Praying

Note: I am posting this as art, because art is my spirituality.

I read the Huffington Post, even the "Religion" posts. Raised in a religious home as a Methodist, I come from a line of Baptist ministers dating as far back as the 1700s when they immigrated from Wales to establish Welsh-Baptist communities in the U.S.

The Methodist Church provided an opportunity for me to visit a Jewish Synagog. I enjoyed that so much that I started taking bus rides to attend services. Later in life, while doing genealogy research, I discovered my Jewish heritage. (A Jewish friend remarked, "Everyone had a Jewish grandmother somewhere.") Well, maybe.

The love in my life came along in high school, and she was Catholic. We had a hiatus in our relationship, but I converted to Catholicism. I once thought that if I couldn't recover the lost relationship, I just might become a priest. I admired devotion to doing good things for people.

Fortunately, my life came back when my wife and I joined in a lasting marriage. We raised our daughter in the Catholic church to be good parents. While we all benefited from the social experience, I cannot say that religion had a lot to do with it.

In fact, my spiritual life condensed to believing that we humans need to embrace the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. We need to respect those who have religious faith as we also respect those who don't.

As for praying, I can't stop. I don't want to. When I walk along alone, I pray to all of the souls who gave life to me. I pray for the things that I don't understand. I believe in the Holy Spirit. As for what presides over that, I simply don't know. For all of the stories that I have learned from religious life, I appreciate the lessons.

Amen.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/…/how-i-learned-i-was-prayi_b…?

Birthday Party and Sleepover at the Vail’s

Dicky Vail, Billy Calhoun, and Jerry Rawls were boyhood friends of mine who lived in the same neighborhood in Mt. Gilead, Ohio. I believe that I was more of a free-range kid than the other boys, because when my mother opened the door, I was out and gone as she said, “Stay within earshout!” My Dad had a different way to call me in, and that was a very loud whistle. 

I enjoyed visits to Billy’s house where he had a chiwawa dog named “Skippy.” Skippy was a dog that likes to bite, except after he got to know you. Billy’s dad was a lawyer who kept him well-supplied with great toys. He also had a trombone that was fascinating as I had to try to play the clarinet instead.

Billy lived on Cedar Street that had a great hill. An alleyway connected Cedar with Elm Street where I lived. Jerry Rawls lived on the alleyway set back from Elm Street and diagonal from my house. Part of Jerry’s house was originally a log cabin. His dad used to sit in the log room to smoke his pipe. His mother was named, “Toots,” and she was from England. She was a lifelong friend of my mother. Toots was deaf and her mother lived with them too. Jerry’s grandmother used to make orange scones with orange icing that was too die for.

Dick Vail lived on Elm Street at the bottom of the hill. His father was Alan Vail. His mother was Mary Jane and at that time he had two brothers, Jimmy being the oldest and Brian being the youngest. They lived next door to my Great Uncle, James Shoewalter.

Dicky Vail was immensely popular because his family was the first to have a television set. After a couple of years of playing together including having a Flippo the Clown inspired circus party in his backyard, the Vail’s moved to a farm on the north side of town. His mother was once the 4H queen, so she probably enjoyed that they were going into farming.

I missed my friend Dicky, but his mom kept us together by inviting me to play at the farm. One such event was Dicky’s birthday party that began in the daytime and included my staying over the night. That was the first time in my life that I stayed away from home.

We played hard that day on the farm with many other kids present. Sandy Kubbs might have been there, I don’t quite remember. Billy and Jerry were there. We got to cross the highway to visit Dye’s Market to purchase bubblegum. Dye’s market always smelled like rotting fruit.

Anyway, in Dicky’s barn there was a haymow. We were allowed to climb up a ladder to the loft, and to jump into a pile of hay. We did that many times and I was hot and sticky. My skin was full of holes from landing in the dry hay. I worked up an appetite.

We had birthday cake and ice cream that I surely gobbled. The kids all went home and the environment settled down to a calm family-style late afternoon. I was still hyped up from the barn.

We watched a little television before assembling around a very large table to have our dinner. Mrs. Vail put a record on the player. It was Wake Up a Little Susie. That music was churning my stomach as I ate mashed potatoes and chicken. 

All of a sudden, it dawned on me that I was away from home. I was missing my family. I didn’t even know where I was going to sleep. I wouldn’t mind sleeping in the barn in the hay loft.

I felt a little sick to my stomach. “Maybe I should ask them to call my parents to pick me up?”

I just couldn’t do that because I wanted to try to spend the night.

We all retired early and I had my own bed upstairs where five of us would share one bathroom. There was one downstairs, but we were all up there together. 

I was feeling ill. I had diarrhea. I had to go the bathroom many times, and it was embarrassing. I finally settled down, but I heard Mr. Vail exclaim, “Someone clogged the toilet!”

I was sure that I would not be asked to visit again after that.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LojqhHnmyvc

My house on Elm Street, Mt. Gilead, Ohio

Birthday Party at the 3 Rs Restaurant

Memory isn’t serving me well in recalling this story, so I will solicit help. The event was a birthday party for a fellow classmate, a little girl whose name might have been Sharon, but I don’t remember exactly. Her family operated the 3 Rs restaurant which was the venue for her celebration. The 3 Rs was located outside of Mt. Gilead, Ohio towards Cardington. 

Attending the party at that location required a parent to drive out there, drop off, and to then return at the end of the party. In those days, that was sort of a big deal. I remember my phone # was 307R. (307th line, rural). It was a party line and if you picked up the phone, someone might already be there talking.

Anyway, they decorated the place with balloons and crepe paper. That was the second time I had seen such decorations as the first time was at Dicky Vail’s birthday party. That’s another story.

The memorable thing about this party was the ice cream and cake. At home, we made our own ice cream, but this was restaurant ice cream, and the brand name, I believe was “Velvet.” I remembered Velvet ice cream when my friend Bill Noble recalled that he lived in Utica, Ohio that is home to the ice cream company.

The cake was white and they served it with chocolate ice cream. It was delicious and something special to remember.

Do my friends remember the 3 Rs? How about that little girl who's party it was? Was anyone else there?

Along the way, trying to locate an image of the 3 R’s that appeared to be an old house, that may have been painted light green or gray at time, I discovered an obituary of Mary Mattingly who once operated the restaurant probably just the years before the birthday party.

She was a Sprague and a Ramsey. Sprague was in my mother’s family and Ramsey is the married name of Mary Petrie. (By the way, Mary Ramsey, your Dad, Dr. John Petrie and my Dad flew PBMs in WWII.)

“Mary A. Mattingly, 91, formerly of Fulton, Ohio died Monday November 14, 2005 in Woodside Village Care Center in Mt. Gilead.

She was born on March 28, 1914 in Auglaize County near Buckland, Ohio, the daughter of the late John A. and Alice M. Sprague Ramsey. She moved here from Medina in 1951. Mrs. Mattingly operated the 3 R’s Restaurant near Mount Gilead from 1951-53, worked for North Electric in Galion for 5 years, and operated the Fulton Carry-Out for 7 years. She was a former member of the Fulton Rebekkah Lodge.

She is survived by two sons; James (Marie) Mattingly of Naples, Florida and Thomas Mattingly of Fulton, Ohio; four daughters; Sandra and her late husband Bill Lanum of Fulton, Ohio, Alice (Joe) Pukansky of Cardington, Ohio, Marlene (Gene) Pearl of Lexington, Ohio, and Linda Toth of Sebring, Florida; 25 grandchildren, numerous great grandchildren and great-great grandchildren, and a sister Helen Gorman of Alexandria, Indiana.

She was preceded in death on Dec. 29, 1987 by her husband James N. Mattingly, whom she married Nov. 10, 1934. She was also preceded in death by three brothers; Joe, Irvin & John Ramsey, and three sisters; Bernice Rent, Opal Adams and Ethel Graham.”

There will be more stories inspired by birthday parties,

We attended this school in Mt. Gilead, Ohio

Historical places are like a rotting log

Fulton, Ohio

Historical places are like a rotting log. Once there was a seed, that planted in the earth. It became a sapling, and then it became a precious tree bearing fruit and nuts. Then, while it was spared from lightning, and survived storms and drought, it eventually succumbed to old age and died. Woodpeckers came to feed on borers that made a home in the dead wood.  Holes became home to birds, raccoons, and squirrels. Eventually, the old tree could not stand any longer, and with a shove from the wind it came down to the ground. There, fungi, insects, and animals made a feast of what remained. It took a long time, but all that exists is a stain where it once stood.

Visiting Fulton, a small farm village in North Central Ohio in Harmony Township where my Great Grandmother once lived in a small house that I visited as a child, I see the house still survived. A railroad track once passed by the home, and Great Grandma was watchful that I didn't play too near the track. 

She watched me from her kitchen window where she prepared boiled cabbage, carrots, potatoes, and beef that would become a hearty lunch. I could smell that cabbage clear out in the back yard. I wasn't fond of it, but it eventually became one of my favorite foods, owing that to Grandma Nevada Shoewalter. 

Because the train tracks are gone, it was a little hard locating this small house that had a front porch. Great Grandma played music from a record player, and we danced on the porch until it eventually broke through. Dad had to rebuild the front porch for her after that.

There was a bedroom in the front of the house with the door closed. That's where her husband "Albert" died, and she never used it again. She stayed upstairs. A small living room occupies much of the downstairs with a tiny dining space next to the kitchen.

She had no city water and used a hand pump at the sink to draw what she needed. She also had a rain barrel for doing the laundry and such.

It doesn't appear that the old house has much life remaining, and Fulton has all but died. Progress once lived here, but it apparently moved on.

Nevada Shoewalter lived here in Fulton, Ohio

Braising like Martha Stewart

I watched the episode of Martha Stewart in which she braised everything in sight. It didn't matter if it had four legs or two if it was meat, it went into the pot with salt, pepper, a few vegetables and simmered until tender.

Being alone for awhile, I am less ambitious in the kitchen cooking small quantities and such, but I decided to get a pot roast to braise. I got the smallest one possible, yet I knew that there would be at least four days of beef in the refrigerator.

The first day, the pot roast came with carrots, celery and onions. I sliced about 1/4 of the roast thinly and served with hot horseradish. It was a little tough, even though I thought that I had cooked it sufficiently long and slow.  I chewed and chewed it, motivated by having to have more horseradish.

After the first meal, I cut off another 1/4 of the original to be used in chili the next day. The balance was set aside for future meals.

I made the chili using finely chopped pot roast, and on the second cooking, the beef was tender and tasty.

On the third day, I made something resembling steak au poivre. Substituting pot roast for steak, I made a mushroom gravy with finely sliced pot roast. I could have done noodles and called it Stroganoff. However, since I had fresh organic whole grain bread, I made toast and served the mixture on that with spinach on the side.

On the fourth day, I was back to thinly sliced beef on bread with a tomato and horseradish sandwich, knowing very well that I would be chewing a long time.

Finally, I am finished with the beef project. I am moving on from braising.

You know that Martha got the recipes while she was in the penitentiary?

http://www.pbs.org/food/features/martha-stewarts-cooking-school-braising-episode/

I am glad they let you out.

Dawn Powell, from Mt. Gilead

It was so nice to see that the Mt. Gilead Library has a commemoration to the author, Dawn Powell.

"Powell was a master of urban observation. As Lorrie Moore wrote, “She loved the salty and the anecdotal.” From the moment she left behind her harsh upbringing in Mount Gilead, Ohio, and arrived in Manhattan, in 1918, she dove into city life with an outlander’s anthropological zeal. (“There is really one city for everyone just as there is one major love,” she wrote). In her diaries, she expressed her joy of landing in bohemian Greenwich Village, “where all night long typewriters click, people sing in the streets, hurdy-gurdies go all day, and the laundry boy reads Turgenev.” 

http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/dawn-powells-masterful-gossip-why-wont-it-sell

"Born in family home at 53 West North Street in Mt. Gilead, Ohio, on November 28, the second of three daughters of Roy King Powell and Hattie Sherman Powell. (In later years Powell habitually gives her birth year as 1897. Father, b. August 24, 1869, and mother, b. March 24, 1872, are both from the Mt. Gilead area. Father is of Welsh-Irish descent, while family tradition claims the mother’s family, while mostly English, was also part Cherokee. Father works at series of jobs, including night manager of a local hotel and traveling salesman selling perfume, bedding, cherries, cookies, and coffins. Sister Mabel born July 11, 1895.)" 

http://www.dawnpowelldiaries.com/who-was-dawn-powell/

Birthplace of Dawn Powell