Tie tightly to those strings of family, friendship

My Hofmann relatives descended — no, they ascended to my home recently.

They couldn’t descend because I live on a hillside and they came from town below. They may have been driven by our age-old sense of family-ness, reacting to our combined childhood memories of gathering together for food and visiting at the beckoning of our Grandmother Hofmann and our parents.

We were mostly a generation younger than the ones who drew us together initially, but their act had touched something within each of us that lay somewhat dormant for just such an occasion.

My house was chosen because it represented the homestead of our grandparents, great-grandparents to some, and where our parents had grown to adulthood. For Esther, an aunt, it had been the home of her husband, John.

Out of the eight Hofmann children, we represented six of them. One lived out of town, and Aunt Velva was away on a visit. Still, thoughts of them pervaded our gathering.

We weren’t grand in number, and there was very little pre-planning. It was a “We’re having a two o’clock ‘bring your own lunch at Dorothy’s’ sort of thing. But it was a heart-touching sort of thing, too, remembering for some and awareness of the past for others, but a treasured moment for each because it could not pass this way again.

In these days of separateness, I strongly urge you to have your own “bring your own lunch (or snack) day ... or hour’’ and tie tightly to those strings of family or friendship, for those are the memories to carry you through the tough times.

Days of love shared. It’s a wonderful way to preserve that love and pass it down to your children and friends.

*  *  *

“It seems like we’re always busy but never get anything done ...” and his voice drifted off in wonder.

He wasn’t speaking to me but to his friends close by, yet I couldn’t help but think of the days when life didn’t seem so busy.

I questioned it. Were we really not that busy? If not, then why did we get so much done? Why did it seem so long between holidays? Why was there time to spend with family and friends, visiting? Why did the days seem longer?

As a child, my days were filled during the school year with studies and homework, band rehearsals and practicing clarinet at home, attending football and basketball games to encourage the team, to wear the band uniform to play school songs and John Phillip Sousa marches in formation on the field.

After school, homework finished, there were chores to do about the house — setting the table for dinner, bringing in kindling for the wood-burning kitchen range, helping do dishes, helping hang the laundry on the outdoor clothesline, making my bed and hanging up my clothes, keeping toys picked up, dusting or cleaning out drawers, carrying chicken feed, “slopping the hogs,” gathering eggs, cutting greens for the rabbits, filling their water bowls and cleaning the hutches, carrying water from the creek in buckets to water the garden, or taking a turn turning the handle on the cream separator after the milking had been done.

This isn’t to indicate that I did all the work. No, it was a cooperative effort with the rest of the family and depending on what our assignments were for the day.

Still, there was plenty of time to swing in the lawn swing, read a book, walk the lane to bring back the mail, color a picture, do some writing on my own, draw, pet the animals, play board games or street games, spend time with cousins and friends, lie on my back in the grass with my sister or cousin to decide what each cloud formation appeared to be.

There was time to go visiting with my mom, taking our sewing baskets filled with embroidery work, crochet hooks and yarn, quilt blocks to piece together. We would spend the afternoon in company with my mom’s sisters, cousins and Old Town friends who would bring along their own children so that the children had company, too. Time for impromptu meals between families, time for oneself without relying on TV or other electronic interference for entertainment. Time. What a wonderful word.

When the men would come home from work, hunting, cutting wood, fishing or other ventures, the tables in whomever’s home we happened to be would suddenly crown with meats and salads and hot dishes, warm homemade rolls and a variety of cakes, pies, cookies. Heaven to the hungry.

There was time to go to town to shop, pausing along the street to visit with acquaintances, go to the movies or just sit in the car to people-watch.

The library was a special place to spend time in order to bring home another good book or listen to the story-teller describe a fascinating tale.

There wasn’t much swimming, for the Cove pool and Pine Cone were too far away to go by ourselves and that was reserved for special outings with several families. Crystal Plunge finally came into being down by the viaduct, but it doesn’t seem like it was there very long and I almost drowned there. Only my cousin Merle saw my distress and came to my rescue. Thus ended my swimming lesson. Mostly, as far as swimming was concerned and when given the chance, we swam in the cold  waters of the Grande Ronde at Riverside Park, Five-Points or up at Hilgard at picnic time. Once in a while it was up at Catherine Creek, but there were rattlesnakes in that area and I was pretty timid. Little snakes, probably water snakes, would come swimming up to our legs and I’d go running out of the water crying. Big baby.

Oh, the women, with help from their children, worked hard spring and fall cleaning, Saturday cleaning, Monday washing, Tuesday ironing, etc., cooking, mopping, dusting everything, changing beds and seeing to dirty faces and hands of the little ones, but, somehow, it seemed just a way of life with plenty of time for relaxing. The men chopped wood, tended stock and “fixed things” after their day at work had ended, then relaxed with the evening paper while dinner simmered.

There were sandlot games, roller skating, playing street games, riding bicycles, horseback riding, hiking, no shortage of things to do. Then why do we now have this feeling of being rushed all the time?

Why, then, can’t we get through a day if we don’t have our calendar at hand to keep track of our appointments, sandwiching in a moment here and there, but feeling like we are always busy but never getting anything done? The man who spoke wasn’t alone. Rather, he was in a legion of us all who wonder where we are missing the boat.

Unfortunately, there are still some of us who remember what the “old days” were like and grieve, silently, that they can’t return.

Veteran newspaperwoman Dorothy Swart Fleshman is a

La Grande native whose column, “Dory’s Diary,’’ will run every other Friday.