Toys From My Childhood

Does anyone else remember having this toy when you were a kid? You hold onto the ring at the top and move your hand up and down to hit the glass balls together.

The balls make a satisfying clunk sound with each hit as you move your hand up and down to gain speed. Then when you get enough speed, you can have them hit at the top as well as the bottom. I used to be able to do it. Now, not so much.

I brought them home to show my kids. The cats were interested but not Tucker and Grace.

"They were recalled," I said.

"Obviously," Tucker said. "Who thought that smacking two glass balls together was a great idea?"

Well, I did. But apparently some people who were really good at it then had the balls shatter, thus the recall of the toy.

My mom and I found these as we were cleaning out box after box looking for the letters I wrote from France 25 years ago. We found only two letters. My dad suggested maybe I only wrote two letters, but I know that isn't true.

How is it possible that my mom saved every Christmas card since 1960 but doesn't have my letters? I probably took them some place and later disposed of them. I'll take the blame.

But at least I found these cool glass balls on strings.

Nana

Nearly a month ago, my grandmother suffered a stroke. We didn't find out about the stroke until a couple of days afterward. She was moved to a rehab center fairly quickly. My brother Kevin and I planned to visit on that Friday. Then a snow storm cancelled our driving plans.
We talked about other days we could visit, swimming and basketball schedules interrupting our plans. Illnesses and dance recitals interfering.
This week, I learned our grandmother had contracted pnuemonia in the rehab center. I begged off a staff meeting on Thursday afternoon, went to teach Thursday morning at 7:30 a.m. then hit the highway headed south. I drove four hours to the little town of Mt. Vernon, Kentucky, where she lives.
Nothing prepared me to see my lively Nana in a hospital bed struggling for each breathe. She told me I shouldn't have driven all that way. We talked about cousins and relatives. After about 15 minutes, she said she was going to rest.
I told her I'd be back later. When I got to the car, I called my parents in Florida and suggested they head north.
My uncle and aunt who live in Kentucky were both home with the flu, which they caught at the rehab center. I called my uncle and he asked whether my grandmother recognized me.
"Of course," I said. That meant she was better than she had been. She didn't seem better to me, but I hadn't been there every day to watch her progress or regress. I took some soup to my cousin's house, since my aunt and uncle were too sick to want it. I hung out for a bit then went back to see Nana.
Standing at the hospital bed, talking about whether she would improve, was awkward.
"I told Grace we would visit when she gets home from school," I said to my grandmother, willing her to hold on since Grace is 10 hours away from home.
She said she wanted to hold on, but she was miserable.
"Are you miserable because you hurt or because you can't do things for yourself?" I asked.
She confirmed that she hated to be waited on. Her mouth was dry but she wasn't allowed to have water because they were afraid she would aspirate it. I offered to read to her from the Bible, but she said she couldn't pay attention. She had the important parts memorized anyway.
I mentioned our childhood visits.
"You all always had a big time," she said. That's how she talks. A "big time."

Here she is with all of her great-granddaughters.

Nana married my grandfather when she was 16 and he was 28. He said he wanted a bride that he could raise the way he wanted. I think she ended up being more of a handful than he suspected. She had three children by the time she was 20.
She ran a store in the country and worked at the post office. She knew everyone in her small town.
I love the stories she used to tell. My favorite was the horse that got caught in quicksand, or maybe it was the horse that ran away with her. I might be melding the stories together. In Kentucky, in Rockcastle County, time didn't progress as fast as it did in other parts of the world. That's why my grandmother could go get a permanent for her hair, but had to ride a horse to get to the beauty shop. I think that was the time she was riding home from getting a permanent that the horse became mired in quicksand. She climbed over the horse's neck to get to dry land then pulled him out.
Another time she would tell the story about the horse running away with her, "and me just a skinny, little thing holding onto the horse's neck."
My grandfather died in the 1980s and in 1989, Nana met and married Grandad Ish. Grandad Ish took her away from Kentucky to winter in Arizona and to vacation in Peru. He opened up the world for her and he thought she was the cat's meow.
She survived him too. But she has been well loved by her three children, eight grandchildren, and 12 greatgrandchildren. As my kids have gotten older, we don't go to Kentucky as much. They all have busy teenage and young adult lives now, but I bet they look back on their times at Nana's house with a smile, just like I do. I wrote about some of those adventures when we visited last May, which you can read here: Nana.
Before I left the hospital, I leaned over the bed and kissed Nana's lined, papery cheek and slipped my hand under her bony shoulder to hug her. She raised up her right arm, unaffected by the stroke, but now taped with tubes at the hospital, and patted me, hugging me.
"I love you, Nana," I said as I left. Her pale blue eyes smiled at me, but looked a little sad and resigned too.
The doctor let my parents know today that Nana has taken a turn for the worse. I'm glad I got to see her yesterday, while we could talk, but I know that my memories of Nana are not made from that one visit. My memories of Nana are made up from a lifetime of hugs and laughs and scoldings. Every bite of fried chicken, every UK basketball game on TV, every clip on earring pilfered from her jewelry box, every bottle full of jewel-colored water that sparkled in the sun, will remind me of the things my grandmother gave me in a lifetime. It's not the last few minute spent with someone we love, but the lifetime of minutes that we spend together.

Memories of a Suburban Childhood

What's your earliest memory?
In talking to people, I find that most everyone remembers something from the time they were three. It might be non-sensical. It might be a joyous memory, but it seems like the bad memories might outweigh the joy. A lot of people remember something bad happening.
My earliest memory is of being at my aunt's house when she lived in the same town where I grew up. I can picture the kitchen table with a sliding glass door behind it and a long hallway that led to the bedrooms. The adults were clustered around the table, and I'll assume that the older kids were playing outside, but I was too young to be included. Someone, my Aunt June, I think, gave me a cluster of keys on a ring. Someone else suggested I see which door those keys fit.
Being a logical and reasonable child, I closed and locked every door along the hallway then went back to the beginning of the hall and started checking keys to see which doors they might unlock.
I remember the hullabaloo when the adults discovered that I had pushed the buttons to lock all of the doors and closed them behind me. Truthfully, the set of keys in my hand didn't unlock any of those interior doors. The adults began to ask why I hadn't tried this or that instead to see if the keys worked. I couldn't seem to explain to them why I closed and locked the doors.
I think it was a struggle to get all of those doors unlocked. So I was chided and laughed at a bit. That was my first memory.
My mom says I can't possible remember that because my aunt moved out of that house before I was 2. Maybe I've got the memory wrong. Maybe it was another house, another aunt, another set of keys.
I'm kind of bummed that my first memory is something I got in trouble for. Why can't it be my first taste of chocolate instead?
What's your earliest memory?

Buttons

When I was a little girl, my mother had a big coffee can filled with buttons. They were all those left over buttons that had come off clothing and all the buttons that she bought on the card of four or six from the store that weren't needed on sewing projects. I loved to dump out that can full of buttons and sort through them.
The feeling of the buttons running through my fingers was magical. And then I did what kids do naturally -- I sorted them according to size, according to color, according to shape. It's a natural Montessori lesson.
So, as an adult, I, of course, have a coffee can full of buttons too.
My grandmother, on my father's side, has a gorgeous rose-colored vase -- not really a vase, more like a glass container that stands on the floor then narrows as it rises and comes up to my waist that she filled with buttons. When my grandmother asked my mother if there was anything she would like from the house, my mom said she would like the vase with the buttons. My grandmother said she could have the vase but not the buttons. I think part of the allure of this vase/container was the buttons. My mom wanted the buttons too. I'm not sure whatever happened in this saga. Perhaps the container is still at my grandmother's house in Kentucky. She's 93.
This morning I had to look through my coffee can full of buttons for a button to go on Spencer's cargo shorts. His button had disintegrated in the middle. I wasn't worried, I knew I would find a button the right size that was compatible with the khaki shorts.
I did and sewed it on, but I couldn't resist playing with the buttons some. Even though the buttons are mine, I don't know where most of them came from.
What about this furry button?
Did I ever wear anything that had this button? I don't think so.
I picked out the tiny buttons, so small that I'm glad I don't need to sew them on anything right now.
I put a dime in the picture for comparison to show how tiny they are.
I found some cloth covered buttons. These are pretty specialized and I can't imagine that I'll use them ever again, but you never know.
And some buttons shine like jewels.
Maybe they should be made into jewelry and I could wear them around my neck. Maybe buttons should be interchangeable and I should be able to snap them on different blouses according to my mood that day.