I can't believe it has been 40 years and yes he drank his milk

40 years ago tomorrow I had to learn to share.  I had to realize that I was not the center of the universe.  Yes, I admit it.  I was not happy about it.  And it took me a long time to realize that it was a good thing.  Having a brother was a good thing.  No, he was not put on this earth to annoy me.  His mouth breathing and the fact that he seemed to always fall into shit and end up smelling like roses had nothing to do with me.  And once I realized that, I was able to actually admit to having a sibling.  And not only did I finally admit it I found that I actually kind of like him.  Ok, don't tell anybody but I love the guy.  Graham Alan Little.  My baby brother.  My 6'4 thorn in my side that I can give hell, but if anybody else does they better watch out.  Once, I almost had to prove it.  When I moved to Tennessee, the wonderful Bristol, TN school system decided that the PE classes that I took in Cuyahoga Falls could not possibly be worthy of full credit so I had to take PE as a senior.  The only senior in the class.  All freshman.  And to make matters worse, my ?!|€~*#^~€ brother was in my class.  How embarrassing.  Really.  He hadn't had his growth spurt  yet so he was about 5'2 and weighed about 100lbs.  He was puny and he was annoying.  I really wasn't the only one who thought so.  Some unnamed redneck thought so too.  We were in PE class.  I was on the gym floor and Graham was on the stage.  I heard a little shuffle and the "circle" was starting to form around some kids getting ready to fight.  I usually didn't pay attention to this kind of thing ( except when it was it was me about to get whooped, but that is another story), but I caught a glimpse of the contenders.  Holy S*** it was Graham.  I was about to run up and try and save the day but the room was getting quiet.  All I could hear was Redneck saying "I am going to kick your ass". I waited to hear the crunch of Graham's nose, but instead I heard my brother's voice.  "Before you kick my ass I need to tell you something". Not so bright Redneck looked confused.  Not sure what to do.  Graham says " I'm drinking milk, and when my outside grows up to be as big as my inside I am going to turn around and kick your ass!"  Dumbfounded Redneck didn't know what to do so he paused.  Paused long enough for Ms. Pinkston to get there and save the day.
Well Graham, your outside did finally grow up and your inside did too.

Happy Birthday to my favorite brother.

Grandma and Patricia Neal

Grandma and Patricia Neal at the Troutdale Dining Room.  Either this was taken before dinner or Patricia is an amazing actress.  Hmmmm..

It is Queen of Hearts time here in Bristol.  For those of you not blessed to live in the "Good Place to Live" Queen of Hearts is a fundraiser for the American Heart Association.  Each year girls from each local high school compete to raise the most money for the AHA.   The girls have campaign managers and teams of friends that help them.  For the months during the competition I am sure these girls do nothing else but run fundraisers.  We aren't talking about bake sales.  They have pageants, concerts, 5K's and just about anything else you can think of to raise money.  They have raised millions of dollars over the years for this good cause.  I am pretty sure this is the 50th anniversary of the fundraiser.  These girls really need to be applauded for all of their hard work.  At the end of the campaigns they have a big gala and the girl that raised the most money is crowned the Queen of Hearts. If there is anything that we love here in Bristol it is Galas.

My mom got involved with the event because her friend Deborah was in charge of it for many years. Deborah is a bulldog.  Deborah can get things done and when you put Kate on her team the sky's the limit.  When my mom was involved the AHA would contract with celebrities to come and be the honored guests at the gala.  The celebrities usually had some connection to someone affected by heart disease.  I forget the year (Deborah help me out), but the guest of honor was to be Academy and Tony Award Winning Actress Patricia Neal.  How cool is that.  The woman was married to Roald Dahl, had an affair with Gary Cooper and was the epitome of classic Hollywood and she was coming to Bristol.  Even more exciting was the fact that she was coming to town a day early and was going to have an intimate dinner with a select few at the Troutdale.  My parents were invited and because my grandmother was "wintering" with them she was invited as well.  The Troutdale is a local favorite.  It is in an old house that has private and semi private dining areas. Perfect place for dinner with a screen legend.  Everyone was enjoying their dinner and enthralled by Ms. Neal.  She was telling her stories of Hollywood.  She was an advocate of the American Heart Association, not just because they were picking up her bill, but because she understood first hand how difficult recovering from a stroke could be.  She understood that the AHA dedicates it's funds to research and education.  I am sure dinner was delightful and everyone was having an evening they would never forget.

I am sure my parents wish the story ended here, but alas Grandma had to make it even more memorable.  Grandma may not have been the Queen of Hearts, but she was the Queen of Stage Whispering.  I can picture it.  Patricia takes a bite of her delightful dessert.  Grandma leans in and says "you know" (this is your first clue that things are about to get bad by the way).  "When I had MY stroke, the American Heart Association didn't give me a GD bit of help.  The only people that helped me were the Easter Seals so I quit giving my money to those bastards and now all my money goes to the Easter Seals".   Everyone at table looks uncomfortably at their plates. Dad takes deep breath in, hold, hold, hold, deep breath out. He then states, you'll have to excuse my mother she isn't quite the same since her stroke.  But we all know that the stroke had nothing to do with it.

Cocktails

I am really not a big drinker (anymore). I will give those of you that are lying on the floor laughing a chance to catch your breath.    .......  Kid #3 at 40 really made me put sleep as a priority and in my Middle Ages alcohol really messes with my sleep.  I do love cocktails though and certain cocktails conjur up certain memories that usually make me smile.

Shirley Temple ( does that count?)- memory is Tangiers in Akron.  The place looked like a mosque.  We would go there for special occasions.  Once I went as my dad's date for a work function to see a hypnotist.  I felt so grown up with my cocktail.

Fuzzy Navel- the drink from the family Christmas party and trips with Grandma to the Heisy Convention in Newark.  Ohio, not NJ

Sun Country Wine Coolers-  because I know my mom will read this I won't elaborate.  I will just say High school.  I will also say that this is the worst drink when you see it again.  Yuck.  And Mom, that statue of limitations ran out a few years ago.

Milwaukee's Best-  I know not a cocktail, but how can you leave this coming of age beer out of this convo.  Hell Hole. That is all I am saying.

Ron Rico Rum-  making no comments, but Rachel Bowell that is for you.  Really you can mix rum with anything and it is good.  In Puerto Rico a few weeks ago I rediscovered my love for rum.

Cosmopolitan's-  the drink we drank to look sophisticated

PGA Punch- aka Hooch. Best memory, or non memory.  Halloween 1990.  I went as Axl Rose.  We had the same hair and I can sing a wicked Sweet Child o Mine.  Just ask anybody.  So I go to a Phi Delt house party and run into Slash in one of the rooms with orange punch.  This was before Karaoke, but whoever Slash was and I stayed by the punch belting out every song that came on the stereo all night.  I woke up the next morning and freaked out because my right hand was all orange.  Took me a while to figure out it was from dipping in the punch.

Southern Comfort-  went down just a little too easy. Mix with sprite and call it a cotton candy.  I got Grandma hooked on these for a while.

Speaking of Grandma- Johnnie Walker Red

Bourbon Slush-  the Drink of choice for Kentucky Derby Parties.  They are exceptionally good with overpriced simple syrup from the Troutdale.  Right Mike Vetter.

JagerBomb-  not commenting. 

Wine- I like wine.  I really like good wine, but I am way too lazy to learn about wine.  No room in my head for all that stuff.  Luckily I have many friends who can pick out wine and even more luckily I have many friends who like to share.  My best friends know good wines, but are not wine snobs and will happily drink the Yellow Tail that you put out at a party.  Can't be too picky you know.  My kind of people know it isn't about how good the wine tastes, but how much fun you are having with those who are sharing it.

Sometime in the 90's I moved to vodka tonics.  Still my favorite and I just finished one made with a local vodka from St Louis from Rachel.  It was so good it spurred a blogpost.  Excuse the typos and grammar issues.  Remember I don't drink much anymore.

Holiday Traditions

(I think this is 1994 and Grandma bought everyone, except Graham, these annoying snoring bears.  I am glad this did not become a tradition)

I got back a few days ago from a week in Ohio with the family. When you say a week with the family it sounds like a long time, but it flew by.  Christmas is filled with traditions for all families and I love them all.  There are the traditions that have been around since before I can remember, like having Potato Broth on Christmas Eve.  Potato Broth was one of Grandma's five meals.  The ingredients are simple.  Meat, Potatoes, Beef Broth, and Onions.  Pepper and salt to taste.  When Grandpa took over the cooking the onions doubled.  I remember my Uncle Joe coming by on Christmas Eve to get his plastic container filled with the soup.  We would always have brown bread or marble rye with it and open butter got passed around the table all night.

Some traditions stay for awhile and then go away.  Like Fuzzy Navels.  There was a couple of years that was the drink of choice at Christmas.  Everybody got too sophisticated for that so now we have specially chosen wine or craft beer.  Secretly I miss the fuzzy navels.

Some traditions morph.  Graham and I always had a box carefully labeled of all of our Christmas ornaments that we made or we received as gifts.  We would each put our ornaments on the tree. Graham was devastated when one year his beloved "Dough Bear" that he had made from salt dough in preschool was missing.  We told him that it went to live on the dough bear farm and it kept him quiet for a few years until he realized what the term "farm" meant in our house.  ( For example, Dad's leisure suit went to the leisure suit farm)  One year we were given our boxes of ornaments.  Tradition morph.  Now my kids put up ornaments on our tree that are older than they are.

It is funny, I think the younger you are the less you need to consider something a tradition.  Owen, Liam and Caroline helped me make some Christmas candy the last couple of years.  Liam has a real knack for melting chocolate and dipping Buckeyes.  Owen is great at unwrapping rolos and setting them on pretzels.  At this point Caroline is really good at making us laugh and keeping us entertained. We have done this for three years and they both made the comment that they "always" do it and that it is a tradition.

My mom has an extensive collection of Byers Carolers.  So many I don't think she even puts them all out every year.  They are beautifully arranged around the house.  Carefully placed in groups to "sing" us carols.  Graham and I always make a beeline for the little boy on the snowball to turn him on his head.  It used to make mom mad and she would turn him upright, but I think she finally gave up.  A few years ago Will and I came across a George H. Bush doll in an antique store and as a joke gave it to my dad as a Christmas present.  Sometime in the evening dad snuck away and mixed him in with the Carolers.  Funny thing is he fit right in.  This year Hilary joking the Carolers.  The feelings toward Hilary in general are mixed, but the reaction to Hilary as a Caroler was unanimously good.  George is now placed with his hand in the Salvation Army pot.

I wish some traditions would go away, like Graham and Dad debating over politics ( hint, hint), but overall I love our traditions.  The new, the old and the ones we have yet to make.

Grandma Little's Rhubarb Pie (written by guest blogger Greg Little)

Today I am handing over the blog to my dad.  He originally wrote this for a co-worker who asked him to share his rhubarb pie recipe.  Enjoy

Grandma Little's Rhubarb Pie

Before you set about to make this pie, it is only fitting that you have an appreciation for the chef who created this masterpiece.  Grandma Little’s birth name is Julia Hunter and she was born in Sunderland, England in 1892.  Having one sister and twelve brothers was instrumental in the development of her strong will and persevering attitude.  On October 25, 1923 she boarded the Red Star Line ocean liner Belgenland in Southampton, England and nine days later she and her 5 year old son William arrived at Ellis Island, USA.  Six months earlier her husband Percival “Harry” sailed to America to find a better life for his family.  A better life indeed, but the sweetness of this new land was short lived for Harry.  He passed away twenty years after his arrival due to health problems.  Julia and William arrived with a suitcase and one large shipping crate, the total sum of all their belongings in the new world.  Fortunately this recipe is one of the things that made the trip.  As you mix the ingredients for this pie take a few moments to reflect on how they exemplify her life (our lives):

Rhubarb:  Bitterness and heartbreak, but so rewarding when mixed with the other ingredients

Sugar:  The sweetness of all good things in life

Flour and Salt:  The staples of life that provide consistency and stability

Eggs:  A sign of rebirth and starting anew, and the glue that keeps everything together

Put them all together and you have one remarkable woman AND a mouthwatering pie

INGREDIENTS for an 8” or 9” pie pan

3 Heaping cups of rhubarb (cut the stalks into ¾’ pieces)

1 ½ Cups sugar

3 Tablespoons flour

¼ Teaspoonful salt

3 Beaten eggs (save some to brush on the top of the pie)

For a 10” pie use 5 tablespoons flour, 2 ¼ cups sugar, 4 eggs, 5 cups rhubarb, and ¼ teaspoon salt

Mix the sugar, flour and salt together and pour it over the cut rhubarb.  Pour the well beaten eggs over the rhubarb mixture and mix well.  (Don’t put the filling into the crust until the top crust is rolled and ready to use.  Keep the bottom crust in the refrigerator until ready to use) Preheat the oven to 425⁰.  Bake the pie at 425⁰ for 15 minutes then reduce heat to 375⁰ for 40 minutes or until done.  Test to see if done by putting a fork in a hole in the center of the top crust.  If the rhubarb is soft the pie is done.

Funeral at the Bowling Alley

So a few posts ago I wrote about the laundromat and how it was always a critical part of the summer visit with Grandma.  Another fine establishment where we went, not once, but twice during the week was the bowling alley.  If you knew Maddie you know that you would never use the word "athletic" to describe her.  I don't think I can recall a single memory of her telling me that she played a sport, unless you consider "submarine watching" at Lakeview Park a sport.  She was never in a rush to do anything and the only time I actually saw her walk fast was when she spotted a piece of Heisey at an antique show.  But the woman loved to bowl.  Bowling was definitely her kind of sport.  She got to sit and smoke when it wasn't her turn and only had to stand up when it was her turn.  She was actually really good.  She was in at least two leagues.  On one of the mornings she would run into my other grandfather, Jim Gallagher.  I think he may have been in at least two leagues as well.  Anyway, when I would visit I would get to and sit and watch Grandma and the other little old ladies bowl.  I am not really sure how they convinced me this was fun.  I didn't get to play.  Sometimes if I was lucky they I would get to keep score.  This was way before automatic scoring so it was a good way to brush up on those math skills.  But for some reason I liked it.  Bowling Alley's really don't smell good, but that mixture of smoke, feet, the oil they use to polish the lanes, the disinfectant that they spray in the shoes all mixed up in that stale air always brings a smile to my face.  It was a bittersweet day when smoking got banned inside.  Good for my lungs, but the smell will never be the same.  Grandma bowled at Rebman's.  Right up from the Croatian Club on Oberlin Ave.  From what I can remember you went in and there were two sides of lanes.  We always went to the right.  I don't know what was on the left side, but it seemed very secretive.   Maybe there wasn't even bowling on the left, it was probably the bar.  Who knows?  After her stroke Grandma had to quit bowling.  I actually took her up to Rebman's a couple of times during her old league's time to visit her friends.  You could tell she was missed and she really enjoyed seeing everyone.  She kept saying she was trying to get better to be able to bowl again, but it never happened.

When she died she had already moved into the nursing home and there was no family homestead to host the funeral reception.  Many of the funeral homes in Lorain had reception rooms which would have been perfect, but they had all made Grandma mad at one point or another so she made her plans at one in Elyria that didn't.  I asked my mom where we were going to host the reception and she said Rebman's.  Apparently they had remodeled and now had a "party room".  I freaked out.  You can't have a funeral at a bowling alley, but then I remembered how much Grandma liked going there and I couldn't think of a better place.

The O Ring

When I was in high school I had to live through all sorts of humiliation.  I know so did everyone else in the world, but I am pretty sure I am one of few teenagers who had to carry a hemorrhoid pillow around high school.   Even more embarrassing was why.  I had to have surgery to remove a pilonidal cyst on my tailbone.  The typical patient for this surgery is an overweight extremely hairy old man, not a 16 year old girl.  But, in true Little fashion I faced it the only way I knew how.  Head on and try and find some humor in it.  The first surgery was really painful and I had to stay in the hospital for a couple of days. It was Thanksgiving.  I really didn't have the stomach for the hospital turkey, but my family brought me corn fritters.  I got released on Saturday.  Grandma and Grandpa Little were in town so Mom and Grandma came to pick me up from the hospital.  We didn't go home though.  It was Thanksgiving weekend and there was shopping to be done.  Walking wasn't really a problem, just sitting, so Mom and Grandma just had me lay down in the back seat.  Nothing was going to keep Maddie Little from shopping. They just popped some lortabs in me and away we went.  I got to rest a little on Sunday but Monday it was time for school.  The worst thing about the pillow is it was covered in brown fabric.  I didn't even want to think about why they would choose that color.  But, I had to go to school and I couldn't stand up all day so the pillow had to come with me.  My friends knew what was going on, but I had to keep explaining why I was carrying a brown pillow around school.  Depending on my mood my response would be either "I had surgery on my back" or " I just had surgery to make me a perfect a*****e".  I held my head high, put my pillow in its special bag and carried it like a badge of honor.  Booties weren't the thing in the '80's.  They didn't come into style until the '90's with Sir Mix A lot.  Too bad.  I could have told people my butt was so important it just had to be protected.  J-lo stole my story.  After everyone got used to the pillow it became a joke to steal it and hide it so I couldn't sit.  Ha ha real funny.   It was funny however when a friend, R*****, and I decided to photocopy our bottoms.  Let's just say my scar would make it impossible to deny that I had been the one sitting on the copier.  The worst moment came at our 25th Reunion when somebody came up and asked if I still had to carry my pillow around.  Really!!!  That is how I am remembered!!!  Unfortunately the first surgery didn't work so I had to have another, and another , and another.  I got to carry my pillow to UT as well.  They finally got it under control and so long as I don't do sit ups I am ok. ( no problem there). 

You may not be surprised that this post doesn't have a picture.  All I can say I thank goodness I grew up before social media.