October 4, 2020 . . .

Well, if you’ve been reading my blog lately, you know that I’m a proponent of opening up, business, personally, et al, albeit, carefully. I’ve shared my plan with you, and fine tuned it ‘til I’m blue in the face, but now it’s time for something new, time to move on.
I don’t know what to write about, but I do know that I will have to know the details.
So, I know what I’ll do. I’ll write about me and my life.
In the beginning, I was taught to hate. It was early in the 1940’s, and everyone on our side new what a good German was. My two brothers and two sisters were still at home. My older brother joined the Canadian Army, in 1943, in January, right after his seventieth birthday. And then he was gone – off to war. I remember Mom getting a wire and a wire recorder, and we all sat around and listened to the sound of Ken’s voice – again and again.
I can remember sending soldered top Crisco cans, full of fresh eggs, to my aunt in Scotland, during the war. We would save all sorts of fat in the empty Crisco cans and when they were almost full, we would bury fresh eggs into the fat. Then we would give the completed cans to my Father who would then solder on the top. We would then attach an address label and mail the can to Scotland. In her letters, my aunt told us that the eggs arrived safely and were cooked perfectly.
My other brother, Jim was still too young for service, and I was just a toddler, so he and I were still in school. There was seven years between my brother; Jim and myself. My younger sister, Bette worked at a drug company, and my older sister, Rosemary, told me that Bette was a part time ambulance driver, too. In 1944, Rosemary, who worked in Ford’s office, married another Ford employee.              
I must have got a toy drum for my birthday or Christmas, because, when the big day finally arrived, I got all dressed up in a sailor suit and proudly played my drum, on the platform at the old Windsor Train Depot, as Ken stepped down from the train that brought him home – home from the army and the war. I think the year was 1946, and I was 8 years old. Ken got a job with the Bell Telephone Company, and drove home in a dark green Fargo. I remember that truck, because I was convinced that it was meant to go far.
Well, that’s about all I can remember about my life in the 1940’s.
Please be careful . . .
Stay safe, stay well, remember your mask, stay physically distance, wash your hands frequently, get some fresh air if you can, and keep smiling . . .
‘til we meet again . . .