Wednesday, December 11, 2024
Childhood Christmas Memories
Monday, February 19, 2024
Going Backwards
Tuesday, March 14, 2023
Making Biscuits
Monday, March 13, 2023
Latch Key Kids
Monday, February 13, 2023
Can't Do This Anymore
Monday, September 12, 2022
The Day After 9/11
Monday, August 08, 2022
Olivia Newton-John (1948 - 2022)
Word came this afternoon that singer Olivia Newton-John passed away at the age of 73.
I have been an Olivia Newton-John fan for a long time. I listened to her songs like Please, Mister, Please, saw her in Grease, and I was probably one of the 15 people who saw the movie Xanadu. I was only 17 when I saw that last movie but even I knew it was a flop. I might like it better if I revisited it, but I don't know that I've ever seen the movie listed on a cable movie channel.
I'll have to look for it now and see if somebody shows it.
It was the song Hopelessly Devoted to You from Grease that I loved the most. She sang it with so much angst and feeling that I don't know how anyone could not stop and listen to that song when it comes on the radio (which of course is seldom these days, though we may hear it more for a while).
Grease was also the first movie I saw without my parents. My brother and I went saw it together; I was 13, he was 10. I don't know how much my brother liked the movie, but I loved it, even if I didn't get the risqué lyrics in some of the songs at the time.
Olivia was, in spite of the cigarette and leather clothes at the end of Grease, the girl next door. If Olivia could do it, anyone could do it. She was spunky, she came across as fun, and I enjoyed watching her perform.
There aren't many people in this world that I truly admire, but Olivia Newton-John was one of them.
Her struggle with breast cancer was legendary; I remember feeling saddened when I learned she had it, and happy when I realized it hadn't killed her. She never regained the fame she'd had after the song Physical, but that didn't matter.
She'll always be Sandy Dee.
Monday, February 28, 2022
Playing Pool
Friday, December 31, 2021
Going Back to Hippie Me
Wednesday, December 01, 2021
Happy December!
Monday, October 11, 2021
I Tried to Teach
Friday, August 13, 2021
I Want To Ride My Bicycle
Friday, January 01, 2021
Happy New Year!
Welcome 2021! At long last, 2020 is over.
Unfortunately, as years tend to do, this one so far looks like last year. It's raining, it's cold, and there is still a bad virus out in the world.
But now we move on. Beginning years of decades seem to not be the best ones. Maybe soon this will be the Roaring '20s of the 2000s. I hope so.
There are many rituals about the first of the year. The ones I am aware of have to do with what you eat and opening doors. I have never subscribed to any of them, so while I tried black-eyed peas one year, they were not on the menu today.
I did get up and open a door and shoo out the old year and then waved in the new. I didn't think it could hurt anything and fresh air is always nice.
Another superstition, maybe it's a local one, I don't know, is that good luck comes depending upon who enters the house first as a visitor - a man brings good luck, a woman brings bad luck. (Sexist much?)
This superstition has haunted me a long time. When I was seven, we went to my grandmother's house on New Year's Day. I was so excited to see my grandmother that I bounded into the house.
My grandmother immediately burst into tears. "She came in first. We'll have bad luck all year long," she wailed.
My grandfather, who had watched my father enter second, suggested that only held true for adult visitors and children didn't count, so my father was bringing good luck.
My grandmother was having none of it. I had ruined the entire year. I still remember her clutching at her chest and the tears in her eyes.
I was walking bad luck.
As one might imagine, this had quite an impact upon me at that particular age. I spent the entire year ducking anytime something bad happened, sure I would be blamed. My young uncles would tease me if something happened - a glass broke, I remember, - and remind me it was all my fault.
I was bad luck.
This kind of thing can dampen the spirits of even the most resilient child. I, however, have always been prone to melancholy and moodiness.
That year I was about as melancholy and moody as a little girl of seven could be. I had moved to a new school that year. I told my classmates to stay away from me - I was bad luck. I shied away from making friends.
I told my teacher I was bad luck. After about the third time of hearing this, Mrs. Wright sat me down and told me there was no such thing as good or bad luck. She asked me where I'd gotten the notion that I was bad luck.
"My grandmother said I was bad luck because I'd walked in the door first on New Year's," I explained.
I remember seeing Mrs. Wright inhale deeply and look off in the distance. Then she looked back at me.
"Now see here. There is no such thing as bad luck or good luck. That's all superstitious nonsense and you should not believe any of it," she said.
"But my grandmother dropped a glass," I said. "She said it was my fault."
"Everybody breaks things. In life, things happen. We have to accept that. But they do not happen because someone walked into a room. Sometimes things simply happen, and all we can do is accept them," she said.
This advice lightened my heart, but only a little. (To this day, I do not leave my house on New Year's Day. Nor do I go into anyone's house first, if I can help it.)
However, on this New Year's Day, I think back on Mrs. Wright's advice and realize that she was right. I also realize that this lesson - that sometimes things simply happen and we must accept that - is one lost on the majority of the population right now.
The virus happened. The election happened. People have car wrecks, lose their jobs, lose their families, and sometimes - maybe most of the time - it's through not fault of their own. Nor is it bad luck. Sometimes it is the result of a choice made a decade ago, one that a person may not remember ever having made.
Sometimes things happen.
Occasionally, we break a glass.
Wednesday, November 25, 2020
My Music Teacher
I learned that my elementary school music teacher passed away recently. Her name was Mrs. Tingler, and she taught music from the time I was at Breckinridge Elementary School until I left there in sixth grade.
She did not instill my love of music in me - that honor belongs to my father, who has always sang and played the guitar. But she did impress me with the variety of music available, and opened my eyes to many different types of instruments.
She would bring in drums, bongos, triangles, recorders, tambourines, and other such instruments and hand them out to students to play.
Some of my favorite songs we sang were Senor Don Gato, a song about a cat, and Goodbye, Old Paint, a song about an old pony. Sometimes I call my husband "Old Paint," and he always looks at me funny when I do that.
Once Mrs. Tingler took me and another student to other elementary schools to sing. I also played the flute during the songs. The only song I recall that we sang was Morning Has Broken, but I know there were others. It was a big deal to be pulled from class to go around to other schools, riding in Mrs. Tingler's car from place to place.
A while back, I connected with Mrs. Tingler on Facebook and was able to thank her for her influence in my life. I am glad I was able to do that.
I don't know if students still have music at the elementary school level, what with the focus on STEM learning and teaching to tests. But hearing the sounds of young folks playing instruments and lifting their voices in song has to be one of the greatest delights of life.
I hope every young student has a Mrs. Tingler in his or her life at some point.
Wednesday, July 22, 2020
I Miss School
Wednesday, April 08, 2020
The Orange Lamp
Hey, that's a message that I can get into. It's like stepping into her secret room and learning a lot about her. How very kind of her to do this for her fans during these difficult days.
Her concerts are taped in what looks like a little shrine room, where she has a chair, her Grammy statue, things she's been given or whatever that has to do with her career.
Beside the chair, is a lamp. Its shade is orange and fringed.
From the first concert, I have stared at this lamp when I wasn't watching Melissa play on the guitar. I swear my mother bought a lamp just like this one when we went to California in 1976.
We were on a family adventure, complete with extended family that included my grandmother and two young uncles plus the four of us, taking a cross-country tour to California. We were in a big van of some kind; my mother said it drove like a bus.
Anyway, in San Jose, I think it was, there was a huge flea market. Stuff everywhere. My mother decided she had to have this lamp.
We had to sit with the lamp and nurse it all the way back to Virginia, trying desperately hard not to break it.
Having succeeded in getting it back home safely, my mother put the lamp in the formal living room.
I hadn't thought of it in years, but seeing it in Melissa's room has had me wondering what became of this lamp.
My brother told me in a text that it was destroyed in a house fire that occurred in my parents' home in 1989. I was married and out of the house by then, and my mother insisted that only she and the ServPro people could clean her stuff, so I have no real notion as to what was and wasn't destroyed when the roof of the house burned off following a lightning strike.
But I guess that is what happened to the orange lamp.
(I never did like it; orange is not my color.)
Tuesday, January 14, 2020
Pictures of My Mother
Most of them I don't recall seeing. I scanned them, printed them out, and made an album of them and gave them to my brother for Christmas so he would have them, too. I have the originals but I wanted to put some of them here so they would be in my blog. I have my blog bound into a book every three or four months.
Mom hated to have her picture taken, so I doubt she would like to have these photos where everyone can see them, but she isn't around and I want them memorialized here.
So without further ado, photos of my mom:
Mom with her China doll that my grandfather gave her. |
I am not sure, but I suspect Mom is pregnant in this picture. |
My mother, my brother, my father, and me at the Grand Canyon in 1976. |
My grandmother holding my mother when she was a baby. |
Mom around age 6 or 7. |
My grandfather holding his newborn daughter. |
My mother in her Girl Scout uniform. |
My mother and my father, taken in 1996, four years before my mother died. |
Mom around age 10. |
Mom in 1966, bringing home my brother. |
Mom's high school photo. |
As you can see, my mother had loads of freckles. She told me once that when she was young, someone told her that early morning dew could rid one of freckles. She spent a summer getting up very early, before everyone else, and going outside to rub her face in the grass in hopes of ridding herself of her freckles. Finally, my grandmother caught her and put a stop to it. As you can see, the folk remedy did not work, although the freckles became less apparent as my mother aged. She was very skilled with make-up.
Also, up until about 1993, my mother's hair was black. Then the gray started showing and she dyed it that burnt orange color you see in one photo. When I remember her, I always remember her with black hair.
Tuesday, January 08, 2019
Why Learning Matters
On this day, though, I found the front door to my babysitter's house locked. There was a note on the door - a note that did me no good.
The note was written in cursive. I had just started second grade and we hadn't learned cursive yet. I could make out a few things - by that time I could read extensively for a 7-year-old - but only print. I knew my mother's signature in cursive and that was about it.
I wandered around the back and found that door unlocked. I went in and called for my caregiver. The house echoed only my timid little voice as I first called out a name and then moved to a sobbing wail as I realized I was alone.
The phone lines were still party lines, and I had been told on multiple occasions not to touch the telephones, no matter what, not even to answer what was called "our ring." I did not dare call anyone because everything was long distance. The only number I knew was my grandmother's, anyway, and she lived 30 miles away.
My mother worked at a job near my grandmother (it was a long way off to a little child), and my father was a traveling salesman and I never knew when he would be home. It would be two hours at least before my mother came to fetch me.
Two hours is a mighty long time when you're a little girl. I made myself a jelly sandwich and tried not to make a mess - my babysitter hated messes - and sniffled myself quiet long enough to do whatever homework I had. Then I settled in to finish reading Bambi, by Felix Salten. This was the original novel, not the Disney version for kids, which tells you how progressed I was in my reading.
My mother finally turned up, followed not long after by my babysitter, who had left because she'd had an emergency with one of her own children.
Both were surprised to find me alone in the house.
I had not followed directions. I was supposed to walk up the road in the opposite direction of my home to the trailer up the hill, where an adult was waiting to take me in hand (why the adult never came for me, I do not know). I remember being yelled at, and my mother giving me a swat on the behind for not doing what I was told and for leaving crumbs on the kitchen table.
After they all finished yelling at me, I tearfully explained that I couldn't read the message. "You can read!" my mother exploded.
"Not that kind of writing," I cried.
It was then my mother saw the note and realized it was in cursive. I could not read cursive at that time, though I made it a priority after this incident. (I remember going to my second-grade teacher and begging her to teach me cursive, bursting into tears while I asked, and so without question she took me aside during the daily quiet time when the other children were napping, and taught me to read cursive writing, which wasn't taught until third grade. Bless her.)
I don't recall an apology from the babysitter or my mother, but I generally don't in most of my memories. Adults in my youth were not known for apologizing when they screwed up. Unlike Andy Taylor in the Andy Griffith Show, big people in my life were not good at recognizing the need to sit tiny little me on a knee and kiss me on the head and say, "I'm sorry." That's too bad, really, because it would have gone a long way toward making childhood more bearable. (It helps in adulthood too, if people say they are sorry, but I no longer expect apologies from anyone. I just hand out "I'm sorry" like candy, myself, knowing it is somehow my fault that I was too young to read cursive (with said incident serving as a nice metaphor of everything I cannot do or do not do right).
It wasn't long thereafter that I had a new babysitter, though I don't recall if the incidents were related or if it was because the babysitter was going to have a seventh child. Oddly, I don't know who kept me after school after that; certainly someone did for a time. After my brother started school I know where we stayed but there is a gap there for me in that I don't know where I went after school for the remainder of the second grade and none of the third grade. Maybe I just went home and stayed alone, although that doesn't sound right. I'll have to ask my brother if he remembers.
This odd memory came roaring back this morning, totally unbidden, while I was in the shower. It is neither a bad memory nor a good one; it's more a tale of how life was when I was growing up.
Perhaps a recent article I read about how certain states are bringing cursive writing back into the curriculum brought this incident to mind. Supposedly cursive has always been taught here where I live, but my 24-year-old nephew, who went through the same school system I did, only 25 years later, cannot read it. Two years ago when my brother sent him a recipe in my mother's handwriting, he couldn't understand the words because they were written in my mother's beautiful cursive.
When I go to the county courthouse, all of the old records are handwritten. Court orders, civil verdicts, birth and death certificates - all written in longhand, all illegible to thousands of people who cannot read cursive and apparently have no desire to do so.
Many primary sources that pre-date the 1900s are handwritten. The original U.S. Constitution and the Declaration of Independence are written in the cursive of the time. Can you read them?
My cursive handwriting is awful; I turned to print a long time ago. I still remember how to write it, though.
And I certainly now know how to read it.