My brother Sandy tells stories...

A few years back, my brother Alexander Baillie Morrison, known as Sandy by his immediate family (parents and siblings), decided to write a history of his early days on the farm. This story was for the benefit of his children and grandchildren, who had heard some of his stories about the good old days, and wanted more, more! Well, I was fortunate, as his older sister, to wheedle a copy of it out of him, and there it lies in my bookcase resplendent in its youthful vigor and innocence, largely unread more than once or twice. But this afternoon, having exhausted the local paper and the Church News, I found myself with nothing to read....and somehow my hands grabbed hold of Sandy's story, and I have spent the rest of my free time since 3 o'clock this afternoon, laughing fit to kill myself. What splendid writing, so funny, his depiction of the colorful life we led on the farm is largely tongue-in-cheek humour, it brings to mind many more of the happenings from the Morrison kids' childhood days than I've been remembering and writing about on BLOG over the last 9 months or so. I feel like sharing one story that is famous in our family, the tale of Lind's dogs. This story has been told. embellished upon, over and over and over, whenever my siblings and I got together for any purpose....now sadly reduced to just four of us, since Jack's demise this summer. And still this story will live on. Here's Sandy's version.... ( so the truth has now been told!). I quote from his memoirs:

"One of our neighbors in the Bowtell district was an Englishman named George Lind. He was a "remittance man", one of the thousands of the English well-to-do who got into some sort of trouble at home (usually over debts or a woman), and were sent by their families out to "the colonies" with a monthly "remittance" of funds to keep them financially solvent, out of sight and hopefully out of further trouble. Lind married an uppity Englishwoman (known as "Lady Lind" by my disapproving family), had a number of children, and didn't ever accomplish very much, though he was a man of some culture and good manners. He raised huge Newfoundland dogs, the scourge of the neighborhood for miles around. They chased cattle, ate poisoned gophers with impunity, stole Jack's coat from the fencepost where he'd hung it, knocked Bob off his bike, and generally terrorized anyone foolish enough to come into the Lind's yard, or even walk by on the road. Appeals to lock up the dogs fell on deaf ears.

"That sets the stage for the recounting of one of the deepest, darkest, and most closely-held Morrison family secrets. Since it is now half a century old, I can probably tell it with impunity. One Sunday morning in the late forties, Lind's dogs were heard frantically barking about 2-3 miles south of our house. Father and Jack jumped in the truck and went to investigate. (I was not at home that day; I was working at the University Farm at Edmonton during the summer recess from University). Jack found the two dogs had treed a porcupine and were barking furiously, trying to get the "porky" to come down and be eaten by them. One of the dogs had a faceful of porcupine quills. Jack promptly shot him, an act of mercy, since porcupine quills , if not quickly and painfully removed with a pair of pliers, almost always killed the poor creature in which they were embedded, but only after long suffering.

"The other dog took off, running towards its home, several miles to the north. My brother Bob, then a teenager, was trailing the two men on foot. He saw the dog emerge out of the woods, and begin to cross over a slough by the railroad tracks. Bob quickly hunkered down in the grass, took careful aim with his .22 and shot the dog through the head, killing it instantly. I came home the next day, and helped move the two corpses to a final resting place in the middle of a dense brush about fifteen miles from home. I'm sure the bones are still there to this day. Not a word was ever said to the Linds or anyone else. The absence of the dogs was widely noted, of course, and rumours abounded about their fate. Everyone agreed that whoever had done whatever had been done to the dogs deserved a medal. The dogs were a serious menace to both man and beast, were running loose totally out of control, and deserved killing. Ironically, suspicion fell on another neighbor, who we knew was totally innocent, but we were all sworn to secrecy and could say nothing.

"Linds may not have suspected we had had a hand in the demise of their dogs, but a few months later somebody tried to poison our beloved dog, Walter, with poisoned meat. He was dreadfully sick, but recovered. There were dark intimations of who might have done the deed, but of course, no proof, and the affair died there." End of quote.

Well, that's the story as recounted by Sandy, one of many tales that are simply hilarious. Sandy, if you are reading, PLEASE PLEASE give me permission to retype some of your Tales From the Morrison Woods for our family BLOG! I know my kids and grandkids would enjoy them so much, as I'm sure your family already has. Enjoy, everybody!

dad loved to play Jim Reeves, this is one of his favorites. though he's not around anymore to ask.

one of dad's favorite statler brother songs, would play it often, on the big ole sterio 33onethird player, precious memories was another favorite.

The Holy City, requested.

best thing paul mcartney ever did. though the beatles were good too. mull of kintyre.

Why Some People Shouldn't Drive:

I remember a happening 'way back when I was a child that seems pretty funny now, but at the time, it was BAD NEWS! My mother was delighted when a neighbor lady, Alice Titus, with delusions of grandeur, decided it was time to gird up her loins and DO SOMETHING about the lack of religious instruction for the families in our neck of the woods. The nearest church of any denomination was many miles distant, and most folks had no means of getting there, so ,,,,yes, Mrs. Titus decided to become a lay minister, and preach a little sermon on Sundays in our schoolhouse. Scripture reading, a few hymns, words of wisdom from whatever sources this indomitable lady could draw upon. My mother was all for this, thinking her children would benefit greatly from the experience ( as undoubtedly they would). But the question, of course, was how to get there? Two miles away, too far to walk with a baby to carry, she could not drive the newly purchased 1930 vehicle that was my father's pride and joy. And he, who felt no need for religious instruction of any kind, was adament about NOT wasting his Sunday afternoons listening to Mrs. Alice Patterson Titus rambling on and on.

So, what to do? In those days, few people had a vehicle beyond the horse and buggy style, so the roads were empty of traffic....a brief lesson on how to start and stop the car, and how to steer it, followed and he decided to trust my mother to take the kids to the Sunday meeting, if that's what she wanted! dang her anyway. So he settled down for his afternoon nap, and we all got to clean up and put on our best bibs and tuckers, and off we went, with just a bit of gear clashing and jerking. Not too bad! Mother was flushed with success when we got to the school yard, remembered how to stop the car, and even to pull on the hand brake before exiting. And we filed into the building in short order, to join the few families who had heeded the call to worship. (Alice Patterson Titus was a very pushy lady, to say the least!).

Well, the "service" went fine, Mother played the school piano somewhat haltingly, we sang the hymns, and joined in the Lord's Prayer, (at least we knew that) and Mrs. Titus performed beyond her wildest dreams. It was soon over, and the congregation was dispersing, as we loaded ourselves into the car, Mother started it, and we were off for home. But for some reason, we weren't making much speed, the car seemed to be just dragging itself along....hopefully, it would straighten itself out, so she kept on a-driving! oh oh, what's this, smoke pouring up in our faces! what can be the matter, this never happened before! is the car about to go on fire? Trembling and anxious, Mother managed to turn the motor off, and there we sat! What to do? A family conference ensued, and Jack, being the fastest runner, was sent off to fetch Father, one and three-quarter miles away. Very worried interlude of probably an hour, in which we all trembled in our boots waiting for Doomsday.

Enter Father and Jack....you wouldn't want to view the rage my Dad was in, (probably why I've remembered this incident all these years). And it got worse when he got in the car and immediately discovered the cause of the problem, Mother had forgotten to release the hand brake. This brought an abrupt end to our church-going by car, I must say, and Mother never ever got behind the wheel of a car again. AMEN!

Never trust a Cat.

Just remembered another episode from an earlier life: I don't necessarily remember even the traumatic events, although this was one of the most horrifying, to my small sensitivities at the time. I was perhaps six or seven, and deeply deeply attached to my tiny pet rabbit. Uncle Hugh had been working on the binder, driving the horses as they pulled the big machine, when they ran over a mother rabbit and several baby bunnies....yes, sadly, road kill (only not on the road, in a field of wheat). But he was able to stop the operation, and rescue one of the babies, which he settled into his jacket pocket and SURPRISE! presented to me when he came in for dinner. I was thrilled to death to have my very own tiny, cuddly little pet! fed him milk with an eye dropper, fixed a little comfy bed for him on my cot and just enjoyed him so much (maybe the reason I was never a "doll" person).

One warm summer day, I took a walk up onto the little hill just west of the barn, sat down in the sunshine, took Bunny out of my pocket and was petting him and I suppose talking bunny talk to him, when who should appear on the scene but Tom, one of the barn cats, anxious to be included in the petting session, and full of purrs and good natured catty fiefdom. Twining himself around me, paying no attention to the little furry bundle in my lap, he was apparently in his seventh heaven of delight, as I stroked his back and twiddled his ears, he was purring up a storm. When, in the space of ONE SECOND, he grabbed the baby rabbit in his mouth and took off for the barn, baby squealing blue murder, and me, transfixed by shock, just coming to my senses and overwhelmingly ANGRY. speeding after him. I can still see the tragedy unfolding in my mind's eye, Tom would stop briefly every 50 yards or so, chow down a bit more on that poor little body, more painful squeals, gradually dying off to silence, as my dear tiny Bunny expired.

Well, to make a long tragic story short, I caught up to Tom in the barn, cornered him with no resistance on his part (he could have clawed me half to death, but he knew he was in the wrong!). Took the bunny away from him, (I was in a terrible rage! I could've cheerfully murdered him), held him by the scruff of the neck and whapped him as hard as I could with my free hand, over and over until he meowed pitifully, as though it was really punishment to the max. I think he realized in his clever catty mind there would be no squirts of milk into his mouth from any of the cows I would be milking in the not-too-distant future!

I guess the moral of this story is just what I said, NEVER TRUST A CAT. They are sneaky, manipulative of their humans, exist entirely for their own comfort and well-being, and most of all UNTRUSTWORTHY! They will turn on you in a flash and before your very eyes destroy the delight of your life, simply because of the nature of the species. Killers, all.....small tigers in disguise.

Now you may think because of this traumatic event in my early life, that I would develop a life-long aversion to the feline species....OH OH, what happened? Instead, I love cats, their independence,their haughtiness, their demand for full service if you happen to choose them as your No. 1 pet. They will always be so, (hang the dog) the cat will rule the household. And they will pretend to love you for your willingness to be their slave forever.

So....if you choose a cat to live with you and your family, just be aware! They are by their very nature, destined to be the rulers, they may profess their deep love and respect for you at all times, but don't ever forget that they are entirely capable of the utmost treachery at the most unexpected of times. BE PREPARED! And if you choose a dog rather than a cat to be your cherished companion, I will understand.

Marion goes to Edmonton.

After a delightful three days in my old town Edmonton....well, not entirely three, the first and the last entailed some 6 hours of travel thereto and back. For the purpose of attending my cousin's funeral in St. Albert, where he lived in a seniors' residence this last 8 or 9 years. Since I had been asked to say a few words at the funeral, (that is, deliver 1/2 the eulogy, the first half at that!) I had to get there, know what I mean, familial responsibility, etc. So I first of all checked out the possibility of flying there, and when I picked my shattered self up off the floor (600 smackers there and back, Lethbridge to Edmonton.....duh...), I appealed as always to my dear daughter Linda Rae. Fortunately, she is strong on familial loyalty too, and very helpful to her mother, because she readily said YES, she would drive me up to Edm to take in the whole works. And that we did, going on six hours each way.....Linda is an indestructible driver, full speed ahead no matter what the conditions. Well, it was beautiful weather actually, couldn't complain.

The first night, we met up with sons Dave and Jeff at the Swiss Chalet on 51 Avenue and had a lovely time together, pigging out on their new menu with vast amounts of food, and chatting it up. I bedded and breakfasted at my dear friend Ruth's house just four doors up the street from our old home in Strathearn area where we lived for 54 years. And that was pure pleasure, to catch up with our mutual friends and acquaintances' doings, and to partake of the Behr's truly wonderful hospitality. I was able to snatch a half hour to visit another neighbor, across the alley from where we lived, my Greek friend Mersa, and she and I paid a brief visit to hang over the back fence of our old house. I tell you, the sight about turned my stomach.....but then I moaned about it on Facebook, so have a look there. Tragic. We tried so hard to keep our house and yard up, it makes me feel bad to see it neglected so thoroughly.

The next day was the funeral, so most of it was taken up. Bail had been cremated, so the "internment" was into a beautiful urn, and thence into one of those vaulted walls in the cemetery which are designed to hold just the ashes of the departed one. There was a very small gathering for this ceremony, while a piper played "Amazing Grace", about ten family and really close friends gathered about while the United Church minister said a few words according to the rites of that church. Short period of socializing.....then on to the memorial funeral service itself.

The funeral was organized by my first cousin once removed, Rob Holte, who lives and works in Edmonton, and let me tell you, he is the epitome of graciousness and good taste. I can truthfully say the funeral was one of the nicest I have ever attended. Contrary to what I expected, there was a sizeable crowd, about a hundred, I'd think. Baillie was a dedicated church-goer, so there were many friends from the church, and popular with his fellow residents at Ironwood Estates, where he lived. Although the family group was small, (Baillie had no siblings except brother Ken who died a number of years ago), he was a bachelor, so no kids.....just three nephews, and cousins left to mourn his passing. The church choir was present to lead the singing, they looked so fine in their white and blue robes. And a local group of singers also performed....what was amazing to me was their pianist, a little old white haired lady who was just marvellous to listen to, trills up and down the piano, those agile fingers on the keys moving with the speed of light! I didn't find out until afterward that she is TOTALLY BLIND! I was fated to be the first speaker, and was a bit tremulous thinking "Oh don't let me hash this up, Lord!" I wanted to share with the audience a feeling of the heritage Baillie and the rest of our family inherited from our Wilson ancestors. And also to tell them of Baillie's life, the many jobs he worked at as a radio operator with the Department of Transport, the kind of person he was, a kind and goodly man who made life just a little better for my mother and his mother when they lived together at the Vermilion Valley Lodge. I guess it went OK, because a number of people lined up afterwards to talk to me and share their memories.
The second half of the eulogy was capably handled by close friend Hu Puffer, who told all about Baillie's popularity with the Trekkers, a group of hikers and travellers he belonged to, and were such an important part of his declining years. The rest of the service was according to the rites of the United Church, of course, and conducted by lay minister Nancy, a personable and very nice lady who added the personal touch, since she knew Baillie quite well.

Afterward, a lovely catered lunch was served of sandwiches, squares, cheese slices, pickles, the usual.....punch and coffee. And lots of socializing! I was totally taken aback when a fellow came up to me and introduced himself as Alan Waldie, his family was the "missing link" from my husband's genealogy and I had discovered them after working on every possible method of research, finally resorting to phoning all the Waldies in the Edmonton phone book. This was years ago, he and his wife had come to our house and I was able to tell him more about his ancestors than he ever knew in his life before. And of course, he was able to provide the information I was missing. Total coincidence, turns out he's a member of the St. Albert United church too, and knew my cousin Baillie well. Nice chap....he remembered my name, I wouldn't have recognized him nor he. me.

So, that was the funeral, very, very nice. Big congratulations and thanks to cousin Rob, he's the mostest and the bestest. My siblings and I went in together on a nice floral arrangement to add to the beautiful ones already on display.....along with a special display stand where Bail's violin stood, a reminder of how much it meant to him, and to all those he entertained with it.

Our last day in Edmonton, yesterday, Thursday, after breakfast at Behr's, Linda and I set off to visit Dad's grave in West Edmonton, to pay our respects and to view the stone, which I had arranged for in 2006, but had never had an opportunity to view. Jeff had taken pictures, and that was great, but I wanted to see it (hey, after all, there IS room for me there too, just needs the date filled in, better be in the summertime, d'ya think?). We continued on to find Ted and Shirl's house (Doug's sister and husband) out in Mayfield district, had a nice visit with them, looked at pictures of their kids and grandkids, then followed them to the Cheesecake Cafe for lunch. YUM! And then goodbye, "we'll come to see you".....and we were off down 170th Street past the big mall and out onto the Calgary highway. Hit Calgary just at rush hour of course, so that was a bit of a drag, slowed our journey a bit, but eventually pulled up to my lodge in Magrath. I missed my friends here, and I guess they missed me too from all appearances! They clapped when I came into the dining room.....goofy!

Wonderful three days and good to see Edmonton once again. Special, special thanks to Linda! who made it possible.

Music, Music, Music.

Last night as I was entertaining the troops with some vintage songs from the 30s, 40s, and 50s, someone said to me (not one of our residents, this person just happened to be visiting someone and stopped by to listen)...."I suppose you've been teaching music your whole life!" Well, this was SO RIDICULOUS, I really had to laugh! "I'm afraid not", I said, "I had about ten lessons when I was a child, but I don't think that qualifies me as a music teacher". But, you know, I got to thinking about what a wonderful effect music has had on my life, and I recalled my First Musical Instrument that I could play a tune on....yes, even before the harmonica appeared in our house, which was a godsend to me. I wanted to make music so badly I could taste it.

So here's the tale of my very first instrument, made by my very own self when I was about six or eight, I suppose. I discovered that the green logs in the woodpile (cut to about maybe 18 inches long to fit in the firebox of the kitchen stove) rendered a distinct musical note if you struck them with a piece of metal, like a big spike or something. And the logs of varying sizes would ring out different tones. So I searched out the whole woodpile for logs that gave me the notes of the scale, you know....doh, re, me, fa, sol, la, ti, doh. And then arranged them on the ground in the appropriate row in front of me, and picked out HOME ON THE RANGE, just like a xylophone. I couldn't do much more than the one octave, but you could tell what the song was, believe it or not!

I think that was the first impetus that my parents felt that maybe here they had a child that could have some talent hidden away, and maybe...just maybe....they might have to provide some musical stimulus to further that talent. Of course, we didn't have any money, so the first instrument that was actually store-bought was a simple harmonica. Well, that was a breeze for me, I mastered it in no time, and my mother could play a few simple tunes on it, as well. The great day came when my dad, after practising for many months, rendered THE RED RIVER VALLEY on that mouthorgan....that was the only song he ever mastered. I guess we passed our germs onto each other, but we never developed any kind of dire disease, so It all worked out OK.

I rejoiced greatly when we bought an old pump organ at an auction sale, that was the one I had the 10 lessons on. My mom could play quite a number of the old hymns she had been raised with, and I too, simply delighted in picking out the tunes I knew that were played on the radio. Eventually, I was presented with a second-hand button accordeon....hey, same principle as the mouth organ, so soon I could play quite credibly on that. Then, when I reached my teens and went away to Kitscoty for high school, my folks bought me a piano accordeon. Ah, JOY TO MY WORLD! Can't remember if it was 12 bass or 24. But enough keys that allowed me much greater scope, so about then I started to play for country dances in the local school house, good old country-western music, mostly called "cowboy" songs in those days.

All during high school I played in our KHS band (I'll attach a picture of us all), we played for all the school dances, and we were OK I guess, but then our audience was pretty well a captive one, they couldn't get rid of us. In following years, when the war was on, I lived in Edmonton and was going to business school, still playing my accordeon along with the cook at the girls' home I lived at, she was a demon on the guitar and we entertained all the time, mostly ourselves! But we loved to make music and had a great time doing it. I remember her very well, her name was Norma. And about that time, somebody "discovered" me! (LOL) and I was recruited to entertain the soldiers and airmen at the local live theatre on Jasper Avenue, where lovely musical shows were put on every Sunday evening, and nobody had to be really professional, they didn't care. They would clap and whistle anyway.

And sometime during those years, I remember somebody phoning me from the University, some group was practising Ukrainian dancing, somebody could sing the tune of the song they wanted to use (I still remember it, it had a name that sounded like O HAHRA CARPATTA (Katya will know!...it meant the hills and valleys of the Carpathian Mountains or something like that. Anyway, they couldn't find the music to it and notbody was expert enough to write the notes out, they desperately needed somebody who played by ear, preferably an accordeon, to learn it by listening to it sung a couple of times. So I played for their practises and performance....that's all I remember about that.

Then I went north to Dawson Creek to work for 6 months for the U.S. Army. Most of the civilian personnel spent Sundays getting sloshed (sorry, not me, I wasn't into that stuff, Kristy), and then I would be called on to play for them to dance, sing, whatever. I remember one time I played a whole bunch of Scottish music for them, which I knew well, and could play quite adequately, and some so-called friend decided I needed to be wearing a tartan skirt since I was obviously a SCOT....and they took up a collection for me, (I was so embarrassed, but I couldn't stop them.) I was presented with $72 to buy a skirt for the next Sunday's performance. That was the first time I was ever paid for playing in public.

My next musical memory was pretty funny.....I had just joined the church and the music was mostly all new to me, and I fell in love with High On The Mountain Top. Jack and Jean were getting married in the United Church in Vermilion, and nothing would do but Sister Marion would play the organ. So I decided to play my new Mormon hymn (HOTMT) for the prelude music, 'cause if I got nervous and flubbed it up, nobody would know the difference. Well, so Jean was 10 minutes late coming up the aisle, and I played that blasted song OVER AND OVER AND OVER again, slow, faster, faster, slower, variations, ad infinitum. I'm sure everybody in the place knew that tune backwards and forwards by the time the wedding itself got underway.

Music definitely took a back seat when I was raising my kids, I don't think any of them appreciated me making music during all that long period of my life, they'd much rather listen to various musical curiosities like Def Leopard, Leonard Cohen (Linda was hooked on him for years), I can't remember much of the insane music my kids listened to and made such a fuss over, to me it was just a racket to be endured 24/7. So I didn't do much, except on occasion some kind of musical stuff at the church. It's only been the last few years of retirement that I have finally come into all the keyboard music, bringing to life again the old songs from my younger days....only to discover the seniors out there all know the same songs, if not the words, certainly the tunes. More than enough to feed my ego, and increase my skills immeasureably. And let's face it, I love to entertain my fans! both here in my lodge in Magrath, and in my last place at Evergreen in Calgary, I have experienced the joy of serving my fellow inmates by playing THEIR music for them and literally feeding on their praise and appreciation. My greatest fear is that my deafness will finally get the better of me, and I won't be able to hear the notes.....that will be a sad day for me. Meanwhile, MUSIC, MUSIC, MUSIC!

(jeff here, here's another band, with Mother on the harmonica).

Some more pictures from Jackie

The first ones are early ones of Randy and I shortly after we started dating.... I found the pics I was telling you about why I used to call him and his friends the BowTie Guys! Then one of him holding me out at Rob Wilson's lake where he used to bring Smokey with us.
Linda will like a couple of these pics; they were taken at Bears Hump at Waterton. Also found the one when he was up a tall tree at my parent's house cutting it down.
Most of them are self-explanatory, family pics... love the one of Dave's curly 'do! Funny face Dad was making, us at Debbie and Steve's cabin in Montana, Randy cleaning out the hot tub, Randy and I with a baby Kristen in front of the Rover's Return on Coronation St when we went to England. Judy's cute little house she had.... lots of good memories!

Pictures from Jackie

Hey Jeff,
Based on the new post of old photos, I found the ones I had of your grandparents, and in that same album were some of a visit Randy and I (and our Shar Pei Roland) and your mom and dad paid to Debbi & Steve's, and then we all carried onto Banff I believe it was. I think the birthday party was Dayna's 8th if I remember correctly, and their little American Eskimo pup was named Glacier-in the one picture, Randy is holding Roland back as the pup is pouncing on top of him! Rob is in the picture in the background behind Kristy in the last one.

POLAROIDS

These pics are from an old polaroid album in my bookcase. Some have explanations on them, some don't. Might stir up a few memories amongst the family members. They date back to 1978, when Dad and I and David went to Disneyland with Linda and Stuart. Linda was preggers with Amy and they wouldn't let her go on the wilder rides, she was really cheesed off. Good pics of the Country Squire station wagon. And remember Bootsie, the cat from hell, she and Dave would chase each other, your turn, my turn, all over the house. She ran up the drapes one day, right to the very top, and didn't know how to get back down. She was vicious too, half Burmese, Dave was covered with scratches, it's a wonder he didn't get cat-scratch fever. Remember Smokey, one of our shepherds? yes, she could sit up and beg; her one failing was her extreme fear of thunder, she'd break down the door to get in the house, and scrunched up under the kitchen table and shook all over. Remember the macrame hanging table I made for Debbie and Steve's wedding cake to hang on? There it is, sold it to somebody after for $200, the only money I ever made from advanced macrame! Except for when I taught it for Continuing Ed, they paid me $20 an hour, a fortune in those days! I loved macrame, too bad it went out of style, it will come back in again some day. How do you like the wave petunias we grew in the summer time at 9257? I had forgotten how beautiful our flowers were. The one of Dad with the tomato plant in front of him, is the famous TUMBLER tomato, they produce amazing amounts of mid size tomatoes. How I long for the tasty tomatoes fresh out of the garden, especially when I'm confronted with the cardboard field tomatoes served here at the lodge. Our tomatoes were my job, not Dad's, he had no idea how to prune them, liked eating them though! Some years I even had to can them, we had so many all ripening at the same time. We ate them constantly, stuffed ourselves with them, and still there were more every day. Camille mentioned one time about her Grandpa growing luscious tomatoes, and how wonderful they were. Well, so were our's, always. The last year I grew them I had 17 plants, that was the year after Dad passed away, 2006. I still had my little garden going full speed ahead when Steve and I sold the house in September 2006.

Have fun remembering, everybody.


















Jeff said; well, it took awhile, but i seem to have seperated the many multiple pictures, sent on single scans, by a certain someone. I didn't bother to coordinate the order of text and pictures, so it might be a bit jumbled up. I HATE TOUCHPADS.