Family Lines

stories for you

Tag: memoir (page 9 of 15)

Much ado about nothing

Family photo.

My sisters, me, my nephew and my nana. 2004.

There are so many things to write about but I sometimes get stuck thinking about what to write about and can’t come up with anything. Probably lots of people who are looking to record their corporate or personal stories are in the same boat. They don’t know where to start but given a prompt – their memories will be set in motion.

Writing prompts help get your tale on its way. It gives you a focus such as: what do you remember your grandmother saying? This opens up myriad of possibilities for many people and one particular story for me.

One time my nana, my mama’s mama, come to visit us in Nova Scotia from northern Ontario. My family had driven to Canning, a small Annapolis Valley town, to run an errand and we were parked on the side of the street. My mom went into a store leaving me and my middle sister in the back seat with my nana sitting in the passenger chair.

My sister and I were being bad. We were arguing and fighting and kicking the back of the seats. My Scottish nana turned around and said:

“If you don’t stop that I’m gonna hit you in the lugs!”

That stopped us. Dead. Not because of nana’s stern tone but because – what are lugs? (Her accent lugs turned into loogs.)

“What are loogs nana?” one of us asked.

“Loogs, you know, loogs.”

Legs? Is that what she meant? That made us laugh.

“Haha nana. You say legs funny.”

Not the right thing to say and she was furious and sputtered something else at us.

For years my sister and I have thought lugs were legs. Until one day we were watching Coronation Street, a British soap opera, and one of the characters mentioned his lugs – his ears.

My “Stanley Cup” goal

Hockey game.

Fort Smith versus Fort Simpson at the Moose Hide Mama tournament.

I love hockey. Playing hockey, that is. I like watching the NHL. Especially during playoffs. I can imagine the thrill of each goal that brings a team closer to the ultimate shiny target – the Stanley Cup. I’d like to think I know how it feels to be playing your best and out for the win.

My first hockey team ever was the Fort Smith Fury. I had played hockey with my family on the pond growing up in Nova Scotia but it wasn’t until I went to the Northwest Territories that I ended up on a formal team. It was in Smith I learned how to put on shoulder pads and hockey socks and poke check.

I was a winger my first year. My second year I moved to centre – a good position for a puck chaser. Centre is awesome. You’re half forward and half defence. You skate a lot, which I liked because of the exercise, but you also have to have a good idea about what’s going on around you. It’s your job to feed the wingers (and the points) pucks to get the goals. As centre I did put some pucks in the basket but one stands out for me.

Every year Smith went to a tournament in Fort Simpson, a town about an eight-hour drive west. Simpson is a cool place where the Mackenzie and Liard rivers meet and the Moose Hide Mama’s tourney was so much fun. The hockey was good and the party afterwards included the whole town. It was worth the slog along snow-covered dirt highways with nothing to look at but trees and trees and trees.

Fort Smith made the trip to Simpson as did Hay River. Teams from Yellowknife never seemed to make it to anything not in Yellowknife. Smith and Simpson had a friendly joking relationship on and off the ice. Hay River was different. They were our rivals and always seemed to beat us in this tournament and others. Not this year.

Smith had sent a tiny team and we lost one of our players due to an injury. That meant we only had two subs, one for defence and one for forward. We had managed to win most of our games on Friday and Saturday but heading into the final game on Sunday against Hay River we were tired. We had played a lot of hockey in the previous days and, of course, attended the party the night before. Oh well. Time to hit the ice and win.

The first period went OK. Not smoothly but we were getting into it. Then came second period. This is where we had to hold our own. I was on the ice playing centre when the puck was shot from our side down the rink. Icing would be called – maybe. I was taught to skate hard after that puck in case the call was waved off.

Hockey team.

Fort Smith waiting to play in Fort Simpson.

I was deep in Hay River’s zone when the goalie took several side steps out of her net, stopped the puck and…passed it to me.

That’s when I started to feel the pressure. I had an empty net. A wide, wide open net. If I didn’t score on this then I would be scarred for life. I would never live it down if I missed and I did not want to miss this opportunity.

I had to do it. I had to shoot the puck now. For all I knew there were Hay River players about to pounce on me and take away this golden moment. I let the puck go and…she scores!

I did it.

That was one of my most memorable hockey moments. That goal buoyed my spirits and gave me a shot of adrenaline for a few minutes. Then I started to flag as I got tired again. We called the third period of that game zombie hockey. We were so exhausted that we were like zombies. Instead of looking for brains, we looked for the puck.

My goal was not the winning goal, there were far more talented women on the team who took up the score. Despite the game of living dead hockey, we won and were a bunch of happy ghouls.

Quiche and cobblestones

Colmar, France.

Colmar, France

The pastry crumbled in my mouth like a piece of shortbread. The cheese was creamy with just the right amount of sharpness to open my taste buds. A hunk of bacon sliced through the soft flavours and dominated my palate. This was Quiche Lorraine in Alsace Lorraine, where the French pie was created, and it’s one of my most favourite meal memories.

The cup of hot tea that accompanied my meal was parfait. It warmed me up after a morning of wandering around Colmar, France on a soggy sightseeing day. A rainy grey day better fit for staying inside a café until it was time to head to a bar. (But this was France so bars were probably open earlier than in Canada.) It was the end of December but there was no snow. The weather was more reminiscent of spring, like this past Friday and Saturday in Calgary.

I was in Europe with my friend Digger. She was on exchange with a German university and I went to visit her at Christmas in the mid 90s. Colmar was a short bus ride from Freiburg, Germany and we decided to check it out. The French town is picture perfect: old houses and buildings painted with colours you could eat – mustard and orange and lemon. A canal runs through the village and little postcard bridges span the dark water. A French town that you want to take a million photographs of even though you’d never be able to capture the historic shadows of the street corners and building blocks.

Digger and I were both 21 but only one of us was naïve. Almost every man passing us on foot invited us for a drink. At first I thought everyone was so nice to the tourists when I had heard otherwise about the French. Until Digger told me the guys were hitting on us.Family_Lines_Colmar_two

Oh.

It had been raining in Colmar since we got off the bus. Not full-on pouring but more like little drips here and there. Enough to make us cold after hours of our shoes on the cobblestones. We were hungry too and wanted to take a break.

We found a restaurant in the centre of town. I’m not sure how we picked it. The outside was a dark brown, unlike the other bright buildings, and the inside matched. It was dimly lit when we walked in but a fire was a bright spot in the corner of a room. Zut. There were no tables near it.

The place was almost full but we found a small table in a back room. There I ordered my meal – the one I still dream about today. The incredible Quiche Lorraine. But it wasn’t only the lunch. It was the combination of food, company and history. This was the first time I had been to Europe and I was overwhelmed by the antiquity that was everywhere I looked in France, Germany and Switzerland. I was a history major in university and I studied this stuff but to be this close to it was unreal. Everything was so old (not the quiche I had been served) that it boggled my Canadian mind.

After our lunch Digger and I headed outside and back into the rain. We got dessert to take out, chocolate crepes, from a small restaurant down the street. (You know that European way, it’s cheaper to take food away than it is to eat it in the restaurant.) We stood under an awning of a furniture store and dug into the sweet treat. Chocolate spilling out of the French pancake and dripping down our chins.

“Cochon!” yelled someone on the other side of the street. “Cochon!”

He was calling us pigs.

Alors, there was the rude Frenchman that I heard all about.

 

Questionable singing

Old Lady.

Photo source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCaYt1KxZiY

One of my friends had a baby a few months ago. I get to see this little guy several times a month. He’s a mostly happy boy but sometimes, like anyone, he gets cranky and needs a nap. When he is feeling tired his mama sings him songs. Songs I haven’t heard in ages. Songs that always made think when I was a young girl – what is that all about? Songs that still make me wonder the same thing.

Take the old woman who swallowed a fly. Huh? When I was a kid this song made me mad trying to figure out all the things this senior ate. So many large and disgusting things disappeared down her craw: a spider, a bird, a cow. While I appreciate a good steak the whole animal is too much. Maybe the song is supposed to make youngsters think about what they’re eating.

I knew an old woman who swallowed a fly
I don’t know why she swallowed a fly

In my head the old lady swallowed the bigger items like a boa constrictor. Bit by bit, centimetre by centimetre, until the whole thing was gone. Perhaps she’ll die.

Then there’s the old man who played knick-knack on my thumb. What is knick-knack anyway?

This old man, he plays one
He plays knick knack on my thumb
With a knick knack paddy wack
Give a dog a bone
This old man comes rolling home

What kind of bone did he give to the dog? I hope it wasn’t chicken because they’re not good for puppies. Also, why did the man go rolling home? Is his house at the bottom of a hill? This is another song that raises too many questions for me to like to sing it. The lyrics are in the way.

My mother used to sing “Do your ears hang low?” to my sisters and I. Not to put us to sleep but to entertain us. I was stuck on one particular part though, what’s a continental solider?

Dog.

Photo source: http://attackofthecute.com/on/?i=3582

Do Your Ears Hang Low?
Do They Wobble to and Fro?
Can You Tie Them in a Knot?
Can You Tie Them in a Bow?
Can You Throw Them Over Your Shoulder Like a Continental Soldier?

Of course we’re now in the age of the Internet so I googled “continental solider.” Turns out, a continental solider was someone who fought against the British in the American Revolutionary War in 1775. Interesting. Here is it 2014 and we’ve been singing about these rebels for almost 240 years. It’s amazing to think of the oral history still being passed along in certain songs and stories.

Now that I’ve cleared those lyrics up (oh and the song is thought to be about a hound dog’s ears) I don’t have to think about the words anymore. I can share this song with my little buddy. I just wish I could sing.

Moving on in more ways than one

Cabbagetown, Toronto.

Parliament Street in Cabbagetown, Toronto.

I’ve noticed a lot of people moving this weekend. Young people who look around the age of university students. I’ve seen them put clothing and framed posters into cars or trucks and then go back into condos or houses or apartment to get more. When I graduated from Acadia University in the 90s, I had more schooling to look forward to. I went to Ryerson University to take journalism and got another degree. The spring day I moved out of the apartment I shared with two friends in Cabbagetown was an emotional one. Not to mention expensive.

I had hired a moving company to collect my stuff, then take it and me to a storage unit where the vehicle would be unpacked before returning me to the apartment on Parliament Street. The moving company quoted me an estimate for an hour for two guys and it was reasonable. I didn’t have tons of things — just a few items to leave in Toronto for my sister who was headed to grad school in the area in the fall. Two hundred bucks to complete the job was fair.

I met the moving guys on a late morning and saw only one of them was a “guy.” The other was his six-year-old son. How are they going to move boxes and bedroom furniture from the second storey and get to the storage unit and unpack in only an hour? They would need some help.

I did what I could but it took a long time. The day was, as I remember, an OK one. It wasn’t too hot and it wasn’t too cold. Buds were forming on the trees and the sky was overcast. As was my outlook on how the day was going to go.Sign.

There were many other things I had to do to prepare for heading back to Nova Scotia. The big one being spending time with my boyfriend, who would be soon taking off for his home in British Columbia. I wanted this move to go quickly but the packers were moving so slowly, taking breaks and standing around and talking. I mean, the kid shouldn’t have even been there but he was…so get to work!

Two hours later and they were ready to hit the road. I jumped into the cab of the van with them and we drove slowly to the outskirts of TO. There was no choice but to go slow, traffic was bumper-to-bumper and we were forced to crawl down the Don Valley Parkway, an “express” way.

Arriving at the storage unit, we unloaded pretty quickly. But not quick enough to make it under three hours. I was getting anxious as I saw my day creeping by and time flying out the window. Then I saw my money drain out of my not-so-full student bank account.

“Excuse me?” I asked when the mover told me how much I owed him.

The exact amount today escapes me but it was more than what he previously quoted. A lot more. Probably like $400 more. It was not a paid by-the-hour job but somehow it added up to one. Besides, he should be paying me some of that. I did half the work!

I didn’t complain. I didn’t argue. And I don’t know why. Perhaps it was because I was young and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I knew I was being taken advantage of and yet I paid up. Then he had the audacity to drop me and his son at a subway station to get the rest of the long way home. He had another job to do. (The son didn’t come home with me. I also think six is too young to take the subway alone.)

During this ordeal I couldn’t complain to my parents and let them take care of it. I was an adult. I was on my own. Deal with it. This was a first real-world lesson for me. Only a few days out of university and here was reality saying that not everyone is going to be honest or nice or even halfway decent. Although now I know how to stick up for myself.

History is not just in text books

sunset.

Spring sunset

It’s been almost a week since five people were killed in Calgary, each stabbed to death at a party. I have no immediate connection to the victims but I can’t help but think about how their families, and the suspect’s family, are dealing with an immense amount of tears, pain and confusion. It’s a horror I can’t even imagine can be put into words.

Some terrible things can be written down though, perhaps only because of the hindsight of history. I’ve been reading Hanns and Rudolf, The True Story of the German Jew Who Caught the Kommandant of Auschwitz by Thomas Harding. It’s a look into the lives of two men – Hanns Alexander, a German-born Jew who moved to England during the rise of the Nazis, and Rudolf Höss, a German-born man who became the overseer of a horrific concentration camp. The book follows Alexander and Höss from their beginnings as children, to their entry into military service in World War II (one in the British Army, the other as a Nazi official), to Alexander hunting Rudolf, capturing him and making him face justice for what he did – the mass murder of at least 3 million victims.

Three million people died under Höss’ authority. That’s a tremendous amount of souls. The thing that stands out to me in the book is that Höss claims he was just following orders. He did have doubts about what he was doing but didn’t want to appear soft in front of his superiors or subordinates. So he never said a word to help those poor, poor people.

After the war, Höss was eventually captured by Alexander and taken to be a witness at the International Military Tribunal at Nuremberg in 1946. After Höss gave his testimony, he was sent to Poland to be tried for war crimes in that country. It’s here he was encouraged to write his stories. And he did.

In the pages of his memoir he related facts about his youth, his wife and family, his thoughts and deeds at Auschwitz. Throughout it all he claimed to be a normal person – not a wicked one. A man with a heart. Not a monster.

Poland sentenced Höss to death and hanged him on April 16, 1947. His legacy remains as one of death and the ripping apart of families for generations. His stories remain as a reminder to us that anyone can turn against a fellow human.

Alexander, the Nazi hunter, stayed silent about his accomplishments for many years. Until his stories surfaced at his funeral. That’s when his great-nephew decided to pick up a pen and write his uncle’s story. To finally share Alexander’s legacy as a witness to the atrocities with the rest of the world.

History is not just in text books. It’s in our memories. It’s good and it’s bad. With our World War II and Korean War veterans disappearing, there are many more stories to be told. We just need to catch them in time. To let them leave their historical legacies.

“The choices we make about the lives we live determine the kinds of legacies we leave.”
― Tavis Smiley, PBS host

Part with your clothes, not your memories

Garbage bag.

The garbage bag troll ready to eat clothing that I don’t want to give away.

There’s a big black garbage bag sitting in our closet. Actually, it’s not sitting – it’s squatting like a troll at the bottom of the wardrobe. The garbage bag troll has been there for a few weeks and every time I open and close the door, a piece of bag always gets stuck in the hinge. Flapping and waving outside the door every time I go by – reminding me I have to fill it with clothing. My clothing that I don’t want.

It’s not that I don’t want them – it’s that I haven’t worn them in a couple of years and they’re taking up valuable space in the closet I share with my husband. He’s good at getting rid of his old duds and even has room to spare side on his side of the wardrobe. My side is stuffed to the brim because I don’t want to part with anything.

Every t-shirt, pair of trousers and skirt is a story to me. Every lost button and rip and tear is a tale to be told. Every colour and pattern and print is a yarn of days and places gone by. How can I throw out all this material for memoirs?

Take the shirt I bought in Italy circa 10 years ago. I was a bride’s maid at a good friend’s wedding and the day before the big day, we went to the mercato (Italian for market.) There was a stall selling cool shirts for 2 Euros each and I bought three. One I gave to my sister, the other to a friend and the last one I kept for myself. It’s white with a silver dragon on it. Once the dragon stood out proudly on the front, its scales gleaming on the pure snow-coloured material.

When I see this shirt, I don’t just see a shirt. I see a bustling market in a small village. I feel the hot, hot, hot sun. I smell the leather from the shoe booths that line the other side of the street. I hear the lively conversations going on all around me. I can’t take part in them but ignorance is bliss and I can pretend they are only talking about happy things. Because I’m happy in that moment.

Today when I take a closer look at the shirt, I see the dragon is missing bits and pieces of her mythical body. She was once displayed proudly on a white background but it’s now more snow mixed with ash – grey. A sad canvas for a mighty beast.

We have memories to remember things. We don’t need a photograph or a memento or a shirt to be able to recollect specific moments. But it helps. It helps to keep us from forgetting the little things. It helps jog our memories. Alas, all my memories are cumulating into one big pile in the closet. Maybe it’s best I let some go and make room for new ones.

Thank you for the thank yous

Cards.

My wonderful thank you cards.

In January I gave a presentation on memoir writing to some students at Chris Akkerman School. I wondered how the kids would find writing their life stories and worried if they would find it boring.

That wasn’t the case. They had lots to share and many anecdotes to tell me from their relatively short lives so far. A few weeks later I received a large manila envelope with many, many colourful thank you cards, a few questions and, of course, some memoirs.

By Randeep:

Here is my little story.

The second time I went to India with my little sister (who was only three months old then) I met my devil cousin Aman. He was the most naughty boy ever and there is one thing that he did to me, which I will never forget.

He took my aunt’s old stinky perfume and sprayed it on me and called my mom and said I peed in my pants. Now after six years he is coming from India for two to three months for a visit. I wonder what will happen.

**

By Samad:

I didn’t have the chance to share my memoir during your presentation so I’m going to share it with you right now.

When I was in preschool we were going outside to play on a water-thingy that was filled up with air. I wasn’t able to go outside because I didn’t have my towel so I was sad. Everyone was playing outside while I was playing with toys inside with a teacher.

After I looked in my backpack again and I found my towel so my teacher asked me if I wanted to go outside. But guess what I said?

I said I didn’t want to go outside because I wanted to play with toys.

**

Poem by Komal

So beautiful

The best author ever

Oh! Isn’t she wonderful?

Really cool

Really awesome too.

**

By Manveer:

I have a lot of memories. Most of them are funny. One is when it was sports day. Sports day is where you play sports. On that day I wore my pants backwards the whole time.

**

My memoir by Sikhman:

The time I will never forget. It was in the summer when the greatest thing happened to me. We went to Edmonton. It was fun when we went. On the way to Edmonton we went to Sylvan Lake. In Edmonton we went to our hotel room and it was 9 p.m. and we got pizza and went to sleep. I got to sleep on a cool chair. The next day we went to Tim Horton’s for breakfast. Then last but not least, we went to West Edmonton Mall and went to Galaxyland

**

I want to share a memoir. By Komal:

I still remember when my grandfather died. I was looking all over for him and everyone said the same thing, “He’s at work.”

I was only one.

**

My memoir by Shrill:

I have to go to a place and when I go to it we always go in the middle of the night. We’re tired little people and we want to go to sleep.

**

Good luck bad luck penny

I was walking down the street and I found a penny. I thought it was lucky and I took it.

The next thing you know I had mud all over and my back was hurting because I slipped on a banana peel. So I threw the penny away.

Will the bad luck stop?

**

Puppy by Diya:

Once upon a time there was a little puppy. That little puppy’s name was Max. Max was a brave little puppy who went on adventures.

His adventures were awesome. He had some problems solving his problems. Then he went to the shelter. A girl name Lea bought him. Both were happy together.

**

Questions from the classes:

Harleen asked me what my favourite colour is: green.

Do you have a pet? What kind and what is her/his name?

I have a pet cat and her name is Thursday.

Do you have a brother or a sister?

I have two sisters.

Uditi asked me if it’s hard writing non-fiction books.

On one hand, it’s easy to write non-fiction because you’re writing about your life and you know what happened. But on the other hand, you can’t make stuff up like a fiction writer would. So I think it’s harder to write non-fiction.

Sneha wants to know if I have any book ideas for writing.

For non-fiction you could write about what fun things you do in school. You can also interview your parents or grandparents and find out what they used to do at school. You could also ask them to what they remember about being a kid.

For fiction you could write about having a super power. What does having this super power mean? Do you have to rescue everyone?

Some students said they’re keeping diaries (or a journal as Greg from Diary of a Wimpy Kid would call it.)

Harveer:

You have inspired me to keep my own diary. In my diary I could write memoirs of special days. I will also get pages and write a story and then staple the pages together and make a book. My cousin does that. He has about 10 books already.

Tarnpreet asked me:

Did you do any other jobs before you became an author?

Yes, I was a journalist before I became a memoir writer. Being a journalist is good training to becoming an author. As a reporter you learn how to interview people and how to write.

Do you like this job or not?

I love my job as a memoir writer. People have so many cool stories to tell me and I like collecting their tales so other people can read them too.

How many books have you written about yourself?

I wrote one book about myself. It’s about when I lived in the Northwest Territories a few years ago.

How many memoirs have you written?

I’ve written at least five memoirs for other people and hope to write many, many more.

Gurpreet and Aastra asked me if I’m really afraid of squirrels and not bugs or other animals.

Yes, squirrels scare me a lot as you heard in my story. Bugs and other animals don’t really bother me. I did come face-to-snout with a bear once. That was a scary situation.

I received so many compliments and if I ever need a boost I’ll read your thank-you cards over.

 

 

Six words memoir

Lake.

Where some of the lake monsters were born.

A six word memoir…can it be done? Yes, says SMITH Magazine. The magazine states six words make you get to the point. That six words are a catalyst for self-expression. That six words force you to be creatively creative.

I tend to think that while six words certainly hit the bone and pare down to the very essence of your anecdote, you miss some of the best parts. Those best parts, like description and emotion and well, the story, are left to be made up by other people’s imaginations. By leaving most of the tale unwritten, you have shaped a piece of fiction when you wanted to tell the truth. I thought I would try a few six word memoirs anyway.

Gusts send sand into my eyes.

Gap workers always have to fold.

Lake monsters live in my mind.

Even my eyebrows sweat in Africa.

Gap store.

I once worked at a Gap. And spent many an hour folding.

I’m not sure if any of the above “memoirs” worked and I am fighting the urge to include more details. But I won’t.

What’s your six word memoir?

A crisp spring

Calgary city view.

A spring afternoon in Calgary, March 21, 2014.

It’s supposed to be spring right now but it’s not. Definitely not. Winter is hugging us tight and is not going to let us go. Usually during chilly February evenings I like to warm up with a bowl full of apple crisp. Right out of the oven. It’s a great way to sweeten dark winter nights and with the snow still flying in March, I think it’s apple crisp time. Despite my terrible cooking and baking skills, it’s one thing I can make.

My mother made supper for the family on week nights when I was growing up in Nova Scotia. The five of us would sit at the table around 6:30 p.m. or 7, after my dad got home from work, to eat our meal. Sometimes we had baked sole, sometimes haddock, sometimes Shepard’s pie and sometimes chicken. We always got dessert.

My favourite treat wasn’t chocolate cake or ice cream or pudding – it was apple crisp. Even when it was piping hot I’d be shoveling into my mouth. Even though it scorched my tongue. Through the burning I’d taste sweet Annapolis Valley fruit, baked into a soft compote. The crisp was also a little bit crunchy – from the topping of oatmeal and butter and brown sugar. Mmmm. Delicious. There’s nothing better when the snow is falling outside and the wind is trying to get in the front door.

Supper table.

My family’s supper, lunch and breakfast table.

The recipe came from my mother’s 4H cookbook from where she grew up – Burris, Ontario. Now it’s been a family recipe for almost 40 years now. My mum taught me to make apple crisp when I was younger. No easy feat as I just don’t like being in the kitchen.

Peeling the apples was fine and my dog, Jasper, would wait for the trimmings. He would gobble them up and want more. I loved the crisp’s topping so much that I told myself when I lived on my own I would make a whole bowl of it and eat it all myself. (I’ve lived on my own for a while but haven’t indulged in a pound or two of topping in one sitting.)

I have prepared the dessert so often that I don’t even need to look at the instructions anymore. It’s often the dish I take to potlucks or serve at dinner parties and it’s surprising no one is sick of it yet. Unless they don’t have the heart to tell me.

It doesn’t matter where I’ve made the apple crisp – from The Gambia, West Africa to Sackville, New Brunswick to Fort Smith, Northwest Territories to Revelstoke, British Columbia, every time the aroma hits me I’m reminded of home, winter nights and my family.

Apple crisp (from memory)

  •  Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degree C).
  • Peel and slice about 6 medium sized apples
  • Place the sliced apples in a 9×13 inch pan.
  • Spread 1 tablespoon of white sugar over the sliced apples

Topping

  • Combine 3 cups of oats, 1 cup brown sugar, 1 tablespoon of flour, pinch of salt, ¾ cup of melt butter and mix.
  • Crumble evenly over the apple mixture.

Bake at 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) for about ½ hour to 45 minutes

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