My husband is the Internet greeting card sender for our family. While he is preparing his list and checking it twice, often I am also at my computer doing my own thing, that of creating a snail mail greeting card for the same person. This way, on their birthdays, special people are twice-blessed; once with the lovely or lively interactive Internet card he chooses and once with the one I design with carefully selected photos and words, sometimes my own. That is, we aim for deliveries on, or at least near, the birthdays, but as I learned last night, it just doesn’t always work out that way.
I was quite surprised to read in a friend’s e-mail that the card I snail-mailed July 19th for her July 23rd birthday from San Angelo, Texas, had just reached her yesterday, August 9th, in Andersonville, Tennessee. She sent the message to tell me she hoped I didn’t think her rude or uncaring in not thanking me earlier, along with her explanation as to why. She said she was “taken aback” when she noted the postmark date.
I e-mailed back to say I thought no such thing as her being rude or uncaring, that I am thankful the USPS finally found their way from San Angelo to Andersonville! I added, “Your message has given me pause for thought: perhaps I need to prepare your husband's October 13th card and get it in the mail ASAP in order to assure timely arrival!”
We’ve all been hearing laments and excuses of the USPS: cut Saturday delivery, consider expansion of self-service kiosks, close small branches, increase postal rates…again. Judging from our personal Monday deliveries, I’d say cutting Saturday deliveries would simply make Monday workloads expand. Would cutting Saturday deliveries get a snail mail October birthday card from Texas to Tennessee more quickly? Expanding self-service kiosks…now there’s an idea; however, there are already complaints about what we are doing for ourselves…Internet and text-messaging. I suppose that's mixing apples and oranges though. Okay, will closing small branches aid in getting the mail delivered more efficiently? One could hope something will help, but I really don’t think that is the solution. Our small branch postal workers are friendly folks trying their best to do their jobs and they do it well. Somewhere, someone is really letting them down.
More questions than answers, so back to our computers.
Let me just finish by saying I am thankful it was a birthday card, not one expressing sympathy, that was so long in being delivered.
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 8-10-2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY
As a little girl, I lived in a village in central Maine. The month of May meant creating, decorating, and hanging May Baskets.
I don’t remember how old I was when I started, but I do recall an almost abrupt end when we moved away from the village into the country where the houses were farther apart, then later into the city where, I had also grown older and the customs were different. Some families celebrated hanging May Baskets only on May First, others every day throughout the whole month of May. Our family and our little village celebrated through the whole month of May.
In my childhood, both boys and girls took part in coloring, cutting, and learning how to weave strips of heavyweight paper to form small basket shapes. Some of the woven baskets were square, some rectangular. Sometimes we folded colorful crepe paper in origami fashion. We were then able to make scissor cuts in it, so when it was opened it formed a little hanging basket nest, where we placed a few goodies. Whether it was the woven basket or the crepe-paper style, we made handles that we glued on. We made three folds of the heavyweight paper, before cutting the right length to form the handles for the woven baskets. Because the crepe paper was so flexible, we could braid it for those handles. Waiting for that glue to dry was the hard part!
The “goodies” we put inside, cushioned with tissue paper, might be store-bought candy, homemade fudge, or some little trinket we were done playing with that we thought the recipient would find delight in having. Once the little May Basket was filled we’d try to sneak to the home of our unsuspecting friend, quietly hang the May Basket on the knob of their most used door, yell, “May Basket!” and run away, hiding from sight as fast as we could. Sometimes they could guess by our voices who had left the May Basket, sometimes by the contents.
When I was in my mid-sixties, a friend made and mailed a May Basket to me! Apparently I didn’t, but how I wish I had taken a picture of it. Some info she included about May Baskets I’d not previously realized, was that the hanging of them by children is an old New England tradition. The original idea was to announce “Spring and Good Cheer”. The information pointed out that May Baskets were given as an expression of love and friendship not only to children but also to loved ones, pointing out particularly “invalids and shut-ins.”
This morning as I wished my husband a happy first day of May, I thought about my childhood and the hanging of May Baskets. I asked, “Did you used to hang May Baskets?” He said he doesn’t remember. He grew up in the city and, as I stated earlier, I learned the customs there were different, so I suspect he didn’t even hang May Baskets.
For me, it is such a happy childhood memory. Like so many things, I can only wish such a memory for everyone, so if you want to try something new with your children, grandchildren, neighbor kids, or school kids, why not introduce them to a new variation of the old New England tradition of hanging May Baskets?
If you’re trying to think of a way to bring cheer to a shut-in, how about making your own May Basket and filling it with a goodie or two of your choosing? It doesn’t have to be candy; a little plant would bring spring cheer!
What a Merry Month of May you and your May Baskets can make it!
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 5-1-2011
I don’t remember how old I was when I started, but I do recall an almost abrupt end when we moved away from the village into the country where the houses were farther apart, then later into the city where, I had also grown older and the customs were different. Some families celebrated hanging May Baskets only on May First, others every day throughout the whole month of May. Our family and our little village celebrated through the whole month of May.
In my childhood, both boys and girls took part in coloring, cutting, and learning how to weave strips of heavyweight paper to form small basket shapes. Some of the woven baskets were square, some rectangular. Sometimes we folded colorful crepe paper in origami fashion. We were then able to make scissor cuts in it, so when it was opened it formed a little hanging basket nest, where we placed a few goodies. Whether it was the woven basket or the crepe-paper style, we made handles that we glued on. We made three folds of the heavyweight paper, before cutting the right length to form the handles for the woven baskets. Because the crepe paper was so flexible, we could braid it for those handles. Waiting for that glue to dry was the hard part!
The “goodies” we put inside, cushioned with tissue paper, might be store-bought candy, homemade fudge, or some little trinket we were done playing with that we thought the recipient would find delight in having. Once the little May Basket was filled we’d try to sneak to the home of our unsuspecting friend, quietly hang the May Basket on the knob of their most used door, yell, “May Basket!” and run away, hiding from sight as fast as we could. Sometimes they could guess by our voices who had left the May Basket, sometimes by the contents.
When I was in my mid-sixties, a friend made and mailed a May Basket to me! Apparently I didn’t, but how I wish I had taken a picture of it. Some info she included about May Baskets I’d not previously realized, was that the hanging of them by children is an old New England tradition. The original idea was to announce “Spring and Good Cheer”. The information pointed out that May Baskets were given as an expression of love and friendship not only to children but also to loved ones, pointing out particularly “invalids and shut-ins.”
This morning as I wished my husband a happy first day of May, I thought about my childhood and the hanging of May Baskets. I asked, “Did you used to hang May Baskets?” He said he doesn’t remember. He grew up in the city and, as I stated earlier, I learned the customs there were different, so I suspect he didn’t even hang May Baskets.
For me, it is such a happy childhood memory. Like so many things, I can only wish such a memory for everyone, so if you want to try something new with your children, grandchildren, neighbor kids, or school kids, why not introduce them to a new variation of the old New England tradition of hanging May Baskets?
If you’re trying to think of a way to bring cheer to a shut-in, how about making your own May Basket and filling it with a goodie or two of your choosing? It doesn’t have to be candy; a little plant would bring spring cheer!
What a Merry Month of May you and your May Baskets can make it!
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 5-1-2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
A LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER
Dear Beth~ I’ve been meaning to tell you how much the digital picture frame you gave us means to me. I realized today that Dad finds pleasure in my latest downloads to it, too, when he mentioned one particularly beautiful flower, describing it so well I knew exactly THE ONE from around thirty I had just added! I confess I keep wondering just how many pictures the frame will hold before it hops off the desk or counter top, whichever place I have it for viewing or loading at the moment, and yells, "WAIT! STOP! ENOUGH, ALREADY!" So far, that hasn't occurred, but I am expecting it at any moment because I think I see the sides swelling like the cheeks on a kid puffing out as he/she prepares to blow a bubble in a bubble-gum-blowing contest! Last year, I took my digital camera…you know, the one I told Dad I didn’t want, but he bought for me anyway?…and headed towards a beautiful bunch of bluebonnets carpeted between the walkway of a private home and a busily traveled street near our house. I thought, “They are so beautiful, surely the owner won’t mind if I stand in the street and take pictures of just the flowers,” As I stood there doing so, a kind woman came from the house and invited me to come closer, saying, “They are beautiful this year, aren’t they? I have irises over here, if you’d like to take pictures of them as well.” Next thing I knew, her next-door neighbor came over and invited me to her house, too, not only to the front yard filled with a variety of roses and more irises, but also into her back yard where her kitties wrapped their tails around my legs as she and I visited while I took more pictures with the digital camera…the one I was sure I’d never use. I came home having made two new friends - six if you count the four-footed, long-tailed ones - and with my camera filled with pictures of bluebonnets, deep-red roses, irises of several colors, orange-red poppies, and even a buzzing bee. I downloaded the pictures onto my computer, then into the digital frame. Over the past year, every time I have taken flower pictures, I have added to the collection. I have had many opportunities with other neighbors inviting me into their yards. I have photographed gorgeous golden roses, yellow and lavender irises, red-orange amaryllis, peace roses, many additional flowers as well. And each time, as soon as I got those flowers downloaded and saved to my computer, one of the next steps was to add the favorites to the digital frame. Once I found out how much fun I could have with the digital camera I didn’t want, I went to our local rose garden. One day last week, it was time, so I went again. I took nearly two-hundred pictures. Of course I didn’t keep all of them and I certainly didn’t ask the photo frame to hold every one I did save, but I added plenty to it that day. Then, yesterday I went to the city park where I added most of an additional hundred pictures to my floral collection. Again, the digital frame wasn’t asked to hold every one, but the favored few have been added today. So far, so good. No yelling for me to stop yet. I am thankful because to me, the digital frame is a place of peace. It holds a slideshow of wonderful moments of meeting new friends, of lovely blue clouds drifting by in the sky, majestic sunrises and sunsets, a variety of flowers that can only be conjured up in the mind of a magnificent Creator, of quiet time spent down by the riverside, and a reminder that someone who understood provided my heart’s desire for a quiet place to parade my pictures. Thank you, Beth. Love always, Mom
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
THE THREE-QUARTER-CENTURY-CLUB
Picture of Kent and me taken in June of 2003It was the summer of 1948. I was eight years old. My mother and I were invited to go to Augusta, the capital city of the State of Maine, for a special afternoon celebration of the Three-Quarter-Century-Club.
Since I have already explained my age, it should be obvious, that the three-quarter-century, wouldn’t describe my mother, but if you guessed it to include one of my grandparents, you would be correct. My Grandpa, William Herbert Glidden, had celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday on May tenth of that year; therefore, he was eligible to be a member in good standing of the Three-Quarter-Century-Club.
As we approached the Augusta Armory building that lovely summer afternoon with Grandpa and my Aunt Charlotte, who drove us there, I had no idea what to expect, but I soon realized the place was filled with a huge crowd of very happy old people! The folks milled around with greetings of those who hadn’t seen one another for long periods of time. I overheard conversations and witnessed hugs that told me of family connections from different parts of the state.
Even at my age, there was joy in observing these reunions, but to my delight there were more surprises to come. A hush fell as everyone found folding chair seating in that huge building. Attention was directed to the stage. The men who stood there fit the three-quarter-century (and more) qualifications, as they cradled their well-tuned and warmed-up fiddles, ready to start the entertainment of the afternoon. And what an entertainment it was! Fiddle-playing at its finest was presented to the constantly-smiling, foot-tapping, (sometimes foot-stomping!) audience. All too soon it, like all good things, had to come to an end. As I write this, I am fully aware that the fiddle-playing of those particular men has also ended; however the memory of the joy they gave this girl that warm summer afternoon of her eighth year lingers like the resonant sounds of a bow on the strings.
Three-quarters of a century seemed old to me that day. Today, it doesn’t seem so old. Today, my brother, Kent Wilmer Libby, celebrates his seventy-fifth birthday. Although he says the winter has been a rough one, he definitely is not as old as the long-ago men who played those fiddles! If the Three-Quarter-Century-Club is still around, Kent is eligible to be a member in good standing, just as our grandpa was, but times and people have changed. I doubt the club is still in existence. An Internet search provided no information about it. Of course, there are still wonderful gatherings of great fiddle-players who bring crowds of happy folks together to help create memories for new generations, but whether we celebrate with fiddles or phone calls, three-quarters of a century is still something marvelous to celebrate.
HAPPY THREE-QUARTERS-OF-A-CENTURY, KENT!
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 4-13-2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
REMEMBERING WANDA
Today, April 5th, would have been my friend Wanda's birthday.
I miss her in so many ways.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
BELONGING
SUSIE MABEL GRANT GLIDDEN
BORN MARCH 21, 1878 DIED MARCH 31, 1951
This photo of my maternal grandmother, Susie Mabel Grant Glidden, the grandmother for whom I was named, was taken to celebrate her 25th wedding anniversary.
She married at eighteen and gave birth to ten children, eight of whom lived.
The first time I saw this picture, I, too, had just celebrated my 25th wedding anniversary. Having also married at eighteen, I was very close in age to Grammie as I was seeing her now, not as I remembered her shortly before she passed away when I was eleven. I was stunned at the resemblance between her and me. I had always known I was born into the family, was named for her, my mother, and a great-aunt; however, this was the first time I ever felt the true belonging that reached into my soul.
Years have passed since that unforgettable experience, but as I age I continue to seek signs of belonging when I look in the mirror. I have aged more gently than Grammie did. I have had a far easier life. But, Grammie, I wish I could tell you that no March 21st ever passes without my thinking about you. And I wish you could know the great-granddaughter and great-great-granddaughter, each of whom have been named after you as well. They know about you.
(C) Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore 3-22-2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
TRAIN RIDES
Our eldest daughter, Beth, recently reminisced briefly on her blog about a train ride we took the night we left Cleethorpes, on our way into London, England, the summer of 1971. That was a unique trip in that each of our children, ages seven, ten, and twelve, were old enough to have memories to remember it.
Train rides were common during my husband’s and my earlier years. During World War II, we saw family members come and go regularly by train. The depots were in small towns and larger cities. It remained so even after the war for a number of years, eventually giving way to bus, personal, and air transport.
John and I married in January, 1958. We used train travel between Boston, Massachusetts and Bangor, Maine. In order to be near him and prepare things for our marriage, I had moved in with a Brookline, Massachusetts, minister’s family the end of November the previous year. This gave me opportunity to find a job and get to know the area. John had found a job with a sporting goods store as a shipping clerk in downtown Boston. (Loved those Joe and Nemo’s hot dogs for lunch at that little hole in the wall across the street!) We found and reserved a furnished corner basement apartment in a three-story building that went from 89 to 99 Marion Street in Brookline. We were ready to be married!
The weekend prior to our marriage we took the train back to Maine to take care of the necessary pre-wedding legal paperwork. A little bit of time for personal visits with family but soon, we had a train schedule to keep so we headed back to the Bangor Depot and Boston.
The following week we were on the train, once again, heading north on another Friday. Upon learning of our wedding plans, one of the male passengers, felt it necessary ask, “Why get married? It’s a terrible way to ruin a friendship.” Strange…that remark still sticks so firmly today.
Our wedding was small, but love was there. The following Sunday afternoon, my dad took John and me to catch the train at the little town of Newport where I, as a child had said happy hellos and sad good-byes during World War II to my two older USN brothers. This time, though, I was on the train that rumbled down the tracks taking my brand new husband and me off to our married life in Brookline.
A few months later, Beth received her first train ride although there’s no way she would remember it. At that time, she was what is today commonly referred to as “a fetus.” We called her, “a baby!” With the thoughts of approaching parenthood and remembering what having grandparents in our own lives meant to us, we wanted that family fellowship in our child’s life, too. We decided to move back to Maine.
When you hear the term, “kit and kaboodle” that pretty well describes how we traveled back to Maine, by train. By that time we had acquired, Honey, an adorable little honey-blonde Spitz-and-Spaniel dog from the pound. She was leash-trained and allowed on the train along with our (you’re not gonna believe this!) ironing board, packed boxes of household goods, whatever we had. Don’t ask me how we managed it all. I have no idea. We must have put it in a baggage car somehow. Sure wouldn’t get away with such today.
Beth’s next train ride is one she won’t remember either, but if she looks in her baby book, I think she may find a flattened paper cup with the train company logo on it. (And Chip, please don’t start again, about Beth has a Baby Book and you have none! At least you were cared for! And loved! Don’t forget loved!) John had to go to Chelsea Naval Hospital for medical assessment, so we took advantage and made a family trip out of it. I was so proud to take our Baby Beth back to introduce her to the people I had worked with. They were properly impressed with our then five-months old daughter.
One of my favorite co-worker/friends, Mary Pasyanos, a Greek lady, just a bit older than I, wasn’t at work that day, but as I recall left word for us to please come to her apartment. She gave us ten dollars in shiny quarters for Beth. They had some special Greek meaning for a new or, I think first, baby, but I cannot tell now what it is. Perhaps it is written in the baby book. After our visiting, we returned to Bangor…another train ride.
It’s no wonder train travel holds happy memories for Beth. She has had many more miles traveling down the tracks than she likely knew!
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore
Train rides were common during my husband’s and my earlier years. During World War II, we saw family members come and go regularly by train. The depots were in small towns and larger cities. It remained so even after the war for a number of years, eventually giving way to bus, personal, and air transport.
John and I married in January, 1958. We used train travel between Boston, Massachusetts and Bangor, Maine. In order to be near him and prepare things for our marriage, I had moved in with a Brookline, Massachusetts, minister’s family the end of November the previous year. This gave me opportunity to find a job and get to know the area. John had found a job with a sporting goods store as a shipping clerk in downtown Boston. (Loved those Joe and Nemo’s hot dogs for lunch at that little hole in the wall across the street!) We found and reserved a furnished corner basement apartment in a three-story building that went from 89 to 99 Marion Street in Brookline. We were ready to be married!
The weekend prior to our marriage we took the train back to Maine to take care of the necessary pre-wedding legal paperwork. A little bit of time for personal visits with family but soon, we had a train schedule to keep so we headed back to the Bangor Depot and Boston.
The following week we were on the train, once again, heading north on another Friday. Upon learning of our wedding plans, one of the male passengers, felt it necessary ask, “Why get married? It’s a terrible way to ruin a friendship.” Strange…that remark still sticks so firmly today.
Our wedding was small, but love was there. The following Sunday afternoon, my dad took John and me to catch the train at the little town of Newport where I, as a child had said happy hellos and sad good-byes during World War II to my two older USN brothers. This time, though, I was on the train that rumbled down the tracks taking my brand new husband and me off to our married life in Brookline.
A few months later, Beth received her first train ride although there’s no way she would remember it. At that time, she was what is today commonly referred to as “a fetus.” We called her, “a baby!” With the thoughts of approaching parenthood and remembering what having grandparents in our own lives meant to us, we wanted that family fellowship in our child’s life, too. We decided to move back to Maine.
When you hear the term, “kit and kaboodle” that pretty well describes how we traveled back to Maine, by train. By that time we had acquired, Honey, an adorable little honey-blonde Spitz-and-Spaniel dog from the pound. She was leash-trained and allowed on the train along with our (you’re not gonna believe this!) ironing board, packed boxes of household goods, whatever we had. Don’t ask me how we managed it all. I have no idea. We must have put it in a baggage car somehow. Sure wouldn’t get away with such today.
Beth’s next train ride is one she won’t remember either, but if she looks in her baby book, I think she may find a flattened paper cup with the train company logo on it. (And Chip, please don’t start again, about Beth has a Baby Book and you have none! At least you were cared for! And loved! Don’t forget loved!) John had to go to Chelsea Naval Hospital for medical assessment, so we took advantage and made a family trip out of it. I was so proud to take our Baby Beth back to introduce her to the people I had worked with. They were properly impressed with our then five-months old daughter.
One of my favorite co-worker/friends, Mary Pasyanos, a Greek lady, just a bit older than I, wasn’t at work that day, but as I recall left word for us to please come to her apartment. She gave us ten dollars in shiny quarters for Beth. They had some special Greek meaning for a new or, I think first, baby, but I cannot tell now what it is. Perhaps it is written in the baby book. After our visiting, we returned to Bangor…another train ride.
It’s no wonder train travel holds happy memories for Beth. She has had many more miles traveling down the tracks than she likely knew!
© Marilyn Sue (Libby) Moore
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