Peas please

I may or may not have stolen 5 lbs. of fresh peas from my parent's garden tonight and eaten every single one of them.

But in my defense. My Dad did tell me I could pick as many as I wanted and I did share a few of them. And, my Mom and Dad both know I inherited my Grandma Jewkes' obsession with fresh garden peas so they knew all along what was going to happen once I got my hands on them!

Grandma's Peonies

My peonies are in bloom. Well, they were in bloom before the weekend storm came in. Now their fragrant petals are scattered all over the yard.

Peonies always remind me of my Grandma Jewkes. 

My Grandma had a huge mound of peonies in her front yard. Because they lived next to the neighbors' on the corner, the peonies created a sort of barrier between the East side of their front yard and the neighbors' side yard. 

Every spring those peonies would bloom. Big, beautiful, fragrant blooms of deep pink. 

And then the grandkids would find them. 

Growing up it became a tradition that we attempted to be the grandkid who could jump over the mound of peonies - which had to be at least 3 feet tall - without knocking off any of the petals. Sometimes we could talk my Dad into jumping the peonies too. My Grandpa would come out and yell at us to stop jumping over them because it was going to knock all the petals off {and peonies don't last long anyway}, but Grandma always let us. I'm pretty sure Grandpa was just teasing us because he always smiled as we tumbled over them. Except when we really turfed it and kicked more than just the petals off.

It seems fitting that my peonies bloom near Mother's Day each year. They remind me of one of the most selfless, humble, loving, amazing women I have ever had the privilege of knowing. I miss my Grandma. I wish she was here to talk to, to watch her lick her fingers while she cooked a gourmet meal, to sit and stitch with, to go shopping with {while Grandpa sat in the car waiting for us}, or to watch her read Gone With the Wind sitting in her favorite chair in her robe. 

I loved those peonies.

Bad, Bad Leroy Brown

One of my favorite childhood memories is sitting around as a family {and by family, I mean everyone... grandparents, cousins, aunts & uncles, siblings} singing songs on my Grandma's player piano. 

My favorite songs were always the Christmas carols and Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. Oh and We Have No Bananas! Classics. We'd play them over and over and over again for hours. Listening to my Grandpa's beautiful baritone voice singing with us as he sat on the old piano bench covered in dusty blue fabric, pumping the foot pedals up and down.

How my Grandma acquired the piano though is kind of legacy in our family. 

The piano belonged to my my great-great Grandpa Delroy and Grandma Orpha Peacock. They passed it down to their son George Kenneth and daughter-in-law Hilma Peacok who then gave it to my Grandma Nan Jewkes. My Grandma H. Peacock actually had two pianos, one went to my Grandma and the other to my Great Aunt Buehlah's son. My Grandparents were living in Price, Utah at the time they got the piano. But my Grandpa Don Jewkes refused to move it for her because they didn't have anywhere to put it except in the basement and he knew it wasn't going to fit. He said it would never, no way, ever, ever fit in their little house and if it got stuck, that's where it was going to stay.

Forever.

My Grandma N. Jewkes cried and cried and cried about it. One day when my Grandpa D. Jewkes was at work, she asked her two brothers, Paul and Delroy, to bring it to Price for her. They brought it over in one of their trucks and left it on the porch. Where it sat until my Grandma N. Jewkes convinced Grandpa to move it downstairs. 

Where it got stuck. 

Sure enough when they got to the bottom of the stairs, just like my Grandpa D. Jewkes had predicted, it got wedged at the top under the floor beam. I'm sure there were a few more tears shed and a few colorful words used. Grandma just brought out a handsaw and handed to Grandpa. He thought she wanted him to saw the piano in pieces but she told him to cut the ceiling. He cut a notch out of the floor beam, which happened to be a support beam (yikes!) and the piano went into the basement.

When they moved to Logan, my Grandpa said the piano wasn't going to come. But his company, Nabisco, provided a moving company to get them from Price to Logan so the piano came to Logan too.  When they were moving it into the basement and halfway down the stairs, one of the guys told my Grandpa a moving guy had been killed the week before moving one of the old, upright player pianos. I guess it really upset my Grandpa to hear he was risking someone's life just to get that darn piano into the basement... again. Luckily, the basement wasn't finished yet so it was a little easier to get down the stairs. He literally built a room around the piano! He always said the piano was going to have to be sold with the house when they died because there was no way it was coming back out of the basement again.

After my Grandpa died, my Dad got the piano. I'm wondering if he got it because he was the only one crazy enough to try and get it back up the stairs and then into his house.

Why my Dad decided to put the piano in a basement again I have no idea! 

I so wish he would have taken a video of the poor piano movers trying to get it out of my grandparent's house and then down the stairs at my parent's because those guys deserved a raise. My Dad said when they saw what they were getting into, they weren't sure they still wanted the job. Apparently old, upright player pianos are the least favorite piano of movers because they are so massive. Not only did they have to lug it back up the stairs at my grandparent's house, scrapping the ceiling all the way up, but they had to figure out how to turn the corner into my parent's family room once they got it down their stairs. The only way to get it in the family room, was to turn it up on it's side at the bottom of the stairs. He said it was a little scary. Which coming from my Dad probably means he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer that he wasn't going to have to cut a hole in the ceiling or wall. Or scrap a dead piano mover off his floor.

Well. The piano sounds great. The big kids (aka, Kurtis) and the grandkids love it. It brings back a lot of memories of my own childhood watching Pearl, Ruby, and Cole pedal away singing at the top of their lungs. 

I love old things with a rich history... stories. And just seeing all of the dings and scratches makes my heart soar. The wood is just gorgeous from years and years of love and aging. 

It's beautiful. And if you look closely, you can see the keys playing.

Everyone can play a piano like this! No musical experience required.

I remember playing with all the little knobs and medal sticks (I have no idea what the technical term is for that little thing) that adjust the piano's sound and foot pedals. 

But as a kid, my most favorite part was when the song was over and you got to flip the switch and "rewind" the piano roll again. As fast as you can! Until it flipped off the little hook and starting flapping around. 

But I never remember those darn foot pedals being so hard to pedal. Apparently I'm a little out of shape. And so are they.... we must be vintage.

Look at all of those beautiful old piano rolls. I think I'm going to have to start antique shopping now.

So grateful for the wonderful memories this gorgeous heirloom brings to me. And I'm hoping it continues to create memories for generations to come. 

That is, if we can get it out of the basement.

Pumping your own gas

I remember stopping with my Grandma Jewkes at a gas station. She drove her fancy Riveria and was out of gas. The only problem was, she didn't know how to pump gas. Grandma had me get out of the car and asked me if I knew how to fill the car up with gas. I bet I was no more than 10 and of course, like Grandma, I didn't have a clue what to do. I remember asking her why she didn't know how to put gas in the car... I probably laughed too. She said growing up, that's what the boys at the gas station did for everyone. And once she married my Grandpa, he always made sure her cars were full. Talk about true love {or spoiled}. 

Anyway, we stood there staring at that gas pump for a few minutes when my little brother, Jesse, told us to get out of the way, that he would do it. Apparently boys pay more attention to these kind of things than girls. We filled up, Grandma went inside to pay, and then we laughed all the way home. 

Every once in awhile that memory hits me as I'm pumping my own gas. I miss my Grandma terribly. 

Today was a good bleeder day

Shortly after my Grandma died, my Grandpa got a new "job" {aka a calling} at church as the stake blood drive coordinator. 

Well, he suckered me into signing up for his stake's blood drive so he could be done with filling donor slots. But after poking around for a vein in both arms - multiple times - and 45 minutes of squeezing those little stress balls later, and I still hadn't filled up my bag! I was sick to my stomach and dizzy. The poor phlebotomists were trying everything they could think of to get me to bleed {heat pads on my arms, more stress ball squeezing, tapping my arms} but they finally gave up. I was in tears telling them my Grandpa needed me to do this! They kept telling me it was ok, but I was so upset that I couldn't help my Grandpa {grief does weird things to you sometimes}. 

So every time I donate blood I think of my Grandpa and say a silent prayer that today I'll be a good bleeder. Today was a good bleeder day!

Hey kids... have fun

My Dad and his sisters often reminisce about a time they had stayed up a little too late {as adults, mind you} playing games while the family was camping. Growing up watching them play cards into the wee hours of the morning, I can imagine how "quiet" they probably were in the heat of the competition. Well, I guess my Grandpa had had enough of the noise and yelled at them, "Hey you kids!..." Then stopped suddenly, followed by a "uh" in pain. And another shout of "Have fun!"

My Grandma had elbowed him right in the ribs to let him know to keep quiet and let the "kids" have fun.

Well, every once in awhile I get the elbow jabbed in my side reminding me to just let the kids have a little fun.

The only problem is, those times often involve me getting tricked by two little pipsqueaks to open the curtain, followed by getting soaked by two little spray bottles and two giggling kids.

{The best part about this particular bath time, was Pearl giggling at me, "Oh Mom! Have some fun!"}