This week Judy of A Creative Writer in Process challenged the LBC with the phrase ” If I could travel in Time, I would……” I have listed all the writers on the right hand side of my blog under Writer’s Consortium. Please take time to read some of their varied and interesting responses to Time Travel.

If I could travel in time would I travel backward or forward? If I chose to travel back in time, would I want to meet famous people, live the life of a Roman Courtesan, or travel to exotic places? On the other hand, if I chose to travel forward in time, would I be in awe of a new century and new politics.? Would I space travel, take part in a revolution, and meet my great grandchildren ten times removed.

Funny that when I was younger, I would have found time travel most exciting and glamorous. Now, when I think of time travel, I think of plagues, and bombings, and hunger and other most unpleasant experiences. This may well be the result of the head cold that is hanging on, the codeine in my cough medicine, and the lack a good night’s sleep. Perhaps it has something to do with the wisdom of maturity or the grouchiness of old age. All I know is that I want to stay right here, steady on the course, with a prayer that my little boat of life sails on smoothly for a long, long time.

To be honest, I have in my own way, experienced traveling back in time . The year was 1987, my father was nearing the end of his life. He was back in the hospital for the umpteenth time and as his main caregiver, I was tiring out. I had been up with him most of the night, taught school all day, and was now headed back for a long evening at his bedside.

As I walked down the corridor to his room, the nurses cautioned me that he was still under the influence of strong medication and quite disoriented. With these words of advice in mind, I entered the hospital room. My father’s bed was close to the window and the fading sunlight of late afternoon played on the white spread of his bed. He raised his head and asked, “Is that you, Grace?” “Have you seen Mary Lorraine? She has grown so much since your last visit. ” Then he paused, laughed and boasted, “She talks a blue streak and you must ask her about the ice rink.”

The voice was vibrant and full of life. It was not the voice of a 90 year old, but the voice of a younger man. Startled at first, I soon realized that my father in his confusion had gone back to a time around 1939. He had mistaken me for his sister, Grace and he thought Grace had come for her annual visit. He was telling her about me. So much love and pride echoed in his words as he spoke about his little girl.

When I was three years old, my dad made an ice rink in the back yard for me and my brother. I am certain it was more for my brother than for me, but I was thrilled with sliding across the ice on my new double bladed skates. “Ask her about the ice-rink” relates to a family story about my inability to pronounce the word “ice”. My word came closer to arse so that I was frequently asked about the skating rink to which I would gleefully reply, “I skate on my arse.” One of those little jokes that soon became part of the family legacy.

As most of you know, I chose to be called Maria because in my Catholic school, I was surrounded by Mary’s and I longed to be different. My entire family was very patient about going along with my name change, so I was pleasantly surprised to hear my childhood name, Mary Lorraine, again.

I was also delighted to be mistaken for my Aunt Grace. My father had four sisters and his sister Grace was always known to be “the family beauty’” As I was growing up, I would look at old family albums and I remember trying to look at my profile in the bathroom mirror. Did I resemble Grace? I could see some resemblance if I squinted my eyes, but truthfully, I would never have Grace’s classic good looks.

In that hospital room, I was transposed back to a time before my own memory. I glimpsed what it must have been like when my father’s favorite sister came for her annual visit and I was given the unbelievable gift of hearing him speak of me in a way that demonstrated the depth of his fatherly love for a three year old daughter .

So does this confirmation of a special bond between a young child and her father qualify as time travel? Probably not. It does however, qualify as a sweet snippet of time. One that I will treasure for the rest of my life.

Once again it is Friday and time for a topic chosen by the LBC, a group of writers who take turns choosing a subject to write on and to post weekly. This time the subject is” Fifteen Minutes of Fame”. I have listed all the writers for this group on my sidebar under Consortium Writers and I invite you to go to their blogs and enjoy their different writing styles and their creative approach to the subject.

I think that all of us have had fifteen minutes of fame, but I am willing to bet that not too many have had their fifteen minutes of fame with a 280 pound gorilla.

In the 1980’s my husband John and I were active in the Cat Fancy. We had converted our double garage into a cattery and were breeding and showing Manx cats. It was hard work and it was challenging, but oh so much fun when we left a cat show with a blue ribbon or two.

As it happened at that time, a famous study of the Gorilla’s ability to communicate was taking place in Northern California. Dr. Penny Patterson began her study of Koko, a young gorilla at Stanford. The Gorilla Foundation was formed and her study moved further away into the hills near the Bay area. Dr. Patterson along with Ron Cohn photographed and documented Koko’s abilities in many books and publications including National Geographic.

This celebrated Gorilla adopted a little kitten which she named All Ball because All Ball was a Manx and had no tail. which to a savvy gorilla resembled a ball. All Ball was the love of her maternal life and she was intrigued with the little kitten and very protective and caring toward it. All of this is included in a popular children’s book, Koko’s Kitten.

Those of you who are familiar with the story know that tragically All Ball lost her life when she wandered into the road and was hit by a truck. Koko grieved the loss of her friend and the newspapers found the human interest story a major attraction for their papers.

So when my husband John saw the article about Koko’s sorrow over the loss of a kitten and the foundation’s search for a new pet, he called the Gorilla Foundation, announced that he and his wife owned the Bear Den Cattery and we were expecting kittens within the next ten days. He offered one of the kittens from that litter to Dr. Patterson for Koko.

As it turns out, our mother cat had a false pregnancy and we had to let the Foundation know that there would not be a kitten soon. Most kittens are born in the Spring or the Fall and this was mid-winter. By this time, I was as determined as John to find a Manx kitten for Koko. So we called around to friends in the Cat Fancy and luckily found a little orange kitten that the breeder was willing to sell to us to take to Koko.

Meanwhile, I was teaching at Inyokern Elementary about 13 mile from my home town of Ridgecrest, California and my students were fascinated with my stories of Koko. We made a huge bulletin board on one wall and titled it “Koko, We Love You”. We studied Gorillas and we studied their natural habitats and we wrote letters to Koko, and drew pictures of cats to entertain her.

It was a month before the kitten would be old enough to leave its mother, and during that month phone calls flew back and forth between Penny and us. She received the letters and the pictures that my students had drawn of kittens and Koko had chosen a tail-less one that she liked. We thought this was a good sign.

Then it was time to take the kitten to its new family. We picked it up from the breeder and headed for the Gorilla Foundation in Woodside about 2o miles from San Francisco and the kitten’s new home. Penny and Ron were waiting anxiously for us at the house and after greetings and breeder advice about care of the six week old kitten, all of us headed toward the area that housed both Koko and another gorilla named Michael.

I was thrilled with seeing Koko. As Penny suggested, I sat down near a barred floor length area. Koko came over and sat on the other side of the bars. She looked at me and signed “Visitor Stinks”! Being insulted is never easy. Being insulted by a famous gorilla is mind-shattering. Penny explained that she used the same sign for flower and she thought that Koko was intrigued by my humane society pin which resembled a four petalled flower. Koko put a hand through the bars and looked closer at the pin. Then she signed “Open” and Penny said, “Open your mouth, she wants to see your fillings.” Well, I wasn’t about to say no, so I opened wide while Koko looked inside at the many silver fillings in my mouth. Then there was a strangely quiet moment when Koko and I simply looked at each other and I saw intelligence and dignity that will always be remembered with awe.

The moment was quickly broken when Penny put the box down on the ground and signed that she had brought Koko a kitten. It was obvious that Koko was interested. She motioned for Penny to turn the kitten around so she could see the back side. She seemed happy to observe the lack of a tail.

It was at this time, that John and I said goodbye and headed back home . It was important that there be as little distraction as possible when the kitten was actually given to Koko and we wanted it to go as smoothly as possible.

Of course, for the next few weeks, Koko and the kitten which she named Lips or Lipstick were photographed, and video taped, and all of it documented for publication. Our own paper called and interviewed us and yes, we had our fifteen minutes of fame.

Looking back, I am glad that we made a grieving gorilla a little happier. Lipstick was not as close to Koko as All Ball had been, but Michael surprisingly was completely besotted by the kitten. He called it, Banana. We were told that Michael’s reward for good behavior was having the kitten in an area where Michael could watch it play. I believe Lipstick or Banana was finally won over by Michael and Koko, some years later was given another kitten, named Smokey.

My 15 minutes of fame burned brightly and flickered out, but every once in awhile, I find myself reading the story of Koko’s Kitten to a group of young children and then telling them about how we brought Koko her little orange kitten. I can hardly wait until my grand babies are old enough for me to read the story to them. I think they will like the idea that their Nana brought a kitten to Koko and stayed to show her tooth-fillings to an interested gorilla.

Once again it is Friday and time for a topic chosen by the LBC, a group of writers who take turns choosing a subject to write on and to post weekly. This time the subject is” Visit or Visiors”. I have listed all the writers for this group on my sidebar under Consortium Writers and I invite you to go to their blogs and enjoy their different writing styles and their creative approach to the subject.

When it was announced that this week our topic would be visit or visitor, I was reminded of an old family story about Uncle Charlie and his unannounced visit.

Many years ago, about the time I was a teen-ager, a rather pesky relative decided to write a book about the family. Uncle Charlie was not really an uncle. He was, as the family was fond of saying, a second cousin twice removed. He was the widower of a distant relative on my mother’s side of the family and for some unexplainable reason decided to write a book about his wife’s family. The problem was Charlie was very old and had a lot of trouble keeping the many facts straight. All of this to the chagrin of my mother and her sisters who feared he would not only publish errors , but also release some old family skeletons that had been closeted for years.

I remember my Aunt Gladys calling my mother and going on and on about Uncle Charlie and how in Chapter 5 he had her first son born two years before her marriage to Uncle Angus. The stories of mistakes went back and forth across the telephone wires until most of the aunts, uncles, and cousins were either laughing hysterically because the mistake was embarrassing to someone other than themselves or howling angrily because it was their history being mangled.

Everyone agreed that what happened in the family needed to stay in the family and definitely should never be published. . . . ever. So over the weeks, the consternation rose as Uncle Charlie who did not like to telephone just dropped by uninvited to ask questions, or leave another chapter or draft of his writing for some unexpecting family member to read.

At this time, my mother had a good friend named Kitty. Kitty lived down the block from us and often stopped by early morning for a cup of coffee. On this particular morning, my mother was ironing clothes. She had started early because there was more than the usual amount that week. So when Kitty arrived, she was ready for a break even though she had just begun the tedious task of ironing the family’s clothing.

My mother had earlier shared the stories about the family and the self-appointed , but bewildered family historian, with her kaffeeklatch friend. So when my mom looked out the front window and saw Uncle Charlie slowly making his way up the front steps, she jumped up, announced to Kitty that she was going to hide in the basement and please would Kitty go to the door and tell Uncle Charlie that she was out shopping.

Mom quickly made her way down the basement stairs and her friend dutifully went to the front door to deliver the message, but Kitty thought she could make the story better. So she announced to Charlie that she was hired help and was there to do the weekly ironing. Well, old Charlie was more than a match for Kitty. He simply stepped around her and said, “Don’t matter, I’ll just sit here and wait for Grace to get home.”

This left Kitty in a dilemma. If she left, she would be caught in her embellished version of my mom’s lie. If she stayed, she would have to do the ironing. After all, she had just announced she was there to do the family ironing. My mom was stuck in the basement and Charlie’s ample backside was planted firmly on a dining room chair, right next to the ironing board and the huge basket of clothes ready for ironing. So quickly Kitty picked out a blouse, turned on the iron, and started to work. Doomed to the chore by her falsehood, she ironed, and ironed, and ironed while Uncle Charlie, who was known for droning on about all subjects, proceeded to talk non-stop. Poor Kitty was a captured audience for his stories and he was warming up to his visit with the hired help.

After my mom had spent two long hours in the basement, Uncle Charlie ran out of stories to tell Kitty. He stood up abruptly and announced that he would be on his way. As he left , he stated that he would catch the streetcar and visit cousin Esther. Kitty waited until he was safely away from the house. Then she called out the all clear to my mother who rushed upstairs to find her laundry basket empty and all the ironing completed. The two women laughed and laughed.

In telling the story later, my mom said, “The next time that fool comes to the door, I am going to make sure I have a book in the basement. I had nothing to read the whole time I was down there.” Kitty said she hoped it would be Tom Sawyer because my mom would enjoy reading or rereading the part about whet-washing the fence since she and Tom shared a cleverness at getting someone else to do the work.

Uncle Charlie continued to make surprise visits to relatives, but thank goodness, the book never did get written and I do believe the drafts that family members were given are long gone.

There is a group that write on a certain subject each Friday. The subject for this week was Breakfast. The group is composed of truly excellent and skilled writers including Ashok, Conrad, Grannymarr, Magpie, Marianna and Rummuser. So sit back and enjoy our different approaches to writing about the first meal of the day.

Breakfast Memories

The year is 1944 or 45 and I am eight years old. Our home is a duplex at 3419 Grand Avenue in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The duplex is a two story building, and our living area is all on the first floor.
My bedroom is the last room in the house and is off the kitchen and near the back door.

A crabby old lady named Mrs, McPheter lives above us on the second floor. I dislike her very much because I am always being told by my mother that I must be quiet, I must not disturb Mrs. McPheter. She tells me that If Mrs. McPheter complains Mr. Nelson who owns our building, will make us move. I not only dislike Mrs. McPheter, I fear her and Mr Nelson. In my secure world, they are the threat that could turn my sheltered existence upside down or so I believe.

It is cold in my room and the sun will not be up for hours, but my father is up. I can hear him dressing. Then I hear him coming across the kitchen. his shoes hitting the cold linoleum with a definite resolution. He is on his way to the basement to stoke the huge, old furnace. On the way, he opens my door slightly so that the heat from the kitchen radiator will find its way to warm my room a little.

I cuddle back into my blankets, waiting for warmth. I view my little room with satisfaction. My bed is a youth bed, small narrow and comfortable. My father armed with photos from Ladies Home Journal, and my mother’s encouragement has built a pretty little picket fence three quarters of the way around the bed. He has added a gate hinge on one side so that it will be easier for me to get in and out and he has painted it bright yellow; my favorite color.

Still too early to get up, I finger the little kittens on my bedspread. Each one has been lovingly appliqued to the course muslin top by my mother. Each little kitten is made of material from a favorite childhood garment. Already, I am learning the lesson of remembering.

Now I can hear others stirring. My mother is up and moving quietly around the kitchen as she begins to fix breakfast. My father finished with the task of warming the house, is having his first cup of coffee. Our dog, Terry has been put out for his morning constitution, and the cage of our canary, Denny, has been uncovered. He is chirping happily as the sky turns from dark to light grey.

It is time for my brother, whose bedroom is more in the middle of the duplex, to get up for school. It is his first year in High School and he must take a bus across town to the Catholic All-Boy High School, De La Salle. I snuggle down for a few more minutes and wait.

Soon the first whiff of fried bacon reaches my delighted nostrils. It is my father’s “piece de resistance” and although, mother fixes most of our meals, it is my dad that fries the bacon and if ever there was a gifted bacon maker, it is he. The aroma of the bacon every morning is our call to breakfast. Seldom do either parent have to say, “Time to get up.” The smoky fragrance of bacon always brings us to the table; my brother already dressed and ready for school and me, a mass of tangled curls, rumpled pajama, robe and often mismatched slippers.

I am certain that love wafts into lives with fragrances much lighter, sweeter, and perhaps more poignant, but the love I am remembering is the love that my father put into the frying of the morning’s bacon and his gentle pride in knowing how to call his children to the breakfast table without uttering a word.

On the advice of the weather gods and cautioned by the Channel 4’s Weatherman’s dire forecast of winter storms, Bob and I cancelled our RV trip to Lancaster. We had high winds on Friday and nearly freezing temperatures all day. This morning we were told that Palmdale (close to Lancaster) received a small amount of snow. Although I was disappointed that I would not see Kristi and twins, I am glad to be warm and comfortable at home and not walking dogs in the sleet or rain. Ugh, I hate to think of how much dirt they would bring in after each potty break!

So homebound for awhile, I took time to look over my recent writings and this comment from Mary at Momma’s Corner to my post Fruits of My Labor caught my eye. Mary is wise and astute and deeply understanding of human nature. She wrote, “You have made your work area not only efficient but still managed to keep things around you that mean a lot to you.”

Indeed she had caught something that I was truly not aware of. . . my office is both a place to work and a place to hold photos I have taken, awards I have won and treasures I have collected. No wonder, I feel so comfortable in here. This is my life!

One of my favorite things in the office is this picture. My Aunt Mary had one like it in her living room and when I was very young, she told me that the little girl reminded her of me. Every time I visited, I found myself staring at the picture to see if there was a resemblance. I was pretty sure there was and it was such a warm and wonderful feeling to think Aunt Mary thought the girl looked like me.

Aunt Mary passed away when I was a teen-ager. I don’t know what happened to the print, but I knew if I ever found one at a yard sale, auction, or antique store I would buy it. I half-heartedly looked for one over the years, but did not find one until about four years ago when I visited my daughter, Dawn in Oregon. Dawn and I love to antique shop together so it was not surprising to find ourselves in a little shop in LaGrande. As we searched through treasures, I mentioned Aunt Mary’s print and began to describe the girl, the birch tree, and the robin. The dealer who was half listening to our conversation, smiled and pointed to the back wall. “Is that the one you are talking about?”, he inquired. Oh yes, There it was in all its sweet sentimental glory. I was so excited and equally thrilled when Dawn offered to buy it for me as a gift. What a wonderful gift to receive and I promised to pass it on to her someday.

When it was time to return to California, I carefully packed it in the center of a large suitcase, tucked clothing securely around it and prayed for gentle airport luggage handlers.

As you can see it arrived safely and has been given a place of honor in my office. There is a little beanie baby robin that always sits next to it. The little robin was a gift from my grand daughter, Jade, after she heard the story about Aunt Mary and how back in the day, I looked like the little girl in the print. She found it at an auction and insisted I take it home to go with the print. It will always be right there bringing back special memories.

The change in plans has left me with time on my hands so I decided to find out what I could about the print. I googled spring - robin - girl and sure enough I found the print on Ebay. It is called Spring Song of the Robin and it is the work of a German artist by the name of Simon Glucklich. It was painted around the turn of the century and prints of it were very popular in the 1920’s. They were sold by Sears and Roebuck and other mail order companies. The colors are often changed. The hair on the little girl can be brown, blond, or even red.

The most interesting fact that I found however, was that it is thought that the girl is Glucklich’s blind daughter. In the early prints her eyes are closed. In the later prints, the eyes are open. I checked my print closely and although I had never noticed it before her eyes are shut. At a glance, it looks more like she is looking down, but on closer scrutiny the eyes are closed.

I am anxious to know more about the artist, but there doesn’t seem to be a lot of information on line. I have found about three other works by him and have heard there is one called Autumn Song of the Bird. How fun to find that one, too and if you know more about Spring Song of the Bird please let me know. Since it was so popular during the 20’s and 30’s surely others remember it hanging in a parlor somewhere.

Just think of how many folks, during long winters, have looked at this print and longed for Spring. Maybe, just maybe looking longingly at it and wishing for an early Spring might be just what we need to bring the Robin and his promise of warm weather our way.