Many moons ago,

I was young like  you;

I thought I knew it all;

I confused sexual experience

with maturity,

Not realizing that having one

does not mean you have the other as well.

I chaffed against apron strings

unwilling and unable

to ever see a point of view

other than my own.


It has taken many moons

and becoming a parent myself

to understand how difficult

being a parent really is;

It is too late for me

to tell my parents that

I appreciate what they tried to do

for me and my  siblings.

It is not too late for you.


Sandra Lee Smith

Originally posted August 2010

Updated October 13, 2018


As a young wife and mother,

I wanted nothing more than to have children,

and to be there, for them, as they grew up.

I thought that  having newborn babies was

the greatest reward–

but then they became toddlers and I thought

this was the greatest reward–watching them

learn to speak and eat by themselves and

discovering all that life has to offer.

Then they became youngsters going off to school,

learning how to read and write,

and do multiplication tables–

and I thought this was the greatest reward,

as I became involved with their school and became friends

with some of the teachers,

and was a volunteer in their classrooms.

I taught my son, Steve, how to play Scrabble and

took them to book stores and thrift shops

to look for books.

I took all four of them on vacation trips to Ohio

to spend summers with my parents,

and boasted proudly that I could travel

with ease with all of them–including twice

on a Greyhound bus across country.

Then they became older boys and I thought

this was the greatest reward,

because we bought a camper and started

going camping with them.

Then they became young men and I thought

this was the greatest reward as they brought

girls home to meet their mother.

Then they were truly men, with wives

and children of their own–and yes,

I knew that this was the greatest reward,

for now there were grandchildren to love

and share my life with–

so, perhaps, in retrospect–it wasn’t any one

single period of time that was the greatest reward–

perhaps it was being able to recognize

that each stage in their lives

was the greatest reward.


Sandra Lee Smith

Originally posted May 9, 2009

Updated October 7, 2018


Our tea party was intended to be

elegant and refined,

with our best white tablecloths,

covering several small round tables,

and mama’s very best cloth napkins,

and her best Noritaki china.

We had several small tea pots,

one for each table,

and watercress sandwiches,

with the crusts cut off.

I had bought two dozen

Petit Fours at the bakery,

that morning, so I knew

they were fresh,

and our guests would have

their choice of several teas.

My sister and I had planned it

down to the last detail and

we were wearing our best

spring dresses,

and I my black patent leather shoes.

Everything was ready for the

guests to arrive.

No one knows to this day

who was responsible for

leaving the back door open,

but the dogs–

those clumsy, doltish golden retrievers–

that my father loved so much–

came barreling in,

and while my sister and I screamed

with horror and dismay,

those dogs tore through the

dining room where the tables were set,

pulling tablecloths and china crashing to the floor.

Ruined! Everything ruined! My mother would

never forgive us,

and my father maintained that the dogs

didn’t know any better.

All we had left were the boxes of

Petit Fours on the kitchen counter,

out of harm’s reach.

We swept up the broken glass

and made a pitcher of Kool-Aid

and we served Petit Fours on

paper plates.

Our girlfriends thought it was a scream.

My mother never thought so.

Don’t ever mention “tea party” in

her presence.


Sandra Lee Smith

Originally posted June, 2009,

updated October 5, 2018







Billy was indisputably the baby of the family

for twelve years;

Now, there were five of us children

and two adults

sitting around the kitchen table,

the baby sitting in a wooden high chair,

next to mom,

spilling his milk (UNTIL A NEW RULE



and smearing creamed spinach

on his hands and his face

and the wooden tray-top to

the high chair,

or chewing on a chicken leg.

Additionally, it should be mentioned

that he was born on mom’s birthday

in 1946,

which gave him one-up-manship

that none of the rest of us

could compete with.

How could you compete with

being born on mom’s birthday

when you weren’t?

To make matters worse,

when he was only two or three years old

he became very sick,

and spent what seemed

like a very long time

in the hospital.

At first they thought

he had polio

and then decided

it was a virus.

To the best of my knowledge,

his illness was never fully diagnosed.

He was thin and spindly forever after.

Billy wore a cowboy hat,

and had a cap gun and holster

and would request a new cap gun

and holster for Christmas every

year. His aim was–unquestionably—

to grow up and become a cowboy.

But likeable? oh yes, likeable–

so no one could resent him

for being adorable

or mom’s favorite.  He quite often

wouldn’t go to sleep  until mom

responded to his question “Do you

love me and like me?”

We called him the baby of the family.

And even though two more siblings

were born in 1957 and 1961,

Billy maintained his status

as baby of the family

forever after in our eyes—

and he did become a cowboy.




When the days start getting shorter

and the frost is on the ground,

and the dogs are getting furry,

and the woodpile is a mound,

Near the woodstove cats are lounging,

and the chores have all been done,

we all sit around the table,

while we read our books for fun.

Then one night after the dishes

have been washed and put away,

mama puts aside her darning,

and then gets up and says

What a night for making taffy!”

and you can see our ears perk up,

I shout “I’ll fetch the sugar!”

My sister says “I’ll get the cup

(the one we use to measure things),

and a wooden spoon to stir it up.

mama take out cider vinegar,

I pour molasses in the cup;

into a big old heavy pot

go all the needful things,

and mama stirs til its boiling up,

and then –well here’s another thing;

you have to cook it without stirring

for what seems like the longest wait,

mama tests  a bit in water

till we see it holds its shape,

then we pour it on the platter

and we have to let it cool,

we butter up our fingers

’cause we’re nobody’s fool,

then sis and I pull taffy

till it stretches and its grand;

mama cuts it into pieces

with her scissors and she hands

over all the little pieces

to pa for him to wrap

in wax paper and he twists them

and gives each little piece a snap;

we’ll eat a few small pieces

just to see if they are sweet

mama’s homemade taffy

is the best thing you can eat.








Butter a platter or a baking sheet. In large pan combine all the ingredients. Stirring constantly, bring to a boil and cook, without stirring until the mixture reaches 250 degrees Farenheit (the hard ball stage) on a candy thermometer or until a small amount  of mixture dropped into very cold water forms a ball that is hard enough to hold its shape, yet is pliable.

Pour onto the platter.  Have squares of wax paper on hand. let the cooked taffy cool until its barely  cool enough to work with ( if it gets too cool, you can warm it in a 350 degrees oven for 3-4 minutes).  Coat your hands with butter.  Now start  pulling. Working fast, pull a lump of candy between the fingertips of one hand and the other until its about 15  inches long.  Now double it up and pull again. Continue pulling as in step 1 until candy is porous and hard to pull.  Stretch candy into a rope about 3/4″ in diameter. Cut with greased scissors into 1″ pieces. To prevent sticking, wrap each piece individually in a piece of wax paper; twist the ends to seal. Keep wrapped candy in a tightly closed tin.

Sandra Lee Smith

Originally posted June 11, 2011,

Updated September 18 , 2018



“We’re going up home”,

My mama said,

So pack some things together,

You’ll need a change of underwear,


and a sweater.”

and so I put some things together

with my toothbrush and some books,

My diary and my bar of soap,

(I care about my looks)

The drive up home took ever bit

of three hours or more,

to reach the upper peninsula

where grandpa had a store;

we loved our grandpa’s general store

He carried quite a lot;

many penny candies and

comic books and pop.

and when we stopped

at Shop-A-Lot

and swarmed into the store

Grandpa call out to ya’all watch out

He’d just waxed up the floor;

from Shop-A-Lot we headed north

To Grandpa’s big old farm,

He had cows and chickens, and horses too,

And a great big old red barn.

Mama fussed about the house

and fussed about the kitchen,

And when grandpa came home to eat

He just refused to listen:

You ought to sell the store,” she said

and this farm and all the rest,

You could come down home with us

to live; Really, Pa, it would be best”

But grandpa didn’t pay no mind and

he went about his ways,

He ran the store and every thing,

till the end of all his days

and when it came, my mama cried,

I knew her heart was sore,

she said that we should pack some things,

We’re going up home once more.


Sandra Lee Smith

Originally written June 15, 2010

Updated September 8, 2018





In my mother’s kitchen

at 1618 Sutter Street,

We all sat around an old white wooden table

that was covered with oilcloth,

and it was here that my older sister

and brothers and I

did our homework,

while my mother did the ironing

and a small Crosley radio  on top

of our refrigerator

was tuned to the radio “shows”

we listened to every night,

Shows like the Lone Ranger and

Mr & Mrs North,

The Shadow

and Lights Out,

and one of my favorites,

Baby Snooks;

These programs were on every day

and every night

along with shows like Jack Benny

and Amos and Andy.

There were dozens of these programs

which we listened to

while working on essays or

our arithmetic lessons.

My mother’s kitchen was not,

actually, a very large room,

but along one wall, on the

left side,

There was a stove and a

tall narrow cabinet in which

my mother stored things like

spices and bottles of vinegar

and Kitchen Bouquet;

next to this cabinet was

a large built-in cupboard

with curious stained glass,

doors where dishes were stored,

then an open space,

beneath which was a large drawer

where all sorts of things were tossed

from rubber bands to Wilson Evaporated Milk

labels (which could be redeemed for free things

such as pot holders or dish towels) as well as

paper clips an crayons and bobby pins,

pencils, erasers and old used envelopes,

as well as my mother’s one and only cookbook,

Ida Bailey Allen’s Service Cookbook that she

bought at Woolworth’s for a dollar,

a pair of scissors, and World War II ration books

for each of us that she kept long after the war

was over.

When the War was over and anytime you needed

something like string or a rubber band, you looked

inside the kitchen drawer.

Next to this big built-in kitchen cupboard

another large cupboard was beneath it

where, I suppose, pots and pans were

kept, and then there was a space –

not very large – that served as a pantry,

for canned goods. My father ingeniously

cut a square hole in the floor to connect

us with the basement, in which

there were other cupboards my father

had built.

my mother could take laundry

from upstairs and bring it down

stairs to toss into this hole to

save her some time and effort.

The washer and dryer were in the


Once, my brother Biff got stuck

in the hole when we were playing

hide & seek.

There was a back door outside of

which there was a box where the

milkman left bottles of milk.

Back inside, next to the back door

there was a window and in the corner

the refrigerator. A long wall, including a window,

was on the right wall where we had a mangle

ironer that my mother rarely used.  it was

a catchall for things piled up on top of it.

Then there was the fourth wall opposite

the back door, where the kitchen sink

was, where my sister, brother and I

washed, dried and put away dishes

and learned the lyrics to popular songs

from a weekly songbook that Becky

bought each week for ten cents from

Carl’s Drug Store.

This was my mother’s kitchen where

we ate supper every night at 6 O’clock

sharp and you did not eat if you were not

at the table. I never missed supper and

sat at my mother’s right, Becky at my right,

and on the other side of the table, Bill

first at mom’s left, Biff in the middle, and

Jim at Dad’s right. Biff was frequently late

for supper, for whatever reasons and got sent

upstairs without supper–he didn’t suffer for

it because I and some of the other siblings

would sneak things up to him. He laughs

about it now, saying he ate better than all

of us.

It was in my mother’s kitchen that I began to

learn how to cook, studying the recipes  in the

Ida Bailey Alley cookbook and making sure we

had all of the ingredients in the pantry.  It was

in my mother’s kitchen that I began making

muffins and brownies, peanut butter cookies

and cookies called Hermits, and another called

rocks. I discovered early on that if you could read recipes,

you could cook and bake.

It was also in my mother’s kitchen

that I began to write stories on an

old Underwood typewriter

that my father bought for my

brother, Jim, and me to use. It was

too heavy to carry upstairs so I typed,

using two-fingers, while sitting at the kitchen

table.  These are some of the things I

remember about my mother’s kitchen.

It was, I think, the hub of the house.

Sandra Lee Smith

As written June 5, 2010

Updated September 6, 2018

*Sandy’s food note:  It occurred to me, after writing and re-writing the above, that I didn’t mention anything about the kitchen on Mulberry Street, Where my parents bought a newly-built house around 1955 or 1956.  I’m sure I must have baked cookies or experimented with recipes in the Mulberry Street house–but I never developed the kind of attachment that I had throughout my life to the kitchen on Sutter Street.  Also, I only lived in the Mulberry street house for about 3 years. Shortly after graduating from high school in June of 1958, I got married– primarily to leave  home.  It may have been the hub of the house when my sister Susie was born and grew up in the Mulberry Street house but it was never the hub of the house for me, the short time I lived there, albeit unwillingly.




narrow built-in cabinet