The expression “How time flies” has been around forever, it seems. And, too, the connection of seasons also has been used as an expression of the different stages of our lives in poetry and song.
When you hit the winter season, memories seem to go back to the other three — spring, summer and autumn. In my own life, I think autumn was the best. Spring was school, young love and marriage, the summer spent raising a family, then back to school and a public life.
The years of autumn were the most enjoyable with Don — travel and time spent with just being together and a love that grew deeper. Oh, not the young passionate love of spring, but a more unselfish, protective, caring kind of love. A flock of grandchildren came along to top it off.
In the beginning of winter, the season was one of happy and sad times. Times of elation and deep sorrows losing a child, and the beginning of Don’s decline and departure. And yet there have always been great blessings in every season. In looking back on my life it has been full of meaning and adventures in just plain living. Remembering the humor in life’s walk has had its great rewards, like my 11th birthday in April 1940.
I woke with excitement that morning, knowing I was to have my first real birthday party with the kids from our neighborhood invited. I was a little apprehensive because mom was going to bake the cake. Dad worked for the WPA, just finding his way out of the Great Depression, and money was still scarce. Therefore, a bakery cake was out of the question.
My concern: Mom was a lousy baker. Seeing the cake after baking and iced, it turned out beautifully. The Jell-O molded just right and mom whipped the cream off two bottles of milk that stood in peaks.
The kids arrived that afternoon and after the games we sat for our treat. Laughing and talking at the table, the cake was tasted, and yuck, something was wrong. When all were finished, the whipped cream on the Jell-O was left on the plates with the barely eaten cake. No one had said a word. I was almost in tears and couldn’t understand why everything tasted so funny.
Standing by the door after saying goodbye to my friends, Mom was cleaning up the dishes, disappointed the kids had not eaten everything, saying maybe the kids had eaten too much lunch at home. A few minutes later, I heard mom howling with laughter in the kitchen and I ran in to find she had decided to try the cake. After spitting it out, it dawned on her what might have happened. Mom went to the spice cupboard, finding she had mistakenly used our dog’s worm medicine for the vanilla. My not-so-dependable younger brother, Franky, had put it in Mother’s spice cupboard instead of on the top shelf. Both bottles were the same dark brown glass. Mom again laughed till the tears ran, and I then did too.
Well, mom never lived it down and the family to this day loves to tell the tale and has always referred to it as “Jacque’s birthday when mom wormed the neighborhood.”
My life has been filled with tales of laughter and the family has always provided the best material for writing. After I travel on one day and the great-great- grandchildren read my daily journals of so many years, I hope some will say, “She really was quite a gal. I wish I had known her!”
— Contact Jacque Thornton at jacquejt@centurytel.net
