Bees Sting

Last summer while walking barefoot on the beach in California, I stepped on a bee.  At first I had no idea what I had stepped on that had caused immediate pain.  I leaned on the professor for balance and lifted my foot.  There was the bee.  It was dead on the beach long before I had come across it.  I carefully removed the black stinger from the wound but it did not help ease the pain.

More than anything I was surprised by how much my foot hurt.  Such a tiny insect and apparently so full of venom.

I was reminded of a summer long ago.  It must have been 1958.  The year before my grandmother Fisher had died.  Probably it reminded my parents of how much older their parents were growing and of their mortality.  We set out for the drive from Ontario to Alberta driving south and through the United States, then back north into Canada again.  Four children and two adults.  We would stop for awhile at night and sleep in the car or in the open.  Muriel and Bob took turns driving.  We all noticed that when Dad fell asleep the car seemed to travel faster with Mom at the wheel.

At one point, Bob pulled the car over and prepared to have Muriel drive.  She has taken her shoes off to relax while not at the wheel.  When she put one of her shoes back on, she cried out.  She shook her shoe over the gravel edge of the road and out came a bee.

I don't remember what happened after that.  I don't know if she got medicine to put on the sting or whether she drove again.  I have no memory of those events, but I remember clearly the message that "outdoors," you always need to check your shoes before putting them back on.

Yellow Bananas

Most of the years when I was growing up, Muriel worked outside of the home.  When we lived in Lisle and Thornton, Ontario, she and Bob would go shopping once a week on Saturday.  When they got home from the grocery store, it was like Christmas every week.  It was so exciting to see what they had bought.

Both of them were depression era children; so, they were always frugal.  Among the groceries there would often be six bananas.  I had learned from past experience that if I did not eat my banana immediately someone else would.  There was no way to save such a treat.  Of course, counting every cent, the bananas were just slightly over ripe.  They had just a few brown spots.

I can remember the first time that I ate a banana that was a beautiful, pristine yellow fruit.  I was 12 years old and we had gone to visit some friends, the Finlaysons.  They lived in a little house in Virton, Belgium.  I would never have told Joyce Finlayson that this was the first spotless banana I had ever eaten, but I savored every bite.

Now bananas are one of the least expensive fruits at the market.
Bananas can be perfect firm yellow fruit when they come home in the grocery bag, but it doesn't take long for them to become overripe.  I still enjoy eating bananas.  Once upon a time, I would make banana bread with the overripe ones, but I don't bake very often now.  I still enjoy the bread too.  I suspect that there might not have been any leftover bananas in the Fisher household to use in making quick bread.

Ironing shirts

One day in the mid to late 1950s Muriel came home from work and told us about an article she had read in a magazine. The essay had been about how to iron a man's shirt.

The author said that he had always wondered how the Chinese laundry where he took his shirts got them so well cleaned and pressed. Particularly he was interested in how they managed to iron a shirt with no creases or wrinkles. When he tried it at home it felt as if it was always a disaster. He went out of his way to discover the art of pressing an ordinary man's shirt.

The laundry where he had his shirts washed and starched and pressed had an employee standing close to the front window where the author could see him at work. Immediately he noticed that the ironing board was set up "wrong." As the laundryman stood by the board, the wider end of the board was to his left while the pointed smaller end was on his right. The first part of the shirt that he ironed was the collar. Then he went on to iron the yoke at the back of the shirt. Following the yoke, the man pressed the sleeves. When all of the smaller areas had been ironed, the laundry employee went on to iron the larger body of the shirt. The back of the shirt spread out across the wide portion of the board fit almost perfectly. The two sections of the front were just the right size. There was none of the struggling to pull the body of the shirt across the small pointed end of the board as the author usually did.

I think that from then on Muriel changed how she pressed Bob's shirts. I know that her story affected me although I must have been under ten years old. I still remember the story of the man who owned the Chinese laundry and how he ironed men's shirts.

I iron all of my husband's shirts following those rules. Not that they necessarily look perfect later, but it is a habit I would not alter. When I was in high school, I wore a uniform every day. The girls had to wear a shapeless gray skirt, a white blouse and a navy blue blazer. There were a lot of mornings when I pulled the shirt out of the laundry and zipped through it ironing only the cuffs, the collar and the front of the shirt. I always wore an Oxford shirt with a button down collar. And I always set up the board with the wide end on my left which for a right handed person is the business end.

Thanks Muriel and an unknown author for teaching me how to iron a shirt.

My dad was a farmer at heart. Every house we lived in had a place for a vegetable garden. Most of the houses we lived in were fixer-uppers. Until I was 14 years old and living on the south shore of Montreal, I don’t think we lived in a house where the bedrooms were heated. In the winter time, the single paned windows would be brushed by Jack Frost’s artistic hand. I can remember taking my thumb nail and pushing it across the window pane. A long curl of ice that had formed on the interior of the window would peel away from the glass.
Some mornings were so cold that I would dash out of bed and grab my clothes then take them back under the covers to dress in the warmth created by my body overnight. We always had flannel sheets and rough wool blankets to keep us warm. The flannel sheets had been washed and dried on the line in the winter cold so they were never soft or fluffy against my cheek. It made no difference though. I would pull the blankets up around my face and cover my ears so that I would be as warm as possible on those cold nights.
After more than fifty years, I still sleep at the bottom of the bed with the sheets and blankets pulled up over my ears. When I glance over at my husband who was born and raised in California, I wonder how he can sleep with the blankets leaving his neck and shoulders bare.
When I was 5 years old, we moved into a house in need of enormous amounts of work. It had no bathroom and only had a pump at the sink. I remember my mother sitting on the floor reading my father the directions as he assembled the plumbing and built a bathroom at the end of the large kitchen. Now when I think about it, I assume that he must have dug a huge hole for a septic tank as well. In any case, Dad and Mum were the ones who turned the small cottage in the country into an inhabitable house.
I know there were not enough bedrooms for all of the family. That first year I slept on a bunk bed that was set up in the kitchen. I have a clear memory of lying on the top bed and looking down upon my mother. She was making cinnamon rolls. She rolled out the dough and sprinkle sugar and ground cinnamon on the flat surface. Next came scattered raisins. Then the magical dough was rolled into a tight tube and cut into individual rolls. I have no memory of eating those rolls. I cherish only the wonderful feeling of being alone with my mother and watching her making this delicious treat.
The small house that we lived in was about a mile from the local elementary school. Grades one through eight were taught there. Four grades to a room. The small village of Lisle, Ontario lay close to one of the gates to Camp Borden where both of my parents worked. Dad was in the Royal Canadian Air Force and Mom worked as a typist for the Army.
One Sunday after attending a conference meeting for the Church, we slowly drove towards home in a snow storm. When we reached Lisle, Mom and Dad decided that they would park the car in a parking lot for a business in Lisle. They knew that the road to our house would not be plowed in the morning and that they would be unable to drive to work unless they left the car close to a road that would be cleared of the heavy snowfall.
We always had blankets in our trunk in case of a winter emergency. The six of us got out of the car and wrapped blankets around us for the long walk home. As a small girl the snow seemed so deep. It came up above the top of my boots. I can remember the snow falling and my eyelashes sticking together as if by glue. My face was so cold, but my small right hand nestled in my father’s large one was warm. I asked him how come his hand was warm when mine was so cold even with my mittens on. It was so stormy and cold. I have no memory of his answer. I only remember the safety and security I felt with my cold hand resting in the warm hand of my father.

Looking through the Fence

When I saw the picture of my granddaughter Lily looking through the fence, I immediately thought of this picture.  Unfortunately I do not have the original photograph to post.. This is picture of a painting done by Margaret Fisher Brooks.  Family oral history says that the toddler with the sagging diaper is Margaret or Margie.  The oldest child is a cousin. Arthur Grussendorf.  The small boy to his right is Muriel's oldest child Ted (James Edward Fisher).  He and Margaret were only 14 months apart in age.

Lily Katherine Neeves watching her father through the fence. Lily is the great granddaughter of Muriel. She is the daughter of Kimberly Anne Fry Neves who is the daughter of Katherine Elaine Fisher Fry.

Rationing

During World War II all of the nations at war were short of food and resources. Gasoline and metal were in such high demand. Even food items were rationed. England probably had more restrictions than any other Allied nation. However, rationing occurred in both Canada and the United States.

Last fall a friend told me about an incident in his life and his mother's during WW II. Ted Crowther grew up in Alexandria, Virginia. One day his mother noticed that the man delivering the local paper, the Washington Post, had new tires on his car. She asked him about the tires since the ones on her car were badly worn. Where did he get his tires? He explained to Mrs. Crowther that because he had a job with a high priority, he was able to get tires. She responded, "If there is ever an opening for delivering papers, would you let me know?"

Not long after that Ted's mother got a call saying that the Washington Post needed someone to deliver papers going south along the Potomac River. Her route took her past Mount Vernon and down to Fort Belvoir. Ted went with her on her drives to deliver papers. I assume that they always had suitable tires from then on.

At the end of their journey there were frequently military personal who hoped to catch a ride back towards Washington, D.C. with Ted and his mother. One day they picked up two Marines who climbed into the back seat. As they were driving along, one of them said to Mrs Crowther, "I'll just take that money box that is sitting next to you on the seat." Because it was war time both of the Marines had side arms. Ted told me that his mother did not hesitate. She pulled over to the side of the road and told the two soldiers to get out. She said, "I can read the names on your uniforms and I won't hesitate to report you." The two Marines quietly got out of the car and the Crowthers continued on their trip back to Alexandria.

There are always details that I wish I had asked more closely about in stories like this. For example, I have no idea how old Ted was. Preschool I assume. Did they ever pick up soldiers looking for a ride again?

There are so many questions that I wish that I could ask Muriel. I grew up hearing a few stories about Muriel's and Bob's wedding on November 19, 1942. I knew that everyone in their neighborhood saved their allotment of sugar so that Muriel's family could make a wedding cake. She had a beautiful soft flowing wedding gown. And her mother, Ruby, wore a black dress.

Even when I was a child black dresses were not the usual color for the mother of the bride to wear. In fact I can remember my father making jokes about the fact that my grandmother Ruby Harkness Toole was born on Hallowe'en and wore a black dress to their wedding. Of course, I chuckled along with everyone else in the family.

It was not until I was an older person that I realized that in a war stricken country, probably the only good dress that Grandma Toole owned was this one black dress. She wore the best that she had to celebrate the wedding of her dearly loved daughter.

There are a few benefits of age and experience. I love and appreciate my extended family more as the years go by.

Musings

When I started this blog about Muriel Isabel Toole, I imagined that other people would write about their memories of her. Much to my disappointment, that has not happened.

I have moments when I feel inspired to write something but suddenly realize that I am really thinking about something in my life.

I have not forgotten Muriel, but I do wish that some other person besides myself would contribute her or his memories.

This winter two new great grandchildren were born to Muriel and Bob and both of them have the middle name Isabel. Both of them were named after Muriel. Angelene had a baby girl in Idaho at the beginning of February and my daughter Kristi had a daughter on March 5th. Kristi's daughter is Gemma Isabel Furner and she lives with her family in Utah. This is a picture of Gemma when she was only a few days old.