We buy watermelon frequently during the summer, and think nothing of it. After all, we have a nice variety to choose from - seedless, little ones, big ones, pre-cut ones.
But they don't taste quite like I remember those watermelons from my childhood.
Once upon a time, having watermelon was a big deal. It was a wait-for-it big deal.
Daddy would bring home a watermelon and slip it down into the spring house in the water, leaving it to cool. He would have bought it off the back of some truck some place. I don't think many of them came from a grocery store, anyway.
We knew that watermelon was down there. We knew that in a day or so we'd have watermelon to eat, and seeds to spit at one another. My brother and I would talk about it, thinking about that watermelon as it grew colder by the minute.
Maybe there'd be company, too. Having watermelon often meant we were having a picnic or a meal of some kind. Maybe Grandma and Grandpa and my uncles would be visiting.
Whatever was going on, there was anticipation. Anticipation for what was to come.
Watermelon then tasted so scrumptiously sweet you'd almost think it was candy. And it came with seeds that you could send flying between the hole where you'd lost your front tooth a few weeks before.
What could be better?
After we ate the watermelon, hot dogs and whatever else there was to go with whatever we were celebrating - surely we were celebrating something, and not simply eating watermelon - we'd take the rinds down to the creek and float them.
The watermelon turned into a fleet of ships, crashing into each other until we tired of that play. Then we sent them sailing on down Rocky Branch to the sea, or so we imagined. Sometimes we'd follow the rinds as far as we could, watching them until they floated out of sight.
Today? Today watermelon is simply something else to eat, a little treat after dinner, maybe. They are too easy to obtain, too tasteless to be remarkable.
Does anticipation disappear with age? Or did it disappear with availability and change, as watermelons became seedless, tasteless, and part of a healthy diet?
I don't know. But I do remember those days when watermelons grinned at you when you split them open, those seeds looking like black teeth. Watermelons don't do that anymore.
I remember the taste, too, and that anticipation. I remember cheering when Daddy brought the melon up from the springhouse, because it would be good and cold. Delicious.
Oh, for those days.
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Friday, August 31, 2018
Monday, July 02, 2018
That Time I Had a Cat
I do not have indoor pets. When I was young we had indoor dogs sometimes (mostly poodles), and I stayed sick and we never equated it with the dog, but it was the dog.
We never had cats, though. My father did not like cats.
I am not especially fond of them, mostly because I haven't been around them and because they make me sneeze. They also seem to know I don't want them near me - if I enter a house with a cat it makes a beeline for me, wanting to purr all over me and get hair on my pants.
I don't dislike cats, really, but I don't pick them up and pet them, either.
But for a little while, I had a cat. Or the cat had me.
We had been married around three months and were living in a cold four-room house when the little kitty showed up at our doorstep. My husband said, "Don't feed it," and of course I did. How could I not? I don't recall what I named her, but she was white with black on her.
My memories of her are few. Once, she helped my husband kill a snake he was trying to pull out from beneath the house we were renting. She bit the snake in the back. The snake immediately relaxed so my husband was able to pull the snake on out of its hole.
The other memory of her is that she had kittens. This surprised me because I didn't think she was old enough to have kittens, but there they were all the same. Unfortunately, she had them in the cellar way up under the house where I couldn't reach them. I heard them, though, the morning they were born, just before I left for work.
I assumed all would be well, but apparently this little mother had no milk, or else was too young to know how to nurse them. She tried to feed them by killing a bird and dragging it to the little mewling babies (at least, I know they were mewling there for a time because I heard them), but of course they couldn't eat a bird. Over the course of a day, the babies were born and they died and I was at work and didn't figure it all out until I came home and went to check on them.
I cried when I saw the dead bird and the little dead kittens.
My husband, of course, was at the fire station for the evening, so I called my brother and asked him to come by and help me with the dead animals under my house.
I am not sure what happened to the cat. We moved and we took the cat with us, but she ran off, never to be seen again.
And that's my only experience with cats.
We never had cats, though. My father did not like cats.
I am not especially fond of them, mostly because I haven't been around them and because they make me sneeze. They also seem to know I don't want them near me - if I enter a house with a cat it makes a beeline for me, wanting to purr all over me and get hair on my pants.
I don't dislike cats, really, but I don't pick them up and pet them, either.
But for a little while, I had a cat. Or the cat had me.
We had been married around three months and were living in a cold four-room house when the little kitty showed up at our doorstep. My husband said, "Don't feed it," and of course I did. How could I not? I don't recall what I named her, but she was white with black on her.
My memories of her are few. Once, she helped my husband kill a snake he was trying to pull out from beneath the house we were renting. She bit the snake in the back. The snake immediately relaxed so my husband was able to pull the snake on out of its hole.
The other memory of her is that she had kittens. This surprised me because I didn't think she was old enough to have kittens, but there they were all the same. Unfortunately, she had them in the cellar way up under the house where I couldn't reach them. I heard them, though, the morning they were born, just before I left for work.
I assumed all would be well, but apparently this little mother had no milk, or else was too young to know how to nurse them. She tried to feed them by killing a bird and dragging it to the little mewling babies (at least, I know they were mewling there for a time because I heard them), but of course they couldn't eat a bird. Over the course of a day, the babies were born and they died and I was at work and didn't figure it all out until I came home and went to check on them.
I cried when I saw the dead bird and the little dead kittens.
My husband, of course, was at the fire station for the evening, so I called my brother and asked him to come by and help me with the dead animals under my house.
I am not sure what happened to the cat. We moved and we took the cat with us, but she ran off, never to be seen again.
And that's my only experience with cats.
Monday, April 23, 2018
The Ernest Pig Robertson Fishing Rodeo
One of the things my father did with my brother and me when we were children was to take us fishing.
Specifically, he would take us to the Ernest "Pig" Robertson Fishing Rodeo in Salem. The event is now in its 67th year.
I don't remember my mother being at these things, but I am sure she was there somewhere. Maybe she sat over in the grass preparing a picnic. All of the excitement centered around several hundred youngsters sticking fishing poles with bobbers on them into the water, hoping to catch a trout. I think the ponds were stocked the day before the event.
One year I won a prize of a bag of a potato chips because I caught a catfish.
My brother won a prize for catching a large trout one year. Somewhere I have seen a news clipping with his picture.
I learned to bait my hook and I learned to fish at this event, for the most part. I remember it as being very crowded. I have a very vivid memory of my father leaning over my brother to help him and saying, very loudly, that my brother's line was caught on some asshole's hook, and it turned out to belong to the child beside him. The kid's father glared at my dad, who said, "Sorry buddy," and turned his attention back to us. I don't know why I remember that.
As the eldest child I was expected to pretty much take care of myself while my father helped my brother fish. That was okay with me. I remember catching fish, so I must have figured it out.
_____________
Linking up with the April challenge from Kwizgiver. April 23 done!
Specifically, he would take us to the Ernest "Pig" Robertson Fishing Rodeo in Salem. The event is now in its 67th year.
I don't remember my mother being at these things, but I am sure she was there somewhere. Maybe she sat over in the grass preparing a picnic. All of the excitement centered around several hundred youngsters sticking fishing poles with bobbers on them into the water, hoping to catch a trout. I think the ponds were stocked the day before the event.
One year I won a prize of a bag of a potato chips because I caught a catfish.
My brother won a prize for catching a large trout one year. Somewhere I have seen a news clipping with his picture.
I learned to bait my hook and I learned to fish at this event, for the most part. I remember it as being very crowded. I have a very vivid memory of my father leaning over my brother to help him and saying, very loudly, that my brother's line was caught on some asshole's hook, and it turned out to belong to the child beside him. The kid's father glared at my dad, who said, "Sorry buddy," and turned his attention back to us. I don't know why I remember that.
As the eldest child I was expected to pretty much take care of myself while my father helped my brother fish. That was okay with me. I remember catching fish, so I must have figured it out.
_____________
Linking up with the April challenge from Kwizgiver. April 23 done!
Tuesday, April 03, 2018
First Love Memory
I don't recall having a "first love" nor do I recall my first kiss. I remember my first kiss with my husband but by then I was 18 and had already been kissed. One might call him my true love and thus I was then the recipient of my first true-love kiss.
Anyway, the question of the day is best first kiss or first love memory. Since I don't have one, I will just go with my oldest memory that has to do with liking boys.
I was in the second grade in Mrs. Wright's class. Jerry, whose last name eludes me, sent me a note. Back then we didn't text or anything, so we passed notes along. I don't remember exactly what the note said, maybe something along the lines of "I like you do you like me? Check Yes or No." We were seven years old. What else would it have said?
In any event, my response to his note was intercepted by Mrs. Wright, who proceeded to take it to the front of the class and read it aloud, while I sunk down in my seat, put my hands over my face, and sobbed my humiliation into my palms.
She then pinned the note to the blackboard and made every single student, including me and my "boyfriend," parade up in a row to look over said note and read it aloud.
And that is what I remember about "first love."
_________
This is the April challenge from Kwizgiver. I'll going to give it a go. Because, you know, I don't have enough to do. April 3 done!
Anyway, the question of the day is best first kiss or first love memory. Since I don't have one, I will just go with my oldest memory that has to do with liking boys.
I was in the second grade in Mrs. Wright's class. Jerry, whose last name eludes me, sent me a note. Back then we didn't text or anything, so we passed notes along. I don't remember exactly what the note said, maybe something along the lines of "I like you do you like me? Check Yes or No." We were seven years old. What else would it have said?
In any event, my response to his note was intercepted by Mrs. Wright, who proceeded to take it to the front of the class and read it aloud, while I sunk down in my seat, put my hands over my face, and sobbed my humiliation into my palms.
She then pinned the note to the blackboard and made every single student, including me and my "boyfriend," parade up in a row to look over said note and read it aloud.
And that is what I remember about "first love."
_________
This is the April challenge from Kwizgiver. I'll going to give it a go. Because, you know, I don't have enough to do. April 3 done!
Monday, April 02, 2018
An Early Memory
I don't know if it is my earliest memory, but it is one of my earlier memories.
The sandbox was located at our house on Upland Drive and I lived there until I was 5, so this happened before I left there.
What happened was this: I was playing with a neighbor boy from down the street - Brucie Lucado - and in the course of being kids, sand went into my eyes.
Gosh, it burned.
My goodness, it hurt.
I remember screaming bloody murder and running around the sandbox half-blind. "Help me! Help me!" I yelled. My mother came out to see what was wrong and tried to catch me, but I was racing around like a wild thing and it took her a while. "Call Grandma!" I cried. "Call the fire department!"
Neither Grandma nor the fire department came to my rescue. Instead, my mother took me inside and washed my eyes out with water and then some Visine drops. Or at least, I presume that is what happened. I really don't remember much beyond "Call Grandma" and "Call the fire department," screeches that amuse me as an adult but which, I am sure, were perfectly serious at the time.
Another early memory from the same time period involves being outside and being dared - again by Brucie - to eat a wild onion growing in the yard.
What a nasty, foul taste that was.
Boy, did it burn my tongue.
Do I eat onions to this day? Not much. I can handle a Vidalia but that's about it.
Ah, the lessons of childhood.
_________
This is the April challenge from Kwizgiver. I'll going to give it a go. Because, you know, I don't have enough to do. April 2 done!
The sandbox was located at our house on Upland Drive and I lived there until I was 5, so this happened before I left there.
What happened was this: I was playing with a neighbor boy from down the street - Brucie Lucado - and in the course of being kids, sand went into my eyes.
Gosh, it burned.
My goodness, it hurt.
I remember screaming bloody murder and running around the sandbox half-blind. "Help me! Help me!" I yelled. My mother came out to see what was wrong and tried to catch me, but I was racing around like a wild thing and it took her a while. "Call Grandma!" I cried. "Call the fire department!"
Neither Grandma nor the fire department came to my rescue. Instead, my mother took me inside and washed my eyes out with water and then some Visine drops. Or at least, I presume that is what happened. I really don't remember much beyond "Call Grandma" and "Call the fire department," screeches that amuse me as an adult but which, I am sure, were perfectly serious at the time.
Another early memory from the same time period involves being outside and being dared - again by Brucie - to eat a wild onion growing in the yard.
What a nasty, foul taste that was.
Boy, did it burn my tongue.
Do I eat onions to this day? Not much. I can handle a Vidalia but that's about it.
Ah, the lessons of childhood.
_________
This is the April challenge from Kwizgiver. I'll going to give it a go. Because, you know, I don't have enough to do. April 2 done!
Thursday, June 22, 2017
Thursday Thirteen #505
Summer without video games/apps and computers -
1. Spittin' watermelon seeds as far as you can. Especially effective if you've lost a tooth and have a hole in the front. (I suppose there is an entire generation who doesn't realize watermelons have - or once had - seeds.) Also, pulling a watermelon out of the springhouse, where it stayed cold.
2. Playing in the creek, catching crawfish and chasing minnows.
3. Riding bicycles around the block (or up and down the dirt road) or through the little "forest" of pine trees near the Forest Service office.
4. A blue snow cone from Brooks Byrd Pharmacy.
5. Helping Grandpa mow the yard for a quarter.
6. Taking the quarter to the Orange Market for a soda, a candy bar, and a comic book. (Yes, all three for twenty-five cents.)
7. Buying those put-together balsam airplanes and throwing them around the yard. The ones with the rubber band propeller never worked and they all broke within a day, but we always bought them.
8. Attaching a string to a June bug's leg and flying it around like a trained circus animal (different world in the late 1960s - early 1970s).
9. Hunting for four-leaf clovers.
10. Making a necklace out of clover flowers, or trying to make the "longest clover flower chain in the world."
11. Catching lightning bugs and putting them in a jar to light up the room at night.
12. Helping Grandma hang the laundry on the clothesline.
13. Being told every day not to stick your hand in the handmade electric black fan that had no cover guard over the front of it. (The engine was made from a refrigerator motor, I think.)
My summers, until I was about 13, were spent at my grandmother's as my mother worked. She lived in Salem, about 30 minutes away, but was within walking distance of my mother's office.
__________
1. Spittin' watermelon seeds as far as you can. Especially effective if you've lost a tooth and have a hole in the front. (I suppose there is an entire generation who doesn't realize watermelons have - or once had - seeds.) Also, pulling a watermelon out of the springhouse, where it stayed cold. 2. Playing in the creek, catching crawfish and chasing minnows.
3. Riding bicycles around the block (or up and down the dirt road) or through the little "forest" of pine trees near the Forest Service office.
5. Helping Grandpa mow the yard for a quarter.
6. Taking the quarter to the Orange Market for a soda, a candy bar, and a comic book. (Yes, all three for twenty-five cents.)
7. Buying those put-together balsam airplanes and throwing them around the yard. The ones with the rubber band propeller never worked and they all broke within a day, but we always bought them.
8. Attaching a string to a June bug's leg and flying it around like a trained circus animal (different world in the late 1960s - early 1970s).
9. Hunting for four-leaf clovers.
10. Making a necklace out of clover flowers, or trying to make the "longest clover flower chain in the world."
11. Catching lightning bugs and putting them in a jar to light up the room at night.
12. Helping Grandma hang the laundry on the clothesline.
13. Being told every day not to stick your hand in the handmade electric black fan that had no cover guard over the front of it. (The engine was made from a refrigerator motor, I think.)
My summers, until I was about 13, were spent at my grandmother's as my mother worked. She lived in Salem, about 30 minutes away, but was within walking distance of my mother's office.
__________
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here if you want to read other Thursday Thirteens and/or play along. I've been playing for a while and this is my 505th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday.
Monday, May 01, 2017
My Dog
I grew up with dogs. I know, I know. With my allergies, how could that be? Well, I mostly stayed sick and no one realized it was the dogs, I think. Or the Christmas tree. Or any of the million other things that are on a farm that a child with bronchial issues shouldn't be near. It was a different time and such things weren't given much thought.
We had inside dogs and outside dogs. We had Dalmatians, poodles, collie mixes, and mutts. I think there was a German Shepherd in there somewhere.
After I married, I quickly found out that I was going to be alone a great deal. I worked so the 8-6 hours weren't so bad, but the nights were deadly. At the time we lived right on the Blacksburg Road and the cement trucks constantly rumbled down the two lanes of asphalt, their brakes grinding as they began descending the small incline that started near the house we rented.
About this time of year in 1984, I went to the flea market. A friend of my husband's sat with a litter of pups, mixed mutts she was giving away. Part Eskimo Spitz and part Terrier, she said, the result of an clandestine and unwanted affair between her dog and a neighbor's pet. They were about 12 weeks old. She had several left, and I picked up the solid black one.
She came home with me. I put her in a box in the basement with an alarm clock to keep her company. She was tiny then, but quickly grew, though I don't think she ever weighed more than 30 pounds. I could always pick her up.
About the time I adopted Ginger, I visited an allergist and was told the dog needed to be outside. Ginger actually preferred to be outside, I think. Once we built her a pen and a dog house, she seldom attempted to come inside even when I tried to coax her in. I hated to put her in a pen but with the traffic on Blacksburg Road we couldn't leave her to run free while we lived so close to the road.
After we built our house and moved in 1987, we had a difficult time keeping her here. We let her run loose because we are about 1/4 mile from the road. However, she would find her way back to our old house, which was on the other side of the farm. I had to fetch her many times before she finally figured out home was not there anymore.
Her biggest and wildest chase occurred in the middle of the night the second summer we were in our new home. I was alone and asleep. She woke me with her frantic barking. I climbed out of the bed and turned on the exterior lights to find a skunk on the front porch, spraying the cedar wood siding, the dog, and everything in between. The smell was atrocious and choking. It really should be used as sprays for police use. That is some strong stuff.
Anyway, I went out the back door with a handkerchief over my face to keep from gagging. No amount of calling would bring Ginger from her prey. The air was so heavy with skunk odor that you couldn't breathe. Finally, in desperation, I called my husband at the firehouse and woke him at 2 a.m. to ask him what I was supposed to do. I couldn't shoot the skunk because I'd be aiming at the house. What if I missed?
He said he would come home, but by the time he arrived I'd figured out that I needed to turn the water hose on the dog to get her away from the skunk. He pulled in the driveway in time to see the skunk race down the hill in the front yard and into the field while I grabbed a soaking wet and stinking dog.
The dog reeked for a month despite numerous baths, and for years, even with repeated washings with Dawn, Mr. Clean, tomato juice and anything else we could think of, the front porch smelled like skunk when it rained. I lost a pair of tennis shoes and clothing in that incident - they smelled too bad to save.
Still, she stayed outside. Even when the temperatures dropped below freezing I had a difficult time coaxing her into the garage. She wasn't house trained and I always put out newspapers when I brought her out of the bad weather, but she seemed to know she wasn't supposed to "go" in the house regardless. Until she aged, she managed to hold it and then race outside when I opened the door. After she turned 10 or so, she looked forlornly at me if she made a mess, even though I didn't scold. It wasn't like we'd trained her to be an inside dog, after all.
She also had a way of letting us know we had annoyed her, especially when we went on trips and left her in the care of my in-laws. She would ignore me for days upon our return, and then finally I would be forgiven. I had to give her a great deal of attention to get back into her good graces, though.
Ginger seldom stayed still, and when my vehicle came up the driveway she would dance around the yard. Even when she was 17 (yes, 17!) and near the end of her life, she stood up and wandered over to the driveway when she heard the car.
The only time she was sick was when she about 10 years old. I came home from work and she didn't greet me. I immediately began looking for her, and found her whimpering near the fence in the woods. She was alive but obviously something was wrong. I couldn't find any bites on her, and it was after 5 p.m. and I feared I wouldn't be able to get help for her. I carried her to the house and laid her on a rug, then raced to the phone (no cellphones back then) and called the vet. Fortunately he was still working and said he would wait for me to bring her in. He kept her for two days but we never did know what was wrong with her. He suspected some kind of snake bite but could not find puncture wounds. Antibiotics helped whatever it was.
After I began working from home, many times during the day I would go to the back door and talk to her. All I had to do was peck on the glass and she'd suddenly be there. I still miss that.
She died in May 2001, about seven months after I'd lost my mother. She'd been my dog for a very long time, so long that I forgot she was 119 in dog years. We must have done a fairly decent job of caring for her, since she lived so long.
We did not get another dog after she passed away. I'd had her for so long I couldn't bear to replace her. I think it took me a year to stop looking for her, dancing her doggy dance of delight in the yard when my car pulled in.
We had inside dogs and outside dogs. We had Dalmatians, poodles, collie mixes, and mutts. I think there was a German Shepherd in there somewhere.
After I married, I quickly found out that I was going to be alone a great deal. I worked so the 8-6 hours weren't so bad, but the nights were deadly. At the time we lived right on the Blacksburg Road and the cement trucks constantly rumbled down the two lanes of asphalt, their brakes grinding as they began descending the small incline that started near the house we rented.
About this time of year in 1984, I went to the flea market. A friend of my husband's sat with a litter of pups, mixed mutts she was giving away. Part Eskimo Spitz and part Terrier, she said, the result of an clandestine and unwanted affair between her dog and a neighbor's pet. They were about 12 weeks old. She had several left, and I picked up the solid black one.
She came home with me. I put her in a box in the basement with an alarm clock to keep her company. She was tiny then, but quickly grew, though I don't think she ever weighed more than 30 pounds. I could always pick her up.
About the time I adopted Ginger, I visited an allergist and was told the dog needed to be outside. Ginger actually preferred to be outside, I think. Once we built her a pen and a dog house, she seldom attempted to come inside even when I tried to coax her in. I hated to put her in a pen but with the traffic on Blacksburg Road we couldn't leave her to run free while we lived so close to the road.
After we built our house and moved in 1987, we had a difficult time keeping her here. We let her run loose because we are about 1/4 mile from the road. However, she would find her way back to our old house, which was on the other side of the farm. I had to fetch her many times before she finally figured out home was not there anymore.
 |
| Ginger (left) facing down a raccoon while the neighbor's dog watched. |
Her biggest and wildest chase occurred in the middle of the night the second summer we were in our new home. I was alone and asleep. She woke me with her frantic barking. I climbed out of the bed and turned on the exterior lights to find a skunk on the front porch, spraying the cedar wood siding, the dog, and everything in between. The smell was atrocious and choking. It really should be used as sprays for police use. That is some strong stuff.
Anyway, I went out the back door with a handkerchief over my face to keep from gagging. No amount of calling would bring Ginger from her prey. The air was so heavy with skunk odor that you couldn't breathe. Finally, in desperation, I called my husband at the firehouse and woke him at 2 a.m. to ask him what I was supposed to do. I couldn't shoot the skunk because I'd be aiming at the house. What if I missed?
He said he would come home, but by the time he arrived I'd figured out that I needed to turn the water hose on the dog to get her away from the skunk. He pulled in the driveway in time to see the skunk race down the hill in the front yard and into the field while I grabbed a soaking wet and stinking dog.
The dog reeked for a month despite numerous baths, and for years, even with repeated washings with Dawn, Mr. Clean, tomato juice and anything else we could think of, the front porch smelled like skunk when it rained. I lost a pair of tennis shoes and clothing in that incident - they smelled too bad to save.
 |
| This is her pen from when we were renting. She ran free after we built our house. |
 |
| She seemed to like snow. I think it was the Eskimo Spitz influence. |
Still, she stayed outside. Even when the temperatures dropped below freezing I had a difficult time coaxing her into the garage. She wasn't house trained and I always put out newspapers when I brought her out of the bad weather, but she seemed to know she wasn't supposed to "go" in the house regardless. Until she aged, she managed to hold it and then race outside when I opened the door. After she turned 10 or so, she looked forlornly at me if she made a mess, even though I didn't scold. It wasn't like we'd trained her to be an inside dog, after all.
She also had a way of letting us know we had annoyed her, especially when we went on trips and left her in the care of my in-laws. She would ignore me for days upon our return, and then finally I would be forgiven. I had to give her a great deal of attention to get back into her good graces, though.
Ginger seldom stayed still, and when my vehicle came up the driveway she would dance around the yard. Even when she was 17 (yes, 17!) and near the end of her life, she stood up and wandered over to the driveway when she heard the car.
 |
| She was hard to photograph. |
 |
| Her dog house behind her. We put cedar in it. |
 |
| I was glad when we didn't have to pen her anymore. |
The only time she was sick was when she about 10 years old. I came home from work and she didn't greet me. I immediately began looking for her, and found her whimpering near the fence in the woods. She was alive but obviously something was wrong. I couldn't find any bites on her, and it was after 5 p.m. and I feared I wouldn't be able to get help for her. I carried her to the house and laid her on a rug, then raced to the phone (no cellphones back then) and called the vet. Fortunately he was still working and said he would wait for me to bring her in. He kept her for two days but we never did know what was wrong with her. He suspected some kind of snake bite but could not find puncture wounds. Antibiotics helped whatever it was.
After I began working from home, many times during the day I would go to the back door and talk to her. All I had to do was peck on the glass and she'd suddenly be there. I still miss that.
She died in May 2001, about seven months after I'd lost my mother. She'd been my dog for a very long time, so long that I forgot she was 119 in dog years. We must have done a fairly decent job of caring for her, since she lived so long.
We did not get another dog after she passed away. I'd had her for so long I couldn't bear to replace her. I think it took me a year to stop looking for her, dancing her doggy dance of delight in the yard when my car pulled in.
 |
| Taking a rest during one of our walks. |
 |
| She liked the creeks, too. Looks like we might have been feeding her a bit too much in this photo! |
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
Sporting Memory
I am into sports about as much as a potato might be, so when I saw a friend asking, "What's your favorite sports memory?" on Facebook, I skipped the question and moved on.
However, I started thinking about it. I actually have two athletic memories that mean something to me.
One took place in the fourth grade. Back then (you know, the Dark Ages), the schools tested students every half year or so. Teachers made you run the 500-yard dash, climb a rope, and perform athletic feats that generally were beyond me. If I was going to get a "B" in anything, it was gym. (I always received points for trying; I am persistent that way.) I stayed sick (no one knew I had asthma back then), and running was not easy for me.
In the fourth grade, though, Donna and I were to race the 500-yard dash together. Donna was my friend and I didn't want to disappoint her. Being one of those kids who tended to have to walk at least the last quarter of the run, that was a possibility.
When Mrs. Lanning blew the whistle so we could start the run, Donna was beside me, and she set a nice steady pace. I matched it. Together we ran the 500-yard dash, the whole thing, and we did it in one minute and 58 seconds. I remember the time specifically because I was never able to repeat it and the two-minute mark eluded me ever after.
What a joy that was, to actually run the entire way and do it in an acceptable time.
My other athletic memory involves baseball. I suppose it was really softball. I think this was in the fifth grade. The class had split into two groups for a ball game - I, of course, was always one of the last picked - and I was sent to the far outfield. I'm afraid I was one of those girls who would cover her head if the ball came in her direction and turn around for fear it was going to hit me in the nose. Should that happen, then I would be Marsha Brady with a busted nose all over again.
Usually I did not have a glove, but for some reason I managed to grab a glove when I went out to the field. I recall a beautiful spring day, like the one we have today, perhaps, with the sky azure and an occasional cloud drifting by. A light breeze blew the dandelions.
The pop fly came toward me out of nowhere. I could hear the groans from my teammates as they saw where the ball was headed. Bases were loaded and I was going to drop the thing and we were going to lose.
From somewhere deep inside me, the courage sprang into my throat. I took two steps forward and the ball went "plop" right into my glove. I felt the sting in my right hand and I covered the ball with my left to be sure I didn't drop it.
The thing I remember most was the admiration of the boys on the perfect catch. I didn't shy away and I caught it beautifully; it was the third out and we won the game. I was the heroine of the afternoon, queen for the moment. I never shone again in a team sport, but for one glorious afternoon, life was good.
I ran the race and I caught the ball.
What more could a little girl want?
However, I started thinking about it. I actually have two athletic memories that mean something to me.
One took place in the fourth grade. Back then (you know, the Dark Ages), the schools tested students every half year or so. Teachers made you run the 500-yard dash, climb a rope, and perform athletic feats that generally were beyond me. If I was going to get a "B" in anything, it was gym. (I always received points for trying; I am persistent that way.) I stayed sick (no one knew I had asthma back then), and running was not easy for me.
In the fourth grade, though, Donna and I were to race the 500-yard dash together. Donna was my friend and I didn't want to disappoint her. Being one of those kids who tended to have to walk at least the last quarter of the run, that was a possibility.
When Mrs. Lanning blew the whistle so we could start the run, Donna was beside me, and she set a nice steady pace. I matched it. Together we ran the 500-yard dash, the whole thing, and we did it in one minute and 58 seconds. I remember the time specifically because I was never able to repeat it and the two-minute mark eluded me ever after.
What a joy that was, to actually run the entire way and do it in an acceptable time.
My other athletic memory involves baseball. I suppose it was really softball. I think this was in the fifth grade. The class had split into two groups for a ball game - I, of course, was always one of the last picked - and I was sent to the far outfield. I'm afraid I was one of those girls who would cover her head if the ball came in her direction and turn around for fear it was going to hit me in the nose. Should that happen, then I would be Marsha Brady with a busted nose all over again.
Usually I did not have a glove, but for some reason I managed to grab a glove when I went out to the field. I recall a beautiful spring day, like the one we have today, perhaps, with the sky azure and an occasional cloud drifting by. A light breeze blew the dandelions.
The pop fly came toward me out of nowhere. I could hear the groans from my teammates as they saw where the ball was headed. Bases were loaded and I was going to drop the thing and we were going to lose.
From somewhere deep inside me, the courage sprang into my throat. I took two steps forward and the ball went "plop" right into my glove. I felt the sting in my right hand and I covered the ball with my left to be sure I didn't drop it.
The thing I remember most was the admiration of the boys on the perfect catch. I didn't shy away and I caught it beautifully; it was the third out and we won the game. I was the heroine of the afternoon, queen for the moment. I never shone again in a team sport, but for one glorious afternoon, life was good.
I ran the race and I caught the ball.
What more could a little girl want?
Wednesday, September 07, 2016
Ten Years Ago
So what were you doing 10 years ago?
Curious, I wondered what I had been up to in September 2006.
Looking back at this blog and my journal, it appears I was a busy girl, working my way through my 40s (as I would have been 43 years old then).
My work at the newspaper was as close to full-time as a stringer's work could be - I was writing about 30 stories a month. I was covering all kinds of governmental meetings. I was frustrated because people weren't reading the paper and were uninformed about things going on.
"And then there are people who read NOTHING," I wrote. "This is a major dumbing-down of America, and we're all paying for it. We're paying for it with a "peak oil" crisis, with water issues, with overcrowding of neighborhoods, with sprawl, with loss of farmland, with pollution, with loss of timberland, with loss of life. Not knowing affects each and every one of us each and every day. We are all being killed by what we don't know."
Alas, none of this has changed. We are still struggling to find our footing with energy issues and water has become even more of a problem with the drought in California. This was before mass shootings became almost an everyday occurrence, so that is a change. Otherwise I would have listed them as something we needed to worry about and fret over, though perhaps I was referencing it in the "loss of life" line.
What else happened? I spent time in the emergency room being checked for chest pains and a possible heart attack. It wasn't a heart attack, and I determined myself that it was most likely an asthma attack, but it would be another five years before doctors would finally begin to treat me for asthma with anything other than a rescue inhaler. In the meantime, I tried to keep things under control myself by staying away from known allergens, just as I do today.
The years from 2004 to 2009 were probably among the best five years of my life, heart attack scares notwithstanding. I was writing for the local newspaper (The Fincastle Herald) and I absolutely loved the work. I did it well, and it was fun. I enjoyed the community, the people I was working for and with, and the individuals I had to deal with on a weekly if not daily basis. Even though I spent more than 10 years writing for a local paper in a neighboring county, I much preferred my work at The Herald because it was close to home and it involved me personally, because this is the county I live in. Plus I didn't have a 35 minute drive just to attend a 30 minute meeting.
By this time I had a better grip on things from my past, a good idea of what I wanted from my future (which included writing for the newspaper into my 70s, something that, I am afraid, derailed not long after I'd figured that out), and my health was, if not great, at least workable.
In 2009, though, the newspaper went bankrupt and I lost my work there (though the paper continued and continues to this day). I spent two years trying to freelance for various local publications and found that I didn't like writing for the medical magazine, nor did I like having to wait for months for my payment from other local publications.
I also went back to school and finished up my masters degree, which was the best thing I could have done. I graduated from Hollins once again in 2012, MA in hand, and decided to give teaching at the community college level a try.
That worked out ok until my gallbladder went kerplunk in June 2013, leaving me with chronic pain and exacerbating other health issues to the point where my doctor now writes me prescriptions that say, "Do not work. No stress."
Such an edict is stressful in and of itself. What are you supposed to do with your time when you can't lift or run the vacuum, and you're not a shopping queen? It has taken me some time to come up with a schedule I can deal with - and even now, all it takes is one change to throw me off and I am a long time figuring it out again.
No, I do better with the deadline of a newspaper, that weekly have-it-done-by-Monday order as opposed to this endless ocean of time that sweeps out wide and far, turning me into a dot in a vast sea of sharks.
My new goal is to work on my health - doctor's orders - and to try to make my house as wonderful as I can. I am not a decorator and I also lean toward piles of books and papers, which can make "wonderful" a little difficult, but I am giving it a go. Slowly, ever so slowly, a few things are going away from here, things I don't use, want or need.
Downsizing, as it were.
In another decade I will look back and see that this is where I was at the age of 53 - fighting a chronic health issue, seeing lots of doctors, and trying to make my house into a home because I have to spend a lot more time here now.
I hope when I am 63, I will have achieved something else wonderful, like my masters degree, too.
Who knows, maybe I will one day write that damn book.
Curious, I wondered what I had been up to in September 2006.
Looking back at this blog and my journal, it appears I was a busy girl, working my way through my 40s (as I would have been 43 years old then).
My work at the newspaper was as close to full-time as a stringer's work could be - I was writing about 30 stories a month. I was covering all kinds of governmental meetings. I was frustrated because people weren't reading the paper and were uninformed about things going on.
"And then there are people who read NOTHING," I wrote. "This is a major dumbing-down of America, and we're all paying for it. We're paying for it with a "peak oil" crisis, with water issues, with overcrowding of neighborhoods, with sprawl, with loss of farmland, with pollution, with loss of timberland, with loss of life. Not knowing affects each and every one of us each and every day. We are all being killed by what we don't know."
Alas, none of this has changed. We are still struggling to find our footing with energy issues and water has become even more of a problem with the drought in California. This was before mass shootings became almost an everyday occurrence, so that is a change. Otherwise I would have listed them as something we needed to worry about and fret over, though perhaps I was referencing it in the "loss of life" line.
What else happened? I spent time in the emergency room being checked for chest pains and a possible heart attack. It wasn't a heart attack, and I determined myself that it was most likely an asthma attack, but it would be another five years before doctors would finally begin to treat me for asthma with anything other than a rescue inhaler. In the meantime, I tried to keep things under control myself by staying away from known allergens, just as I do today.
The years from 2004 to 2009 were probably among the best five years of my life, heart attack scares notwithstanding. I was writing for the local newspaper (The Fincastle Herald) and I absolutely loved the work. I did it well, and it was fun. I enjoyed the community, the people I was working for and with, and the individuals I had to deal with on a weekly if not daily basis. Even though I spent more than 10 years writing for a local paper in a neighboring county, I much preferred my work at The Herald because it was close to home and it involved me personally, because this is the county I live in. Plus I didn't have a 35 minute drive just to attend a 30 minute meeting.
By this time I had a better grip on things from my past, a good idea of what I wanted from my future (which included writing for the newspaper into my 70s, something that, I am afraid, derailed not long after I'd figured that out), and my health was, if not great, at least workable.
In 2009, though, the newspaper went bankrupt and I lost my work there (though the paper continued and continues to this day). I spent two years trying to freelance for various local publications and found that I didn't like writing for the medical magazine, nor did I like having to wait for months for my payment from other local publications.
I also went back to school and finished up my masters degree, which was the best thing I could have done. I graduated from Hollins once again in 2012, MA in hand, and decided to give teaching at the community college level a try.
That worked out ok until my gallbladder went kerplunk in June 2013, leaving me with chronic pain and exacerbating other health issues to the point where my doctor now writes me prescriptions that say, "Do not work. No stress."
Such an edict is stressful in and of itself. What are you supposed to do with your time when you can't lift or run the vacuum, and you're not a shopping queen? It has taken me some time to come up with a schedule I can deal with - and even now, all it takes is one change to throw me off and I am a long time figuring it out again.
No, I do better with the deadline of a newspaper, that weekly have-it-done-by-Monday order as opposed to this endless ocean of time that sweeps out wide and far, turning me into a dot in a vast sea of sharks.
My new goal is to work on my health - doctor's orders - and to try to make my house as wonderful as I can. I am not a decorator and I also lean toward piles of books and papers, which can make "wonderful" a little difficult, but I am giving it a go. Slowly, ever so slowly, a few things are going away from here, things I don't use, want or need.
Downsizing, as it were.
In another decade I will look back and see that this is where I was at the age of 53 - fighting a chronic health issue, seeing lots of doctors, and trying to make my house into a home because I have to spend a lot more time here now.
I hope when I am 63, I will have achieved something else wonderful, like my masters degree, too.
Who knows, maybe I will one day write that damn book.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Seed Spittin'
A very long time ago, a hundred years now by my reckoning, aging ancient woman that I am, watermelons had seeds.
No kidding. They harbored big black huge seeds, and lots of them.
When an adult split the melon in half, the seeds were everywhere. Melons were bigger back then, too. They were long and too heavy for a kid of 12 to lift, at least not without a lot of grunting.
After the first cut, the melon would be sliced into smiles. The fruit would grin at you with huge black teeth, those seeds just waiting for you to take a bite.
I remember my father would bring one home and he'd haul it down to the springhouse to let it get cold. It was much too large for the refrigerator. And we'd think about that melon for a day or two, waiting for dad to bring it up and take the big knife to it.
Sometimes on a hot summer afternoon, usually a Sunday, I'd sit on the back porch at my grandmother's house where we'd chow down on some glistening red melon. It tasted sweet and the coldness against the heat was like an iceberg making its way through your stomach.
And the seeds? Oh, we spat them out. At each other. Sissy girls like me would wave our hands and squeal if the mood struck, but mostly I spit back. Sometimes we'd put a can in the yard and see who could spit seeds into it. Or see who could spit those seeds the farthest.
But mostly we spit them at one another. Sometimes you'd gather up a great number in your mouth and then try to send them out rapid-fire like, taking your target by surprise. This took some finesse and tongue work, but it was manageable if you did it right.
If you had a front tooth out, then you'd try to spit the seed through the gap. Sometimes that was hard, especially if the seeds were large.
Occasionally you'd end up with a watermelon with soft little white seeds. While the fruit tasted good, the seeds were a disappointment. Not much spitting went on when you ended up with one of those bad melons.
Nowadays, those bad melons - seedless watermelons, they call them - are about all one can purchase in the store. I haven't seen a regular ol' big oblong fat seeded watermelon in years. Whole generations of children have grown up without spittin' a seed at a sibling and watching it stick to his or her cheek.
They don't know what they've missed.
No kidding. They harbored big black huge seeds, and lots of them.
When an adult split the melon in half, the seeds were everywhere. Melons were bigger back then, too. They were long and too heavy for a kid of 12 to lift, at least not without a lot of grunting.
After the first cut, the melon would be sliced into smiles. The fruit would grin at you with huge black teeth, those seeds just waiting for you to take a bite.
I remember my father would bring one home and he'd haul it down to the springhouse to let it get cold. It was much too large for the refrigerator. And we'd think about that melon for a day or two, waiting for dad to bring it up and take the big knife to it.
Sometimes on a hot summer afternoon, usually a Sunday, I'd sit on the back porch at my grandmother's house where we'd chow down on some glistening red melon. It tasted sweet and the coldness against the heat was like an iceberg making its way through your stomach.
And the seeds? Oh, we spat them out. At each other. Sissy girls like me would wave our hands and squeal if the mood struck, but mostly I spit back. Sometimes we'd put a can in the yard and see who could spit seeds into it. Or see who could spit those seeds the farthest.
But mostly we spit them at one another. Sometimes you'd gather up a great number in your mouth and then try to send them out rapid-fire like, taking your target by surprise. This took some finesse and tongue work, but it was manageable if you did it right.
If you had a front tooth out, then you'd try to spit the seed through the gap. Sometimes that was hard, especially if the seeds were large.
Occasionally you'd end up with a watermelon with soft little white seeds. While the fruit tasted good, the seeds were a disappointment. Not much spitting went on when you ended up with one of those bad melons.
Nowadays, those bad melons - seedless watermelons, they call them - are about all one can purchase in the store. I haven't seen a regular ol' big oblong fat seeded watermelon in years. Whole generations of children have grown up without spittin' a seed at a sibling and watching it stick to his or her cheek.
They don't know what they've missed.
Wednesday, April 08, 2015
The Storm
One of my favorite memories of my maternal grandfather involves the weather.
A storm blew up; it was probably a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, because he would have been at work otherwise.
He and I sat on the back stoop, looking out over the trim yard and at the fence and house beyond. The wind blew my strawberry-blond hair around my face, and made his cigarette smoke race away from us like a train chugging down a lengthy track.
Grandpa did not often sit with me, or spend time with us grandchildren, really. He worked hard at his job and he made money on the side as a TV repairman. He could be rather gruff and stern. I was partially afraid of him and partially in awe of him.
But this day he sat companionably with me as the storm came. The wind brought the scent of rain. Lightning began its play in the sky. We watched in silence, each of us looking at the clouds and listening for the thunder. It was then he taught me to count the seconds between the thunder clap and the lightning. "That's how far away the lightning is," he said.
A forked blast of lightning sticks in my memory. It was an unusual twist, different enough to bring a remark from my grandfather. He took my hand, then. Big fat rain drops began to fall, and he led me inside.
A storm blew up; it was probably a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, because he would have been at work otherwise.
He and I sat on the back stoop, looking out over the trim yard and at the fence and house beyond. The wind blew my strawberry-blond hair around my face, and made his cigarette smoke race away from us like a train chugging down a lengthy track.
Grandpa did not often sit with me, or spend time with us grandchildren, really. He worked hard at his job and he made money on the side as a TV repairman. He could be rather gruff and stern. I was partially afraid of him and partially in awe of him.
But this day he sat companionably with me as the storm came. The wind brought the scent of rain. Lightning began its play in the sky. We watched in silence, each of us looking at the clouds and listening for the thunder. It was then he taught me to count the seconds between the thunder clap and the lightning. "That's how far away the lightning is," he said.
A forked blast of lightning sticks in my memory. It was an unusual twist, different enough to bring a remark from my grandfather. He took my hand, then. Big fat rain drops began to fall, and he led me inside.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
The Dolly on the Stove
When I was about four years old, I had a huge stuffed cloth doll that I carried around with me. I don't remember her name or even really what she looked like, now. I recall only that the doll's leg had stripes and the hair was yellow.
She was mine and I loved on her and played with her frequently.
What I do remember is that one day the neighbor's dog attacked my dolly and tore up her leg. Apparently the dog mistook the doll for a chew toy. My mother took the doll and sat her on the kitchen counter, saying she would fix her later. Then she left the room.
In my mind's eye I have a vision of watching in fascination as my little brother, who would have been about one and probably not long in walking, began pushing a chair over to the stove. With great effort, he managed to climb up on the chair. His goal was to retrieve the doll, which he could not reach.
Somehow he turned on the oven eye, and the doll's leg was near the oven eye . . . and I'm sure you can see where this is going.
The doll's leg flamed up, and I screamed for my mother, who ran into the kitchen and threw the doll into the sink and extinguished the blaze.
My brother was chastised for turning on the oven and told not to ever go near the thing again (maybe this is why he is now a wonderful chef, as we've always had a tendency to do the very thing we shouldn't, he and I), while I sobbed about my now-dead dolly.
I doubt the dolly was repairable after all of that, the poor dear. To be first eaten on by a dog and then set aflame does not bode well for a long life. Even if my mother did fix the doll, I doubt I ever played with her again. As far as I was concerned, that dolly was dead.
After that, as you may imagine, I did not play too much with stuffed dolls.
She was mine and I loved on her and played with her frequently.
What I do remember is that one day the neighbor's dog attacked my dolly and tore up her leg. Apparently the dog mistook the doll for a chew toy. My mother took the doll and sat her on the kitchen counter, saying she would fix her later. Then she left the room.
In my mind's eye I have a vision of watching in fascination as my little brother, who would have been about one and probably not long in walking, began pushing a chair over to the stove. With great effort, he managed to climb up on the chair. His goal was to retrieve the doll, which he could not reach.
Somehow he turned on the oven eye, and the doll's leg was near the oven eye . . . and I'm sure you can see where this is going.
The doll's leg flamed up, and I screamed for my mother, who ran into the kitchen and threw the doll into the sink and extinguished the blaze.
My brother was chastised for turning on the oven and told not to ever go near the thing again (maybe this is why he is now a wonderful chef, as we've always had a tendency to do the very thing we shouldn't, he and I), while I sobbed about my now-dead dolly.
I doubt the dolly was repairable after all of that, the poor dear. To be first eaten on by a dog and then set aflame does not bode well for a long life. Even if my mother did fix the doll, I doubt I ever played with her again. As far as I was concerned, that dolly was dead.
After that, as you may imagine, I did not play too much with stuffed dolls.
Monday, March 09, 2015
It's Not Revitalization
In the local paper today there is a story about the City of Salem's efforts to generate a more vivid downtown.
Community leaders decline to call it "revitalization" but instead call it "the downtown plan."
This made me smile. As news reporter with 30 years under my belt, I've covered more "revitalization" plans that I care to remember. None ever turn out like their initial schemes, but I don't recall that any actually made a situation worse.
I don't go to Salem much anymore. I visit downtown Salem maybe once a year. The last time I was there, I went into Ridenhour Music to see about a guitar, but they were all upstairs and I wasn't able to climb the steps to see what they had to offer.
Before I had difficulty walking, I made a stop in Salem every year at the holidays. They have a couple of nifty stores that offer unique items.
When I was child, I spent a lot of time in Salem. It was quite different, then. My grandmother, who lived along the Roanoke River, kept my brother and me every summer. We saved up our pennies and quarters, and my grandmother would walk with us to downtown Salem. I think the walk was about 1.5 miles, one way. Grandma would have been in her late 40s or early 50s, so it was a trudge for her. After we reached the age of 10 or so, we went by ourselves - even rode our bikes uptown. I suppose today that would be considered child abuse given the current climate, but we came to no harm.
We would go to Newberry's, which was a dime store, where we were filled with the wonder of model cars, paddle balls, and those glider airplanes you could put together and then throw for 10 feet or so. The paddle balls lasted until the rubber string broke, which as I recall was usually pretty quickly. I also bought a set of jacks there, coloring books and crayons, and other things that a child in 1970 would enjoy.
With our purchases in hand, we'd trudge down the street to Brooks Byrd Pharmacy, dimes in our pocket, so we could have a snow cone. I always purchased the blue one.
Sometimes on the way back to my grandmother's house, we'd stop off at Aunt Pearl's house for a Coke. Aunt Pearl was my great-great aunt, and she lived to be 106 years old. Grandma and Aunt Pearl would talk about all kinds of things while Grandma rested and we played with our new toys. Then we'd finally go back home, and our purchases kept us occupied and out of Grandma's hair for a few days.
That is the Salem I remember. I don't think any "downtown plan" can look backwards because times have changed. Retail is out, internet shopping is in. While I prefer to look at the things I purchase, feel material, handle items and make sure they aren't broken or scratched, many people don't seem to mind looking at a picture and hitting "buy now." That's the reality of the world we live in. Shopping and purchasing has changed.
I don't know what Salem, or any other place, for that matter, could do to draw folks into its community. I will be watching their plan with interest.
Community leaders decline to call it "revitalization" but instead call it "the downtown plan."
This made me smile. As news reporter with 30 years under my belt, I've covered more "revitalization" plans that I care to remember. None ever turn out like their initial schemes, but I don't recall that any actually made a situation worse.
I don't go to Salem much anymore. I visit downtown Salem maybe once a year. The last time I was there, I went into Ridenhour Music to see about a guitar, but they were all upstairs and I wasn't able to climb the steps to see what they had to offer.
Before I had difficulty walking, I made a stop in Salem every year at the holidays. They have a couple of nifty stores that offer unique items.
When I was child, I spent a lot of time in Salem. It was quite different, then. My grandmother, who lived along the Roanoke River, kept my brother and me every summer. We saved up our pennies and quarters, and my grandmother would walk with us to downtown Salem. I think the walk was about 1.5 miles, one way. Grandma would have been in her late 40s or early 50s, so it was a trudge for her. After we reached the age of 10 or so, we went by ourselves - even rode our bikes uptown. I suppose today that would be considered child abuse given the current climate, but we came to no harm.
We would go to Newberry's, which was a dime store, where we were filled with the wonder of model cars, paddle balls, and those glider airplanes you could put together and then throw for 10 feet or so. The paddle balls lasted until the rubber string broke, which as I recall was usually pretty quickly. I also bought a set of jacks there, coloring books and crayons, and other things that a child in 1970 would enjoy.
With our purchases in hand, we'd trudge down the street to Brooks Byrd Pharmacy, dimes in our pocket, so we could have a snow cone. I always purchased the blue one.
Sometimes on the way back to my grandmother's house, we'd stop off at Aunt Pearl's house for a Coke. Aunt Pearl was my great-great aunt, and she lived to be 106 years old. Grandma and Aunt Pearl would talk about all kinds of things while Grandma rested and we played with our new toys. Then we'd finally go back home, and our purchases kept us occupied and out of Grandma's hair for a few days.
That is the Salem I remember. I don't think any "downtown plan" can look backwards because times have changed. Retail is out, internet shopping is in. While I prefer to look at the things I purchase, feel material, handle items and make sure they aren't broken or scratched, many people don't seem to mind looking at a picture and hitting "buy now." That's the reality of the world we live in. Shopping and purchasing has changed.
I don't know what Salem, or any other place, for that matter, could do to draw folks into its community. I will be watching their plan with interest.
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
Appreciating Teachers
I understand it is National Teacher Appreciate Week. I have always appreciated my teachers. Most were mentors, and I was an unabashed teacher's pet in some of my classes. You know the kind: straight As, quiet, seldom caused trouble. That was me. I had a few teachers who went above and beyond in looking out for me as a person.
Last week I just happened to see two of those special high school teachers.
I had lunch with THE WORLD'S GREATEST MATH TEACHER on Friday.
Tina taught me math for three years. I had her for Algebra I, II, and Trig. I can't remember anything except how to add and subtract, but that's not her fault. At the time I knew how to do it. She was a tough teacher but I loved that about her class. We have stayed in touch for all of these years, and it is wonderful to have such a vibrant and strong woman in my corner.
On Saturday, I bumped into THE WORLD'S GREATEST ENGLISH TEACHER at the Farmer's Market.
Dee taught me sophomore English. I thought she was wonderful even if she did laugh long and hard with me and the rest of class when I once misread the Leaning Tower of Piza as the Leaning Tower of Pizza (it was close to lunch). In my junior and senior years, I would often drop in on her before school or at lunch time simply to say hello and have a chat about whatever was going on. Dee has always been encouraging about my writing, even when I was young and it was crap. I have always appreciated her support.
Here they are from my junior yearbook (that would be 1980).
They really haven't changed much, have they?
Thank you, great teachers, for being wonderful mentors, strong supporters, and beautiful friends.
Last week I just happened to see two of those special high school teachers.
I had lunch with THE WORLD'S GREATEST MATH TEACHER on Friday.
Tina taught me math for three years. I had her for Algebra I, II, and Trig. I can't remember anything except how to add and subtract, but that's not her fault. At the time I knew how to do it. She was a tough teacher but I loved that about her class. We have stayed in touch for all of these years, and it is wonderful to have such a vibrant and strong woman in my corner.
On Saturday, I bumped into THE WORLD'S GREATEST ENGLISH TEACHER at the Farmer's Market.
Dee taught me sophomore English. I thought she was wonderful even if she did laugh long and hard with me and the rest of class when I once misread the Leaning Tower of Piza as the Leaning Tower of Pizza (it was close to lunch). In my junior and senior years, I would often drop in on her before school or at lunch time simply to say hello and have a chat about whatever was going on. Dee has always been encouraging about my writing, even when I was young and it was crap. I have always appreciated her support.
 |
| Dee |
 |
| Tina |
They really haven't changed much, have they?
Thank you, great teachers, for being wonderful mentors, strong supporters, and beautiful friends.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
The Last Time I Went Sledding
So we have a large snow forecast, and I was thinking about the last time I went sledding.
I was dating, so it was long, long time ago. My soon-to-be husband built a big bonfire on the hill near Uncle Bill's driveway and invited all of his friends, family, and neighbors.
This was January 1982. I think up until this year, that was the coldest January on record.
Anyway, back to the party. Soon we were all gathered on the hill, roasting marshmallows and drinking beer and hot chocolate (hopefully not at the same time). People produced sleds from everywhere and they went racing down the slope. This was a hay field so there were no frozen cow pies to worry with, no ditches, and no rocks. Just a nice, fast run.
James tied a big car hood on the back of his tractor, and as people went down, they would pile on the car hood and he would roar back up, pulling them and their sleds behind.
I remember much laughter, lots of shouting, and giggles. I remember the cold air racing down the nape of my neck as I rode behind James when we took our turn on the sled run. Whoosh! He held me tight, keeping me safe, and I expect I fell more in love with him then, if that was possible.
By the next Christmas, I was married. It may not have snowed much, I can't recall. In fact, I recall some snows in the 1980s but the next big snow that stands out in my mind didn't happen until 1993. By then I was too out of shape for sledding, and our old friends were married and scattered to the winds.
Youth - so glorious when you're living it, and you're too young to appreciate it.
These days the only sleighing I would consider would be the one-horse kind, or a ride in the cab of the tractor with the husband.
I was dating, so it was long, long time ago. My soon-to-be husband built a big bonfire on the hill near Uncle Bill's driveway and invited all of his friends, family, and neighbors.
This was January 1982. I think up until this year, that was the coldest January on record.
Anyway, back to the party. Soon we were all gathered on the hill, roasting marshmallows and drinking beer and hot chocolate (hopefully not at the same time). People produced sleds from everywhere and they went racing down the slope. This was a hay field so there were no frozen cow pies to worry with, no ditches, and no rocks. Just a nice, fast run.
James tied a big car hood on the back of his tractor, and as people went down, they would pile on the car hood and he would roar back up, pulling them and their sleds behind.
I remember much laughter, lots of shouting, and giggles. I remember the cold air racing down the nape of my neck as I rode behind James when we took our turn on the sled run. Whoosh! He held me tight, keeping me safe, and I expect I fell more in love with him then, if that was possible.
By the next Christmas, I was married. It may not have snowed much, I can't recall. In fact, I recall some snows in the 1980s but the next big snow that stands out in my mind didn't happen until 1993. By then I was too out of shape for sledding, and our old friends were married and scattered to the winds.
Youth - so glorious when you're living it, and you're too young to appreciate it.
These days the only sleighing I would consider would be the one-horse kind, or a ride in the cab of the tractor with the husband.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Remembering First Grade
I saw in the paper earlier this week that my first grade teacher - or at least someone with her name - had passed away.
This lady seemed quite old when she was my teacher, though of course she probably wasn't. Still, that would have been 44 years ago. The obit did not give her age so I don't know it. But she could have been in her 40s when she taught me.
The thing I remember most about first grade is that Mrs. Zirkle gave me an "F". I don't remember in what subject, but I remember the grade and how much I cried over it. I think I got the F because I had missed a lot of school - I had the mumps in the first grade and missed at least 14 days straight because of it.
The mumps hurt. You don't hear about mumps anymore; do kids still get them? Anyway, I remember waking up that morning and telling my mother I had pain, but I couldn't really describe it. She sent me on to school and later that day they called her to come and get me. Mumps are contagious so I had to stay away from class until they were all gone.
That was the only F I ever made in my entire career as a student (which has been a life-long sort of thing). I am pretty sure I got to take a make-up test for the bad grade but it left an impression on me, obviously, since I remember it.
After my one F paper, I made A's and B's. I stayed on the A or A-B honor roll, though they didn't put you on the honor rolls until 4th grade. I almost always got a B in gym and an A in everything else. It was very irritating to me that I could not get all As simply because I was not as physically adept as others.
Another thing I remember from first grade is learning that no one plays fair. I learned this because I spent all year - yes, all year! - trying to get a turn at riding on this toy truck in the classroom. The boys hogged it during recess. Finally, I was first to it and able to ride it for a minute, but one boy quickly shoved me off and that was the end of that. And having finally ridden on the damned thing, I stopped trying to get on it again.
I also learned a few songs in first grade, one of which I still remember:
In a test, for our class, that we know we cannot pass, and the goof-offs go marching along! And it's rah rah roo! We'll fake the Asian flu! Shout our symptoms loud and long! Blah yeach! And wherever we go, the teachers always know, that the goof-offs are marching along.
That's sung to some popular old ditty but I can't remember the name of it.
And this one, sung to the Battle Hymn of the Republic:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the burning of the school; we have tortured every teacher, we have broken every rule. We are marching down the hall to hang the principal, and the kids go marching on! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Teacher hit me with a ruler! So I hit her in the bean with a rotten tangerine and she ain't gonna teach me no more.
I am a product of a strange era.
It's amazing the things we do remember, isn't it?
This lady seemed quite old when she was my teacher, though of course she probably wasn't. Still, that would have been 44 years ago. The obit did not give her age so I don't know it. But she could have been in her 40s when she taught me.
The thing I remember most about first grade is that Mrs. Zirkle gave me an "F". I don't remember in what subject, but I remember the grade and how much I cried over it. I think I got the F because I had missed a lot of school - I had the mumps in the first grade and missed at least 14 days straight because of it.
The mumps hurt. You don't hear about mumps anymore; do kids still get them? Anyway, I remember waking up that morning and telling my mother I had pain, but I couldn't really describe it. She sent me on to school and later that day they called her to come and get me. Mumps are contagious so I had to stay away from class until they were all gone.
That was the only F I ever made in my entire career as a student (which has been a life-long sort of thing). I am pretty sure I got to take a make-up test for the bad grade but it left an impression on me, obviously, since I remember it.
After my one F paper, I made A's and B's. I stayed on the A or A-B honor roll, though they didn't put you on the honor rolls until 4th grade. I almost always got a B in gym and an A in everything else. It was very irritating to me that I could not get all As simply because I was not as physically adept as others.
Another thing I remember from first grade is learning that no one plays fair. I learned this because I spent all year - yes, all year! - trying to get a turn at riding on this toy truck in the classroom. The boys hogged it during recess. Finally, I was first to it and able to ride it for a minute, but one boy quickly shoved me off and that was the end of that. And having finally ridden on the damned thing, I stopped trying to get on it again.
I also learned a few songs in first grade, one of which I still remember:
In a test, for our class, that we know we cannot pass, and the goof-offs go marching along! And it's rah rah roo! We'll fake the Asian flu! Shout our symptoms loud and long! Blah yeach! And wherever we go, the teachers always know, that the goof-offs are marching along.
That's sung to some popular old ditty but I can't remember the name of it.
And this one, sung to the Battle Hymn of the Republic:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the burning of the school; we have tortured every teacher, we have broken every rule. We are marching down the hall to hang the principal, and the kids go marching on! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Teacher hit me with a ruler! So I hit her in the bean with a rotten tangerine and she ain't gonna teach me no more.
I am a product of a strange era.
It's amazing the things we do remember, isn't it?
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
In Search of Junes Gone By
Tomorrow is my mother's birthday. She would have been 69 years old, which is not so old by today's standards. However, she died when she was 56.
Recently, in early June, I turned 50. I tried to remember what happened when my mother turned 50. Did we take her to dinner? Throw her a party? I couldn't recall. That would have been 19 years ago. Maybe we let the day pass by, because my mother did not like to be reminded that she was growing older. She hated her birthday.
While I may not remember her 50th, I do remember her 55th birthday. That is when I realized that the stomachache she brought back from Paris was more than something she'd eaten. She had returned in early May complaining of a pain in her belly, and we all thought it was from traveling.
But when she was still complaining of it when I had her over for small gathering on her birthday, I knew something was up. It wasn't many days later that she went into the hospital and the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer came through.
Mom was a beautiful woman. She had an Elizabeth Taylor sort of beauty to her. She was skillful with makeup and never went out of the house without looking her best. She was not someone who went to Kroger in a jogging suit, no way. I don't think she even owned a pair of blue jeans for wearing around town; they were for gardening or working on the farm only.
My mother's birthday used to fall on the first day of summer; I don't know when they moved the day. I remember shopping for presents for her, looking for a pretty something with a quarter in my pocket. Until I could drive that was a very limited search. I think it mostly took place at Newberry's, which used to be a big five and dime department-like store in Salem. We spent summers with my grandmother, who lived in Salem, and we would walk to town.
I remember the shopping and the looking, and I can see my mother's face as she tried to look happy with whatever I purchased, but I can't for the life of me remember a single present I gave her. It must have been just so much trash, you know. A hand mirror, maybe, or a small jewelry box, or some little trinket. Life is full of little trinkets, isn't it? Easily forgotten. It is the doing I remember - trying so to find just the right thing.
My mother worked up until she was 50. She started the job when she was 15, working as a file clerk for a company in Salem that made submarine parts or something like that, secret stuff for the government. She worked at the receptionist desk and even though she had been with the company for over 35 years when she left, her title was still file clerk. I have always thought that was pretty sad, but how heroic, really, to have stayed there all of those years, working the same job.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see pieces of my mother. I have her hands. I do not look like her; I certainly do not have her beauty. I have never worried about my looks like she did, and while I seldom go out without makeup (I got that from her), I do tend to dress down more often than not. Most people do these days. I look in the mirror now and I see that I am starting to wrinkle, and I have a few skin things. My hair has been gray for a dozen years. My mother colored hers up until the last - her hair never fell out from the cancer treatments. That was how my grandmother knew they weren't working, she said.
My mother's last June was a terrible one. She was sick and in pain, and though we didn't know it, only two months from dying. We knew it was going to happen. In her last June they stopped the treatments because there was no point, and she didn't want to give up. She was angry with the doctors for not being able to treat her, to fix her, to make it all better. She fought to the last, all through June, but it was near the end of the month when we had to call the rescue squad and they took her from home for the last time. She died in August.
June has always been a month of birthdays for my family. At one time we celebrated in June the birthdays of my brother, myself, my uncle, my maternal grandmother, my paternal grandfather, and my mother. After I married a June boy we also celebrated his.
Once my mother made me a cake shaped like a butterfly. I have a photo of it somewhere; I think I was ten. A special cake for a decade of life. Again, it's the doing that I recall, that action, my mom making me that cake.
I wonder what she would have thought of me this year, my turning 50. Would she have felt old, having a daughter so ancient? She was very young when she had me, too young, really, to be mothering a child. Women do it every day but that doesn't mean they should. We had a rocky relationship, my mom and I. Would she look back now at my life and say, yes, daughter, you accomplished much? Or would it be meaningless because it wasn't her dreams for me? I don't know.
Fifty-six seemed young to me when I was 37, the age I was when my mother died, and it seems even younger to me now, with the age just six years off. Six years to live the rest of my life - I hope not. But you never know. You can't know. When my mother turned 50 she didn't know she had only six more years.
So many Junes under my belt. So many Junes my mother has not seen in these years since she passed away. Time flows by like a gentle breeze, so soft on our skin we don't even notice it. Then we look back and it's like a tornado, the memories all swirling and tossed about. Who can make sense of it after such a torrent of time? Not me. Not you. No one, really. It is what it is, another June gone by.
Recently, in early June, I turned 50. I tried to remember what happened when my mother turned 50. Did we take her to dinner? Throw her a party? I couldn't recall. That would have been 19 years ago. Maybe we let the day pass by, because my mother did not like to be reminded that she was growing older. She hated her birthday.
While I may not remember her 50th, I do remember her 55th birthday. That is when I realized that the stomachache she brought back from Paris was more than something she'd eaten. She had returned in early May complaining of a pain in her belly, and we all thought it was from traveling.
But when she was still complaining of it when I had her over for small gathering on her birthday, I knew something was up. It wasn't many days later that she went into the hospital and the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer came through.
Mom was a beautiful woman. She had an Elizabeth Taylor sort of beauty to her. She was skillful with makeup and never went out of the house without looking her best. She was not someone who went to Kroger in a jogging suit, no way. I don't think she even owned a pair of blue jeans for wearing around town; they were for gardening or working on the farm only.
My mother's birthday used to fall on the first day of summer; I don't know when they moved the day. I remember shopping for presents for her, looking for a pretty something with a quarter in my pocket. Until I could drive that was a very limited search. I think it mostly took place at Newberry's, which used to be a big five and dime department-like store in Salem. We spent summers with my grandmother, who lived in Salem, and we would walk to town.
I remember the shopping and the looking, and I can see my mother's face as she tried to look happy with whatever I purchased, but I can't for the life of me remember a single present I gave her. It must have been just so much trash, you know. A hand mirror, maybe, or a small jewelry box, or some little trinket. Life is full of little trinkets, isn't it? Easily forgotten. It is the doing I remember - trying so to find just the right thing.
My mother worked up until she was 50. She started the job when she was 15, working as a file clerk for a company in Salem that made submarine parts or something like that, secret stuff for the government. She worked at the receptionist desk and even though she had been with the company for over 35 years when she left, her title was still file clerk. I have always thought that was pretty sad, but how heroic, really, to have stayed there all of those years, working the same job.
Sometimes I look in the mirror and I see pieces of my mother. I have her hands. I do not look like her; I certainly do not have her beauty. I have never worried about my looks like she did, and while I seldom go out without makeup (I got that from her), I do tend to dress down more often than not. Most people do these days. I look in the mirror now and I see that I am starting to wrinkle, and I have a few skin things. My hair has been gray for a dozen years. My mother colored hers up until the last - her hair never fell out from the cancer treatments. That was how my grandmother knew they weren't working, she said.
My mother's last June was a terrible one. She was sick and in pain, and though we didn't know it, only two months from dying. We knew it was going to happen. In her last June they stopped the treatments because there was no point, and she didn't want to give up. She was angry with the doctors for not being able to treat her, to fix her, to make it all better. She fought to the last, all through June, but it was near the end of the month when we had to call the rescue squad and they took her from home for the last time. She died in August.
June has always been a month of birthdays for my family. At one time we celebrated in June the birthdays of my brother, myself, my uncle, my maternal grandmother, my paternal grandfather, and my mother. After I married a June boy we also celebrated his.
Once my mother made me a cake shaped like a butterfly. I have a photo of it somewhere; I think I was ten. A special cake for a decade of life. Again, it's the doing that I recall, that action, my mom making me that cake.
I wonder what she would have thought of me this year, my turning 50. Would she have felt old, having a daughter so ancient? She was very young when she had me, too young, really, to be mothering a child. Women do it every day but that doesn't mean they should. We had a rocky relationship, my mom and I. Would she look back now at my life and say, yes, daughter, you accomplished much? Or would it be meaningless because it wasn't her dreams for me? I don't know.
Fifty-six seemed young to me when I was 37, the age I was when my mother died, and it seems even younger to me now, with the age just six years off. Six years to live the rest of my life - I hope not. But you never know. You can't know. When my mother turned 50 she didn't know she had only six more years.
So many Junes under my belt. So many Junes my mother has not seen in these years since she passed away. Time flows by like a gentle breeze, so soft on our skin we don't even notice it. Then we look back and it's like a tornado, the memories all swirling and tossed about. Who can make sense of it after such a torrent of time? Not me. Not you. No one, really. It is what it is, another June gone by.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Happy Halloween!
Boo!
Did I scare you?
Of course I didn't.
Alas, I have no scary photos to share, no images of ghosties or goblins.
I thought instead I might share my favorite Halloween memory with you. This happened when I was six years old.
One year I dressed as a hobo. I wore a tie, a hat, patched pants, and makeup on my face. I was six years old, and my mother took me around the subdivision where my grandmother lived in Salem. She stood out in the street and watched while I marched up the sidewalk, sack in hand, and rang doorbells.
I remember it being a warm night, no need for a heavy coat, but still spooky because the trees were bare and leaves littered the sides of the roads where we trudged from house to house in the subdivision where my grandmother lived.
The owners of one home went all out for the holiday. They had a spooky sound track coming from a window, tombstones in the yard, and a ghost in the corner of the porch. I was not so sure I wanted to visit this place.
"Go on, it's okay," my mother said, giving me a little shove.
The fact that there were no other children around should have been a cue, I suppose. I headed up the sidewalk, looking back at my mother every so often to be sure she hadn't left me in this scary spot.
I rang the doorbell. Ding. Dong.
The door opened a crack. An evil eye peered out, and then the door opened.
There stood a witch.
A real Wizard of Oz looking witch, with a green face, crooked nose, and a wart. She had dark scraggly hair and a black hat on top of her head.
"Well, just who I was waiting for!" the witch cackled.
I was so scared I could not say "trick or treat" so I simply held out the bag. She put some candy in and opened the door wider. Inside stood a big black cauldron with steam coming out! It was big enough that I would fit inside.
"I just love little girls," the witch crooned. "You look like a dear. I could eat you all up. Won't you come into my house?"
I swallowed and took a step back. "No thank you," I said politely. "I'm not allowed to go into the homes of strangers."
With that, I turned tail and ran for my life. The sound of the witch calling for me to come back followed me all the way down the sidewalk.
My mother scooped me up in a hug, because by this time I was terrified and crying. She was laughing but she also applauded me for not going inside.
And that is my favorite Halloween memory, because it has every element you could want from this day of the dead. Chills and comfort, candy and a costume.
Did I scare you?
Of course I didn't.
Alas, I have no scary photos to share, no images of ghosties or goblins.
I thought instead I might share my favorite Halloween memory with you. This happened when I was six years old.
One year I dressed as a hobo. I wore a tie, a hat, patched pants, and makeup on my face. I was six years old, and my mother took me around the subdivision where my grandmother lived in Salem. She stood out in the street and watched while I marched up the sidewalk, sack in hand, and rang doorbells.
I remember it being a warm night, no need for a heavy coat, but still spooky because the trees were bare and leaves littered the sides of the roads where we trudged from house to house in the subdivision where my grandmother lived.
The owners of one home went all out for the holiday. They had a spooky sound track coming from a window, tombstones in the yard, and a ghost in the corner of the porch. I was not so sure I wanted to visit this place.
"Go on, it's okay," my mother said, giving me a little shove.
The fact that there were no other children around should have been a cue, I suppose. I headed up the sidewalk, looking back at my mother every so often to be sure she hadn't left me in this scary spot.
I rang the doorbell. Ding. Dong.
The door opened a crack. An evil eye peered out, and then the door opened.
There stood a witch.
A real Wizard of Oz looking witch, with a green face, crooked nose, and a wart. She had dark scraggly hair and a black hat on top of her head.
"Well, just who I was waiting for!" the witch cackled.
I was so scared I could not say "trick or treat" so I simply held out the bag. She put some candy in and opened the door wider. Inside stood a big black cauldron with steam coming out! It was big enough that I would fit inside.
"I just love little girls," the witch crooned. "You look like a dear. I could eat you all up. Won't you come into my house?"
I swallowed and took a step back. "No thank you," I said politely. "I'm not allowed to go into the homes of strangers."
With that, I turned tail and ran for my life. The sound of the witch calling for me to come back followed me all the way down the sidewalk.
My mother scooped me up in a hug, because by this time I was terrified and crying. She was laughing but she also applauded me for not going inside.
And that is my favorite Halloween memory, because it has every element you could want from this day of the dead. Chills and comfort, candy and a costume.
"I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog, too!"
Friday, September 21, 2012
The Date in Decades
Sometimes I look at the calendar and I try to recall what I might have been doing on specific dates.
There is no real reason for this; it's just a mental game.
But 40 years ago (damn, I am old), on Thursday, September 21 1972, I would have been 9 years old.
That means that most likely I was in school, in the fourth grade at Breckinridge Elementary. Classes would have been in session for only a few weeks, because back then we started school the day after Labor Day. Mrs. Lanning was my teacher. She had a reputation for being a hard task master but I loved her.
In this month and year, the TV show MASH started this year. It ran for 11 years (the final show would air in 1983, the night my future husband's grandfather died). The Waltons also began its 10-year run on TV. Bob Barker began doing the first showcase showdowns on The Price is Right. Richard Nixon was president, and Watergate was underway, but I was too young to pay much attention to that.
Thirty years ago, on Tuesday, September 21, 1982, I would have been out of high school. I had not yet met my husband. I would be enrolled at Virginia Western taking ... something ... and I would be employed at a machine shop, where I was the parts manager. It was a job I disliked and would leave within the next six months. I wasn't dating anyone.
Ronald Reagan was president. Apparently not much was happening, because there is little of note about this date online. The TV shows Family Ties, Cheers, and Knight Rider began.
Twenty years ago, on Monday, September 21, 1992, I was employed at a local law firm. I was also attending school at Hollins College, working on my bachelors degree.
I was married and working on year 9 of that institution. By this time we'd built the house we live in now. We were on year five of trying to have children and we were on the cusp of realizing it was something that wasn't going to happen.
We did not yet have Internet service or cell phones.
In the world, George H. W. Bush was president (and would soon lose to Bill Clinton). Gas cost about $1.05. Hurricane Andrew had come through about a month prior to this September date.
Ten years ago, on Saturday, September 21, 2002, I would have been at home. Probably cleaning my house, if routine serves as memory. My mother would have passed away in August 2000, and I would be moving on with my life after that event.
I would have been on the Internet for a number of years. I had a cell phone. For employment, I was a freelance writer with a steady contract with local newspapers. I loved the work.
In the world, George W. Bush was president. We would have had a one-year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attack on the U.S. The drumbeats for war on Iraq would have been banging full force. Gas cost about $1.62.
On TV, Firefly would make its debut (it crashed and burned quickly).
I would be anxiously awaiting the December release of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, at the theater.
Which brings me to today, Friday, September 21, 2012.
Here I am, a middle-aged woman, looking for work and still trying to figure out what I'm going to do when I grow up. I had thought I would have had that sorted out by now, but I guess not.
I will spend my day today keeping a couple of appointments, shopping at Kroger, working on a project, and fixing dinner. I also plan to hit the treadmill as soon as I hit the publish button on this blog entry.
And that's my life by the decades.
There is no real reason for this; it's just a mental game.
But 40 years ago (damn, I am old), on Thursday, September 21 1972, I would have been 9 years old.
That means that most likely I was in school, in the fourth grade at Breckinridge Elementary. Classes would have been in session for only a few weeks, because back then we started school the day after Labor Day. Mrs. Lanning was my teacher. She had a reputation for being a hard task master but I loved her.
In this month and year, the TV show MASH started this year. It ran for 11 years (the final show would air in 1983, the night my future husband's grandfather died). The Waltons also began its 10-year run on TV. Bob Barker began doing the first showcase showdowns on The Price is Right. Richard Nixon was president, and Watergate was underway, but I was too young to pay much attention to that.
Thirty years ago, on Tuesday, September 21, 1982, I would have been out of high school. I had not yet met my husband. I would be enrolled at Virginia Western taking ... something ... and I would be employed at a machine shop, where I was the parts manager. It was a job I disliked and would leave within the next six months. I wasn't dating anyone.
Ronald Reagan was president. Apparently not much was happening, because there is little of note about this date online. The TV shows Family Ties, Cheers, and Knight Rider began.
Twenty years ago, on Monday, September 21, 1992, I was employed at a local law firm. I was also attending school at Hollins College, working on my bachelors degree.
I was married and working on year 9 of that institution. By this time we'd built the house we live in now. We were on year five of trying to have children and we were on the cusp of realizing it was something that wasn't going to happen.
We did not yet have Internet service or cell phones.
In the world, George H. W. Bush was president (and would soon lose to Bill Clinton). Gas cost about $1.05. Hurricane Andrew had come through about a month prior to this September date.
Ten years ago, on Saturday, September 21, 2002, I would have been at home. Probably cleaning my house, if routine serves as memory. My mother would have passed away in August 2000, and I would be moving on with my life after that event.
I would have been on the Internet for a number of years. I had a cell phone. For employment, I was a freelance writer with a steady contract with local newspapers. I loved the work.
In the world, George W. Bush was president. We would have had a one-year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attack on the U.S. The drumbeats for war on Iraq would have been banging full force. Gas cost about $1.62.
On TV, Firefly would make its debut (it crashed and burned quickly).
I would be anxiously awaiting the December release of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, at the theater.
Which brings me to today, Friday, September 21, 2012.
Here I am, a middle-aged woman, looking for work and still trying to figure out what I'm going to do when I grow up. I had thought I would have had that sorted out by now, but I guess not.
I will spend my day today keeping a couple of appointments, shopping at Kroger, working on a project, and fixing dinner. I also plan to hit the treadmill as soon as I hit the publish button on this blog entry.
And that's my life by the decades.
Friday, September 14, 2012
The First Song
The first song I ever sang in public was called You Light Up My Life.
Remember that one? It was sung by Debbie Boone. People either loved it or hated it.
It hit number one in the fall of 1977. I was 14 years old and in the ninth grade. Apparently I was at the age to love the song.
I recorded You Light Up My Life off of Casey Kasem's American Top 40, using a cassette tape, of course. And then I played it back a hundred times until I learned all of the words.
Then I played it another hundred times so I could learn the guitar chords. I remember the song had an Am and D in it.
My father in the 1970s had a Top 40 band called Music Inc. The band one Friday night played a dance at Breckinridge Elementary School in Fincastle, a benefit for either the high school band or the PTA, I can't remember which. I think it was a Halloween dance, actually. I seem to remember ghosts, but maybe that was just my fear.
I had been told to bring my guitar, which I did. It was an Epiphone Les Paul imitation, black in body, that I had received as a Christmas present when I was 12. I still have it.
As I tend to do when the weather changes, I had developed laryngitis from the pollen. I recall protesting that I couldn't sing.
No matter. I was going to sing anyway.
I was so scared I could scarcely breathe. The band would be backing me up, but we only rehearsed the song one time. And that was a disaster because my guitar hadn't been tuned in standard tuning. Retuning my guitar down to standard meant I would be singing in a different key than I normally sang in.
Oh the terror! How my knees knocked and my fingers twitched. The time passed so slowly I was sure I was in a time warp and had been transferred to another universe.
Eventually, my father called my name. I made my way to the stage. I plastered a smile on my face as he introduced me. I took my guitar from its stand. I strummed the guitar and forced my scratchy voice to belt out the words.
I know there were screeches and bad notes. I was not then, nor am I now, really a vocalist. I can carry a tune decently enough but I have never been what one might call a great singer. That first time on stage was no exception.
"So many nights, I sit by window..."
Egads. I can't imagine what everyone thought. It probably wasn't as bad as I imagined - I didn't stumble too much or have to restart the song - but it couldn't have been great. I was trembling when I finished. I left the stage to polite applause.
One of my classmates immediately began to make fun of me, I remember. And her voice singing You Light Up My Life would follow me down the halls of the high school for the next several weeks.
But I had done it. Despite my fears, I had mounted the stage, picked up the guitar, and made my way through the song, for better or worse.
Remember that one? It was sung by Debbie Boone. People either loved it or hated it.
It hit number one in the fall of 1977. I was 14 years old and in the ninth grade. Apparently I was at the age to love the song.
I recorded You Light Up My Life off of Casey Kasem's American Top 40, using a cassette tape, of course. And then I played it back a hundred times until I learned all of the words.
Then I played it another hundred times so I could learn the guitar chords. I remember the song had an Am and D in it.
My father in the 1970s had a Top 40 band called Music Inc. The band one Friday night played a dance at Breckinridge Elementary School in Fincastle, a benefit for either the high school band or the PTA, I can't remember which. I think it was a Halloween dance, actually. I seem to remember ghosts, but maybe that was just my fear.
I had been told to bring my guitar, which I did. It was an Epiphone Les Paul imitation, black in body, that I had received as a Christmas present when I was 12. I still have it.
As I tend to do when the weather changes, I had developed laryngitis from the pollen. I recall protesting that I couldn't sing.
No matter. I was going to sing anyway.
I was so scared I could scarcely breathe. The band would be backing me up, but we only rehearsed the song one time. And that was a disaster because my guitar hadn't been tuned in standard tuning. Retuning my guitar down to standard meant I would be singing in a different key than I normally sang in.
Oh the terror! How my knees knocked and my fingers twitched. The time passed so slowly I was sure I was in a time warp and had been transferred to another universe.
Eventually, my father called my name. I made my way to the stage. I plastered a smile on my face as he introduced me. I took my guitar from its stand. I strummed the guitar and forced my scratchy voice to belt out the words.
I know there were screeches and bad notes. I was not then, nor am I now, really a vocalist. I can carry a tune decently enough but I have never been what one might call a great singer. That first time on stage was no exception.
"So many nights, I sit by window..."
Egads. I can't imagine what everyone thought. It probably wasn't as bad as I imagined - I didn't stumble too much or have to restart the song - but it couldn't have been great. I was trembling when I finished. I left the stage to polite applause.
One of my classmates immediately began to make fun of me, I remember. And her voice singing You Light Up My Life would follow me down the halls of the high school for the next several weeks.
But I had done it. Despite my fears, I had mounted the stage, picked up the guitar, and made my way through the song, for better or worse.
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