Others could care less.
I'm one of the former.
The little house in Rolling Prairie where I grew up had kind of a different dining room. Mother (Nellie Marie Stoner Jones) had an elegant walnut buffet with matching round table and chairs in the dining room proper. As a grown-up I learned my father, Basil Ford Jones, had bought the dining room set for $100 from Aunt Mary Rust when her husband died. She added a lovely set of china (which we also saved for company) to the purchase. We never ate on that table - unless company was in the house.
We ate in a sort of an alcove/hallway to the kitchen attached to the back of the house. The alcove featured what looked like a restaurant booth - benches with high backs on either side of a wide table. The three of us would often fight over being "one" while the other two sat on the other side. We were very small when we lived in the house so my two brothers and I fit quite nicely on one bench - Mother and Dad would be on the other. Perhaps the booth was a throwback to a former life of the house - maybe as a coffee shop or cafe on the highway from New York to Chicago that wound its way through our little village?
The kitchen - I realize now - must have been an add-on. It stuck out from the house - its only connection at the alcove side of the house. Next to it on the back of the house were two windows spaced equally apart from the end next to the gasoline station on the west side of the house (former blacksmith shoppe of my grandfather). There was no running water - the only heat was a gas cookstove - but I can't truly remember what kind of gas. We carried water in pails from my Grandma Carrie's house next door. Her house had a pump that provided water to her house and the gasoline station.
Our house was quite small - beside the dining room was a living room and behind it a tiny bedroom just the size of my parent's bed. At the left-hand corner of the room was a stairway to an upstairs bedroom beside the unfinished attic.
The stair had a landing just four steps up from the bedroom - and on the landing was a register - it could be lifted out, leaving a large hole into the floor of a closet. My brothers and I would remove the register and clamber down into the closet below - coming out in a tiny room behind the dining room next to the alcove. We played spy games, hide and seek (even tho we knew where everyone was all the time in that little bungalow). Mother kept her sewing machine and most any clutter in that room.
On the east side of the house was a large platform/porch. I spent many hours out there in the shade of the big maples playing with paper dolls, reading and sometimes sharing with Mrs. Fuller.
Childhood in that little house was such a charmed time.
Flossie, Grandma Carrie, and my father, Basil Ford Jones, were such special adults who gave me perspective on growing up.
The kitchen - I realize now - must have been an add-on. It stuck out from the house - its only connection at the alcove side of the house. Next to it on the back of the house were two windows spaced equally apart from the end next to the gasoline station on the west side of the house (former blacksmith shoppe of my grandfather). There was no running water - the only heat was a gas cookstove - but I can't truly remember what kind of gas. We carried water in pails from my Grandma Carrie's house next door. Her house had a pump that provided water to her house and the gasoline station.
Our house was quite small - beside the dining room was a living room and behind it a tiny bedroom just the size of my parent's bed. At the left-hand corner of the room was a stairway to an upstairs bedroom beside the unfinished attic.
The stair had a landing just four steps up from the bedroom - and on the landing was a register - it could be lifted out, leaving a large hole into the floor of a closet. My brothers and I would remove the register and clamber down into the closet below - coming out in a tiny room behind the dining room next to the alcove. We played spy games, hide and seek (even tho we knew where everyone was all the time in that little bungalow). Mother kept her sewing machine and most any clutter in that room.
On the east side of the house was a large platform/porch. I spent many hours out there in the shade of the big maples playing with paper dolls, reading and sometimes sharing with Mrs. Fuller.
Childhood in that little house was such a charmed time.
Flossie, Grandma Carrie, and my father, Basil Ford Jones, were such special adults who gave me perspective on growing up.
Flossie had been a school teacher and raised two boys.
Grandma Carrie was rather young when widowed and became a nursemaid to townspeople when a new baby was birthed or when someone became housebound with illness.
Basil was a kind and gentle soul, beloved by all for his wise and serene personality.
Florence Fuller was our neighbor - she lived caty-corner across the street in a huge three-story house with a stone wall around its yard with her husband, Dr. Carl David Fuller. She loved to come to our house and iron for my mother. She also enjoyed eating with us - but only at lunch time.
Flossie, as most of the townfolk called her, was my friend. She read poetry to me, she would play soft songs on our piano for me and she always treated me as tho I was her age - and not just a childhood nuisance. Because of her, I learned to love the printed word - and how much music could soothe my soul when the world closed in with Mother's orders and my brother's taunts.
Florence Fuller was our neighbor - she lived caty-corner across the street in a huge three-story house with a stone wall around its yard with her husband, Dr. Carl David Fuller. She loved to come to our house and iron for my mother. She also enjoyed eating with us - but only at lunch time.
Flossie, as most of the townfolk called her, was my friend. She read poetry to me, she would play soft songs on our piano for me and she always treated me as tho I was her age - and not just a childhood nuisance. Because of her, I learned to love the printed word - and how much music could soothe my soul when the world closed in with Mother's orders and my brother's taunts.
Grandma Carrie made wonderful soft sugar cookies with just a hint of lemon. She always smelled so good - I think it was some sort of verbena scent. In memories of her I always see her in the rocking chair by the window in her dining room. On a small table was her Bible and whatever she was reading that week. We played anagrams (surely a trial for someone who loved reading and words to play with a kid who knew almost nothing).
Daddy never raised his voice - I never heard him utter a swear word and barely a cross word. He adored my mother - and she adored him. That was obvious whenever he came home from work they would meet in the archway between the dining room and living room and share an embrace.
Daddy loved to tease Mother. When he bought the first television in Rolling Prairie, a small black and white set, there was a variety show, often featuring a Spanish dance couple. Daddy would say to us kids, "Your mother and I know how to do that, but we've stopped because of . . . " and he would add some ridiculous phrase that had nothing to do with the dancing, the show, or my parents.
