Holiday Stories & Memories
Where the magic of holidays past lives on.
Sugarplums
Apr 03, 2021
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Sugarplums date back centuries, first noted in Delights for Ladies, a cookbook published in 1609. Made of dried fruit, toasted nuts, and crunchy sugar, it's no wonder they've been a holiday tradition ever since, referenced each year in The Nutcracker and 'Twas the Night Before Christmas.
Continue this delicious tradition with your own family!
Share your sugarplum photos with us on Instagram @pennyandroseshop using tag #pennyandrose
Details:
Makes 14 Sugarplums
Prep & cook time 30 minutes
Oven 350° degrees F (for toasting walnuts)
Ingredients:
½ cup California prunes
½ cup pitted dates
½ cup toasted walnuts
½ cup apricots
¼ cup dried cranberries
¼ cup almond flour
2 tablespoons honey
¼ teaspoon cinnamon
⅛ teaspoon ground cardamom
⅛ teaspoon ground cloves
1 pinch fine sea salt
½ cup milk chocolate chips (optional)
½ cup coarse sugar or decorating sugar (substitute colored coarse sugar for extra festivity)
Directions:
Toasting Walnuts:
Preheat the oven to 350° F
Spread the nuts out in a single layer on a sheet pan
Place the sheet pan in the oven for 8 minutes
Remove and allow to cool
Sugarplums:
In a food processor put the prunes, walnuts, dates, apricots and cranberries and pulse until the ingredients are chopped into small, even pieces. Stop before the mixture becomes a ball.
Add the almond flour, honey, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, salt and chocolate chips. Pulse several times (scrape down the sides as necessary) until the ingredients are fully combined and the mixture will hold itself together when rolled into a ball. Do not over mix—you should still see some texture from the fruit & nuts.
Line a tray with wax or parchment paper.
Scoop the mixture into heaping 1 tablespoon portions and roll into 1 inch balls, and place on the paper.
Roll the sugarplums in the coarse sugar just before serving.
Store at room temperature in a covered container for up to 1 week. Or, refrigerate in an airtight container for up to 1 month.
A fun presentation idea.
Credit: Better Homes & Gardens
Excerpt from Penny & Rose's version of
'Twas the Night before Christmas
'The presents were wrapped, all under the glow Of twinkling lights and red ribbon bows The children were quiet, not even a peep! While visions of sugarplums danced in their sleep'
__________
Did you make these with your kids? Your grandma? A memory that stuck like sugar to your fingers? We’d love to hear your holiday stories—drop them in the comments below!
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Home Sweet Cocoa
Jan 08, 2020
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In 1983, Ralphie Parker would beg and plead for “an official Red Ryder, carbine action, 200-shot, range model air rifle” in A Christmas Story. But in 1975, all this little boy wanted was a Browning .22 caliber, 20-inch barrel, automatic. No need for leg lamps or oversized bunny suits or even begging and pleading, for on Christmas morning, there it was—wrapped in the shape of a rifle and sitting beneath our tree.
From that moment on, it was me and my rifle. I’d run through the wash line and out past the pond, my gun poised like Matt Dillon of Dodge City, Kansas, fighting lawlessness in the American West...or at least my little patch of Western Pennsylvania. And next Christmas? I’d be sure to ask for a badge and a camel-colored Stetson to really look the part. But for now, I only had one thing on my mind: hunting down a groundhog or two for that night’s dinner.
Browning Rifle 1975 Magazine Ad
A straw of hay between my teeth and my cheek against the stock, my eyes were focused on the tall grass straight ahead. I vowed to hold my shot until I looked the beast dead in the face. Lord knew I could never live with myself if I shot a bunny or worse, a stray cat cutting through the field.
“Come on, you varmint,” I beckoned through clenched teeth. I stepped slowly, steadily through the brush, when—
Snap!
I turned quickly with my hand on the trigger.
Nothing.
A large exhale escaped my chest and hung gently in the air, as my young heart pounded from my breast. Why were my hands shaking? Matt Dillon’s hands never shook on Gunsmoke. “Get it together, man!” I scolded myself.
I had packed a small bag of Swedish Fish for the expedition and rested for a moment to regain my composure. I pulled at the red candy, stretched it thin between my fingertips until it broke in two. And I thought about fishing with Penny on the lake last summer. I had caught a small minnow at the end of my line and reeled it in with high hopes of a fish fry and bragging rights. But when it got to the dock, we all just laughed.
“That has to be the smallest fish I’ve ever seen!” Penny bellowed. I struggled to release it from the hook, which was three times the size of its gaping mouth, and throw it back into the water to tease another boy someday.
If I were to ever redeem myself for that lousy catch, now was the time. I scarfed down a few more fish, tipped my imaginary Stetson, and galloped into the unknown, when—
Snap!
Another stick split in the distance. I jumped a little, but this time, stayed the course, with the barrel of my gun leading the way. “I’m comin’ for you,” I breathed with a snarl only ever seen in the deadliest of mountain lions. “If a groundhog crosses my path...” I thought, when—
Snap!
Finger on the trigger.
Focus on the sight at the tip of my rifle, I slinked through the curtain of grass.
And there he was.
A big, fat groundhog with the yellow of a dandelion in its claws. He was a sitting target, dumb and hungry. This was my moment. The rifle rested with ease on my shoulder, as I cocked it without hesitation. No time to think, I pulled the trigger, and—
Whack!
Darkness. It was then I realized my eyes had closed in the milliseconds between “aim” and “fire”. I peeled them open one by one, afraid I had missed my chance. I inched toward the target, closer and closer, and there it was! A groundhog the length of my arm and then some...or as I called it— “dinner”.
I strapped the rifle over my shoulder and lifted the beast by its tail. It had to weigh at least 100 pounds, but I managed with two strong hands. Never was there such a triumphant grin on a little boy’s face nor a finer hunter at that.
Triumphant Wayne
Rose nearly fainted when I arrived back at the farmhouse. “Off the porch!” she hollered, and everyone gathered on the front lawn to gawk at the spoils of my expedition.
“Alright, well what are we waiting for?” Penny declared and walked off for his sharpest knife. We skinned the groundhog together, and Rose begrudgingly allowed its temporary home inside her kitchen. She cooked it up real nice and placed it on the table. Penny was delighted. He grabbed the bottle of ketchup and went right to town.
“Delicious!” he exclaimed and scarfed it down without a single pause. To be fair, if a mound of dirt were doused in ketchup, he’d probably scarfed that down too. I, on the other hand, could barely swallow the smallest piece without gagging and finally had to throw in my fork and knife and call it a loss. Of course, no one else in the family entertained even a morsel.
Dinner at the Farm
Penny scraped his plate and made his way into the family room. The rabbit ears were all askew and he would spend the next five minutes struggling for a signal before the inevitable, “Rose! Where are my slippers?”
“I almost forgot,” I said, leaning into Rose at the dining table. “I picked theses for you.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out three now slightly wilted dandelions and handed them to her.
“How lovely!” she exclaimed and rushed to the tall cupboard to find a vase worthy of such beauty. I smiled with the taste of groundhog still on my tongue and quickly washed it away with that evening’s first mug of hot chocolate.
When I entered the living room, Penny was already nestled in his chair, and my cousins were all cross-legged in pj’s on the floor. The final episode of Gunsmoke had just begun. I sat on the floor right beside Penny’s chair as he finished his mug of cocoa, and then slowly, steadily fell into a deep sleep. His arm dangled off the arm of the chair, and I traced the well-worked veins of his hands. The dry cracks on his thumbs laid deep and shared stories of decades at Copperweld Steel.
Gunsmoke (series 1955-1975)
Soon, Penny’s snores filled the room, and I swear his empty mug rattled gently on the table beside him. To my left, Julie sat combing Rose’s hair as she knitted, and on the floor in front of me, the sea of pj’s showed signs of nodding off themselves.
“...and then there’s Maude!” erupted from the speakers, but I could barely make out the flashing image of Bea Arthur. Gunsmoke was now long over and gone forever, and it was too late to toil with the signal. Besides, the clearest picture was never found on that old television screen anyway, rabbit ears or not...and to this day, all it takes is one sip of hot cocoa for me to see it clear as day—those groundhog hunting fields, the front porch, Rose in the kitchen, Penny’s chair, and that sea of pj’s on the living room floor...and all it takes is one sip of hot cocoa for me to see it...
...as clear as day.
A Little Piece of the Story
Look closely at our Home Sweet Cocoa scent photo and you’ll find a few pieces straight out of 1975. The vintage cocoa mugs and glasses were carefully tracked down from the era to help recreate the nights remembered in this story—Penny asleep in his chair, cousins scattered across the floor, Gunsmoke on the television and mugs of hot cocoa all around. They may not have come from the farm, but they came from the very same time.
A little piece of 1975.
If you’ve ever watched the final scene of *Gunsmoke* with cocoa in hand, hunted a groundhog with the thrill of a western hero, or gifted someone a few wilted dandelions just because—you’re in good company. Share your memory below. We’d love to hear it.
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A Love Letter to Snow Days
Jan 16, 2026
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There’s something about a snow day that never loses its magic — even long after you’ve traded in your sled for a snow shovel. Growing up in the Northeast, snow was just part of life. The winters meant cold noses, frozen sidewalks, and snowbanks so tall you could dig tunnels through them if you had the right kind of ambition (and mittens thick enough to survive it).
But what made it truly magical wasn’t just the snow itself — it was the suspense.
Back then, in the 1980s, it would take a lot of snow to close school. You couldn't just count on a dusting to win you a free day. You’d wake up early, eyes bleary, and rush to turn on the TV — the old boxy kind where the remote barely worked — just to stare at the tiny flickering banner scrolling across the bottom of the local news.
Waiting...
Watching...
Praying that your school name would crawl by like a tiny, snowy miracle.
The most important news ticker of your childhood — and the only one that really mattered.
And when it did — when you finally spotted it — it was like winning the lottery. Back under the covers you’d go, cocooned in blankets, with the giddy knowledge that the day ahead was a blank slate of sledding, snowmen, and cocoa.
We didn’t text back then — because, of course, we couldn’t. It wasn’t even a thing yet. And even if you wanted to call someone, the phone was most likely stuck downstairs in the kitchen. If you were lucky, you had one of those new cordless models. If not, you had a landline with a really long cord — the kind that came in handy when you were trying to hide around a corner and whisper to your crush (or, in my case, stretch the cord all the way to the basement door, close it behind you, and sit on the first step).
But somehow, none of that mattered. You didn’t need to call. You just pulled on your boots and stepped outside — and half the neighborhood would already be there, building forts or racing sleds down the nearest hill.
There was no appointment, no invitation.
The snow was the invitation.
My very first snow day — bundled up and wide-eyed, before I even knew what a snow day meant.
Snow Days Today: Faster, Louder, and Sometimes Online
Today, the magic has changed a little. Snow days still happen — but they arrive with a vibration in your pocket, a buzz in your email, or a chirp from an app.
Efficient? Sure. But somehow, it doesn’t quite feel the same as sitting on the edge of the couch, squinting at the blurry TV screen, willing the words to appear. These days, your phone will tell you the second school is closed — sometimes before you even open your eyes.
And in some cases now, especially after COVID changed how schools think about remote learning, a snow day might not mean a free day at all. It might just mean flipping open a laptop and logging onto Zoom instead of building a snow fort. What a bummer.
Just out of curiosity, I asked my daughter recently, "What's the best thing about a snow day?" Without hesitation, she said, "No school."
Some things, it seems, are truly universal — and no amount of technology can take that away.
My daughter, bundled up for her first snow day — not quite old enough yet to know why it was so special, but feeling the magic all the same.
Snowstorms, Nor'easters, and Blizzards — Oh My
Of course, not every snow day is created equal. In the Northeast, we grew up learning the subtle differences between a regular old snowstorm and the real heavy hitters:
Snowstorm: A regular snowstorm means a few inches — slippery roads, maybe some driveway shoveling, but don’t get your hopes up too high.
Possibility of Going to School: HIGH
SNOW METER
Too bad. Bundle up, grab your backpack, and make sure your homework is finished.
Nor’easter: Nor’easters bring heavy snow and wild winds, especially for those closer to the coast. Power outages possible. Sledding excellent if you don't get blown away.
Possibility of Going to School: MAYBE
SNOW METER
Better do the homework for the strict teachers just in case. (The nice ones might just cancel the quiz.)
Blizzard: Blizzards are the big leagues: strong winds, blowing snow, and visibility so bad you could barely see your neighbor’s mailbox.
P.S. A little note from me to the snow: The February 1983 Blizzard — New Jersey, we were out of school for a week. It was awesome. Thank you so much.
Possibility of Going to School: ZERO
SNOW METER
Stay in bed. No need to even look at the TV screen — you’re officially on sledding duty today.
Of course, snow days wouldn't be complete without the snow itself — every single flake a tiny miracle waiting to fall.
Snowflakes: Tiny Wonders in a Big White World
It’s easy to think of snow as one big blanket — but up close, it's made of tiny miracles.
Each snowflake starts high up in the clouds when a tiny particle — like a speck of dust, a grain of pollen, or even a wisp of ash — gets coated in ice. As it tumbles through the air, it picks up more water vapor, growing and forming into the intricate six-sided shapes we recognize. Temperature, humidity, and even the tiniest shifts in the wind all help decide what shape a snowflake will take.
And the best part? No two snowflakes are exactly alike. The odds of two being identical are so slim, it's practically impossible — a little reminder that even in a storm, there’s endless variety and wonder falling all around us.
Next time you catch a snowflake on your mitten, you’re holding a one-of-a-kind work of art — made by winter itself.
And while I loved every flake that fell in my own backyard, I often found myself wondering about Penny and Rose’s farm — and how magical it must have looked, blanketed in winter snow.
The Farm in Winter: A Place I Always Wondered About
As a kid, we never spent much time at the farm in Western Pennsylvania during the winter — at least not that I can remember.
Of course, Penny did.
He had his little Christmas tree project to worry about — always wanting to check on things, making sure everything was just right. But for us, the farm stayed a little bit of a mystery once the snow fell.
We would head to Penny and Rose’s house in Glassport, Pennsylvania, for Christmas (for them, Glassport = school year; farm = summer). It was cozy and bustling — a house full of cousins, stockings, and Rose making sure everyone had enough to eat (and then some). But still, every winter, I used to wonder about the farm — the rolling hills, the valley, the wide-open fields — and how it must have seemed just a little mystical under the snow.
I imagined what it would have been like: the snow deep, untouched, the hills slick and ready, the trees frosted over like a postcard. I’m sure Penny and Rose brought their kids — my mom, Kathie, and her siblings — out there sometimes when they were growing up, maybe even getting a few good sledding runs in... before Penny found another project for them.
The farmhouse and barn, quietly tucked under a blanket of winter snow.
The snow may have blanketed the farm in silence, but inside, Penny’s wheels were always turning.
Even in summer when we were there as kids, Penny was always tinkering, always fixing, always improving something around the farm. And when he needed help, you could hear him calling:
"Boys! Boys! Can I borrow you for a minute?"
It was never just a minute. Once you were roped into one of Penny’s "minutes," you knew you were going to be gone for a good hour — maybe longer.
Old school as he was, Penny didn’t usually call for the girls (even though honestly, we were probably more qualified for half the jobs he had in mind).
So I can only imagine it now — my uncles hauling spruce trees back up the hill to prepare them for sale in Glassport, my mom and Aunt Rosie maybe sneaking in a little sledding when they had the chance.
Even if the farm in winter was more work than play, it still held that sense of wonder for me — that feeling that just beyond the next snowy hill, there was magic waiting.
Penny on the snowy hill, with the farmhouse and barn behind him — always ready with a project, and maybe even a little winter magic.
The Magic That Stays
Snow days have changed, like everything else.
But the heart of them — the sparkle in the air, the giddy rush to throw on boots and gloves, the way the world slows down just for a little while — that part stays.
Whether you grew up checking the TV or checking your phone, there’s still something about waking up to a world made entirely new overnight.
A world built for snowmen, forts, and footprints.
A world where, just for one day, you don’t have to be anywhere but here.
Have a snow day memory you still think about? We’d love to hear it. Share your favorite snow day story—or just a little love letter to winter—in the comments!
Many of our scents are inspired by snowy mornings, cozy firesides, and winter wonderlands. If you’d like to keep the magic going...
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Valentine’s Day: A Little Love, A Little Legend
Dec 17, 2025
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Valentine's Day might be all pink hearts and candy aisles now, but it didn’t exactly start that way. The history is a tangled mix of ancient Roman festivals, medieval matchmaking, and a fair amount of creative storytelling.
The holiday’s roots stretch back to a Roman festival called Lupercalia—a not-so-sweet event involving animal sacrifices and matchmaking by lottery. (Romance, right?) As Christianity spread, the church rebranded the celebration around St. Valentine, a figure who, depending on which legend you believe, either secretly married couples against an emperor's wishes or simply refused to renounce his faith—and was executed for it.
But it wasn’t until the Middle Ages that February 14th became associated with romance—largely thanks to a certain English poet.
"For this was on seynt Valentynes day"
"Whan every foul cometh ther to chese his make."
— Geoffrey Chaucer, Parliament of Fowls
Whether by tradition or poetic license, Chaucer helped spark the idea that February 14th was a day for finding love—just as the birds were said to be choosing their mates as springtime stirred the earth awake.
Cupid: The Original Matchmaker
No Valentine’s Day would be complete without a nod to Cupid—the mischievous little archer responsible for more than a few broken hearts and bashful crushes.
Originally known in Roman mythology as the son of Venus, Cupid wielded a bow and a quiver of magical arrows:
Gold-tipped arrows sparked love
Lead-tipped arrows sparked, well... the opposite
His Greek counterpart, Eros, was imagined as a handsome young man—but somewhere along the line, Cupid transformed into the chubby-cheeked cherub we recognize today. By the Victorian era, artists firmly cemented Cupid’s image into Valentine’s Day—fluttering above lovers and meddling happily in human affairs.
Cupid’s Victorian makeover: sweet, cherubic—and a little mischievous.
Victorian England: Lace, Love, and a Few Surprises
As time fluttered forward, Victorian England took Valentine’s Day to the next level. Handmade cards became works of art—ornate creations adorned with lace, silk flowers, ribbons, and sentimental poetry. Shops even began selling ready-made Valentines for the first time, making it easier (and sometimes more socially expected) to send a little love through the post.
Victorian ingenuity: a “Barometer of Love” card with a tiny movable dial—measuring affection from Esteem all the way to Enrapture, Unity & Bliss.
But not every Valentine was all lace and longing. The Victorians had a playful side—and sometimes, a mischievous one. Hidden messages, clever designs, and even a few tongue-in-cheek surprises found their way into the day’s festivities.
One of the more notorious traditions? The so-called "Vinegar Valentines"—cheaply printed cards filled with biting humor, sarcastic jabs, and warnings about wayward sweethearts. Thanks to the anonymous magic of the Victorian post, senders could mail these little stingers without signing their names—leaving the unlucky recipient to foot the postage bill for a less-than-flattering surprise!
"Here's a pretty cool reception,
At least you'll say there's no deception,
It says as plain as it can say,
Old fellow you'd best stop away."
Victorian poetry at its finest—delivering a splash of honesty, one vinegar Valentine at a time.
And of course, not every sly Valentine relied on biting words alone. Some, like this cheeky "snake in the grass," let the imagery do the talking—delivering a warning that even Cupid’s arrows could sometimes miss their mark.
A slithery Victorian Valentine 'Beware of the Snake in the Grass'—proving that not all hearts came sugar-coated (and yes, that's a snake in fishnets).
Thankfully, most of these sharper traditions faded over time, leaving behind the sweeter spirit we know today. But during the height of Victorian Valentine’s Day fever, things were just ramping up.
By the mid-1800s, the British postal system was flooded with cards—so many that extra deliveries were needed just to keep up. Love, it seemed, traveled swiftly... especially when postage was only a penny.
So if you’ve ever agonized over which card aisle poem feels less awkward, you can thank Victorian England for starting the tradition—where a Valentine could be sweet as lace, sharp as a quip, or somewhere perfectly in between.
How Valentine's Day Became a Big Deal
By the early 1800s, Americans were exchanging handmade Valentines too—but it was a woman named Esther A. Howland who helped launch Valentine's Day into a full-fledged industry. In the 1840s, she began selling the first mass-produced Valentines in the United States, earning her the title "Mother of the Valentine." Her elaborate creations, decorated with lace, ribbons, and colorful illustrations called "scrap," turned simple notes into something truly special—and helped cement Valentine's Day as the card-giving tradition we know today.
Esther A. Howland—the "Mother of the Valentine"—and a glimpse of her beautifully crafted creations.
Today, an estimated one billion Valentine's Day cards are sent each year, making it the second-largest card-sending holiday after Christmas. (Christmas cards clock in around 2.6 billion!) And if you’re wondering who's doing most of the shopping—statistics say women purchase about 85% of all valentines.
Valentine's Day Around the World
While the U.S. has cornered the market on candy hearts and giant teddy bears, Valentine's Day traditions pop up in plenty of places around the globe—and in most countries, it’s still celebrated on February 14th.
🇯🇵 Japan: On February 14th, women give chocolates to men. (And a month later, on White Day, men return the favor.)
🇰🇷 South Korea: Every month on the 14th is a different love-related mini-holiday—including Black Day for singles in April.
🇮🇹 Italy: Lovers traditionally exchange sweet treats and romantic tokens, with Verona (the city of Romeo and Juliet) celebrating in a big way.
🇩🇰 Denmark: Instead of red roses, friends and lovers swap pressed white flowers called snowdrops.
🇲🇽 Mexico: Valentine's Day, or Día del Amor y la Amistad ("The Day of Love and Friendship"), celebrates both romantic partners and close friends.
Turns out, Cupid’s arrows have quite a reach—and Valentine’s Day has become a truly global celebration.
Valentine's Day by the Numbers
Over 58 million pounds of chocolate are sold during Valentine's week.
More than 250 million roses are grown just for Valentine's Day.
California produces 60% of the nation’s roses used for Valentine's deliveries.
The most popular Valentine’s gift (after candy) is jewelry.
Approximately 6 million couples get engaged on Valentine's Day each year.
A Few Valentines of My Own
Growing up, I took Valentine’s Day very seriously. While some kids were tossing together cards the night before, I was planning for weeks. Every note had to be handwritten. Every candy carefully chosen. It was a full-scale production—from glittery stickers to perfectly selected heart-shaped treats.
Fast forward a few years (and a few kids of my own), and let’s just say—not everyone shared my Valentine enthusiasm. My three oldest enjoyed the day, sure, but they were more in the "grab a box of cards from the store" camp. Cute, but not quite the same level of obsessive planning.
And then came my youngest—my Mini-Me in every way.
Me and my Mini-Me at a certain sold-out concert. (Swifties, we see you.)
Valentine’s Day? She lived for it. Every invitation was handwritten. Every card was custom. We’d pack little clear cellophane bags with treats, seal them with ribbons, and she would’ve handed out Costco-sized candy bundles if she could’ve. Watching her light up the same way I did was one of those sweet little reminders that some things really do run in the family—especially a love for over-the-top Valentine’s celebrations.
__________
Maybe that's what Valentine's Day is really about after all. Not the grand gestures or the glitter (although let's be honest—those help), but the simple joy of making someone else feel remembered, appreciated, and just a little extra loved.
We’d love to hear your favorite Valentine memories—or just say hello!
After all, sharing a little love is what the day’s all about.
Leave a comment below and help us celebrate the heart behind the holiday.
A gift of fragrance, flowers, and memory—thoughtfully wrapped into one.
Our collection is perfect for a friend, a family member, or anyone who deserves a little extra love.
And best of all, it lasts long after the holiday has passed.
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Summertime Spirits
Jan 02, 2020
—
The original baseball field died in the summer of 1949, along with 25 acres of trees and my dream of ever becoming the next Joe DiMaggio. We had spent hours creating that field, hours that felt more like months to an 11-year-old in the heat of summer. Each base was a sack filled with rice, sewn by hand; our gloves were well-worn, second-hand Rawling’s; and our dugout a Frankenstein of wooden planks and nails that my father, Penny, had built under my close supervision.
Penny circa 1940s
But a trash fire gone awry had sent a mess of flames across the field one night, leaving our well-knit rice sacks to the sparrows and our dugout doomed to ash. We assessed the damage the following afternoon amidst gratitude to God for sparing the house, the barn, and the other 23 acres of land left wooded and wild.
“We’ll just have to rebuild,” my father said, “but, of course, we’ll need some beers to give us grit.”
“I’ll go!” I offered, more than willing to escape the heat, hard labor, and of course, the devastating loss of my promising ball career.
“And be sure to take one to your Uncle Ed,” my father added, “He’s out there fishing on the dock.”
I did the math as I skipped to the springhouse. There was Uncle Bill and Uncle Mike, Penny, and of course Uncle Ed down at the dock. I’d bring one more just in case Aunt Mary showed up, so that made five. Easy. My arms were growing bigger and stronger every day, and it wouldn’t be long until I enjoyed an ice cold beer with the boys myself.
Uncle Ed fishing on the dock
The springhouse was heaven, a cool respite from my woes, and full of thirst-quenching watermelons, soda pop, and lemonade squeezed fresh that very morning. I grabbed the five cans of beer and cradled them in my arms. “Room for one more,” I thought, and grabbed a soda pop for my troubles. This day was about to turn around, I was sure of it. We’d rebuild that diamond and dugout and be playing ball by sundown. Off I went whistling and skipping out the springhouse, off to humbly accept my “Atta boy”s and high-fives. But in my gaiety, I missed the second step and tumbled to the ground. Beer cans shot up like rockets and exploded all over me.
The taste in my mouth was bitter and awful and my t-shirt and jeans were soaked. But harsher still was the realization that there were no more beers left in the springhouse, nor anywhere within miles. The last five beers now lived in the cotton of my oversized tee and beaded on my brow like sweat.
My head hung low. There was no way I could return to the baseball field, or rather what remained of the baseball field, empty handed. I would never live it down, so I headed toward the house instead. There was only one person who could right this wrong, and it was my mother, Rose.
She was sweeping the porch when I approached, dead grass making way for new fresh clumps from under her children’s shoes. With the passing of years, she claimed I wreaked so badly of beer that she could “smell me from a mile away,” but in truth, it took my hand on the front door for her to stop me in my tracks.
“What on earth…” she started.
I told her what had happened, and she laughed...laughed at me like only a mother can. Anyone else I’d have slugged, but Rose’s laugh was always gentle and eased a multitude of sins.
“Take those shoes off and get inside,” she ordered. “I’ll boil water for the bath and then we’ll see about replacing those beers.”
I sat naked in the tub, anxiously awaiting the hot water, which would awaken all the little cuts and scrapes I had unknowingly acquired throughout the day and sweep my skin clean of beer-laden grass.
Meanwhile, Rose was busy in the kitchen, scouring the cabinets for bottles of liquor and limes before the water came to a boil.
“All’s well,” she cooed as the hot water took my breath away. Little blades of grass rose to the top of the tub and floated in the soapy white water. “Now hurry up and don’t drain the tub. I’ll call your sister Kathie down to get in next.” We were always sharing baths back then, and I considered myself lucky whenever I got water straight from the stovetop.
When I entered the kitchen, Rose was standing there with a full pitcher and a stack of glasses. “Now don’t drop these glasses as we walk to the field,” she laughed. I stacked them close to my chest, and as we walked, I asked her if I could have a glass.
“Maybe when you’re older,” she winked, “but not today.”
The men were hard at work on our new baseball field when we arrived, but put down their tools the second they heard the clinking of ice in Rose’s pitcher. To this day, I’m still not exactly sure what was in that pitcher, but my uncles were more than happy to imbibe, and their thoughts of beer became a distant memory.
The Farm crew circa 1940s: Rose, Wayne, Roy, Rosie, Dennis, Kathie & Bob
When all the glasses were poured, my mother reached into her pocket and pulled out a can of soda pop. “For your troubles,” she smiled, and walked from the field to the farmhouse where Kathie awaited my bath water.
The day would end victoriously, just as I had predicted. The diamond was drawn, albeit with giant rocks for bases, and my brother Roy hit his first double, sending me sliding safe into a grassy third. I displayed my grass-stained knee like a trophy that night, until my mother caught a whiff of beer on my jeans and made me toss them in the wash.
The ballgame of '49
What a swing!
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My youngest child leaves for college today. It’s difficult to see his life in boxes stacked by the same door we walked through when he was all but two days old. His mother sent me to the attic for his suitcase while they load the car in the driveway. But for some reason, when I found the suitcase, I just kept crawling toward the back of the attic, perhaps searching for the years that had somehow passed while I was blinking. There in the back, tucked behind Christmas decorations and bags full of stuffed animals, was a cardboard box labeled “The Farm.”
Inside were photos of the original baseball field, with shots of Penny nailing boards atop wooden beams; there were newspaper clippings and baseball cards, with the legendary Joe DiMaggio tucked safely in plastic; there were toy cars and pressed flowers, a bunch of old t-shirts and a Miles Davis record. And at the bottom of the box were my old pair of jeans, which had somehow managed to escape decades of spring cleaning. The dense grass stain on the right knee was still there, as if I had slid into third base just yesterday, Penny’s voice shouting, “Home! Come home!” a phantom in the fields of time. But that splash of beer across the thigh? Long gone, and yet I swear the scent of limes and liquor lingers.
You see, some stains never fully disappear no matter how hard we scrub them; they hold our summertime spirits like a trophy and memories too large for a single cardboard box to contain. There in the attic of the house I built a life beneath, I catch a glimpse of the setting sun; an explosion of color across my well-kempt lawn. I hear an engine roar and suddenly see my children laughing with their cousins on the farm and climbing into the bed of my brother’s old pick-up truck.
Though my stomach quietly sinks with the sadness of good-byes, especially today with my son leaving home, I’m reminded of my father’s words that summer evening of 1949 as the ball soared over third base and I came sprinting toward him—“Home! Come home!”
I open the attic window and look down on my son still loading the car down below.
“Hey son?” I shout.
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Come home!” I smile.
“Huh?” he asks, rattling my daydream.
I clear my throat and try again.
“I mean... if this whole college thing doesn’t work out, there’s always home…”
"...You can always come home."
A Little Piece of the Story
The gloves and baseballs from those long-ago farm games scattered with time, but we wanted a little piece of 1949 to live on. The well-worn baseball mitt and ball featured in our Summertime Spirits scent photo are authentic pieces from the 1940s—acquired years later, but from the very same era as that summer on the farm.
A little piece of 1949.
Rose’s signature lime-and-coconut concoctions were legendary—especially after a double-header. If this brought back a taste of summer, leave a note below. We’d love to hear it!
Summertime Spirits
Game day, front porch, cold drinks in hand—the way summer always felt at the farm.
Click on the image below to watch the video.
“Take me Home, Country Roads.”
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An Ode to October: Pumpkins, Pillowcases, and the Spirit of the Season
Aug 24, 2026
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There’s something about October that wraps itself around you—the scent of woodsmoke in the air, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and the steady appearance of pumpkins on porches everywhere you turn. It’s a season that feels stitched together with small, simple joys—boots muddy from pumpkin patches, chilly nights that smell like cider and laughter, and the slow, sweet buildup to Halloween and beyond.
Where the Pumpkins Came From
Long before pumpkins were lighting up front porches and starring in seasonal lattes, they were just humble fruits growing wild across North America. Some of the oldest pumpkin seeds ever discovered date back over 7,500 years, found in what is now Mexico. Indigenous peoples grew pumpkins along with squash and beans, and early American settlers quickly adopted them as a hardy, versatile crop. Over time, pumpkins became a symbol of harvest, abundance, and the changing seasons.
Today, it's hard to imagine autumn without them. Whether they're stacked in supermarket bins, perched on hay bales, or proudly carried home from the patch, pumpkins feel like the first real sign that October has arrived.
Just for fun—here are a few quick pumpkin facts that might surprise you.
Fun Facts About Pumpkins
Pumpkins are technically a fruit—not a vegetable!
The largest pumpkin pie ever baked weighed more than 3,600 pounds!
The world's largest pumpkin weighed over 2,700 pounds.
Every part of the pumpkin is edible, including the skin, seeds, and flowers.
Illinois grows more pumpkins than any other state in the U.S.
Pumpkin Picking: From Muddy Fields to Full-Blown Festivals
These days, heading to the pumpkin patch has become one of fall’s biggest traditions. They have become full-day adventures, complete with corn mazes, hayrides, cider stands, petting zoos, and more photo ops than you can count. It's not just about picking the perfect pumpkin anymore (though that’s still part of the fun)—it’s about soaking in everything the season has to offer.
Some of my favorite memories are from taking my kids pumpkin picking—bundled up against the chill, boots sinking into muddy fields, pulling those little red Radio Flyer wagons behind them. They’d always pick the biggest pumpkins they could find, ones so heavy they could barely haul them back to the counter. We’d spend hours out there—getting lost in corn mazes, sipping cider, and trying to squeeze just a little more time out of the day before the sun dipped below the trees. It's the kind of simple, happy chaos that somehow ends up feeling like everything you ever wanted fall to be.
Our Little Pumpkin Patch Parade Through the Years...
The first trip to the patch—my oldest, back when he was the littlest
My next three little pumpkins at Wayside Farm
Giving it his all—and loving every second of it
And once those pumpkins made it home, the real fun began. They weren’t just porch decorations—they were waiting to be carved, lit, and given a night to shine on Halloween.
Halloween: When Costumes and Candy Take Over
By Halloween night, the pumpkins were glowing on the porch, carved into flickering faces, setting the scene. But that was just the opening act. Costumes and candy took center stage, and the whole neighborhood transformed into something magical.
Somewhere between the porch lights and the flickering pumpkins, I always find myself drifting back to the Halloweens of my own childhood.
Back when I was growing up, Halloween costumes were a little more... let’s just say, low-tech. Most of us picked from a lineup of those plastic, one-piece costumes you bought at the drugstore—Velcro straps, plastic masks with tiny eye holes you could barely see out of, and a rubber band in the back that always managed to snap by the end of the night. You could be Batman, Casper the Ghost, or a handful of other classic characters, all wrapped in about a half-millimeter of crinkly plastic. But we didn’t care. We were just excited to be out there, pillowcases in hand, running from house to house.
My brothers and me, rocking those classic 1970s drugstore costumes. That's my brother as Casper the Ghost, me as some kind of clown (still not sure what kind), and Chris... well, your guess is as good as mine.
By the time I hit my early teens, creativity really started to take off. One of my proudest costume moments? The year I went as the Pope. I made a homemade mitre (that's the tall hat!) out of poster board, borrowed my mom’s old red embroidered robe, and proudly set off into the night. My friends tapped out early, but I kept going house to house, filling up my pillowcase. Pretty sure there was a little Divine Intervention that night—first blessing me with a candy haul, and then helping me get it home.
Of course, costumes today have reached a whole new level—way beyond poster board hats and borrowed bathrobes. Kids come up with ideas that would make Hollywood costume designers jealous. My son once went as a full-on train—box, wheels, paint job and all—strapped around his waist, chugging down the sidewalks like Thomas the Tank Engine himself. The creativity (and the amount of hot glue and duct tape involved) was downright impressive (and expensive).
But not all costumes break the bank. Some are just hand-me-downs that make the rounds, year after year. One of our most beloved was a pumpkin suit we’ve had for ages—worn by each of my four kids in their turn. A family tradition stitched in orange felt, held together by memories, a zipper, and a few safety pins.
That zipper’s seen some things—four kids, countless candy hauls, and more front porch photo ops than it ever signed up for.
When the Whole Neighborhood Joins In
Like a lot of neighborhoods across America, ours really comes alive on Halloween. It’s the best kind of craziness—the kind you look forward to all year. Grills are fired up with hot dogs, kegs of beer are set out for the adults, and houses are decked out like miniature haunted streets. We get between three to four hundred kids a year, and honestly, it feels like the whole town—and then some—show up. Some families even joke that they budget for Halloween like it’s Christmas.
Here’s a peek at our Halloween setup—creepy, kooky, and just the right amount of over-the-top.
Click on the image below to watch the video.
Once the animatronics power down, the porch lights start to flicker off, and the last wave of hopeful trick-or-treaters shows up—you know, the ones banking on you dumping the rest of your candy bowl into their bags—the real fun begins at home. That’s when the great candy trade kicks off. My kids spread out their loot like seasoned merchants—negotiating trades, swapping favorites, and guarding their haul like treasure. Then comes the candy hiding—because somewhere along the way, they figured out that a certain mom has a habit of sneaking into their stashes for late-night treats. (Just for the record: no matter where they hide it, I always find it. Say goodbye to the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, kids.)
From Jack-o’-Lanterns to Pie… to Flight
As Halloween fades and the candy disappears (some faster than others), pumpkins find new life. Some remain as rustic porch decor—often becoming snacks for local squirrels who eagerly nibble away at the carvings—surrounded by gourds and autumn leaves. Others make their way to the kitchen, transformed into the season’s most iconic dessert: pumpkin pie.
Nothing says late fall quite like the scent of a pumpkin pie baking in the oven. Rose had a recipe that turned simple pumpkin purée into pure gold—rich, spiced, and topped with a dollop of whipped cream that melted into every bite.
If you’re interested in Rose’s pumpkin pie recipe, the button link is provided at the end of the blog.
And for the pumpkins that don’t end up in pie tins or squirrel paws? There’s always pumpkin chunkin’. These messy, high-flying events have been popping up since the 1980s, inviting folks to launch their leftover pumpkins with trebuchets, catapults, and air cannons. Some teams take it seriously—like, build-a-machine-that-can-launch-a-pumpkin-over-4,000-feet seriously. The world record? Over 5,500 feet, set at the World Championship Punkin Chunkin in Delaware.
They may look like medieval siege weapons, but nope—these bad boys are just here to launch pumpkins across fields in the name of fall fun.
It’s messy, it’s hilarious, and it’s the perfect sendoff for all those pumpkins—whether they waited patiently in the fields, stood proudly on front porches, spooked and delighted trick-or-treaters, or even ended up baked into a few pies along the way. If ever a pumpkin earned a grand—and maybe even delicious—exit, it’s them.
Homespun Harvest: A Season to Hold Onto
October is the kind of season that stays with you. A patchwork of pumpkins, spice, smoky afternoons, and chilly mornings—the bright blaze of the trees, the soft glow of jack-o'-lanterns on the steps. And somehow, our seasonal fragrance Homespun Harvest captures it all, keeping a small piece tucked close.
A little ode to October.
Have a favorite October memory? A Halloween adventure? A pumpkin patch story—or just a soft spot for the season itself? We’d love to hear it. Share your little ode to October—or just drop a hello—in the comments!
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Rose's Pumpkin Pie Recipe
Memories of Roy
Oct 24, 2020
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June 16, 1940 ~ January 13, 2020
Memory No. 1
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“It’s your turn,” Roy whispered. His brother, Wayne, just two years older, was lying on their bed not far from the floorboards Roy rested his back against.
“My legs are tired,” Wayne moaned, bleary-eyed, “And anyhow, the babies are fast asleep.” Their parents, Penny and Rose, had recently bought a 48-acre farm north of Pittsburgh and the whole family, including any number of babies they were currently fostering, would travel north from their home in Glassport for the weekends. Their sisters, Kathie and Rosie, were still little, so it was Wayne and Roy’s duty to lull the babies to sleep every night.
Roy rocked the bottom of the crib with his feet a few more times for good measure, then rolled out from underneath its metal frame. He peered into the crib, the pink flesh of three sleeping baby boys barely visible. Sound asleep.
Roy slid between the cool bed linens next to his brother.
"Hey, Wayne?” Wayne didn’t answer. “Hey, Wayne!” Roy urged, and he begrudgingly stirred.
“WHAT, Roy?”
“What do you wanna be when you grow up?”
“I dunno. I’m 10-years-old.” Wayne rolled over with a humph.
“I wanna work with horses,” Roy continued. “And I wanna travel. And I wanna play guitar like Hank Williams and ski down mountainsides and I wanna…”
“Slow down, Roy. Go to sleep. You’re gonna wake the babies,” Wayne yawned. But Roy couldn’t slow down once he got started and dizzied himself to sleep that night with dreams that leapt from his lips like grasshoppers.
“Slow down?” he laughed. “I’m just getting started.”
Roy was full of wild ideas, and the new farm on Butternut Road held plenty of acres for his larger than life personality to unfold like a giant fern. In those early years, there was no running water; it was pumped from the springhouse and heated in pails on the coal stove. There was no television or telephone either. Nothing but family, faith, and the farm.
And that was everything to Roy...until he met Goldie.
Roy and Wayne through the years...
Memory No. 2
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It was early 1950-something when Roy first laid eyes on her. He was in Glassport with Cousin Dickie. She was light brown with a white mane and dark eyes that seemed to stare right into his soul.
“This is the one,” Roy smiled, patting Goldie’s back. “This is my horse.”
Dickie agreed, but they both knew they couldn’t keep her at the house in Glassport; they’d have to get her up to the farm somehow. Problem was they didn’t have a trailer and they sure couldn’t ride her that long distance. There was a guy Dickie knew in town who owned a flatbed truck, so he suggested they pay him a visit.
“Maybe he’ll let us borrow it,” Dickie said. It was worth a shot.
Sure enough, Dickie drove the truck all the way to the farm that day, a 100-mile trip, with Goldie in the bed and Roy standing beside her, holding tight to her reins. Occasionally, they’d hit a bump in the road and Roy would fight for footing, but he never lost his grip on Goldie, and she never lost her grip on him.
Roy & Goldie
Memory No. 3
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“He’s not good enough for you, Kathie,” Roy shrugged. “He just isn’t.”
Roy stood in the hot summer sun washing his dad’s Buick with a bucket of soapy water and a garden hose. Penny was home from Glassport for the weekend and Roy finally had a car to take his girlfriend to the Karns City drive-in.
“Well I’m still coming with you,” Kathie frowned, “with or without him.”
Roy didn’t like the boy Kathie was going with, but he disliked the idea of a third wheel even more. He hadn’t seen his girlfriend in over a week and he was set to impress. His kid sister in the backseat asking questions and singing along with the radio would be unromantic to say the least.
Water flushed down the windshield from the garden hose, as Roy stood deep in thought.
“You’ll go with Frank,” he finally said, smiling at his brilliant idea. Frank was two years older than Kathie and about two inches shorter than her. Roy knew Kathie wouldn’t be thrilled, but before she could protest, Roy aimed the hose at his sister and pulled the trigger. She screamed and ran toward the house.
“Ya better get all dolled up now, ya hear?” he hollered after her and lit her path to the front porch with his laughter.
Frank arrived at the farm that evening in the passenger’s seat of his uncle’s truck, hair slicked back, his father’s cheap cologne on his collar like a boutonniere, and all smiles. Roy shook his hand, delighted, but made sure they had one thing very clear.
“No necking, ya hear?” Roy demanded, tightening his grip on the handshake.
“Of course not,” Frank nodded and ducked into the backseat of the old Buick with Kathie in curls beside him. When they parked at the drive-in, Roy got them all snacks and soda pop from concessions and promptly kicked Frank and Kathie out of the backseat.
“Up front you two,” he said, and they obeyed. Sure, Roy wanted to be alone with his girlfriend in the backseat, but more importantly, it gave him a better view of Frank’s wandering hands. If he felt the boy got too close, he’d knee the back of the driver’s seat and send Frank’s forehead to the steering wheel. Scout’s honor.
Neither relationship lasted longer than that evening. They never did in those teenage days. Roy dropped their dates off, and Kathie crawled into the front seat. She adjusted the dial on the radio, which screamed mostly static out in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania. A moment passed, but then crystal clear from thin air, Willie and the Handjive broke free. Kathie began to snap her fingers to the beat and tap her feet like she was doing the jitterbug, just as they had practiced last winter in their basement in Glassport.
Roy looked over at his sister. She had the window down and her curls in the moon-lit breeze made her look like a kid again.
“Papa, don’t put me down,” she sang. “Been doin’ that hand jive all over town…”
When the chorus popped with, “Hand jive, hand jive,” Roy joined in, and together they belted,
“Hand jive, doin’ that crazy hand jive…” into the western Pennsylvania night before turning the radio dial all the way up.
Roy & Kathie
Memory No. 4
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“How’s it going today, Roy?”
His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Fantastic!”
Roy always responded with “Fantastic!” but there was something different about his face today, like he was holding onto some precious secret only he knew about.
He had been donating blood for what felt like years to save enough money, and today the ring was finally his. It was five years since he and his girlfriend, Janet, started dating, and she was about to go on a trip to Hawaii with her girlfriends, and who knows what would happen without him there if he didn’t propose soon. The ultimate ultimatum.
“I just don’t understand why we have to wait until you’ve finished vet school,” she’d argued. Roy was in graduate school at U. Penn in Philadelphia, and the distance nearly broke their hearts.
The time had come, and Roy enlisted the help of his soon-to-be father-in-law to pick out the perfect ring.
Roy and Janet were married one year after he proposed. For their honeymoon? They visited Erie and then the farm, of course. No major life event was complete in the Pensenstadler family without a visit to the farm or “the farm” at least being tossed about in conversation.
In Philadelphia, they started their life together. While Roy finished up his schooling, Janet got a job as a patent attorney secretary, and that’s how Roy paid his way through school. After being drafted to the Army and moving from San Antonio to Chicago, then St. Louis, then back to Pittsburgh, they had a boy and a girl, just one year apart after they were told they would never be able to have children. They named them Mike and Elaine.
Life was good.
The Roy Pensenstadler Family
Roy worked as a veterinarian at various clinics and was able to take his family on wonderful vacations to Disney, California, and Hawaii. He skied down mountainsides and dove to the depths of the ocean—everything he ever said he wanted to do and more.
“Fantastic” was on his lips in spades.
Eleven days before Janet’s 40th birthday, she and Roy were headed out for a rare date night without the kids. Roy was lit up with excitement, knowing that all plans for the surprise party he was to throw for his wife were almost finalized. He could relax tonight and enjoy the evening, just the two of them. Their children, Mike and Elaine, were also excited, filled with their own plans for a fun night with the babysitter. They’d play Paragon pinball downstairs in the gameroom, stay up late, and even enjoy an unexpected visit from Mr. Boyd, whom they affectionately called “Mr. B.”
“I’m getting tired of pinball,” Elaine yawned, “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Yeah!” Mike echoed. “Hey, Mr. B, let’s watch the news!”
Elaine laughed, knowing the only reason Mike suggested the news was because he wanted to sound cool in front of Mr. B.
Mr. B pondered for a moment, then said, “Let’s just play one more game.”
After several more than “just one more games,” Elaine and Mike trudged on up the stairs for bed, the sounds of the pinball machine still rattling in their heads.
But sleep would not find them at the top of the stairs. They were met instead by their grandparents, Penny and Rose, who lived an hour away. What a fantastic surprise! Embraced in a warm hug from Rose, Mike realized Father John was there as well. What was the priest doing in their living room so late at night?
Then the news broke. There had been an accident and their father was hurt pretty bad. He’d be in the hospital for a bit, but he’d be okay. There was silence as this sunk in, then—
“What about mom?” Mike asked. At first the response was,
“She’s okay too.”
But then the truth.
“She won’t be coming home.”
Earlier when Mike had suggested they watch the news, Mr. B already knew what had happened. He feared footage of the accident would be shown and he didn’t want the kids to see it. “Just one more game,” he had said, and watched as the pinball rattled the bumpers and the kids enjoyed their last moments of innocence.
Roy and Janet had been only a mile or two from home when a drunk driver hit them head-on. Mike, only 12, and Elaine, just 11, sat on the sofa—perhaps they cried or screamed or gasped for air—it’s amazing how the mind blocks things traumatic. But from that moment on, life had shifted, altered into the unthinkable... a life without their mother.
There would be no balloons, no streamers nor gifts; the days leading up to Janet’s 40th birthday were instead a revolving door from the hospital to the funeral home and back again. Roy was in the hospital for nearly three months. He was given his last rites twice. But he survived, sustaining injuries that would hound him for the rest of his life.
He could live with those injuries. He could live with that pain.
But no injury would hound him quite like the death of his beloved Janet, who that night stepped toward a much larger, joyous gathering than Roy could’ve ever planned for her when she passed into the open arms of her heavenly father.
Roy & Janet
Memory No. 5
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“I heard you play guitar.” Father Francis greeted Roy at the front steps of the church.
“I OWN a guitar,” Roy smiled, and that was good enough for Father Francis.
“Good,” he said, “I’d like you to start a folk choir.”
Roy was struck by the notion. But that afternoon, he unclipped the latches on his old case and rested the belly of his guitar in his lap. He strummed one note, then two, then three; it all came back so easily. The house swelled with clunky notes from beautiful hymns.
His fingertips grew callused and the tunes clearer with time, and it wouldn’t be long before he found another guitarist, then two, then three, and a chorus of tenors, sopranos, altos, and basses. When Father Francis imagined a choir, he knew that if Roy Pensenstadler were to lead it, it would multiply and thrive.
From that moment on, if anyone were to meet him outside the church—say at work or at the farm or anywhere in between—and say,
“I heard you play guitar,”
Roy would smile with pride and say, “Forty-five years,” and gush about his folk choir at Our Lady of Peace.
Memory No. 6
__________
“Time to get up in the M-O-R-N-I-N-G…..Today is a brand new day,” Roy sang, bursting into Mike and Elaine’s bedrooms. It had been a year since Janet’s passing, and he’d picked up the pieces because he had to. He had two young children (ages 11 and 12) to care for, love, and protect after all, and so he kept on singing.
"It’s never been here before,” he continued, “and it will never be here again. God made it special and just for us, so we can share it with Him and with one another.” His children wiped their tired eyes. Roy didn’t care if he was out of key or carrying a perfect melody. And it showed.
He’d since started his own vet practice. He worked 25 hours each week, a fraction of what most parents did, but he made that work so that he could be there when his kids woke up and left for school, and home again when they returned.
And every morning, he sang his song for them. He sang it over and over again until he himself believed it. And he did. He believed it with his whole heart. And it showed.
Elaine, Roy & Mike
Memory No. 7
__________
“Well, I was swimming in the Atlantic…,” the tale began. “And out of nowhere, this great white shark starts circling me.” A captive audience of college kids drew closer in Mike’s dorm room.
“Were you scared?” one asked. Mike rolled his eyes. He had heard this story a thousand times.
“Of course I was scared!” Roy exclaimed. He lifted his shirt, exposing the scars that marked his torso like a road map. The boys all gasped and stared at his wounds, mesmerized; two looked away in disgust. But only one asked,
“Does it hurt?”
“Nothing hurts more than a great white shark sinking its teeth into your skin,” Roy assured, but the boy looked him dead in the eyes and clarified.
“Not the attack, Mr. Pensenstadler, the wounds.”
Roy was taken aback. He had always entertained with theatrics and tall tales that masked his pain or numbed the heartache of others. Roy took a giant breath, like a gulp of ocean water, and jolted with its salty taste. He looked down at his body, since healed from the car wreck six years ago, since healed from an aortic aneurysm as well, and felt his heart beating in his chest like a giant fist against a door.
“Everyday,” he said. “Everyday.”
Memory No. 8
__________
The phone rang and it was not good news. Elaine said, “Dad, your blood work results are back and the doctor wants to admit you in the hospital again.” Roy turned his head with eyes wide open and said with much clarity, “I’m never going back there."
“Do you know what that means, Dad?” He said, “Yes, I’m ready. I’m not afraid to die anymore.”
Elaine inhaled one deep, cool breath. She took her father’s hand in hers and exhaled with warmth. Her father’s hand that once gripped a golf club, strummed a guitar, held tightly to the reins of a horse and ski poles, cared for animals, and comforted grieving pet owners, was now relaxed. No less powerful, but relaxed.
Throughout his 79 years, Roy had survived a lot. On top of the injuries sustained during the car accident in 1981, he developed Hepatitis C from a tainted blood transfusion resulting in a liver transplant, aortic aneurysm, broken back, prostate cancer, bladder cancer, countless radiation and chemotherapy treatments, kidney failure, and a liver abscess. And through it all, he remained joyful and faithful.
“It’s good,” he’d say. “I am offering my pain up to help the souls in Purgatory.”
He passed peacefully and comfortably at home on January 13th, 2020 at 5:35pm with his children by his side.
In his final moments, Roy was alive with seemingly random outbursts from another era. He was young again, wandering along an earlier timeline, carefree in grass-stained jeans perhaps. His whole life ahead of him. And in the close distance, he heard a voice call him home.
Epilogue
__________
Roy, Janet, Mike and Elaine knelt by their bedside at the Pensenstadler farm, the very room that Roy and Wayne slept in that first summer in 1948. The metal-framed crib was long gone, the walls a brighter coat of cream, but there they knelt and prayed. If one were to pass their open door, they’d think Norman Rockwell was tucked away painting in the corner. That is, if Roy could even be contained to canvas.
“Amen,” Mike finished, and the room grew quiet but for the sound of a grasshopper that had snuck its way in through a cracked window.
“It’s your turn,” Roy gently nudged Elaine, and she softly began, “Dear Lord…”
When they were each done praying, Roy and Janet tucked their children in, and just before turning off the light, Roy asked,
“What do you wanna be when you grow up?” They were bleary-eyed and tired from a day spent exploring with their cousins.
“I dunno,” they said. But then, like rockets, suddenly burst forth with a dozen different things, like “teacher” and “astronaut” and “baker” and “fireman”. His kids were overcome with wild ideas, and Roy laughed.
“They’re just getting started,” he thought, and he knew the farm on Butternut Road held plenty of acres for their dreams to unfold like giant ferns.
Family, faith, and the farm. And that was everything to Roy.
__________
Click on the video below to view this special tribute.
In loving memory of
Roy Pensenstadler
June 16, 1940 – January 13, 2020
If you knew Roy—or if his story touched your heart—we'd love for you to share your memories or reflections below. His legacy lives on through the love we carry forward.
Say What Now? Regional Sayings, Quirks & the Language of Home
Jun 05, 2026
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There was a time when you didn’t need GPS to tell where you were—you just needed to listen. One phrase, one quirky food name, one slightly off way of saying "you all," and you’d know. The U.S. has always been a patchwork of accents, idioms, and charmingly peculiar habits, stitched together by geography and shaped by community. And while modern life has blurred some of those lines—streaming accents from all over, DoorDashing dinner from anywhere—regional touches still hang on in the corners. They’re the breadcrumbs of our cultural trail, and they say a lot about where we’ve been. Sometimes, they even remind us of home—because of course they do.
In this blog, we’re taking a lighthearted look at a few of those regional quirks—words, phrases, and customs that still set certain places apart. From grammar shortcuts in the Midwest to cookie tables in Pennsylvania, we’re highlighting what makes different corners of the country feel wonderfully, uniquely local.
We’re kicking things off with Western Pennsylvania—not just because it’s got chipped ham and gum bands, but because it’s where Penny and Rose raised their family, and where many of our sweetest stories (and strongest dialect opinions) were born. This one’s a little personal—and that’s exactly the point.
Western Pennsylvania: Parking Chairs, Pierogis & a Whole Lotta Grit
A misty view overlooking one of Pittsburgh’s iconic three rivers—bridges, steel, and hometown pride.
Western Pennsylvania isn’t quite Midwest, not quite Northeast. It’s a little steel grit, a little rolling farmland, and a lot of neighborhood loyalty. Home to Pittsburgh, the Appalachian foothills, and some of the most creatively carb-forward foods in the country.
A Few Fun Facts:
Pittsburgh has more bridges than Venice—446 of them.
Mr. Rogers was born here, and it shows.
A folding chair in a parking spot isn’t a suggestion—it’s sacred law.
And yes, yinz really is in the dictionary now.
How They Say It:
Jumbo = Bologna
Gum bands = Rubber bands
Red up = Tidy up or clean (e.g., “Red up your room.”)
Yinz = You all
Pop = Soda
Slippy = Slippery
Needs washed = “Your shirt needs washed” (not “needs to be washed”)
“Eet Chet?” “Not Chet. U?” = “Did you eat yet?” “Not yet. Did you?”—spoken fast and familiar, often around the farm or front porch
Ask for a pound of jumbo outside of Western Pennsylvania and you might get a puzzled look. In some places, it’s bologna. Back home, though, it’s jumbo—and it just tastes better.
Only in Western PA…
Chipped ham: Shaved so fine it borders on fluffy. Often served warm in barbecue sauce on a bun.
Cookie tables: Generations of women bake dozens of cookies for weddings—sometimes more memorable than the cake.
The Pittsburgh Potty: A lone, un-walled toilet in the basement—originally for steelworkers. Now? Local legend.
Parking chairs: Shovel your spot in the snow, place a chair, and boom—it’s yours until the thaw. No arguments.
Primanti Bros. sandwich: Grilled meat, provolone, tomato, coleslaw, and a heap of fries—all stacked between Italian bread. A Pittsburgh original since the 1930s.
Western PA is a place of humble pride, strong coffee, sturdy pierogis, and people who know the value of a good bargain and a better parking spot. It may not shout, but it doesn’t need to—it’s the kind of region that quietly builds your character (and occasionally hands you a gum band while it’s at it).
The Deep South: Porch Swings, Pecans & a Whole Lotta “Bless Your Heart”
A grand Southern home framed by live oaks—a canopy of history, humidity, and stories whispered through the branches.
The Deep South isn’t just a place—it’s a feeling. The kind you get from a warm breeze on a wide porch, the smell of biscuits in the oven, and the sound of cicadas chirping just past the treeline. It’s tradition and rhythm, with a hint of slow charm and deep roots.
A Few Fun Facts:
The phrase “Southern hospitality” wasn’t made up—it’s a whole social code.
Porch sitting is a legit pastime. Bonus points if there’s sweet tea involved.
It’s one of the only places where “ma’am” and “sir” are second nature—even to dogs.
Pecans are pronounced “puh-kahn” not “pee-can.” Don’t start a fight.
How They Say It:
Fixin’ to = About to do something (“I’m fixin’ to leave in a minute.”)
Hush puppies = Crispy cornmeal fritters, Southern-style. (Despite the name, no dogs involved.)
Might could = Maybe (“We might could go if the weather holds.”)
Coke = The word for any soft drink (“What kind of Coke you want?” “Dr Pepper.”)
Bless your heart = It depends. Could be kind, could be cutting—check the tone.
Y’all = Plural, friendly, and the most efficient word in the English language
In the Deep South, ordering tea comes with a follow-up question: sweet or unsweetened? No need to clarify hot or iced—it’s assumed the pitcher’s chilled and the ice is plentiful. Around here, tea is more than a drink—it’s part of the greeting.
Only in the Deep South…
Church hats: Not just fashion—these are generational heirlooms.
Porch swings: Not just furniture. It’s where stories are passed down.
Boiled peanuts: A salty, soggy rite of passage sold at roadside stands.
Blessing of the animals: Yep, even pets attend church—at least once a year.
The Deep South leans into its quirks. And that’s part of the charm. A place where time slows, hearts open, and yes, the food comes with a side of butter and a story.
The Midwest: Hotdish Hospitality & Lightning Bugs at Dusk
A lone bison grazing under a wide Midwest sky—where the land stretches long, the sunsets linger, and quiet strength roams free.
The Midwest is where the tractors are loud, the people are humble, and the weather talks behind your back. It’s also where you'll find a million different ways to make a casserole, an automatic “ope!” when someone bumps into you, and enough community pride to fuel a town parade in subzero windchill.
A Few Fun Facts:
Many towns host annual butter sculpting contests. Yes, butter. And yes, they're impressive.
You'll often find someone waving even if they don't know you—it's called the "Midwest wave."
People measure distance in hours, not miles (“It’s about three hours north of here”).
There’s always a go-to Jell-O salad recipe—or one already made somewhere in the back of the freezer.
How They Say It:
Ope! = A tiny Midwest gasp, often said when you bump into someone or drop a pen
Pop = Soda (never “soda” here!)
Uff da = A Norwegian-American expression of exasperation or relief
Hotdish = Casserole, particularly with tater tots on top (because, of course)
Jeet? = “Did you eat yet?” (often followed by an offer of something with gravy)
In the Midwest, dinner decisions are simple. There’s hotdish in the oven—no questions, no substitutions. It’s hearty, familiar, and always just what the day called for.
Only in the Midwest...
Corn mazes: A rite of fall. Bonus points if it’s haunted.
Church basement potlucks: The food is always comforting. So are the gossip updates.
Polka nights: Not just for grandparents. People dance here—and it’s contagious.
Friendly snow-shoveling: You wake up and your driveway is already cleared by a neighbor. No note. Just Midwest nice.
The Midwest runs on kindness, hotdishes, and calendars that remind you when county fair season starts. It’s where home feels like a handshake and a second helping—whether you asked for it or not.
Texas: Boots, BBQ & Big Skies That Don’t Quit
A dusty Texas trail under open skies—where the windmill spins slow, and everything else moves on cowboy time.
Texas isn’t just a state—it’s a whole personality. From the sound of boots on a porch to the smell of mesquite smoke curling up from the grill, Texas lives large and proud. The people are friendly, the pride runs deep, and yes—cowboy hats are very much still in fashion. Every day.
A Few Fun Facts:
Texas was its own country before joining the U.S. in 1845—and sometimes, it still acts like it.
Whataburger is a fast food chain, a love language, and a political issue, depending on who you ask.
Texas is home to the world’s largest honky-tonk—Billy Bob’s Texas, complete with indoor bull riding.
It’s so big, El Paso is closer to San Diego than to Houston. Let that sink in.
How They Say It:
All hat, no cattle = Someone who talks big but doesn’t back it up
Come hell or high water = No matter what happens, it’s getting done
That dog won’t hunt = That idea’s not going to work
Hotter than a billy goat in a pepper patch = Extremely hot (and oddly specific)
Big as all get-out = Really, really big (“That truck is big as all get-out.”)
Y’all’d’ve = The Texan triple contraction of “you all would have”—real, efficient, and unapologetically Southern
In Texas, cowboy boots aren’t a novelty—they’re daily wear. From the feed store to the office, they’re part of the rhythm of the day. Flats might turn heads, but boots never need explaining.
Only in Texas...
Friday Night Lights: High school football isn’t a game—it’s a way of life.
Drive-thru BBQ joints: Yes, that brisket came from a window, and yes, it’s better than anything you’ve ever had.
Rodeos: Somewhere between sport, spectacle, and cultural cornerstone.
H-E-B: A grocery store so beloved, people wear the merch.
Texas is big on space, big on heart, and even bigger on flavor. If you don’t leave with a belly full of BBQ and a pair of dusty boots, you probably missed the whole dang point.
Southern California: Beach Days, Juice Bars & "No Worries"
Wild blooms meet the Pacific breeze—coastal cliffs, colorful petals, and that effortless SoCal charm.
Southern California is where flip-flops are formalwear, smoothies are medicinal, and traffic is its own emotional journey. From beach towns to movie lots, the region carries an effortless vibe—laid-back, eclectic, and always a little sun-drenched.
A Few Fun Facts:
It’s the birthplace of skateboarding and In-N-Out—and people are equally proud of both.
You can surf and snowboard in the same day... but most people will just tell you they could.
The Hollywood sign originally read “Hollywoodland.”
Southern Californians really do call freeways “the 405” or “the 10.” It’s a thing.
How They Say It:
The industry = Hollywood and entertainment in general
No worries = You're welcome, or don't stress it
Stoked = Really excited (“I’m so stoked for this weekend!”)
The ’Bu = Malibu (if you know, you know)
June Gloom = That chilly, foggy, moody weather that ruins early summer beach plans
Hella = Technically NorCal, but it sneaks in sometimes
In Southern California, coffee orders come with options like oat milk, lavender, and intention. Ask about the vibe, and someone might offer to charge your crystals. Wellness isn’t just a trend—it’s a lifestyle.
Only in SoCal...
Juice crawls: Like a bar crawl, but with wheatgrass shots.
Dog yoga: It exists. So do dog bakeries. And yes, your dog deserves both.
Sunset traffic therapy: Getting stuck on the Pacific Coast Highway... but with ocean views.
Farmers’ markets: Year-round and full of heirloom everything.
Southern California might be chill, but it’s anything but boring. It’s where avocado toast was born, the sunsets are editorial-worthy, and even the dogs seem a little more enlightened.
Pacific Northwest: Flannel, Fog & A Love Letter to the Rain
Misty mountains and glacial lakes—where coffee warms your hands and the air always smells like pine.
In the Pacific Northwest, the rain is a mood, the forests are ancient, and the coffee is practically a blood type. It's the land of hiking boots, farmer's markets, and people who own more outerwear than they have closet space. It’s chill, it’s charming, and it will absolutely steal your heart with a foggy sunrise.
A Few Fun Facts:
Home to more indie bookstores per capita than anywhere else in the U.S.
Seattle was the birthplace of grunge—and a surprising number of waterproof jacket companies.
Oregon has no sales tax, Washington has no state income tax. Choose your adventure.
Bigfoot sightings? They’ve got ‘em. Whether you believe is your call.
How They Say It:
The mountain’s out = It’s a rare sunny day and you can see Mount Rainier.
Juneuary = When summer forgets to show up until July.
Ski-to-Sea = Not just a race, but a full identity in Bellingham.
Spendy = Expensive (“That organic kombucha’s a little spendy.”)
Coug’d it = Local sports slang for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.
Umbrellas raise eyebrows in the Pacific Northwest. Around here, a rain jacket and a good cup of coffee are all you really need. The drizzle’s expected—and most days, welcomed.
Only in the PNW...
Drive-thru espresso huts: You’ll find them on every block, often with pun names like “Brewed Awakening.”
Tree hugging (literally): Forest bathing is real—and it’s good for the soul.
REI memberships: Basically required at birth.
Bike lanes everywhere: Including places that seem way too steep for biking. And yet, they do it.
The Pacific Northwest doesn’t ask for attention—it just quietly captures your heart one cozy drizzle and pine-scented breeze at a time.
The Mid-Atlantic: Fast Coffee, Fierce Opinions & “The Shore” (Never “The Beach”)
City skyline, fast pace, and just enough edge—welcome to the Mid-Atlantic, where pride runs deep and coffee runs strong.
The Mid-Atlantic doesn’t waste time. From the crowded streets of New York to the diners of New Jersey and the stoops of Philly, it’s a region that runs on caffeine, attitude, and unspoken codes of conduct. It’s tough, quick-witted, and often misunderstood—but underneath that no-nonsense exterior is the softest spot for family, food, and the most hometown pride you’ll ever find.
A Few Fun Facts:
New Jersey invented saltwater taffy, diners, and the jughandle turn—you're welcome, and sorry.
New York City is home to more than 8 million people—and at least that many opinions.
Philadelphia soft pretzels are a breakfast food. No debate.
“The Shore” means something very specific, and don’t you dare call it “the beach.”
How They Say It:
Schlep = To carry something awkwardly (borrowed from Yiddish—widely used here)
Jawn = A Philly term for basically anything (person, place, or thing)
Down the shore = How you say you're going to the beach (especially in NJ)
Water ice = A sweet frozen treat (think Italian ice, but don’t call it that in Philly)
Taylor ham vs. Pork roll = A heated NJ debate that divides the state
Cawfee = How it’s pronounced, whether you're in Brooklyn or the Bronx
Order a “light and sweet” coffee and expect something closer to dessert than a beverage. It’s a Mid-Atlantic thing—and no, they won’t judge you for it.
Only in the Mid-Atlantic…
Parallel parking: A contact sport with its own unwritten rules.
Deli culture: Your order better be ready when it’s your turn. And don’t ask too many questions.
Ice cream in the snow: Not weird. In fact, it tastes better that way.
Seasonal denial: Shorts in April, no matter what the thermometer says.
Beach = “The Shore”: And it’s not just a location—it’s a lifestyle, passed down like a good cannoli recipe.
The Mid-Atlantic may talk fast and honk first, but it loves hard. It’s the region that raised us on bagels, snow days, tough love, and tight-knit neighborhoods—and it’ll always hold the door for you, as long as you walk through it quickly.
The Southwest: Dry Heat, Dust Devils & Enough Salsa to Be a Food Group
A desert skyline at golden hour—where saguaros stretch to the sky and the heat hums like a memory.
The American Southwest is a land of sun-baked landscapes, adobe charm, and colors so bold they feel hand-painted. Think Arizona, New Mexico, parts of West Texas and Nevada—where the skies go on forever and the weather forecast includes “chance of tumbleweed.” It’s equal parts mystical and practical, with a rhythm all its own.
A Few Fun Facts:
Arizona is one of the few places where 110 degrees is still called “a nice dry heat.”
New Mexico has an official state question: “Red or green?” (They mean chile.)
The saguaro cactus only grows in the Sonoran Desert, and it can live over 150 years.
Dust storms have names, personalities, and full coverage on the local news.
How They Say It:
It’s a dry heat = What locals say to reassure you (and themselves) when it’s 112°
Monsoon season = Summer storms that feel like the sky’s trying to get your attention
Haboob = An actual term for a rolling wall of dust (yes, really)
Red or green? = A legitimate dining question, not a Christmas reference
Tank tops in January = Fully normal behavior
“We don’t do daylight saving time” = Arizona opts out. That’s right. Just… no.
One summer morning, a local news anchor cracked an egg on the sidewalk to prove the heat. It sizzled in seconds—and no one was surprised. Just another day in the Southwest.
Only in the Southwest…
Sunset watching: As close to a sacred ritual as it gets.
Year-round grilling: You don’t “close up the grill” for winter—you just keep tongs in the glovebox.
Fiesta season: There’s always one happening, and it will involve chili-roasting and music that makes you want to dance.
House colors: Beige, terra cotta, or maybe beige again. HOA-approved and heat-reflecting.
Hydration paranoia: Every purse, backpack, and glovebox contains a backup water bottle—and possibly an electrolyte packet.
The Southwest teaches you how to respect the sun, savor the spice, and never underestimate a shady parking spot. It’s fierce, flavorful, and full of life—even when it’s hot enough to fry breakfast on the sidewalk.
All across this beautiful country, the way we talk—and the way we do things—still carries the fingerprint of where we’re from. Whether it's saving a parking spot with a lawn chair, ordering a Coke that isn’t Coke, or saying “ope” before squeezing past someone, these quirks remind us that identity isn’t just personal—it’s regional. And it’s worth celebrating.
Turns out, it’s a mighty big country—and there was no way we could fit all its sayings, quirks, and charm into one blog. So we didn’t even try. Instead, we wrote a Part 2—featuring seven more regions with even more stories and hometown gems. If you’d like to keep exploring, you’ll find a button at the end to take you there.
After all, it’s those stories and sayings that turn a place into home.
At Penny & Rose, our brand is steeped in nostalgia, but even more so, it’s rooted in a deep love of this country—the people, the places, the patchwork of traditions that make America feel like home. We believe there's something quietly extraordinary about honoring where you come from, however you say it, however you live it.
Got a hometown phrase that still makes you laugh? Or something only your family says that deserves internet fame? Drop it in the comments—we’d love to hear it, and who knows... it might just earn a spot in the blog!
No matter where you’re from, we probably have a fragrance that smells just like home.
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