General Grant's home, you say? Wouldn't it be more accurate to call it President Grant's home?
Well, you can, but in Galena, the story line is about Grant the general. Due to his work saving the United States Union, the Grants were presented with this handsome home from local businessmen.
The house remained the Grants' legal residence throughout his two presidential terms.
U.S.came to Galena for a job at his family's downtown tannery. Before he was called into service leading the Union in the Civil War, the Grant family lived in a small home where he walked home for the midday. (And you should see the flights of outdoor stairs.)
Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself. A little biography first.
Born in Point Pleasant, Ohio in 1822, U.S. Grant graduated 21 years later from West Point. He served in the Mexican-American War. He met and quickly became engaged to Missouri-born Julia Dent but it was four years later when they married. For the next ten years, Ulysses served in the army, resigning in 1854 and moving to St. Louis.
While the Grants were abolitionists, the Dents were quite the opposite, owning a Missouri plantation. Our Grant home-tour guide said that at family events when the two families were together, the couple's fathers remained in different rooms.
In the St. Louis area, Julia's father gave the couple a farm, but it wasn't successful. U.S. called it "Hard-Scrabble Farm." It's now a tourist attraction, Grant's Farm. The Grants moved to Galena in 1860 where he worked at the Grant family tannery.
Preserved our nation
The next year, when the Civil War started, he became a colonel for the 21st Illinois Volunteers. In 1862, Grant demanded unconditional surrender from the Confederate Army -- and with that, became a national hero. But it wasn't until three years later when Lee surrendered that this horrific war era of American history ended and the Union survived.
Grant became the nation's first four-star general in 1866. Following the war, a group of business men gifted the Grants the Galena home as a thank you gift for his contribution to the U.S. Ninety percent of the furnishings you see there today were there when the Grants called the place home. It remained their legal address through his two terms as president.
Following those, the Grants took a world tour where they were lauded the world over. In 1881 they moved to New York City and lost $100,000. It is there Grant died in 1885. He is buried in -- wait for it -- Grant's tomb (did you see that one coming?) in New York City. Julia lived 17 more years.
In what might today be called a man cave, several significant items fill the space. A Bible on the table rests on four buttons attached to it so that the Holy Word never touches the floor or whatever is underneath it. Look to the left, under the window. That is Grant's smoking stand. He was known for smoking up to 20 cigars a day, said one tour guide. Grant died at 63 of throat cancer. It is suggested that he might have smoked heavily during the war to cover the stench.
An elegant parlor with the General / President over the fireplace at age 57 in an original portrait. U.S. Grant stood 5'8" and normally weighed between 135 and 140 pounds. Ninety-percent of the home's furnishings are authentic Grant pieces.
The couple had four children. Their only daughter, Nellie, got married in the White House. The china outfitting the Galena table above was used at her wedding breakfast. The portrait is of Julia. She has the distinction of being the first to be called First Lady.
Two years after Julia's death, the children bequeathed the home to Galena as long as it served as a memorial to their father. The home has welcomed the public for a century, now owned by the state of Illinois. Eighty-thousand visitors tour the two-story, fully-furnished home annually.
By the time Grant died, he had few financial resources, having lost a great deal of money in New York. He worked on his autobiography so that it could bring in money for his family. He completed it just two weeks before he died. The book brought in more than $450,000 to the family, according to a tour guide.
I'm struck with the observation that even when he was surely suffering a great deal, Grant had the drive to do what needed done, as he had during the Civil War. This time, it was to finish his book and thus, provide for his family after he passed.
With gratitude to U.S. Grant State Historic Sites brochure, trolly tour-guide and the Grant home tour guide for information in this post, and to Joe Cook of Brierwreath Manor Bed & Breakfast for his insights.
Long before we planned a trip to Galena, Illinois, the town had been on my radar. A perennial favorite on the pages of Midwest Living magazine, the small city in northwest Illinois is a photogenic destination for visitors looking for all things quaint.
Since my friend Gay is both a proud Land of Lincoln native and has been to Galena before, combined with the trip including a visit to her friend Cathy in Iowa (see two posts ago), added with a crazy-busy spring for me, she graciously took over the planning and logistics. She did a fantastic job.
The hours from Gay's home in Angola, Indiana and Galena, Illinois clicked off with ease as we caught up on months of updates about our lives and times. Gay is not only a great story teller, she is a superb listener.
As we neared Galena, the already-beautiful farm country of rural Illinois got even prettier with deeply rolling hills. Just outside Galena proper, a sign encouraged travelers to pull over for a scenic view. So we did.
And in typical Gay-and-Donna fashion, the vehicle that joined us contained an employee of the Galena tourism bureau. So we picked her brain about dinner spots, told her about Miss Effie’s in Iowa (and she immediately liked Cathy's place on Facebook).
It seems she chose the very moment we did to pull over for a photo op.
We checked into Brierwreath Manor B & B (see previous post), checked out a basket brimming with restaurant menus and set out on foot down the hill into the vibrant downtown retail-dining district.
It was dinnertime, and there were so many choices! We settled on Vinny Vanucchi’s Little Italy. Even though they were busy and we had no reservations, we were ushered right away to our first choice of seating: out on the patio under an umbrella on a lovely evening.
We later learned that it should come as no surprise to find an Italian restaurant (as well as French-German and other nationalities) in Galena. We learned that people once came from all over the world to live and work in Galena.
Many immigrants came to Galena to make their living in the lead mines. Interesting that our server was from Ireland. She apparently was there on summer break earning money for college. She was very nice.
I enjoyed a delicious meatball sandwich and a tossed salad with house dressing. Gay describes her entree: "I had seafood pasta with big chunks of scallops and crab and maybe shrimp. So good."
The next day we took a trolly tour around the city of 3,500 residents. It was lightly raining so couldn't enjoy the open air. The clear but rain-splattered window coverings didn't lend themselves well to the many home photos I would have liked to get.
I can’t stress enough how stunning the houses are in this town! They are in so many different styles dating back from the oldest, 1826, to all periods forward. There is an abundance of mid-18th and 19th century Victorian homes, and it is obvious that Galena has historically been a city of wealth. Some of that is attributed to a thriving, if short-lived riverboat era, and nearby lead mines.
So here are some things we learned from our capable trolly driver / guide:
* The most lead used for the Civil War was produced in Galena.
* Galena was a military town, with a training post there. The small city had nine men promoted to generals during the Civil War. That is the most of any location in the country.
* There were seven brick factories in Galena. There are more than 800 historic buildings in this city, and 1.5 million tourists visit a year.
* Native Americans discovered what they called “mineral” which was in fact lead inside the "mineral" and used to paint their faces, for one thing. French traders came along and traded flour, liquor and blankets for that lead.
* Due to the steamboat era, and quite likely the lead mines, in the mid-1850s, Galena’s population was 14,000. Riverboat captains made their home in Galena and one spectacular example is the Belvedere Mansion, an Italianate home referred to as “the jewel of Galena.”
I will go into the Ulysses S. Grant story in my next post, but one thing I found interesting is that despite a huge emphasis around town on the General / President, the reason he lived in Galena – working in the family leather shop downtown – goes without notice at the site of that shop. It is now a nice sock shop but there is no plate on the door or anything there to indicate that historical fact.
That, my friends, is a great reason to take a guided tour when visiting an interesting place. You get so much more information than you’ll find on your own.
We also saw this incredibly handsome U.S. Post Office, which happens to be the oldest continuously operating post office in the country. One distinction is the white stone which the builder found in Nauvoo, Illinois., where Mormons settled before they moved on to Utah. (Nauvoo is another great Illinois town to visit.) We were told that the builder decided that if the Nauvoo stone was good enough for a Mormon Temple, it filled the bill for the Galena post office.
We shopped til we dropped in the afternoon. Several downtown blocks on both sides of the street are filled with one-of-a-kind boutiques offering everything from pretty paper (and ribbon) goods to kitchen gourmet foods (and lots and lots of free samples) to clothing, accessories, socks, tourist fare (Brian loves the General U.S.Grant T-shirt I brought him) and an abundance of restaurants. It’s so hard to choose which!
For dinner our second night, we selected Fritz and Frites, a French-German eatery. We felt as though we were in Europe. Such an elegant restaurant, with fine-dining choices.
We dressed up and settled in for a lovely meal. Gay decided on the rainbow trout that she says, "just melted in my mouth." I had the chicken and potatoes, beautifully presented, with the most delicious juices and tasty mushrooms tempting my palette.
Gay, left, and Donna enjoying a French and German old-world taste and decor at Fritz and Frites.
It was an easy walk up the hill, back to our B & B, and a good night’s sleep (after the tornado warning passed). Check out a few more pictures.
If you'd like more information on Galena, Illinois, click on www.VisitGalena.org. You can email them at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Hoosier Donna Cronk welcomes readers to her blog, on which she posts twice a week. She is a career newspaper journalist and author of two novels, Sweetland of Liberty Bed & Breakfast and That Sweet Place: At Home in the Heartland, both available on Amazon.
I thought I'd wrap up Gay's and my 2017 girlfriend getaway with this post. Then I decided there is simply too much to say. We've got twenty or more summer trips under our belts, each one enjoyable in its special way. This summer's outing is one of my favorite.
I need to do an entire post on our nation's fourteenth president, Ulysses S. Grant, and his Galena home, where he lived while he was General Grant. But that leaves so much unsaid about the unique city of Galena, so I will do a separate on the city.
That leaves the Brierwreath Manor Bed & Breakfast where we stayed and it needs its own post. So here we go.
Since I wrote two novels set inside a bed and breakfast, it's not a stretch to say I'm a fan of visiting them. I've loved B & Bs before I ever even stayed in my first one on a press trip long ago in Madison, Indiana. I can't count the number I've slept in, let alone the additional ones I've written about.
To me, the ultimate charm of any bed and breakfast is found in the innkeeper. A successful inn is not only beautiful, most likely historic, and offers comfort, and a delicious breakfast. It is operated by an innkeeper that resembles a favorite family member who lives in a town other than my own, and who cannot wait until I arrive.
The innkeeper has cooked and cleaned and planned well for my arrival. He or she has so much to share! Not only about what's on the breakfast menu, but the inside scoop about where to have a quaint lunch or fancy dinner, what shops and attractions not to miss, fun historical facts, and perhaps short cuts and GPS corrections that I'll need. The innkeeper has my back!
This time, the innkeeper who resembled a long-lost cousin is Joe Cook at Brierwreath Manor Bed & Breakfast, 216 N. Bench St., Galena, Illinois.
Joe carried our luggage upstairs and explained where to find what, including a hallway beverage station where we could enjoy coffee, tea or cold beverages any time we wished. Oh, and he had fresh chocolate chip cookies available for our taste buds in our room, along with a candy dish laden with chocolates.
I must give Gay a shout out because she had sifted through more than 30 B & B options in and around Galena to set us up strategically perfectly at Joe's place. While there are many beautiful choices, this one is an easy walk to the shopping-and-restaurant district as well as to the historical museum and the trolly that carried us on a tour of the town -- so worth our while -- as well as to General / President Grant's home.
Have I mentioned that special things always happen on our trips? (See previous post). Well, how about a tornado advisory blasting from the city's emergency sound system and from our cellphones, warning us one evening that there was in fact a tornado warning in effect and we should take cover immediately.
Gay calmly suggested that we should perhaps meander downstairs to ask about the warning ... We found Joe calm and at peace in the dining room. He told us we could go to the basement if we wanted but he felt perfectly safe above board. You see, behind us is a rather large stone wall, with another one higher on the hill behind said first wall. The hillside is above us even though we were well above the downtown in elevation. Yes, it sure looked like any tornado or weather of any kind would have to work awfully hard to even be heard, let alone nail us.
So instead, we settled into the living room and listened to Joe tell stories about the ancestors who appear in vintage frames on his end table, and about his love for running this Victorian home. He's been involved with the B & B business for many years as his folks previously inn-kept the Brierwreath. Now they live elsewhere in retirement and he took over. He hopes to keep running it for another twenty-six years ... and then maybe his son will replace him. But who knows?
I made an early exit from the fascinating stories because sleep was calling my name, but before heading to my own comfortable bed (read: soft mattress) in an adjoining room with Gay's, I wanted to soak for a while in the antique claw-foot tub.
There are three guest rooms from which to choose. We were in the Heirloom Suite. We learned that the Mayor's Room is so named for a former mayor of Galena who used to live in this home with the comfortable sitting porch.
Of course another splendid thing about a B & B is that when you wake up, pour yourself a cup of fresh coffee or steep a flavored teabag from the hallway refreshments station, get ready, and head downstairs, a delicious meal on good china awaits you.
And, pleasantly so, in the case of this inn, Joe settles in to join his guests for breakfast. Not all innkeepers do that. I'm glad that he does because we learn so much. And apparently, so does he.
"The best part of the job is what happens around this table," says Joe. "The rest is housekeeping."
Pretty cool outlook. We missed out on sharing our stay with other guests but the prize was that we had Joe all to ourselves to make dinner and sightseeing recommendations and discuss Galena history.
If you would like to make the two specialty breakfast dishes we enjoyed, you can! Recipes for Apple Blueberry Walnut Pancakes and Pecan French Toast are on the B & B's website, www.brierwreath.com.
As I put down the trunk lid and prepared to pull away with my friend, I reminded Joe that he has twenty-six years left -- his goal -- to keep on innkeeping at Brierwreath.
I like to imagine pulling back up to 216 N. Bench St. in 2043 and finding him here to greet us. But then I think of my age then: I'd be 84! Do-able, maybe, but also a reminder to live life to the fullest now.
Every summer, as we have for twenty-something years, my friend Gay Kirkton and I take a little trip. Or a big trip. We’ve gone by plane, train, and automobile, and we fully expect special things to happen during each outing. Why? Because they always do. We might end up in Metropolitan Home, The San-Francisco Examiner, or Midwest Living (we have landed in all three). We might sit on top of a New Hampshire mountaintop next to TV stars (yes, this happened). We might help a famous author with her yard sale (happened).
And, we might drive down a gravel road on an Iowa farm where Gay renews an old friendship and where I find a new one.
Ride along with us…
During her time at the University of Illinois, Gay lived in 4-H House with a group of other young women who had enjoyed their 4-H years, and decided to live in a sorority-type setting where they room together. One of those women was Cathy Linker Lafrenz.
A vibrant home-ec major with a ready laugh and a lot of shoes, Cathy was memorable. But as happened with friendships in the 1970s, before social media kept us all a click away, college pals tended to go their separate ways.
Fast forward 40 years. Several months back, Gay caught up with another college friend and learned that Cathy now owns a flower farm in Iowa.
So over New Year’s Eve, when the Kirktons and Cronks got together as they always do, Gay suggested that a trip to Iowa might be in order for our summer fun. “Let’s do it,” I told her.
Quick as a wink I Facebook-friended Cathy’s you-pick flower farm, Miss Effie’s Country Flowers and Garden Stuff and the longing set in for a summer’s day when we would slip down a country road with corn growing oh-so-green on either side, and we would pull into Cathy’s lane.
As months passed, I learned that Cathy spends the winter knitting and embroidering and sewing sweet country gifts to sell in her gift shop on the property, The Summer Kitchen.
But she also spends her time teaching. Think freelance home-ec teacher. She offers classes at a local university on topics such as how to raise chickens. She teaches sewing and canning. Her trusted husband, whom she lovingly calls Honey (and so do her friends and customers) is her assistant at some of her gigs. Here are their chickens.
The big day for us came on Thursday as we left Galena, Illinois (I’ll post about that in my next blog) and off we went across the great Mississippi River to Donahue, Iowa, down some country roads, and there in the middle of some beautiful Iowa farms, we spotted Miss Effie’s sign.
Cathy was looking for us because as soon as we rounded the bend in her lane, she threw her arms in the air, almost as if to hug our car. I stopped and Gay jumped out. The two long-lost pals hugged and cried. I wasn’t ready with my camera as the tears welled in my eyes too. Cathy motioned for me to park and then I got a warm hug as well.
Even though her agri-tourism business was open and folks were busy picking buckets of flowers and strolling the grounds, Cathy still found the time to prepare us lunch. It was ready and waiting in the cornzebo!
This ingenious creation is an old-time corn crib that was found on a local farm and dis-assembled by Cathy to be relocated on her place. Inside is a long table, white chairs and a sitting area where you can watch the corn grow and if you are lucky enough to be the friend of her college friend Gay, you too might get the treat of being seated for a lunch of Cathy’s homemade quiche (made with her own brood’s eggs, no less), local lettuce and veggies, beautiful red raspberries, and Cathy’s own raspberry dressing. There was even a pot of hot water and our choice of teas.
Over a delicious meal, we chatted. We wanted to know so much. After Cathy got her home ec degree, she worked in various capacities including as an interior designer. Along the way, she met Honey. They went out at the suggestion of his daughter. While it wasn’t love at first sight, you could call it that at second.
The date was dinner at his place, which is now theirs.
“I walked in the door and I knew I was home,” Cathy recalls.
He suggested that Cathy plant flowers. Why? To take up some space where he wouldn’t have to mow. And it wasn’t long before, says Cathy, “I realized I loved growing flowers.”
She named the business Miss Effie’s Country Flowers and Garden Stuff and this is her sixteenth season. The catchy name – so unlike any other of its kind – is both fictional and a nod to Cathy’s grandmothers and another woman she once knew.
In fact, Cathy is a modern version of her great-grandmother who was able to save her family’s farm by using her farm-wife-type talents of cooking, gardening, baking and sewing. Back in the day, she sent her girls out on horseback to deliver products to neighbors. Think farmer’s market to go.
Today they call it entrepreneurship. She has a great relationship with tourism bureaus, and she is charming and helpful to her customers. She hosts events on the farm such as weddings, and encourages families visiting to spread out blankets and picnic on the grounds. And those grounds. Wow.
Sit under the tree on the hill and you’ll be able to see the lights of a ball field 17 miles away. Or if you come on the Fourth of July, not one but four fireworks shows from area towns will fill the sky before you as though you are watching them on the biggest screen you can imagine. Stretched out before her farm is a view to die for: endless rows of beautiful green corn with a massive blue sky above, strips of gravel roads and tidy farms scattered about the landscape.
But it's not just about making a living. It's about making a life. A good life. It's a place where Cathy longs to connect women to their rural heritage.
The scenery is a Midwest farmer's daughter's dream.
Gay was a bit nervous before we got to the property, but we always have the mantra that we’re in it for the experience and whatever happens, happens. We ended up spending hours with Cathy. It amazed me to find that she and I connected so well on a variety of topics ranging from finding our tribe in church settings to sharing our experiences with each of our businesses -- her farm and my books.
We also learned of Cathy’s passion for politics, eating fresh, local food, and serving the community in which she is placed. She talked about the political candidates as though she knew them personally. In Iowa, that’s how they roll. The politicians go door to door. We told her she should run for public office.
Eventually the time came to leave. But it was hours later than we anticipated, and after we all had a long, lovely visit. Gay’s timing was perfect when she told Cathy, “We have brought you a taste of Indiana.”
Out came a floral Vera Bradley tote bag. Inside were a matching wallet, some beautiful printed fabric for apron-making and my two novels. Cathy looked genuinely shocked! I have tears in my eyes just thinking about how stunned she was by the gifts. It was so much fun!
And, I have tears thinking about the most beautiful day I could ever imagine spent in the middle of a whole bunch of Iowa cornfields at Miss Effie’s Country Flowers and Garden Stuff.
Most of all, I can’t quit thinking about its founder, chief cook, bottle washer, CEO -- my new friend, Cathy.
Check out Cathy's website at: http://www.misseffiesflowerscom.
Hoosier Donna Cronk is author of two novels, Sweetland of Liberty Bed & Breakfast and That Sweet Place: At Home in the Heartland. Both are available on Amazon in print and Kindle editions.
The following is a reprint of my Sunday column in the New Castle Courier-Times. Have a great week, everyone. I'll catch up with you on the weekend.
During more than three decades in a newsroom, I've been asked to judge a few things:
American history essays, newspaper-sponsored writing contests, best-decorated door at Christmas at a health facility, a library chili cook-off, a nursing home pet contest, a queen contest at a small-town festival, parade floats at another small-town festival, baked goods at The Mooreland World’s Fair (as we like to call it at the paper). I also judged beautiful handmade needlework for a DAR competition.
Being a judge is fun. There’s no pomp, but there are circumstances. Those generally involve heat and humidity. There’s no black robe and no one stands up for you when you enter the space, which may be a pole barn in August. Or, it could be a tiny room filled with stacks of handiwork that has taken the stitchers hundreds of hours apiece, only to be evaluated by a judge over a single lunch hour.
Once during a judging event, I had a dulcimer band quit playing when I entered its space. The musicians stopped not out of respect, but to yell at me. Apparently I had inadvertently interrupted their performance while setting up trophies for the parade winners. Other than that humiliation, most of my judging efforts have been anonymous.
Oh, but make no mistake. It’s serious business to determine if a homemade snickerdoodle is better than a seven-layer-bar. Perhaps I should have another bite of each to make sure.
When I judged the queen contest, it wasn’t that the committee had searched high and low for a judging team whose combined wisdom could determine the fairest maiden in the land. Um, no, it was that my coworker, who was originally tapped, didn’t want to do it and asked me to sub. So why was she selected to begin with? Could be that that the committee figured she would come with a camera and put the results in the paper? Bingo.
These situations take me back to a childhood full of 4-H. I sewed dresses, baked nut bread, crocheted an afghan, arranged flowers, assembled a terrarium, pressed and labeled leaves on a poster, and created demonstrations.
In the back of my mind while completing the work, I wondered what the judges would think, fretted if the poster was turned the right way, if the label was in the correct corner, and if the hems were straight.
All I’ve ever wanted to be, career wise, is a writer. But what I’ve come to see is that I will be that no matter what, and it’s not only the interviews but the experiences that provide subject matter. Whether I’m writing for a newspaper, working on a book, or posting a Home Row blog, regular life is my subject matter, and Lord willing, a writer I’ll always be.
As I approach age 59, I have no plans to retire, but people are asking me about it more all the time. Maybe it’s because my husband is retired (he’s five-and-a-half years older). Maybe it’s because I’m looking like I should be retired. Whatever the reason, I’m starting to think about what I want to do when the time comes, whenever that is.
I think I’d like to become a 4-H judge. I don’t know if there is a course to take, if there are more or fewer judges than needed, or how all that works.
I’m still covering fairs as part of this small-town newspaper journey, one that began 43 years ago when I decided – at a 4-H fair dog show, no less – that it’s what I wanted to be when I grew up. But what do I want to be when I retire? Guess that’s something I should think about.
How about you?
How did you decide who you wanted to be in retirement? What unique plans do you have? What plans have come to pass? Anything unusual or unexpected happen? Might make an interesting story. Share with me at email@example.com.
Donna Cronk is Neighbors Editor of The Courier-Times and edits the quarterly her magazine for women. Her hobby involves speaking engagements encouraging women to live their dreams and bloom where they are planted, themes in her two novels. See the About Donna and Contact sections on this website for details.
I’ve never had pretty hair.
It is fine in texture, thin in covering, slow to grow, and at this stage of the game, in its natural state is the color of salt and pepper, only probably not the pretty kind, but the blotchy kind.
I thought I at least had the timing down as far as covering the gray, but now even that is in question. The gray stripe down the crown appeared two weeks early this time.
I life-lined my hairdresser for an emergency intervention before I leave for a road trip Tuesday, and fortunately, she’s getting me in. Whew! But color is not the half of it.
My hair is having an identity crisis.
I’m in no way throwing my stylist under the washing station. She does all she can. Who knew that my hair had a mind of its own?
While I’ve never been fond of these locks, for a few years, I was OK with a particular style. I had admired the short, spiked-out, layered look on a woman in a store. When I complimented her, she told me it was simple to maintain, and that it was all in the cut and product.
Sure enough, my stylist handled the cut just fine, and I bought the product—er, products. Why yes, only five simple tubs and tubes to maintain the simple style: shampoo, conditioner, mousse, styling gel, and hairspray.
And when I say five, I mean that in the most minimalist sense. I could buy additional products that promoted shine, a powder applied to the crown to add volume, and probably three to five more bottles, tubes, and tubs that would do this or that in addition, of course, to emptying my wallet.
So maybe there wasn’t anything simple about a style that required a cut every six weeks, color every three months minus a week, and five products. But I could maintain it. That was a first. And another first was that someone in the community where I work described my look as "sassy." I liked that. Sign me up.
But because I tend to hang onto a style too long (think Dorothy Hamill), I wanted to change things up. So I had it stacked in the back, shaped longer in the front, added bangs and flipped the whole works under.
That worked fairly well, and I should have left well enough alone. But no, early this winter I decided to go back to the layered, pieced, "sassy" look.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the blow dryer. The style would no longer hold, no matter the products involved. My hair wanted to lie flat. As a board.
My last hair appointment sounded like a therapy session as I complained about my stubborn tresses the way some would a wayward teen. My hairdresser thought she had a product to help. It didn’t. But I don’t want to tell her. Why is it when a product lets me down I figure it’s me and not it? That I didn’t hold my mouth just right when applying it?
Aside from the fancy products, expensive haircuts, and coloring, I’ve found one thing that adds a little body and perk to my hair in this new phase of life -- or whatever it is. Warning: You’ll probably laugh at my secret weapon. Here we go anyway.
Yes, old-fashioned rollers.
I wash my hair, add mousse, apply the rollers and leave them in on the ride to work. As I roll along, I jack up the heat or the air, and intermittently put down the windows for blasts of air to fluff until I’m close to the town where I work. Then I start ripping those babies off my head and tossing them on the floor before anyone spots me with a head full of curlers, circa 1972.
I know. It’s pitiful. Only I don’t even use hair spray, let alone gel or powder. I just run my fingers and well, it’s as good as it gets. Not saying it looks great. I’m saying good as it gets for what I’ve got to work with.
Problem is, it’s rinse and repeat the next day because it only looks decent for a day.
I’ve had people commenting on my hair lately. “New do for summer?” a friend asked in the office the other day.
A coworker asked me if I got my hair cut. “I feel like your hair looks different every day,” she said.
Yes, you might say its on a roll that way. I never know what hairdo will show up or if my hair will behave well in public.
So my question for other women of -- ahem -- a certain age is this: Have you noticed that your hair is changing? If so, how, and how do you deal with it?
And another thing I’m wondering. With few exceptions, most women tend to color their gray for several years, and then one day, they let it fend for itself in its natural state. How did or do you decide when?
The other day I was thinking about life’s blessings, challenges, and worries. I suppose most of our days' thoughts could be summarized in those three categories.
I remembered a long-ago “joy journal” I kept for a while, a New Year’s resolution to daily record one positive observation, happening or thought. I had no idea what happened to it.
We’re getting some new furniture, so two nights ago I cleaned out a bedside-table drawer stuffed with greeting cards, notes, and letters. Among the correspondence was a small notebook. I didn’t recognize it at first. But then I read the title page.
The opening entry was on the first day of 2002. We had returned from seeing in the new year with our friends, Rick and Gay Kirkton. My entry:
Heated bed pad. Warm, comfortable, and something I didn’t know existed until we slept in Kirktons’ bed last night. I kept waking up in the night thinking, Ahh … this is great.
Also that month:
No cavities! In fact, no cavities for the boys, either, and no charge as cleanings / check-ups are covered. The boys have never had a cavity. Good dental care pays off.
Then one on finding a blessing in the midst of something hard:
David’s surgery today for throat cancer appears successful. Praise for the doctors.
And later, one for something simple:
For the warmth of my nice ear muffs from Galyan’s.
Here's one for recognizing privileges in the obvious, but often overlooked:
For all the luxuries that seem like our lifestyle: oil changes at Walmart, eating out, automatic washers and dryers, dishwashers, microwaves. Our days are blessed by these things we take for granted.
I feel grateful and cheered re-reading these simple – and complex – joys. I don’t know why I stopped making entries.
So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to pick up this small joy journal and begin again daily recording life’s blessings. I’ll do one a day. Although each day has so many when you think about it. And if you don't think about it, give it a try. I dare you.
I’m reminded of the beautiful old hymn, Count Your Blessings.
I spent a portion of the last two nights going through the drawer's paper greetings, taking time to look at each one closely. The two who send the most, both over the course of the years and layers of paper, and now, are Gay Kirkton, and our daughter-in-law Allison. Coming in third is a stash from Cheryl Bennett.
Some are stacks of birthday greetings for Brian from his former staff and students. Some are notes from people I can't place, who were perhaps in our life for a short season or reason, and wedding invites to marriages both sturdy and no longer united. The paperwork with only signatures got tossed. Those with personal notes are kept, amounting to about half the stash.
Email and Facebook have been hard on the stationery and card industry, but it’s still a joy to get a thank-you note in the mail, or a funny birthday card hand-picked and signed with a note, such as a few prizes sent to Brian from his brother, Steve. So here’s an entry for today, the first of my rekindled commitment:
Grateful for those who take time to send a greeting either on paper using ink and a stamp, or in other ways, expressing their personal thoughts and sentiments in writing. It's still a kick to get mail -- on paper or electronically.
How about you? If you started a joy journal today, what would be your first entry? There’s joy in our journey. And it’s all a journey.
I’ve watched with interest this spring as the old auto-racing track west of Liberty reemerged after years closed as the Route 44 Speedway.
My great-nephew, A.J. Jobe, is the Voice of the Speedway.
Yes, A.J. is named after who you think he is, the famous Texan racer and four-time winner of the Indy 500. And yes, if you are thinking young A.J. gets the racing bug honest due to his name, well, you hardly know the half of it.
My late brother, David, was crazy for racing, exceeded only by his son, my nephew Mike. Mike is A.J.’s dad.
So when a Friday night rolls around each spring week, I think of A.J. up there in the press box, announcing, interviewing, adding color and character to his job, as I know he is fully capable.
I think of other Friday nights at the same track, too; forty years ago this spring, to be exact. I remember the year well because it was the same spring I graduated from Union County High School.
It was the same spring I tried to figure out what I needed to do to become a newspaper reporter, and while I was figuring, with my eye on a day-job opening at The Palladium-Item in the advertising department, I worked Friday nights at the track concession stand.
It's funny to think about now, but I did get that job in advertising, and when I did, I gave up my stint at the race track. Since then, I've known several people who worked in the newsroom at the Pal-Item, including my current publisher. But none were there that summer.
That year on Mother’s Day I got the worst sunburn of my life--at that track. Opening day was coming and the bleachers needed painted in a hurry, causing the crew to put in a long day on the holiday. I was on the crew that smeared paint on the boards and by the end of the day, I was aglow in red.
On Friday nights, the vaguely-onion-flavored burgers simmered in one of those huge, white warmers you may still see biding time on a church-kitchen shelf. They were surprisingly delicious, too.
The menu certainly included hot dogs rotating in their heated glass case, along with the pop, popcorn, and other concession fare.
I often worked the cash register, and the evenings went by quickly as there was a constant flow of people digging out payday cash from their bank envelopes, and enjoying a night in the rural countryside, the track perched atop a steep hill just east of the Whitewater River on State Road 44.
But the best thing about working at the track was the possibility of being called upon to serve as the evening’s trophy girl. The concession stand, evidently, was the bullpen of sorts for teenage girls to be tapped to head for the track near the end of the evening’s feature event, poised and ready to present the winning driver with his trophy.
It wasn’t a position one could campaign for, only one that I don’t imagine any girl in the concession stand that summer would turn down. At least twice that spring, I was asked. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to a “queen” of anything. The process was simple. Someone would come to the concession stand, and holler, "Hey, we need a trophy girl!" If he looked your way, you were it.
I’d like to say that the job meant a lot of responsibility, but it didn’t. You smiled, presented the trophy, and if the sweaty driver offered a peck on the cheek, so be it. And then you hustled back to your cash register, or to the simmering burgers, and spinning dogs.
Forty years later, a Jobe has returned to the race track of my youth where he speaks to and for the track and fans. The speedway has been reinvented by a new owner excited about its future. There was an official ribbon cutting.
I’ve always figured the trophy girl credential would surely come in handy sometime along life's way. Not in a resume kind of way, but as a roll call answer or odd fact about the most unusual job I ever held. I'm still waiting.
Until that day comes, I'll go with this blog post.
Just the other day I posted on Facebook that my two best tips for local authors are to 1. Don't leave home without them (books), and 2. Always look for the blessing in any book related situation, because there is always at least one.
Yesterday afternoon I gave a talk to the Widowed Persons social group in Richmond. There were 22 present, and almost all of them took part in my audience-participation activity. One thing that surprised me was that almost half of of the attendees were men. I think it's great that the fellas attend and take part. I guess it was a false stereotype on my part that it would mostly be women present. The group has been directed for 13 years by Edna Mikesell, and it is clearly her joy to lead.
So once the program ended, and it was time for anyone interested to pick up a signed book or stop by to chat, the lady above, Cindy, decided to purchase both books. She told me that she knew some folks in Liberty, and named the Brock family. I told her I have a cousin named Carol Brock. Carol's mom and mine were sisters.
Cindy couldn't believe it. "You're a Jobe?" she asked not far into the next layer of genealogy. She had no idea! To shorten the story, let's leave it that her grandmother, Mary, and my mother, Martha, were sisters. So that makes us distant cousins. It was a fun surprise we celebrated with a selfie and agreed to friend each other on Facebook.
After connecting with a relative, I decided to look around the Richmond Mall. The last time I visited there was probably 1981, the year we moved away from the area. But before that, I grew up with this the only mall we visited: For clothes, and appliances, for cloth to make 4-H clothes, for Christmas gifts.
You could have fooled me because it had changed so completely that I never would have recognized it had I not known where I was. One big change is the mall's anchor store, Dillard's. I had never been to a Dillard's! I had seen the store advertised in, I believe, southern-style magazines. Friend Sandy, who dresses so great, has referenced Dillard's several times.
So I went in to see what the fuss is about. I loved the place. The clothes called my name, and so did the attractive housewares. But what I really needed were, umm, undergarments. You know, umm, bras.
I walked around the nice umm, foundations department, lost in a sea of beige and black and aqua and every other color of underthings. This is the kind of department that leaves me frustrated, and maybe that is exactly why I don't buy new, umm, underthings very often.
The clerk was friendly and asked if I needed help. So I thought for a minute. Yes! Yes, indeed I do need help. I asked if I could be measured for the right bra size. My friend had done this very thing several years ago in Marshall Field's in Chicago, but I had never taken the plunge.
Maybe it was a combination of the lovely department store, or the fact that I didn't need to rush home, or that my own bra's wire was stabbing me in the back. No, make that side!
Being measured for a bra size is a discreet process, and within moments I learned why my bras didn't fit like gloves. Not only were they old and had spent too many rounds in the washer and dryer when they should have been hand-washed and hung up to dry, but they were the wrong cup size, along with the wrong width! Who knew?
When she brought me a suggested bra, to try on for confirmation of size and adjustment, I knew that I had been trying to fit the girls into a Pinto, and my Porsche had just arrived!
It fit so well I wore it home ... and bought two more.
Then today, I had what I figured would be another potentially tough mission. In March, we bought Ben a birthday suit. Ha! I wonder how often people get birthday suits for their birthdays. A very nice Macy's at Castleton employee, Anita, who specializes in men's clothing, helped us out and fitted Ben for the new ensemble..
Well, Sunday he brought home the pants part of the suit. There was a rip in the back, and not in the seam, either. He didn't think he snagged it on anything. The tear is a mystery and even a fantastic seamstress couldn't fit it to look right. I decided to take the pants back to the store and see if there was any kind of discount or provision to be made.
No offense to any other clerk, but I didn't want them. I only wanted Anita. I spotted her and she asked if she could help me! Bingo! She even remembered me! I told her that the suit is beautiful and that Ben even landed a new job in it. However, we had a problem. She took a look at it, and said we could swap them out for another pair. She found the right size and color, did the paperwork, and after I thanked her and took a picture of her holding the new pants and giving the thumbs up to text Ben, I walked out one happy customer.
So if you need a new suit or help in men's clothing, go see Anita. Tell her I sent you.
Then in Penney's, on my way to the car, I happened upon a table of capris in exactly the style I like, with plenty of color choices and my size available. Hot dog! They were on sale for $17.99 each! I picked up two pair. But at the register, my two capris rang up to $99! I told the clerk that wasn't right. She did some computer work and the total came to $28 and change. I told her that still wasn't right, and that I would owe more. She repeated the price of $28 and change!
Three great shopping experiences in a row.
Now I need to stay out of the stores for a while!
This is Marianne Hughes of Greensboro, Indiana. Marianne loves her truck, her husband, her cats, and her country. She is a historian, and is a most active member of the Sarah Winston Henry Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, based in New Castle.
Marianne is 5-feet tall, and here, she sports an apron as this afternoon was her day to set up refreshments at the DAR meeting in New Castle. Oh, but put a lid on your generalizations.
This woman is a MARINE. I say that in the present tense because there are no former Marines. Once you are a U.S. Marine, that you remain.
I knew Marianne for a long time before somehow it spilled out that she had served her country in this particular way. For years, I worked with her on articles about exhibits and projects having to do with the Henry County Historical Society, where she served for several years as executive director.
When I found out she is a Marine, I interviewed her about her service. Five years in the U.S. Marines, then eight in the Indiana National Guard. Like Patrick Henry's mother, Sarah Winston Henry, for whom the New Castle DAR Chapter was named 90 years ago this year, Marianne is a Patriot. You should see her interact with a veteran in a nursing home. Or how she puts American flags on graves that are needing them.
Marianne: I thank you for your service.
I thank Chapter Regent Stacey Rifner Sobat as well, for inviting me to be today's speaker. It was my pleasure. Stacey's great-great grandmother, Bertha Berry, was a charter member of this chapter 90 years ago.
Stacey now lives in Columbus but cheerfully makes her way monthly to New Castle to preside over this chapter which is dear to her heart. She is also an environmental manager with the Indiana Department of Environmental Management.
Happy 90th birthday to the Sarah Winston Henry Chapter.