Memories of Grade One

We moved from Uruguay to Brazil when I was six. My mom had barely unpacked when the school year began. I remember, on the first day of school, my dad coming by on his bicycle during recess . . . looking over the fence, just checking. I don't think I fully understood this gesture until I was a parent, driving by the school, hoping my child had someone to play with.

There were about thirty kids in the class. At the start of the day and at recess, every class had to line up, shortest to tallest, on the playground, before following their teacher into their classroom. We sat at normal old-fashioned school desks. In grade one we began the school year by learning to write - not print - the alphabet. I think the very first letter I learned was the lower case "i" in written form and I proudly took home my full page of i's. We used fountain pens - the ones with the tiny sharp tip - although it could be we did not use them until the next year. (I just looked them up on line and inwardly gasped at the price of these vintage pens now. I should have kept one.)

Teaching was pretty basic, reading, writing, arithmetic and social studies, from what I remember. Our classroom did not have any colorful displays nor charts, but that did not stop me from being motivated to do my best. Report cards were sent home every month and my parents seemed quite surprised and pleased when I brought home my first report card.

With my second report card I came home in tears because I was only in second place. To my joy and surprise my dad pulled out a bicycle from it's hiding spot in the house. We had a lot of fun practicing riding out in the field and soon this newly found freedom became my source for a lot of outdoor adventures.

The girl next door became my best friend that year. Today I dug into a drawer that I hardly ever open and found the diary I got for my ninth Birthday. Her sweet little poem . . . such a reminder of how time has gone by . . . asks me to remember . . . many years from (then) . . . the joys we shared on our little school bench. It almost feels strange to be on this end of the memory . . . I shed some tears . . . but I wouldn't have it any other way. It's all good.

Wenn du einst nach langen Jahren

dieses Buch nimmst in der Hand,

so denke still wie froh wir waren

auf der kleinen Schuelerbank.

My Confession

It had been a long day and we'd had fun. We got back from the park, just me and the kids, and decided to bake a batch of cookies before supper. I don't know what I was thinking . . . I never tried this with my three kids, why did I think I could do this now?

The cookies made it in and out of the oven, that was not the problem. It happened after that . . . possibly a result of too much cookie dough. Suddenly there was chasing and falling and crying and whining. I didn't know what hit me.

The straw that broke the camel's back was when the two oldest began fighting about a stool. They both wanted to sit on a specific stool at supper. This stool was no different than the other . . . the same as the one beside it . . . but they did not care. They just wanted the same one. That's when I lost it . . . and I yelled very loudly! Trying to do something right at the moment, I went and put the youngest in her pack and play, hoping she could sort out her own crying problems and when I came back to the kitchen, Tehya was crying.

I felt awful . . . knowing this would be one memory they would have for a lifetime. I apologized. I said, "I'm sorry I lost my temper. I just cannot handle this fighting and crying." That is when Tehya, quite professionally - mind you, blurted out, "Well, Grammy, we did not know you had this problem!"

So . . . now you all know.

Somehow, finding myself in an empty nest, I had lulled myself into believing that I had become more patient. I guess I was wrong. Can I hope that, now that they know, they will not test me in this any more?

A Tribute

I’ve been thinking . . .
Thoughts of our mini re-treat have stayed with me and I know that I said something about sharing more on one of my previous posts. It's so true that when we write, we really have to think and it's a good process. It has dawned on me that one never knows which small decisions in life lead us to bigger things . . . things that change our life.

I came upon the blogging world through Kristal. To be honest, at the time I wondered why on earth someone would want to share their life for the world to read? Yet, who would not read a daughter’s journal when she invites you to. Through her I came upon Lovella’s blog . . . whom I’ve known for most of my adult years, but had lost touch with. I was intrigued by her blog and actually became addicted to reading the fun reviews of her days. When she put out an invitation for us to share a recipe, I decided to join the fun, never realizing that in the end, it would turn into a recipe blog idea.

After a while I became consumed with thoughts of writing about my life . . . the stages of my life and really seeing it through writing. This has been a blessing on the side . . . as a result of blogging recipes . . . but I want to stick to the recipe blog now.

What we did find out during our time together last week is that it’s not just about recipes anymore . . . in fact we hardly talked about cooking. Sure, it’s the love of food and sharing hospitality that brought us together, but I can’t help but feel like there was another bigger plan that I surely did not see when I first posted my waffles.

I have been asking myself, “why me?” Why am I so blessed- as to have found these friends with whom I can share my life’s passion with and use it to encourage others? Friends who see the best in me and encourage me to be better. Friends whom I have so much to learn from . . .

Betty, you are the secret
participant in this group, not
having your life open in a blog,
although many would benefit
from your life's experiences.
You have turned hardship in
your life to shape you into a
sweet listener. You are an
example of one who has become
better, rather than bitter.

Bev, what has encouraged
me about you is that you don’t
hold grudges. You are and
example of one who accepts
and forgives. You don’t hold
back in showing more than
generous hospitality and it's
great to see you and your
husband work as a team
doing this.

Charlotte, your life is too
busy to blog, as you still have
a family at home and take
time for anyone else who needs
a listening ear, a plate of food
or a bed. Your emails make
me laugh, but your presence
made me see a gal who is truly
caring and discerning.



Ellen, in you I have found a
cheerful, non-judgmental
attitude and faith that
surpasses denomination.
I have never heard a negative
thing from you . . . and I am
proud to call you my sister
in the Lord.



Judy, I have come to know you
better through some of the
administrative work going on
behind the scenes and see your
unselfish attitude. You exude a
peace and contentment in any
and all circumstances, choosing
to dwell on the positive and
believe the best.


Julie, you remind us to let our
roots grow deep and how to do
that. You seek truth and pursue
it. You are an example of one
who is always ready to give a
reason for the hope you have
and do this with gentleness and
respect.



Kathy, you are the one who
looks around to see if everyone
is included and change seats if
need be to ask about each one’s
life. You ask questions, rather
than talk about yourself. I have
much to learn.



Marg, your enthusiasm is so
much fun and even your
“blondness” has encouraged
me when I have felt like one
myself. Your honesty keeps us
humble and reminds us to take
a good look at ourselves and
beyond.



Lovella, you had no idea, did
you? When you followed the
desires of your heart, you
invited others to share in this
joy and by God’s grace things
have just clicked.
Thank you.



I am blessed. These are my blog friends . . . having become real . . . not much unlike the velveteen rabbit. And I think it’s also okay to honor them in this way here . . . a place where recipes have turned into relationships.

At the PNE

This past weekend was about good old fashioned fun at Playland. Recently, when we took the kids to Whitespot on a dinner date, they all got free passes in their Pirate Packs . . . so that was a good enough reminder to head out for yet another date.
Since all the parking lots were full, we had to drive around the block for a while stopping as the locals flagged down the passing cars, offering their driveways for $20-25. When we finally got a tiny spot behind someone's garage, the kids figured that he sure was a nice man. Yes, and now the nice man did not have to stand on the street any longer trying to get some extra party money.

This year marks the 100th Anniversary of the PNE. Some of the attractions of the two-week fair are the agricultural exhibits, performances, nightly fireworks, the PNE Prize Home and the Playland rides, of course . . . the most historic attraction being the wooden roller coaster, built in 1958.

But no big roller coaster for me any more . . .
I fit right in with what the kids enjoy right now.

and the view from the top of this one is probably like no other.

Of course, what would a fair be without hot dogs, cotton candy and winning stuffed toys at the balloon pop stand? It was another wonderful day seen from the perspective of children . . . now documented for future memories of the PNE.

Special Friends

Today . . . no time to post . . . three precious grands are here to welcome me back this morning. I just want to say . . . to Lovella and Kathy . . . whom I've known for about 30 years . . .what a joy and privilege to share this season of our lives . . . and to Charlotte, Ellen, Betty, Judy, Bev, Marg and Julie . . . it's wonderful to know that it's never too late to make new forever friends. It's been a memorable three days!! The best! Thank you! I will expand on this when I get the chance.

Where Two People Fell in Love

I’m not quite sure where to begin this story. It’s the story of how my mom and dad met . . . some fifty five years ago. I think I’ll go back to a quick look at how they got there.

My dad was born in Russia in 1932. He was only one of three boys that survived the hardships of that time. His father was imprisoned and executed - for reasons unknown - in 1937 and so my dad moved about with his widowed mom during the war, ending up in Germany as a young teen. From there they got on a ship to South America, where he finished his education and went to practice his bookkeeping skills at the MCC Home in Montevideo, Uruguay.

My mom’s parents had immigrated to Paraguay in 1930, as young people. They got married and my mom was born in 1934. She grew up having to work hard on the farm during those early pioneering days. Her father sadly passed away when she was thirteen from complications due to a well-digging accident. As a result, she could no longer attend school, since her help was needed at home.

After some years she went to work in the city as a nanny. Some years later, at age 20, she heard about an opportunity to work in Montevideo. Being up for the challenge and a change in scenery, she got on the plane for the first time in her life and landed at the MCC Home, alone, knowing no one. It did not take long for my dad to notice this beautiful girl from Paraguay. They got married on September 1, 1956.

Fast forward 50 years to 2006 . . . my niece was looking through Oma’s albums and came across this little photo. She wondered where it was and why it was taken. Oma (my mom) knew it was in Uruguay, but she is not the best when it comes to remembering sentimental details. At this time, my dad was already in extended care, having had numerous strokes, but she decided to take the photo and ask him what he remembered about it. He looked at it and said in German, “Das ist das MCC Heim.” Knowing he had days that he was quite confused, we were not sure . . . but upon scanning it and enlarging it, we found proof in the inscription over the door, in Spanish.

And that is the story behind this photo that has become special to all of us. This happened just before their 50th Anniversary and it was their last. I made a comment at their celebration about how they must have spent time up in the tower smooching . . . and his eyes shone as he grinned, telling us things that he was longer able to communicate in words.