Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah

My dad was a Navy seaman aboard the USS Fanshaw Bay when World War II came to an end. He was stationed in Japan after the surrender and wrote home to his parents about his experiences in Tokyo. One night, he and his Navy buddies got tickets to a show where the orchestra played popular American songs.  On December 5, 1945, he wrote, “Much to our surprise, some numbers were even sung in English, like ‘Blue Skies’ and ‘Dinah'”.

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My dad was singing my name before I was even a dim glimmer in his eye.

Unfortunately, “Dinah” isn’t the only song with my name in it. Another ditty that I have heard over and over is “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” which contains the lovely chorus, “Dinah won’t you blow, Dinah won’t you blow, Dinah won’t you blow your horn.” The lyrics go on to say, “Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, strumming on the old banjo.”

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I don’t know who this Dinah was, and I don’t know who was strumming on the banjo or why they were in the kitchen.

However, my name is Dinah. I have a kitchen. And with a bit of coercion, I could probably talk PB into strumming a banjo.

“Someone’s In the Kitchen with Dinah” is an idea that is brewing. Why not invite all the best cooks I know to come into my virtual kitchen and share their best recipes? I tried the idea out on a few people — my daughters, my husband, a dear friend and a stranger I was seated next to at a wedding reception. All five thought it was a wonderful plan.

To be fair, Dinah Shore did write a cook book by this name.

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My dad had a poster of Dinah Shore on board ship.

Is all this a coincidence?

Hmmm.

This idea will simmer on the back burner in my kitchen for awhile.

In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes open for a banjo.

There Are Days

There are days….

when you’ll miss something if you don’t look up.

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There are days when you’ll miss something if you don’t look down.

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There are days when you’ll miss something if you don’t look around.

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And then there are days….

when you just have to skip down the sidewalk

in your zebra print tutu.

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I hope you have some of those kind of days.

Vacation

Three weeks ago PB and I went on vacation.

As you can see, I forgot to come back.

In Europe, everybody goes on vacation in August.

For the whole month.

Me too.

Every August.

 For the rest of my life.

I just decided that.

I’ll push the re-set button in September.

Sunday of summer

The Silver Drawer

“It is the Lord who sends the thunderstorms.” Zechariah 10:1

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The sound of a thunderstorm makes some people nervous, but I’ve always loved the rumble in the heavens. When I was little, we would sit on the front porch and watch the summer storm clouds roll in over the cornfields. I must have picked up on my mother’s calmness, because I never felt the urge to dive under my bed and plug my ears. Instead, we counted the seconds between thunder claps and lightning bolts as we kept an eye out for the men coming in from the field.

Occasionally, if the skies turned an eerie yellow and the air hung heavy, we would scamper down to the basement to wait out the windstorm. A call always went out as we hurried down the stairs, “Don’t forget the silver drawer.”

The silver drawer was pulled out of the hutch and carefully carried down the steps to safety. Those knives and forks were the real deal, not stainless steel every-day utensils. This was silver silverware — the kind that needed to be polished before every holiday meal. The kind that was washed and dried by hand so it wouldn’t tarnish. The kind that was rolled up in felt pouches and placed into a special wooden chest. The kind you would take to the cellar if there happened to be a tornado warning.

I didn’t understand the value of that treasured box at the time. I grew up thinking that every family kept their drawer full of silverware close by during times of trouble.

Thunder still congers up feelings of family and safety and the fun of unexpected time together in the basement on a muggy summer evening. Today that silverware is in my house, in the same hutch, in the same chest, in the same felt pouches. And, naturally, I will haul that drawer downstairs if the winds blow hard enough.

“The voice of the Lord is over the waters; the God of glory thunders.”   Psalm 29:3

Men From My Past

Oh. You probably thought I was going to share about my 4th grade crush or my sophomore prom date.  Sorry.  PB is the only man in my heart, but there are lots of fascinating men in my past.

Today I’d like to introduce John Dudley Powell.

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Isn’t he a handsome feller?

It’s his birthday today. He’s 158 years old.

John Powell was my great-grandmother’s brother. He was born on June 24, 1858 in Baraboo, Wisconsin. When J.D. was 28 years old, he took his new bride, Lola, to homestead in Montana. His parents and four brothers also went west, leaving my great-grandmother behind in Wisconsin with her husband, two little girls and newborn son.

John and Lola spent five years in Jefferson City, Montana, and then went to the town of Pony, where their only child, Hollis, was born. Soon after, they settled in Livingston, Montana, where John went into business with Amos Shaw. Together they formed the Shaw & Powell Camping Company in 1898.

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They were among the first to take wagon-loads of tourists through Yellowstone National Park. As business grew, they built permanent overnight camps with luxury accommodations.

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This article was from a Shaw & Powell satisfied customer:

“It is in the Shaw & Powell Yellowstone camps that the whole-hearted good spirit of a holiday recreation is found. No tourist can hope to make such a trip without at once becoming a member of the Shaw & Powell family of grown-up children out for a Sunday School picnic that lasts every inch of the 146 miles through the wonderland. . . . Seven permanent camps are operated by the company through the park. In these camps the main buildings, such as dining rooms, kitchen and general reception hall, are of log construction, sanitary and fly-proof. The sleeping quarters are of semi-tent construction with board floors and walls, wooden panel doors and furnished with beds that equal the comforts of most any home.
     The cuisine of the Shaw & Powell method is a point which no tourist will overlook. The company owns and operates its own truck gardens, which furnish each camp with a supply of fresh vegetables as needed. Fresh milk and cream are obtained daily from private dairies and all meals, prepared by the most efficient of women cooks, are served by young women of refinement. Maids are employed at every camp to attend women travelers who are unescorted.
    The Shaw & Powell company provides a variety of park tours averaging four, five and six days within the park. The cost is not in excess of $35, which it should be borne in mind, includes all meals, sleeping accommodations and the trip from point to point in large, clean coaches.” 

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They even had their own dishes with the exclusive Shaw & Powell logo.

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If you ever see one of these at a garage sale or thrift store, please buy it and send it to me. One evening, when the cook took sick, John and Lola cooked supper for the campers. He might have touched this very bowl.

My great uncle John D. was in the right place at the right time and cashed in on the tourist business. In his letters to his sister back in Wisconsin, he expressed great love for “The Park”.

People who were among the first to see Yellowstone also spoke in awe of its beauty.

“Our camps are located on some of God’s most beautiful garden spots. One of the bright and lasting memories of our trip will be our camp fires. The pine logs are piled high and set on fire and everybody gathers around it as one large family. There is no formality here. Singing, stories and visiting are the pastime of the evening with pop corn and candy mixed in. It is often a great pleasure to just sit quiet and watch the fire and think what a great privilege it is for us to be permitted to be here.”

Happy birthday, J.D. Thanks for your adventurous spirit.

It is, indeed, a great privilege for us to be here.

 

Opa and Ella

It’s a Friday in June and we need to kick back and have some fun.

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Go ahead and cut loose with a great big belly laugh.

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Doesn’t that feel good?  (Hey Opa, your shirt is unbuttoned.)

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It’s Father’s Day weekend! Thanks, dads, (and grand-dads) for all you do for your families!

A Brief Grand Update

I was recently featured on a fun blog called Grandma’s Briefs. It sounds really cool to say “I was featured”, but the truth is anybody who has grands can have a moment in the spotlight. All you have to do is request a questionnaire, fill it out and submit it.

Lisa is doing something great with her platform. She has created a fun, supportive and generous community of people who encourage each other. I’d say that’s a good use of internet space right there.

For a look at my briefs, click here.

In the meantime, I thought I’d share some pics of the six. PB and I recently spent some time with these grand little people. We’re talking about one 4-year-old, two 3-year-olds, two 2-year-olds, and one 1-year-old.

That’s 120 fingers and toes, y’all.

And I love each and every one.

Here they are, in alphabetical order.

Because the oldest one shouldn’t always get to go first.

This is Charlie. He likes to build towers. Really tall towers.

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This is Eli. He likes to ride his bike. And he loves Lightning McQueen with all his heart.

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This is Ella. She is a fairy-princess-ballerina and she can pull it off.

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This is Evie. She can say “cheese” better than anybody.

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This is Hudson. He constructs complicated buildings with secret rooms.

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This is Ruby. She wants to play basketball for the Gophers. (Maybe.)

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This is how it is when you are the littlest one and all the big kids are outside having fun while you’re stuck in the house with Opa and Nonnie.

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April (Snow) Showers

Somebody forgot to tell April that it’s spring.

So I will.

Dear April,

You are supposed to be bringing gentle rain to cleanse the earth of nasty gray snow.

You are supposed to be warming the ground and calling out daffodils.

You are supposed to be giving midwesterners a lift, a spring in their step.

You are not supposed to be blanketing the grass with ice pellets.

You are not supposed to be making us wear turtlenecks and sweatshirts.

You are not supposed to be stealing precious spring days from us.

Shape up, April. We need you.

Sincerely, Me

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Dear You,

Thank you for your reminder.

Let me remind you that it IS spring, whether it feels like it or not.

It IS spring, whether it looks like it or not.

It IS spring, no matter what you are wearing.

As Lilly Pulitzer said, “Despite the forecast, live like it’s spring.”

So shape up. The world needs you.

Warmest Regards, April

“Spring is coming soon. Our words must tell of it. Our mouths must sing of it. Our prayers must ask for it. Our actions must reflect it. Our lives must embrace it.”  From “Hunting Hope” by Nika Maples.

Dear April,

I guess you showed me.  Thank you for your cooperation. (As soon as I posted this, the snow melted.)

Love, Me

Birthday Boy

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PB was born on a Saturday in March, exactly 59 years ago today.

When news of his arrival reached the extended family, congratulations started pouring in. Among the cards and letters was a note from Auntie Eileen and Uncle Jack.

“Congratulations! Sure glad to hear that it’s over. Must admit we were a little disappointed he wasn’t a girl…”

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re the fourth boy.

But, let me tell you, I sure am thankful he was a boy. What would have become of me if he had been a girl? I shudder to think about it.

So, today I celebrate the birth of my best friend, my partner in life and ministry, and the guy who still makes my heart go pitter-pat.

Ruby Tuesday

It’s Tuesday, and Ruby came to visit.

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She, with her deep-sea blue eyes,

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her wispy strawberry blond eyelashes,

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and her soft-as-silk red hair.

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She came to steal my heart.

It’s been a delightful Ruby Tuesday.