Memorial Day 2013 . . . or is it 1957?

A 1957 backyard picnic on Layton. The author is first on left.

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It’s Memorial Day weekend, and I’m enjoying the view on Layton.

            The lawn, thick and green with last night’s rain, awaits my Toro. Several mowers can be heard up and down Layton. Families of wrens, robins, and chickadees have called the Justus Symphony Orchestra to concert in the old oak, whose arms have draped over Layton for a hundred years. The cat lies lazily in the shade of the picnic table, swatting listlessly at low-flying bugs. The cukes, tomatoes, and beans peek through the soil of my small raised-bed garden. The Adirondack chairs under the sprawling maple in the rear of the yard sit like thrones, presiding regally over this small world.

 It could be Memorial Day, 1957. The view from my porch hasn’t changed much in the past fifty years.

            Fifty years ago this already-old house buzzed with picnic preparations. Memorial Day launched the summer season when the city cousins from North Scranton trekked “up the country.” The extended family came every weekend in the summer for all-day backyard cookouts, to escape the city heat, and to “kibbitz” with the family.

           

In those days this house, on whose porch I sit these fifty years later, belonged to my grandmother, Nana Evans, known as Aunt Ethel to the cousins. My mom, dad, sisters, and I lived in the house next door to Nana here on Layton. Our two yards converged with plenty of room for children to grow up.

Summer preparations began in earnest for this first picnic of the season. Dad washed off the metal glider, pulled out the aluminum yard chairs and rethreaded their frayed nylon seats.  He hammered the badminton net into place, rehung the tether ball, and filled the grill with charcoal. “Annie, where’s the . . . ?” Dad called intermittently to my mother in the kitchen. “Annie,” a whirling dervish in her own right, swept about the kitchen preparing her favorite jello mold recipe and macaroni salad.

The coming of the cousins brewed high excitement.

            Nana and her sisters, Aunt Peggy, Aunt Ruthie, and Aunt Millie, reigned as matriarchs of the brood. Aunt Ruthie lived in Chinchilla. Aunt Peggy lived on Margaret Avenue near her daughter Peg; her son Bill lived just a street over on Edna Avenue in Scranton. Aunt Peggy’s other son Bob and his wife Mickey had moved after World War II to that haven for post-war vets, Levittown, in search of a job that didn’t involve the coal mines.

All of the men of those two generations had put in some time in the mines: Grandpa Evans spent most his working life in the mines; Uncle Gordy, Aunt Peggy’s husband, Aunt Ruthie’s husband Uncle Victor, and Aunt Millie’s husband Uncle Cliff had their hands to the pick and shovel until the demise of the industry. Even my dad earned his first paychecks from the Olyphant breaker. Summer afternoons in the country gave them a chance to blow off the soot and breathe fresh air.

Summer picnics with the family on Layton, 1957.

            Aunt Ruthie didn’t have any children, but Aunt Peggy’s children and grandchildren made it a party. We had cousins in every age group from Peg’s three girls, Lynn, Beth, and Lori to Bill’s children, Glenny, Phil, and Les. Sometimes Bob and Mickey came up from Levittown. When Bob’s family came, the excitement and activity increased with his twin sons Bob and Bill and daughters, Joan and Gail. Our cup overflowed with cousins and a bevy of adults to supervise. Everyone had a buddy.

The ghosts of memories dance around the yard this Memorial Day: I see Phil hiding behind the front hedges in our twilight hide-and-seek game. The twins clank the lids on their jars as they corral lightning bugs. “Hey, Joey,” Sid yells to my dad as he slams the birdie over the badminton net and into the lilac bush.

Nana and her sisters laugh and talk simultaneously at high volume under the shade of the apple tree. Mom runs in and out of the kitchen with tablecloths and food. “Annie, don’t forget the ketchup. The dogs are ready!” Dad announces to the yard in general as Jiggsy, our beagle, runs between legs, seeking what he might devour.

One year Glenny ripped open her leg on the chicken wire around my dad’s new seedlings. The pitch of the old aunts’ cackling went up a decibel as Glenny was rushed off to the emergency room for stitches.

Another year Sid won our hearts when he took all us kids horseback riding up Layton at Bill Jones’s riding stable.

Gail, Glenny, and I would swing on the front porch glider, sharing secrets about our parents and boys.

If there weren’t enough paper plates, my mother, never a slave to fashion, was known to rip them and serve the kids on half plates.

Bill’s wife, Miar, always managed to bring the winning covered dish delight. A bit more avant-garde than the rest, she actually searched out recipes and bedazzled our taste buds.

At the end of the picnic day, our family stood around the yard saying good-byes, planning the next week’s picnic, hugging, and waving the cousins off to their distant homes in Scranton. A satisfied sense of belonging and continuity tucked me into bed although I doubt if I could have identified the reason for my joy at that time.

Today the yard is silent except for the clatter and spontaneity of my memories. Nana and the Aunts, Peggy and Sid, Bill and Miar, Bob and Mickey, and Mom are all gone. I only see the cousins now at funerals. When we cousins see each other at these last goodbyes, it’s evident that the cousin bond was deeply forged in our childhoods. Phil and one of the twins, Bob, reminded me at a recent funeral, “My best childhood memories were in your yard.” Only Dad, at 91, remains of that earlier generation.

The cousins scattered to the wind when we began the migration to college. Most never returned to Scranton. Lynn married a Dutchman and moved to the Netherlands; Phil had a successful career with the FBI and then retired to Memphis; Les, an in-demand orthopedic surgeon in Kansas City, continues to practice; the twins, still best friend-brothers, live in Bucks County and juggle several enterprises; Gail had a knitting business for awhile in Pittsburgh, and Glenny suffers as the collective recipient of the family’s legendary struggle with diabetes. Most of us are grandparents now; all of us are senior citizens.

Still, I enjoy the view from my porch. The apple tree succumbed to lack of care. When it only produced quarter-sized apples, it met dad’s axe. The front porch glider has seen countless coats of paint, but it stands immovable, its steel frame too heavy to lift. The other day my grandson and I tried to find the tether ball pipe, implanted somewhere mid-yard, hoping to put it back in action, but it had sunk into oblivion. The chicken wire is gone as are the aluminum chairs, but they did have a long run through three generations, thanks to my ever-mending, ever-recycling father. We still enjoy badminton, though a series of nets have been short-lived. A modern propane grill eventually replaced the old red charcoal burner.

The yard is silent this Memorial Day. One of my sons and three of my grandchildren live in Indiana. Dad sold his house next door and moved to South Carolina. The echoes of memories resound from oak to maple.

But I . . . I continue to enjoy the view from my porch on Layton.

Mother's Day and Birthdays

 Nana Jones

Mother's Day gets me to thinking about my son who made me a mother for the second time on Mother's Day weekend thirty-six years ago. So Mother's Day and birthdays have a conjoined significance.

We've had a healthy dose of birthdays here on Layton (as well as a healthy dose of mothers) for over 80 years . . . five generations worth . . . all kinds of parties for every decade marker and all the milestone ages in between. I distinctly remember an Olympics birthday for the Mother's Day son sometime in the '80s that had me constructing a challenge course around the entire yard. And who can forget the 16th photo scavenger hunt birthday party that had us driving teenagers throughout the area?

One of the most memorable birthdays here on Layton was Nana Jones's 80th. Nana Jones, my dad's mother, entered the world with the turn of the twentieth century, 1900, in Liverpool, England.  Recalling her age was never difficult as she rolled on in age with the year. So in 1980 I determined to give her a "girl" party for her 80th birthday, a party with best friends.

Nana (Winnie) Jones also lived on Layton about a quarter mile up the road. Almost all of her lady friends had spent their lives on this half mile of country road between the Mt. Bethel Baptist Church, where they attended, and Justus Corners. They raised their children and grandchildren together, they ran Old Home Day every year at Mt. Bethel, they crocheted granny block afghans, knitted sweaters, hats and mittens, cooked up a whirlwind for covered dish dinners, worked with the Ladies Auxiliary of the Justus Fire Company, and enjoyed visiting back and forth to rock on the front porch glider and finish off a pot of tea.

I knew all of her friends well. We lived in the extended family of a country village and attended the same church. Our lives intersected at every point.

Florence James was Nana Jones's best friend. Florence lived just two houses away from my grandmother. Short and petitely built, Florence was the antithesis of my grandmother's tall, strongly-built physique. I can't ever remember Winnie and Florence wearing anything except house dresses, always lightly flowered and neat, even when weeding their gardens.

Betty Priest lived in the house right next to my grandmother. Their back doors were separated by no more than 20 yards. Mrs. Priest came over my grandmother's almost every day for tea. Nana Jones never lost her British affection for tea with milk and a few biscuits. As a child I was fascinated by her skill of reading the tea leaves left in the cup. Good friends until Betty died, leaving a gap in my grandmother's life, they never called each other anything except Mrs. Priest and Mrs. Jones.

The Von Storch family, the premier farming family in Justus, lived just around the corner, and Minerva, the matriarch of the family, had raised a bevy of boys who romped the countryside with my dad and the Evans and Lewis boys. She knew how to handle rowdy teens and how to make the best pies in Justus. At a church dinner we vied for Mrs. Von Storch's desserts.

Mildred Baker lived on Layton but further up the big hill, and Beatrice White, of the legendary White clan who originally settled the area, lived over on Fairview. The women were united by age, family, church, the Justus Volunteer Fire Company, the Depression and the War. They survived as friends.

Florence, Betty, Minerva, Mildred and Beatrice (although I would never have considered calling them anything but "Mrs. ...) composed my guest list of best friends for Nana Jones's 80th birthday party - A Who's Who of 20th Century Mothers in Justus.

Held in my front parlor, an appropriate synonym for my living room, the party featured chicken salad sandwiches and several rounds of BINGO. But it was the conversation that intrigued me.

As the ladies arrived and sat around my parlor, the reflections about the house began. "I haven't been here since Ethel died . . . Oh, it was long before that since I've been here . . . We used to come often to play cards . . . I'll never forget the night of the funeral . . ."

I'd heard the story before from my mother and grandmother, but here sat the mothers of the neighborhood recalling an event in 1950 that left an indelible community impression - a funeral.

"The roof nearly collapsed . . .Water poured into this room . . .  The men had to get up on the roof in the rain and patch it up - quick . . . One of the worst storms . . . The casket sat right over there."

And the recollections continued of my Grandfather Evans's funeral. Grandpa Evans built this house on Layton. When he died suddenly of a heart attack on the cellar steps of the house he loved, his body was prepared for "viewing" and "laid out" here in the front room, probably very close to where I'm sitting now. Traditional custom of the day had people "viewed" in their own homes, rather than at a funeral home. A disconcerting thought, as the rest of the family lay upstairs in bed. It's not a custom that has carried into the 21st century. Thankfully.

The night of the "viewing," a storm hit that blew off the shingles, ripped up part of the roof, and brought gallons of water gushing down the walls to the parlor, and . . . into my grandfather's casket. The men of the family and the neighborhood rushed into action through pelting rain and wind, climbing to the roof and re-boarding and covering the holes. I didn't ask how they dealt with damage to the coffin and . . . Grandpa Evans.

The guests at Nana Jones's birthday party had attended the "viewing" here in my parlor, and they relished every detail in the retelling. Thirty years after the event, and it still made a great story for the neighborhood.

Mother's Day, birthdays . . . death days - all part of life here on Layton.

Oh, and Happy Birthday, Trev, from your Mom. You are a Mother's Day gift.

Shiny Days!

Some days shine.

Not just because the temperature reaches 75, and the sun finally spends an entire twelve hours glowing.

Perhaps the shining has more to do with sensibility rather than meteorology

Today was one of those days.

Could it have been aglow because I spent the day with my 92-year-old father, a pleasure few can enjoy? Dad drives the 700 miles between South Carolina and Pennsylvania on his own, he can walk without assistance, he golfs a mean 46 on nine holes, he hikes a mile every day, he looks 80 - tops, and he can complete a crossword faster than I can read it.

Or was it because we had breakfast out with neighbors? Good friends, pleasant conversation, the richness of relationship building with people we enjoy . . . not to mention the buttermilk pancakes.

Was it the two children in front of me on the airplane who had obviously never traveled before? They grasped their mother's hand on take-off, and when they became comfortable at altitude, they vied for the window to ooh and aah at every stretch of cloud. "Look," the girl gasped. "It's a city!" Unjaded travelers awed by the miracle of modern science.

Or could it have been that magical moment in the arrivals lounge in Wilmington, North Carolina? As we sat awaiting yet another long-delayed flight, I took to people-watching. The young soldier in dress uniform on the sofa cross from us was hard to miss. Over six feet tall and handsome, his demeanor belied his appearance. His fingers tapped endlessly on his knee, on his chin. He wiped his brow. His leg vibrated up and down. I thought perhaps he had just returned from the war; perhaps this was Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. And then a flight arrival announcement bolted him from his seat.

As he stood by the gate and watched the disembarking passengers, his tension grew. Finally, a perky, petite cutie with a crop of curly blond hair came through the gate in her pink and white sundress with a matching bag and sandals. Our soldier quickly wrapped his arms around her, a momentary kiss and a few words ensued, then . . . he dropped to his knee, all six feet of him, and he took her little hand in his. "Look, Dad!" I elbowed him wildly, but he was lost in a chess game on the NOOK. "Look!" By this time the entire lounge had zeroed in on the life moment unfolding before us.

We heard our soldier say, "Will you marry me?" A small box came out of his pocket. Our heroine said, "Yes!" and a ring was placed on her finger. He stood, lifted his arms to the heavens (and the arrivals lounge clientele) and boomed, "She said "Yes!' " Of course, we spectators couldn't get enough of this real life movie scene, and we burst into applause.

The bride-to-be jumped into his arms, and there was a twirling and hugging in the middle of the lounge. More applause. Joy all around.

Quickly, the couple moved off toward the exit. The moment united those of of us frustrated with airplane delays. No doubt, everyone's memories traveled to the day of our marriage proposals, our weddings, or our long journeys since then. And we smiled for the hope of newness and fresh starts and young love.

"She did everything right, " Dad remarked finally surfacing from the NOOK in time to see the action. "She even lifted her leg when he picked her up." A coquette indeed. A magical life moment shared by a room full of strangers.

Or did the day shine because of a special gift? As I sat in the megalithic airport known as Charlotte, awaiting the plane for yet another leg of my journey back to Layton (not an easy place to acess from distant points), I recognized a friend. A rush of joy and excitement always accompanies reunions in foreign arenas. "Cindy!" I yelled, and we hurried to embrace. Our mouths started clattering non-stop, and before we knew it, our flight was boarding. Old hands at travel, we didn't rush the gate but relaxed to wait for our zones to be called.

The clattering and chattering continued and . . .  somehow . . . we missed our call. The door to the aircraft had closed! How did that happen without our knowledge? In unison and before a crowd of hundreds at ten conjoining gates, we banged on the closed door. In hindsight, it was interesting that no security came to stop us or bind our panic. Instead, the gate attendant showed up with a grin. "Why, girls, they had cake at the next gate, and I just had to get me some! You're OK. Here, I'll change your seats so you all can sit together."  So the chattering, clattering, and add giggling to that mix, continued until we reached Scranton . . . where the sun rarely shines, but the friendship glistens.

Some days just shine . . . even when it's gray . . . here on Layton.

"Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be In Carolina in the Morning"

Dogwood in bloom at the "Homestead South"

The winter of 2012-13 refused to release her grip . . . on Layton.

The snow fell steadily for five months. The temperatures lanquished at 25 degrees and lower. The  turtleneck sweaters and corduroy slacks, my standard winter uniform, were worn ad nauseum.  The electric snow shovel and 25 feet of extension cord, ready for momentary use, never left the back porch.

In late March the trees refused to bud, and the flowers remained wrapped in cocoon warmth.  Even the cat became claustrophobic, pacing in front of the door and mewing, yet unwilling to step a paw outdoors . . . kind of like her owner.

With spring stalled on the calendar, the family decided to migrate to the "Homestead South."

My parents established the "Homestead South" upon their retirement 31 years ago. Since then, Jefferson Circle has become the alternate home and vacation spot for the Layton family.

And spring arrives early and lavishly on Jefferson.

The azaleas splash color abundantly with oranges, pinks, whites, and reds, smiling cheerily from every yard. The dogwood's little faces turn upward with a flush in their cheeks and a perky little nose pointed always heavenward. The sweet gum tree drops its prickly fruit across the yard to wake up any flip flop clad pedestrians to the presence of spring. The Carolina wrens sing a reminder, "Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning!"

The salt marsh near Jefferson comes alive. Fiddler crabs dash about brandishing their one large claw menacingly above their heads. Herons and egrets stand statuesque in the marsh, eyes skimming the reeds for edibles.

Spring's warmth lures us to the water and a stroll on the oyster beds. The oyster beds heap themselves above the tide line along the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and along the salt marsh. They lay bleached and sterile as we crunch our way beside the river in the sun. The oyster beds remind me of Lewis Carroll's poem "The Walrus and the Carpenter." Unconsciously, I recite to the oysters as the Walrus did before devouring them,

 " The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of many things. 

Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings,

 and why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings." 

And the pleasure boats leave the marinas and sail  . . . up and down the river, headed for the Atlantic.

Spring arrives in the South - bright, verdant, alive.

"Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning!"  . . . unless, of course, you are blessed to witness the coming alive of the earth a second time . . . when spring finally appears, all gowned and bedecked, and the dogwoods bloom . . .

On Layton.

Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and salt marsh

Azaleas welcome the Carolina morning.

Celebrating Easter Every Day . . . On Layton

The Cross on Layton

Easter approaches . . .
And some things haven't changed much on Layton through the years:

• Buying new clothes and shoes.
• Making a pilgrimage to church.
• Putting on a sumptuous ham dinner for the family.
• Hiding Easter baskets around the yard.
• Scattering eggs for an Easter egg hunt.
• Traveling to Myrtle Beach for spring family reunions.
• Rising early on Easter morning for the sunrise service at Mt. Bethel or Lackawanna State Park or at the end of Cherry Grove beach in South Carolina.

We did these things as children; we did them with my children and now my grandchildren.

One significant change has occurred . . . my increasing realization that Easter should be celebrated every day of the year.

Easter brings a sweet and precious HOPE that makes life worth living on Layton . . . and everywhere for that matter.

That HOPE centers on Jesus, God's Son, God Himself. He was born into the world to provide the final sacrifice for all those millions of things I have done to violate His standard of holiness. Left to my own devices, I wouldn't have a chance to meet that standard and enter eternity in heaven with Him. Eternity is certain, and the smell of hell is too much with me.

BUT Jesus stepped into time and took care of that problem in me and you for only one reason: LOVE. It's an unconditional love that I have trouble fully grasping. The sacrifice that was needed for my sin, He provided . . . on a cross at Calvary . . . His blood shed for the sins of many. The deal was sealed with His resurrection and victory over death.

Acceptance of His forgiveness and sacrifice gave me the greatest gifts I will ever receive: the hope of eternity in heaven with Him after death and the assurance of His presence each day in life.

Death and life . . . He has covered it all.

Now, His Spirit walks with me daily giving help, comfort, encouragement, wisdom, guidance. He has given the opportunity to intimately know and experience Him - day in and day out - on Layton.

That cross and resurrection were not exclusive to residents of a country road in rural USA. They stand as offers to people on Lombard Street in San Francisco, Abbey Road in London, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the Las Vegas Strip, Wall Street, the Champs Elysees, or Orchard Road in Singapore . . . any street, any time in history.

One of my favorite Easter hymns is called "He Lives." The lyrics voice our joy:

I serve a risen Savior,
He's in the world today;
I know that He is living,
Whatever men may say;
I see His hand of mercy,
I hear His voice of cheer,
And just the time I need Him,
He's always near.


He lives, He lives, Christ Jesus lives today!
He walks with me and talks with me
Along life's narrow way.
He lives, He lives, salvation to impart!
You ask me how I know He lives:
He lives within my heart.


Another of my favorites is "Because He Lives."

God sent His Son, they called Him Jesus.
He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

So . . . Easter approaches, but it's an every day holiday. And I'm celebrating under the cross . . .

 on Layton.

St. David's Day on Layton

Welsh National Flag

We celebrated St. David's Day this week on Layton.

St. David's Day is the Welsh national holiday, commemorated annually on March 1st in honor of Dewi Sant or St. David, the patron saint of Wales. Cardiff and Caernarvon throbbed with activity this week as the citizens turned out for their national holiday. 

Since she is colonel-in-chief of the 3rd Battalion of the The Royal Welsh, the Queen herself visited Swansea, Wales, this week for a traditional St. David's Day ceremony of presenting leeks to members of the battalion (there's an interesting cultural reward - an onion!). "According to legend, St. David advised the Britons on the eve of a battle with the Saxons, to wear leeks in their caps so as to easily distinguish friend from foe. This helped to secure a victory. Today, Welsh people wear leeks on St. David's Day, and soldiers in the Welsh regiments eat a raw leek." (National Welsh Museum)

Meanwhile, Prince Charles, also known as the Prince of Wales, and the Duchess of Cornwall, visited the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama in South Wales this week to celebrate with the native population. High ceremony helps the Welsh to remember and appreciate their ancient origins and culture.

There was somewhat less activity across the Atlantic on Layton for St. David's Day. Most of the Layton population probably didn't acknowledge the holiday, but the old homestead was abuzz with preparations. 

Bryn Terfel, the premier Welsh tenor, serenaded us on the stereo. The leg of lamb, bedded in cabbage and onions, slow roasted all day. The parsnips, turnips and squash were mashed. The classic Celtic piece d'resistance, the Welsh cookies, were fried and heaped on plates. The table, decorated with daffodils, the national flower of Wales, and Welsh dolls in traditional attire with Pilgrim style high hats, red skirts, and knitted capes, was readied for my guests, all of whom boasted Welsh roots. Abundant quantities of Earl Grey warmed in several teapots, wrapped in cozies . . . our annual St. David's celebration was in full swing. 

I follow the example of my mother and my Grandmother Jones by remembering our Welsh roots. Grandpa Jones (the most common surname in Wales is Jones) was born in North Wales. A typical Welshman, at about 5'4" with a feisty disposition and a scrappy physique, Grandpa could belt out a tune with the best tenors. Hands down, he had the strongest and sweetest voice at Mt. Bethel Baptist Church, where the family attended, as well as at a variety of pubs in the valley where the Welsh miners gathered to talk, argue, take a pint and . . . sing.

My dad, though not a pure bred Welshman like Grandpa, was born just over the border in Liverpool, England. These connections, plus a few other Welsh great-grandparents on the other side of the family, gave us the onus of bearing the Welsh heritage into future generations.

Like the Irish and the Polish, the Welsh migrated to this area in the early part of the twentieth century to work in the coal mines. With the prevalence of coal mines in Wales, it seemed natural that the Welsh would bring their mining skills to Lackawanna County to join the local mine works. They poured into the valley towns of Blakely, Olyphant, and Dickson City. In fact, several Welsh churches sprang up in the valley; the Welsh Baptist Church on the hill in Olyphant is still meeting. My grandparents joined the Welsh Baptist Church and the other coal mining families in Blakely and Olyphant.

In the 1950s-60s when I attended school, my mother made a very strong statement about our Welsh heritage, but she made the proclamation, annually, on . . . St. Patrick's Day! On St. Pat's Day Mom would cut the shape of a shamrock from an orange peel and pin the orange shamrock to our sweaters. The shamrock carried a sweet aroma and left a mark on my sweater. As I grew old enough to realize that the orange shamrock was a slap in the face of my Irish friends, whether or not they realized it, I began to slip the shamrock off while on the bus before I got to school. The orange vs. the green, Protestant vs. Catholic . . . the cultural milieu of the mid-twentieth century.

The family's attraction to all things Welsh had a powerful effect on the younger generations. It seemed natural that I should spend a semester of my junior year in college in the British Isles, meeting the relatives in Wales, Scotland and England and studying the history and literature of the land. That was 1969. 

Almost thirty years later in 1996, my son hauled off across the globe for a year to the University of Lancaster in England. No danger of considering him an Anglophile. At every opportunity he would trek off to Scotland (cousins in Kilsyth) or North Wales to climb Mt. Snowdon with a Welsh headmaster cousin or to camp among the sheep on the hills.

Heritage gives rootedness and depth. Whether Welsh, Irish, Polish, Lebanese, or Kenyan, identification with those who have gone before is a special gift. Connectedness with previous generations . . . one more blessing for which I am thankful.

Here's a St. David's Day gift for you . . .

My Grandmother's Welsh Cookie Recipe

(There are many Welsh cookie recipes out there. I have several in my files, but this is one of the best!)
4 cups flour      2 eggs

              3/4 lb. lard        1 cup buttermilk

            1 cup sugar      1 cup currants

                       1 tsp. salt          3 tsp. baking powder

                                       4 tsps. nutmeg

Work the flour and lard like pie crust. The batter will be sticky. Add baking powder, salt, nutmeg, and sugar. Drop in the eggs; add buttermilk and currants. Work the dough. Roll the dough in as little flour as possible. Cut the dough in circles. Fry in a 380 degree electric fry pan or on an electric griddle. Flip when golden brown.

Dydd Gwyl Dewi Hapus! (Happy St. David's Day!)
until next year . . . on Layton

Front Porch "Moments"

The front porch of this old house on Layton, 2012.

The front porch of this old house has seen its share of family "moments."

Five generations have opened the door, slammed the door, let the cat in, let the dog out, posed for graduation photos, carried suitcases and boxes off to college, squeezed  wedding gowns through the portal, bundled in  new babies,  and heard,  "Don't stand there with the door open! You're letting the flies in!"

Yes, the door on this old porch has witnessed its share of comings and goings.

Take that day back in 1940 when my mother stood there waving goodbye to her sweetheart with no certainty of his sure return. The sweetheart, who would one day be my dad, came to the house for one last kiss as he shipped out to destinations unknown. All hell was set to break loose around the world, not just in my mother's heart. Dad would spend the Big War in fox holes throughout North Africa, Sicily, and Italy for five years. Imagine the reunion on this old porch in 1945 when that handsome soldier marched up the steps and took his wartime sweetie in his arms.

Then there was the time in the late 1930s when cousin Ida Mae Reid took her first look at the world outside from this old porch. Aunt Millie came to stay with her sister, Nana Evans, here in the house on Layton while her husband, Uncle Cliff, built a home for them right next door. Aunt Millie was eight months pregnant. In those days many infant deliveries occurred at home, and that's what happened. Aunt Millie gave birth in the room off the kitchen which I now use as my dining room. (If you ever come to eat in my home, I hope your appetite won't be hampered by dining in a birthing room.) The little girl, born a bit small, was bundled up by her aunts in warm cotton and shoved in the oven. You heard me . . . the oven. This homemade incubator kept the little one warm, not baked, until she grew big enough to be carried out on the porch for a look about. Ida Mae is now in her 80s and retired in Florida (perhaps the oven incubator predisposed her to warm temperatures.) Nevertheless, she is no worse for the wear because of her beginnings in General Electric's finest . . . on Layton.

I stood on the porch for a few final goodbyes. My Nana Evans died in that same room off the kitchen. I spent most of the last week of her life sitting beside her there.  I watched as the undertaker carried her out the front door, leaving for the last time the house that she and my grandfather had built.

Thirty-four years later, I stood on the porch, holding the door again, for another final goodbye. The EMT's carried mom out the door and into the ambulance after her fatal stroke. Two generations slipped off this earthly sod through this door on our old porch.

As much as I miss my mother and grandmother, I'm so grateful that the next door they entered, after leaving our family home, opened to a mansion on a street of gold, their new, heavenly home . . . not on a street called Layton.