Roadside Treasures in Unexpected Places

I took a trip (by car) recently that had me traveling through the countryside of my home state of North Carolina until somewhere within Virginia before I reached the Interstate I needed to go further north to my destination.  I highly recommend this type of trip now and then because it really gives you a feel for the sameness and the uniqueness of all the different areas of our country.  Leave the Interstate Highways when you can, even if it delays you somewhat.  You won’t regret it!  To travel by plane often gets you there faster, but from a plane, everything looks like a multicolored carpet occasionally obscured by clouds.  From a car, you see the color of the houses and barns, the density of trees and the dancing of flowers on the roadside.  When you drive through the countryside (or the Appalachian Mountains) you can roll down your windows and SMELL the freshness of the air.   

I had forgotten about Kudzu before driving down those roads.  For those unfamiliar, this is a viney plant that covers everything on the sides of the roads, and I do mean everything… bushes, trees, even telephone poles and abandoned buildings… all covered like a thick blanket of deep green snow.  It makes the roadside look soft somehow.  Sometimes, on winding country roads, with their “switch-back” curves and rolling hills, it can sometimes feel other-worldly… like you’ve somehow entered another dimension where everything is soft and quiet.  Then you’ll go around another curve, and there’s a pasture speckled with black and white cows and a deep red barn off in the distance… and you’re quietly pulled back into the present.  Those slow country roads can be a vacation unto themselves sometimes. 

There are treasures to be found on this type of trip.  Google’s GPS voice quietly chirped at me to go down to the end of the road (a few miles) and then take a left… no stop lights, just a stop sign on another quiet two-lane country road that was now starting to wind its way through the rolling hills toward the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.  The roadsides were covered with fluffy green trees, thick with their summer growth of limbs and leaves, surrounded by the undergrowth of bushes, sapling trees, and wildflowers.  As we all do, I stopped at the sign and began looking right and left to make a safe turn onto the next road.  I looked right… one car coming, so I wait.  I look left, and about 20 feet down the road in that direction was a delight… a large-ish country store looking building, nestled back into the mountainside, as if it had grown there of its own volition.  On the covered porch that clung to the entire front of the store were flags (like you hang in your yard or from your house) and all sorts of antiques.  Handmade signs adorned every post that held the porch roof up, homemade birdhouses clung to the rafters of the porch, and so much other stuff that it was impossible to take it all in just by driving by.  I instantly knew I’d found a treasure that had to be explored in some depth. 

Pulling over and parking on the narrow graveled area, deep with ruts in places from rain washing down the edge of the road for years, I took my time getting out of the car simply because I was so busy looking at everything on the outside of this marvelous place.  As I approached the door, I notice a sign that has an old outhouse on it, with an arrow pointing off to the right, and wondered if, indeed, this meant an outhouse (which would have been believable in a place like this) or if it was just a cute way to show the way to the restroom.  I wandered to the door, taking the time to look at this and that on the porch, and found an old screen door that delightfully squeaked as I opened it, as if it were welcoming me as it had done for visitors for years gone by.  Inside, I was instantly delighted with the scents of homemade soaps and candles… and amazed at the collections of various items crafted by local artisians (potters, woodcrafters, weavers, etc.).  I chose a few items as I was going along, to take back as gifts and/or souvenirs, grateful to be supporting local artisans rather than corporate souvenir shops found in other places.  Behind the old wooden counter stood a man who greeted me with a smile, and welcomed me as if I had stepped into his home.  As he boxed up my purchases (so very carefully, so that everything would “travel well”), he explained where everything came from… the two mugs from a potter that lived nearby… the small jug from a potter in North Carolina where lots of potters lived (“… had I ever heard of JugTown,” he asked.  And I laughed and nodded, knowing it was only two hours from where I lived.)…the coasters from someone he goes to church with.  Each item had a story and he told it as he gently wrapped each item in old newspapers, stuffing scraps of bubble wrap in the gaps in the box.  I paid for my purchases, bought a bottle of water, and made my way back to the car… grateful for how refreshed and rested I felt from such an unexpected adventure.  On my way back from my destination, several days later, I noticed the “store” was closed (it was Sunday, after all), so this made me extra glad that I had taken an unhurried approach to my trip, and had stopped.  Unexpected treasures… found!!!

This reminded me of another time, when my youngest son and I were driving across the US (Florida to Washington State).  Our habit was to pull off at any “Overlooks” we ran across because “you just never know what you’re going to see, and besides, Mom needs to stretch her legs”.  We pulled off at one, and found ourselves looking at the Badlands of South Dakota.  This was our first time seeing mesas… like misshaped stalagmites made from stripes of colored earth… as far as the eyes could see… and it looked like another world to us.  This is truly one of the most unique sights in America, and one I highly recommend seeing at some point.  Not only the beauty of the mesas greeted us, though… there were bison roaming the property.  BISON!  Not in fences!!  We had driven over some huge grates at the entry to the Overlook which kept them within the confines of the area.  ……….And we stood there, amazed, imagining so many of these huge shambling animals that the whole plains looked black… and realized just how very fortunate we were to get to see these creatures up close. 

Treasures can be found in the most unexpected places, and can lead you on some of the most rewarding adventures.  I highly encourage you to take one of these kinds of trips from time to time.  It renews your outlook on Life itself in ways both unexpected and delightful!

  

Treasures, Memories and Mysteries

Memories

Sometimes things happen in our lives that end up making us feel like we've been on a treasure hunt of some sort.  That was often how I felt as a child when I'd go exploring in my Grandmother's upstairs rooms (that had become an attic, more or less, by the time I was a kid).  There would be hidden treasures in every corner I looked in, but none were more special to me than her collection of tiny salt and pepper shakers that she'd gotten from all over the country.  There were animals and covered wagons and all sorts of things, and I used to love rearranging them in the cupboard she kept them in up there.  

That attic had a smell all of it's own too.  If "history" had a smell, that's what it was.  Like a mixture of old wooden floors, linens that had been packed up too long, old newspapers, and dust.  Some folks might call it a "musty" smell, and wrinkle up their nose at it... but to me, it was the smell of memories.  Everything up there had some sort of story to go with it.  The rooms.... the dressers... the pictures on the walls... the little kitchen that wasn't used anymore.  It all had stories, and Grandmother was quite the storyteller.  

The Old Rolling Pin... with signatures all over it

Sometimes though, the "treasures" come from unexpected places.  One such treasure was bestowed on me by my cousins not long ago.  My Aunt (their Mom) passed on a few years ago and in the course of sorting through her stuff, they came across a mysterious item.  At first it was clear that it was an old rolling pin, but upon closer examination, it became clear that there was a lost story that went with the thing.  On it, some in ink, some in marker, some in pencil, were lots and lots of autographs.  Two dates, from in the 1940's, were on it as well, but nowhere was there any indication as to the event, or series of events, that lead to such an interesting memorial of sorts.  

There are enough signatures from church members, long ago passed away, that my thought was that it HAD to have something to do with some sort of organization that they had at the church at one time, but no one that I have asked about it (and I've passed it around at church quite a bit) has any idea of its origin either.  Everyone agrees that it has to have been something that was done at the church, but other than that, it remains a mystery.  

Signatures on top of signatures

So what do you do with a mystery?  I have had it preserved, and a stand made for it, and will be placing it in the new church library soon as it's finished.  Just because we're unsure of it's exact significance doesn't mean it shouldn't be given a place of honor.  It meant something to our ancestors of the church somehow, and who knows... maybe someday someone will see it and say "Oh, I remember my Grandmother telling me about this!"  

Things are like that sometimes..... things cast off become just so much clutter and junk, until someday they become symbols of memories... of times gone by and people we still miss after all these years.  Then they become priceless treasures... for while we can't get those times and people back, we can hold the "symbols" and remember.  

Maybe that's why Grandmother's attic was so full of this and that..... it was her Memory Palace packed full of memories of times past and folks long gone.  

Grandmother & Granddaddy  - Back in their Courtin' Days
Kin & Berteen Bailey

Where Has the Time Gone?

One of my favorite memories of childhood is going to Grandmother's house and seeing her clock that sat on the shelf.  It was one of those old kinds that had to be wound every day or so.  I loved watching the pendulum swing back and forth and hearing the distinctive tick - tock - tick - tock.  When the house was quiet, you could hear that ticking nearly all over the house.  It was reassuring... measuring out the moments with precision and clarity... marking the hours with the loud BONG - BONG... one for each hour, and a single one on the half hour.  I loved that old clock.  

Back when I was a kid, I remember the hot summer days being long, and summer vacation lasting what seemed like forever. I remember long days of play, exploring the woods behind the house, birthday parties, camping out in the yard, the excitement leading up to Christmas, and helping Mom, Dad, and my Grandparents with summer chores. It's funny what tidbits you remember when thinking back... But nothing makes me wonder about reality more than the perception of passing time at the various stages of my life.

As a young child, my only perception of time was Mom telling me it was 

  time to get up,
    time to leave for school, 

      hurry or you'll miss the bus,
        wait just a minute young lady, or 

          time to brush your teeth & get ready for bed. 

It was always time to do something, or get ready to do something. 

It was Mom's job to keep us on task and on time. 

  (Bless her heart!)

As I got older, more and more each year,  it became my task to 

  watch time, 

    to be on time, 

      to wait for the right time, 

        or to take the time. 

I became the timekeeper. 

Gradually I became good at it and was on time, every time, all the time... 

  well, most of the time.

Then I became the Mom, one of my jobs was to teach my children about 

  being on time, 

    taking the time, 

      and waiting for the right time. 

I read to them about "Once upon a time"... 

It was during this time 

  that I began to notice that time was passing faster. 

Often there wouldn't be enough time, 

  and things would have to wait until some other time... 

    hopefully until a time in the not too distant future... 

      banking on the fact that there would somehow be more time in the near future.  

The more I banked on having that future time, 

   the faster time seemed to pass.

Nowadays, with the kids all out on their own, I often find myself wondering 

  where the time has gone, 

    why I didn't take the time, 

      if I'll ever have the time, 

        and waiting for the next time. 

I look at my watch to see if it's time yet, 

  the calendar to make sure I don't miss the right time, 

    and the announcements on Sunday Morning to make sure I've noted the right time. 

I listen for chimes on my phone to remind me of the right time, 

  often hurrying so I can be on time.

Time after time!

Rare is it that I have spare time, or time to kill, 

  but I sure would like to put time in a bottle sometimes,

    or turn back the hands of time. 

Time marches on... and we with it!  

You can't go back in time, though we often wish we could. 

You can't go forward in time, but we would if we could sometimes.

It's that constant cadence that accompanies us through life itself... from birth to death, we step to it's beat... ever going forward one brief moment at a time. As we age, our perception of it changes, but the tick-tock maintains it's steady rhythm.  It's us that changes... not the ticking off of the seconds, and minutes, and hours.  

Our lives get busy and we 

  lose track of time.... 

    forget to watch the time....  

      and sometimes feel like we've been through a time warp.

Oh my goodness!  Would you look at the time.......................................................

Homecomin’ Day…. With All the Fixin’s

There are certain days throughout any year that just sorta mark the passage of time.  They become signals of what time of year it is.  Birthdays are like that.  Christmas and Easter are certainly like that, signaling mid-winter and spring.  There’s another day around these parts that is always like that to me… Memorial Day (or Homecomin’) at the church.  This is a day when we memorialize all the members of the church that have passed over the past year, we decorate every single grave in the cemetery with flowers, and end with a cover-dish meal afterward

The preparation began several days before, as the last of the flowers were harvested from all around the yards in all the sundry flowerbeds.  Those were put in buckets of water to let them soak.  Mom and Grandmother would get out the flower pots to do the flower arrangements in and clean them from last year (and a whole year of storage).  The Saturday before Memorial Day is when all the final preparations were done.  Flower arrangements were done, one for every grave of a family member in the cemetery.  Food was prepared for taking the next day.  Picnic baskets and the like were all found in storage, cleaned out, and prepared for the next day’s use.  Clothes were chosen for the coming day and any ironing needed was taken care of.  It was a day full of preparations of one sort or another.

The Memorial Day service was always followed by a cover-dish lunch.  Back in the day, we didn’t have a Fellowship Hall to hold such events.  The men folk would stretch chicken wire supported by short poles between two big maple trees in the church yard.  Come-alongs (wenches) were used to apply tension to the soon-to-be table, and the poles were straightened to support the table about every 10 feet or so.  White tablecloths would be spread the length of that “table” on Sunday morning.  What a beautiful sight it was to see those tablecloths gently fluttering in the breeze as family after family brought picnic baskets, boxes and crates and put their contribution to a feast to end all feasts out on the table.  Then the baskets and boxes were neatly stacked underneath.  Years later, sawhorses and plywood was used to create the tables, then covered with white paper tablecloths.  Nowadays, we have the luxury of a Fellowship Hall where tables can be laid, along with places to sit for the folks.  It was (and is) one of the grandest buffets I’ve ever seen… and the smells wafting from those picnic baskets and boxes were enough to drive ya crazy. 

Memorial Day was when we got to see cousins that we hadn’t seen in awhile, and there seemed to always be relatives there that we’d never met before.  Mom would always introduce us, and hugs were expected as we met Great Aunt Somebody or Other that we had never seen before.  This was almost always followed by “Goodness gracious, Jus’ look how you’ve grown!”, then ending with a tale about when we were babies or some such thing.  Us kids were never really interested, but we always knew we had a part to play in the howdy’s and carrying’s on of that day, so we stood and weathered all the hugs and cheek pinches, smiling when we thought we were supposed to and acting all interested.  (My Dad always made a big deal out of us kids behaving… so we knew what was expected at these sorts of thing.)

The church is always filled to the brim at the Memorial Day service.  Some years it’s a “come early or you don’t get a seat” sort of thing… mostly nowadays it’s just a full house.  There’s always a guest speaker that Sunday (usually a preacher we’ve had in the past at some point), but first there’s the memorials.  The names are read of each church member that passed since last Memorial Day, and a candle is lit in their memory.  Songs are sung, prayers are prayed and the sermon is preached.  It’s a solemn time of remembering, but a joyous time as well, as families come together and friends from far away come home again. 

After the benediction, we all adjourn to prepare for the cover-dish lunch.  This is when the smells start making your stomach growl…. Homemade fried chicken, green beans, peas, corn, ham biscuits, and pickles of all sorts… every vegetable you can think of…. Casseroles of every kind, Jello molds and “the pink stuff” (a Jello and fruit concoction)…. And plates of sliced tomatoes and deviled eggs.  Off to one side is always the dessert table.  Us kids would always cruise this section to see what the choices would be this year, and there was never a shortage…. Chess pies, lemon pies, chocolate pies, every sort of cake and cobbler you could think of, brownies, and sometimes even fudge.  The rule was, however, that we had to clean our plate before going to the dessert table to pick out our the best part of the entire meal.  Grown-ups would take this time to visit and catch up with those they hadn’t seen in awhile, and us kids always played or went walking in the cemetery to look at all the old headstones. 

After the lunch was over, it was time to pack up, share some leftovers with others, say good-byes until next year, and head home.  Usually, though, some of the cousins would come over to Grandmother’s house (next door) and we’d visit and play some more, while the men folk gathered at the card table and played Rook, and the women folk would gather somewhere to discuss recipes, the latest news of the family, and other such things.  Us kids were always made to change out of our Sunday Clothes into our “ever’day clothes”, and went to play in the yard. 

It was always a day to look forward to!  It was a time to remember those gone before us…. and it marked the beginning of Fall.  Soon the leaves would fall, the last of the harvests would be brought in, and frost would once again blanket the yards and fields.  Memorial Day became part of a larger “clock” that marked the years, kept us close to family (even if they lived far away), and was part of the rhythm that we came to know.

Some memories are unforgettable,

remaining ever vivid, and heartwarming.

- Joseph B. Wirthlin -

Where, Exactly, is Over Yonder?!!?

My Grandmother and Granddaddy lived within hollerin’ distance of us.  There was only a big field between the two houses.  We could stand in the back yard and holler at them to say hi, or get a short message to them.  My cousins lived just a hop, skip and a jump from us (at the bottom of the hill), and our church was just over yonder a ways (down at the end of the road, more or less).  We had other cousins that lived “so far out that they have to pump in sunshine”.  They lived “on the back side of never”, “way out in the boonies”.  “You’ll think you’re lost” more than once, if you try to get there.  We live “out past the country line” (in the rural South), “just a hoot n’ a holler” out past the fork in the road where Payne’s Store usta be. 

We Southerners have our own unique ways of defining space as it pertains to where a place is located.  Some are unique phrases only heard in the South, and some are directions based on where commonly known landmarks are… well common to those in the area anyway.  We understand the directions, but those not familiar with these “special explanations” are often left more confused than before they asked.  Of course, in today’s world of GPS’s on every phone, it’s not as big a deal as it used to be, but back in the day, folks either knew where places were, asked for directions, or had a glove box fulla maps for one place or another. 

When using the word “yonder”, we usually accompany that with the pointing of a finger so that the general direction is known (even though pointing isn’t considered to be polite).  “Way down yonder” (or “way up yonder”) is a considerably longer distance than just “over yonder”.   The down and up sometimes equate to compass directions but not necessarily so.  “Out past the country line” just meant that it was out past the point where city dwelling switched over to wide fields and country houses surrounded by gardens and pastures.  “Just a stone’s throw away” is a shorter distance than “a hop, skip, and a jump” usually, but is generally assumed to be much longer than what one could actually throw a rock.  When I was a kid, and first heard the expression “a stone’s throw away”, I thought that meant that I needed to go out in the field and throw rocks ‘til I had a pretty good idea of how far that was.  I was pretty good at throwing rocks (and softballs and such) back in the day, so it might have been a pretty good distance.   Turns out, that wudn’t it at all. 

Then there are the directions that are dependent on landmarks of one kind or another.  Stop and ask a Southerner (we’ll call him JimBob) for directions around here and you’d hear something like this:  “Go down that road ‘til you come to a fork where the crooked silo sits.  It’s just about to fall over.  You can’t miss it.  If you come to the Shell station, you’ve gone too far.  Or is it a Citgo?  Yeah, I think it’s a Citgo nowadays.  Just a piece down that road you’ll see that old barn that looks like it’s smilin’ at ya.  Past that is the church.  When you go past the graveyard, take the second left.  The Jenkins’ house is on the right down that way.  There’ll be a row of scrawny pine trees right next to the house.  Should see a broke Chevy pickup in the front yard, up on blocks.  Charlie’s been workin’ on that thang lately. “  The conversation will likely go on from there as he tells you about how he was helping Charlie the other day and they had to end up rebuilding the carburetor, or some such thingamajig.  Hope you turned the car off before you asked directions because JimBob is liable to be awhile before he winds down.  Directions are more of a stream of consciousness sort of thing with us Southern Folk, rather than step by step instructions.  There’s a special skill in listening to those sorts of directions and then actually being able to follow them afterward.  Most folks make the mistake of trying to repeat those directions back to make sure they got them right.  What’s sure to ensue is that good ol’ JimBob is going to have thought of a “better way” to get you there by that time, and will be only too glad to share that with you. 

Here’s something else you should know… be aware of what you’re asking for if you go up to a whole group of Southerners and ask for directions… or if you’re just visiting with folks and happen to mention that you don’t know a good way to get to “somewhere”.    Each will have his/her own way of getting there, and are all too willing to tell you just why their way is better than someone else’s.  And don’t even try to tell them that you just go whichever way Google Maps tells you to go because the given assumption is that there’s no way that Google, or any other map/GPS service, knows ALL the cut-through back country roads that will save you ever so much time if only you’d pay attention to what they are telling you.  “Besides, the countryside is so pretty this time of year.”  If you find that you’ve stumbled into this situation, it’s best to just listen and nod, then thank them all for sharing their wisdom.  For heaven sake, don’t try to repeat what they told ya, or you may never git home. 

So whether you’re goin’ down the road a piece, takin’ a ride over yonder, or visiting Great Aunt Sally that you haven’t seen in a coon’s age… you might want to rely on your GPS… unless you’ve got time to c’mon in and sat a spell, have a glass of sweet tea, and we’ll all tell ya the best way to git there frum here.

Fer now, I gotta skedaddle.  Me ‘n’ Mama ‘n’ nem are goin’ to the Grill.  It’s just down the road a piece, out past the church.  You know where the road dips down into that “kiss me quick”?  Well it’s on past that a little bit.  Kain’t miss it.  Did you know that the church put up a new play ground a week or so ago?  It looks real nice.  Coulda used more shade trees near it though……………

 

Ya’ll come back now, ya hear?!!

Learnin' to Step 'Tween the Raindrops

People in the country are obsessed with rain... and understandably so.  Life depends on water... gardens can’t grow without it, animals (and people) need it to drink, and for goodness sake, we can’t have the fishin’ hole dryin’ up because there hasn’t been enough rain.  It’s something we count (inches), and count on, out here in the country.  If we don’t get enough of it, things can get bad real quick.  We grow what we eat.  No rain means substitutions (irrigation, hauling water to the animals, etc.) have to be made somehow before the garden starts to die.

We have "dry spells" here at times, especially as the sweltering heat of the summer move into the dog days of August.  The weeks are filled with hot, humid days with no rain in sight, temps soaring to the tiptop of the thermometer, day after day after steamy day.  Gardens that had bumper crops all summer start drying up.  Yards became dust bowls when mowers cross them.  Even the butterflies slowly disappeared for the year.  Then the cooler temps and the rain returned.  The hummingbirds dance in the raindrops, washing the dust from their glimmering feathers.  The birds sang happily in the trees, and you could almost hear the grass in the yard sighing a long, low "Ahhhhhhh".  The cooler temps will eventually allow for open windows and fresh breezes wafting through the house.  Everything looks greener... and happier somehow.

A farmer or gardener plans their days around the rain.  Rain is a double-edged sword to them.  It’s needed for growing things, but too much can keep them out of the fields and gardens.  Gardeners can practically hear the raindrops seeping through the ground to their green beans and corn and squash.  They can also “hear” the weeds growing, and if it gets too wet in this red clay country we live in our here, tractors and such can get stuck up to their axles pretty easy.  So it’s a balance they are constantly wanting... just enough rain, but not too much. 

Of course, back when we were kids, rain meant a totally different thing.  It meant playing in the rain (when there was no thunder and lightning), splashing in the puddles, and making “mud pies”.  Frogs often came out in the rain, so there were those to chase and catch (and put back down before they “wet” your hand).  Rain coats?  Nope... only if you were going somewhere, like church or school.  We'd come back in soaking wet, head to toe, and happier for it.  It was like the rain brought with it another world, another reality of sorts, full of things to see and explore.  Even the raindrops stuck to leaves became sparkling jewels of shimmering light.   Getting wet was the whole point of the thing, not something to be tiptoed around and avoided.  Daddy got no end of pleasure out of waiting for one of us to walk under a tree, then he'd shake it really hard and cause all the stuck raindrops to fall down on us.  We’d run away screaming and laughing, because it was one thing to wet yourself with hose or rain or something, but quite another to be showered on unexpectedly.

My Grandmother Berteen always had a sayin’ about everything, and rain was no exception.  When we’d be dashing from house to car, or car to store, with the rain just pouring down around us... she’d always tell me that the trick to not getting wet was actually very simple.  You just stepped between the raindrops.  It seemed completely possible to me at the time, so I’d always give that some thought every time I was out in the rain.  I never have perfected the art of “stepping between the raindrops”, but I continue to try. 

When I think about rainy days, I always remember our summer family camping trips.  Reams of heavy duty clear plastic were always strung from the trees over the campsites to create a canopy for those rainy days.  We always knew it would rain sometime before we finished our week or so camping, so this was just part of setting up the campsite.  Up the tents would go, then came the plastic canopy.  Only then were other things unpacked and put into place.  It was the job of us kids to take the broom, on rainy days, and "sweep" the underneath of the plastic where the puddles of water were forming, to keep it drained off.  If you timed it "just so", you could splash a cousin or sister or someone.  Laughter followed... well, for everyone but the one being splashed.  I imagine keeping all us kids (sister, brother, plenty of cousins) entertained during rainy days was quite the chore for Mom and Dad.  As for the adults, this was when the card games came out, and you'd find clusters of them here and there, huddled around some picnic table or other, in the dry, playing cards and laughing about something or other. 

Sand is a hard thing to keep out of tents when camping at the beach, but wet sand... that was impossible to keep out of them.  And then there was the problem of tents leaking.  If the tents had been properly waterproofed before the trip, aaaaand if the covering of plastic over the tent hadn't blown up at a corner by the wind during the storm, you just might be able to keep dry.  Stay away from the edges though... don't touch the canvas of the tent.  That would cause the dreaded drip - drip - drip of rain to be able to get through the canvas, wetting beds, clothes, and anything else.  Nothing was quite as horrible as waking up in a puddle of wet blankets and beds.... but it always happened to someone.  It always seemed like magic to me how the rain would stay out if I didn't touch it, but came in if I did. Yes, I confess, the curiosity in me made me touch that forbidden canvas sometimes, haha.

Some people really love rain... it brings on thoughts of cuddling up with a warm blanket, a good book and a warm cup of coffee, tea, or hot chocolate.  It is, to some, the most soothing sound to fall asleep by.  It's often seen as an inspiration to those going through difficulties (... dancing in the rain... ), and restful to those whose busy days are forced to slow down because of it.  To some, however, raindrops are the tears of the Earth itself... an outward sign of inward pain... the grey of the skies painting a picture of the very soul.  Rain is written about in the Bible.  It’s used in novels to often cast a grim and dismal scene in vivid description.  It’s used in songs and poetry.  It is something that everyone can relate to in some way or another.

Whether you love it, hate it, or just see it as an important part of the very stuff of life itself... rain seems to draw as many emotional responses as the sunshine, or snow, or wind does.  It has inspired many songs, both comforted and depressed folks at different times, and is the very essence of life itself on this big blue marble we all live on. 

Are you humming “I Love a Rainy Night”, “Rainy Night in Georgia”, “Singing in the Rain” or “Rainy Days and Mondays Always Bring Me Down”.... or maybe some other song? 

“Man, despite his artistic pretensions, 

his sophistication and many accomplishments,

 owes the fact of his existence 

to a six-inch layer of topsoil 

and the fact that it rains.”

Green Stamps & Dishes in Detergent

60s Grocery Store Ad

Back when I was growing up in the 50's and 60's, we didn't have two nickels to rub together most of the time (as the saying goes).  The odd thing about childhood and memories is that I never realized that we, like everyone in our countryside community, had to save money any way we could.  Somehow Mom and Dad always made do, and we had everything we needed and most of the things we wanted.  I remember it as a happy time... a carefree time.... and things just were the way that they were.  Mom was a "stay at home Mom" (like the vast majority of housewives in our rural area in those days) and would make our clothes, cooked, cleaned, planted the flower gardens, helped out at the church, and did all sorts of crafty things.  Dad went to work every weekday, grew a garden every year, and was "handy" around the house when it came to fixing just about anything. I was the oldest, so I got the new dress that Momma made, and then my sister wore the hand-me-downs (she got new homemade outfits sometimes too, but was the chief benefactor of all the hand-me-downs).  Old clothes were used for things like quilts and rag rugs (after the buttons were cut off and saved, of course).  Nothing was wasted.  We just made do with what we had, and were happy in the doing of it.  We were just like everyone else we knew… wages were low, compared to today's standards, but then so were the prices of things.  Still, no one had "extra", so we got by best we could.  Fortunately, there were ways to be savin' about things back in those days.  Merchants even used the mind-set and way of life to bring people into their businesses... using marketing campaigns designed especially to entice those who had very little money to spend. 

Everyone saved S&H Green Stamps when I was growin' up.  The stamps came from the grocery stores, gas stations, and department stores, in exchange for buying groceries, gas or merchandise there (so says Wikipedia…. I only remember getting them at the grocery store).  It was often my job to put the stamps in the collector's book (about the size of a checkbook with boxes on each page for placement of stamps).It was often my job to put the stamps in the collector's book (about the size of a checkbook with boxes on each page for placement of stamps).  I can still remember how the glue on the back of the stamps tasted when I'd lick 'em and stick 'em.  (UCK!) Once you saved up multiple books of stamps, you could cash them in for household goods of one sort or another at the Green Stamp Store, or through the catalog (that was as commonly found in a home as the phone book). 

Mom and Dad once got a square card table with a dark green oil cloth covering on the top, along with four matching folding chairs from Green Stamps we saved.  That card table was used a lot.  It came out every time we had a family gathering… the men folk would sit around it and play Rook (our family's favorite card game) after the meal was served, while the women folk cleaned up the dishes in the kitchen.  That card table came out every New Year's Eve and held a jigsaw puzzle that we'd put together while we watched TV and waited for the ball to drop on Time Square.  It was brought out when we needed a few more places for people to sit when we had company over for meals. 

Green Stamps weren't the only thing that was collected though.  Many products came with things like dishes, glasses and/or silverware if you bought their brand over any of the others.  Skippy Peanut butter and Welch's Jelly often came in decorative "jars" that could be used as glasses once they were emptied and cleaned.  Sometimes they were fancy cut glass stemware, and other times they had cartoon characters printed on them (for the kids).  If you were lucky, you could find the milk glass ones… always one of my favs.  Glasses and dishes of all sorts came in things like powdered laundry detergent (Duz and Fab were two that put dishes in theirs).  It was very likely that you remember seeing some of the wheat pattern dishes in kitchens you were in growing up.  Glasses of all sizes came in Quaker Oatmeal boxes depending on whether you got the big box or the smaller box.  At my Grandmother's pharmacy, Tar Heel Drugs, if you bought a certain amount of medicine there, you could get silverware.  She ended up collecting enough to give each granddaughter a set of silverware when they got married.  The products were always something you'd be buying anyway (peanut butter, jelly, laundry detergent, etc.), so the glasses and dishes were just incentive to buy that brand over another. 

I still have some of the cut glass looking glasses, and the silverware Grandmother got me.  I remember seeing the wheat pattern dishes in Grandmother's dishes.  The oatmeal box glasses were a smokey color, and a few are still around in our kitchen cabinets today.  They hold memories as much as they are a practical item to have around.

I think back to those times and can't help but think how horrified people today would be to open a box of oatmeal and find a glass in it.  Even if the glass wasn't broken (and I never remember that we found broken dishes or glasses in those things) would they dare to use the product.  We've become too sanitized in our thinking and expectations, compared to back in the day.  Back then, we were just glad to find ways to save money.  If something was being offered along with products we would normally buy anyway, then it was a win-win.  It was a different mind-set back then.  It was a harder time, but a kinder time.  It's no wonder we get lost in nostalgia, wishing to go back instead of forward, sometimes. 

(Keep scrolling for a few more pictures of the dishes, glasses, and stamps of that era.)

Duz Detergent Dishes

Detergent Glasses

Peanut Butter Glass

Jelly Glass

Peanut Butter Glass
(Milk Glass)

Jelly Glass

1968 Green Stamp Catalog

Green Stamp Book with Stamps added

Green Stamps

  

S&H Green Stamp Store (circa 50's)