’d suggested, “if we don’t have to take any long flights.”

“We’ll see.” I remained hesitant. I’ve been struggling with spinal stenosis and disc deterioration. Sometimes I’ve thought I’ve outlived my skeleton.

Not long after, I received an email from a gentleman claiming to be a distant cousin.

“I came across your blog post that mentioned your Grandma Gertie. I'm certain that my grandfather and Grandma Gertie were first cousins. I'm curious about what you know about the family. I've done a fair amount of research over the years but still have some questions. Gertie's name shows up in my records, but I’d never seen a picture of her prior to stumbling onto your blog.”

I responded, recounting my memories of Grandma Gertie and her three sisters, all of whom I’d known as a child. I attached several ancient photos that I’ve treasured since childhood, most taken by Grandma Gertie herself with her little box Brownie.

Then came the surprise. Skilled in genealogical research, this cousin had traced our family back to the 1830s, to the birth of a woman I remembered Grandma mentioning, Mary McIvor. In my early teens, Grandma told me when she was born in Santa Ana, CA, in 1890, she’d been delivered by Mary McIvor. I vaguely recalled her bragging that this woman, a relative, was the first female to practice medicine west of the Mississippi river. I couldn’t remember exactly her relationship to Grandma.

My cousin though sent a chart with a carefully assembled and documented family tree. He’d attached a portrait photo he’d located, with a couple of clippings. Dr. Mary Jane McIvor had been a physician in Boulder, CO, in the 1870s. Indeed, she’d been Grandma Gertie’s maternal grandmother.

Guess what? In the photo Mary’s seated in a Victorian parlor, gazing into the middle distance, cradling a book in her lap. And from beneath the hem of her dark ankle-length skirt pokes the shiny toe of what looks like a suitably sensible shoe. The kind likely fashioned for a woman who trudges house to house, medicine bag in hand, across rugged rural roads. This was her practice, according to the accompanying newspaper clipping. I stared at the photograph. I could feel the rough serge fabric of her pleated skirt slapping against my ankles.

Soon my newly-discovered cousin emailed another photo, an additional newspaper clipping. This one, dated November 17, 1915, was from The Patriot, published in Harrisburg, PA. The article reported that my great-great-grandmother, once again living in Pennsylvania, planned to leave the following week for a trip across the continent to Nevada. It mentioned her prior medical practice in the west where she’d been a great believer in the curing power of herbs.

The reason for her new westward trek? She intended to organize a gold mining expedition in Luning, Nevada, 2500 miles away. Dr. Mary then was 85!

I tried to picture how she’d planned to travel. Trains? Early motor cars? Stagecoaches still progressed across the country in 1915. I consulted the detailed timeline my cousin had sent, complete with census records. Mary had crisscrossed the country, from Colorado to Oregon to California and again to Pennsylvania and back to California. I remember Grandma once saying her grandmother had driven her pregnant daughter to California in a horse and buggy.

I gazed again at the photo from the 1870s. This time I fancied I could sniff the scents of the mint, ginger and chamomile that emanated from her medical bag.

Suddenly my looming 81^st birthday seemed less ominous. My back didn’t ache quite so much.

I phoned my boyfriend that evening.

“Don’t worry about this next trip,” I said. “I’m up to it. All I need is a pair of sturdy sensible shoes and a guardian angel. I think I’ve got both.”

I’d told him about Dr. Mary and her photographs, and her planned gold mining expedition at age 85.

“So,” he asked, “do you think she’s the woman who tried to reach you through the medium?”

I paused. Then I swatted away my Doubting Thomasina thoughts.

 “Yes, sweetheart. I certainly do.”

If Dr. Mary’s still watching…just so she’ll know…I’ll head east next month. And north. And again west. I might not cover quite 2500 miles. But it will be close. I’ve already bought sensible shoes. And some chamomile tea. Just in case.