Relative's Names- Two By Two

As a youngster in the Jensen house, you learned all of your relatives names in "twos." Very sing-songish. This was the way you connected the dots of who belongs to whom and eliminates, no, reduced, but did not prevent the risk of calling people by the wrong names.

For example: Harold and Dottie, Derald and June, Bob Bob and Nana, Mom and Dad, Bonnie and Clyde, Harold and Maude- well, you get the idea. The zinger came about with Nellie, Mae and Bud. That one was hard to register on a number of different levels to a small kid. So, it became Nell and Mae..... and Uncle Bud.

The family lists on both sides were fairly lengthy, so on trips to visit, we were often coached en route as a refresher so we didn't look like the family that arrived off the boat searching for long lost relatives.

I am still trying to figure out who Fin and Hattie were.??....

SWINGING 60'S STYLE- GROOVY

Listening to some "Solid Gold Oldies" as I toil in my garden, aka Little Versailles, a Herman Hermits song came on. All of a sudden a rush of memories vaulted through my mind. One jumped out at me, dickies. Nope, not the men's work gloves and clothing. Dickies in the "swinging 60's" were faux turtle necks that slipped over your head and just enough material left to cover the opening of a shirt or sweater. They were generally made of cotton with an array of colors. As stated, they were always worn under a shirt or sweater (especially) for that extra cool look. My mainstay were white and black dickies. Everyone wore them. They epitomized the British look of the time aside from the haircuts. You wore them everywhere and especially to the school Sock Hop to illustrate just how GROOVY you were.

Wlmot Mountain (sic)

Recently, Emily moved back home and around Christmas went skiing with a friend at Wilmot Mountain…..and I use the term “mountain” quite loosely….and was offered a job as a ski instructor. Well, this brought back a flood of memories of early ski trips to Wilmot and Alpine Valley in the late 60’s and early 70’s – long before we discovered that skiing could be done on anything but ice. Wilmot was a favorite weekend destination, but I have few recollections of daytime skiing and exclusive memories of nighttime skiing in subzero temps with a biting wind chill and long lift (ha!) lines. We went at night because we were cheap and the price dropped after 5 pm. We were, of course, well-fortified with hot spiced wine and beer.

Waiting in long lift lines for a 5 minute run was the bane of our existence. The rope tow offered a potentially shorter wait but ran the risk that someone would fall going up, and like a series of dominos, everyone behind him would stop and then fall over. We were well-dressed for chic Midwestern night skiing with blue jeans and navy pea-coats. After an hour, our jeans would become stiff with ice. Our ski boots were a late form of medieval torture with something called “flow foam” that was supposed to form around your feet as it warmed up but never did. Nirvana was taking off your ski boots and having blood return to your painful feet. New Years Eve was a particularly interesting time to ski Wilmot….and I recall seeing a drunken skier face down on the slope with his skis crossed behind him and he was laughing and saying “I can’t get up! I just can’t get up!”.

The long drive home down Wilmot Road to Route 12 to Barrington was filled with recounting tales of bravado and daring-do. Ahhhh, memories!

HITCHIN' ON - Rockford

Well, many families encounter at least one member who is the finicky eater/ food tester. I earned this title quite easily by being a guinea pig for a few concoctions devised by RJ and DJ. Remember the commercial that had the line" Let Mickey try it." Well, in the early 1950's, Mickey was KJ. Enough about how I developed the superior refined palate I enjoy today, but what I developed and that evolved to became the nuance of foodie compartmentalization- Hitchin' On.

At times, we were not always really sure what was set before us at dinner. In the plating process, items got lost in another. I still suspect, to this day, that this practice was to confuse the eater and distort what may actually have been in the food. I, for one, was taking no chances. Even at a young age, I refused to eat any food group on the plate that appeared to co mingle with any other- AKA "Hitchin On." Hey, even the juices from green beans oozing over into the mashed potatoes sent me into a tizz. I refused to eat. First, dad would rationalize that it all goes to the same place. Didn't help- only made matters worse thinking about that. Second, brute force. Sometimes successful, but usually a messy affair and lots of post effort clean up. Third, and the most effective- no TV- go to bed. This became time well spent examining the pros and cons of blending foods- now called FUSION. Your welcome....................................

Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C# Minor

Mom played the piano quite well, and when the spirit moved her, she would play great classical pieces such as Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C# Minor…..Dum….Dum….Dum….three chords in low octaves to start the piece. All of us could hum the first bars to this piece in our sleep. I think this was her concession to being a secret “pinko” given that he was a Russian composer. I was going to do my 5th grade composition on Rachmaninoff’s life, but switched at the last moment to Felix Mendelssohn, for whom I found a nice reference in the World Book Encyclopedia. It was a time when I was flexing my literary muscle.

Mom also played more "contemporary" tunes (and I use the term loosely) whenever uncles Harold or Derald came over. They would sing and she would accompany them on the piano. Most of these were church tunes or show tunes from the 40s. Her mastery of the keyboard was an inspiration to Ron who, after 3 years of technical lessons, was able to master “Old Black Joe” for a recital….nowadays quite politically incorrect! I think that was the pinnacle of Ron’s musical career. What a pity! Such talent lost.

Springfield- Summer-Illinois State Fair

What would summer in Springfield be without a trip to the Illinois State Fair. Dad, being raised on a farm, had a natural attraction. As kids, we would pile in the car on a weekend day and head about 10 miles to the fairgrounds.

After parking, we would all just hang around with mom and dad for a while visiting the various stables, crafts, food exhibits and then go to watch the prime entertainment at the racecourse. After this, we would break up and go out own way..... usually to the Midway!!!!

The Midway was fascinating. No, no, not just your routine fair rides, but they had exotic shows! Hey, I mean, really exotic..... As you passed by the siamese twin boys, they brought them out and here were two young boys conjoined at the hip...awesome. Then there was the bearded lady, but I always doubted that one. And, of course, the guy that turned into an ape, but you had to pay to go into the tent to see him transform.

But the best was all the way at the end of the Midway... the burlesque show. As young boys, we only went down that far if we were with our buddies on a day trip to the fair. The barker would bring a lady out on stage in front of the tent and she would shake a bit then go back in. All the time the music "WIPEOUT" was blaring as she wiggled and paraded in front of us.

To this day, when I hear that song, I don't think of some surfer boys in Hawaii, but the Illinois State Fair and that great Midway.

Nana's Glasses

Nana's Glasses

Growing up we did not get to see our grandparents on my dad's side very often because they lived in California and we were planted in Illinois. California, in the pre-interstate days, was a very long, hot, crowded car trip away and plane rides were really not an option. My grandparents did come to visit us in Illinois on a few occasions. They would travel by train and we would pick them up in Galesburg for their week stay. Mom would always be in a cleaning frenzy the week before and we were all expected to be on our very best behavior while they were visiting. There was a lot of pressure not to bicker with your siblings and mind your manners and act like the "Father Knows Best" family, not our family. There was always a list of Illinois tourist hotspots to take them. Lincoln's Tomb, Lincoln's House, and New Salem were the Springfield favorites.

We had a guest room in our house in Springfield and my Bob Bob and Nana would spend time away from the chaos of the house relaxing in their room. My bedroom was next to theirs, so I used to wander into their room and yak their ears off. The main reason I would wander in was to see Nana's jewelry and her case with her extra glasses pieces. She had frames that had removable top pieces. She could change the color of her frames to match her dress. THIS WAS COOL. The frames top piece was a hard plastic in blue or green or black with little flecks of silver glitter. I loved watching her change the color by snapping on and off the top piece. The color of her glasses frame was the first thing I focused on every time I saw my grandmother. Unlike today where people get new frames every few years, I never remember seeing my Nana with any other glasses the entire time I knew her. My fascination with her glasses was the glue to my relationship with my grandmother. She taught me some Danish, the name for your fingers (Tumble Tot, Schlik-a-pot, Long mon, Gulda bron, and Lille pate spille mon) and knit us wonderful slippers or sweaters for Christmas, but the glasses, for me, was what was special. Her glasses were the constant, the one thing that did not change and the one thing that we connected on that brought us together.