How can we, children of the Great Depression, ever forget those hand-me-down clothes? Mine came from my cousin Frieda, three years older, tall and slender, to be miraculously transformed into something wearable on my short, chubby body. How my mother, (not known for her abilities as a seamstress) agonized over these alterations. Seams were carefully ripped open and the different parts re-pinned to my reluctant rotund body, to try and make something wearable. Not always a success! However, I loved her sweaters. They were sooooo BIG reaching to my knees and the sleeve cuffs hanging below my fingertips. I loved to put my hands onto the opposite sleeve and hug myself into this wonderful warmth. Little did I know then, that this sloppy sweater style, would become a fashion fad in the Twenty First Century!!!
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Mama and I were sitting in the kitchen when we heard the loud tramping of boots on the back steps. With all the energy of a mini whirlwind, my 14 year old brother rushed in, cheeks glowing from the cold, eyes shining and a big smile. Flying past me with a tug of my hair and a ‘Hi sis”, he grabbed Mama in a big hug almost lifting her off the floor (which was not easy, because Mama weighed almost 200 pounds). Giving her a kiss, I saw him slip a few coins into her apron pocket (earned as a delivery boy) saying “Mama, this is for you”. Letting her go, he turned around and with another tug of my hair was out the door. I looked at Mama standing there, with one hand on the cheek where he had kissed her and the other in her pocket. The smile and the look of love and pride on her face was one that I shall never forget. Will I ever be able to do something for her to earn that special smile?
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One morning as my brother Dick and I were about to leave for school we heard Papa come in form a night’s work. He was a baker. He and Mama lost their own German bakery and restaurant shop at the beginning of the depression and now they tried to get part time work as a cook and a baker in other shops, still struggling to stay open. He was carrying a large brown paper bag. As he kissed Mama I heard him whisper to her in German, that this was part of his salary to his night’s work. She just patted his cheek lovingly and put the bag aside. Dick and I were curious as to what was in the bag because it smelled so good. Mama promised not to open it until we came home from school. Racing home that afternoon and bursting onto the kitchen, as promised, there it was, unopened. Mama had out an apple cut in half for us to munch on as she slowly started to open the bag. She pulled out two loaves of day old rye bread and going deeper into the bag, pulled out another one. Gently tearing it apart there before us were eight-- count them-- eight sticky buns! What we children called sticky buns, actually in bun language, were known as snake buns. They were made from long, narrow strips of dough, strewn with raisins and cinnamon, and tightly rolled as a coiled snake. After they were baked, white icing was put on top. How our eyes sparkled looking at these luscious buns, and the apple we were eating, already tasted like a sticky bun.
That evening, Mama, having put aside one loaf of bread and four buns for tomorrow, cut off the ends of the other loaf She grated these crusty pieces into fine crumbs and put them into our soup to thicken it. Then she cut eight slices; the two larger ones for Papa, and spread them with chicken fat. After our soup we watched with rapt attention and impatient anticipation as Mama put the buns into a pan and into the oven to warm and let the icing melt and seep into the crevices.
Finally they were ready, and very slowly we uncoiled our bun, pulling small pieces from it and licking the sticky icing from our fingers, savoring every delicious piece. As I slowly ate mine, I thought this had to be heaven because tomorrow we had another loaf of bread and a few more sticky buns to enjoy.
Copyright © 2002-2010 Anne Humbach