In her blog “The Merry, Merry Month of May” Judythe Morgan writes about the four military centered anniversaries  this month, culminating with Memorial Day.  It’s worth reading.  In the rush to celebrate the beginning of summer, get school over with and look forward to vacations, BBQ’s and family reunions we sometimes forget the reason we are able to do all these things has very much to do with the men and women who have served, and continue to serve, our country, especially those who have given their lives to defend these freedoms. 

There are three mostly military tributes guaranteed to bring a lump to the throat and turn on my waterworks at any military funeral or memorial:  The riderless horse, Taps and “In Flanders Fields”.  

The riderless horse is the oldest of the traditions, going back to at least Genghis Khan and probably even earlier.  It symbolizes the fallen rider who will ride no more and isn’t necessarily reserved for military funerals. 

President Reagan’s Funeral

Western Funeral

Police Funeral

  In the U.S. Military, the riderless horse is part of the military honors given to an Army or Marine Corp officer who held the rank of colonel or above, including the President and the Secretary of Defense.  The caparison, or equipment, the horse wears is very specific, partly depending on the officer’s rank.  In 1865, Abraham Lincoln was honored as the first president to have the riderless horse lead his funeral procession from the train to his burial spot.

"Black Jack"

The most famous riderless horse was “Black Jack,” named for General of the Armies John “Black Jack” Pershing.  He took part in the state funerals of Presidents John F. Kennedy, Herber Hoover and Lyndon Johnson, as well as General of the Army Douglas MacArthur.  During his 24 years of service he also took part in thousands of other funerals at Arlington National Cemetery.  He was kept at Ft. Myers, Virginia and I had a chance to see him there when I was in Washington, D.C.  He was a beautiful

Black Jack’sMemorial Plaque

shiny black half-Morgan and somewhat spoiled since according to tradition he is never (officially, at least) ridden.  He is one of only two horses in history to be buried with full military honors and is buried at Ft. Myers.  (The other is “Comanche,” the horse ridden by Captain Miles Keogh of the U.S. 7th Cavalry at the Battle of Little Bighorn).  His successor, “Private York,” took over in 1997 and participated in President Reagan’s funeral.

 The second tribute is Taps.  Twenty-four simple notes, traditionally played on bugle or trumpet, the tune is both eloquent and haunting.  The tune is actually a variation of an earlier bugle call known as the “Scott’s Tattoo” and was arranged in its present form by Brigadier General Daniel Butterfield whose bugler was the first to sound the new call in 1862.  Within monthsTaps was being used by both Union and Confederate forces and was officially recognized by the United States Army in 1874.  Although it is primarily associated with funerals and flag ceremonies, it is also used in the military to signal “Day Is Done” or “Lights Out.”   A longer, non-military version, Il Silenzio was written in 1965 and extends the bugle call into an even more haunting melody.

The third tribute is a short poem written by Canadian Army doctor Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae and a simple red poppy:

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

My grandfather, a WWI veteran, was active in the American Legion and my Grandmother and my Mother were active in the Legion Auxiliary.  Every year, we kids were recruited to help sell paper poppies and did so with enthusiasm.  I don’t think we were ever quite sure exactly what it signified, except to honor sodiers who had died in battle.  It wasn’t until many years later that I really read In Flanders Fields and realized how the poppy became a symbol of war remembrance world-wide. 

Flanders Fields, in Belgium and France, were the sites of many different battles between the Allies and Germans and the countryside was devastated by the constant shelling and movement of troops back and forth.  The red poppy was the first plant to grow and bloom in the muddy fields, even as the war went on.  McCrae noticed this during the warm days of early May 1915 and is believed to have composed the poem following the death of a friend.  He actually threw away the completed poem, but a fellow officer retrieved it and sent it to publications in England where it was first published in December of 1915.

Moina Michael, who was a professor at the University of Georgia and taught disabled servicemen after WWI, realized there was a need to provide financial and occupational support for these servicemen.  Inspired by the poem, she always wore a red poppy and, inspired by her efforts, the American Legion Auxiliary adopted the poppy as a symbol for war veterans in 1921, with funds from the sales going to help disabled servicemen.  The Remembrance poppy is still widely used in Canada, New Zealand, England and other British Commonwealth countries to commemorate their war dead. 

Is there something special that reminds you of the sacrificies of our service men and women?  Does your family have any traditional memorials or gatherings in their honor?  What puts a lump in your throat at a military funeral or rememberance?

"Tell John I Died With My Face Toward Zion" by Clark Kelley Price

 In her April 17 blog, Your Heritage and Family Tree, Dr. Shay Fabbro  (if you aren’t following her, you should be!) discusses family and asks wouldn’t it be cool if we could go back in time and actually spend time with them, get to know them, speak with them? How much more would we come to know ourselves if we knew where we came from?

I would love to do that, but what I’d love even more is to “play it forward” and bring one of my ancestors to the present and give her the opportunity to see what her life still means to succeeding generations of her family.

Mary Murray Murdoch, my great-great-great grandmother, was born in Glencairn, Scotland on October 13, 1782.She was called “Wee Granny” since she was small – 4’7″ tall and about 90 lbs.  In 1811 she married James Murdoch, a miner who worked at the Lime Works coal mine near Gaswater, Scotland.  In 1831, James was killed trying to rescue another miner who had been overcome with poisonous gas, leaving Mary with six children, plus an orphaned niece, ranging in age from 4 to 20.  The family was poor, work was hard to find, and all the children worked whatever jobs they could find to put food on the table and provide for the family.  At times, all they had to eat was potatoes and salt. 

John Murray Murdoch

In 1850, members of the family had converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, or Mormons, and in December 1851 Wee Granny also joined the Church.  Her youngest son, John Murray Murdoch, had started herding sheep at a very early age and in 1850 was asked by the Church if he and another Scottish sheepherder would come to Utah to tend Brigham Young’s sheep.  He accepted, and in 1852 set sail for America with his wife and two small children, both of whom died on the trip.

By 1856, John and his wife, Ann, were established in Utah and had saved enough money for her brother, James, and his family and Wee Granny to join them.  They sailed from Liverpool, England, landed in New York and took the train to the end of the railroad line at Iowa City, Iowa, where they joined other Mormon immigrants enroute to Salt Lake.  Here, the immigrants were organized into companies, assigned leaders, and prepared for their trek west.  Wee Granny and the Steele family were assigned to the Martin Handcart Company.

A covered wagon with 3 yoke of oxen (6 oxen), which could haul about 2,500 lbs. of supplies cost about $400, without supplies, which cost about $1,000. This was far beyond the means of many poor immigrants like the Murdoch family.  By 1855, the Church had set up a handcart system, providing emigrants with carts which could be pulled by hand across the Mormon Trail.  Each handcart was made of hickory or oak and could carry 400-500 lbs. of foodstuffs, bedding, clothing and cooking utensils.  At least two able bodied people were needed to pull each one.   Five people were assigned to each cart.  Adults were allowed 17 lbs. of baggage, children 10 lbs.  Families with small children traveled in covered or family carts.  Each company also included ox-drawn commissary and baggage wagons, at least one to each twenty carts, and there was one large community tent for each 20 people. 

Handcart Pioneers by Cloy Kent

Beetween 1856 and 1860 nearly 3,000 immigrants in 10 different companies made the trek from Iowa City, Iowa (1,300 miles) or Florence, Nebraska (1,030 miles) to Salt Lake.  Covering about 15 miles a day, it took each company about 65-84 days to make the trek.  Historian LeRoy Hafen called it “the most remarkable travel experiment in the history of Western America.”  It was an experiment that probably would have been an interesting footnote in western history had it not been for the tragedies that befell two of the companies.

The Willie and Martin Handcart Companies (all companies were named for for their captains) were unfortunate victims of a “perfect storm” of weather conditions, delays, poor communication, and errors in judgement.  The ships carrying the immigrants were delayed in leaving England and the immigrants didn’t arrive in Iowa City until well after three other companies had already departed for Salt Lake.  Church agents weren’t expecting them and had to scramble to find provisions, oxen and handcarts for the new arrivals.

The Mormon Trail

Once the two companies reached Florence, Nebraska, there was much debate about whether to remain there for the winter or continue on to Salt Lake, especially since the companies included many young, elderly and women.  Several leaders argued against proceeding because of the increased possibility of early winter storms in the mountains, others wanted to go on.  Some of the immigrants decided to wait, but 404 members of the Willie Company and 576 members of the Martin Company decided to push on, eager to reach their new home. 

Crossing the Sweetwater by Clark Kelley Price

The two companies were about 10 days apart, with the Willie Company leaving first.  They reached Fort Laramie,expecting to replenish their supplies there, but there were no provisions, so the companies had to push on to Salt Lake and hope they had enough rations to last until they were met by supply wagons from Salt Lake.  Then the relief train and the companies began encountering bitter cold and early blizzards as they struggled through Wyoming.  After reaching the Martin Company, one of the members of the relief party wrote “It is not of much use for me to attempt to give a description of the situation of these people, for this you will learn from [others]; but you can imagine between five and six hundred men, women and children, worn down by drawing hand carts through snow and mud; fainting by the wayside; falling, chilled by the cold; children crying, their limbs stiffened by cold, their feet bleeding and some of them bare to snow and frost. The sight is almost too much for the stoutest of us; but we go on doing all we can, not doubting nor despairing.”

Martin's Cove by Clark Kelley Price

Wallace Stegner, Pulitzer prize winning author and western historian, praised the examples of those of the handcart companies, particularly in comparison to other pioneer parties:   ”. . . But if courage and endurance make a story, if humankindness and helpfulness and brotherly love in the midst of raw horror are worth recording, this half-forgotten episode of the Mormon migration is one of the great tales of the West and of America.”  By the time they finally reached Salt Lake, 68 members of the Willie Company had perished, along with some 145 members of the Martin Company. By contrast, the other eight handcart companies lost only about 40 members total during their crossings.

Wee Granny was one of those in the Martin Company who perished and was buried in a shallow grave about 10 miles east of Chimney Rock. According to family history, her last words were “Tell John I died with my face towards Zion.”  Her death at that time was oddly merciful, because it’s highly unlikely she could have made it through the worst of the hardships yet to come for the rest of the company. 

In 2001 more than 450 of Wee Granny’s descendants gathered in a small cemetery near Chimney Rock to dedicate a new memorial to her, and she remains a symbol of determination and commitment to all of us. We represent all walks of life from doctors, lawyers, police officers, farmers, ranchers, sheepherders, and housewives to teachers, nurses, writers,artists  and everything inbetween and we all share a common pride in the heritage that got us where we are today.

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step” (Lao-tzu, Chinese Philisopher).  Wee Granny wasn’t afraid to take that step.  When I’ve hestitated taking that first step, I’m reminded of Wee Granny, and she’s encouraged me to do things I never thought I could do and go places I’d thought were out of reach.

I had a pair of these roller skates when I was a kid.  They were wobbly, unstable contraptions which you secured to your shoes with the straps and the clamps on the front, which were opened and closed with a “key” or wrench.  You kept that handy because you needed it a lot.  Did I mention these tended to fall off a lot?  It might have made a difference had we lived where there were roller rinks, or at least sidewalks and paved streets.  However, we lived in the country where all those were conspicuously absent, so skating was done attempted on dirt or gravel. While I dreamed of pirouetting gracefully into the outstretched arms of a handsome swain and skating off into the sunset it was usually while picking gravel out of my knees as the dog watched from under the car.  He’d learned from experience it was about the only safe place to keep from being a landing pad when, sooner than later, I crashed.

He knew, even if I wouldn’t admit it, that I was not the most graceful, or coordinated, kid in the world.  I persisted,but I was most decidedly reading when the talents of balance, coordination and grace were handed out.  I think my Mom finally hid the skate key so she could quit buying Band-aids in bulk.

By the time I hit high school and a small skating rink opened, the skates we rented at least came with the shoes attached.  I don’t remember the ones we used having the brakes on the front, but then I never mastered the art of stopping by putting my toe down anyway.  All that did was guarantee a not-too-graceful belly flop.  Most of us stopped by the simple expedient of falling down or running into each other or the wall.  It worked just as well and if you fell you at least had a 50-50% chance of landing on top of someone soft.  I remember the night I headed for the wall just as the Town Marshal stepped inside the door.  He was a soft landing, but he definitely wasn’t amused.  My boyfriend and I spent the rest of the evening at the other end of the rink.  There were a few of the older kids who could skate beautifully, forwards and backwards, while the rest of us contented ourselves with going around the circle until we got dizzy and then ending up in a giggling pile of arms and legs somewhere.  There would be nights the rink would be so full we could barely move, and it was a carefree time of fun, laughter and simple entertainment.

I think it would be fun to go back and try the roller skating again until I remember why my orthopedic surgeon is already glad to see me coming, so I treasure the memories and turn on the Kindle.

In front of us were a young couple with a small girl about 4 or so, who was having trouble keeping her focus on the exhibits.  She kept turning arouind to look at my cousin.  Bart is and always has been a cowboy – a real cowboy.  He dresses the part, from his cowboy boots, to his neck kerchief and cowboy hat, and authentic clothes which have been on board a horse and on the range.  He walks the walk of a cowboy who spends long hours on a horse, and has those wrinkles around the eyes from hours of squinting into the sun.  I don’t think he was paying much attention to the little girl until she finally got up enough nerve to turn to him, tug on his hand, and ask, very shyly, “Mister, are you a real, live cowboy?”  Bart looked down at her in surprise, then took his hat off and squatted down in front of her.  “Yes, Ma’am, you bet.  I’m a real, live cowboy.” He said it quietly, smiling at her.  Her eyes lit up and she dashed back to her parents, “Mommy, mommy, he’s a real cowboy.”  Bart turned several shades of red. 

It would be interesting to know just how much this child remembers of the Titanic tragedy, or does she remember it as the first time she ever saw a real, live cowboy and he spoke to her?   Such are the fobiles of history.

By 1990, Lady Dunnett had finished her first series of six books, The Lymond Chronicles, set in the 16th century and was just wrapping up the third in her eventually eight volume series, The House of Niccolo, set in the 15th century.  They’re complex, witty, meticulously researched historical fiction, and have a fascinating cast of characters, both fictional and real.  The hero of The Lymond Chronicles, Francis Crawford of Lymond, a Scottish Lord, is everything you could ever want in a swashbuckling hero with a wicked sense of humor and a certain ruthlessness that can make you shiver.  (Did I say I really liked these books?)

Edinburgh, Scotland was the perfect place for the convention, being the home of Dorothy Dunnett and her husband, publisher and journalist Alastair Dunnett.  One of the main events, a Medici Banquet, was held in Playfair Library Hall, located within the Old College in Edinburgh.  It was used as a working library from the 1820′s until the 1960′s, when the library was moved, and is now used to host various gatherings. 

Old College, EdinburghThe Medici BanquetMedici Banquet Menu

The Medici Banquet

Medici Banquet Menu

Being ‘it’ requires us to:
  1. Post the rules
  2. Answer the questions
  3. Pass the questions on to eleven other bloggers by tagging and linking to them in our post
  4. Let them know they’ve been tagged

The questions are:

1. If you could live in a fictional world, where would that be?
My mind.  Give me an hour – or even a few minutes – to daydream and I can invent my own personalized fantasy world.

2. Fiction or non-fiction
Fiction

3. Do you read in noisy or quiet places?
I do prefer a quiet, or relatively quiet, place to read but I can read just about anywhere. 

4. Do reviews influence your choice of reads?
Not really, unless its from a family member or friend I know who has the same tastes as I do or a favorite author who recommends another author.

5. Audio books or paperbacks?
Paperbacks. We’ve tried listening to audio books on long trips and my grandmother had audio books for the blind but all they do is put me to sleep.

6. What was the first book you remember reading?
Good grief, that means searching back through over 60 years of  RAM memory that needs serious defragging.  One of the first I remember was ”The Littlest Angel” by Charles Tazwell, first published in 1946.  I still have the original edition, a bit grubby and worse for wear.  Other than that, once I learned to read I’d read anything I could get my hands on, from Dr. Seuss to the Bobbsey Twins and Grimms Fairy Tales.  I was fortunate to come from a family that cherished reading and was never told I couldn’t read something because it was “too old” or “not good” for me.   

 7. Favorite author?
That’s a really tricky question!  There are so many good ones that are favorites in a variety of genres, but overall I’d have to pick the late Lady Dorothy Dunnett, Scottish historical fiction writer extraordinaire.  Her writing career started in the late 1950s when she complained to her husband, Alastair Dunnett, that she’d run out of things to read and he told her “write one yourself.”  She did.  And went on to write a total of 22 books in addition to being an accomplished and acclaimed portrait artist and with her husband, Alastair, tirelessly promoting Scotland and Scottish heritage.  Her first series of six books, collectively called The Lymond Chronicles, followed a dashing, dangerous, witty Scottish nobleman, Francis Crawford of Lymond from 1547-1558 and included original as well as historical characters.  Her second series of eight books, The House of Niccolo collection, is set in the late 15th century.  The third collection is a series of six contemporary mystery novels involving an eccentric portrait painter and spy named Johnson Johnson.

8. Classic or Modern Novels?
Mostly modern novels, although I’ll sometimes go back to some classic novels like Scaramouche, with its classic “He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense the world was mad”  opening sentence, which has got to be one of the best opening lines ever. 

9. Have you ever met your favorite author?
Yes.  Back in 1990, my mother and I attended the first Dorothy Dunnett Convention, which was held in Edinburgh, Scotland.  There were about 100 attendees, some from as far away as South Africa and Australia.  Lady Dunnett was not only fully involved in the planning of the event, but also took a very active part in the event itself, even to hosting visits to her home.  She was a charming and gracious hostess and mixed with everyone, but I think she learned from it that passionate fans can be a bit exhausting, because in later conventions she seemed to have limited her participation. 

10. Book groups or solitary reading?
Solitary reading.  Since college English classes I’ve never been in a group which discussed reading specific books and I don’t find it all that stimulating.

11. If you could read only one book for the rest of your life, what would it be?
For a voracious reader, that’s an awful question. I’d have to say the Codexes of Leonardo da Vinci. This man had such an incredible mind and wrote about so many different things that were far ahead of his time that it would a lifetime project to really study his writings and drawings.

Being a late player in this particular “tag, you’re it” series makes it awfully difficult to come up with anyone who hasn’t played yet.  So I’m going to bend the rules and ask anyone who hasn’t played (or even if you have) to feel free to give it a go.

 I’ve always loved quaking aspen trees.  One of the first signs of spring around here, along with squabbling robins, is the “fuzzies” that pop out on aspen trees before they leaf out, making the branches resemble a pussy willow.  These are actually the beginnings of the aspen blossom, or catkin, tiny petalless flowers, which are also found in willows, birches and oaks.  The name comes from the old Dutch katteken, a diminutive of katte, or cat because of its resemblance to a kitten’s tail. Eventually, the wind carries the catekins with their attached seeds off to find new homes.  Given the fact the aspen has some very peculiar reproductive traits, the odds of this actually happening are probably just about the same as my winning the MegaMillions Lottery some day.  In fact, it’s estimated that aspens in the western United States haven’t extensively propagated from seed since the last Ice Age.  Every aspen tree in a grove is either male or female, and pollination is wind-borne, which means two groves of the opposite sex must be close to each other for the pollination to occur.  If it does, the aspen seed must then land in an open, sunny spot with good moisture retention in order to germinate and grow, hopefully before being eaten. 

Instead of relying on the wind to perpetuate the species, aspen clone themselves.  Every aspen tree in a grove is a clone of the original tree which started the grove and identical in structure to the parent tree.  One of the largest and oldest living organisms on earth is the Pando or “Trembling Giant” Aspen Grove in the Fishlake National Forest in south-central Utah, which covers some 106 acres and consists of some 47,000 male trees.  It’s estimated the root system is 80,000 years old.

Their enthusiasm for cloning is probably the reason I never thought about the fact they might bloom, too.  When we moved from Yellowstone I wanted aspen in our yard, so we bought one from the local nursery. My husband, not accustomed to aspen, kept saying we needed more than one.  I reassured him one was enough.  He didn’t believe me until the next spring, when our lonesome aspen began sending out roots and popping up new aspen shoots in various parts of the lawn.  We simply waited until one came up close to a spot where we wanted another tree, fenced it off and let it grow.  Within a couple of years, we had aspen and our neighbors had aspen.  I suspect by now the neighbors a couple houses down have aspen.  We’re doing the same thing in our present yard, courtesy of our neighbor who had planted an aspen close to our fence line. 

Aspen grow 20-100′ tall and are the most widely distributed tree in North America and in the fall their bright green leaves turn a spectacular variety of colors ranging from yellow to deep orange-red. 

The quaking aspen, Populus tremuloides,  gets its name from the distinctive rustling or rattling noise its leaves make in the wind.  Even on what may appear to be a perfectly still day, chances are the leaves of the aspen will be stirring.  Some people may find it spooky, I’ve always found it rather comforting.  Scientists will say it’s the particular shape of the aspen leaves and the way they grow that accounts for the constant movement, but folklore and legends have different tales to tell.

I grew up in a time when buying a new Easter dress was a very special occasion, one which required a special trip to the “big” city and a day spent visiting all the dress shops for just the right dress, shoes and, horror of all horrors, a hat. Since my female cousins and I were all tomboys, finding and trying on dresses was something akin to torture and accomplished only through bribes of food and a visit to the five-and-ten-cent store when we were finished. We’d have been a lot happier – and warmer – going to church in jeans and cowboy boots. To our logical kids’ minds it seemed silly to go to all this trouble just to cover everything up with overshoes and coats and have to tie your Easter bonnet down with duct tape to keep it on your head, although in those days security was a plentiful supply of bobby pins and hat pins.

Of course, the new clothes demanded photographs – outside. Somewhere between church and dinner you got dragged outside in all your Easter finery, pointed into the sun (if there was any) and ordered to smile.   My cousin (the short one on the left) and I absolutely hate this picture which, of course, means it was one of our mothers’ favorites.  We’re standing on a 5′ snowdrift, the wind is blowing and the temperature is about 25 degrees.  For whatever reasons lost in history mothers also insisted you face into the sun, ordered you to quit squinting and smile.  Needless to say, we weren’t very good at following directions, either.  Most of my childhood pictures look like I’m mad at the world or asleep when mostly I’m just trying not to go blind looking into the sun.  Did I mention I still hate having my picture taken?

After the photo session, we could mercifully go back in the house, thaw out and explore what was left of our Easter baskets.  Usually not very much.  The Easter Bunny came early at our house.  I think it was a plot to ensure we consumed as much sugar as possible so the sugar high had worn off by the time we got to church and we were likely to be semi-comatose, and therefore reasonably quiet, through the service.  

My most memorable Easter was the one when my father sat on my favorite Easter egg.  Everyone in the family remembers that one.  Our assorted families were gathered at our house and while waiting for dinner my cousins and I were entertaining ourselves hiding and finding Easter eggs.  My favorite egg that year was a lovely shade of dark lavender and I hid it very carefully under the cushion of a love seat which was back in a corner out of the way.  It was uncomfortable and seldom used and therefore unoccupied when my father wandered into the living room, found all the other seats occupied and headed for the love seat.  Everyone in the room shouted “Don’t sit down!”  He sat down.  I can still hear the squish.  Naturally, I burst into tears.  He got up, lifted the cushion, surveyed the ruin and said, puzzled “Why the hell would anyone want to put an egg under there?”  The dog ate the evidence.  I never did get another Easter egg to come out quite that perfect color ever again.

My thanks to Elaine Smothers and Freddy the Tree Frog for nominating me for the Liebster Award.  Like Elaine, I’m going to borrow fellow WANA alumni Mike Schulenberg’s description:

“According to legends that come to us from antiquity, the Liebster is meant for blogs that motivate, inspire, and have 200 followers or less. Its apparent purpose is to summon new followers like some sort of mystical talisman, increasing the power of those of us who are just beginning.”

In order to accept the award, one must follow a few rules:

1. Thank the person who nominated you on your blog and link back to them
2. Nominate up to 5 other bloggers for the award
3. Notify them by commenting on your blog
4. Post the award on your blog

Tuesday Cafe by Suzanne Stengel
Alvarado Frazier
Jennifer Jensen: Are We There Yet?
barelypoppins: practically imperfect in every way

I tried to find some new voices but if I nominated someone who has already received the honor and doesn’t want to play again, I apologize.  It’s what you get for being such good bloggers.  If you don’t already follow them, please take a moment or two to visit their blogs.  You’ll be glad you did.

There seems to be no middle ground where Peeps are concerned.  People either love them or hate them, but given the fact the little yellow treats and all their various relatives are so wildly popular, I thought it might be time to take a closer look at this Easter icon which is gradually spreading out to infect include other holidays as well.

Peeps were originally produced by Rodda Candy Company in Pennsylvania, which was best known for its jelly beans.  The original Easter Peeps were made by hand-squeezing marshmallow through pastry tubes and then hand painting the eyes on each one.  No wonder it took 27 hours to create just one Peep.  They may have remained a regional novelty forever if it had not been for the creative and inventive minds of Sam Born and his son, Bob.

 In 1910, Sam Born, a Russian candy maker, emigrated to the United States and in 1923 opened a small candy-making shop and retail store in Brooklyn.  He advertised his daily made candies with a sign reading “Just Born” and the name stuck.  Sam invited his two brothers-in-law to join him in the company, and it continued to grow, even during the Depression years, moving to an empty printing factory in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania in 1932 and gradually buying up other candy companies.  When the company acquired Rodda Candy Company in 1953, Sam’s son, Bob, who had joined the company in 1946, figured out a way to help mechanize the marshmallow forming process so the Peeps and other marshmallow candies could be mass produced and an icon was born. 

It now takes about 6 minutes to create one Peep, which adds up to about 4 million Peeps per day, or 4 billion Peeps per year.  Americans alone will consume more than 600 million Peeps this Easter, with yellow still the most popular color.

Peeps are not just for Easter any more.  They’re now available for Halloween, Christmas and Valentine’s Day in appropriate colors and shapes.  No matter which color or shape you prefer, the basic recipe ingredients are the same:  sugar, corn syrup, gelatin and carnauba wax.  Yes, you read right.  Carnauba wax, the same wax used in food, cosmetics, automobile and furniture wax and as a coating for dental floss, among other things.  Have no fear, though, this extremely versatile product is a natural, renewable resource that to date has no synthetic equivalent.  Also known as palm wax or Brazil wax, it comes from the leaves of a palm tree grown only in Brazil.  It has a very high melting point, is nearly insoluble in water, and harder than concrete.  Just try an old Peep if you don’t believe that one.

The Peeps official web site includes a fan club, games, Peeps recipes, Peeps merchandise, and links to more than 30 sites across the country which have Peeps Diorama and Art Contests, with Peeps prize packages donated by the company.  These contests range from a Marshmallow Peeps Diorama and Peeps-A-Pult Contest at Macalester College in St. Paul, MN to a Fidose of Reality contest which lets your dog get in on the action, provided he doesn’t eat all the Peeps before you get the picture taken.

On the other hand, Google can provide links to an entertaining variety of videos and instructions on how to destroy Peeps, including 100 Ways To Kill A Peep  which has some very creative, if somewhat gruesome,  illustrated ideas.  A word of warning if you want to try any of them at home.  Peep destruction is messy, especially if it involves fire, heat or a microwave.  Think toasting marshmallows over a campfire and having one fall on your pants.  Think getting gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe.  Think eating cotton candy on a hot day. 

When it comes right down to it about the only way to really, completely destroy a Peep and not leave evidence a mess is to eat it.