The U.S. 1950 Census was released this month, if you’re into genealogy. Unlike the last census, which we answered online, hired hands went house to house in 1950 to note certain information about the residents. I found my family in Section 35-8 of San Benito County, California. That section’s enumerator began her or his (first name is either Alma or Alan) task of interviewing households on April 5, 1950.  On the day of the interview, the enumerator noted that Daddy was 45, Mama, 28, and    Brother, one year old. They lived on a ranch on Wright Road, just northwest of Hollister, where Daddy was a farmer’s helper who had worked 50 hours the previous week. I wonder if they paid rent or got their housing for free. The federal    minimum wage in 1950 was 75 cents an hour, according to the Department of Labor. Mama’s name was spelled wrong, Francisco instead of Francisca. Our surname was written with two r’s rather than one. No big deal there. I don’t know why Daddy spelled Echaore, while Un

 I’m seven weeks old in this photo. The Husband thought I was about a year old. A huge baby, was I! Mama said she ate a lot of French bread while she carried me. Could that be why I like crusty bread so much? Cookies? Cake? And all things floury and sugary? Years back I found my birth announcement in our local newspaper. It was on the front page. At the time, the county population was around 14,000, with more than a third of the people living in Hollister, the county seat. I figured the publisher needed something to fill a one-inch gap, because why else would my birth be on the front page rather than an inside page or the back page like every other newborn’s. After all, the birth of a farmer’s helper’s daughter wasn’t important or relevant to anyone but my family. Flash forward to 2021 (although only last year, it seems so long ago). While doing research on gestational diabetes, I came across an article about fetal macrosomia, a condition in which a newborn is larger than average at bi

It took me awhile to figure what day it is when I woke up this morning. Is it Wednesday? Is the green recycling can empty? Tomorrow is garbage day. Wasn’t that just the other day? Maybe it’s Tuesday. No. What did we watch on TV last night?…ponder, ponder….Saturday! Okay, then. Up and at ‘em. 

What is this?  Not cheese, Borat.  This, that to the left in the photo, was my first try at stitching tiny fabric scraps scrunched randomly together on a bigger piece of fabric scrap. Recently, I sewed the piece onto polka dot material that was once part of the leg of Mama’s knit pants.  Some may consider this a blob of what the heck. Others, a work of art. Me, fun. Poet Gillena Cox hosts  Art Fun Friday on her  Lunch Break. That’s where I’m heading. Come join me. 

 I’ve only come around to wearing the color pink. Mama dressed me up a lot in pink when I was a kid, as well as she’d gift me pink clothes when I was on my own. So, yup, no pink for me. I didn’t care that some people thought it was a good color for me.  I do think pink is a pretty color. It’s a burst of sweetness and light, calm and everything nice.  Happy Thursday!

  Bzzz. Bzzzz. Bzz, Bzzz, Bzzz. BZZZ! Translation: Get out of our territory, dammit! So sniped the black carpenter bees as they buzzed back and forth beside me. I t was past eleven o’clock. Eating time for the bees.   “Don’t sting me,” said I, snipping away at the dead daisy and chrysanthemum heads. “I just got a little more to go.” Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. “Go ahead and eat. I’m not bothering you.” Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzzz.  A honey bee landed on a daisy within arms reach. It paid me no mind. I froze while it did its thing. “See,” I said to the carpenter bees. “That’s all you have to do.” “Drink and be merry” said the honey bee as it flew off. BZZZZ!

Hurrah! Yesterday I sewed a bunch of napkins. Altogether, we have 10 new napkins. We ought to be good for now.