Chronology of This Book

December 25, 1969.

For Christmas, my mother-in-law gave my husband Mike and me a subscription to Organic Gardening, along with some back issues.

February 12, 1970.

Rebecca Neoma Emery was born.

Summer 1970.

"Old Fashioned Recipe Book" idea came to me.

September 1970.

Wrote the table of contents. (Believed I could finish the book in 2 months.) Placed an ad to appear in the November and December 1970 issues of Organic Gardening.

November and December 1970.

Received about 250 orders. Wrote all the people saying I'd send the book when done and promised them it would be only a couple more months.

March 1971.

First "issue" mailed to the "subscribers." It consisted of chapters on herbs, definitions and measures, and home industries except a still-to-be-written section on candles.

September I, 1971.

Luke Carl Emery was born.

December 17, 1971.

Second "issue" mailed after I raised funds to do so by advertising to get more subscribers. About 200 more people ordered. The second issue consisted of beverages and half of a chapter on meats. Then I was sick for a while. We traded our 3 acres and a house as a down payment on 115 acres and a house.

September-December 1971.

Printed and mailed the third issue: chapters on oddments and food preservation and half of a chapter on dairying. Also sent larger binding rings because the book was turning out to be bigger than I'd expected. Then stopped writing.

Sara Ann Emery was born. Sold goats on neighbor's request. Bought Nelly the cow.

November 1973.

After a long break I prayed, felt directed, and went back to work on the book.

January 1974.

Dolly became very sick. Sara was also sick.

February 18, 1974.

The book was finally finished. Dolly was better, Sara was well, and I was happy! But I still had to manage printing the book.

March I, 1974.

The first edition (the one that came out in issues) and the second edition (the first whole book) were printed and put in the mail to my customers, thanks to Diann, Darlene, and the good collators.

By the late February, Diann had been mimeographing for weeks. Then there was a collating bee, organized by a librarian at the Moscow Public Library. I didn't know her, but she had heard of me. About 6 ladies came to the bee, which was in an empty apartment in the old folks' home that Viola Johns (Diann's mother) ran; I'd never met most of them before.

Diann introduced me: "This is our author." Everybody looked at me hard for a minute to see what an author looks like. I said, "Hello" and "Thanks for coming to help," and that was pretty much the end of it. They kept walking around that table collating, probably because they hadn't anticipated such huge piles of paper and they wanted to get home for dinner. We were doing 200 copies of what I called the fourth issue of the first edition, and then we put together 200 more of the "second edition," which would have the improvement of being an all-at-the-same-time book, to say nothing of the text additions and improvements I'd made in the earlier chapters.

My job was hauling boxes full of envelopes holding the fourth issue in the back of my pickup from the work area to the post office. When I got back for the next load and walked in the door, they nodded and kept going around the table. I saw they had already finished about 8 of the whole books. They had no way of knowing what was going on inside me. I had sort of thought I'd be the person to put the first whole book together. But no matter. I elbowed my way into the line that was going around and around the table and picked up the first of the 12 chapters. I couldn't say a word. I couldn't smile. The emotion in me was so intense and huge. I took a step, picked up the second chapter from its pile and laid it on top, and so on around the table until the last chapter, "Definitions and Measures," and then the back cover. And now I held it in my hands—a completed copy of the Old Fashioned Recipe Book. The first one I had ever held in my hands, a miracle!

I clutched it to me, turned, and walked back out the door alone, so full of feeling I thought I'd burst. Just up the hall I found an empty laundry room, went in, and closed the door behind me. There I knelt down, crying with gratitude, and talked to God and thanked Him.

There was more work to be done, hauling boxes to the post office. So then I went back to the collating place, and things just took up again as if nothing spectacular had happened. Only my heart knew better. April 10, 1974.

Third edition finished. (As soon as I finished the first two, I thought of more things I wanted to include!)

I tried another classified ad in Organic Gardening—2 months at $200/month, and this time only one order. I tried selling to libraries and bookstores, working from mailorder lists, but they wouldn't buy at a high enough price to allow me a profit. There had to be another way to reach potential buyers with no middjeperson. In the meantime, Viola rented her apartment. We moved the bookmaking to Diann's home, but it outgrew her living room. We had to find another place to do it. We rented an empty restaurant on Main Street in Kendrick for $75 a month. We collated on the abandoned counters and, with great care, settled in the precious new $1,200 mimeograph machine which, by the grace of God, had been allowed to us on time payments of $45 a month. Diann and Darlene started keeping regular office hours at the store, even though I owed each of them anywhere from $300 to $700 depending on which day or month you looked at, and the whole town was telling them they were fools. We painted huge, brave red-and-white signs on the outside of our new home advertising the Recipe Book, and did a little off-the-street business. I desperately needed to sell more books, and directly to readers, but how?

Then some college boys from the University of Idaho at Moscow visited me and urged me to take part in a craft fair they were organizing for Moscow's Main Street. I never turn anybody down, and as usual we were in a situation where if I didn't find $250 somewhere, we wouldn't be able to pay our paper bill and would have to shut down forever on the following Monday. So I took a folding table and all the children, and we set up shop there in the sunshine. I passed out hundreds of brochures and sold $300 worth of books at $9.95 each. It was a long day but great fun, and I had the money! From then on . . .

May 15-September 15, 1974.

The children and I were out every weekend at town fairs, art and craft fairs, and county fairs, peddling copies of the books and passing out brochures about how to mail-order them. May 24, 1974.

Colored photos were added to the book, and that became the fourth edition. (We were constantly producing books. There actually were some fourth editions turned out before the fifth came along.) May 26, 1974.

An index was added, and then we called it the fifth edition.

But the Idaho fairs just weren't big enough to support the kind of volume I needed to pay Diann and Darlene, the rent for the Livingroom Mimeographer, and the payment on the machine. Once again, it looked like the end. Then we heard of a 3-day craft fair 500 miles away, near the Pacific coast, in Bellevue, Washington (a suburb of Seattle). It was to take place on Thursday through Saturday. I said to Diann and Darlene, "I'll try it just this one more time. I'll go clear to Seattle. If I don't make it this time, I'll submit to the inevitable—I'll give it all up." That week's mail-order money was just enough to pay gas one way to Seattle. As usual, I took all 5 children (ranging in age from 1 to 10) plus blankets, a bag of groceries, and so many books I was afraid my poor old car wouldn't make it over the long, steep Alpowa grade over the Blue Mountains just west of Lewiston, Idaho. But it did. That night the children and I slept squeezed like sardines in the car, parked behind a shopping center. A policeman saw us, came over, and got very uptight about the whole idea of it, though he didn't arrest me.

The next day I found out I had the date wrong. The fair existed, but it didn't start until Friday. So I had Thursday to kill. I decided to try to get on TV At a shopping center, I hunted for a phone. A nice secretary in a real estate office let me use theirs. I looked in the Yellow Pages for TV stations and called the "Seattle Today" TV show people to ask if I could get on that weekend. Meanwhile, my kids were kind of getting into things. At that moment, the bosses at the real estate office came in. The "Seattle Today" people told me on the phone they had an unexpected cancellation that day, and I should be there in 1 hour! The real estate people told me to please take my children and leave, and I did.

We headed for the KING studio; we'd never been there before. By a split second we found it in time. The children couldn't find all their shoes, so I made them stay in the car in the parking lot, looked after by the nice parking attendant. I rushed into the studio, and there you had a study in contrasts. The hostess of the live show was in an evening gown, her makeup expertly done, her hairdo lovely. I was in work clothes and tennis shoes, with bags under my eyes. The show was a smashing success!

Afterward, we headed back to the shopping center. The children had supper and I didn't, because we were getting low on food. The next day, bright and early, we set up for our fair. We sold $300 worth of books that Friday, plus I met some people who became my good friends before the summer was over—people who make quickie trips to Mexico and buy up goods there to sell at fairs here, and people who spend long winter months working in their basement craft shops (or some such places) painstakingly creating beautiful things and then, all summer long, weekend after weekend, take those things to one craft fair after another trying to sell them for enough money to get through another winter.

It's a very special way to make a living, and there's a warm camaraderie among the folks who live that way. They took me in as a sister and began to teach me the things I so badly needed to know: when the big, good shows were; what you had to do to get into them; the fine points of just where to put your table to catch the best crowd flow; how to hawk your wares; and how to get along with the management. They told me that, although the fair there in Bellevue seemed so good, there was going to be an even better one Saturday and Sunday up in the Fremont district of Seattle. They were all going there, some leaving a friend to tend their tables in Bellevue. I went along, and Fremont was a whole new experience for me.

I thought I was arriving in Fremont plenty early Saturday morning at 6am, but wow was 1 late! There were hundreds of craftspeople already there—600, according to the brochure I saw later. Mobile TV cameras and reporters were already out getting stories for the morning news. All the good spots were already taken. I had to settle for a spot out on the edge of the fair. Nonetheless, I did $500 worth of business that day. The kids and I slept in the car again that night, and nobody minded. The next day, business was even better. I ran out of books, so then I took orders. So many would-be customers were crowding in wanting my book that I felt just overwhelmed. But then people appeared from nowhere to help me. They passed out brochures, took orders, and helped with the children. They begged and insisted until finally I went off and bought myself a 7-Up in a little nearby restaurant while they continued selling books back at my table.

I started to feel like a small sort of celebrity. People would come up and say, "Everybody's talking about your book." I walked back with my drink and saw them gathered here and there around one of my brochures, eagerly talking. That night the children and I slept in a motel, and we all had showers and reveled in our comfort. We bought a big bag of groceries—including luxuries like avocados and fruit juice—to celebrate. After the little ones were put to bed, my oldest daughter, Dolly, and I sat up and totaled the money we were taking home. We could scarcely believe our eyes— it was over $1,000.1 remembered how once I had numbly apologized to Darlene because I still had no money to pay her, and I knew how much she needed it. She responded with words I'll never forget: "Oh, Carla, I just wish I had some money of my own so I could lend it to you." But now I could give Diann and Darlene all their much-deserved and long-awaited wages, and catch up on the other bills too!

After that I went to Pacific coast fairs every weekend. There was always one—or more—going on out in that heavily populated region. The biggest problem was getting over Alpowa while heavily laden with outward-bound books. Once when I was driving the family truck, it caught on fire. Flames and black smoke were coming up through the crack all around the outside edge of the hood, and I could see flames in the floorboard insulation around the brake and gas pedals. I stopped as soon as I could get over to the side of the road. I got out and raised the hood—and there was my engine burning merrily away.

I didn't know what to do next. I was no mechanic. I depended on Mike for things like that. Just then a Greyhound bus saw us and stopped right in front of us; the driver got out and ran toward us, holding a fire extinguisher. It shot a white powder all over the engine and put out the fire. We thanked him, and he drove off in his big bus.

Then we realized the fire had gotten going again, down in the floorboard insulation. We had no liquid; we tried to put dirt on it, but that was no good because the dirt couldn't get down to the places where the fire was smoldering. A farmer stopped, said he'd get us some water, and drove away. We kept moving the dirt, trying to hold down the flames until he could get back. He came back and soaked the thing out good and final. The truck engine was ruined. We ended up going over Alpowa in the wee small hours in the car, pulling a U-Haul trailer full of books.

That was the time we were going to do 5 fairs on the coast in the same weekend, so it was an extra heavy load of books. Darlene and her 5 kids in her car came along with me and mine and some extra young people to do the selling. Once we got to Seattle, I had to lead Darlene to the fair site in Tacoma where she was going to sell books. We happened to get on the freeway at rush hour. I had already been introduced to freeways and had learned how different they were from our 2-lane country roads at home, and I'd forgotten what a shock they could be. I found out later that Darlene drove down that freeway behind me crying all the way. But she hung in there behind me, and we got there okay.

From May 15 until December, I was home only 1 weekend. That was in August, when I was just too sick and exhausted to go out. That week Mike and I talked it over, and we decided to submit to the necessities. I had been leaving home just in time to get to the fair, generally on the late side because I had so much I wanted to do at home: time with Mike, working in the garden, all the canning and freezing, catching up with my milk cow. Mike tried to keep the cow going while I was gone, but she and Mike just couldn't get along. Then a pile of mail was always waiting for me, and there were people to call and decisions to make and, of course, I always had all 5 children with me whether I was at home or on the road. So I generally didn't get any sleep the night going to the fair, because I'd leave late and drive all night. And I generally didn't get any sleep the night coming home, because I was always so anxious to be with Mike again that I'd just drive straight home without sleeping.

But after I got sick, we talked it over and decided I wouldn't try to come home every week, as I had been doing. Instead I would go out for a few weeks at a time—or more. I did that, and my cow went dry, and the stock cows got into the garden about 3 different times and ate everything to the ground (everything that they didn't trample, that is). We had to get rid of some animals because no one could stay home with them, and some of my young fruit trees died for lack of water.

Sometimes I got home and felt like bawling because it all looked yellow with dryness, deserted, and rundown, as if nobody lived there. Here I was out telling everybody about the great country life and raising your own food, and there wasn't anything in my own cellar but the green beans, turnips, and peas I'd put up during the first part of the summer. But then I'd think about how people had come up to me and told me about the first garden they'd ever had, or their new home in the country and what a joy it was to them, and how my book had helped them. Then I'd feel so good, and I'd tell myself I'd have a milk cow and a garden again for sure the next year.

First trip to California. We got a press agent, Julaine, and some TV and radio interviews—and a red-and-white van to sleep in when away from home.

December 31, 1974.

I publicly announced my plans to build a School of Country Living after Mike and I made the down payment on a beautiful 386-acre ranch nearby. I wrote the first schedule of classes and planned to open it in May.

January I, 1975.

The children and I left for 4'/2 months on the road, circling the entire United States, doing radio and TV and newspaper interviews, telling people about the book and the School of Country Living.

Summer 1975.

First session of the School of Country Living. Fall 1975.

Went back on the road until Christmas to sell books and recover expenses: another national tour with children in van.

January 10, 1976.

Sold rights to Bantam for $115,000 cash advance. With that money I planned to do a School of Country Living again.

Summer 1976.

Second school session. Flash flood washed away much of the school. I gave up. Fall 1976.

Went back on road (pregnant) to pay off the debts—once more the big circle all around the United States.

February 15, 1977.

Jacob Michael Emery was born.

August-December 1977.

Toured to promote the Bantam edition (the seventh). Traveled with the 6 children and, for TV demos, a nanny, a milk goat, a turkey, a goose, and some rabbits. I was becoming a popular and sometimes paid performer on TV talk shows (Johnny Carson, Mike Douglas) with my comedic country-girl routines. Actually, I didn't so much deliberately set out to be funny as that's just how it happened. I was generally late and had no time to get nervous. And I'd have my baby in my arms. (I always had my baby.)

February 1978.

Mike Douglas's TV show flew me down to Los Angeles. Here's how it happened:

My fourth nationwide tour was the longest and most successful yet. Back home from that tour, I was still busy and still responsible for the Living Room Mimeographer's production, even though Bantam was now producing a commercial edition. I was still willing to do interviews and farm-girl comedy routines. The staff of Mike Douglas's show kept calling me up. I'd done several shows for them before, but I wasn't planning to tour again for a while. So they asked me to fly to Los Angeles and perform especially for them again. I agreed. After all, it's ever onward and upward, right? And they would pay me $250 a minute and foot the bill for my plane fare, hotel room, and a chauffeur and limousine while I was in town.

I certainly was climbing the ladder of success. It was flattering to realize I was good at something—TV comedy. That I could stand before all those cameras and be relaxed, interesting, and funny—even when I wasn't selling the Recipe Book. Fame, fortune, success . . . and back home we always needed more money. My husband had long since quit his town job. The girls at the Mimeographer ... the kids ... all expecting me to make money . . . more money. Like a monkey on my back ... all those expectations and needs. Getting money was becoming the big thing in my life. Couldn't be poor.

The Mike Douglas staff was adamant about one thing: I couldn't bring my children, not even my baby. That hurt. I'd never left my children behind before. I didn't want to be separated from my baby, not even for 36 hours. But they wouldn't accommodate me on that point. "That's how it's done," I was told. I figured I'd better bend to fit them: $250 a minute. So I agreed. I left and flew in a jet to Los Angeles.

There were 2 big reasons why I had previously driven around the United States, again and again, in a van—above and beyond the fact that I wanted to get my books to people in towns of all sizes. First, I couldn't bear the idea of being separated from my children and needed a way to bring them along. And second, I am the ultimate white-knuckled flyer. But here I was, without even my baby, umpty-thousand feet above terra firma in a vibrating jumbo jet. I pulled a magazine out of my handbag. It had a feature article about me, written by a local journalist, a woman who'd followed the Recipe Book saga from the very beginning. I read it, and it's a wonder I didn't punch a hole in the aluminum floor of the airplane and fall through to Earth—all of a sudden I felt so heavy. The gist of her message was that Carla had gone Hollywood, turned hypocrite, apostatized her own dream of country peace and quiet. There was more truth to her angle than I was comfortable with. Lord, what a gift the press can give us, to see ourselves as others see us.

The plane landed. My chauffeur met me at the gate, and drove me in a long black car to an elegant hotel with a doorman. This uniformed character stood outside under a long, narrow, sideless awning that seemed determinedly pretentious. 1 was conveyed to my suite and left alone. Not just a room—a suite! Room after empty, elegant, Hollywood-gaudy room. In the bedroom was an enormous, triple-sized bed with a carved and gilded headboard. 1 could have fitted all the kids into it with me. There was a well-appointed kitchen; does a "star" bring her own chef? And a spacious, luxurious, outer sitting room. For the throngs of reporters? None present. For the throngs of fans? Mine wouldn't look for me in such a place. I was alone. It was deadly, depressingly lonely. I wasn't used to ever being alone. I didn't feel right. I wanted my baby.

Time to do my show. Chauffeur and limo again ... excitement . . . being fussed over by the show's staff. The make-up room to make me beautiful. The Green Room where I'd await my turn in the spotlight. I was brought out to wait just offstage early enough to overhear the last few minutes of the episode preceding mine. Mike Douglas was talking with 2 major female stars in the movie-theatrical sky. He asked one, "If you could live your life all over again and have it be any way you wanted, what would you do differently?"

He asked the other, "If you could live your life all over again, what would you do differently?"

She answered, "I wouldn't have any children."

Her words chilled me to the soul. Like everyone else, 1 knew that actress through media reports. She had 5 children. 1 wondered if they were at home watching her performance on this live TV show, the way mine sometimes had. Or perhaps her children were bored with Mom as a celebrity and no longer bothered watching, as had later happened with mine. How might it affect them if they heard, or heard of, her words? What a chance she was taking.

Oh, I understood well enough. It was all the performance game. The conversation probably was sketched out ahead of time with the show's staff. Or the staff may have trusted those 2 professional women to do as required to put on an exciting show. Those words were the smashing finale, something shocking to get people's attention and keep them from switching channels. Attention equals success, fame, money. And that's show business, right?

But the chill in me wouldn't be explained away. It was my turn to go on, and I had to suddenly be upbeat and witty and whatever else it was that I can be that people can love and that was worth $250 a minute to the Mike Douglas staff. I can't remember what I did or what I said. I do remember that I was fighting a feeling that I had just seen the devil under the tinsel, the gaping maw of corruption and moral danger. 1 felt that, above all, I had to save my children from thinking that this was what I wanted, believed in, stood for, and wanted them to believe in and become.

Then it was time for the limo back to the celeb hotel and a sleepless night in that cavernous bed; next came white-knuckled flying back to Idaho. When I got home I told Mike it was all over for me, that what I wanted more than anything else in the world was to be a good mother and a good wife and to practice what I preached. I pulled the plug on the whole career thing and let it run down the drain. I folded the Living Room Mimeographer and let Bantam make all the books. Eventually sales slowed to a miniscule trickle because I did no more book-selling interviews or tours. Mike Douglas's staff soon quit calling after I steadfastly refused to come back. I heard from a Hollywood screenwriter interested in turning my book-writing and selling adventures into a movie. I said no.

Instead, Mike and I agreed to work on an exciting new personal project together: a seventh baby. April 18, 1979.

Esther Marie Emery was born.

September 1985.

Mike left. Five days later, I began writing again—a diary this time. Dec. 2, 1985.

1 was divorced with custody of the children.

January 1986.

1 began work on an eighth edition of this book and continued working on the diary. January 27, 1988.

Last night I had to do some heavy deciding about the new edition of this old book that has been almost like a combination of life's work and diary to me over the years. In 3 weeks Mike is having a beautiful church wedding with a couple hundred invited guests. It's my job to make sure our 7 children are there, looking appropriately well-dressed and in suitably positive moods for a festive occasion.

The old-timers I've so revered got married, had big families, and stayed together until death did them part, maybe whether they were happy or not. I was born into a different era. I'm certainly not the only woman—or man—this ever happened to. Each of us then has to find our own way of adapting to the transition, of making a positive restructuring of our lives by discovering a new vision to live for and strive toward. Because you gotta have a dream.

What do I do about new editions of this book? After our divorce, the first time I was editing the book and came to a passage in which I spoke of my love for Mike, I deleted it. And then another such. But the next day I realized I had to put them back and not do that any more. My marriage to Mike is history and, in more than one sense, this book is history. You don't change history. That's dishonest. What I am free to change, or try to change, is the future. When Mike asked for his freedom, by default I also received the gift of mine.

What do I do about the future—of this book and of my life? Well, I keep on living for the positive, convinced that it is always better to heal than to wound, to love than to hate, to make peace than to make war. And yet I am now perhaps more aware of subtle and necessary distinctions in the practice of those ideals. I have a clean conscience about my marriage: over those many years, I gave it the best I could. I honestly put my husband and children first.

My younger children want me to go out and find another man, convinced that normalcy can be restored simply by creating another married-family unit. But life has stages, and I feel finished with that time for loving a man and bearing and rearing his children. I can't have children any more. I can't be young again. I can't go back to the beginning of a fullscale life's love and companionship the way you can go back to the starting point in a child's board game and play the course again. I'm 49.1 can't be 26 again. For someone else it may be feel right—it may be right—to love once more, to serve again in the very real bonds of matrimony. But that's not for me.

Now that I no longer have the responsibilities of a wife,

edition of the book. I agreed. From then until now I've been going to their office every Wednesday morning at 9:30am to turn in another chunk of revised or new text. I'm working with Lane Morgan, a fine author in her own right, who looks over the manuscript for problems; Anne Depue, editor-in-chief, who organizes the process; and Pam Milberg, intern, who helps sort material and keep the order of it sensible. Coming up, yet to be met, are a noble copy editor and a talented artist. I've never before produced the book with so much skillful help, and I think you're going to be impressed by the miracles that team effort can achieve! This new edition is definitely becoming the book of my dreams, the one I was trying to write from the very first day—after all these years.

and my mothering gets lighter all the time as my children grow older, I'm going to write! I want to write more books, print more books, sell more books, to travel and do fairs and say "Hello" to America again across my book-laden selling table. It's going to be a marvelous adventure. I'll love and be loved by so many unique, wonderful people—male and female, young and old—as I share my writing with them. It's a completely different thing from loving and marrying one man—I'm going to love and be loved by masses of people: these readers whom I want to serve. I'll give myself to my readers with the same fire, loyalty, and dedication with which I once gave myself to a single person—Mike. Yes, now I want to belong to you, as I once thought of myself as belonging to him.

With this transition I'm going to be freer to think than I was before. I want to daringly reconsider both the given and the forbidden, to live a challenging life of the mind, searching for both open and obscure facts, for I'm a lover of data. The coming years may well be the best, happiest ones of all my life. I'm truly looking forward to them.

July 1988.

Bantam lets the Recipe Book go out of print. All rights return to me. The book is now "out of print." But people still write and want copies. January 1989.

I begin selling a copier-produced eighth edition by mail. October 1989.

Three different universities have asked to be designated as the repository for my papers, manuscripts, etc. I choose the University of Idaho. I take them all my old newspaper-clipping and photo scrapbooks, copies of the old editions, etc. We create a separate, closed depository, its contents to be made public only with my consent or upon my death. I begin doing research for another book, related to the diary materials.

August 1992.

Chad Haight of Sasquatch Books, a Seattle publisher, wrote and asked me for permission to publish a new commercial

Various Editions Described

If you're looking at an older copy of this book and wonder which edition it is, here are some hints:

First Edition. By subscription only, arriving in 4 consecutive shipments, mimeographed on Fibertint; 875 copies finished about March 1, 1974.

Second Edition. Mimeographed on Carlton and Mustang paper with an ivory Plastisheen cover; 185 copies finished April 10, 1974.

Third Edition. Contents expanded; 500 mimeo copies finished April 10, 1974.

Fourth Edition. Colored photos added; 1,000 mimeo copies finished May 24, 1974.

Fifth Edition. Index added; 13,000 mimeo copies started May 26, 1974.

Sixth Edition. Black-and-white photos added; 34,000 mimeo copies started January 16, 1975.

Sixth-Seventh Edition. Half new paging and half old paging; rewrites added. Index dropped due to confused paging; 4,000 mimeo copies started November 22, 1976.

Seventh Edition. All chapters fully revised and also now illustrated by Cindy Davis; 25,000 (?) mimeo copies started March 12, 1977.

The first 7 editions (before the Bantam edition) were 3-hole-punched and usually were bound with a bent length of plastic-coated copper wire in pretty colors or were Velobound (with a soft or hard cover).

Bantam Printing of Seventh Edition. A different set of drawings by Cindy because a better printing method allowed more detail; same contents. Bantam first printed on alternating sections of yellow and green; in later press runs, all pages were green. A total of 200,000 printed in 6 different runs—November 1977, December 1977, September 1978, September 1979, April 1980, and March 1981. Soft-cover only.

Eighth Edition. Chapters called "Poultry," "Meats," "Definitions and Measures," "Home Industries," "Vegetables," "Sweets," and "Oddments" were revised. Starting March 1990, about 3,000 copies were made by copy machine. Gradually upgraded through various printings; another 1,000 done by offset. Again 3-hole-punched, bound with 2-inch metal binder rings.

Proto-Ninth Edition. All 12 chapters thoroughly revised, updated, and expanded. Chapters called "Sours" and "Home Industries" integrated with other chapters. Chapters called "Introduction to Plants" and "Bee, Rabbit, Sheep, and Pig" added. "Sweets" chapter renamed "Tree, Vine, Bush, and Bramble," "Meats" now called "Introduction to Animals." First time book ever printed on white paper. Bound like eighth edition.

Ninth Edition. The one you're reading. Title and much of "Definitions and Measures" chapter dropped to make room for new information. Indexed and fully illustrated; el supremo version so far. And massaged by Sasquatch's editors to make my writing follow (most of) the rules that in the past I've been famous (infamous?) for spurning. No more world records for typos. Oh, well.

Updated Ninth Edition. More than 1,500 mail-order sources, checked and updated, with the addition of websites and e-mail addresses.

World Records This Book May Have Set

1. More typographical errors, run-on sentences, general horrors of composition, handwritten inserts, and inky fingerprints in the first edition and others than any other book on record. (I wrote the Guinness Book of World Records people and they said the number of typos did represent a world record, "but you have to count them." Never had time.)

2. Weirdest page numbers . . . Where else have you seen "Vi" pages? Or "26c"? That's because with each edition,

I kept adding more material and didn't want to mess up the existing page numbering.

3. First author in history to have had 3 babies in the same 4V2 years during which she gave intellectual birth to a 5-lb. book.

4. Biggest mimeographed book in general circulation: 936 pages at its largest. Then I discovered elite type! Then I discovered pica condensed. (The book stayed at 900-some pages; I just kept squeezing in more words.)

5. Most self-published copies sold. Even if it's not a record, it's a lot. And most copies of a mimeographed book sold: 88,000 (I'm sure that's a record). (That figure doesn't include the sales of the Bantam and Sasquatch editions.)

6. Most words (now over a million) by 1 person in 1 book.

7. Longest time spent writing 1 book (32 years).

Continue reading here: Your Achievement Checklist

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