Becoming my mother?

Thought I was finished blogging, did you? Well, you never know. I was out walking the other day and stopped to visit with some guy who was throwing a long rope over the limb of a tree. And suddenly I thought, "Dang, my mother would talk to anyone, but I never would. I must be becoming my mother!" Ergo, a blog post.

Here she is, by the way. It's so hard to find a good picture of her - she hated having her picture taken. We were on my first camping trip, at Rock Creek, on the east side of the Sierras. A life-changing experience, for me. But she must have liked it too - look at how happy she seems to be in her pants and sweater, posing with her little cowgirl. Yep, that's a real teardrop trailer in the background.

But Beth was an outgoing person who embarrassed me and my quiet Swedish dad ever so many times. Once we were visiting San Pedro harbor, and there was a foreign freighter in port. Then they let you come aboard, so up we went. There were still sailors on board, all speaking a language that sounded 'way exotic. But that didn't deter my mom - soon she was deep in some semblance of a conversation with a bunch of them, Daddy and me trying to shrink into the wall. Sounds silly now, doesn't it?

Santa Barbara had a minor league baseball team - very minor. My dad's company had a box (not like you'd see at the Royals' stadium!) and we went often. Well, didn't my mother start getting to know the players - all cute guys, some from out of town - and inviting them home to dinner! She also collected some Turks, who invited us over for the worst burek you can imagine - students, obviously, who never had to cook in Turkey.

My newfound extroversion, if that it may be, has its limits. I never bring anyone home - I just chat in the supermarket line. But I'm glad that I've at least come to appreciate how much fun my mother's encounters would have been if I'd just let myself enjoy them.

My only Halloween story

Another submission from my life story, a class exercise.

Surely I was seven, if not eight, when my parents and I picked out my Halloween costume: Little Bo Peep. Yes, there were ready-made costumes even then. It’s a good thing, because neither my mother nor my grandmother was much in the sewing line. It was beautiful, with a little flat hat trimmed in lace. Alas, we made this decision too soon, because one day I took my costume down from the shelf where it was being kept safe, looked at it, and in a rush of despair thought, “Why did I ever want to be Little Bo Peep? All I’ve ever wanted to be was a fairy princess!”

There was an invisible “no whining” sign in my family, and I knew the rules. There was no way to complain and demand a refund. So I dreamed of the perfect fairy princess costume, and I’m quite sure I prayed. This was undoubtedly the first of many spiritual crises. Each day I looked in the closet, and the costume remained steadfastly Bo Peep.

What an anticlimactic ending; I have no recollection of Halloween that year. People must have said, “Oh, what a sweet Bo Peep,” and I must have gritted my teeth and said “Thank you.” I no doubt enjoyed the candy, which might have included a popcorn ball or two in that pre-razorblade era. But there was no joy, no joy at all.

Vital Statistics (I mistakenly published w/o title or pictures!)

I hit some button and published prematurely. So if you read the unnamed blog, here's some background to go with it, plus the ever-important photos. This started as a list, but as is my wont, it got wordier! All the pictures seem to be with baby me, but maybe most adults look their best when they're holding a baby.

I was given the name Karin Ingrid Augerson, to which I added McAdams when I married Michael. I still use McAdams, because the kids have it.

I don’t know who decided on Karin Ingrid, especially with the Swedish spelling. Augerson is an Americanized version of Åkeson, the name of our immigrant ancestor from Skåne. But my great-grandfather immediately demanded to know how to pronounce it, and I never really knew till we went to Sweden, where the Swedes, seeing it written “properly,” said oh, Kawrin (with a rolled r).

I was born in Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital. I can say that I was born in Hollywood, which is true, but technically Hollywood is just a part of Los Angeles, California.

I was born on April 8, 1940, a Monday, at 7:28 in the morning. Both the sun and the moon were in Aries, and six planets were in the 12^th house. A note to non-astrologers: the latter can be either dire or full of challenging opportunity.

The world didn’t look good about then. The United States was declaring itself apart from the war that was worsening in Europe, but there was already a draft, and the government was secretly helping England, which was being bombed heavily. Surely this was in the back of everyone’s mind. *

In my story I mentioned that there were no freeways in Los Angeles then, but in fact there was a little bit of the first freeway opened, the Arroyo Seco or Pasadena. This wouldn’t have helped my parents get to the hospital. The modern era was truly coming; that year the first McDonald’s opened, also in Pasadena, but I never saw one until we moved back to LA many years later.

My mother’s maiden name was Elizabeth Leggett Guest. Leggett, or Legate, is a family name that goes back to the seventeenth century in America and before that to England. She was always called Beth. My father was Philip Henry Augerson. Philip was after his mother’s grandfather, who lived most of his life in Iowa, and Henry was his mother’s maiden name. I always, even into adulthood, called them Mommy and Daddy; somehow Daddy still seems okay, but I can’t refer to my mother as Mommy.

My mother was born in 1915 in Detroit, Michigan. I have a telegram that my great-aunt Margaret Whittemore sent to my grandmother, saying “Congratulations on the birth of baby Elizabeth. Votes for women!” My mother died of a heart attack in 1962. My dad wasborn in Galesburg, Illinois, in 1916 and died in January 2002.

In 1963, Daddy married Elisabeth Roblee Zuckerman, my stepmother, who lived to the age of 98. She was determined to live long enough to vote for Barak Obama and to make sure he was elected. She died on December 4, 2008.

On my mother’s side, my grandparents were Emma Farrand Whittemore, born in 1883 and died in 1948, when I was eight, and Kenneth Irving Guest, 1878 – 1938. I was the first grandchild, and though my grandfather didn’t live to see me, my great-grandfather, James Whittemore, did. I remember Grandma Guest well; she was a warm and loving grandmother. When she was raising her own kids, someone took exception to her gardening, to which she retorted, “I’m raising children, not roses.”

My dad's parents are the ones I really knew. From the time I was five until I was nine we lived next door to them, I spent more time at their house than I didat home. Grandpa Augerson (Herbert Rutherford) was born in 1884 and died in 1969, about the time my son Ian was born. My mother once accused him of being “a bigoted old man,” which he undoubtedly was, but he was always gentle with me. I helped him pick boysenberries and slaughter chickens.

Grandma Augersonwas a beloved and affirming part of my life. She would patiently take part in my playing pretend, and she let me wring out clothes in the wonderful wringer and hang them on the line. Not really liking to cook, she had no problem with me experimenting in her kitchen. Living from 1886 to 1979, she had a long life, though her mind became shaky toward the end. She was born Stella Mae Henry in Galesburg, Illinois, the oldest of eight children.

I’m an only child. In spite of great-grandfather Whittemore’s advice to get a better doctor next time, my parents probably preferred not to take that risk again; also, the war undoubtedly intervened. Luckily, I have cousins; more about them in another installment.

*The day after I was born, Germany occupied Denmark and Norway.

I was given the name Karin Ingrid Augerson, to which I added McAdams when I married Michael. I still use McAdams, because the kids have it.

I don’t know who decided on Karin Ingrid, especially with the Swedish spelling. Augerson is an Americanized version of Åkeson, the name of our immigrant ancestor from Skåne. But my great-grandfather immediately demanded to know how to pronounce it, and I never really knew till we went to Sweden, where the Swedes, seeing it written “properly,” said oh, Kawrin (with a rolled r).

I was born in Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital. I can say that I was born in Hollywood, which is true, but technically Hollywood is just a part of Los Angeles, California.

I was born on April 8, 1940, a Monday, at 7:28 in the morning. Both the sun and the moon were in Aries, and six planets were in the 12^th house. A note to non-astrologers: the latter can be either dire or full of challenging opportunity. I can’t find the weather, but it was probably another day in paradise, sunny with the high in the low seventies.

The world didn’t look good about then. The United States was declaring itself outside of the war that was worsening in Europe, but there was already a draft, and the government was secretly helping England, which was being bombed heavily. Surely this was in the back of everyone’s mind. *

In my story I mentioned that there were no freeways in Los Angeles then, but in fact there was a little bit of the first freeway opened, the Arroyo Seco or Pasadena. This wouldn’t have helped my parents get to the hospital. The modern era was truly coming; that year the first McDonald’s opened, also in Pasadena. I never saw one when I was a kid, though.

My mother’s maiden name was Elizabeth Leggett Guest. Leggett, or Legate, is a family name that goes back to the seventeenth century in America and before that to England. She was always called Beth. My father was Philip Henry Augerson. Philip was after his mother’s grandfather, who lived most of his life in Iowa, and Henry was his mother’s maiden name. I always, even into adulthood, called them Mommy and Daddy; somehow Daddy still seems okay, but I can’t refer to my mother as Mommy.

My mother was born in 1915 in Detroit, Michigan. I have a telegram that my great-aunt Margaret Whittemore sent to my grandmother, saying “Congratulations on the birth of baby Elizabeth. Votes for women!” My mother died of a heart attack in 1962. My dad was born in Galesburg, Illinois, in 1916 and died in January 2002. In 1963, Daddy married Elisabeth Roblee Zuckerman, my stepmother, who lived to the age of 98. She was determined to live long enough to vote for Barak Obama and to make sure he was elected. She died on December 4, 2008.

On my mother’s side, my grandparents were Emma Farrand Whittemore, born in 1883 and died in 1948, when I was eight, and Kenneth Irving Guest, 1878 – 1938. I was the first grandchild, and though my grandfather didn’t live to see me, my great-grandfather, James Whittemore, did. I remember Grandma Guest well; she was a warm and loving grandmother. When she was raising her own kids, someone took exception to her gardening, to which she retorted, “I’m raising children, not roses.”

My dad’s parents are the ones I really knew; from the time I was five until I was nine we lived next door to them, I spent more time at their house than I did at home. Grandpa Augerson (Herbert Rutherford) was born in 1884 and died in 1969, about the time my son Ian was born. My mother once accused him of being “a bigoted old man,” which he undoubtedly was, but he was always gentle with me. I helped him pick boysenberries and slaughter chickens.

Grandma Augerson was a beloved and affirming part of my life. She would patiently take part in my playing pretend, and she let me wring out clothes in the wonderful wringer and hang them on the line. Not really liking to cook, she had no problem with me experimenting in her kitchen. Living from 1886 to 1979, she had a long life, though her mind became shaky toward the end. She was born Stella Mae Henry in Galesburg, Illinois, the oldest of eight children.

I’m an only child. In spite of great-grandfather Whittemore’s advice to get a better doctor next time, my parents probably preferred not to take that risk again; also, the war undoubtedly intervened.

*The day after I was born, Germany occupied Denmark and Norway.

Teeny Karin

A new blog direction, which will mean lots of installments I think. Echo and I are taking a class about writing our life stories, and ideas are just pouring out of me. So many that I can't imagine anyone reading them all, but there's a prayer if they're in short bits, illustrated. That latter takes some time, but we all need pictures. So I'm still, in fact, becoming my grandmother, and besides it's too complicated to change the name! Of course, I had to start at the start.

Besides my hospital certificate, with my footprint and handprint, the documentation of my birth includes a note from Uncle John, my mother’s youngest brother and my father’s best friend, informing his girlfriend and starting, “Whoopee, I’m an aunt!”

Actually, it wasn’t quite so easy. The fun part of my birth was that it took place in Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, April 8, 1940. Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.’s daughter Daphne was born that same day, in the same hospital, and it no doubt created more press. I caused havoc, apparently, by emerging with the cord around my neck and who knows what other unseemly tricks, because while I, once unwrapped, was fine, with my mother it was touch and go. Luckily Daddy had some money on him, because my mother needed blood, and they wouldn’t do a blood transfusion without cash on the line. We were far from our home in Glendale, especially in those days without freeways, so there was no one else to pitch in.

I went home, with my dad and Grandma Guest, my mom’s mother, to take care of me. From what I’ve gleaned of child raising practices, my grandmother was an old pro and more flexible than my mother, who tried to raise me from the book, so unless I had separation trauma for that week or two without my mother, I was in good hands. Grandma Guest had raised four kids.

I don’t know what book my mother (whom I always called Mommy, which is hard to use now) consulted, but apparently it called for set feeding times, every four hours. I was bottle-fed. Finally Grandma Guest got fed up with hearing me scream, and said, “Feed that child now!” I’d say from early pictures of my plump self that I was not underfed, but I’m glad for Grandma’s intervention.

I get it!

Remember reading in World History about how once people started growing crops/creating cities/creating a division of labor they didn't all have to spend all their time growing, preparing and preserving food? Even though by now I know that's an oversimplification, I did suddenly realize this afternoon that if you grow your own food, there must be times of year when you do nothing but those very things. This came to me when I worked over two hours peeling, chopping, picking, seasoning, blending and then cleaning up - and at the end admiring my three quarts of gazpacho, which I prepared for freezing. Gazpacho, however delightful, is not even a dense food that would sustain life for very long. If one were really living off one's own farm, there would already have been grains to winnow, bread to bake and chickens to slaughter! At the end of the day a person would be too footsore and weary to create art or ingenious inventions.

I remember reading Barbara Kingsolver's description in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle of this very time of year when tomatoes covered every free surface of their kitchen, and they had to work long into the evening getting them into sauces and canning jars before the pesky things rotted. I am a wimp, a mere dabbler who is thrilled to have harvested (and eaten immediately) my third tomato, but I've had a glimpse of what self-sufficiency might feel like. It would involve tired feet and sticky floors, for sure, and I bet some times when the whole batch failed or the pesky things did rot. But there still must be the awe that we had tonight, carving our tomato, that it actually grew from something we planted! And that in the dead of winter we will have gazpacho and blueberries and corn that didn't get shipped here from California in little plastic bags.

And it gives me vast respect for Jeremy and Aimee, Meg and Claire and all you out there who are filling your cans and freezers and your root cellars and will really live on those goodies, braving hard work now and sometimes monotony later.

(This fuzzy little image is of a tomato that came from the farmers market this morning with two little headlights growing out of its already interesting topknot. When it comes to growing veggies, homegrown is without a doubt more imaginative than mass produced.)

Food Rules

"Shop the way your grandmother (or great-grandmother) did." That's a really rough paraphrase of one of Michael Pollan's best ideas in Food Rules.

I didn't shop for this tomato; I grew it, but that's one of the ways Grandma shopped - she grew it in her yard. Actually, she and grandpa came late to farming, and they weren't the complete farmers that I might, romantically, wish they were. They didn't grow tomatoes, but they grew boysenberries to sell, and they were really yummy. They sold eggs and the occasional chicken or turkey, all from a stand in front of the house.

But other people in that now-suburb of LA did the same thing, so we drove around to different people's houses and bought fresh stuff from them. Grandma wasn't the greatest cook, but at least the food she cooked was real.

I don't remember shopping with my grandparents, but I went with my mom, and it wasn't your big box market. Visiting my local Hen House market lately, I've been trying to notice what wasn't there in, say, 1947. No plastic-encased flats of vitamin-water bottles. No personal-sized individual burritos. No margarine except for cellophane-wrapped bags of oleo with a red button inside, to be squeezed and kneaded to simulate butter. No frozen dinners and few if any out-of-seasons fruits from far away.

Really, young people would have to go back to their great- or even g-g-grandmothers to find mostly "real" food in the market, because even in my childhood oleo was the harbinger of lots more convenience food to come. And though my grandmother didn't use much of it, my mother was intrigued.

When I was little, a beloved (to me) part of Christmas Eve was helping make the turkey stuffing. My grandmother toasted lots of bread in the broiler, I buttered it, and my mother ran each piece under the faucet, shredded it and seasoned it. It tasted great, but especially I liked the ritual of making it. Then someone whose name was more likely John Smith invented Mrs. Cubbison's stuffing mix. My mother was smitten, and the stuffing from scratch was no more.

Once Margaret Mead told an anxious working mother that it was for her that they invented frozen spinach, and heaven knows that we've been blessed with a lot of trusty and pretty healthy one- or two-ingredient convenience foods for those times when the farmers market just doesn't come through. And to give credit where credit is due, let me note that in that the friendly little market with the creaky wooden floors did not provide whole grain or crusty artisan breads, yogurt, sprouts or dark green leafy lettuces, or parmesan cheese that you could grate yourself. The most ethnic food was probably spaghetti. And at that time the difference between the salad my mother made and the salad I got at my friend Janice's house (Janice was from Kansas) was that Mom tore her iceberg lettuce and Janice's mom cut hers.

Short of, say, the Hunza Valley, probably no cuisine has been perfectly healthy or sustainable, but a look at our Wednesday food ads will tell us that we have strayed so far that the term "food" hardly describes what we're being offered. Like Pollan, I suggest that a look back at our ancestral shoppers, whoever they were, tempered by a glimpse at a few yummy, wholesome delights that we've discovered or rediscovered since then will help us fill our cloth bags with life-sustaining foods.

Oh, and p.s. - Did I say that the beautiful planter at the top was built by Jeremy and was the home of our first and so-perfect tomato?