Paper Doll

Me with my doll, Paper

As I watched people shuffle out of Target today with shopping carts full of purchases, I was reminded of the best Christmas gift I've received. And it wasn't plastic or made in China. I was also reminded that today's version of the last-minute-holiday-rush is a far cry from the days when I was a child. There were no gift cards or Wal-Mart runs for that special loved one. At least, not in my family.

Our annual Christmas tradition was to spend Christmas Eve at my grandparents farm. Our last minute fire drill included my mom frosting her homemade pastry wreaths and then carefully topping them with candied cherries and green sprinkles. Our gifts, mostly homemade or sentimental, were already wrapped and labeled; ready for the five mile drive to the farm.

The farm was always bustling with activity when we arrived. The out-of-town relatives were arranging their gifts as the in-town relatives were working hard behind the stove. As the smell of turkey and potatoes filled the air, there was always a mad rush to clean and make room for both dining and gift opening. We had a relatively small area to work with and many bodies as my mom had eight siblings. None of us minded as we excitedly cleared off space by the piano knowing our aunts would soon entertain us with Christmas carols sang in harmony.

My fifth Christmas was the year of receiving my favorite gift. This year was like most with my aunts working on preparing food for the masses, while others piled boxes into bedrooms revealing new seating spots we had forgotten about. This year was different as my Grandma was missing from the fray and the den was avoided during the cleaning process. My aunts would secretly slip into the den, spiking my curiosity. I was told to stay out, which only spiked it more. I could hear the hum of my Grandma's sewing machine and knew there was some frantic project underway.

Right up until the time for gift opening, my grandma stayed behind the den door. As the gifts were passed out and only when it was my turn did my grandma emerge from the den with much anticipation. In her arms was a doll. It was a stuffed doll, half the size of me, with yellow yarn hair and carefully sewn blue eyes. She was dressed in a calico skirt with suspenders, yellow tights, and black leather shoes. As Grandma handed me the doll, I looked up at her asking the question with my eyes "for me?"

"Yes, for you. Merry Christmas," Grandma responded with a huge smile.

I was fascinated with this beautiful doll my grandma had made just for me. I knew that her efforts behind the den door were for the details that made this doll extra special. My grandma was meticulous in detail when she sewed or cooked. She would research and plan to get the exact product she envisioned. The shoes struck me immediately. The homemade doll had flat feet pointed up that required specially made shoes. My grandma made them using real black leather with riveted shoe holes and white laces.

"What are you going to call her?" Grandma asked beaming with pride on her creation.

"Paper!" I exclaimed.

Sadie is on the left, Matt and Mark to the right

I have no clue where I came up with Paper. It was the first thing that came to mind and I blurted it out. So Paper she was and I loved her. Grandma later made a matching doll for my Aunt Kathy and more coordinating clothes for Paper. Her wardrobe included quilted gingham bib overalls with an embroidered blouse, jammies, and lace dresses.

I played with Paper so much in the years that followed that her neck ripped at the seam. I went to Grandma in tears thinking Paper's days by my side were gone. Grandma saved the day by sewing a sequined thick band around her cloth neck securing it for future fall-outs. Paper looked like a modern day Audrey Hepburn and I was pleased with her transitioned grown-up look.

I still have Paper to this day. She sits in my art room next to Sadie, my homemade dog. Grandma made Sadie for me the following Christmas. Other than a corduroy patch under his hind leg, Sadie has aged nicely as well.

With the hustle and bustle of the holidays, I am thankful for my grandma and the love that comes with a homemade gift. Although I was never tempted with I-Pods and video games in the 70's, I am quite sure Paper still would have won the battle as all-time favorite.

Sadie and Paper enjoying retirement :)

Diary of a Mad Housewife

The Scouts

Below is a guest blog by Mo McAndrews, a dear old friend of mine. Although our paths in life have gone different directions with the move of her family and the end of our scout group, we have recently reconnected. Mo sent me this hilarious story and with her approval, I am posting for all to enjoy... 

Diary of a Mad Housewife

When my dear son was in 5th grade we took him out of Montessori school and moved west to Harvey Oaks. We were invited to join a scout troup from St Wenceslaus. I also became a stay at home mom. I had earned a masters degree and worked as a therapist in an intense hospice job for the past several years.I had worked since the age of 10,so this was a transition. I had trouble channeling my energy and thirst for intellect into my life of making beds, wiping butts, and making pb&j's.

My neighbor was a scout leader and she asked me to host a meeting.I was pretty much psycho at this point in my stay at home mom career. I wanted to be Martha times 10. I decided the boy scout troop would enjoy making elaborate ginger bread houses.

I threw myself into the endeavor. I had purchased a Pampered Chef mold. This was one of my limited social outlets; Pampered Chef, and about everyone else's parties selling stuff. This wonderful mold made two of a four-sided house. This meant that for 10 kids I needed to make 20 batches of gingerbread, bake them perfectly in clay molds, and then glue them together. In order to glue them together I needed the perfect concoction of frosting (requires college level chemistry). This took abundantly more time and effort than anticipated and the house, children, husband, and basic grooming were neglected during his intense period of focused energy.

There were dishes and frosting and dishes and frosting everywhere. There were some 3 a.m. nights. There was a lot riding on the outcome of this project. I was my own boss. Could I live up to myself? My annual evaluation was not looking good. Alas the night before things were seeming hopeful. I needed to purchase 15 lbs of white frosting, candy and stay up until 3 a.m. glueing gingerbread and cleaning my pathetic house, but I felt I could be a presentable suburban housewife. So the night BEFORE the event, I went out to get supplies the moment my husband arrived home. I needed $500 worth of candy and a few other items. I returned home to find there was now 24 inches of snow on the driveway and someone had parked in my spot. I cursed my husband and his friends.

I parked on the street and trudged through the snow in my big sweats and frosting and batter-caked hair. I walked in the door and lights, camera, action; the entire scout troop was there one night earlier than expected. And there was one mom early. Not any MOM. THE PERFECT MOM. The situation was so UN-MARTHA. Nothing was done. The houses lay in pieces. I cannot even remember the rest. It was traumatic and my memory is blocked. TRAUMA with regard to the actual activity of building gingerbread houses with boy scouts.

What I do remember was the chaos-snowbound boys with no organized

activity. Most of all, I recall going into my son's room to find your dear son, Zach Lane, jumping on my son's bed (10 years old), sqautting in a male power stance, and screaming as I walked in "Wherrrrrrrrrre's thththththththe BeeeeeeeeeeeeEER??". I had visualized this night for months and it was just not quite on the Mo PLAN for Christmas memories. But it was a memory I haven't forgotten and it did give me a needed kick in the arse to move on from my want-to-be Martha ways.

Taking Mains

Gwen still liked me in this picture

My Aunt Gwen was born in 1960. She was the youngest of seven by a long shot. My dad, who was second in line, was sixteen when she was born. Being "the baby" Gwen held court as the spoiled one in the family until I came along. I was born when Gwen was seven and I no doubt upset her apple cart.

Although the eldest of the Wagner grand kids were born before me, they lived across the country in sunny Arizona. Following the birth of my brothers, my entry into the world gave me the advantage to the coveted spot as cutest tot dressed in pink. I was the apple of my grandma's eye and she wasn't afraid to say it. This eventually did not sit well with my older family counterpart, Aunt Gwen.

Based on past photos and distant memories, I believe Gwen enjoyed me up until the age of five. I am sure the mixture of her hitting the teen years along with my size grown too big to carry like a doll resulted in her moving on from playing with me to resenting me. There were expectations of her as a growing teen that were not reflective of my adoring grandmother's coddling towards me.

The honeymoon is over.  Gwen is squeezing my cheek
(and laughing about it!)

Here is where Gwen and I started our power struggle and female game playing. To my advantage was a younger age and the perception of my innocence by my grandma. When Gwen knit my younger cousins tie purses and not me, I only needed to give my grandma a forlorn look. A knit bag soon followed.

"Gwen, how could you not include Sandy? The next one you make should be for her in green. Sandy loves green."

I distinctly remember being presented with the cute green bag by it being launched in my face when Grandma's head was turned. As Grandma looked back to admire Gwen's handiwork, she smiled with pride on our purported sharing of this special moment together. I knew better than to tell on Gwen. She gave me a glare and the stink eye to reinforce my decision. I had learned young how not to push the envelope too far; knowing well the result of being pummeled. No doubt my experience with older brothers helped develop this skill.

The games between us continued. I remember purposely making annoying noises by swirling spit in my mouth. On this particular occasion I was holding grandma's hand on a shopping trip. Gwen, too old to hold hands, walked alone and was visibly annoyed with my childish antics. Since Grandma didn't seem to mind and Gwen did, I kept doing it and increased the volume of my swirling sounds as we went about our walk. In the end I won the battle of my baiting by pushing Gwen to the point of blowing her gasket.

"Mom, MAKE HER STOP!!!  She is soooo annoying!"  

Grandma stopped dead in her tracks; appalled at the outburst. As I tightly held on to Grandma's hand with a sheepish look on my face, she reprimanded Gwen for her bullying ways. "Sandy is only being a little girl. Do not talk to her like that!" After a look of death from Gwen and my responding smile back, we silently continued our walk down Main Street.

A favorite story that Gwen likes to tell involves another shopping day with Grandma. On this particular day, the three of us traveled nine miles to LeMars for a Saturday full of shopping. Following our many stops that afternoon with bags filling the back seat, Grandma needed to make a final stop at the Remsen grocery store. The additional grocery purchases were added to our car and left no sitting room in the back. As the three of us prepared to squeeze in the front, a masterful idea came upon me.

"Grandma, can I sit next to the window so I can look out?"  I asked.

"Yous <grandma beams>...always the one to enjoy the scenery. Yes, you sit next to the window and look out."

The look of shock on the delivery of my antics quickly penetrated Gwen's face. "NO!!!  Mom, I am not sitting in the middle!"

"Gwen, yes, you are sitting in the middle! It's just a short ride home and you have to stop being so selfish. Let Sandy sit there and look out the window." We both knew by the tone of her voice that the conversation was over.  I am sure there was a smirk on my face that entire short ride home. Pleased with my spot and enjoying the scenery, I asked grandma if we could go all the way around Main Street so I could see my dad's barber shop on the opposite end of downtown. Grandma willingly complied with a smile on her face as Gwen fumed in the middle.

To give you a little background on Gwen's visible discomfort, note that it was an early Saturday evening in broad daylight. The gathering spot for every teenager in Remsen was Main Street. Taking mains was a means of showing off your new Grand Prix or your latest boyfriend. The universal coming out party for girlfriend/boyfriend units was the girl snuggled in next to her man while taking mains together. Even bucket seats could be bypassed by a creative and determined female mate.

As the teens congregated to discuss the gathering spot of the evening and the whereabouts of the cool kids, Gwen took a Main perched in the middle seat next to her mother. At a mere seven years old, I sat next to the window with my small frame not visible to the onlooker as we drove down Main Street that sunny Saturday. My head barely hit the bottom of the window. Gwen spewed a mix of venom and embarrassment. I was pleased and smugly took in what I could see of the outside.

Don't feel too badly for Gwen, she got me back once I reached my pre-teen years. By this time  she had moved on from taking mains to having gatherings at Grandma's house. My brothers and I would often stay the night. Gwen was left in charge in Grandma and Grandpa's absence. Gwen adored my older brothers and found them funny and charming. As I would be banished to bed early, my brothers were always invited to join Gwen's posse downstairs.  You know what they say about pay backs...

Rest assured that with age and life experiences, Gwen and I are now great friends and have shared much joy together in our adult years. As was the case with Gwen's spot in the birth order, she also had "trail-ender" kids.  Gwen and I gave birth to sons who are thirteen days apart and her youngest is of similar age and great buds with my youngest.  Our family's have spent vacations, holidays and many, many laughs together.

As I have never had a sister, I have come to believe that my relationship with Aunt Gwen best mirrors the sister relationship that never came to be. Our age span is just enough to have the feel of a big sister/little sister rivalry.  With age, our playful jabbing continues with more fun and less rivalry.  In Grandma's final days, we happily shared her affections. I am sure Grandma is now looking down on us with a smile; watching her girls enjoy life and family the way she taught us.

My Grant with Gwen and her youngest, Gabbie enjoying Lake Okoboji together.