Grammy Byberg’s Peanut Butter Cookies
¼ cup shortening
¼ cup butter (softened)
½ cup peanut butter
½ cup sugar
½ cup brown sugar
1 egg
1¼ cups flour
½ teaspoon baking powder
¾ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
Extra sugar for coating cookie dough balls
Preheat oven to 375 degrees
In a large mixing bowl, combine shortening, butter, peanut butter, sugar, brown sugar and egg. Mix thoroughly until smooth. Slowly add the dry ingredients.
Roll cookie dough into balls about the size of a large walnut. Roll each ball in sugar and place about 3 inches apart on a lightly greased cookie sheet.
Bake 11 minutes until set but not hard. Makes about 3 dozen, 2 ½ inch cookies.
The Straley Family
Wednesday, October 23, 2019
The Mystery Child
In my family tree, there runs a line of romantic, volatile Spanish blood. No one knows where she came from, but the repercussions of her long ago arrival are still felt very strongly by many members of my family.
On a warm fall day in October of 1869 in Wayne County, Missouri, Thomas Medders was tending his horses when he found a beautiful little Spanish girl around four or five years of age. The poor girl was wandering around, lost, in his horse pasture. She couldn’t say where she came from or who her parents were. She only knew her name, Maria Cordoba. No one ever came looking for her, so Thomas and his wife Tabitha Elizabeth, took her in and raised her as one of their own children. They called her Mary Medders. The rest of the family hated her. This hatred sprang from the same foul source that so many southerners found within themselves in pre-civil war times; a hatred which enabled them to suppress anyone with dark skin.
William Henry Reed holding daughter Emily. Mary (Maria) Cordoba Medders Reed holding daughter Cora around 1886.
In February of 1883, Mary married William Henry Reed. William Henry adored her and together, they had four daughters, Emily Cordoba (my great grandmother), Cora Melverda, Clara Ellen and Margaret Henrietta. Poor Mary became ill after the birth of Margaret and suffered miserably for the next ten years. She left this world in July of 1903 at the age of 37. Her beloved William Henry placed a lovely headstone on her grave. He visited her grave until the end of his days.
Their oldest daughter, Emily, was always conscious of her dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin. She was ashamed of her Spanish blood and never ventured outdoors without long sleeves and a wide brimmed hat. Emily never uttered her middle name. Emily never discussed her mother and no one dared to broach the subject.
In the mid to late 1960’s, one of Emily’s daughters, Laura Henrietta (nee Brown) Morrow showed her youngest sister Pauline (my grandmother) and her niece, Dorothy (my mother) the Reed Family Bible that she brought back from Missouri after Emily’s death in 1958. Both my grandmother and mother were saddened to see that someone had long ago scratched Maria Cordoba’s name out of the Family Bible. My grandmother knew in her heart that it was probably Emily who did this callous act. The Reed Family Bible has since disappeared.
In 2004, I traveled to Wayne County, Missouri to meet some of my Reed relatives, relatives that descended from William Henry Reed’s second wife. I learned from an Arkansas cousin that Mary was buried in Lowndes Cemetery, in Wayne County. She also told me that many years earlier, someone had removed her headstone. The cemetery is no longer active and the burial records were lost many years ago. If I ever learn where in the Lowndes Cemetery that my dear great-great grandmother is buried, I and many others in the family will place another marker on her grave.
I cannot imagine my great-great grandmother’s pain. Maria Cordoba was abandoned by own family at the age of four or five. She grew up in a hostile household in a prejudiced community. She was despised by her own daughter and erased from the family after her death. God rest her soul.
On a warm fall day in October of 1869 in Wayne County, Missouri, Thomas Medders was tending his horses when he found a beautiful little Spanish girl around four or five years of age. The poor girl was wandering around, lost, in his horse pasture. She couldn’t say where she came from or who her parents were. She only knew her name, Maria Cordoba. No one ever came looking for her, so Thomas and his wife Tabitha Elizabeth, took her in and raised her as one of their own children. They called her Mary Medders. The rest of the family hated her. This hatred sprang from the same foul source that so many southerners found within themselves in pre-civil war times; a hatred which enabled them to suppress anyone with dark skin.
William Henry Reed holding daughter Emily. Mary (Maria) Cordoba Medders Reed holding daughter Cora around 1886.
In February of 1883, Mary married William Henry Reed. William Henry adored her and together, they had four daughters, Emily Cordoba (my great grandmother), Cora Melverda, Clara Ellen and Margaret Henrietta. Poor Mary became ill after the birth of Margaret and suffered miserably for the next ten years. She left this world in July of 1903 at the age of 37. Her beloved William Henry placed a lovely headstone on her grave. He visited her grave until the end of his days.
Their oldest daughter, Emily, was always conscious of her dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin. She was ashamed of her Spanish blood and never ventured outdoors without long sleeves and a wide brimmed hat. Emily never uttered her middle name. Emily never discussed her mother and no one dared to broach the subject.
In the mid to late 1960’s, one of Emily’s daughters, Laura Henrietta (nee Brown) Morrow showed her youngest sister Pauline (my grandmother) and her niece, Dorothy (my mother) the Reed Family Bible that she brought back from Missouri after Emily’s death in 1958. Both my grandmother and mother were saddened to see that someone had long ago scratched Maria Cordoba’s name out of the Family Bible. My grandmother knew in her heart that it was probably Emily who did this callous act. The Reed Family Bible has since disappeared.
In 2004, I traveled to Wayne County, Missouri to meet some of my Reed relatives, relatives that descended from William Henry Reed’s second wife. I learned from an Arkansas cousin that Mary was buried in Lowndes Cemetery, in Wayne County. She also told me that many years earlier, someone had removed her headstone. The cemetery is no longer active and the burial records were lost many years ago. If I ever learn where in the Lowndes Cemetery that my dear great-great grandmother is buried, I and many others in the family will place another marker on her grave.
I cannot imagine my great-great grandmother’s pain. Maria Cordoba was abandoned by own family at the age of four or five. She grew up in a hostile household in a prejudiced community. She was despised by her own daughter and erased from the family after her death. God rest her soul.
Sweet Potato Casserole Recipe
Sweet Potato Casserole (Perfect for Thanksgiving!)
Casserole Ingredients:
3 cups cooked sweet potatoes (or 3 ~16 oz. cans)
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla
½ stick butter
Topping Ingredients:
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup chopped pecans
½ stick butter
½ cup flour
Casserole Instructions:
Heat sweet potatoes until warm. Drain. Blend in mixer (or food processor) until somewhat creamy. Add all other casserole ingredients and stir together. Place in a buttered dish.
Topping Instructions:
Melt better. Place all topping ingredients into a mixing bowl and stir. Spread over casserole. Bake at 350 degrees for 30-45 minutes.
This dish can be prepared the night before. Just put the topping on top of the casserole the next day and bake. Enjoy!
Casserole Ingredients:
3 cups cooked sweet potatoes (or 3 ~16 oz. cans)
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla
½ stick butter
Topping Ingredients:
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup chopped pecans
½ stick butter
½ cup flour
Casserole Instructions:
Heat sweet potatoes until warm. Drain. Blend in mixer (or food processor) until somewhat creamy. Add all other casserole ingredients and stir together. Place in a buttered dish.
Topping Instructions:
Melt better. Place all topping ingredients into a mixing bowl and stir. Spread over casserole. Bake at 350 degrees for 30-45 minutes.
This dish can be prepared the night before. Just put the topping on top of the casserole the next day and bake. Enjoy!
The Teddy Bear
The Teddy Bear
by Nanny Goat Primitives
It was a warm August morning in Texas. The day promised to be a scorcher. I fed our cat, Scratches, and spent the next hour or so weeding the flower beds, filling the bird feeders and enjoying our yard. The early morning was always that special, quiet time of day where I dared to dream or solved the world’s problems or simply planned the day.
I slipped quietly back inside to enjoy my first cup of coffee and a crossword puzzle from the morning paper; a habit I learned at my father’s knee. He always said working the puzzles staved off Alzheimer’s. I wondered for a brief moment if he was working on the same puzzle in Colorado. Perhaps he was having better luck than I.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven o’clock. Rob would be up soon.
We were planning on running a few errands in town and then we were off to our favorite antique store. A few weeks before, Rob spotted a set of antique bookends for $50 that he really wanted but left the store without them. If they were still there that afternoon, he was going to buy them.
Rob stumbled into the kitchen, mumbled an unintelligible good morning and slumped into his chair. I set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and watched the transformation. Without coffee, the man’s knuckles would drag the ground.
The antique store opened at noon and we arrived just as the weekend staff was unlocking the doors. The back of the store was still dark and air conditioner has already humming.
Rob disappeared into the darkness in hopes of finding his treasure.
I stopped at a booth about halfway down the aisle and admired a beautiful Hoosier cabinet. The booth was filled with all sorts of kitchen gadgets from the 1920’s and 1930’s. The upper cabinet was intentionally left open revealing a set of colorful Pyrex bowls just like the ones my grandmother had in her kitchen. Draped over the door were some pretty embroidered tea towels and a green gingham apron. Atop an old wooden ironing board was a beautiful Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt sewn completely by hand out of old flour sacks.
I was about to leave when I spotted old aluminum washtub in the corner filled with castoffs. I found things like hand crocheted doilies with holes in them, stained dresser scarves, ratty quilts and other less than pristine linens from yesterday. Intrigued by the quilt, I pulled it out to inspect it more closely. I decided that for $20, the old quilt was coming home with me. I was refolding the quilt when I saw him.
There, in the pile of castoffs, was a small, well worn teddy bear. The faded price tag read $10. He spoke to me and I knew we were destined to be together. A child from long ago loved him very much. He was bald in spots. One of his eyes was missing and the other hung from a lone strand of black cotton thread. He had been mended many times, each time with a different color of thread. His right arm had been sewn back on in a clumsy sort of way. His sweet little head sat on his body at a haphazard angle.
Rob had found his treasured bookends, paid for them, put them in the car and was wondering where in the world I was. Rob found me sitting crossed legged on the floor in the corner of that booth enchanted with my “new” little friend. We paid for the quilt and my teddy bear. He sat on my lap for the drive home. We’ve been together for more than twenty years.
Daddy died of colon cancer on a cold December day a few years later and my little companion was there to dry so many of the tears I cried. He was there to welcome my two of babies I brought home from the hospital and to say goodbye to the one that didn’t. My children have played with him and I imagine my grandchildren will play with him too. I often wonder if that child from long ago yearns to hold him just one more time. He’s a part of our life.
He’s balder now. I mended his good eye but there’s still a hole in the place of the other that he lost long ago. His arm is still crooked and his head is still off center. In my heart, he is perfect just the way he is.
To me, that is what primitives (old and the not so old) are all about. They touch your heart and become part of who you are.
by Nanny Goat Primitives
It was a warm August morning in Texas. The day promised to be a scorcher. I fed our cat, Scratches, and spent the next hour or so weeding the flower beds, filling the bird feeders and enjoying our yard. The early morning was always that special, quiet time of day where I dared to dream or solved the world’s problems or simply planned the day.
I slipped quietly back inside to enjoy my first cup of coffee and a crossword puzzle from the morning paper; a habit I learned at my father’s knee. He always said working the puzzles staved off Alzheimer’s. I wondered for a brief moment if he was working on the same puzzle in Colorado. Perhaps he was having better luck than I.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven o’clock. Rob would be up soon.
We were planning on running a few errands in town and then we were off to our favorite antique store. A few weeks before, Rob spotted a set of antique bookends for $50 that he really wanted but left the store without them. If they were still there that afternoon, he was going to buy them.
Rob stumbled into the kitchen, mumbled an unintelligible good morning and slumped into his chair. I set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and watched the transformation. Without coffee, the man’s knuckles would drag the ground.
The antique store opened at noon and we arrived just as the weekend staff was unlocking the doors. The back of the store was still dark and air conditioner has already humming.
Rob disappeared into the darkness in hopes of finding his treasure.
I stopped at a booth about halfway down the aisle and admired a beautiful Hoosier cabinet. The booth was filled with all sorts of kitchen gadgets from the 1920’s and 1930’s. The upper cabinet was intentionally left open revealing a set of colorful Pyrex bowls just like the ones my grandmother had in her kitchen. Draped over the door were some pretty embroidered tea towels and a green gingham apron. Atop an old wooden ironing board was a beautiful Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt sewn completely by hand out of old flour sacks.
I was about to leave when I spotted old aluminum washtub in the corner filled with castoffs. I found things like hand crocheted doilies with holes in them, stained dresser scarves, ratty quilts and other less than pristine linens from yesterday. Intrigued by the quilt, I pulled it out to inspect it more closely. I decided that for $20, the old quilt was coming home with me. I was refolding the quilt when I saw him.
There, in the pile of castoffs, was a small, well worn teddy bear. The faded price tag read $10. He spoke to me and I knew we were destined to be together. A child from long ago loved him very much. He was bald in spots. One of his eyes was missing and the other hung from a lone strand of black cotton thread. He had been mended many times, each time with a different color of thread. His right arm had been sewn back on in a clumsy sort of way. His sweet little head sat on his body at a haphazard angle.
Rob had found his treasured bookends, paid for them, put them in the car and was wondering where in the world I was. Rob found me sitting crossed legged on the floor in the corner of that booth enchanted with my “new” little friend. We paid for the quilt and my teddy bear. He sat on my lap for the drive home. We’ve been together for more than twenty years.
Daddy died of colon cancer on a cold December day a few years later and my little companion was there to dry so many of the tears I cried. He was there to welcome my two of babies I brought home from the hospital and to say goodbye to the one that didn’t. My children have played with him and I imagine my grandchildren will play with him too. I often wonder if that child from long ago yearns to hold him just one more time. He’s a part of our life.
He’s balder now. I mended his good eye but there’s still a hole in the place of the other that he lost long ago. His arm is still crooked and his head is still off center. In my heart, he is perfect just the way he is.
To me, that is what primitives (old and the not so old) are all about. They touch your heart and become part of who you are.
Grammy Byberg's Ginger Snap Cookies
Grammy Byberg's Ginger Snap Cookies
submitted by Nanny Goat Primitives
1 1/2 Cups Crisco
2 Cups Sugar
2 Large Eggs
2 Teaspoons Pure Vanilla Extract
1/2 Cup Molasses
4 Cups All-Purpose Flour
4 Teaspoons Baking Soda
3 Teaspoons Ground Cinnamon
2 1/2 Teaspoons Ground Nutmeg
1/2 Teaspoon Ground Cloves
2 Teaspoons Ground Ginger
2 Teaspoons Salt
Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
In a large mixing bowl, cream together the Crisco and sugar. Add the eggs, vanilla and molasses. Mix these well. Slowly add the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger and salt to the molasses mixture.
Roll the dough into one inch balls and dip in a bowl of sugar.
Place the balls onto an ungreased cookie sheet and bake for about 10 minutes.
Store in an airtight container to maintain freshness.
These cookies freeze very well. Makes 6 - 8 dozen cookies.
submitted by Nanny Goat Primitives
1 1/2 Cups Crisco
2 Cups Sugar
2 Large Eggs
2 Teaspoons Pure Vanilla Extract
1/2 Cup Molasses
4 Cups All-Purpose Flour
4 Teaspoons Baking Soda
3 Teaspoons Ground Cinnamon
2 1/2 Teaspoons Ground Nutmeg
1/2 Teaspoon Ground Cloves
2 Teaspoons Ground Ginger
2 Teaspoons Salt
Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
In a large mixing bowl, cream together the Crisco and sugar. Add the eggs, vanilla and molasses. Mix these well. Slowly add the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger and salt to the molasses mixture.
Roll the dough into one inch balls and dip in a bowl of sugar.
Place the balls onto an ungreased cookie sheet and bake for about 10 minutes.
Store in an airtight container to maintain freshness.
These cookies freeze very well. Makes 6 - 8 dozen cookies.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Solitaire Coffee Jars
I have this thing for Solitaire Coffee Jars. Many reside in my kitchen cupboards and some have found a home in my sewing room. I was at an antique store in Elizabeth, Colorado with my cousin Connie last October when I spotted yet another old Solitaire Coffee Jar. This one now holds my growing collection of wooden thread spools. The jars are a wonderful way to display and organize my rusty jingle bells, old clothespins, rag balls, old cookie cutters and quilting scraps. Sweet cousin Connie understands me in ways my family never will (she suffers from the same sickness).
Solitaire Coffee brand was roasted, ground and packaged at the Morey Mercantile Company located on the corner of 16th Street and Wynkoop in Denver, Colorado. The Morey Mercantile Company was a grocery warehouse and supplier that was started by Chester Stephen Morey in 1884. The company has long since gone out of business but the building is now home to The Tattered Cover (a wonderful bookstore) as well as Dixon’s Downtown Grill.
As I’ve mentioned before, my grandmother saved all sorts of different things, “just in case they could be used someday.” One of the things she always saved was Solitaire Coffee Jars. Grammy Byberg used the jars as canisters and she lined them up on her kitchen counter. They held flour, sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, oatmeal, cornmeal, coffee, tea bags, and one or more were always filled with home made cookies. She always kept a slice of bread in the brown sugar jar. Grammy said it kept the sugar soft (she was right).
Grammy Byberg painted the coffee lids orange. She either loved the color or she found a screaming deal on some orange paint because I remember other items she painted the same color. She loved to paint! She once painted Grampy’s car (with a brush) but that’s another story. Daddy always used to tease her by saying that if any of us stood still long enough, we’d get painted too.
Every 4th of July, Grammy would make an assortment of mouth watering pies. She always made those pretty lattice pastry crusts and she did it with such skill and speed. Her pie crusts were always perfect and she knew from experience just how much flour to toss in her large, yellow Pyrex bowl. My favorites were always cherry and apple but all of her homemade goodies were wonderful. Daddy always used to say that he only liked two of his mother’s pies, hot and cold.
I’ll never forget the Thanksgiving Grammy pulled a kitchen chair for me to stand on in front her stove. I think I was six at the time. She stood beside me and loving taught me how to make her special pan dripping gravy using flour from one of her Solitaire Coffee jars, some water from her tea kettle, and a little sage, salt and pepper.
When my grandparents downsized to an apartment, Grammy brought her Solitaire Coffee Jars with her. How many times did she refill those jars over the years as she baked loaves of bread, cakes, pies and cookies for her family and friends?
When Grampy passed away in 1979, I inherited Grammy’s coffee jars. I use them everyday and they bring me such joy!! The lids are still orange! On the underside of the lid for the oatmeal jar, I found her oatmeal cookie recipe. I’ll have to post that recipe sometime. My family has given me REAL canister sets over the years, but I prefer my Solitaire Coffee Jars. They just don’t understand!
Solitaire Coffee brand was roasted, ground and packaged at the Morey Mercantile Company located on the corner of 16th Street and Wynkoop in Denver, Colorado. The Morey Mercantile Company was a grocery warehouse and supplier that was started by Chester Stephen Morey in 1884. The company has long since gone out of business but the building is now home to The Tattered Cover (a wonderful bookstore) as well as Dixon’s Downtown Grill.
As I’ve mentioned before, my grandmother saved all sorts of different things, “just in case they could be used someday.” One of the things she always saved was Solitaire Coffee Jars. Grammy Byberg used the jars as canisters and she lined them up on her kitchen counter. They held flour, sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, oatmeal, cornmeal, coffee, tea bags, and one or more were always filled with home made cookies. She always kept a slice of bread in the brown sugar jar. Grammy said it kept the sugar soft (she was right).
Grammy Byberg painted the coffee lids orange. She either loved the color or she found a screaming deal on some orange paint because I remember other items she painted the same color. She loved to paint! She once painted Grampy’s car (with a brush) but that’s another story. Daddy always used to tease her by saying that if any of us stood still long enough, we’d get painted too.
Every 4th of July, Grammy would make an assortment of mouth watering pies. She always made those pretty lattice pastry crusts and she did it with such skill and speed. Her pie crusts were always perfect and she knew from experience just how much flour to toss in her large, yellow Pyrex bowl. My favorites were always cherry and apple but all of her homemade goodies were wonderful. Daddy always used to say that he only liked two of his mother’s pies, hot and cold.
I’ll never forget the Thanksgiving Grammy pulled a kitchen chair for me to stand on in front her stove. I think I was six at the time. She stood beside me and loving taught me how to make her special pan dripping gravy using flour from one of her Solitaire Coffee jars, some water from her tea kettle, and a little sage, salt and pepper.
When my grandparents downsized to an apartment, Grammy brought her Solitaire Coffee Jars with her. How many times did she refill those jars over the years as she baked loaves of bread, cakes, pies and cookies for her family and friends?
When Grampy passed away in 1979, I inherited Grammy’s coffee jars. I use them everyday and they bring me such joy!! The lids are still orange! On the underside of the lid for the oatmeal jar, I found her oatmeal cookie recipe. I’ll have to post that recipe sometime. My family has given me REAL canister sets over the years, but I prefer my Solitaire Coffee Jars. They just don’t understand!
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The Mystery Child
In my family tree, there runs a line of romantic, volatile Spanish blood. No one knows where she came from, but the repercussions of her long ago arrival are still felt very strongly by many members of my family.
On a warm fall day in October of 1869 in Wayne County, Missouri, Thomas Medders was tending his horses when he found a beautiful little Spanish girl about four or five years of age. The poor girl was wandering around, lost, in his horse pasture. She couldn’t say where she came from or who her parents were. She only knew her name, Maria Cordoba. No one ever came looking for her, so Thomas and his wife Tabitha Elizabeth, took her in and raised her as one of their own children. They called her Mary Medders. The rest of the family hated her. This hatred sprang from the same foul source that so many southerners found within themselves in pre-civil war times; a hatred which enabled them to suppress anyone with dark skin.
William Henry Reed holding daughter Emily. Mary (Maria) Cordoba Medders Reed holding daughter Cora around 1886.
In February of 1883, Mary married William Henry Reed. William Henry adored her and together, they had four daughters, Emily Cordoba (my great grandmother), Cora Melverda, Clara Ellen and Margaret Henrietta. Poor Mary became ill after the birth of Margaret and suffered miserably for the next ten years. She left this world in July of 1903 at the age of 37. Her beloved William Henry placed a lovely headstone on her grave. He visited her grave until the end of his days.
Their oldest daughter, Emily, was always conscious of her dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin. She was ashamed of her Spanish blood and never ventured outdoors without long sleeves and a wide brimmed hat. Emily never uttered her middle name. Emily never discussed her mother and no one dared to broach the subject.
In the mid to late 1960’s, one of Emily’s daughters, Laura Henrietta (nee Brown) Morrow showed her youngest sister Pauline (my grandmother) and her niece, Dorothy (my mother) the Reed Family Bible that she brought back from Missouri after Emily’s death in 1958. Both my grandmother and mother were saddened to see that someone had long ago scratched Maria Cordoba’s name out of the Family Bible. My grandmother knew in her heart that it was probably Emily who did this callous act. The Reed Family Bible has since disappeared.
In 2004, I traveled to Wayne County, Missouri to meet some of my Reed relatives, relatives that descend from William Henry Reed’s second wife, Eva James Barlow. I learned from an Arkansas cousin that Mary (Maria) was buried in Lowndes Cemetery, in Wayne County. She also told me that many years earlier, someone had removed her headstone. The cemetery is no longer active and the burial records were lost many years ago. If I ever learn where in the Lowndes Cemetery my dear great-great grandmother is buried, I and many others in the family will place another marker on her grave.
I cannot imagine my great-great grandmother’s pain. Maria Cordoba was abandoned by her own family at the age of four or five. She grew up in a hostile household in a prejudiced community. She was despised by her own daughter and erased from the family after her death. God rest her soul.
On a warm fall day in October of 1869 in Wayne County, Missouri, Thomas Medders was tending his horses when he found a beautiful little Spanish girl about four or five years of age. The poor girl was wandering around, lost, in his horse pasture. She couldn’t say where she came from or who her parents were. She only knew her name, Maria Cordoba. No one ever came looking for her, so Thomas and his wife Tabitha Elizabeth, took her in and raised her as one of their own children. They called her Mary Medders. The rest of the family hated her. This hatred sprang from the same foul source that so many southerners found within themselves in pre-civil war times; a hatred which enabled them to suppress anyone with dark skin.
William Henry Reed holding daughter Emily. Mary (Maria) Cordoba Medders Reed holding daughter Cora around 1886.
Their oldest daughter, Emily, was always conscious of her dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin. She was ashamed of her Spanish blood and never ventured outdoors without long sleeves and a wide brimmed hat. Emily never uttered her middle name. Emily never discussed her mother and no one dared to broach the subject.
In the mid to late 1960’s, one of Emily’s daughters, Laura Henrietta (nee Brown) Morrow showed her youngest sister Pauline (my grandmother) and her niece, Dorothy (my mother) the Reed Family Bible that she brought back from Missouri after Emily’s death in 1958. Both my grandmother and mother were saddened to see that someone had long ago scratched Maria Cordoba’s name out of the Family Bible. My grandmother knew in her heart that it was probably Emily who did this callous act. The Reed Family Bible has since disappeared.
In 2004, I traveled to Wayne County, Missouri to meet some of my Reed relatives, relatives that descend from William Henry Reed’s second wife, Eva James Barlow. I learned from an Arkansas cousin that Mary (Maria) was buried in Lowndes Cemetery, in Wayne County. She also told me that many years earlier, someone had removed her headstone. The cemetery is no longer active and the burial records were lost many years ago. If I ever learn where in the Lowndes Cemetery my dear great-great grandmother is buried, I and many others in the family will place another marker on her grave.
I cannot imagine my great-great grandmother’s pain. Maria Cordoba was abandoned by her own family at the age of four or five. She grew up in a hostile household in a prejudiced community. She was despised by her own daughter and erased from the family after her death. God rest her soul.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Morsey The Horsey
My sisters and I moved our mother a few years ago into an apartment within in a few miles from me. She had lived in the same home, our childhood home, for nearly 30 years. Mom’s MS had progressed to the point where she could no longer safely navigate the stairs. Daddy passed away in that house in December of 1991 from colon cancer. He was 59. I must stress here that this is not a job for sissies! It took a physical and emotional toll on all of us.
The five of us moved into the house on the corner of Pomona Drive and Ammons Way in Arvada, Colorado on March 17, 1973. For the first time in my life (I was 8 at the time) I had my very own bedroom; a very big deal for a third grader!! Dawn was just a kindie! Debbie was attending Arapahoe Community College and was engaged to the handsome David Everett. Mom was young and strong then and Daddy was so handsome, happy and healthy. Grammy Byberg was just as excited as the rest of us! She made all the draperies for the new house!
So many memories resided in that house and you never knew what kind of emotional landmine awaited you each time you peeked inside a box or opened a dresser drawer. I’ve often marveled at the powerful memories attached to a particular smell or an object from long ago. With no warning, you are suddenly transported to another time (and not necessary a happy one) and forced to relive a snapshot of your life. We were often driven to our knees with gut splitting laughter or convulsive bouts of tears within an hour’s time.
The basement in our childhood home took the longest to clean out and it had nothing to do with the dusty, heavy furniture. It’s interesting how the past and present can co-exist in the same dimly lit room. There we found the seat cushions for the outdoor swing sitting on top of the old dresser that belonged to Grammy Byberg. Atop the boxes of Daddy's 78's from the 1950's was the roasting pan Mom used every year at Thanksgiving. The top drawer of a dresser contained photographs of family gatherings from the 1910's through 2002.
I remember moving the Christmas tree stand that Daddy had attached to a square piece of plywood that he had painted with white enamel. As a baby, I was fascinated with the Christmas tree. I would crawl under the tree and made a career of knocking it over. The tree crashing to the floor shook the whole house and scared the daylights out of Daddy. He made the stand that afternoon (and we used the tree stand every Christmas until his death).
Behind the tree stand was Mr. Kenmore, the sewing machine and cabinet that Daddy bought for Mom on her birthday in 1973, just in time for her to start creating Debbie’s wedding dress. Mom made so many of our school clothes on that machine. I can still picture her sitting at Mr. Kenmore and trying to talk to us with a mouthful of straight pins.
When Mom and Dad married, she had an old Morse sewing machine. In the “old house on Newland”, the Morse (my sisters and I nicknamed it Morsey the Horsey because it weighed a ton) lived in my parent’s bedroom. Many a night we would drift off to sleep listening to the hum of that old friend. Mom gave Dawn and me old Morsey when the Mr. Kenmore came to live with us. I remember sewing on Morse the Horse. I made gobs of goodies for Barbie from Mom’s scrap bag but I had to put the power unit on top of a stack of Collier’s Encyclopedias so my foot could reach the pedal. My sisters and I all learned how to sew on Morsey the Horsey.
Mr. Kenmore moved to the basement when I was in college after Daddy bought Mom Miss Bernina for yet another birthday. This was the sewing machine of Mom’s dreams! It had all the bells and whistles she could imagine! She sewed Dawn’s prom dress on Miss Bernina and lots of other beautiful things. In many ways, Miss Bernina comforted Mom’s feeling of emptiness after I married and moved to Lubbock, Texas in much the same way the Mr. Kenmore comforted her after Debbie married and moved away.
Miss Bernina . . . Miss Bernina resided idle and dusty upstairs in my old bedroom that overlooked the now overgrown Japanese garden Daddy used to tend so lovingly. I used to tease Mom that before I had even left the city limits of Arvada (after marrying Rob), she had already moved Miss Bernina into my old bedroom.
MS is a cruel disease. It has robbed my mother’s ability to sew, one of her greatest passions. We moved Miss Bernina to Mom’s new apartment knowing that it would never again hum under the care of my mother’s expert hands. Mom had to let go of so many things when she moved, but she insisted that her old friend, Miss Bernina, be with her in her new place.
The sewing machines we grew up with were like members of the family. So much of our childhood revolved around them. As toddlers, we played at Mom’s feet while the Morsey the Horsey hummed its happy tune. As teenagers, we watched Mom and Miss Bernina create our prom dresses. We watched in amazement as she and Mr. Kenmore created Debbie’s wedding dress. When Dawn married, in 1991, Debbie made Mom’s dress on her own machine because Mom could no longer sew. Life is a circle and in our family, a sewing circle.
I was moving a box of old Christmas decorations in the basement, when I saw my old friend. I dropped to my knees in yet another round of tears as I hugged Morsey the Horsey and yes, he still weighs a ton.
The five of us moved into the house on the corner of Pomona Drive and Ammons Way in Arvada, Colorado on March 17, 1973. For the first time in my life (I was 8 at the time) I had my very own bedroom; a very big deal for a third grader!! Dawn was just a kindie! Debbie was attending Arapahoe Community College and was engaged to the handsome David Everett. Mom was young and strong then and Daddy was so handsome, happy and healthy. Grammy Byberg was just as excited as the rest of us! She made all the draperies for the new house!
So many memories resided in that house and you never knew what kind of emotional landmine awaited you each time you peeked inside a box or opened a dresser drawer. I’ve often marveled at the powerful memories attached to a particular smell or an object from long ago. With no warning, you are suddenly transported to another time (and not necessary a happy one) and forced to relive a snapshot of your life. We were often driven to our knees with gut splitting laughter or convulsive bouts of tears within an hour’s time.
The basement in our childhood home took the longest to clean out and it had nothing to do with the dusty, heavy furniture. It’s interesting how the past and present can co-exist in the same dimly lit room. There we found the seat cushions for the outdoor swing sitting on top of the old dresser that belonged to Grammy Byberg. Atop the boxes of Daddy's 78's from the 1950's was the roasting pan Mom used every year at Thanksgiving. The top drawer of a dresser contained photographs of family gatherings from the 1910's through 2002.
I remember moving the Christmas tree stand that Daddy had attached to a square piece of plywood that he had painted with white enamel. As a baby, I was fascinated with the Christmas tree. I would crawl under the tree and made a career of knocking it over. The tree crashing to the floor shook the whole house and scared the daylights out of Daddy. He made the stand that afternoon (and we used the tree stand every Christmas until his death).
Behind the tree stand was Mr. Kenmore, the sewing machine and cabinet that Daddy bought for Mom on her birthday in 1973, just in time for her to start creating Debbie’s wedding dress. Mom made so many of our school clothes on that machine. I can still picture her sitting at Mr. Kenmore and trying to talk to us with a mouthful of straight pins.
When Mom and Dad married, she had an old Morse sewing machine. In the “old house on Newland”, the Morse (my sisters and I nicknamed it Morsey the Horsey because it weighed a ton) lived in my parent’s bedroom. Many a night we would drift off to sleep listening to the hum of that old friend. Mom gave Dawn and me old Morsey when the Mr. Kenmore came to live with us. I remember sewing on Morse the Horse. I made gobs of goodies for Barbie from Mom’s scrap bag but I had to put the power unit on top of a stack of Collier’s Encyclopedias so my foot could reach the pedal. My sisters and I all learned how to sew on Morsey the Horsey.
Mr. Kenmore moved to the basement when I was in college after Daddy bought Mom Miss Bernina for yet another birthday. This was the sewing machine of Mom’s dreams! It had all the bells and whistles she could imagine! She sewed Dawn’s prom dress on Miss Bernina and lots of other beautiful things. In many ways, Miss Bernina comforted Mom’s feeling of emptiness after I married and moved to Lubbock, Texas in much the same way the Mr. Kenmore comforted her after Debbie married and moved away.
Miss Bernina . . . Miss Bernina resided idle and dusty upstairs in my old bedroom that overlooked the now overgrown Japanese garden Daddy used to tend so lovingly. I used to tease Mom that before I had even left the city limits of Arvada (after marrying Rob), she had already moved Miss Bernina into my old bedroom.
MS is a cruel disease. It has robbed my mother’s ability to sew, one of her greatest passions. We moved Miss Bernina to Mom’s new apartment knowing that it would never again hum under the care of my mother’s expert hands. Mom had to let go of so many things when she moved, but she insisted that her old friend, Miss Bernina, be with her in her new place.
The sewing machines we grew up with were like members of the family. So much of our childhood revolved around them. As toddlers, we played at Mom’s feet while the Morsey the Horsey hummed its happy tune. As teenagers, we watched Mom and Miss Bernina create our prom dresses. We watched in amazement as she and Mr. Kenmore created Debbie’s wedding dress. When Dawn married, in 1991, Debbie made Mom’s dress on her own machine because Mom could no longer sew. Life is a circle and in our family, a sewing circle.
I was moving a box of old Christmas decorations in the basement, when I saw my old friend. I dropped to my knees in yet another round of tears as I hugged Morsey the Horsey and yes, he still weighs a ton.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Drapery Board and the Button Tin
When my sisters and I were young, we would spend a couple of weeks each summer with my grandparents. It was the highlight of our summer vacation! They lived in a small, two bedroom house in Denver that smelled of lavender and homemade cookies (and Dove soap). Their basement was finished and this was where my grandmother, Louise Flaten Byberg, sewed custom draperies to help make ends meet. She started her day early and was usually hard at work by the time the three of us stumbled out of bed. In the heat of the summer, we would often retreat to the basement where it was cool (in more ways than one).
My grandfather, Roland Byberg, made her a drapery board from an uncut piece of plywood. Grammy covered it with an old blanket and a flat white sheet. She used pretty brass upholstery tacks to secure the fabric to the underside of the drapery board. It sat on two handmade, hinged sawhorses. During Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas, the drapery board was brought upstairs and placed on top of Grammy’s beautiful dining room table and was elegantly set with her lovely linen tablecloth and pretty china. Her dining room table was too small to seat her children and grandchildren, so she used the drapery board so everyone could sit around the same table during the holidays.
My sisters and I spent many hours underneath that drapery board while Grammy sewed away the afternoon on her old Singer. The luxurious fabric that hung over the drapery board created the imaginary home of our dreams. Grammy often joined us for lunch under the drapery board and taught us the magic of needle and thread. Grammy gave us her drapery scraps and we created our own draperies, doll quilts and linens for our little house. We sat cross-legged, giggled and hand sewed the bits and pieces of fabric from her scrap sack beneath the drapery board not knowing that this was the beginning of a life long passion for the three of us. She also allowed us to use buttons from her button tin to embellish our creations. Her button tin was one of her prized possessions and an object of fascination for the three of us girls.
The tin was black and round. Its lid was embossed with a beautiful rosemaled design in pretty reds, blues, greens, and yellows. Rosemaling (Norwegian rose painting) is a form of decorative flower painting that originated in the low-land areas of eastern Norway around 1750. Most of the decoration is based on scrolls and flowers. It was traditional for Norwegians to rosemale their furniture and homes to add color and beauty. The tin originally belonged to Alma Gresvig, my great grandmother. Alma was born in Norway and she brought the tin with her as a young girl to Menomonie, Wisconsin in 1881. It was filled with her childhood treasures from her homeland.
The tin held a “world of tactile imagination for a little girl allowed to mine its depths”. Many of the buttons were handmade. Some were made from shells, some were hand carved from wood, and others were cut from colored glass. Grammy said some of the buttons belonged to her grandmother, Nellie Andrine Andersdatter Gresvig. She had stories to tell about where many of the buttons came from which inevitably led to stories about her childhood in Wisconsin.
She often said that when clothing could no longer be mended, the buttons were removed and saved and strung on buttonhole thread. Grammy was a frugal woman as was her mother and grandmother. Perhaps this philosophy was born from economic necessity, but to her, the thought of tossing something out that was still useful was wasteful. She saved all sorts of little things “just in case” they were needed some day.
My sisters and I spent hours stringing (and unstringing) buttons together as a way of thanking our grandmother for letting us explore her treasured button tin. We must have sorted those buttons hundreds of different ways, by size, shape and color. We made up our own games using those buttons.
I have my own button tin now as well as Grammy’s. In my tin, there are buttons that I have snipped off clothing destined for the rag bag and buttons I’ve picked up at tag sales and thrift stores. These are the buttons that often end up in the primitive items I create and sell. Something deep inside my heart, however, keeps me from mixing my buttons with Grammy’s. I know that sounds silly, but there’s an emotional connection between that old Norwegian tin and my sweet grandmother. Every now and again, I’ll sit with that old tin on my lap. Each time I sift through them, I am transported back to those summers spent beneath the drapery board with my sisters. During these quiet moments, I feel connected to all of my grandmothers. Each button has a history and I often wonder what sort of garment it once adorned and who wore it.
I have a dear friend who inherited her grandmother’s button tin. She started a wonderful tradition that I would like to share. As each of her children marries, she gives each one their very own button jar. The jar contains a mixture of her grandmother’s buttons as well as some from her own button jar. She includes a story or two that tells her children where some of the buttons came from, who they belonged to and why they were saved. What a wonderful keepsake to pass down to future generations!
When I make primitives for my sisters, I try to incorporate a button or two from Grammy’s tin. For my sisters, it’s like a gift from me and our grandmothers. Somehow, I think they would approve.
My grandfather, Roland Byberg, made her a drapery board from an uncut piece of plywood. Grammy covered it with an old blanket and a flat white sheet. She used pretty brass upholstery tacks to secure the fabric to the underside of the drapery board. It sat on two handmade, hinged sawhorses. During Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas, the drapery board was brought upstairs and placed on top of Grammy’s beautiful dining room table and was elegantly set with her lovely linen tablecloth and pretty china. Her dining room table was too small to seat her children and grandchildren, so she used the drapery board so everyone could sit around the same table during the holidays.
My sisters and I spent many hours underneath that drapery board while Grammy sewed away the afternoon on her old Singer. The luxurious fabric that hung over the drapery board created the imaginary home of our dreams. Grammy often joined us for lunch under the drapery board and taught us the magic of needle and thread. Grammy gave us her drapery scraps and we created our own draperies, doll quilts and linens for our little house. We sat cross-legged, giggled and hand sewed the bits and pieces of fabric from her scrap sack beneath the drapery board not knowing that this was the beginning of a life long passion for the three of us. She also allowed us to use buttons from her button tin to embellish our creations. Her button tin was one of her prized possessions and an object of fascination for the three of us girls.
The tin was black and round. Its lid was embossed with a beautiful rosemaled design in pretty reds, blues, greens, and yellows. Rosemaling (Norwegian rose painting) is a form of decorative flower painting that originated in the low-land areas of eastern Norway around 1750. Most of the decoration is based on scrolls and flowers. It was traditional for Norwegians to rosemale their furniture and homes to add color and beauty. The tin originally belonged to Alma Gresvig, my great grandmother. Alma was born in Norway and she brought the tin with her as a young girl to Menomonie, Wisconsin in 1881. It was filled with her childhood treasures from her homeland.
The tin held a “world of tactile imagination for a little girl allowed to mine its depths”. Many of the buttons were handmade. Some were made from shells, some were hand carved from wood, and others were cut from colored glass. Grammy said some of the buttons belonged to her grandmother, Nellie Andrine Andersdatter Gresvig. She had stories to tell about where many of the buttons came from which inevitably led to stories about her childhood in Wisconsin.
She often said that when clothing could no longer be mended, the buttons were removed and saved and strung on buttonhole thread. Grammy was a frugal woman as was her mother and grandmother. Perhaps this philosophy was born from economic necessity, but to her, the thought of tossing something out that was still useful was wasteful. She saved all sorts of little things “just in case” they were needed some day.
My sisters and I spent hours stringing (and unstringing) buttons together as a way of thanking our grandmother for letting us explore her treasured button tin. We must have sorted those buttons hundreds of different ways, by size, shape and color. We made up our own games using those buttons.
I have my own button tin now as well as Grammy’s. In my tin, there are buttons that I have snipped off clothing destined for the rag bag and buttons I’ve picked up at tag sales and thrift stores. These are the buttons that often end up in the primitive items I create and sell. Something deep inside my heart, however, keeps me from mixing my buttons with Grammy’s. I know that sounds silly, but there’s an emotional connection between that old Norwegian tin and my sweet grandmother. Every now and again, I’ll sit with that old tin on my lap. Each time I sift through them, I am transported back to those summers spent beneath the drapery board with my sisters. During these quiet moments, I feel connected to all of my grandmothers. Each button has a history and I often wonder what sort of garment it once adorned and who wore it.
I have a dear friend who inherited her grandmother’s button tin. She started a wonderful tradition that I would like to share. As each of her children marries, she gives each one their very own button jar. The jar contains a mixture of her grandmother’s buttons as well as some from her own button jar. She includes a story or two that tells her children where some of the buttons came from, who they belonged to and why they were saved. What a wonderful keepsake to pass down to future generations!
When I make primitives for my sisters, I try to incorporate a button or two from Grammy’s tin. For my sisters, it’s like a gift from me and our grandmothers. Somehow, I think they would approve.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Primitive Shamrocks for St. Patrick's Day
The robins are back! Rob and I enjoyed watching a pair of them hopping around on the front lawn this morning. Spring will be here soon!
I found some time over the weekend to make some St. Patrick's Day goodies. I listed this set of Primitive Shamrocks on eBay this week. I've got some other St. Paddy's Day things in the works. The e~pattern for the Shamrocks is available on Pattern Mart.
If you would like to see the listing on eBay, just click on the picture.
Thank you for stopping by!
Deanna :)
I found some time over the weekend to make some St. Patrick's Day goodies. I listed this set of Primitive Shamrocks on eBay this week. I've got some other St. Paddy's Day things in the works. The e~pattern for the Shamrocks is available on Pattern Mart.
If you would like to see the listing on eBay, just click on the picture.
Thank you for stopping by!
Deanna :)
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