On The Road -- Reflections and Recollections

Mary Jo Vossler has a thing about pillowcases. She thinks they should always be fresh, clean and colorful. It has become her tradition to have beautiful brand new pillowcases ready and waiting any time that her grandchildren come to visit.

When he was 6 years old, Mary Jo’s grandson was diagnosed with a benign tumor of the optic nerve. Medication did not shrink it and when he was nine it became necessary to remove the optic nerve, causing the boy to be blind in that eye. Amid all the fear and heartache of the situation Mary Jo was acutely aware of the generosity and concern of her family’s friends and neighbors. Once her grandson was well on his way to recovery, she began to think about a way to give back; a way to repay some of the kindness her family had received.

And her passion for pretty pillowcases sparked an idea. Why not make them for seriously ill children who must spend long periods of time in a hospital?

Mary Jo’s daughter is employed at Strong Memorial Hospital in Rochester and after a few questions, she could report to her mother that yes, the Golisano Children’s Hospital at University of Rochester Medical Center, a section of Strong, would be happy to receive hand made pillowcases to cheer up their young patients. The facility, which has one hundred beds, treats children with a wide variety of serious medical conditions

With several other women, she stitched up brightly hued pillowcases which were patterned with flowers and animals as well as abstract designs. Mary Jo hand delivered them to the hospital and they were warmly received. As others’ interest faded, Mary Jo continued with her project. She got her grandchildren involved and at age 10, her grandson who’s illness had inspired the idea, made a couple of pillowcases to send to the hospital. On the ones that her grandchildren made, Mary Jo added their names and their ages.

A few months ago, a friend brought Mary Jo to Paula Gibson’s Hooterville Junction in Newfield; where ladies of like mind gather to quilt and enjoy each others’ company. When she learned that they were looking for a worthwhile project, Mary Jo spoke up with a suggestion. How would the Hooterville girls feel about making pillowcases for sick kids?

Well. The Hooterville gang thought that was a great idea. With some discussion, they set a goal to make 100 pillowcases and have them ready to go by June first of this year. At present, the group has exceeded that goal, and there are 150 completed pillowcases neatly folded on the shelves. They are a gorgeous and imaginative array of vivid colors and varied patterns from circus animals to delicate spring flowers.

Mary Jo delivers the pillowcases twice a year; in November-- before the flood of generosity that always occurs during the Christmas season and around the first of June; a time when donations most everywhere are at a low ebb. She takes them to the patient’s discharge area of Strong Memorial, labeled with a request that they be delivered to the Children’s Hospital on the fourth floor. The pillowcases are given to the children 10 years old and over upon discharge along with a book. Younger children are given a stuffed animal.

“I just have always felt,” Mary Jo told me with a smile, “ that a clean and pretty pillowcase makes anyone feel better.” I’m inclined to believe she has something there.

Now and then, when I sit down at the computer to begin another column, I wonder why on earth I do what I do. What is this drive that keeps me going; this need to put words on paper and throw my heart and soul open to the readers? It doesn’t make a lot of sense, if you think about it.

The truth is, since I was a kid, I have been unable to resist a blank piece of paper. Whether it was a school tablet, a notebook or the back of a used envelope, it always seemed to me that I should be covering it with words.

And so, I scribbled in diaries. I wrote very bad stories. I wrote plays and rhymes and copied the stories my great-grandmother told.

I have a vivid memory of writing a play when I was no more than ten or twelve and somehow coercing my sisters to “act” in it. Grandma Williams was our audience. We dressed up in our Sunday clothes and for some reason, I remember that I wore a hat. Apparently I was appearing as a grown-up church lady. I have no idea what the play was about but I can see Gram’s face yet, as she struggled not to laugh. She loved us all too much to do that and with her eyes snapping and her jaw tightly clenched, she applauded and told me it was very nice. I was astute enough to recognize the look on her face, but since she did not intend me to notice, I pretended I hadn’t.

As a homework assignment for an elementary English class, I had to write a limerick. The first line was given and our instructions were to finish it in the pattern suggested. Used to hearing my father make up his own rhyming words to any popular song, I had no problem coming up with a rhyme. But when I read it, my teacher went into a fit of the giggles. I had intended it to be amusing, but I didn’t think it was that funny! I was deeply offended until I realized that she had given me a decent grade. Well! How about that! And so I scribbled my way through high school, completely enjoying any themes, book reports or essays that were assigned.

Still, I never took any of it seriously. After all, to be a real writer, one had to have something important to write about. And there was nothing important going on in my life.

I grew up, got married, had a family and still, among all that busy-ness, I couldn’t resist a blank piece of paper. I wrote stories and rhymes and sometimes kept a diary. In 1988, for the Christmas that marked my great-grandparents, Edsil and Betsy Williams’ 100^th wedding anniversary I wrote their story, as it was told to me by their grandchildren. I typed it on a portable typewriter and with my sister’s help, added a few pictures. The re-writes were pure misery, but I got them done. I sent copies to my parents, my aunts and uncle and a couple of cousins. The thank- you notes I received made all the work worth while.

No matter how many loads of wash there were to do each day; no matter what was going on with my family; I could not resist that blank piece of paper. As my children grew up and I had more time, my husband nudged me a little more every week. “Come on! If you want to write, do it!” In a writer’s work shop held by Wanda Rader in Coudersport, I learned that it isn’t necessary to have something earth shaking to write about. A dead leaf or a turkey skeleton will serve very well. And I filled more blank sheets of paper. For Christmas that year, I received my first word-processor and I was in hog-heaven.

Eventually, I gathered the courage to send some of my “stuff” out to local editors and, wonder of wonders, they printed it. One day, Donald Gilliland called and asked if I would like to send something to the Leader-Enterprise “now and then.”

Here I am-- a grandmother several times over, sitting at this wonderful machine. I still can not resist a blank page; be it paper or computer screen. So that is why I do what I do every week. It appears that it is beyond my control and I am so grateful to each of you who read my “stuff”. Hang on, my friends! There is a brand new ream of blank paper waiting under my desk.

Its amazing how these things just turn up. A couple of years ago, a cousin brought a box of old letters to the reunion that her mother had saved. She gave them to me and I said Oh, yes! I’d like to look through them. Well. The box got pushed into a corner of the back bedroom and buried under blankets and some extra throw rugs. I looked at it now and then, but didn’t have the courage to delve into it.

Just last week I had to get in to my cedar chest which meant the box had to be moved. I ran my hands through the contents, thinking “Boy oh boy, I really need to do something with this.” And my fingers closed on an old tablet. The page edges crumbled and flaked as I tugged it from under the letters. What was this?

Apparently, it was an unused school tablet and Ida Morley had made it her own.

Ida Morley was the daughter of Chester Hastings and Ellen Raymond Morley. In March of 1889, when Ida was around six months old, her mother died and Ida went to live with Chester’s brother, James J. Morley and his wife Minnie. And so, Ida was raised as an older sister to my grandfather Seth and his siblings. I knew her when I was little as “Aunt Ida”.

On a mid- April day in 1905, Ida sat down to write a letter on the pages of the tablet to her “Friend Clare.” Possibly the letter never got mailed but more than likely, Ida copied it in a neater fashion before sending it to her friend. It must have been an April similar to this one, because she begins the letter with: “We are having winter weather. It is quite cold and it snowed yesterday and today.“ She tells Clare of the lovely 16^th birthday party that had been held for her the past September. “It was up to Aunt Jane Clark’s” she wrote. “There were about 30 there. We all had a very good time. They gave me $3.05 for a present.” The letter continued with gossipy notes from the area; the death of a neighbor and the doings of the young folks in the neighborhood.

Ida and the cousins with whom she was raised went to the Golden Seal Free Ice Cream Supper one evening and another day, they attended the Ladies’ Aid Oyster Supper.

With another cousin, Anna Clark, she was enjoying taking piano lessons from Mable Williams.

“There was a sugar social up to Mr. Charley Fuller’s at Raymond Friday evening.” but, Ida didn’t go.

“Our school was out last week Friday.” she wrote, and “ Yes, I am living at Uncle Jim’s yet.”

The rest of the pages are filled with Ida’s notations of her daily activities through the years 1906 and 1907.

With the local young people, she enjoyed church and Sunday School, attended Christian Endeavor and if she wasn’t spending an overnight with one of her cousins, very often one or two of them spent the night with her. The name of the man she would marry, Clarence Jordan, began to appear quite frequently. One fine day in July of 1907, Ida notes that “we girls rode in a automobile.”

During the summer of 1906 Ida’s grandmother, Susan Ardrey Morley, became ill. On July 21, she had a “light shock”. Today we would call it a stroke. Susan Morley lingered, and Ida noted for several days that “Grandma is about the same.” On August 4^th, the diary reads: “Grandma was taken very much worse”. She died the following day “about nine o’clock’.

There is nothing earthshaking about any of the notations in Ida‘s diary. I guess that is what impressed me. It is more than a century old, and of course the world was very different then. But young people were much the same as they are now. They enjoyed a good time, loved each other’s company and the girls sometimes spent the nights giggling together just as they do now. Boy friends hung around - a lot. And now and then, the serious moments of life intruded amid the every day.

I have only vague memories of the woman we called “Aunt Ida.” She died in a tragic house fire when I was very small. I hope it would please her to know that she left us a priceless window into the life of a girl who was growing up more than 100 years ago. 　

It has never occurred to me to take laughter seriously. Silly me. It seems that there are a good many folks who do just that.

I stumbled on to an article recently about a man who has spent more than thirty years studying laughter. He wonders why we laugh, how we laugh; even why we make the sounds we do when we laugh. His name is Robert Provine and the article, written by Judy Dutton was published in a strange little magazine called “mental floss“. Over the years, Provine has learned a good deal about the odd human activity that we call laughter. Finding the article more than a little fascinating, I decided to check out the subject on line.

Well!

I had no idea how extensive the study of laughter is. And, to be honest, I made no attempt to scan more than a few titles. I’m funny, I guess. I think of laughter as just a natural reaction to life.

As much as this all tickles my funny bone, I have to be fair. A few years ago I was checking out at a supermarket and the clerk was on her toes and very quick with the wisecracks. Having just read a holiday self-help article about keeping ones humor through the seasonal rush and uproar, I attempted to joke about people who seemed to make such work out of having fun. She cut me off with a look that would have fried eggs.

“There never has been anything very funny about my life,” she said, staring me down, “and I make it my business to have a laugh when I can and see that those around me do the same.” Or words to that effect. And she smiled, slapped the last of my items in the bag and wished me a Merry Christmas. With a laugh. She would have been a great candidate for one of those studies.

The article I found on line that gave me the biggest chuckle was titled: “Laughing at Yourself Can Be Good For You!” No kidding!

Having been raised in a family of laughers, jokesters, mimics, gigglers and teasers, I have always taken laughter for granted. And we learned early that if we couldn’t laugh at ourselves, we were in big trouble.

Sometimes, as much fun as it can be, laughter can be downright annoying. As a kid, I was often scolded for laughing too loudly, too often and in all the wrong places. I’d get a bad case of the giggles almost anywhere that was inappropriate, especially in church. That sort of thing got under my mother’s skin. The problem was, the looks she gave me that were meant to freeze me in my tracks usually just made me giggle harder.

We grew up with our antennae always alert for a “good one.” There was nothing that was more fun than to come home from school with a good story to tell at the supper table. If one of our class mates hadn’t done something funny that day; sure as the dickens one of our teachers had.

If there was the slightest possibility that the way we put words together could have a double meaning, somebody, most likely our Dad, would catch it. We learned early to “double think” about almost everything we said.

“Its better to laugh than to cry.” was Dad’s mantra. Not that he didn’t experience his share of sadness and recognize it. He most surely did. He cried as easily as he laughed. But he never considered it right or good to dwell on gloom. Maybe that is why he lived to be almost ninety-five.

The fun got better, (or worse, depending upon one’s viewpoint, I suppose) when we got together with our many relatives; grandparents, uncles, aunts and all those cousins. The jokes flew, the wisecracks cracked and the giggles got sillier and louder.

To this day, the thing I look forward to most when a family gathering is planned, is the laughter. I want to retell and rehear the old jokes, share some new ones, and giggle myself weak and teary-eyed.

And so, I stand corrected. To some, laughter is a very serious business. However, since I am not a scientist nor do I find it difficult to see the fun in life, I guess I’ll just go on as I always have; laughing all the way. Who knows? Maybe I’ll live to be 100. Seriously.

I have never liked doing the dishes. Not that it matters much. The only alternative would be, I suppose, disposable dinnerware and take-out three times a day. That isn’t very practical, particularly in this neck of the woods, to say nothing of the damage it would do to the environment.

One of the nicest things we did when we built this house was to position the kitchen sink directly in front of a window that looks across to the hill on the other side of Route 49. Over the past 46 years, there has always been something to distract me while I washed those ever-accumulating dishes. In the early years, it was usually the boys, playing in the yard. From tricycles to motor bikes to bicycles to motorcycles, they must have circled the house a gazillion times, going right under that window on every lap.

The tree we planted the summer we moved in grew to be so huge and ungainly that we finally had to have it cut down two summers ago. Now, I have the same clear view of the hillside that I did in the beginning. I think it is prettier than ever. Or, at least, I appreciate it more.

I used to blame it on those three kids but it is downright amazing how many dishes I can generate during a day. And I don’t enjoy washing dishes any more than I ever did. But the saving grace it still the view outside that window. It is particularly lovely this time of year.

True, in some parts of the country the peak of the tornado season often occurs during April. Even as I write, residents in several Midwestern states are picking up the pieces after another violent weather outbreak. In this part of the world, however, it seems to me that April is the most lovely and exciting month of the year. In spite of the early warm-up during March, things have slowed down a bit and the April color show is just about on schedule. In contrast to Fall, when the countryside is filled with gorgeous reds and yellows, April pulls us in to summer quietly and gently; the colors often so fragile that if we aren’t paying attention, we miss them. As I washed up a pan of dishes left over from the night before one morning last week, I was stopped in my tracks by the colors the morning sun was putting on display. Leaves have not yet quite appeared, but every tree is budding and there are tints of pink, soft yellows, peach and pale greens blending together out there- in an absolute riot of muted but somehow, vivid hues. Everything is accented by white blossoms and the still visible black outlines of the branches. Even the evergreens are becoming brighter. Oh, yes, there are dandelions appearing in the yard and other noxious weeds are raising their grubby little heads. But at this point, they are all beautiful in my eyes.

The view from my kitchen window changes almost daily. Soon the trees will all be alive again with a dozen shades of green. My front yard maple will be so thick with leaves that I won’t be able to see from the house if the flag is up or down on my mailbox. The roadside will blossom with a riot of summer posies; that is, until the road crews come along and mow them down. Sometimes, during the past week, I have stood by the sink just to take in the lovely view from my kitchen window- whether there were any dishes to do or not.

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Last Tuesday, accompanied by three good friends, I went to Wellsboro to attend the tenth anniversary celebration of the Hamilton-Gibson Acting Up!, a “reader’s theatre” program for those who are 55 and over. Members meet twice a month and read aloud items that appeal to them; poems, stories; even radio scripts. Their meetings often feature group readings of plays. Along with Mary Myers, of Wellsboro, who writes for Mountain Home as well as other publications, I was invited to attend by the coordinators of the group, Larry and Barbara Biddison. Mary and I were honored when short essays which we had written were read to the group. Many thanks to the Biddisons and all of the members of Acting Up!, for making me as well as my friends feel so welcome.

The hills that I can see from my studio window are telling me that autumn is in full swing, and will soon be replaced by winter. The forested hillsides are awash in shades of gold, interspersed with the gray lacework of trees already bare. The colors are a miracle. No two trees match. Each is dressed in a different shade, varying from a bright Halloween pumpkin orange-yellow to the dark orange-brown of a rusted iron gate. When the sun comes out from behind the high clouds, some trees seem to glow. I could sit and look at these hills all day. After 15 years in Florida, being back among my Pennsylvania hills in deep autumn is a special joy.

Winter, I’m not so sure about. I do not look forward to the cold and ice, and the pleasures of watching snow fall don’t last much past that first storm of the season. I spend most of the winter longing for spring.

In western Pennsylvania, spring usually comes long after I am ready for it, arriving just in time to keep me from going completely insane. When it finally tiptoes in on muddy feet, I have to resist the urge to go outside, coatless, and search for signs of life. One robin is all it takes to restore my faith. I know that before long, there will be daffodils, lilacs, and green, lots and lots of green. The bare gray branches of a million trees will turn a misty lime green. Then, in what seems like no time at all, they will produce leaves in every shape and pattern imaginable. In my own backyard, tiny wild violets will multiply across the lawn until my grandson decides it’s time to mow.

The sound of mowers is the sound of summer. Everyone on my street mows at a different time. I don’t know why this is. You would think that grass would grow at pretty much the same speed throughout the neighborhood, and that mowing would therefore be synchronized. Never happens. Monday, the mower is at work two houses up. Tuesday, it’s the woman across the road. Wednesday, it’s the guy on the corner. Thursday, there are three mowers running on the next street. Friday, it’s my next-door neighbor, and Saturday, here comes my grandson to manicure my little lawn. On Sunday, most mowers rest, but now and again, that day is punctuated by the buzz of the weed whacker.

The summer sun is bright and relentless. The trees come into their own, giving the cool relief of shade, accompanied by never-ending birdsong. No summer is complete without the noise of children playing outside, laughing, shouting, letting loose, having a really good time, as only children can. Even now, in the Internet age, sometimes I hear a radio broadcasting a ballgame, and I’m transported back to summer days when my father would set up his sawhorses next to the dining room window so he could listen to the game while he sawed wood for the new kitchen cupboards he was building.

Then it’s fall again. The air turns crisp, the days shorten, and the green hills, that have cooled your spirits all summer, begin to change. The frosty nights have their way, and once again, the hills turn magical, the trees don their golden autumn robes, and I am taken with the notion that we should all get down on our knees and thank whatever deities we worship for the privilege of being here.

I was born in July. As yet another birthday came and went, I got to thinking about age and wisdom. I’ve been on the planet for over sixty years. Have I learned anything? I was a student for sixteen years. I learned enough math to get by, some basic science, a lot of history, and even some Latin, which turned out to be very useful. I learned a great deal about literature, and got a solid grounding in grammar, thanks to Mr. Rackish and Mr. Saiers. Unlike today’s students, I even got some training in art, and in home economics, I learned that napkins were part of a proper table setting, and that there was a right way and a wrong way to wash dishes. I learned how to sew an apron, and have never used one since. When I got to college, I learned no more about science and math, though they tried. I did learn a bit more history, and explored geology. Since I majored in what was then known as “English,” I learned a good deal more about literature, and even dipped my toe into journalism and creative writing. I learned how to build theater sets in a class called Play Production, got a greater appreciation for classical music, and even tried my hand at golf and archery. I was no good at either, which I will always believe was due to my left-handedness. I should note here that, over the years, I have blamed most of the things I’m not good at on my left-handedness. To prove that this is not as far fetched as it sounds, the only time I was ever fired from a job, my boss told me it was because I was left-handed. Honest.

College was also where I was trained to be a high school English teacher. Sort of. They can’t really train you to be a teacher. Either you are a teacher or you aren’t. I wasn’t. I taught for exactly one year, and then ran screaming into the night, swearing I would never do that again. I haven’t.

By the time I earned my bachelor’s degree, and headed out into the larger world, I thought I had been taught everything I needed to know. I was wrong, of course. That’s part of the problem with being young. You think you know everything, because you don’t know what you don’t know. It takes a whole lifetime of living to find out that there are and will always be things you don’t know, and that those things will rise up in the middle of the road and demand your attention at the most inconvenient times. For example, I had no idea how to be a parent until I became one. No matter how many books I read, or classes I attended, I could not learn what I needed to learn until I was confronted with the reality of childrearing. I’m still not sure I know enough to rear a child, but I did the best I could.

Now there’s a bit of wisdom I’ve gleaned. If you really and truly do the best you can, there is still no guarantee that things will turn out the way they should, but you will always know that you did your best. Which leads me to another bit of wisdom. Wisdom is often circular.

Very often we encounter wisdom and don’t know it until much later. My mother was a wise woman (and sometimes a very foolish one, but that is just the way human beings are). I didn’t know she was wise until I reached a certain age and began to see life through her eyes. She didn’t know she was wise. In fact, it was not important to her to be wise. She just wanted people to see that her way was the right way, and follow along quietly. That faith in the rightness of her actions meant that she was a powerful teacher, because she really and truly believed in what she was teaching. That is why, when she said that it was a sin to take something that did not belong to you, I believed her.

“If you find even a straight pin on the floor of someone else’s house, and you take it, you are stealing,” she would warn me and I knew she was telling the truth. She made an honest woman out of me while I still had baby teeth. Here’s a story that proves it. One day, I went to a drugstore, and when I had purchased what I needed and returned to my car, I realized the clerk had given me a five dollar bill instead of a one dollar bill in change. I hurried back in to correct the error, and in the process, locked myself out of my car. It cost me $25 to get the car unlocked, but that clerk sure appreciated my honesty!

My father was a wise man, and I think that a great deal of his wisdom was gained at great cost during his service in World War II. He never spoke about that time in his life, but I think it made him take a deeper pleasure in the good things of life, be they ever so ordinary. He loved trout fishing and often took me along. It was from him that I learned the wisdom of patience. We would sit for long periods in comfortable silence, watching our lines bobbing in one of the many excellent trout streams in Potter County. “Just wait,” he would say if I got fidgety, “if you want to catch fish, you have to be patient.” Since he always came home with his limit, I figured he must be right.

My father also taught me that there are times when it’s all right to break the rules, and this is one of the most valuable lessons I have ever learned. Perhaps I took this lesson so much to heart because it was diametrically opposed to what my mother believed. She believed with all her heart that the secret to success was to obey all the rules, no matter how hard it was to do so. She also believed that her rules were the most important rules of all, and breaking them was very, very, very bad.

As I think I have noted in other pieces I have written, I was allergic to strawberries and chocolate when I was a child. I broke out in hives after eating either of these. My mother had pink medicine that quickly took the hives away, and it tasted like peppermint, so I really didn’t pay much attention to my mother’s insistence that I not eat berries from our backyard patch. It was harder to come by chocolate, which I loved just as much as I loved strawberries. My mother made sure that nothing I ate had chocolate in it, and warned friends and relatives not to give me anything chocolate.

There was a small diner a short walk from our house, I think it was called Renwick’s. It had a pinball machine, and my father loved to play pinball. I think he may have picked it up in the service, or perhaps when he served in the CCC before the war. About once a week, he would take me with him to Renwick’s so he could play a game or two of pinball. He would sit me on one of the stools at the counter, and I would whirl round and round until I got dizzy. He would order a root beer for himself and then ask me what I wanted. I knew exactly what to ask for. In a flash, I was pulling the wrapper off a huge, brown Fudge Sickle. So chocolaty! So cold and creamy! So forbidden!

“Taste good?” my father would ask with an knowing grin, taking a swig of his root beer. I would nod, too busy licking to speak, and pretending I didn’t know we were both being very disobedient. I would finish the treat while he played his pinball game, then he would check my face for telltale streaks of chocolate, wipe me clean, and, hand in hand, we would walk home. He never told me not to tell my mother, and I never did. The hives would arrive, and she would demand to know what I had been eating, and I would shrug, and mumble, “Nothing,” and she would look exasperated as she spooned the peppermint medicine into my mouth. My father never seemed to be around for these exchanges. I still love Fudge Sickles, but they never taste as good as they did sitting on that stool in Renwick’s Diner. I think they have gotten a lot smaller, too. That’s another thing I’ve learned. Nothing tastes as good now as it did when you were a child, and everything has gotten smaller!

I will leave you with one more life lesson my mother taught me. It also has to do with food.

“Never eat anything that isn’t the right color,” she told me once, when we were at a Girl Scout banquet. She was eyeing the Jello salad we had just been served. It had probably been made by one of the Rebekahs, the ladies who did most of the catering in our little town. The salad was a sort of Pepto Bismol pink, with a dollop of mayonnaise-like salad dressing on top that was colored a peculiar shade of green. We passed on the salad. Much later in life, I found out that the dressing on the salad was Green Goddess dressing, made with avocados, and it’s delicious. So sometimes, despite your doubts, you have to take a chance . . . and that’s the final and most valuable bit of wisdom I have to offer. . . sometimes, you have to take a chance.