Another peek into the 1920s: The Test and Study Speller

             A hardback book, 64 yellowed pages written by Daniel Starch, Harvard/U-Wisconsin, and George A. Mirick, Harvard, for “Grammar Grades” and published by Silver, Burdett and Company in 1921, was the nearest resource when it came time to write this week’s post.
           Thumbing through the small text—no data on how I came to “own” it—I discovered it was for what is now considered middle school grades. That is, for 5^th through 8^th grades.
           What struck me was a section at the end of each grade’s fundamentals titled, “Stories About Words.” The fifth grade stories were, “How We Got the Word Handkerchief,” “How a Goat Gave Us a Word,” “Who named the Sandwich?” and “How the Days of the Week Got their Names.” Imagine the teacher giving the pupils some “down” time after the spelling test, just to learn new stuff.

                                           “How the Days of the Week Got Their Names”
                “The seven days of the week were named by the people who lived long, long ago in Europe.
                “The first day of the week they called the sun’s day or Sunday.
                “The second day they called the moon’s day or Monday.
                “One of the many gods was Tew. He was very brave and they thought that he helped them when they went to war. So they called the third day of the week Tew’s day or Tuesday.
                “The king of their gods was Woden. The fourth day they called Woden’s day or Wednesday.
                “Thor was the one who made thunder and lightning. The fifth day was named for him. Thor’s day or Thursday.
                “Freya was the wife of Woden and they called the sixth day Freya’s day or Friday.
                “There was a god named Saturn who, they thought, helped them when they planted their gardens. They named the last day of the week after him, calling it Saturn’s day or Saturday.”

                 Jump to the end of the 7^th grade section to “How the Months Were Named.” When did you learn this? Remember, it’s the 1920s here.
             
               “In earliest times the Romans divided the year into ten parts or months. The first of these they named for their god of war, Mars. No one knows whether they did this to honor their god, or to give a warlike name to a very disagreeable month. Perhaps they felt about March as our own American poet, Bryant, did when he wrote—

                                               ‘The stormy March is come at last, 
                                                With wind, and cloud, and changing skies.’

               “If March was the first month, what was New Year’s Day?
              
                “The next month was the beginning of spring. The frost came out of the ground and left it soft and open to receive the seeds. Now the Roman or Latin word for open was ‘aperire.’ They changed this word a little and called their second month, ‘Aperilis’, then’ Aprilis’, and now we have changed it to April. It is the opening or spring month.

                   “No one has been able to find out certainly [with certainty?] why the old Romans called heir third month May. But they had a goddess whose name was Maia, and it is thought that they used her name.

                   “The month of June was named for a powerful Roman family, the Junius family.

                  “We have now accounted for the names of four months. The rest of their ten months they called by number, the Fifth, Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth month. The Fifth and Sixth months were later given other names, but the last four months of the year have kept their number names unchanged to this day.”                           

Pat here: the rest of the story? We’ll have to wait till 2014. Happy New Year.

Letters to Santa Claus in 1924

 

                The headline on page seven of the December 21, 1987 copy of The Benton (AR) Courier read, “1924: Santa Claus letters ask for fruit, nuts, candy.” The article was one of a continuing series of the “Courier Scrapbook” feature. My friend Judy Prange Smith was the editor in 1987. Here are some of those letters.

                “Dear Santa Claus: I want you to bring me two dresses and a sleepy doll and some fire crackers, oranges, apples, candy and nuts. . . Yours sincere [sic], Edna Louise Sullivan, Benton.”

                “Dear Old Santa: I am one of your little school girls. I want you to bring me a box of crayons, box of stationery, some story books, a pair of gloves and other things. I also want candies, nuts and fruits of all kinds . . . Sincerely yours, Eloise McCray, Congo”

                “Dear Santa Claus: Will you do me a favor? I want a be be [sic] gun and some shoes and a suit of clothes. Goodbye, Frank Davenport, Benton.”

                “Dear Santa Claus: Please bring me a pair of skates and a little cupboard and a pair of little doll slippers. I will close now for I just have a few minutes. Arlene Hyten, Benton.” [Arlene Hyten Rainey still lives in Benton.]

                “Dear Santa Claus: Mama says you come to see good boys but I haven’t been so very good, but I have been trying to be as good as I could, so I hope you will bring me a few things. I would like a trombone, a sand pump and a car. Please bring my little brother Billy some toys too. Billy and I have five dollars in our bank. We want our mama to send it to you to buy toys and things with, for we want you to be sure and have something for all the children. Hope you won’t forget us. Yours, J. A. Bard, Jr., Bauxite.”

[The late J. A. Bard was my uncle. During WW 2, he served as a pilot. The Bards later lived on Boone Road in Bryant where their homestead still stands.]

“Dear Santa Claus: I am a little girl five years old. I go to school. I like my teacher fine. I want a doll buggy, a tricycle, apples, oranges, nuts, candy, and all kinds of good things to eat. So don’t forget me and also mama and daddy so I will be good. Fay Del Wright, Benton.”

 [The late Faydelle Ulmer lived on Salem Road as long as I can remember. When she and her husband both died, their place was bought by a business. The house is currently being torn down.]

“Dear Santa Claus: I will write you a few lines to let you know what I want for Christmas. I want some two inch fire crackers, apples, oranges, nuts, story book, pocket knife, and watch. Oh, just everything nice for a boy. Yours truly, Curtis Carson, Detonti.”

“Dear Santa Claus: We are looking for you again this Christmas. We are good children and work lots. Please bring us something. We (Alvis and Preston) want a little red wagon big enough to hold sister. And me (Lois) wants a little red rocker large enough for me to sit in. Please don’t forget us. Alvis[,] Preston and Lois Cooper, Owensville.”

“Good Old Santa Claus: I am a little school girl seven years old. I would be pleased if you would bring me some candy and apples and oranges and a few nuts and a toy horse. I am, Your friend, Pauline Curtis, Reform.”

“Dear Santa Claus: I thought I would write you a letter so you would not forget me. I want an embroidery set, a box of stationery, apples, oranges, candy and nuts. Elise Grogan, Mabelvale.”

Pat, here. This delightful retrospective happened 12 years before I was born, but the oranges, apples, candies and nuts were staples in our stockings for as long as we hung them during the 1930s and 1940s.

 Happy memories and Merry Christmas.

If snow slows us down, then ice stops us

 

                Cocooned by sunny, vapor-covered windows this icy Saturday morning, I see cobwebs on the shelf near a blue-glass pitcher. Farther up, I notice through an upper clear pane, that the few oak leaves are blowing in the wind (Bob Dylan stole that phrase, didn’t he?).

                Buttered cinnamon-sugared bread is toasting in the oven, mostly to heat up the kitchen a little.  And also because the local grocery doesn’t stock raisin bread any longer.

I’m not taking a chance on going out for the newspaper, though reading it while drinking freshly brewed coffee is my morning ritual. Mom went out in the ice once to check on their car and fell. I think she never completely recovered from it.

Oh, there’s lot to do with the extra time: decide where to put the Christmas tree, finish decorating the windows begun last night, clean the cobwebs, write greeting cards, wrap gifts, call the computer tech company to unlock my other laptop, file my ragged nails, divide the African violet . . . .

Since it took me so long to find it, I’d like to share the pear mincemeat recipe I used again this year. With the last batch of fallen fruit, I consulted a yellowed clipping on which I had written “September 5, 2001.”

7 pounds pears, peeled, cored and cut into eighths. **

2 lemons, unpeeled & cut into eighths;

2 oranges, unpeeled & cut into eighths

2 cups raisins

6 cups sugar

1 tablespoon salt

1 tablespoon ground allspice

1 tablespoon ground nutmeg

1 tablespoon ground cloves

½ cup vinegar

Position knife blade in a food processor bowl. Add about 1 cup pears; process until finely chopped. Repeat with remaining pears. **

**Not having such, I cut (cutting board, serrated knife) the pears into plump-raisin-sized pieces—like the regular mincemeat. Later, after cooking, I fished out the lemon/orange pieces and cut them down, too.

Combine chopped pears & remaining ingredients in a large pot, such as a Dutch oven. Bring to a boil; reduce heat & simmer, uncovered, 30 minutes.

Pour hot mixture into hot sterilized jars, leaving ¼ inch head space. Cover at once with metal lids and screw bands until tight Process in boiling-water bath for 25 minutes. Serve as a relish or use to make Pear Mincemeat Pie (recipe follows). [I didn’t do this since I intended to make a pie and freeze the rest in 2-cup containers.]

Makes 7 ½ pints.

 

For a pie:

Pastry for a double-crust, 9-inch pie

2 cups pear mincemeat

¼ cup firmly packed brown sugar

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

½ cup chopped pecans

 

Prepare pastry. Combine mincemeat, sugar, flour and nuts, spoon evenly into prepared crust. Top with remaining crust. Trim edges; seal & flute. Cut slits in top of pastry to allow steam to escape.

Bake at 375 degrees for 35 to 40 minutes. If necessary, cover edges of pie with foil to prevent overbrowning.

My mincemeat-pie-loving son did eat a piece, but allowed as how he preferred “the real thing.” Which he will get for Christmas.

Meanwhile, I am enjoying the rest of it.

CONTINUED FROM LAST WEEK:

                Recap: Liddy, the newly married Coursey wife, gets the job of hosting the first Thanksgiving meal for the large family. She has called her father-in-law and her sisters-in-law about customs. She contacted all of them, and now she asks her husband. [This is a letter to her mother, et al.]

                 That left Heth. ‘Hell, I got left out when it came to cooking. Mom taught the other boys, but I didn’t stay home long enough for her to teach me. Maybe I can mooch more of the applejack—uh, cider from Frank—‘He ran out the back door laughing. I yelled after him, ‘You’d better not, you, you—‘I slammed the door and cried. I would make tea and coffee and grape juice for the kids.

                The food was taken care of.  Now, the seating. Nine adults and three children. Our table would seat only eight. I had to figure something out. At first, I thought about asking Tom to help, but when he answered the telephone, I decided against it.

                ‘Tom, what are you doing for Thanksgiving? Why don’t you join us if you—’ But he was cooking for his boarders and folks who didn’t have plans for a big family gathering.

                Aha! I’d sit on the sewing machine stool. Now, I considered linens and dishes, silverware and glasses. Just before I called Papa Quinn, he drove up.

                ‘Thought you might need extra plates and things.’

                Mother, he’d boxed up a set of Sula Mae’s dishes and glasses and flatware. And located some tablecloths and napkins in their buffet. Two baking pans, serving spoons and bowls and two glass pitchers were in another box. He set them on the dining table. ‘I didn’t know what all you had and I don’t need these any longer. You’re welcome to them.’

                I stuttered my thanks.

                Things were coming together. All this done during the first week. Not a bad record, if I do say so myself. I still had to sweep and dust and arrange the furniture. The biggest problem now was where to put the extra table and chairs for the children. Between the kitchen and the back porch is an anteroom just large enough to be a throw-it-all place. I would have to squeeze the table and chairs in there.

                Thank goodness, I had two more weeks. The last Thursday would fall on November 30. How unusual—end the month with Thanksgiving, and begin on Christmas the next day. Things were going well.

                Late on Tuesday, the twenty-first, I answered a knock at the door. Papa Quinn stood there with a big container of meat and a gallon jar of stock.

                ‘I knew you’d need to get this ready tomorrow and cook it Thursday morning. In case no one has told you, we gather about twelve-thirty and eat a half-hour later.’

                ‘But—but—Thanksgiving’s not until next week,’ I said. ‘It’s on the last Thursday, isn’t it?’

                ‘Oh, my goodness,’ he said. ‘The Courseys always consider the fourth Thursday as Thanksgiving.’

END OF CHAPTER 29.

                To read about the Thanksgiving meal, you’ll have to read the book, A JOURNEY OF CHOICE, available from me at plpalaster21@gmail.com, or from Amazon, Barnes&Noble.com or iUniverse.com.

~~~

Thanksgiving, part I: from my novel

 

 

                                                                                                                   November 23, 1933

Dear Mother, Yvonne, Juliana and Mr. Ferrel,

                Thank goodness, Thanksgiving with the Courseys is over! And before I fall asleep and forget even one detail, I must tell you about it. You know from my last letter than the newest member of the Coursey family always hosts the next Thanksgiving meal.

                ‘Tradition,’ Frona Lee informed me in a visit shortly after the chivaree. ‘I did it. Alice and Caroline both did, though it won’t bear repeating how pathetic their meals were.’

                ‘But that doesn’t give me much time!’ I said.

                ‘Didn’t Editor Redd give you the rest of November off—as a wedding present? Use it wisely. You’ll manage somehow. Goodbye.’

                She didn’t mention anything else about the tradition, and I was too stunned by her lack of friendliness to ask. Do you suppose she was still smarting over not getting any say in our wedding?

                Heth had paid no attention, he told me, to earlier Thanksgiving preparations. Only that he appeared when and where he was told.

                ‘You don’t remember what you ate?’ I asked.

                ‘Dressing,’ he said, ‘and sometimes a hen from our backyard. But not always. Guess my brothers killed wild turkeys or bought them in Madison. Don’t expect me to cook whatever you get. I’ve never done that and I don’t intend to start now. You’ll have to ask the girls,’ he said, ‘or your mom.’

                Again, I didn’t ask why he never cooked, but I could imagine he was out with friends, or looking for work or on a drummer’s route. He was spoiled rotten. So I called Papa Quinn with my questions.

                ‘I hate for you to be saddled with hosting Thanksgiving so soon, but you might as well get it over with. The three other girls did all right, but they had Sula Mae for instructions. All I heard from her afterwards was how pitiful their knowledge of cookery and presentation was. But I imagine they have all learned enough by now.’

                Then he changed his tone. ‘How about I kill a couple of the biggest hens in the flock. I’ll pluck and cut them, and bring them for you to cook. One big dish of chicken and dressing will fill the bill. I’ll bring Sula Mae’s recipe, too. Do you have a large enough pan? Can you make giblet gravy?’

                ‘Yes,’ I said, and ‘yes.’ When I asked him about the other food, he couldn’t remember who brought what. ‘But even the men provide something. Ask them what they want to bring. Or make suggestions.’

                So I had to call the others. I’d almost rather have done everything myself, but I knew that wouldn’t do. Frona Lee harrumphed when I told her about the hens.

                ‘He didn’t offer to do that for me! My specialty is jam cake. Lloyd usually does something with his green tomatoes—a relish or a mush.’

                On to the next. ‘Alice, what do you usually bring to Thanksgiving?’

                ‘Oh, lord, honey, it’s your time to host, isn’t it? Some dish using sweet potatoes. We grow tons of ‘em. Ozell delights in bringing his mock pumpkin pie.’

                I asked Caroline last. ‘I can’t cook for a big crowd, sweetie, but I can make applesauce since our orchard produced so well. Mac makes a great corn light bread. He’ll bring enough for everyone. And butter. You poor dear, having to do this so soon after marrying. I’ll help you clean up.’

TO BE CONTINUED. Permission for this copy granted by the author—that would be me.

After two weeks in the Ozarks

 

 

                Home now from two glorious weeks at the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs.

Oh, the new chapters I wrote. Oh, the books I read and reviewed.  And the poems I penned.

               I also contacted the poets who’d submitted to “CALLIOPE: A Writer’s Workshop,” for which I’m the newly-appointed editor.

              What else? I learned to operate the digital camera bought two months ago, and while doing so, discovered the company had been out of business for eight years! Why were their products still being sold?

              I made notes from the books I read. I brainstormed scenarios for the sequel.

                Talya and Dorothy were housemates. We visited over wine-thirty and at dinner.

The last few days, others moved in, either for Crescent Dragonwagon’s Fearless Writing Weekend or for the Colony’s board meeting on Saturday.

Checking my journal, I realized I hadn’t told anyone about the elk head I saw at Marshall on the way up. I’d stopped for gas. Four or five fellows were gathered around a pickup bed. I saw antlers and—nosy, uh, curious me--went over to look. A young man had just killed the beast near Woolem. He described it as “3.5 points.” Woolem was fairly close to Marshall; I passed a sign a little north of there.

For you who like to read about local folks and their “doings,” I have an idea.  Dr. Pat Adcock, professor emeritus at Henderson State University, has written two novels, both of which I read while at the Colony. Bill White of Hot Springs AR especially will enjoy Dr. Adcock’s Muggsbottom stories, for they are set in the Arkadelphia-like town of Arcady. Confession: I loved the books, but I should have had a dictionary at hand. Instead, I listed the unknown-to-me words (I love to find new words.) and later, looked them up.

Some words I knew, thank goodness, from other readings: reprobate, sodomite, debauched, hirsute and reconnoiter. I knew conundrum, cryptic and caveat, contretemps, lachrymose, intimations and histrionics.

But back to the stories: they involve four British gentlemen who do not like the government of Mrs. Thatcher. Therefore, they decide to find another country in which to retire. They butt up against some of the local Arkansas people, their customs and attitudes. The narrator (the thinly disguised author) becomes a friend, observes and reports all their shenanigans. Therein lies the fun.

 Enjoy your autumn-- literally and, if applicable, metaphorically.

A little humor before the year’s over

The Master of Humor, Will Rogers - Google Images



    Below is an email from a brother sent in late January of this year. He teased me saying he thought it would help me keep words in perspective while on my writing retreats. Thanks, Cliff.

 

My  Travel Plans for 2013   I have been in many places, but I've never been in Cahoots.  Apparently, you can't go alone. You have to be in Cahoots with someone.   I’ve also never been in Cognito. I hear no one recognizes you there.   I have, however, been in Sane. They don't have an airport; you  have to be driven there. I have made several trips there, thanks to my children,  friends, family and work.   I  would like to go to Conclusions, but you have to jump, and  I'm not too much on physical activity anymore.   I have also been in Doubt. That is a sad place to go, and I  try not to visit there too often.   I've been in Flexible, but only when it was very important to stand firm.   Sometimes I'm in Capable, and I go there more often as I'm getting older.   One of my favorite places to be is in Suspense! It really gets  the adrenalin flowing and pumps up the old heart! At my age I need all the stimuli I can get!

Let’s stay with humor this week. Here are some poems from Match.com that might tickle your funny bone.

 DETECTED by: Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)

  In Congress once great Mowther shone,

Debating weighty matters;

Now into an asylum thrown,

 He vacuously chatters.

 If in that legislative hall

 His wisdom still he'd vented,

 It never had been known at all

That Mowther was demented.

FATHER WILLIAM by: Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
  YOU are old, Father William," the young man said,
 "And your hair has become very white;
 And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
 Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
 "I feared it might injure the brain;
 But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
 And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
Pray, what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
 "I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment -- one shilling the box --
Allow me to sell you a couple?"
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
 For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
 "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, 
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw
Has lasted the rest of my life."
 "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
 That your eye was as steady as ever; 
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
 What made you so awfully clever?"
 "I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! 
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"