Sweet Home €“ what better name for a hamlet nestled above the Willamette Valley? Naturally, most people don’t know the town exists. To the visitor, it might look like typical, small-town America.
But for those who live in Sweet Home, and for those of us who have lived there, we know that Sweet Home is anything but typical. It’s our town. It’s the place we call home €“ home Sweet Home. And that just about says it all. Just about.
The truth is, whenever I see that sign as I come into town, I can’t help thinking back to my childhood and the days I spent in Sweet Home, days at Girl Scout camp, days tromping through the woods or water skiing on Foster Lake, carhopping at A&W,
cheerleading, swim team€¦ but those days are gone.
The days have turned to weeks, the weeks to months and months to years. I live in the big city now. But there are so many memories and so many stories to tell.
On one especially sunny day in April of this year, while driving into Sweet Home to visit my father, I remembered a story my mother had told me about the bachelor who used to live across the street from my childhood home.
This fellow was not your ordinary small town citizen, not by any stretch of the imagination. His house was set back off the street, nearly hidden behind the overgrown shrubs. The windows were completely covered in heavy tar paper. But my parents befriended him anyway. Because that’s just the kind of people they were.
This story, in a round-about-way, had to do with making pickles. At least my mother, Mickey Ponzoha, thought it did.
I had called her on the phone that day €“ some 20 years ago now €“ to get her dill pickle recipe: Mickey’s Never-fail Dills, which I wrote down verbatim.
But before she hung up the phone, she had to tell me one more thing. Anyone who knew my mother, Mickey Ponzoha, knows that in addition to being one of the librarians at Foster Elementary School, an energetic mother of seven and a loving wife, a lady who would lend a helping hand to anyone in need, my mother loved to talk.
Her story went something like this:
“It must have been sometime in August, because I was making pickles. The pickle recipe was what got me to thinking about it.
“Anyway, you kids were in Lebanon picking beans. I think they were paying you 15 cents a pound for beans. That sounds like a gyp nowadays, but back then it was a lot of money. These days they wouldn’t let a kid go out in the fields, let alone pay 15 cents a pound.
“Anyway, I was in the kitchen enjoying the smell of fresh dill, watching the cucumbers bobbing in a sink full of cool water. Peace and quiet. That’s what it was. I loved it.
“Not that I didn’t love the noise when all you kids were home€”I did. I loved every minute of it.
“Anyway, there was a knock at the screen door €“ a familiar knock, mind you. You know, the bachelor from across the street. I could tell his knock from everyone else’s: tap-rappity-tap tap-tap.
“I’d been taking my time that morning and had just started separating the dill weed on the kitchen table. And there was dirt all over the place. You know, those little bits of soil stick to the roots. Well, they were everywhere €“ on the floor, between the cracks in the table, probably between the fridge and dishwasher too.
“I was in a big mess. But you can’t make pickles without making a mess. That old saying is so true, ‘A mother’s job is never done.’ Or was it ‘A mother’s work is never done?’ Anyway€¦ what was I saying?
“Oh yes, maybe I was in the middle of spooning rock salt when he knocked at the door, I can’t remember exactly. But I called to him and told him to come in, that my hands were full. By the time I turned around, he was standing in the kitchen, both hands in the pockets of his oversized jeans.
“Truthfully, I don’t think he’d washed those pants since the day he bought them.
“He said, ‘I’m awful sorry to bother you, Mickey.’
“‘No bother,’ I said. I was trying hard to sound like I was glad he’d come to visit. I really didn’t want the interruption. But what was I going to say? And I did feel sorry for the poor soul. So I asked him how he was doing and pulled a chair out for him to sit down.
“‘Thanks, Mickey. I can’t sit down. But I’ve something real important to tell you. It’s about my house. Maybe you’ve already noticed,’ he said. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper, as if he thought someone was listening in on us. ‘There’ve been hoodlums in the neighborhood. They moved my house last night. Just picked it up and moved it. Today, I measured my lot and my house is 2 feet closer to the street than it was yesterday.’ Then he stepped closer to me and said: ‘So you should keep an eye out’
“I nodded that I would.
“He took a step back, reached into his shirt pocket for another pinch of Copenhagen and said, ‘Making pickles, huh? It smells real nice in here. I always did like those dill pickles. Don’t care much for sweet pickles at all, but those dill pickles, they’re real good.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I was that he had changed the subject to pickles. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what I was going to say about the hoodlums moving his house.
“Anyway, to make a long story short, I promised to bring him a couple jars of pickles when they were ready to eat. I probably made 50 quarts of pickles that day. Can you believe we ate all those pickles?”
I parked the car in front of my father’s house and turned off the engine. Now, thinking back on the many conversations I had with my mother, I’m glad that she never, ever, made a long story short.
Catherine Hamilton is a freelance writer in Portland. “Mickey’s Never-fail Dills” is one of a collection of memoirs that Catherine gave to her parents, Joe and Mickey Ponzoha, when the couple celebrated of their 60th wedding anniversary. The couple spent their entire married life in Sweet Home. Mickey Ponzoha died June 1, 2008 at age 86.