The Evolving Species

Mothers of Invention

Who really thought of that?

By Michael Smith

You’ve probably read somewhere that back in 1948, Swiss engineer Georges de Mestral invented Velcro, portmanteau of the French velours and crochet — velvet and hook. He did that after a walk in the Alps with his pup when he noticed how burs had attached to his socks and to his dog’s fur. Velcro is strong. It can be stronger, much stronger, depending on the length of the hooks and the fuzziness of whatever the hooks hook into. In fact, a person wearing a suit with hooks on the back, after aligned with a fuzzy wall, was actually lifted and stuck on the wall.

You may or may not have read that Abe Lincoln was issued U.S. Patent 6,469 for his invention designed to buoy boats over river shoals; or that Einstein (yes, that one) co-invented a refrigerator that had no working parts and needed no freon — ding! U.S. Patent 1,781,541; or that Thomas Paine, ever full of common sense, received U.S. Patent 1667 for his plans for a bridge with a single arch and lattice support structure mimicking a spider web; or that Harry Houdini invented a two-part deep-sea diving suit that gave a diver a safe way to get out of it if he needed to escape the thing — U.S. Patent 1,370,316.

Unexpected inventors? Yes, well, except for their gender. Guys always get recognition. Take ol’ Ben Franklin. You remember how electrifying that boy was. Or that Wizard of Menlo Park fellow. Women inventors? They don’t get no respect. Yet, there are more female inventors than Carter’s got liver pills. But first let’s give a nod to Mr. Tim Berners-Lee, inventor of the World Wide Web. Hard to imagine life without that. So, let’s check out three women inventors, randomly selected from many.

A great place to start is with Maria E. Beasley (1847 – 1904). Maria scored her first but not even close to her last patent in 1878 for, of all things, a barrel-making machine. Suddenly that little lady was knocking down 20 grand a year for that gadget, at a time when the average earnings for a working woman were a whopping three bucks a day. (Here’s the math on that — $3 x 365 = $1,095.) It topped her former dressmaking income, plus, it gave her the freedom to become a serial inventor, chalking up things like foot warmers, cooking pans, anti-derailment devices for trains and two improved life raft designs. Maria also invented a fireproof, compact and foldable, easily stored life raft. Her 1880 raft saved a lot of lives. In fact, they were on the Titanic when it sank and are credited with helping save 706 lives. In 1880, the U.S. Census listed her as an “unemployed housewife.”

Margaret E. Knight also got dissed because of her gender. Knight’s first invention was a safety device for a mechanical loom in a cotton mill where she worked. She invented the device after watching a co-worker stabbed by a part that flew off the loom. Margaret was 12 years old. Though she did not patent the device, it was used extensively by various cotton mills.

Of her 27 patents, she is best known for inventing a machine that folds and glues paper bags so they have a flat bottom. At that time, she worked at the Columbia Paper Bag company in Springfield, Massachusetts. To patent her idea, Margaret needed a metal model of her machine. So, in the machine shop where it was being built, one Charles Annan stole her design and patented it himself. She promptly did the, then, un-ladylike thing of suing for patent infringement. Annan explained to the court that “a woman could not possibly understand the mechanical complexities” of that invention. Margaret won her suit and, in 1870, founded the Eastern Paper Bag Company. Of course, her flat-bottomed paper bags are still in use today.

Over her life, she became the prolific inventor of over a hundred different machines — shoe-cutting machines, machines that counted, a rotary engine and on and on. She was inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame. Queen Victoria awarded Margaret the Decoration of the Royal Legion of Honor. When she died, her obituary described her as a “woman Edison.”

Hedwig Eva Maria Kiesler was one lady nobody dissed, well, nobody but U.S. Navy brass. Ubiquitously dubbed the world’s most beautiful woman, she starred in such films as Samson and Delilah, Algiers and Comrade X. You’ve already guessed. And you’re right, of course. It’s Hedy Lamarr.

Who knew that beautiful lady also had a first-rate brain? One person that knew was her “friend,” Howard Hughes. Hughes supported her “tinkering” hobbies by instructing his science engineers to do or make anything Hedy asked for. In return, she designed a new wing shape for Hughes’ planes, to make them more aerodynamic. Other things Lamarr tinkered with included an improved traffic stoplight and a dissolvable tablet like Alka-Seltzer. But she was posthumously inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame for a far more serious invention.

During World War II, Hedy learned that radio-controlled torpedoes could easily be jammed and sent off course. She set about solving that problem with her neighbor, pianist George Antheil. Together, they devised and patented the “Secret Communications System.” Their solution was a system for disguising radio transmissions from the torpedo guidance mechanism to the torpedo by making the signal jump between channels in a prearranged pattern.

Together, they developed a “frequency hopping” signal that would synchronize between transmitter and receiver but could not be traced or jammed. At the heart of their system were slotted paper rolls, like those used in pianolas, self-playing, mechanically operated pianos that used perforated paper to activate the keys. Their system hopped between 88 frequencies, the number of keys on a piano.

When Lamarr and Antheil patented their system in 1941, Hedy used her married name, then Hedy Kiesler Markey. Markey was the second of Hedy’s six husbands. They turned over their patented idea to the U.S. Navy, but the Navy dismissed their system as being too bulky to successfully install in torpedoes.

In 1957, Sylvania scientists resurrected the Lamarr/Antheil idea but substituted electronic circuitry for paper rolls to provide the synchronized signals. The Navy then used the revised system in the Cuba blockade of 1962.

Today, the Lamarr/Antheil patented idea is the core of many systems, including communications satellites and cellphones used by subscribers worldwide. In 1997, Lamarr and Antheil received the Electronic Frontier Foundation Award and the Bulbie Gnass Spirit of Achievement Bronze Award, reserved for those whose inventions have significantly contributed to society.

It is easy to remember inventors that came up with things like how to make a hydrogen bomb, not so easy to remember inventions of ordinary things that changed our lives for the better. It’s even less easy to remember female inventors, like, for example, Stephanie Kwolek, who invented Kevlar, Mary Anderson, the lady who invented windshield wipers, or Josephine Cochrane, who came up with the mechanical dishwasher that she later sold to KitchenAid.  PS

Michael Smith lives in Talamore, Southern Pines, with his wife, Judee. They moved here in 2017 and wish they had moved here years earlier.

The Evolving Species

Stairway to Heaven

A resting place in life’s long journey

By Claudia Watson

This morning I made a point of waking before sunrise and padding off in a pair of old boot socks to the little deck at my place in Seven Devils, up in the high country. I grabbed a nubby sweater against the air of a late October morning and stepped into the day with my hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea. 

A veil of fog clings to the valley at the base of Grandfather Mountain. The distant mountain ridge surrenders to the sunrise, unleashing a canvas of color. This early on a Sunday morning there won’t be many leaf gawkers, and it’s perfect for my journey down a road to a spot that’s become, over 20 years, a pilgrimage.

My husband, Roger, and I would bike a narrow, practically flat paved road that hugs the South Fork of the New River. We’d travel along Railroad Grade Road, a 20-mile trip from the general store in Todd to the tiny community of Fleetwood and back. Our first ride down this road was 23 years ago on an early June morning, riding new cross-country bikes — his, black; mine, green — wedding gifts to each other that spring. 

With our lunches and water bottles tucked into our backpacks, we idly explored the winding river valley, protected by steep slopes covered with Christmas tree farms and dotted with old homesteads and lush meadows. A fox looked up, startled from his morning kill. A small herd of whitetail deer dashed from a roadside thicket to the river, nearly knocking me from my bike. We teamed up to shoo a wandering cow back into her pasture, closing the gate behind her.

About midway in our ride, Roger yelled back to me, “Hey babe, look at that,” pointing to a cast concrete stairway leaning against one of two towering tulip poplars. The steps were an invitation to stop and sit a spell in the shade and enjoy the long view of the clear river rambling 30 feet below. 

But it was the trees and the placement of the stairs that offered more fascination as they held onto a narrow spit of earth. The one-lane road, which was originally the rail track for the Virginia Creeper, barely squeezed between the river and a rocky outcrop. The only sign of neighbors was a sprawling farmstead at the river’s broad bend, and a tidy brick home tucked into the hillside farther down the road that was guarded by a frisky border collie.

That tiny grass outcropping above the New River became a favorite way station whenever we returned to the high country. Often, after fly-fishing the river or streams nearby, we’d return to the spot, settle into our camp chairs, and enjoy lunch or a late afternoon beer and the constant chatter of life — the hopes, the dreams, the blessings. Even during our winter trips, we’d make time to huddle together on the cold concrete steps, if only for minutes.

It was on a summer’s day while sitting on the steps looking up through the tulip poplar’s canopies — a mosaic of green hues against the blue sky — that I dubbed the location, without much thought, Stairway to Heaven, marking it with a pencil in our dog-eared map book where we cataloged favorite fishing spots and trails.

Though we couldn’t figure out how the steps arrived where they were, we sensed the specialness of the place. Over the course of 20 years or so, the steps became part of our journey. When we arrived at the spot four years ago in October, we saw one of the two tulip poplars was gone, only the stump remaining. Thankfully, the old moss-covered stairway was still there leaning against the solitary tree dressed in its bright yellow glory. We took out our camp chairs to enjoy the sun-kissed day as the leaves danced in the air.

The border collie at the nearby house, less frisky in time, began barking but finally gave up and went to rest with its owner, a silver-haired woman sitting on the porch. I wanted to walk down the road and ask her about the steps, but Roger felt it was intrusive. He preferred our creative musings. With our belongings packed into the car, I gathered a handful of jewel-colored leaves. Roger paused, looking at me, “Hey babe,” he said, motioning me to join him on the steps.

He sat on the top step, and I sat on the one below leaning into him as he wrapped his arms around me. I felt him suck in a deep breath as if to hold back tears, and he buried his head into my neck and whispered, “Babe, you’ve made me so happy. I don’t know how I’d ever go on without you. I love you so much.” We stayed a few minutes, wiped our tears and moved on, waving at the old woman and her dog as we drove off.

On a pretty spring morning the following May, I approached the familiar turn in the road and winced when I saw the stairway and pulled off to the grassy spot. For the first time, I was alone. That past October was our last together. My beloved died the day after Christmas. I pulled the camp chair from the car and sat looking at the river valley bursting with life and hesitated, wondering how I’d ever go on as the tulip poplar’s soft yellow blossoms fell around me.

Then, with a quiet prayer, I opened my hand and let some of him catch the wind and become one with this place — as much as the tulip poplar, the birdsong, and the ancient river. Soon, the little dog down the road began barking. I saw the silver-haired woman on her porch and, without a thought, walked to the edge of her property and asked, “Can you tell me about that spot?” pointing to the tree and the steps. “We’ve been coming here for over 20 years and wondering about those steps.”

Patting her leg, she laughed “Oh, lots of people wonder ’bout them. They came from the house over there,” pointing up the road. “My brother lives there, and he took off a porch and steps, just rested ’em up against the tree years ago.”

It was such an ordinary story. 

“Folks come here all the time and take photos sittin’ on the steps,” she added. I told her about our contrived story of a great storm and flood that deposited them in such an unlikely place. “No,” she said with a shake of her head, “the river’s never been that high, honey.”

“We named them the Stairway to Heaven,” I offered.

Her lips broke into a smile, “Well, that’s right nice. I like that.”

I told her that I had lost my husband. “I understand, dear, I lost my husband just five years ago,” she sighed. “Honey, life’s not easy, but this here, it’s a peaceful place until we get up there to see ’em again.”

On an October morning nearly four years later, I am out the door. Navigating the narrow, pothole-strewn road, my heart racing until I turn the last bend and see the tulip poplar and the steps and find my spot under the tree. With nary a breeze, it unleashes a cascade of golden leaves upon me.  PS

Claudia Watson is a Pinehurst resident and a longtime contributor to PineStraw and The Pilot

Trial by Bottle Cap

Now opening — or not — near you

By Joyce Reehling

Eyes open and all the thoughts that start the day begin a race in her brain to see which will get there first. She will stumble in a fog of sleep with a hint of a dream. And thus it begins, a series of questions and answers and challenges.

Up she gets to wash hands and face and brush her teeth. An almost ridiculous task as she will have tea and toast or cereal and have to brush all over again. It’s a ritual — to be followed by the ceremony of opening things.

At the intersection of age and the half-life of jars, boxes of tea, bandages and condiments, there have been developments — no, conspiracies — to demonstrate that youth has taken a bus out of town.

Twice a week the day begins with replacing her hormone replacement patch. The “glue” that will attach to her skin has a cover on it which must be removed. A glue that will, before the next time it is to be replaced, not fully adhere to her body like it stubbornly adheres to that cover now. She takes a deep breath and tries not to scream.

Padding down the hall and into the kitchen, there is a new box of tea to open. Such boxes have a “Tear Here” tab with the vague promise that it will actually tear here or somewhere near the line of the cutout guides. It almost never happens that way. No, she must first put her finger on either side of the “guides” in the hope that the tab will begin to tear at least a little, then reroute her efforts down that line. This never works. And it is now that her first thoughts of murder, or at least a tribunal to try, convict and sentence the designers of these tortuous schemes, takes hold.

Perhaps death by perforation.

Somewhere, leading otherwise innocent lives, are the people who devised the “Push Down and Turn” tops of this world, the ones that never quite catch correctly. Or the bandage string that she is convinced was never intended to really work. Or the tiny tops of small objects that are screwed on so tight that she dreams of having a tiny vice for them in the garage.

Perhaps death by vice.

Tea brewed, she must now confront the milk carton plug with a circle on top that would cut the finger off a Navy SEAL. She reaches for the chopstick that has become her way of wrenching this diabolical thing off. And she hasn’t even had her first sip of tea.

FedEx has left a small box, probably sometime yesterday, but they never seem to ring the bell anymore, so she discovers it through the kitchen window. Again the dreaded “Tear Here.”

This tab, obviously designed by a particularly malevolent person, always breaks off and never goes beyond the first 1/8 of an inch. Screwdrivers or a box cutter must be carefully employed. With the box finally open, there is a plastic bag with no visible way to open save cutting it. Should she need to return the object they will tell her that it must be returned as shipped. They never say how, since it will never fit back into the bag or into the box. They have, it would seem, developed packing methods similar to sea monkeys, starting tiny and then exploding.

Perhaps death by shrinking.

No sip of tea has been had, nor toast, but by now she is boggled in the brain and her blood is running hot. Others must surely feel these frustrations but the fact that she is not alone is, oddly, no comfort.

She looks out the window for her reset button or a “Push Down and Turn” to begin this day all over again. And then she sips her tea. And sighs with dreams of a courtroom with these designers at the defense table and a jury of women over 50.

Finally, a smile. PS

Joyce Reehling is a frequent contributor and good friend of PineStraw.

Five on a Blanket

And the memory of a simple Thanksgiving

By Joyce Reehling

Thanksgiving means a gathering of family, at least when I was a kid and even in college. Holidays are always a mixed blessing of food and potential mayhem. But in about 1974 I was living in New York, struggling to begin my theatrical career.

Amid a group of similar women, I lived in the now defunct Rehearsal Club, two brownstones which housed, in shared rooms, girls starting out. Carol Burnett had lived there, Blythe Danner and many others. And me, Kathie and Connie.

When someone really made it they got an apartment. This was likely to be a fourth floor walk-up with a roommate or boyfriend. The apartment would be very small with furniture that was often found on trash removal days around the city. It used to be that if you knew when the high-end neighborhoods were throwing things out, the chances were you could score really nice chairs, tables and other finds. Sometimes a coat of paint, a new seat cushion or no change at all landed you something you could not begin to afford.

And so it was that Connie had an apartment with her boyfriend. She invited her circle of girlfriends to come for Thanksgiving. This flat was up a lot of stairs, no view except the street and two rooms plus bath. I don’t recall much in the way of furniture. In the bedroom they had built the ubiquitous loft bed to provide a desk/dressing area below.

We all were to bring something. We had no way to cook at the Rehearsal Club. Two meals a day were provided, but we did not have access to the kitchen. We all had to save up a little extra so we could buy a baked pie or cans of food to warm up at the flat. Once we paid our room and board we were mostly broke. This took planning.

My absolutely fondest memories of that day are quite humble. The kitchen was a former closet into which the landlord had stuffed the world’s smallest sink, stove and refrigerator. I referred to it as the Easy Bake kitchen. It looked like a real kitchen but barely was.

Connie and her fella committed to having a large chicken — turkey was beyond our budget and well beyond the width of the Easy Bake oven. Someone brought peas or beans, someone a pie. We resembled the motley dinner in It’s A Wonderful Life more than we did the Pilgrims’ feast.

We borrowed cutlery from the Club and because there was no dining table, we had a picnic on a blanket on the floor, sitting around eating our humble meal. We felt like adults on their way, and Connie clearly had gone up a rung in our eyes.

We talked and laughed. I do not remember a cross word or anything approaching an argument. We were not the typical family, so we did not have the drama many families have at Thanksgiving. We were deeply and truly thankful. We were young and pursuing our chosen careers and we had one another.

The Easy Bake oven took a little longer than normal to bake that poor little chicken, but we did not care. We were in an apartment of a friend, on our way to what we would become.

Connie went on to TV shows, including Knots Landing, and later became a certified psychotherapist. Kathie got a Ph.D. and is a psychologist. I spent the better part of 35 years in the theater. A couple of years ago we had a reunion to celebrate 100 years of women starting out at the Rehearsal Club. It is greatly missed.

We have all had many Thanksgivings since, but none shines brighter in my heart than the five of us on a blanket, in a fourth floor walk-up with canned food and a solitary chicken.

“We were very tired, we were very merry,” wrote Edna St. Vincent Millay, and we gave all we had for that day. We gave thanks for our little path toward our future. Time and blessings can dull our sense of gratitude. Rushing from a table to buy something for Christmas weakens the day. Nothing reminds me to be truly grateful like the memory of those girls, of that picnic and the Easy Bake kitchen. We had so little but we had hope, and each other. We were very young and very merry. PS

Joyce Reehling is a frequent contributor and good friend of PineStraw.

A Time of Light and Latkes

A Hanukkah Story

By Amy Lyon

At my fifth-grade winter assembly we lined up single file, each with a candle in an aluminum holder, and walked through the darkened auditorium singing, “When you walk through a storm hold your head up high and don’t be afraid of the dark.” At 10 years old I was awed to be entrusted with a live, yellow flame, especially since it was a dark time for me. It was my first year at a new school, and a few classmates, who I thought were new friends, were bullying me.

We sang, “Though your dreams be tossed and blown, walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart and you’ll never walk alone.”

This reflects the essence of Hanukkah — hope, light and renewal.

The Jewish holiday Hanukkah is celebrated for eight days, lighting up the darkest time of the year. During each night at sundown, we light one candle of the eight-pronged candelabra called a menorah, until the eighth night, when all the candles blaze bright. We do this to remember the miracle that happened in Jerusalem 2,200 years ago when the ancient Hebrews, led by Judah the Maccabee, reclaimed the temple in Jerusalem from their enemy. When it was time to light the menorah, the eternal flame, there was only enough oil to last for one night, but instead it lasted for eight.

When I was growing up, my family numbered into the dozens, and we’d all gather at my grandparents’ home to light the menorah, exchange gifts, play the holiday game called dreidel and eat special foods. Dreidel is a four-sided spinning top, and on each side is a Hebrew letter that is an acronym for “a great miracle happened here.” The side where the top lands dictates how much of the pot of candy or pennies the spinner gets to take out or put in: all, half, none or the dreaded put one back in.

No one goes hungry on Hanukkah, because this is the holiday of the latke, the famed potato pancake. It’s the latke, that is, if you are descendant of the Ashkenazi and trace your roots to Eastern Europe, as does my family. Or, if you’re from the Sephardim branch, who long ago migrated south from the Middle East through the warmer Mediterranean countries, then your family fries up doughnuts, called sufganiyot. One way or another the holiday is a deep-fried affair.

That winter I was surely in my grandmother’s kitchen helping make the latkes, since her kitchen was the center of my universe and — in essence — still is. Nana was always putting on, wearing or taking off an apron, and there was always a kind, accepting smile on her face. On Hanukkah everyone wanted to be in the kitchen, if not as a self-anointed latke maker, then hanging out at the threshold to snatch one of the sizzling pancakes fresh from the pan. 

Latkes are a simple affair I learned to make by watching Nana’s hands as she laboriously grated potato and onion, delicately broke open the eggs and — with practiced elegance — flicked just enough leavening agent, sprinkled snowflakes of flour, added a pinch of salt and flaked in black pepper. She’d cup just enough batter in the palm of her hands, squeeze out excess liquid, and drop it into the pan of hot oil. Then she’d watch and wait. At just the right moment, when edges began to brown, she’d pat the pancake once or twice with her spatula. Then, when she knew it was right, she’d flip it over, pat it again and let the other side get crispy. And from there to the platter with the topping of choice. There are two camps when it comes to latke toppings, the savories who enjoy sour cream, or the sweeties who prefer applesauce. I fall into the applesauce group, preferably homemade.

In my 20s I opened Amy Cooks for You, a specialty food store and catering company, and for Hanukkah we turned out scores of latkes, of course my Nana’s recipe. In the years when my son, Max, was growing up, we started the tradition of having our own Hanukkah party for friends and family. Along the way, the simple brass menorah that I received as a bat-mitzvah gift the year I turned 13 was joined by a paper doll of Judah the Maccabee, the warrior-hero with honeycombed pants, shield and a long sword. One year the guests numbered close to 50, which made it a 250-latke occasion. It isn’t Hanukkah unless the aroma of fried onions and potatoes soak into the furniture and draperies, emanating for days.

This year I’m in particular need of the warmth and inspiration of the gleaming brass menorah, of traditions and remembrance of miracles. In February my mother died and my internal light is dimmed by a rendering sadness. I look forward to placing the tattered-but-persistent paper Judah the Maccabee on my table, spinning the dreidel and grating, flicking, sprinkling just the right amount to make the latkes. And when we light the candles of the menorah, once again, the darkness will be dispelled. PS

Amy Lyon is the author of The Couple’s Business Guide, How to Start and Grow a Small Business Together and In A Vermont Kitchen, Foods Fresh From Farms, Forests, and Orchards. She’s lived in Wilmington for ten years and can be reached at amylyon@gmail.com.

Woman in the Garden

Mother was a city girl who became a whiz at making things grow

By Joyce Reehling

The last time I pulled a weed in a vegetable patch was somewhere in the ’60s, and I don’t mean my age. Our family lived in a rural part of Maryland, and we always had a vegetable garden. We had tomatoes of several varieties, corn, lettuces and other things that came and went. Some vegetables got kicked off the list if we didn’t like them, or they didn’t grow and can well.

My mother was a city girl from Baltimore, and the idea that she ended up plunked down in a rural county and adapted so well to the life is nothing short of a miracle. She had my twin sister and me, which was enough to kill some women right there. She learned to can or, as a friend always said, “put up,” tomatoes — stewed and otherwise — green beans, corn and I don’t know what all. She did it to save money, which our little family needed.

Our beloved neighbor, John Howard, came down our long gravel drive with his team of horses and a plow to churn up our back garden area. There was plenty of room for long rows of corn and tomatoes, beans and what you will. John loped down the lane and set to work while we twins badgered him with questions about the horses.

Once done, we waited for Dad to return from some sales trip. Now, this was not your semi-glamorous business trip. Dad drove a 1953 Chevy, his car of choice until he threw her over for a Fiat and its scarce spare parts — another story and another reason my mother showed restraint. His territory meant days, and sometimes weeks, on the road. No fancy hotels for him, just clean, humble motels. It sounded like a great life to us as kids. Now, I know better.

He took great joy in the garden planting. When he left on his next trip, it was Mom and her child laborers who watered, weeded and harvested. Mainly weeded. We were told to weed in the early morning but, to our eternal regret, always put it off. There is no joy in weeding — not no way, not no how.

But, the perfect joy of playing in the hot sun and grabbing a ripe tomato, washing it off under the hose with cold water pumped from our well cannot be equaled. There is something about the heat of the sun in the tomato, and the cold of the well water on the skin. Delicious and pristine in flavor.

The canning would begin, and the heat in the kitchen was nearly unbearable. Air conditioning was years in the future. My mom, slight as she was, was lifting big pots of water and bunches of hot jars. My ears still ring with, “You get away from there while I do this,” words spoken only around the hot water. I can see her still with her hair plastered against her head, red-faced and determined. Gardening was not for the faint of heart, then or now, if you are not blessed with a cool place to “put up.”

Mom had more gardens than I can count. She put up tons of food and managed not to kill anyone while she did it. Nor did she take to drink or drugs which, given the heat, a set of twins and, later, two other girls 18 months apart, tells you a lot about inner strength.

My father took charge of the garden when he was home. A Marine in World War II, he assumed control — if not expertise — and ran us like a little battalion. It’s true, we did not always cry when his car pulled out of the drive. Weeding can do that to you.

The year my father planted enough potatoes to feed all of Maryland was almost the end. We had potatoes piled so high in the dirt cellar you couldn’t see a 12-year-old child on the other side. Rebellious cries of “not more potatoes” began to be heard at dinner in our home.

It is only a strong woman who doesn’t either leave or take up a gun after a summer like that. Women have the strength of 10 when it comes to the must-dos of life. Stand back and bet on ’em each and every time. Or starve.  PS

Joyce Reehling is a veteran actor of stage and screen and an old friend of PineStraw.