DECEMBER 10 -- THE BOX TO PEARL

The cold in Ina’s world was gradually giving way to warmer temperatures, though the high today would still be in the mid-20s. Even so, warmer temperatures were anticipated and both Ina and Jack were relieved. The question now was: Would it snow?

It was time to start packing boxes for the mail. The gifts to Pearl’s family had the farthest to go and therefore must be the first to be mailed. In considering a nice gift for Pearl, Ina decided to send a “W. Mason” bag that she had on hand. Ina thought the bag was pretty and useful but she just didn’t use it – and you know, Ina just doesn’t keep things she doesn’t use. Besides, she knew Pearl would make good use of it. She also sent a pretty pincushion for Pearl and two linen hankies to her husband Al. For grandson Stan, now 14, she included a book from the shelf and a pencil sharpener. On a whim, she also put in the little ceramic toy dog for Pearl, a relic of old reservation days. The dog had survived a house burning and Pearl’s family would enjoy the story.

 

Ina never bought new wrapping paper. Instead, they carefully unwrapped their gifts so as to salvage the paper for re-use the next year. She also saved common green string which she thought was so pretty for tying gifts. Wrapping paper often made several exchanges before becoming so worn that it had to be discarded. This year she had the lovely new tags that Shirley had sent her from Idaho Falls.

 

When the gifts were wrapped, Ina found a box that was just right. Nothing was fragile, so she didn’t need to use a lot of packing, but she carefully tucked a recent issue of the Clearwater Tribune around the gifts in the box. She knew both Pearl and Al would enjoy reading it.

It was a morning’s work – a labor of love which she thoroughly enjoyed. Once the box was addressed and ready, Jack carried it to the mailbox with a dollar bill attached. Their rural route carrier would pick up the box and the next day leave their change.

[I honestly don’t know how they paid to mail packages, but I know Jack carried them to the mailbox for pick-up by their rural route carrier. Into the ‘50s – even the ‘60s – the rural route carrier was a life line for the country folk, carrying not only the mail but medications and groceries.

The first picture is of Al and Pearl Sanders and their son Stanley. The second is of Al and Stan taken on the porch at the Dobson farmhouse.] KW

DECEMBER 9 - THE J. C. HIGGINS HUNTING JACKET (AND OTHER REAL-TIME SUBJECTS)

'Tis the season for kindling the fire of hospitality in the hall, the genial fire of charity in the heart. Washington Irving

Although it’s Monday “wash day” again in Ina’s world, she isn’t washing today. As you may know, they have no well – not even a cistern – and water must be hauled from a spring in Wheeler Canyon. With this long cold spell, the spring is now frozen and/or inaccessible, and they must conserve what water they have on hand for drinking, cooking, and other essential uses. Washing and bathing must be kept to a minimum. Such was life for many families at Gilbert, and winters were especially hard. Jack had hauled water before the cold spell, but still, they had to be mindful of water use because they weren’t sure when it would be available again. (I do wonder, though, if they used melted snow. I never thought to ask.)

 

 Ina is re-organizing her pre-Christmas schedule today and will return tomorrow, so here's what's happening in real time.

Accomplishments in my sewing studio have been few. By special request, I made this dressy outfit for a friend, modeled here by my doll, “Shirley Anne – American Farm Girl.” Other outfits are planned for Emmy’s doll but I’ve been sidetracked. I like to send Emmy packages from time to time, and I’m less concerned that she gets a package for Christmas. I know she has plenty of fans who give her gifts, and I think it means more to send envelopes and packages during quiet times. (Of course, I would feel differently if we were there.)

 

As I was saying, I’ve been sidetracked by other things, including mending this vintage J. C. Higgins hunting jacket. Mike figures his dad bought this jacket in the ‘50s – certainly no later than 1962 when the J. C. Higgins brand disappeared. You know what happens to textiles – eventually they rot – and the J. C. Higgins jacket is no exception. Mike is sentimental about his clothes and especially about this old jacket since it was his dad’s in the days when the J. C. Higgins brand was apparently well-respected.

Anyway, an inside game pocket is held closed by means of wonderfully old-fashioned hooks and eyes and the hooks are pulling out of the fabric. One has been lost already, so I decided to re-affix the other two. First, I reinforced the fabric with purchased patches and then re-set the hooks. It was no easy task pushing a needle through the original rubber-backed fabric and the patches.

Once I had repaired the jacket, Mike put it on and he and the dogs went hunting. While they were out, I treated myself to some leisurely holiday shopping. Somehow these short days seem to melt away all too quickly and I didn’t sew today either.

 

But I did make pecan pie squares for dessert tonight. The recipe suggests cutting 36 little cookies from the 13x9-inch pan. Honestly, I don’t think little bars will happen.

The forecast is for warming into the 30s this week. Yay! Bess and Nellie have slept inside the last two nights, but tonight they're going out to the kennel. KW

DECEMBER 8: HOME FOR CHRISTMAS -- OR NOT

I wish you’d come home for Christmas. Couldn’t you have arranged it? 

Ina to Vance, 1934

(You might want to grab a hanky or a tissue before you read this very sentimental poem.)

On Coming Home for Christmas

By Edgar A. Guest

He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair;

He never guessed they’d miss him, or he’d surely have been there;

He couldn’t see his mother or the lump that filled her throat;

Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty note;

And he couldn’t see his father, sitting sorrowful and dumb,

Or he never would have written that he thought he couldn’t come.

He little knew the gladness that his presence would have made,

And the joy it would have given, or he never would have stayed.

He didn’t know how hungry had the little mother grown

Once more to see her baby and to claim him for her own.

He didn’t guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day,

Or he never would have written that he couldn’t get away.

He couldn’t see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink,

And the silver in the tresses; and he didn’t stop to think

How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it might be,

There would be no home to visit and no mother dear to see.

He didn’t think about it – I’ll not say he didn’t care.

He was heedless and forgetful or he’d surely have been there.

Are you going home for Christmas? Have you written you’ll be there?

Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you care?

Going home to greet the father in a way to make him glad?

If you’re not, I hope there’ll never come a time you’ll wish you had.

Just sit down and write a letter – it will make their heartstrings hum

With a tune of perfect gladness – if you’ll tell them that you’ll come.

[It’s quite clear that spending a Christmas at home on the farm was not something that Vance (my dad) wanted to do. Apparently he wasn't the only son failing to come home for Christmas since Mr. Guest wrote a whole poem about it.

I don’t know for certain why my dad didn’t want to come home for Christmas but I can guess. Holiday time is party time, and as a pianist, he had entrée to homes and clubs where he provided entertainment. He quite naturally sat down at the piano and filled the air with booming chords. And when that happens, everyone is inspired to sing.

I'm sure he enjoyed his holiday activities and possibly earned additional money. Also, it was a long trip from the southern Washington coast to Orofino, Idaho, in winter – and arriving in town, he would still have to find a ride to the farm. And then there was the return trip at a time when the weather is uncertain.] KW

DECEMBER 7 -- CHRISTMAS YET TO COME

Ina had just finished reading Dicken’s A Christmas Carol. Drowsily, she closed the book, blew out her bedside lamp, and nodded off to sleep on December 7, 1934.

Dickens’ words danced in her mind: The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. “I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” said Scrooge. The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.

Ina found herself peering through the swirling mist into her very own living room. The little tree sat in its customary corner. She recognized an older version of herself surrounded by . . . Well, there were Myrtle, Ethel and Vance. She would know them anywhere. And could that young woman be – why, yes! – it’s granddaughter Shirley Jean! She recognized those beautiful eyes! But who are those little girls? And look! – why, it looks like Dorothy Portfors! It IS Dorothy Portfors! What’s SHE doing here?

Ina knew for a fact that Dorothy Portfors was safely married and living in Tennessee. She knew that Dorothy had just given birth to her second child, another girl. So, what twist of fate could bring her to Ina’s family circle? Married to Vance? No-o-o! Surely not!

But it couldn’t be denied that the little group of people were enjoying one another – well, mostly. With a twinge of sadness Ina saw that Jack was not there. So, she would be the one to carry on . . .

[In memory of Vance and Dorothy Dobson, married December 7, 1947. Vance passed away November 1987, just prior to their 40^th wedding anniversary.]