As loving as she was towards family members, my grandmother was reclusive. She didn't have a lot of lady friends to go out to shop and have lunch with. She loved playing cards and she played poker regularly with a few ladies like herself. That made up her social life outside of family ties.

My mother was different; she loved all of outdoors, nature in particular. She sometimes tried to think up activities that her mother would enjoy; that's how we got to spend a week at Dogwood Valley Farm in Ohio. The owners of the farm opened their doors to paying guests from cities who wanted to experience farm life; they had a big house, a huge barn, a pond, fields to run around in, and vegetable gardens. They grew all their own produce. The family had no television.

The four of us--my grandmother, mother, my sister Judie, and myself--drove to Ohio to spend a week on this working farm. Other than the sleeping arrangements being a little tight, we had a wonderful time. The farm family was, of course, very hospitable and their children were a bit in awe of my sister and me because we came from "the big city" of Pittsburgh. But that little bit of reserve soon wore off and Judie and I threw ourselves into exploring this paradise. The pond had water lilies which entranced me--and water lilies still do to this day; they had horses in the barn which we rode in a tame fashion; we helped pick vegetables. We put on "shows" for the adults.

My grandmother enjoyed this week in her own way. She had an iron chair--"her" chair--where she sat in the sun and watched Judie and me play with the farm children. There were a bunch of cats hanging around and one cat fell in love with my grandmother. My grandmother did like all animals and she welcomed this cat's visits; it made me so happy to see this orange cat sleep so trustingly, curled in a circle, on my grandmother's lap. There were fields full of daisies and my grandmother told us to bring handfuls to her and she would show us how to make daisy chains. She showed us how to weave the stems together and make crowns to wear on our heads.

The farm wife cooked huge, really amazing, meals. She did all her own baking, and in the mornings she would serve us freshly baked cinnamon rolls. These rolls had an almost spiritual effect on us; they drew on all our senses. They looked beautiful, served in a basket with a red and white cloth--their scent could bring tears to your eyes--to eat these rolls was heavenly and of course your fingers got all sticky and then you could lick off the very sweet sticky stuff. My mother took the recipe for these rolls home with her and baked them for company, especially when she invited people over for a Sunday brunch.