Open Letter by GJ

Open letter to the young folks who attended Cousin Betty's Thanksgiving Dinners, 1963-1987. Normally, I'm not a practical joker, but on a couple of occasions, I just couldn't help myself. It was at those dinners that the idea hit me. First, you have to know your uncles Scotty and Chick. They found it hard to agree on almost everything. It seemed that almost every Thanksgiving, when there was a lull in the group's conversation, one of them would just happen to mention our family's early automobiles. Scotty maintained that it was a Mitchell, and Chick was positive it was some other make. (They probably even disagreed on which model/year it was.) Back and forth they would go, both in their 60's, both feeling cantankerous?) The women would look at each other with that "Here we go again" stare, scowl a bit, and resign themselves to the "Great November Debate." One day, one occasion where I couldn't resist, the lull occurred, but...surprise, surprise, no mention of the car! Yes, I confess, I did it. I said something, like, " "Scott...what was that car that we had back in...?" (I swear, the women could have killed me if their looks had been daggers!) The rest of us men had a good laugh, of course. I think it was several hours before we were forgiven. You might like to know that Scotty was a golfer and a good one. That he was a veteran of WWII, a hospital corpsman attached to the field artillery, from Africa to Italy to France and Germany, four year's service and a Croix de Guerre medal.
You might also like to know that Chick was a farmer and very handy with horses and showed them at the Chicago Livestock Exposition. He was also a crossword puzzle addict and lover of all sorts of card games. I'll tell you more about my brothers some day soon. Ask your folks about your aunts and uncles of yore. Ask while you think about it. Maybe they, or someone else can write a memoir about one?

Three B's by GJ

Can’t help thinking about Cousin Betty lately. When thinking about her, I think about our two daughters and the “boomers.” When I think about the boomers, I sometimes conjur up a third generation. Let’s call these women Betty, Barbara, and Bess. Cousin Betty was born in 1908, never married, became a librarian, and died in 1988. In 1963, Betty went to her local banker in a small town west of Chicago and asked him to find her a small bungalow that she could afford to pay off in ten years. (She would retire in 1973 on social security.) The banker found the bungalow; a very pretty, small, two-bedroom cottage on a lovely street close to the library. Betty then sent out invitations to all her aunts, uncles, and cousins to come to her house for Thanksgiving. By 1987, those dinners had become a tradition for 24 years. Barbara was about 12 when the custom began and there were about eight children in attendance around then. The children often joined some of the adults in playing scrabble, and there was a period when a few adults and most children went bowling. Otherwise, the women chatted and the men napped or watched football. Bess was born in 1975 and her family was unable to maintain their attendance. At its peak, total attendance was probably 16 to 20 people. At the end, it was 8 to 10, and very few children. (As often happens, young families begin to have their own celebrations.) Cousin Betty was a rare and wonderful woman. She was told by a doctor when she was 18 that she probably had six months to live! (She had a chronic lung problem.) Because of this, she switched from pursuing a teaching career to studying library science. Although Bess had met Betty on occasion, she never really knew her very well. Barbara, her mother, knew Betty quite well, especially for the kind, caring, generous person that she was. Bess could know Betty a tad better if Barbara were to write a few memoirs about those early Thanksgiving dinners. Bess could know even more about Betty if we all had written some memoirs. (My next posting is about my role as practical joker at those dinners.) It will be for Bess. (And, for Cousin Betty.)

GJ Remembers LaKeesha

Yesterday's post that mentions math compels me to state the case of LaKeesha. It must have been about 20 years ago. I was a part-time teacher at a Jacksonville (FL) charter school. I was hired to see if I could help a handful of fifth graders who were seriously behind in math. One of them was a shy little girl we'll call Lakeesha, and she had a physical handicap. She was missing some fingers on her left hand (as I recall) and one or two fingers on her right hand were bent or permanently curled inward somewhat. The class moved along about as one might expect, and I wasn't sure I was earning my money. I had several chats with the principal and we agreed that maybe there wasn't much we could do to improve. (It seemed, at times, that whenever I tried something new or "creative," one of the kids would groan and say it had already failed!) One thing began to occur to me, and that was the messyness of Lakeesha's papers on occasion. I asked her if she would mind using a pencil, rather than a ball-point pen. She told me that the edges of a pencil caused blisters on her finger, that it was very sensitive skin. What could I do? Then I just happened to be in a school supply store one day and on the counter was a display of small rubber "sleeves" for pencils! I bought a couple and gave them to LaKeesha, and asked her to give them a try. She said she could do that. After a few days, I noticed that her pencil no longer had a sleeve on it. She had come to the conclusion that her finger wasn't all that sensitive, after all. (And maybe she had been teased?) Finally a day came when the principal asked me if LaKeesha could stay in the room during a second class each day. (Normally her study hall.) I said it was OK, but I wasn't sure how long she would care to simply repeat a lot of stuff. I'm not sure how it came about, but one day I asked her if she would like to help grade papers. She seemed delighted, so she became a sort of "assistant." Pretty soon she was asking questions about some things a little ahead of our class. I then gave her some practice sheets at the next level and let her work on those during that extra class. She was beginning to make splendid progress and soon just "took off" on her own. At end of term, we were supposed to give an exam and we were allowed 90 minutes for it. (What would Lakeesha do with 180???) I pulled out a giant stack of worksheets from my files and gave them to her. This was to be her private exam, I told her. She bent over that stack and worked like a demon. When I took the papers home to grade them, I was anxious to see how far Lakeesha got. (Addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division.) Turns out there were about 25 pages totalling about 700 problems up to triple digits. When I saw that she had completed them, I was so amazed that I just had to check them all. Shy little, "assistant" Lakeesha had a score of 698! Seems to me that the necessary score for an A in those days was about 93 - 95%. Hers was 99.7%!

Who is Charlie?

Charlie is a surrogate son, former student, and close pal for 50+ years. We spent some time trying to solve math puzzles, trying to put on good plays, and just hanging out. He couldn't find a math teacher who liked puzzles, so I was elected. (For one thing, I had a blackboard in my room, of course. For another thing, I enjoy puzzles...my favorite being cryptograms. I like arithmetic, too, considerably short of geometry, etc.) We got acquainted when I was recruiting students to be in the first play at Charleston (IL) HS, 1958. Why does a retired speech, drama, debate, English teacher like math? It's a long story, so I'll skip some details. When I entered U. of Illinois under the GI Bill in 1949, I had this notion I wanted to be a math teacher. When I tried to register for the first math class, I was told I didn't have enough HS credits, and needed to take a couple at a local HS. Here I was, 22, a veteran, with wife and child and too proud to sit in a HS classroom. Besides which, I needed some free time to earn extra money whenever I could. Later, my rhetoric prof suggested I might like to teach speech and I took his advice. Professor Jimmy McCrimmon was a Scot with the most beautiful brogue I ever heard. His lectures were like concerts! Finally, I like basic math because I was taught the right way. I had to memorize the multiplication table, for one thing. I can do a lot of things "in my head," and it's fun to try. (Tell you what...it's a great help in ESTIMATING. Do they teach estimating any more?) Charlie now publishes two newsletters, but that's for later, and he is a retired math teacher. How did a math person get into editing/publishing? Our paths crisscrossed, it seems. Oh, yes, almost forgot. I was taught to play the game of pinochle at a young age, and you have to be able to add up your "meld" in that game. Dad taught me to add "up the column first, then down the column to confirm" long before any teacher brought it up.

Charlie's Memoir #1

It is interesting how memories of food help to solidify different other memories. When I was a kid, for instance, I’d go grocery shopping with my Mom. Going through the baby food aisle, I would sometimes grab a jar of Gerber’s custard and put it in her cart. She’d look at me and grin, but let me keep it. Even as a teen, I loved the baby food custard. Today, if I walk down the aisle where the baby food is, I relive the memories of Mom; occasionally, as an older man, I buy a bottle of Gerber’s custard. It is not nearly as good today, but the memories evoked are real good.

Remembering can be part of writing: GJ says!

It was probably in the late 1970's. The scene was my class in high school composition, an elective course. A young girl, probably 16'sh, sat at a desk by a window and often looked out that window, deep in thought. She wasn't writing much at all, I noticed. I tried gently prompting her a little, but it didn't do much good. Finally, I asked her to see me after class for "just a second." She did stay, and luckily for both of us, actually had a little extra time. I asked her if she knew why it was that she couldn't seem to "get off the ground?" She said she didn't know. I asked if anything was going on in her life that made it difficult? "Yes," she said, "I just lost my grandpa." (Teachers are rarely prepared for such replies.) After some awkwardness, we tried to get back on track, and I asked, "What first comes to your mind when you think of your Grandpa?" She didn't hesitate a moment, and said, "His hands." "Great," I almost shouted! Tell me, on paper, what it was about his hands that caught your attention." She actually smiled in relief and said she would. She went home, wrote a moving little essay, and handed it in the following day. It was a beginning that led to more and more essays that were, mostly, simple memoirs about grandpa. I'm sure she eventually earned an A.

Grandpa Jim's rallying cry

“I’m not all that certain that writing can be learned.
I am more certain that writing is hardly ever taught.
I know, quite certainly, that writing can be encouraged, that it can be
motivated, and that frequently it can be inspired.”

And that’s my intent.

Memoir #1 by "Mrs."

I wanted to write to you about my grand-aunt, Dottie. She was a "Territory Baby," born in New Mexico before it became a state. She had three sisters, one of whom was my maternal grandmother, Mabel. Dottie remained single until she turned 41, and she then had one son. As a young woman, she studied to become a school teacher and her teaching career lasted 35 years. She was given a one-room school house for a while, which meant she had a variety of ages present in her classroom. She had to establish her authority pretty quickly so her students wouldn't get the better of her. She told me the following story a few years before her death in 2005.
One day, Aunt Dottie was riding her mule to school as she always did. She spied one of her students walking to school and offered him a ride. The mule was friendly enough, but he sure hated to have his flanks touched. The little boy knew this about mules and horses and decided to have a little fun; he kicked that mule directly in the flank and held on, waiting to see what would happen.Well, the mule began to kick and buck like nobody's business. Aunt Dottie wasn't intimidated though and she stayed right with him, fighting his head and bringing him under control. Finally, they reached the school yard. Aunt Dottie knew she had established her position in the school when the little boy slid off the back of the mule, headed over to his friends and said with admiration, "Teacher can ride!"

GJ's note---Isn't this a great little coincidence? I almost always go to e-mail first in the morning, but today I went to blogging about blessings, first. After posting, I then went to the mail...and here it was, another "teacher" tale! I told you people...potential memoir writers just need a reminder. So far, we have 'Aunts,' and 'teachers,' neck and neck. "We're Off!"

Blessings, blessing, blessings...

It's just after 7 this sleepy Saturday morning, I've read the paper, had coffee and breakfast (and I'm taking "the fifth" on what I ate, because I tease daughter Donna on liking left-over pizza for B.) Mainly, I'm feeling blessed.
Blessed with a daughter who loves to cook and bake and does so, wonderfully, and takes such good care of Jean and me. With a son-in-law who has become a fantastic pal. With another daughter who is equally caring. With a granddaughter, Sarah, who comforts me about this blog and was my pal as a child. (She sang hymns while roller-skating in the basement while I was editing and publishing my newsletter, "Memoirs," 1984. She was 10 or 11.)
Blessed with having been raised by my Dad from 9 to 17 after Mom went to heaven. (Turns out Dad was one of the "pioneers" in the single-parent experience.) We had some housekeepers from time to time...none of which I could "take to." (I've often wondered if that was because I feared his re-marrying? That's psycho-babble for something that sounds plausible?) I became a "whistle-blower" if one of these well-meaning ladies bent one of Dad's rules. (One, for instance, was using the grocery budget to have groceries delivered, when she was supposed to go to the store, herself, while I was at school.)
Above all, blessed with my sweetest little angel, Jeannie. I am convinced, even though I didn't know her until she was 16, that she has never held a bad thought about another human being in her whole life. Because of an alcoholic father, Jean was forced to attend 8 different high schools! His drinking caused them to move frequently. I talked her into marrying me just before her final HS semester, so that, years later she got her diploma via GED test. Yes, we were "babies." I was still in the navy (19 1/2) and she was 17 3/4. She has put up with a lot of dumb decisions by me in our 61 3/4 years, but I'm not ready to confess all of them. (She forgave them before they could even take hold.)
In the fall of 1958, I had a new job teaching at Charleston, IL, High school, making all of about
$80 a week. My Dad had just come to live with us because the cost of living had become too much for him on social security in Chicago. Jean came to me one day with a question she had been carrying a while. Would I mind if she went to college there in Charleston? (It seems she had always dreamt of becoming a teacher!) (Of course I agreed.) She came within just a couple of courses of getting her B.A. in 30 months! She took those, including abnormal psychology, via correspondence. (Not a bad idea for understanding her husband!) Jean went on to become a wonderful teacher and "teacher of the year" for her district in a suburb of Chicago, in 1974. We are enjoying our golden years (I guess they are called) together, just as we enjoyed all 61 of the ones before them. (Secret: we manage to tell each other a dozen times a day that we love each other and never tire of hearing it, of course.) I wish everyone could know my Jeannie.

Comment on Am I Blue

Hi Grandpa Jim. Sorry it's getting a slow kick-off. Sometimes it's that way in the blogging world... I was thinking about your question about whether the younger people are writing these days, and I'd have to say that many are. Blogging has become a very real kind of journaling. I've read quite a few different blogs and it is a wonderful way for people to record their thoughts and feelings about many different aspects of life. Some are about farm life, some are about motherhood, some are about loss and grieving. Most are just the day to day stuff of life. And I have found many gifted writers along the way. The most discouraging thing for all bloggers is the lack of feedback. Unfortunately there are always more people who read than comment. Hang in there. It can often be a slow process to get people involved. Thanks for all that you write! Love you, Sarah

"Am I Blue?" by Grandpa Jim

Seems to me there's an old song by that name. Anyone know? I'm in a quandary and could use some advice. Have my e-mail contacts switched to view the blog? (The former is a lot less than normal, recently.) Or is it the summer doldrums? Or does it matter? (At times, I feel like I'm "talking" to myself on this site.)

One thing occurs to me, and that is that those who are visiting my blog are too young? Maybe you have to be 70 or 80 to know how painful it is to have unanswered, ancestral questions. Maybe you have to be 50 or 60 to care about 75-year-old history. And that's OK if that's the way it is. Maybe I'm just dreaming (and several people have told me I'm a dreamer) to think that anyone writes anymore.

When I was teaching (and I've been retired for 26 years!) I used to encourage students to "keep a journal." In those days, there was pretty good interest, but not as much as in the earlier years.

I really regret that I didn't keep one when I was in the navy. (I used to dive off the conning tower during swim sessions and I can't recall how high that was. I really think it was in the vicinity of 30 or 35 feet or more. There were times, when I was at the deepest point of the dive, that I could see under the ship and I occasionally wondered if I could continue on and swim over to the other side. BUT...it was just too risky to try. Hitting the water took away some breath and some energy, there was the matter of turning around, and if I COULDN'T make it, of course...)

If I had a journal from those days, I could recall, in more detail, the thrill of those dives.

Almost 800 people have visited the blog. Maybe I should just accept that as encouragement?

The Three R's by Grandpa Jim

Readin', recallin', and writin' ---the three steps to a memoir.

It looks to me like few people do much writing anymore. When I published other people's memoirs 25 years ago, about 15 to 20% of my subscribers sent in their stories. Today, I looked at my counter and less than 2% have responded. I guess we are all just too busy, busy, busy. And that's OK. I understand what it means to be busy...if I remember correctly. Some of the things I have posted have been in my Word file for months, so I guess I cheat a little. It may appear that it's easier for me, as a result. I can crank out a lot of words and if I could only type faster, I'd write a book a month, maybe? No, well...a year? Let me ask this; what was different about your graduation, or wedding, or anniversary, or parenthood, or early schooling, or travel, or vacations from of those you observe around you today? It doesn't matter why they were different. How were they unlike another? Were they really the "good old days?" Give us your examples. We thrive on examples. I'll give you one: dating. Dating in the 1940's was cheap, cheap, cheap. I got an allowance of one dollar a week in those days, and I could take a girl for (1.) a long walk, (2.) a cherry coke, and (3.) visit a museum for less than 1/4th of my allowance. Yes, a nice, leisurely stroll down a tree-lined street could be a major part of a "date." I recall the time when my allowance doubled. Dad gave me one dollar allowance plus one dollar for lunches at the high school cafeteria. An announcement was made that the cafeteria needed workers and the pay was a week's lunch pass for a week's work washing dishes. (50 minutes per day.) I asked Dad if I took that job could I have the lunch dollar for added allowance. He cheerfully agreed, and I was almost RICH! Guess what? The price of a date never really went up all that much and I began to actually accumulate a little savings. (I think that if I wanted to impress somebody, the cherry coke might have risen to the lofty level of an ice cream sundae...on occasion.)
By the way, did you ever get pleasure from a walk in the rain? I did. After all, my girl was beside me! Advance all the way to 1946 before my discharge from the navy. A date with my little Jeannie often meant a game of mini-golf or a movie. To go dancing was extra special. Eating out was extra special. Being together was extra, extra special. Nothing else really mattered.

An Aunt Ruth Story by Grandpa Jim

Jean's Aunt Ruth lived outside tiny Wheatfield, Indiana most of her 95+/- years. She was widowed and childless and loved to garden. At age 92, Ruth was mowing the lawn on an old, riding lawnmower when she accidently bumped into a large bush and the mower tipped over, badly cutting her left foot. Unable to walk on the foot, she crawled approximately 100 to 150 feet out to the blacktop road. Lying half into a ditch, she waved for help at a few passing cars, but none saw her, apparently. Finally a car went by with a man and woman inside, and the woman spotted Ruth and told her husband to stop and help. The husband didn't slow down, but said the woman was probably drunk or something. The wife persisted. The husband relented and took Ruth to the nearest hospital. Doctors amputated her foot first above the ankle, then again below the knee.

When we visited Ruth upon her return home, she was using a wheelchair and swore that, come whatever may, she would not EVER wear a prosthetic.

The next time we went to Ruth's, she was up on crutches AND using a prosthetic leg. We couldn't help but ask how come. She explained that she had to give in because that nasty old wheelchair left marks on her kitchen floor!

Several months later, while in Indiana, we complimented Ruth on her thriving vegetable garden and asked how she managed to work it. She told us that she was hesitant to go out into the soft soil on her new leg, but she saw a rabbit in the vicinity and had to do something about it. So, she got her late husband's old, old shotgun, saw that it was loaded, and went out to shoot the rabbit. She did shoot it, but failed to kill it. She picked up the squirming animal by its long ears and proceeded to beat it against a tree, finishing the job the gun had started.

"Know what," Ruth asked us? "What?" "Haven't seen another rabbit since!"

Do you have an "aunt ruth story" to tell? Put it in a memoir. Send it to me via e-mail. Don't let family stories get lost for want of sharing.

A Real Surprise by Grandpa Jim

A Little over 50 years ago, a student turned in a paper that overwhelmed me. I don't recall the exact asignment, or if there even was one, but the high school junior boy simply placed a piece of paper on my desk as he left the room one day. It turned out to be a poem. A fine poem by anyone at any age. This boy, Donald Close, of Bettendorf, Iowa HS, had written a lot of good essays and other compositions, but this was the first verse that I was aware of. As I recall, Donald was really "into" topics that dealt with nature. It seems to me that quite a few BHS students, especially boys, leaned toward nature's offerings.

The Coral

The coral is a creature that lives beneath the sea;
And some of it has never been seen by the likes of you and me.
The coral is a funny thing, as one can plainly see.
It takes the shape of brain or tree, most anything it can be.
Its twisting arms and curly hair are really quite a sight,
But only parrot and barracuda fish can sleep with it at night.
It withstands the mighty blows of Atlantic and Pacific storms,
For unconsciously it's building edicifes in unruly forms.
Yes, never will you find a builder that knows more art than he.
He builds out into the windward side, and forgets about the lee.

Donald H. Close

To Gena: I'm SO sorry!

My thought ran out from under me, or away from me, or something...I meant to entitle your memoir "Never Too Young To Remember!" Love, Grandpa Jim.

Never Too Old To Remember by Gena Haviland

Dear Grandpa Jim,I was telling your precious grandaughter Sarah, how WONDERFUL this blog is. I relish the memories of the blissfull days of childhoood myself. At 38 I still yearn for a time when summer was full of catching lightning bugs and listening to crickets.Much Love To Your Family,Gena Haviland

Ruth Recalls by Ruth Brendle

Hi, Grandpa Jim. I saw the post on Sarah's blog that you were collecting memories. I've always enjoyed your stories, from the first time I met you through Sarah and Chad, to our times over Carry-In Dinner at Faith Fellowship, to the last time I saw you when Dave and I ran into you at Gator's Riverside Grill and we shared a table and memories on the river.I was thinking about how natural it has always been to call you Grampa Jim. And that made me think about my own Grandpa. I recall sitting on his lap when I was little, with my head resting against his chest, listening to his heart beat. As a child, I didn't realize it was his heart. I turned to him and said, "Grandpa, you sound like a cat purring." He smiled, and taught me, "You know, cats purr when they are happy. So do people. You make my heart happy." I settled back in, listening to his heart purr, and feeling as contented as a cat myself.Thank God for Grandpas! Ruth Brendle

And That Reminds Me #1

As I was posting the one below (about baseball) I was reminded that in about a month, baseball will commemorate (in the media, anyway) the passing of George Herman (Babe) Ruth. (He was holder of home run records prior to the longer season and certain "weapons of modern chemical enhancement.") How do I know it was 60 yeras ago? Because I composed the Chicago Sun-Times headline that appered that day in August, 1948. That headline was just two words, yet it filled the front page: "Bambino
Dies!"

That headline was set up on a sheet of paper and taped on the post in front of my desk. When I arrived at work each night, there it was for several days. Then, one hot, muggy night, it was gone, which meant it had been sent downstairs to be printed and The Babe was no longer with us. I felt a little like I was a part of history, even though it was only baseball history. (Note: it often happens that newspapers used to be aware of a famous person's impending death, thus they would compose headlines and obituaries in advance. Part of this was the fact that many large cities had several daily papers, and there was always a race to get "on the streets first." Young boys could earn money "hawking" papers on street corners," by shouting, "Extra! Extra! Read all about it. Get your latest paper here." Often, there were boys on the same intersection, but opposite corners, hawking three papers at same time! (Chicago's Tribune, Sun-Times, and Herald Examiner.)

The newspaper business has its own history.

Sunday Morning Is For Recalling?

You have to be old enough to remember how sad it was when they quit making Packard automobiles. (About 50 years ago?) Their slogan was, “Ask the man who owns one.” They had a unique grill and you could always identify their purring engine. Few of us actually thought we’d ever own one, but that gorgeous car was the stuff of our dreams.

Or, you have to be of an age when you had, actually, once ridden on a real train, with its dirty, sooty smoke and loud whistle. Or, maybe when dogs ran free and milk was still delivered by horse and wagon and the slow, plodding old nag could move ahead to the next “stop” by memory.

Yes, you have to have enough “miles on you” in order to recall the real pleasures of baseball. When players earned salaries that we could comprehend. When tickets and hot dogs were within reason. When your team was your team because of its history and also because it had always been your family’s team. When a trip to your ball park was a real treat, maybe just a few times a year, like fourth of July.

Believe it or not, once upon a time the Dodgers played in Brooklyn, NY. There was a second team in St. Louis, the Browns. A home-run slugger named Ruth was once a PITCHER! In other words, history itself was a big part of “our national pastime.” You needed to know these things in order to be your daddy’s child. (I recall taking our two girls to Wrigley Field one time and, pointing out to right field, I asked them, “Do you know who that is?” They didn’t. “Watch him carefully when he goes for a fly ball. That’s Roberto Clemente, and you are looking at the best there is. From now on, you should judge all outfielders by his standard.”)

Beginning with teams moving to other cities, and parks being torn down for bigger, newer palaces, and salaries skyrocketing out of sight, we fans were slowly falling behind in the “game.” Big Business now reigns and even congress is powerless to make our pastime legitimate…an even field of play. The last straw will be when they change the name of Wrigley Field. Our history, our hearts, will cease to keep time to the strains of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

Kids Can Write, Too, recalls GJ

Back to my "golden age," I guess it was, I find some verse written by two nine-year-olds in Jean's school at that time. Kate and Frannie must have been in the 4th grade. I compiled a few of them into an experiment, a very thin book of verse devoted to "poets" of the future, the present, and the past. Here are some excerpts.

My Body (by Kate Morris)

I see with my eyes
And I smell with my nose.
I stretch out my arms
And wiggle my toes.
I bend on my knees
And stamp on my feet,
And wiggle my bottom
Right off of my seat.

Lost (by Frannie Goldberg)

The bookmark is lost,
The paints are lost,
The pencils are lost,
And your purse is lost.
The phone book is lost,
And I'm lost, too!

SNAPSHOT #3

Question…An old, old family rumor has it that Mom was half or quarter Native American. It appears that any evidence was lost in a fire in the courthouse of a city in Wisconsin. The fire occurred the same day as the Great Chicago Fire, but was overlooked by the more famous event. The rumor was fuelled by the fact that the Wisconsin census of 1880 showed only 15 or 20 Caucasian, single women in the whole state of Wisconsin at that time. What are the odds that Grandpa ( or great grandpa ) found a bride among so few? (One of my brothers had some characteristics which were often taken as Native American, and he was told by an Indian woman on the street, once, that he “Was Indian.”) Did the evidence of the marriage burn up in that fire? Nobody else is around to tell us, but a memoir could have!

A Speech to Remember by King Deets

Spring, I think; balmy. After lunch, I think. It was going to be difficult to keep my eyes open, but then Mr. Van Delinder wasn’t much into discipline like I heard the nuns were down at the Catholic School. Rulers, straps, things like that.

Phil’s turn to give a speech. Phil was our star quarterback, wrestler, and pitcher for good ol’ BHS. Quiet. A bit rebellious, but then weren’t we all? A good friend.

“Mr. Tucker,” Mr. Van Delinder said calling Phil up.

Phil slid out of his seat, walked slowly, trying to be the jock that he was. He tried not to look nervous, but I knew he was. We all were. Standing up in front of a class full of peers, we tried not to embarrass ourselves too badly. After all, this was the first speech we had ever given in our short lives.

“I figured I’d start this talk off with a bang,” Phil said.

He was going to tell a joke? That was the school solution. Get everyone’s attention. Draw some sympathy from the audience, as if any were needed. Phil was no joke teller. Not like Delap. Now Delap, he could tell jokes. No, it would be a mistake for Phil to try to tell a joke. Not his thing. I prepared to groan.

But Phil didn’t tell a joke. No. He reached in one pocket and took out a stick match. You remember, those matches that you’d strike against any rough surface, even a pair of tight Levi’s, and they’d light by themselves. They’re banned now. Too dangerous or something. Can’t buy anything but safety matches anywhere now days.

Next Phil reached his hand in his other pocket, a struggle, my how those Levi’s were tight. I was up front; well, one or two seats back from the front, alphabetical seating, remember? Dau, Deets, Deevers. I was in the “D” row. I couldn’t make out exactly what I was looking at, but I had a bad feeling.

Phil struck the match put the match to...a fuse. A hiss. Phil dropped a smoking missle on the classroom floor. “Bo-Wah-Wee!” And out in the empty hall, the echoes. “Wahwee, wahwee, wahwee.” Then, silence. After the shock, no one spoke a word, Mr. Van Delinder dashed into the hall. Not like today. No armed guards roaming the hallways. And what do you know? Not a soul opened a classroom door. No principal marching toward our classroom to see what the ruckus was about. We all knew that if Mr. Popenheimer did show up, Van Delinder’s contract for next year was up for discussion.

Mr. Van Delinder looked one more time, left, right and closed the door. A short admonishment about how Phil’s opening was very original, but perhaps it would be best if those of us yet to give our talks would find another way of opening our speeches. Once was enough.

I don’t remember what Phil’s speech was about, only the opening. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember my own talk or any of the other student’s either. Just Phil’s opening.

At the 50th class reunion, when we were asked to recall events from the past, Judy Richards recalled Phil’s opener, except she said it was me that did it. I quickly denied it, believing credit is due those who earn it. Phil was sitting at Judy’s table too, right next to her. So when I put the responsibility where it was due, Phil just sat there, smiled and, I could tell, quietly snickering to himself. He knew.

King Deets

A Memoir by Dot Herndon

Seven years ago (when I turned 50) a friend gave me my first (of many) journal. I remember the first time I wrote in it thinking "I can't do this" ; "I don't have time" and all the excuses you can imagine. I feel those journals are my memories as I have written of all the fun times and the not so fun times we have had in our family over those years. I have written of our son getting married - the birth of our first granddaughter - and most recently when Harley was involved in the accident that made us truly thankful for all that God has done for us over the years and what he continues to do for us. I have some pages where I wrote one word HELP when I didn't know what to do. I find comfort going back and reading the journey I have taken over the years.

Dot Herndon has left a new comment on the post "FROM GRANDDAUGHTER, Sarah": I remember spending time with my dad's parents. They lived next door and my grandpa would pick me up most days after Kg in his wagon and off we would go so he could "peddle" his vegetables from his garden. My mom's mom stayed with different family members (her favorite being the cousins in Evergreen, Alabama). They lived in the country and she spent more time there than anywhere. But she always remembered our birthday by giving us a $1.00 bill. Of course, in the 50's that could buy a good bit of candy at the neighborhood store. I hope my kids have fond memories of the grandparents they knew. Dot

PROGRESS REPORT

I think that what I've learned is to post some comments. If you click on "comments" at end of a post, you'll see what I've received except for a couple that came via some other channel??? I'd like to find a way in which comments could be posted like the rest of the stories. This means I need to conuslt with daughter Nancy...later. I hope to do better soon. Love, GJ.

An Experiment by GJ

It's a cloudy, lazy Saturday morning, and I really need to figure out how to deal with the comments that I'm accruing. So, I'm going back to e-mail and hoping I can navigate my way through the terminology sufficiently to actually publish the first comment. If it works, I'll then proceed, full steam ahead.

Saturday's For Catch-Up...Grandpa Jim's, Anyway

OK, so I'm stalling a little. I have about five comments patiently waiting in the "in file," but I don't dare touch them until I know more about how to touch them!
Did any of you happen to catch a movie in the mid-1980's (for TV) called "Hard Knox?" The reason I ask is that the film's setting was a small town, Mount Carroll, in NW Illinois. I have some recollections of MC, because when I was small I spent a week or so near there several summers, staying at a cousin's farm. There were several other kids usually in attendance, mostly the cousin's grandchildren. The oldest was a boy of about 16, a foster child. Because he was old enough to drive, he would take us all into MC for a movie (always a western) and for ice cream... a PINT each! On the outskirts of MC stood several large, red-brick buildings, maybe three or four stories tall and a campus for The Frances Shimer College (for women.)
FSC has a little niche in my family's history, because my Grandfather was, reportedly, the only male who ever earned credit from this girl's school. The explanation is that Grandpa kept the fires going in the buildings and was given credit for some occasional courses he sat in on. How I wish he had left some memoirs of those days! Was he treated with respect? Probably. (We're talking about last half of 1800's.) Did he engage in banter with the co-eds? Which courses did he take? I never knew Grandpa because of the generation gap. I was a late child of a late child, and as so often happens, there is a big generational gap that results. As a matter of fact, I never knew a single grandparent. I saw my maternal Grandfather once, on his death bed, when I was probably six or seven. All I recall is that (A) he must have been the only ancestor who was tall, and (B) his feet stuck out from under the covers because beds were shorter back then. That Grandpa's name was "mud" in our house, because he sold his family! Yes, my Mom was an indentured servant, working on a neighbor's farm until sixteen. Dad would get upset if anybody brought up his father-in-law's name. But that's another long story for later. By the way, Mom never spoke ill of her father, and developed a wonderful bond with another girl working at that farm. She always called her "Aunt Della," for our benefit, and they corresponded for many years.
My Jean had seven aunts, one of whom, "Aunt Ruth," is the subject of numerous, humorous, tales. She even made a joke about her leg...the one that was amputated when she was about 93!
Another long story. Well, I've "gone on" long enough this morning. If you read enough memoirs, you soon develop a different slant on the passage of time, know that? (My Dad claimed to have seen Jesse James' brother Frank selling papers on the street in Kansas City!) Here I am, in 2008 communicating with people about events that took place over a hundred and twenty years ago.
Read a memoir. Write a memoir. Share a memoir. You'll be glad you did!

UPDATE By Grandpa Jim

It appears to me that there are still some "bugs" in this program. Please bear with me as I seek help. For one thing, I'm having trouble distinguishing between "comments," "posts," and regular e-mail that I receive. (Does that make it a transportation problem? Hey, I sold the car, traded my license for an ID card...I'm supposed to be free of transportation issues, right?) Somebody might claim that it's a technology matter, or a communication issue, but surely, in 2008 that can't be, can it? If one skims over the sort of memories I've been posting, one can see that there was a simpler, slower, kinder time. One of these days, maybe even this weeekend, I hope to introduce Hattie Flickinger to you. (Isn't her name almost descriptive of the person?) Hattie was born before 1900 and contributed to my newsletters in '83-'84.) Her primary memoir was entitled "The One Room Country School of 1898." It contains a lot of wonderful details that the history books have no room for.

LOOKING BACK by Mary Ellen Stelling

There is an old house
On a quiet street,
Where my childhood and I
Frequently meet,
As the lights come on
And the shadows fall,
And mothers in doorways
To their youngsters call.

I stand for a moment,
In sweet reverie,
Lost in the twilight
Where none may see
As the tears overflow
And, in dreams, I review
Those sweet yesteryears
And the floks I once knew.

KEEPSAKES By Mary Ellen Stelling

I opened a drawer the other day
And found some things I had put away;
Some lost illusions, a few tarnished dreams,
And half a dozen wonderful schemes.
I took them out and dusted them off,
Not knowing whether to weep or to scoff,
And though I intended to destroy the lot,
To my amazement, I found I could not!
So I tied them neatly in ribbon and lace
And tenderly put them back in their place,
For though I shan't use them ever again,'
To throw them away would cause too much pain.

Jim says...memories are like keepsakes...much better when shared!

Read a memoir. Write a memoir. Share a memoir. Today's best!

Grandchildren

By Mary Ellen Stelling

How strange it is!
I look at you
And see myself
At almost two.
While there, in jeans
And stubbed toes,
Your brother wears
My husband's nose!
It's somehow nice
To realize fate
Keeps making folks
In duplicate.

Patriotism by Grandpa Jim

There are times when I'd like to address some high school or college classes in US History or social studies, etc. I'd like to center my remarks around the subject of "risk." Anyone who has ever worn a military uniform has been "at risk," big time. It really broke my heart when some splinter group attacked John Kerry's service in Viet Nam. The fact that he was in the service...no matter which one...that he swore to obey orders...that bullets were aimed at him...some even striking his tiny boat, as I recall...made him at risk. Likewise, a marine stationed in North Carolina whose duty is to sort mail is at risk...because he may be called upon to be transferred to Iraq, or Pakistan, or Timbuctoo. In my time, anyone from 18 to 35 was at risk to be drafted. To be drafted was at risk to be sent into action. To be sent into action was at risk to be killed, wounded, or otherwise altered for the rest of one's life. Nobody should ever disparage the service of someone who has been at risk. (Note: anyone currently serving in the National Guard, or reserves, is at risk this very moment.)
Possibly my own experience will serve as an example. I enlisted in the Navy on my 17th birthday in May, 1944. (Dad had to sign!) From then until December, I was at risk in the lightest sense because I was being trained as a signalman and as a member of amphibious forces. Our ship left US in December, and we sailed to Hawaii via Panama Canal and San Diego. On the leg to Hawaii, we were "slightly at risk," because it was possible, though not probable, that Japanese submarines were in the area. On the leg from Hawaii to Guam/Saipan we were "more at risk," because the enemy was probably somewhere in the vicinity, although odds were low, because in early 1945, the enemy fleet was greatly diminished. On the leg to and arrival in Okinawa, we were "greatly at risk," because Kamikaze planes flew over us every day. (Our job was to "lay down smoke" for the larger ships in Buckner Bay. But...we were not at "greatest risk," because the planes (A) wanted the larger targets, and (B) we were not "as worth" sinking! I have read where someone criticized President Truman for dropping the bombs on Japan, yet we were at "great risk" to be called to run up on a Japanese beach if he hadn't. Yes, the bombs cost lives, but they saved lives, including mine. One of my classmates back at Great Lakes, Illinois, never left there. He was assigned to a school where he was needed. But he was every bit as "at risk" as I, half-way around the world. There was always a chance he'd be re-assigned in time for the absolute probability of an invasion. To me, patriotism is pretty simple. It is doing what your country needs you to do! Nothing else compares. If you love my country, I love you! Jim.

Read a memoir. Write a memoir. Comment on a memoir. E-mail Grandpa Jim. Today's best!

Happy Fourth of July

Can't help but recall one July 4th of my childhood. Our family always hosted the holiday picnic, mainly because we had the largest back yard. We were living in Elgin, Illinois, and most of those homes built in early 1900's were 1/2 block in depth; two houses, back-to-back, on separate streets. This permitted large front and back yards. We had a couple of picnic tables out there and Dad would let the grass grow during most of June, probably. Then he would mow it in the shape of a diamond so that we young'uns could play softball. On this particular 4th ( or a day or two before) Dad and I went downtown to buy fireworks. We took them home and it wasn't long before I had to ask if maybe we coouldn't fire off a "sample." (Quality control???) "Nope," Dad said. I asked again the next day, I think. "No, I already said," he said. (Yes... I asked a third time.) He didn't say anything. Just grabbed the bag of goodies and marched out in back and set fire to the whole bag. Man alive. It was something. I never asked a third or second time for anything ever again. Yes, that was harsh. The harshest he ever was. All I can figure is that it was the summer I turned 9 and Mom had died (about two months earlier.) Faced with raising me alone, still grieving, he certainly deserved to be forgiven. Fortunately, it was also a custom for young'uns to bring "sparklers" to the event. One or two were "slipped" to me, I guess. And all of a sudden, "sparklers" were great! Grandpa Jim.

Excerpt #2: My Life on the Farm by Adie Petzoldt

In 1983, at the time of this memoir, Adie was 70 years old and living in Quincy, Illinois. Adie belonged to a senior writer's group there. The group learned about my newsletter and sent in some memoirs. (Looks like an error of some sort. She says she was born 2 and 1/2 years before Frieda (1/6/1912) thus Adie had to have been born in middle of 1909, seems to me. Subtracted from 1983 would have made her 74. I suspect that the memoir had been written four years before it was submitted to me. Anyway, if her recollections in this brief excerpt are of special interest to you, post a blog and I'll post the remainder of this memoir: The remaining 80%.)

On January 6, 1912, my sister Frieda was born when I was just over two and a half years old. There were now six children plus our two parents living in a two-room log cabin with an attic that had no outer wall or ceiling. All of us thought that life was great.
That winter, we had the largest snowfall that I can remember. It drifted up to the windows of the house, and my father and brothers shoveled paths from the house, through the yard, and through the barn lot to the barn, the feeding trough, and the food bins for the farm animals.

Read a memoir. Write a memoir. Post a memoir. Today is the best day of all.

Excerpt #1: Water by Mabel Sterling

From habit, I'm a saver of water. I use a pan to catch the water from the faucet until it is hot enough to wash with. The panful is saved until I wish to water my flowers. I've always been a conserver of water.
As a child in Missouri, we carried water for our household up a hill from a spring, about a block away. Many years later on a farm in Iowa, we had a wonderful windmill to pump fresh, cold water, which we still carried in a pail for our household needs.
In the 1920's I went to a small Wyoming town to teach school there, and still there was no public water system. The management of our "rooming house" furnished us with a jug of shipped-in water from an artisian well for drinkling. We were supplied with daily hot water for our personal needs. Later, when I had married and had an apartment, the running water and a real bathroom was a step up, even though we did cook on a kerosene stove and heat the water in the same way.
I've always been fascinated by a quiet rain, a babbling brook, and the vast blue ocean. Just today I read an article stating that it takes from 500 to 2000 gallons of water to produce an average American meal.
It's no wonder that I "give thanks" when I can put a glass under the faucet on my refrigerator and get filtered ice cubes and cold water to drink.

Water was submitted to me in 1983 when Mabel lived in Torrance, CA. Probably long gone, her contributions were always welcome. I'll try to post some more of them, eventually.

From "The Collection"

Introducing Mary Ellen Stelling:

Mary Ellen was my unofficial "poet laureate" when I published "Memoirs" 25 years ago. From time to time I'll post some of her work.

I have an oh, so special friend
So lovely, sweet and kind.
I keep her in a secret place
Hidden deeply in my mind.

I have a special time of morning
That belongs only to me.
I allow my thoughts to wander
Like a spirit none can see.

And then almost by magic
She may sneak into my mind.
And we may wander hand in hand
Without words of any kind.

For friends, you see, there's no need for words
To voice friendship's definition.
The misty thoughts that bind us
Are beyond all recognition.

This thing called memory

I guess I'm fascinated by this thing called memory. Back in '83, when I published "Memoirs," I was impressed by the crisp, detailed recollections of various people who contributed stories. My own memory, ironically, is not that great! My best memory is for movies, actors, and especially "character actors," such as Liberty spokesman, Wilford Brimley. One of my contributors was a woman in her nineties! Her mind and memory were wonderfully sharp. Her name was Vie (for Violet) and I'll post some excerpts of hers from time to time. Sometimes I think my problem stems from falling, but only a few times on my head! Other Times, just a matter of individual differences in people, maybe? I recall having my mouth "washed out with soap" as a child for uttering a phrase that is pretty common today. I can almost taste those suds! (Today, my Mom would be punished for abuse, I suppose?) Anyone share my interest in memory? Try writing a memoir and you may get a new slant?