Off The Grid

Reminiscing about Drama

2012-01-05T10:57:00.000-05:00

I was caughtin a crowd of automobiles yesterday entering Madison, but the slow-down allowedme to pause in front of the old elementary school building. It now houses thearts center. I paused a moment to read the lighted sign in the front yard announcinga drama group’s audition for the play “Ramona”. That prompted me to recollectmy own entrance into dramatics.

During asession in North Carolina at two-month summer camp dramatics was offered as afun course. At age 14 I decided my timidways needed to be injected with some energy that would bring me out of myshell. I auditioned for several summer plays. I loved it and showed a flair forimprovising. I recall only one play in which I played the lead: “The Ghost inthe Green Gown.”

If youremember the plays in your high school, those silly ones that required theentire senior class on stage at one time or another, “Ghost” was just as silly,but required only 6 participants. I was the ghost with more lines to speak thananyone. During that play when the other players forgot their lines, I incorporatedthe missing lines in my speech to cover their forgetfulness.

Armed withsummer success, I began participating in high school and junior college. Bythen we dropped the name dramatics todrama. I continued participating in seniorcollege. When I became a teacher I took on the responsibility of being dramasponsor in small schools.

When Imarried we joined the local Little Theatre (now called New Stage) and helpedbackstage with what I had learned in college – makeup. I had become pretty adeptin the basics of stage makeup. But thelove of the stage beckoned me. I auditioned for “The Man Who Came to Dinner”and got a good spot as the maid. I workedone summer under a visiting director and learned more than I ever expected. Bythen I had a heavy load teaching and unable to audition for any more plays.With new family responsibilities drama dropped low on my priority list. I’mstill haunted by the fact that I no longer have the stamina to learn lines,practice nightly long hours, and deliver them satisfactorily.

However, news of auditions for plays, like the one on the signboard I saw yesterday, tugs at my heart. It gives me a chance to reminisce of fun times being someone else.

Appreciation at Christmas

2011-12-26T10:50:00.000-05:00

Christmas Day this year had a special meaning. Our grandsonat age 15 months brought the wonderment of a child in the same way that Baby Jesusawed the shepherds and the Wise Men. Our lives alone were becoming meaninglessuntil Henry came along. You who are grandparents already know and understandthe meaning of a new generation with your own grandchildren.

This year watching ourchild imbued with enthusiasm in the simple joy of smiling when he recognizeshis family, or when he runs to one to be picked up and loved a quick minute,trying out his new shoes, learning new movements with a play slide, or holdingup a new book to be read for a minute—all these actions of discovery is whatevery grandparent should experience. Wethank our son and his family for making our Christmas one of those we remember fifty years ago when he was the same age.

I Rmember the Earthquake

2011-12-11T00:24:00.001-05:00

Reuters has reported that Mexico has been hit by another earthquake, measuring 6.7 felt in the capital city of Mexico, D. F. and emanating from the Acapulco area. There several people were killed, but none in the capital.
The report stated that none have been reported since 1985. Then thousands were killed and parts of D. F. were damaged.

That same year of 1985 I was in the capital with two other adult women and 35 high school students of Spanish. Before we left for the educational trip, rumbles had been detected in the very area we'd be visiting, and I reviewed safety measures in case I needed them. Our second night at the Isabel Hotel near Chapultepec Park where we were staying we all went to bed before midnight (except most kids, of course). About 2 a.m. I began feeling an undulation in bed and hearing the tinkle of glass breaking in the bathroom. I had gone to bed with my clothes on that night in fear of a big rumble. Immediately I arose and went down the hall knocking on doors of the students and helping hurry down the narrow stairs those who were up and ready.

We all gathered in the main lobby, occupying all seats and many on the floor, waiting for the aftershocks. One couple came hurrying down rather late and to our surprise were wrapped in bedsheets. We knew they'd been rumbling long before the actual rumble set in. Remarkedly, the hotel was spared of any serious damage. A plate glass window broke, and nothing more. By the time we returned to our rooms the clock read 4 a.m. By then I recognized we had only half of the student group with us. When we got up the next morning we teachers met the students and discovered those who were staying up all night in each other's rooms stayed right there. It was difficult to judge whether they chose the right decision. I envisioned the upstairs crumbling onto the lobby. But it didn't. I discovered I never became afraid; there were the students' welfare to think of.

The following day we roamed around town, tripping over concrete sidewalks that had broken and protruded upwards, as well as buildings that had moved forward towards the street some few feet. Workers who had managed to return that day were standing near the windows of those misshapen buildings, unaware that their weight could easily weaken further the old buildings.

Fortunately we were not headed further south to Cuernavaca and Acapulco, but remained in the capital for the remainder of five days. We were fortunate that when we were ready to return on the plane, air traffic and motor traffic had been reduced. We returned home but not before everyone in the Jackson, MS area had read the local papers. Twice as many relatives and friends greeted us upon arrival home. It was good to be home.

Youngsters Driving

2011-11-17T11:13:00.001-05:00

Yikes! two kids driving cars and their parents put in jail. Down here in the South kids big enough to reach the pedals while sitting on a stack of magazines to gaze between the steering wheel have been driving for eons. My cousin from South Mississippi was driving by age nine and doing it quite well. Of course, these country kids didn't drive tractors or trailer-trucks, but their dads' 150's and 250's with aplomb. Who to disagree? They could maneuver through those dirt and gravel roads like race car drivers. Getting their licenses came about age 15 for sons of farmers; age 18 for the rest of us.

City folks like me used public transportation. The only drawback was dating with no car. Again girls met guys in town at the local movie, each riding separate buses to the locale. After a soda or malt near the movie theater, it was time to separate and go each's way on the bus. I recall in the eleventh grade how my boyfriend and I had to double date with an older guy and his date because he was 18 and eligible for a license. Many of you remember no kid owned a car in high school.

Seems the parents of the kids who drove to the gas station and to school could have used a bit of sense, found some back roads on a weekend and let the little guys drive to their hearts' content. Apparently that wouldn't have satisfied these kids--there'd be no one to see them behind the wheel.

The photo above is not what you think. Our daughter at age eight did not drive our VW. She felt like she was when she posed inside. A closer look and you'll see it was ready for the junk pile. Her dad had been hit by a van on his way to work. (He's still living) The front end and the windshield were goodby joe. This is the only photo we have of our dear ole' VW.

Later when she and the boys needed lessons, we went to a large parking lot where they drove circles until dizzy. Our biggest problem was learning to change tires. One son read the directions, one got the tools out of the car, daughter cheered while I tried to loosen lugs. Ah those days are forgotten whenever they jump into the driver's seat.

Aging

2011-10-22T11:51:00.001-04:00

I sat in the surgical lab waiting to give a blood sample. When the nurse handed me a vial upon which she affixed a label, she said, "Can you read that?" I thought she meant was it legible, and I answered,after reading the vital info, "Well, I sure can, but I wish you'd leave the age out. I feel 50 but the truth lies on that label." She began to quote a verse from Psalms (only in the South does this happen) about taking what you have and doing something with it. I told her my goal was to reach 140. She laughed, then said "That's possible. My grandmother died when she was 105, my father when he was 95, you just might get close." She rambled on. "I don't understand why retired people just sit around moaning they have nothing to do. They even die early out of boredom." I assured her I didn't let boredom enter my door.

The idea of dying creeps into my life occasionally, just a flit of a reminder of the number of folks who pass away in the seventies of their lives. I don't feel nor think I look "old". Anyway, I've reminded my God that He can't take me until I've cleaned up the house and given away all the accumulation that crowds my space.

Last year I embarked on the journey to contact all those friends I made from elementary to high school to thank them for being in my life. Unfortunately, so many had passed away or moved away and out of the phone books. I did find two teens of that time who shared the love of Civil Air Patrol. an Air Force auxiliary for teens. We spent two weeks at an encampment learning the fundamentals of army life. We girls wanted to be a part of the armed forces, but in our time that was not the pick of young women. We were born too early. Fortunately, the young woman in Ohio and I are still emailing. They young man I found in South Carolina, a happy changed person from the one I once knew. He reminded me of my mother's generosity in helping him once with lunch money while he was attending college. I had been corresponding with him during our college days. That phone call and subsequent emails brightened my time spent in locating them.

Next, I found in a high school scrapbook the newspaper article of an outstanding high school basketball player. I knew him to have joined the Navy and left Mississippi, only to return later in life. His picture was snapped at a community center for seniors. I called a number I hoped was his and found him at home. He was delighted to know I had the article highlighting his basketball days. Dropping that into the mail was the third move.

The last person I found lived on the Gulf Coast. I had a snapshot of him standing in front of a ten on maneuvers while in the Army. I mentioned in the phone call who I was (I remembered him quite clearly, but he wasn't sure of me) and said I had the snapshot. He was delighted, as several hurricanes had wiped out all his precious mementos. Sending that to him completed my fourth contact.

In each case I remembered something nice about the person and thanked them for coming into my life. Of course, I knew that many of them are still wondering who that woman was who called, but within myself I had started the ball rolling. Sadly, I've not found enough people to whom to show appreciation. I'm still working on that project.

I missed my teachers who have all passed away. I should switch my legs for waiting so long to tell them how much I appreciated the little things they did for students in their time. Perhaps one day they'll find out.

Searching Through the Past

2011-10-03T13:40:00.000-04:00

I've sailed through past families in my journey through ancestry-land, but I've never been so stumped as I am with aspects of the Mitchell families of Louisiana and Mississippi. I've even encountered other "cousins" who send me information that still mystifies me. Why did these old folks make discovering their lives so difficult? Unlike the East and Southern states like Virginia, Maryland, and North Carolina, there was a time that family name meant something and their lineage was written down.

You can gag at the idea of families wanting to record their lineage for posterity, but it's greater than you think. I am part of their posterity. But as many families journeyed southward to Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee the importance of who they came from weakened. I recall my still-active aunt telling me that when she was attempting to write down her family's history the standard reply was, "We weren't important." Ah, but keeping the chain going is what 's important. They were thinking of the then--a time they weren't interested in knowing, not the now when one and two generations want to connect.

One of my Mitchell "cousins" is as mystified as I about the connections of this Mitchell with that Mitchell. Together we are trying to piece together other people's lines where dates and connections to people have taken a side road from ours. This is where we realize that we should have started this trip some 20 years ago, not wait until we retired and needed something to keep us busy as we age. No, we knew we could only scratch the surface, but a few generations back was better than none.

My plan was to find a few generations of relatives. I was pretty ignorant of family ties. I had in mind four families -- two from each of my and my husband's lineage. But those lines developed into additional lines--this person marrying into that family and having 15 kids (no fooling!) who bear the same surname as I and before I knew it the families were multiplying as fast as rabbits. There's no such thing as pulling out six people and their families. The number is more like 1,006 or 10,006.

One point about searching for your long, lost relative -- it is as exciting as a fox hunt. Only you as the hound is seeking anything hidden anywhere that verifies relationships. the thousands of pieces of paper microfilmed of marriage and birth certificates, federal censuses, biographical listings, preserved family histories begun in the 1800's or earlier, DAR applications, countless lists of army enlistees of the various wars, to name a few. You have to know where to look. What helps is finding photos, traipsing through old cemeteries to snap that particular headstone or the old home place and collecting from relatives their photos and sources like birth certificates to lend you for scanning. Then there are the endess number of people you meet who have seen your line and want to know if you have information about a similar relative 200 years back.

All of this makes for an exciting day when the temperature is too hot or too cold or too miserable. Searching can occur when you are bored with television, tired of cleaning house, or have finished the dinner dishes. I've been known to follow a line as late as 3 p.m. when I couldn't let go of the keys because I'd discovered a relative.

There's no way life gets weary for a family researcher. Trust me. I know from experience.

We Have Maids Still

2011-09-16T10:48:00.000-04:00

The big hoop-la about the movie and book The Help has created a hush-hush attitude about our hiring help for the home. True, all of the women in the book/film were wealthy and in some kind of need for a second hand --BUT they do not represent all of the Jackson and Mississippi women from the 1960's to present. I lived a few blocks from Brent's Drugs in an area we call Fondren and I had a maid. If the word those days had been "housekeeper" we would have used that word, but we had always called our help "maids". My story is similar to many women who tried to understand and help the plight of the black maid.

I worked as well as my husband and we had kids aged 7, 6 and 3. Edna was hired to take care of them, see the boys got to school and home safely, and take care of the youngest. She and the youngest were at home, so they ate lunch together, took walks and oftentimes waited at the school for the boys. She had her own two at home under the guidance of her sister. I think we paid her $25 a week then; that was just about what I made teaching school. We picked her up and took her home daily. She wore a uniform at her choice. She sat in the front seat with us when either of us drove her home. She used our bathroom.

When civil strife broke out we never thought to discuss it with her. Despite the Rabbi's home being bombed two blocks from us and despite the roaring headlines in the newspapers reviewing the actions of the previous day -- our lives with Edna went unspoiled. She didn't talk about the happenings nor did we. Mainly because we were only with her the 15 minutes' drive to her home.During those twice-travels we were either anxious to get to work or anxious to return home for supper. She had her weekends free.

One day shortly after she'd worked a few months, I asked Edna if she were on social security. She didn't know about it. I went to the SS office and picked up the papers, filled them out, explained to Edna what this was, and she signed the papers.

Edna Gill was a huge woman, clean, and loveable. She was quiet and rarely conversed with us outside home matters. We respected her. We loved her and distressed to give her up after four years.We moved to another town and couldn't arrange transportation for her. I put an ad in the paper for" a good home for our maid." I interviewed three women who were looking for more than what Edna's responsibility had been with us. I balked and refused to give her up to them. A week or so after the ad had run its course, a woman called . She came to our home and we talked. She seemed genuine in understanding that she was to treat Edna fairly, provide her transportation, keep up her social security, and if for some reason she couldn't employ Edna in the future, carefully select Edna's next boss. Edna worked for this woman about two years.

Several years later we visited Edna's house one weekend to see how she was doing, expecting her to still be working for our replacement. No, she stated, she was now working for the state. She was a caretaker for babies with health deficiencies, working nights. My replacement had found Edna a job with a retirement. We were overjoyed. She was "set for life".

One Christmas the family took holiday fixin's to Edna and her son, only to find Edna retired, living off her pension and social security. She was suffering from diabetes. In the course of conversation she thanked us and for her replacement. Together we had put her on the right track for retirement. She died five years later.

Our family is typical middle-class, among the many who hire a maid for various reasons. Right now in my subdivision I see maids picking up the mail, sweeping porches, and whatever they do inside is probably clean house. The few black women who advertise by handbills or advertisements now charge $50 an hour, some requiring at least two hours' work. These black maids now have competition from white women. This has become a business, not a helter-skelter hiring and firing. We have 40% of our population black and many uneducated, disinterested in education (age, perhaps) and housecleaning is their only experience. I see maids driving older women to appointments, helping with grocery shopping, and many are hired by companies as companions to the elderly. Clearly we have plenty of black women who need work, unlike other sections of the country.

If you have difficulty understanding our use of help in the Deep South, think of the Latino or German or Swedish maids in your hotels and the myriad of workers in the restaurants where you eat, stores where you shop, parks that are kept clean --you'll find an equivalent of our black maids there, and then -- maybe, you'll understand.

TODAY

2011-08-30T18:03:00.000-04:00

Today is MY DAY. The sun is shining and the weatherman predicts 101 deg for the day. I can't complain. We've experienced harrowing hours watching Irene rip across states leaving death and destruction. My day has seen disasters and accidents in the past: Katrina six years ago,the flooding of the Delaware River while we were in New York (one of several times in early 2000) and Diana's accident. Death, destruction and happiness rolled into the last of August.

I came into the world to two hard-working people who lived in Jackson, Mississippi.. Mother was 19 and Daddy 21. They had been married 13 months. I'm not sure my appearance was a good omen or not, because I remember nothing of my childhood but their struggles and their attempts to keep me happy while shielding me from the poverty of the Depression years. From the moment I was able to talk about birthday, they asked me what I wanted for my gift. I replied, "A pink dress with two pockets." I didn't get that dress until I was10 years old. It was probably on lay-away for months. Thanks Mom and Dad for rearing me in hard times.

Happy Birthday to me. Thank you family and friends for remembering an aging creature who appreciates her life.

Above is me at aged 7 or 8 in a flowered dress made by Mother,carrying a purse with a Kleenex inside.
I felt so grown up that day.

A Plea in the Dark

2011-08-17T17:10:00.002-04:00

Some time in the past three years an inventor heard my impassioned plea. I had begun to dread cleaning up the house. The very idea that to clean floors I had to take the cotton mop, dip it in soapy water, scrub the floors, then rinse, finally with two weakened hands, wring out the water--a waste of my dying strength. So I ignored the floors. I began to ignore everything in the house. I felt like an old woman who made her way through stacks of newspapers and magazines from one room to another, except in my case, it was dodging fluff balls and ignoring the collection of detritus lining the floors in the corners. Sounds terrible, doesn't it? But R said we had too many "things" in our house to have a housekeeper, so the "things" were the only items that didn't collect over time.

That's when someone understood my anguish and invented the Swiffer. Hubby thought owning one was showing how lazy he was. Who could have been lazier than we? So we waited a year until R's patience blew to the ends of the earth. He went out and bought one version of the Swiffer. Now he loves cleaning the floors.

I suppose one has to get fed up with old ways to suddenly see above your head a floating suggestion to solve problems.As new owners we hesitated to tell anyone we had one for fear we would be seen as slackers. Then the day came when we heard rumblings about cutting down on housework from neighbors and friends and we perked up and told our story. Before too many weeks passed, we discovered the Swiffer was popular in most homes. We didn't stand alone.

Combined with our dish washer and coffee maker, we are now a happy household.

No Fig Preserves This Year

2011-07-23T19:13:00.000-04:00

As early as last fall I set a goal to preserve some figs that would pop out mid July of this year. I had done this several years ago, but I feared I failed to boil properly and kept the jars in the fridge. A quick canning course at Viking gave me the confidence to try this year. In late June I put up some strawberry preserves and blueberry jam. The previous preserves probably will have to be attacked with a surgical steel knife, as I "think" I cooked them on the stove a tad too long. I was pleased with the results. Then I tried some pickled onions, using the purple onions as stated in my guide. I believe they cooked too long, also, but I have a few jars I'll taste later. All this while I waited for the figs to burst onto the scene.

July 4 brought a few surprises, but they were small. The heat had been relentless and I feared the little rain would produce undersized fruit. However, I gathered a few each morning that disappeared before I could serve breakfast. July 8 I came down with what I thought was intestinal flu (later diagnosed as a chronic attack of IBS) and in my bed, through my fever-laden body that refused to move I had to weakly hark to R."Pick the figs, please." Think of a little old lady trying to get the salesman's attention and and you'll know how I sounded. Since R didn't care for figs, he didn't rush out in early morning to beat the birds. However, I keep repeating the mantra and he was forced to please me at least once. My illness lasted during fig season. Too late to do anything but plan to go to the farmers' market and buy their preserves put up by a gentleman 25 miles away.

Our fig tree was planted about 30 years ago in a sheltered spot in the back corner of our yard clear of trees. We failed to take into account the surrounded bushes would be trees in a few years competing for the sun with our fig tree. Yep, that's what happened. The limbs have reached into the yard seeking the sun now for several years, Some limbs are tied to the ground from lying so low over time. R threatens to cut it down, but I convinced him that was the 8th sin.. Too late to set out another tree--the perils of aging.

Photographs

2011-06-20T12:13:00.001-04:00

With a new baby in our family, that of our oldest son J's, we are bombarded with photos and videos as though H is a new rock star. His every move is followed by anxious parents who desire to preserve these precious moments, when, in thirty years or less, they can review and laugh and cry and remember.

A remark by daughter J over the phone after laughing about H's latest tricks, "I still love photo albums. I hope you haven't discarded those we've had all these years." This made me realize that all media is acceptable in this world. There will always be a need for the old fashioned photo album.

Next, our daughter said, "Mom, I hope you are scanning all those pictures we took on vacations. I want the originals." What a mass of responsibility she laid on my shoulders! Thanks to my interest in genealogy and my subscription to Ancestry.com, I have scanned everything I could find, noting online the important information as I remember. But the snapshots I failed to identify. I know, I should have listened all those years back about ID'ing the pictures. I said to myself then, "No one will forget the time and place!" That's a young mind thinking.

I'm reminded of the time I shuffled through very old albums belonging to my mother and mother-in-law. Both albums were created in the 1920's and 1930's. The pages frayed, no identification existed on any snapshot taken with the old Kodaks of the day. A glance and today we wonder who were those people with her? Is this taken in Havana when E visited there in the 1920's? Where was this taken? Is this Granmother's house? Questions that will never be answered.

A recent email entry by Ancestry.com concerns preservation of photos and photo albums. The first photographic album was patented by F. R. Grumel of Geneva, Switzerland in 1861. The United States went crazy over these albums a year later when the Morning Oregonian of 1862 declared, "Everybody, now-a-days, must have a Photograph Album, to be in fashion." From then on just about everyone who owned a camera of snapshots possessed an album. Early albums with their black, rough but fragile papers have to be preserved, as well as the photos, to prevent further deterioration.

Unfortunately, to scan many of my mother and mother-in-law's photos, I tore apart the pages from their albums. No way could I detach the photos as the glue (probably flour and water) was strong enough to hold a battleship together. The albums themselves were non-descript, furthering my interest in dismantling them. My adult children will no doubt be disappointed at my actions.

There was a time when two of our three kids searched yard sales for old photo albums. They felt someone needed to preserve these treasures so blatantly discarded by hand-me-down owners. They enjoyed musing over the scenes taken during happy times. I began to realize how valuable was everyone's life history set in pictures, even to strangers. Saving these albums was like preserving antiquity.

My big problem now is what do I do with all those loose snapshots I dropped in Ziplock bags unidentified? Someone will need to know the circumstances for the camera shots. Let's see, a check of my calendar says I can start . . .
.

Hot Summer Days Less Productive

2011-06-09T21:15:00.001-04:00

I've hit a snag in my daily life. All of a sudden I don't want to spend any more time than an hour at the computer. I don't want to get outside, except for grocery shopping or water exercising. The hot and humid days seep my energy. All I want to do is sleep and sit. No television. No jewelry work. No stories to type up. I feel I'm more in the throes of deadbeat days. The weather was in the upper 90's for a couple of weeks. However, this week a tiny bit of rain and cool-down dropped the temp to 82 and 88 degrees. What a relief.

I open my email to Discovery online and read this: "
"The hottest summer day you remember from childhood could be the norm in a few decades; in fact it looks like the heat has already been cranked up.
When scientists talk about global warming causing more heat waves, people often ask if that means that the hottest temperatures will become 'the new normal,'" said Noah Diffenbaugh, an assistant professor of environmental Earth system science at Stanford," as reported by Tim Wall for Discovery News. Maybe that gives me carte blanche to be lazy.

To make the statements above I should be ashamed. I'm unable to volunteer to help those families involved in the floods and tornadoes.In my quiet time my mind skims along the shores of the Mississippi River where families struggle to clean debris from their flooded homes, assess the damage, clarify their future, with far less clothing and food than they once had. Fighting putrid water, slapping at mosquitos, peering around for dangerous snakes and crocs while they work can't be the most fun, but it is the biggest reality show on earth at this time. Keep these folks in your thoughts and prayers. Donate where you can.

A WEEKEND OF PLAYS

2011-05-16T15:54:00.001-04:00

Every year the Alabama Shakespeare theatre in Montgomery, AL hosts a two-day festival of new play readings and celebration of new playwrights. I enjoy the readings better than the actual performances. We audience use our imagination "seeing" the movements, costuming, lighting. Reading is done by the young professional troupe serving a period of time performing through a play season. Young people with some professional experience, interns just learning the ropes, and older, more experienced Actor's Equity performers who yearly return until the audience recognizes them and revel in their ability to "become" a different character.

The playwrights were John Logenbaugh who wrote "Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Christmas Carol" a winner to see alternately every Christmas with "A Christmas Carol." Edward Morgan adapted a short story of William Faulkner's apropos to the trouble with the Mississippi River, "Twenty Seven". Action taking place during the flood of 1927 in Mississippi was dark but excellent. John Walch, who wrote "Double Time" the life a black producer who pioneered the Harlem Renaissance of plays in the late 1920's was backed with music and lyrics by Nils Rogers who with Walch came to Montgomery for a run through. The actors in this song and dance review had only a few weeks to prepare and carried off with superb skill and talent.

The evening productions by the Acting Company were Julius Caesar and Moonlight and Magnolias, the latter a farce based on actuality (with a little exaggeration here and there) of the making of Gone With the Wind film.

Five hours is a long trip for three aging, female, play-lovers. Next year we're considering hiring a handsome young man who will drive us there and back. Any suggestions?

Preparing for a Tornado (or Other Disasters)

2011-05-09T11:31:00.002-04:00

When a "Watch" has been issued in our area, I run around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off and gather the items I want to have with me. We sit in a deep closet on stools. In a large bag I gather our check books and extra checks, at least a gallon of water, crackers and peanut butter, a plastic knife, a container of Wipes, toothbrushes and paste, tinted moisturizer, comb/brush, and basic jewelry that means something to me (not necessarily expensive) and my computer discs. I subscribe to Carbonite, so I don't worry about my computer files.

The latest online issue of This Old House adds the following: fishing line(for tying back doors to stay open), a solar fan, heavy gloves, vinyl tablecloths (cheaper and more useful in their sizes). These can already be packaged and in your favorite hidey hole.These items come in handy whether or not you have a house standing.

The rising of the Mississippi River reminds me of the time the Delaware River rose and we were unaware of this when we returned from Maine at night into Milford, Pennsylvania to return to Barryville, NY on the other side of the Delaware. There are more bridges in the area than one realizes. We got as far as the last bridge on the PA side and were met with policemen directing us to an elementary school for the night.

I recall the cafeteria workers on duty baking cookies and making sandwiches for all of us stranded folk. We had little to do to while away the hours. Then the Red Cross brought in cots that had been stored since World War II by the smell of them, but we lay down and snuggled under those thin, wool blankets that reminded us of being a soldier in a war. Terribly uncomfortable, warm. Just as we fell asleep we were awakened stating the roads were clear of high water. The time was 2 A. M.

Returning to the same bridge only a few miles away we were again rerouted on roads that at night time made our short trip a long one. We had to travel north some 25 miles and circle through state and county roads to arrive a familiar roadway running south that took us into Barryville. By then it was nearing 5 P. M. We had left Maine at noon, driving seven hours. The length of travel imprinted on our minds was not the difficulty, but what happens when flooding affects an area and the tremendous help given those stranded.

Visiting the Old Neighborhoods

2011-04-28T13:39:00.002-04:00

Sis and I had motored through the old neighborhoods some 15 years ago, but on this occasion we had along with us a former neighbor and childhood friend, Sara, who had lived in a duplex adjacent to our apartment when she and Sis were six years old and I was 13. Sara was in town from Delaware to attend her high school reunion at Provine. After a light lunch I suggested Sis and I show her how Jackson had changed by touring our old neighborhoods where each of our families had lived periodically.

Not an easy task to wander through narrow streets we once thought were wide; past houses where we remembered this person and that lived; where once stately houses stood; and finally to the street, Fourth Avenue, where we had begun our lives knowing each other. At first finding the block was difficult. Some houses were torn down, others in states unfit to live in but were, and many boarded up. However, the little duplex with the front porch that wound to the side with a half bricked wall, we knew was our old home place. How small the yard is, we exclaimed. The porch, I'd recognize the porch anywhere, we added. We sat in our stopped automobile in the middle of Fourth Avenue while memories flooded.My suggestion that we knock on the door and ask to see the interior drew no yes's. None of us could remember if there had been a driveway, as there was now. Sara remembered a back yard and a garden. We each brought to mind something the other had forgotten.

We rode slowly down the block, turned into the wide Grand Avenue, which suddenly was narrower, looking at houses and trying to place certain houses that once held friends. We came upon a faded white stone house with a turret in much decay. We pulled out of our minds the fact we'd called this the "haunted house". It's beauty was hidden by layers of mold slathered across the turret's exterior, tree branches resting on the decaying roof. Overgrown yard.What a shame allowing such a lovely home sit in that condition. Sis suggested we find out its owner and buy it, recondition it and move into it. Silly dreams. We couldn't buy a door, much less the entire house. And the neighborhood would be too iffy for us to reside.

Another spin around the neighborhood brought more oohs and aahs. We had forgotten about the small church that had been only a block away. The large Lovelace home was now no longer standing,a new subdivision laid out in its place.Turning back onto Robinson Street we passed our old elementary school, Poindexter, and still sitting in its place. The large yard as we remembered with our small eyes had diminished. But the wording across the top of the school was as bold as we recall. Then a pass by our junior high school, Enochs, across from Poindexter Park brought memories of some of our happiest school days. The park now denuded of all the swings and sand boxes and benches is a grassy lawn. No reason to enjoy the outdoors as we three once did on those silver gliding swings. A quick run down Central Street where Sis and I had lived was another disappointment. We found our aunt's home, but the tiny grocery so convenient was missing. Familiarity was disappearing from this area. We may a well have been in another town in another state.

From there we entered West Capitol Street past the Methodist Church and headed towards the rail road tracks and the new buildings of the train station. Sara hadn't seen the newly-furbished King Edward Hotel, sitting majestically among the ruins of once thriving buildings we so fondly recalled. Abandoned, boarded up facades once watched us prance down the street unafraid to be alone or with a friend as we made our way to the State Theater or further uptown to the Paramount or the Lamar Theaters. Sara remarked how much we walked from our homes to anything in town without a thought of distance, choosing that over the city buses. I pointed to the modern structures that had replaced Woolworth's, several clothing and retail shops, pointing to Sara, "That's where Walgreen's used to be". Through our eyes we saw the safe streets we had walked from our homes in West Jackson to the busy downtown of Jackson circa 1940-1960. Our wonderful West Jackson was a memory.

We failed to drive by Hawkins Field, the Jackson Zoo, Livingston Park, down Robinson Street where our churches were located. So much still to find. That awaits for Sara's next trip to the state.

Shoes, Wonderful Shoes

2011-04-21T15:37:00.000-04:00

A recent advertisement for a shoe company in town brought back memories. As you can see in the photo the wedge is popular now. The style is similar to ones I wore in 1954 when I began teaching in a very small community near Oxford, MS.

Newly married, I had moved with R to the student housing, not the best at that time but cheap. I had a job teaching in an unincorporated school district. To offset the few students I was assigned to, the principal asked me tobe the librarian. I had to enroll in two three-hour courses in June to be able to hold such a “responsible” job.

Already I had two years of experience behind me in the Delta in small communities, but this one near the University of Mississippi was a pitiful example of how necessary this district needed to incorporate with larger ones. This particular school began in July and released the students in the fall for one month so kids could help with crops. I wore my coolest clothing, as those days didn’t see air conditioners in school buildings. Topping my outfits were my lightest shoes, straw wedges. I wore them every day because they were easy to slip on and off. My job as librarian rarely saw me out of a chair, hence, removal of my shoes when no one was looking.

In the six short weeks I was employed, the local teachers let me know that I was too dressed up. The students had never seen shoes like mine;” citified” was barking loudly around me. I ignored their remarks, not understanding how anyone thought I was citified. I did speak better English—was that it, really?

Those shoes lasted the rest of the warm fall and the following spring when I was teaching in Jackson, Mississippi, where I transferred . Now, 57 years later this style is popular again. You can bet I’ll have another pair like the ones above, not to celebrate my teaching in the country, but to remember an early time in my life.

A Week of Cold, A Day of Pure Warmth

2011-02-26T15:12:00.001-05:00

You all know that putting away seasonal clothing isn't today's method. With the weather playing hop-scotch across the map, we need a closet for warm clothing and a closet for heavy outerwear. No longer in the South can we expect our winters to be mild. We had our worst winter this year in a decade, yet by eastern standards it was a breeze. Today, Saturday the sun is shining and the air is a warm 78 degrees. Tomorrow is expected to be cold again with the usual thunderstorms and tornadoes we have around March and April. Nothing new, is it?

Regardless of the weather, warm or cold, I am tied to the computer. After spending $$$ for a desk-type, I now long for a laptop so I can sit outdoors and pen the words rushing though my head. It has been said that writers are loners. Like jugglers, we attempt to balance family life with our desire to pound on the keyboard, hating to leave our seat to satisfy a son or daughter who wants us to join the rest of the family for dinner. Then we become robots in conversation, while holding a thought, a scene, an idea inside, and anxious to skip after-dinner coffee and dessert for a quick trip home. Or when I have to stop to hear my husband expound on what he's read, I give the impression that I'm not interested. Not so. With so little time in my life left to do what I've always wanted to accomplish, I feel rushed to write everything that comes to mind.

New words, new ideas flow like a thawing faucet and the fingers go into action. I'm not a many-published writer, but I write because I have stories to tell, created from my romantic instinct that runs constantly across my brain, becoming real in my whispered enactments -- someone would say I'm losing my mind. The openings of stories are just that -- openings. They sit in my Document file under "Unfinished Writings." Occasionally I pull up one and reread what has been typed, then add a few paragraphs. Are they worthwhile to keep? Maybe so, maybe not. But seeing the words flow across the screen gives me a personal satisfaction, like the feeling you receive from that first cup of coffee. One day some of the ideas will jell into one good story.

When I reach the point of being screen-weary, I stop, turn to genealogy or fulfill a jewelry order. By the time I return to the computer, I'm fresh with new ideas, born during family research and the fulfillment of creating something spiritual for an unknown customer. But I return to my stories and I'm happy, whether it is raining or sunny outdoors.

Two Material Items I'm Thankful For

2011-01-15T12:27:00.002-05:00

Living off the grid for five summers, three to six months at a time, taught me how simplified life should be. I'd return home and not desire anything new around the house to make me more lazy than I am. But since 2010 that has changed. I now own a dishwasher and a Kuerig Coffee Maker.

My husband objected to dish washer for using so much water and electricity when I could clean dishes faster, but not as clean as he desired. For instance, if I left a bit of smudge on a fork and he found it in the silverware drawer, he made a big deal out of it. I'd say "Just clean it and you'll be fine." That failed to satisfy him. Or if a bit of grease so tiny stayed on a dinner plate, he'd find it and fuss, fuss, fuss. Finally he took over the dishwashing job and within a year or so decided We Need a Dishwasher. I should have left more grease spots than I did years ago. Now our Bosch is like our child. We love doing dishes; we fight over who'll load and unload.

A coffee drinker, meaning one who drinks one or more cups daily, I am not. The first time I discovered that coffee wasn't only Maxwell House and Folger's (my aplogies to those who still use these products) was the visit to Boston in the mid 1980's when our daughter took us to a little cafe to sample the kind of coffee they serve there. What a surprise taste my palate enjoyed! This was so delicious I couldn't drink enough. This was long before internet ordering had begun.

Then came the websites and Gevalia. R loves Gevalia, but it never tastes "quite right". If I needed desperately to drink a cup of java because I needed to stay awake, I'd force a few sips in the A. M. We began making our coffee the Melitta way, because of our strength differences. However, I Never Could Make A Good Cup of Coffee.(Here I must apologize to all who've downed my Bad Java when visiting!) My thinking changed when I visited V2 on the Gulf Coast and she served me the most delicious cup since Boston. She had a Kuerig coffee maker. I returned home toying with the idea that I'd give us this maker for a holiday gift. But the "off the grid" mentality hit me. I didn't need another electrical appliance, I argued to myself. So what if coffee is now deemed safe, if not healthy, I still could continue to make it through my little coffee filter/holder. A chance remark to my sister who took that statement about the new coffee makers to heart. Christmas we opened her package and my life has been one-cup-a-day-happier.

January 15, 2011

2011-01-11T12:23:00.000-05:00

Remember how we used to count hours, days, weeks, and months until that special day arrived? Each month since September I've been aware of the 15th. In September on a Sunday of that time in the month R and I received a wonderful gift--our first grandchild. Now to all of you who have grandchildren already running around may forget the first one; you probably were fortunate to have them early. But to R and me, we're in our mid 70's and having a grandson for the first time has revealed mixed emotions. January 15th will mark HB's fourth month to be in our world. He is adorable, the son of beautiful parents and loving grandparents. Now, R and I know we have to make the most of our time (and I'm not worried, as I'm living until 140!) profitable in experience for this little tyke.

As we think of the ensuing years we hope to make an impression with him so he'll remember us. Will we see him graduate? Marry? Have a family of his own? Probably not; however, we'll make each time with him the best we can contribute.

If you're a grandmom or g'pop, give me some good ideas how we can preserve our time with him so in future years he'll remember his other grandparents.

Lifting My Spirits

2011-01-06T18:03:00.002-05:00

It took a beautiful wedding in a nearby Catholic church to lift my holiday spirits. Not wanting at first to go out the eve of the dawning of a new year, but the weather turned quite warm. Of course the warmth was preceded by storms of great magnitude and tornadoes sweeping in and around our home, but at 7:30 p.m. when I was to leave, calm prevailed. Some would say the Heavens declared the union with its own brand of trumpets and roll of drums, but others would counter with "Ah, that's Mississippi for ya."

A road trip to the delta area of our state with my sister to gather info for an article gave us the wonderful opportunity to visit a small town, Rolling Fork. Nearby is the community of Onward where Teddy Roosevelt visited to kill his bears. The Rolling Fork community has a growing interest in revitalization. The subject of our trip, Mount Helena, an 1899 home built as a second home for Helen Johnstone and her second husband, an Episcopal priest, to serve as a summer place.

Traveling north along Highway 61 this home sits on the only raised area and is quite noticeable. The house was constructed on top of an Indian ceremonial mound. fronted by flat planting land. Time and destruction has caught this home in their grip. Today it's history on a hill. Reconstruction is underway and annually a play is presented in the downstairs living area that retells the house and family history.

The enthusiasm of the families who maintain the house's heritage is catching. One is reminded that delta families still cling to their ancestors' contribution to the area. It was refreshing to visit this home on a sunny January day and meet the families who are working to keep Rolling Fork, MS alive .

This Holiday Season

2010-12-23T17:43:00.001-05:00

I don't have much spirit this year. Gone is the excitement of decorating the home inside and out; searching and purchasing a tree to put in that right spot in the sun room; wrapping gifts bought secretively. Perhaps the emptiness I feel is (1) having our own grown kids in scattered places, or (2) having a grandson only four months old, too young to share much with him.

Too much sickness has roamed our home. Too little time for me to write down everything that somersaults through my mind. Too much of my life disappearing. I'm not the one ill, I"m the one desiring to accomplish so much more in the remaining short time. (I've asked for an extension of 40 years;that decision .)

I ventured out one day, camera in hand, to snap decorated mailboxes -- found only two examples. Our neighborhood has all their curbside mailboxes topped with pine bough/red ribbon. Outside the gates I found one mailbox beribboned as a package. Nothing more. In earlier years mailboxes were treated more affectionately as an extension of yard decorations. Perhaps there are others who are not exactly hot and heavy on decorating this year. Does money have anything to do with this lack of decoration? Nah, the houses are filled with over-60 years of age folks who, like me, just don't care to go to the trouble. Christmas has a different meaning, perhaps one that nearer what it should be.

The card this year we mailed out has our 50 year old's age six depiction of Christmas. He didn't miss anything. Oh, to experience that innocence again!

Midnight service at my church will invigorate me and help me remember that after tearing through the wall of tinsel I'll remember this is the commemoration of the Birth and become invigorated again.Despite my lack of enthusiasm for lighting the tree and house, I still have enough spirit to wish all of you the best for the season, a blessed new year, and peace to all mankind. Remember our men in service. AMEN.

Apps Can Be Catching

2010-12-03T12:26:00.000-05:00

I don't own an I-Pod, I-Pad, or I-Phone. If I have apps on my ordinary cell phone, I don't know what they do. However, I'm beginning to miss what many people have shelled out dollars for: convenience. A common remark among friends like, "Wonder if XXX Restaurant is open Saturday night?" produces like a bolt of lightening a hand that whisks out an I-Phone, taps a few times and within seconds shows us a map, pertinent information, and the menu. The group decides to make a reservation and this I-Phoner hits a few more buttons and says satisfactorily, "Done. We have a table for ten at 8 p.m. Saturday night." Just like that. No phone calls or no flipping pages of the telephone directory.

One occasion I was talking with a friend who was recalling days of our teaching at a local high school. I said, "Remember that young senior who sang so well? She was the lead in all the musicals." And with I-Phone in hand, my friend had tapped the face a few times and come up with this graduate's latest album and her bio. Amazing!

You've had similar experiences with I-Phoners. Does their possession of this magic box entice you to purchase one? Does me. Businesses are joining ventures to put their companies readily available to the public via apps. Transactions conduct more easily via computers and cell phones. It's happening like a runaway roller coaster.

Where is the sweet voice that answers the phone? Where is the familiar disappearing to? What? I have to listen to a mechanical voice in the complaint department that refuses to let me speak? Technology is ruining social networking. Social, as in person-to-person. I predict that the future will have us meet each other via the phone. Imagine, our facing each other, carrying on a conversation with the bug in our ear, mumbling as we fumble with our packages, looking every where but directly at each other, afraid to converse naturally. Gads. . .

Thanksgiving Day, 2010

2010-11-25T13:29:00.000-05:00

The weather is kind today. We are enjoying 80 deg with a light wind. Last year it was quite cold. The warmer weather this week has brought out the pollen allergies. Closed windows and air conditioning when we should be enjoying the fresh air.The cooler weather will rush in during the night and plunge the thermomenter to about 40 deg. On again, off again go the sweaters.

Nothing special happens for us on holidays anymore. I almost dread the dates. R is getting too decrepit to travel by car anymore and we are usually stuck going through the same living pattern on the Day as we do the days before. Fortunately we have one son visiting from NYC and the other living nearby, so all is not lost. I often long for their being kids again,and that'll occur when our grandbaby Henry grows older, as we do ourselves. I wonder if we'll be too old to romp with him in play or walk him around the park, pull him in the red wagon that sits waiting for him to age a few years?

Despite my darkness I hope the reader is blinded by the light of children laughing, playing, friends and family hollering, chatting and having a reunion of a good time. We have a lot more to be thankful for than what I've mentioned in words. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.

Yikes--Another One with My Name?

2010-11-21T18:02:00.000-05:00

I've often mentioned my family research using Ancestry.com. Today I was checking the resources under the name of my family and was struck, as I usually am, by the repetition of names of people who share my family's names. There it was, a 1948 California Voter Registration of someone with my full maiden name and married name. VAWN...I couldn't believe that such a person had exisited. At first reading I thought my identity had been stolen, but I didn't have the N in 1948. In fact, I was a single ninth grader. Later I found someone who shares my full maiden name VAW living in Florida at age of 2. Funny world, to meet yourself in different states and on different registers.

High School Yearbooks

2010-11-16T10:58:00.000-05:00

You'll do it as I'm doing now. Reviewing yearbooks. Remembering stories and people's faces. Recalling what was important in high school. As I search for ideas to write, I'm drawn to several incidents that occurred during my high school days. So I reach up to the topmost shelf and wiggle my fingers until they touch THE BOOK. This one relates my single year, the tenth grade, that I attended Central High School. I had earlier spent three years in junior high with many of the sophomores pictured in the Cotton Boll. For that reason I keep the book handy.
The photos are available when I'm helping someone research family members, when the annual is the only source for remembering a particular person, as cameras in the late 1940's early 1950's weren't like cell phones of today.

I've turned to a page to remember an old boyfriend; a friend who recently passed away; a neighbor I"m sure I know but can't place; or a teacher I want to point out to R with a fond experience to tell. Yearbooks are the portals to revisiting our youth.

Recently, while researching on Ancestry.com, I came upon a notice that annuals are being collected and torn page by page to microfilm to add to their vast research resources . I have been trying to tear the Cotton Bowl away from my knarly grasp, like pulling a child from its mother's arms. I'm fearful that if I send it off to the netherlands I'll find thousands of reasons for having kept it. That is something I'll have to work on.

A Contest To Win

2010-11-03T11:16:00.000-04:00

Surely you have read about the national siesta championship in Madrid. I should have entered the contest. As an avid sleeper, I can take an afternoon nap for three hours and still be in bed by 10 p.m., sleep 8-10 hours more. So this contest was made for me. The purpose of the contest was not only to find the best napper but help revive the tradition of taking a snooze after lunch. We've always associated Spain and Mexico with siestas, haven't we?

Here are the highlights : Contestants lie on bright blue sofas in the middle of a shopping mall with their choice sleeping clothing; pulse monitors attached to their bodies. The winner is the one who manages to sleep for the full 20 minutes. Eight rounds are held daily with five participants each on sofas parallel to each other. Awards go not only to the longest napper, but to those with the most original sleeping position, loudest snore, and the most eye-catching outfits (yes, you could wear your PJ's.).

The National Association of Friends of the Siesta began the competition Oct 14 and ends Nov. 6. According to this organization "The mission of the championship is to spread the idea that the nap is something of ours that must be defended and practiced, because it is healthy and good for everyone." Yea!

I've been a proponent of naps since childhood when my parents insisted Saturday and Sunday afternoons were for rest. This has been a part of my life I cherish. Didn't some scientists recently state that those who nap live longer? I'm for that, too.

There Comes a Time . . .

2010-10-16T13:03:00.001-04:00

. . .when changes occur you least expect. In my case, the cabin is no longer ours; our son has sold the property. I cannot enjoy the serenity that get-away provided me -- my knees won't propel me up and down hills, steps, or on the irregular slope that houses the beautiful trees that burn with color each fall. It was a wonderful visit for eight years. So the photograph will be taken down and you will be staring at me. Not quite the same.The small cabins are prettier. I'm still the Cabin Writer, no doubt about that. Inspiration comes, anyway, from all avenues of life.

What Aging Has Taught Me

2010-10-16T11:33:00.046-04:00

The photo album slipped out of my hand, and onto the floor went pages and photos into a mix-up pile. I wasn't ready to sit down and gather them up at the time, but the mess was in the middle of a walking area. So I drew up a chair and leaned down to collect the memories of a lifetime. The album was started injunior high school. Each year as I received a photo or snapped one of my friends, I put a copy in this album. In the 1950's before college I didn't own a camera. They weren't items most average families owned. I must have used the old Kodak box camera that somehow my parents had owned since my birth.

I searched for and found my scrapbook. In it were all the articles of weddings and features of my friends. I gathered together the articles and paired them with the photos.

Picking up each photo became a journey. I laughed at the memory as I recalled the incident, my brain whirling through tons of mass to take me back to that time and place. I wondered Where are they? What are they doing today? I set aside a small stack of follow-ups. I wasn't sure of my next move.

A few days later I used Google to find the names of these friends. No hits. I checked FaceBook and found one. Tried the White Pages and found three. The latter had remained in Mississippi. Then I turned to http://.ancestry.com, where I'm researching four families. I entered the names to find death certificates. Bingo. Two. I was disappointed to find my junior high school friend Nancy had died five years ago. A boy I had dated in the tenth grade died on his birthday two years ago. No one was supposed to die, this early, I told myself.

How to contact three guys who probably don't remember me? Be armed with reminiscences. First, I called South Carolina to GB. He vaguely remembered me (naturally, who would after 60 years?). I told him our connection--Civil Air Patrol in Mississippi, attended CAP camp in Montgomery, AL for two weeks. . .he remembered slightly. Then I told him I'd email him all photos. A subsequent call opened up good conversation. I was talking to an adult my age whom I'd know as a kid. Wonderful to know who he'd become, the career he'd chosen. I promised to visit when I went through his hometown.

Next, I called Gulfport, MS. Talked to DK. I"d met through someone else. I had kept a newspaper article about his finishing army training, and I had a photo of him outside his tent during his Korean service. He told me he'd suffered loss of all memorabilia during Katrina; he'd like to have the photo and article. We chatted and during that time he didn't remember me from King Tut. That was OK. I remembered him. Sent him the material hoping he would enjoy a walk down memory lane.

The third guy, JS, I'd known in junior college. Why I had so many articles on his basketball career, I don't know. Perhaps at HJC he was the star player. I discovered he had married the sister of a high school boyfriend. While helping an AR genealogist with this family, I'd run into this star's name and it tweaked my brain. Until I found the photos and articles did I make the connection. Calling him gave me the chance to check up on the family he'd married into.

BIG SURPRISE

One more contact left. A young woman who had shared CAP and cadet life with me. I located her graduation invitation and name card accompanying. I had her full name. A search through White Pages brought me no satisfaction. She was probably married and I wasn't sure of that new name. FaceBook came to my rescue. Although she didn't use the page much, she had registered in the name I recognized. That connected us. Thank you FB.

Now GG and I are corresponding. No, she didn't remember me at all until I sent her the photos (We were 16 years old). We had separated when I went to boarding school in the eleventh grade and she had moved to Florida. She doesn't live nearby, so through emails we can keep abreast of each other. Neither of us looks familiar, but the thin thread of cadet life keeps us together. We discovered how much we both had enjoyed the CAP encampment and the cadet program, sponsored by the Air Force. I don't recall us missing a single meeting held at Hawkins Field in Jackson. (Incidentally, the cadet program is still operational, at the same site.)

High school reunions are important. However, these friends were acquired from areas unrelated to a specific school. Thanks to the Internet I can make connections. These people had appeared in my youth and contributed to who I am today.

HERE I AM IN MY UNIFORM

AND HERE IS THE PATCH I PROUDLY WORE

A Special Bishop's Visit

2010-09-27T12:31:00.019-04:00

We were a small mission with a mission---to establish a new sanctuary in the northern part of the city to accomodate new Episcopalians living in the suburbs of the city. Small -- meaning every adult and child needed to participate and support all events; adults taking on responsibilities in addition to their regular day jobs.Living at the church during "free" time. Much work. Finding new members to swell the church treasury, lay out plans for land purchase, make decisions for the kind of sanctuary/building to meet needs for the next ten years. . .plus serving as teachers and leaders and followers. Big Job.

One of the highlights of the first summer for our willing group of workers -- for any mission or church, actually -- was a visit from the Bishop of Mississippi. An affable man, good looking (looks never hurt a leader, you know), compassionate, loving, Bishop Allin in his myriad of annual visits throughout the state could recognize any of us in whatever different church where he met us. One one occasion he brought a special visitor whom he introduced to the state churches and missions. We would meet and hear an extraodinary man from South Africa. Yes, it was Bishop Tutu. At that time few people knew that this man's name in the near future would be on everyone's lips and most would come to recognize his face from thousands of photos that would be published.

The Bishop's office is located at St. Andrew's Cathedral in downtown Jackson. On these yearly visits he confirms new members who have taken the required course on church practices and the Prayer Book. Because of Bishop Tutu's visit, the mission communicants decided to rent the local Catholic priest's party boat (so called because it had double decks and was usually rented to groups for parties) and have dinner on the deck and informal chat while anchored in the middle of the new reservoir in Madison County.

The party boat was a success. Everyone had their time to chat with Bishop Tutu, enjoy his humor, his sincerity, and if a few snapshots were taken, I don't remember. At the time we didn't think of him as anyone but another visitor. The church often brought colorful men of cloth to visit churches around the city, if not the state. However, in those days of the 1960's we knew so little of this imposing little man that few, if any, failed to record this memorable meeting. We knew only what Bishop Allin had told us. He was an emerging figure of the Church. We laughed, chatted, toasted a glass of wine with a man who later became a national figure, a headline maker, a mover and a shaker for his country and his beliefs.

Only later did we realize what a gift we had been given with that visit on that sunny weekend in Jackson, MS some forty years ago.

Archbishop Tutu

(Photo taken from Internet files)

Confusion in News This 2010

2010-09-08T17:29:00.003-04:00

I'm about to declare war on health news. One year we're told not to drink coffee to protect our health. I don't drink that much to begin with, but the idea -- that many folks have to depend on coffee to get their motors running in the A.M.and continuing with this habit jeopardizes their health -- just baffles me. Now coffee is good for everyone, especially two cups per day which keeps the diabetes bug away.

Then there's Don't Use Real Sugar, use the wonderful substitutes; once we're hooked on Equal and Splenda we're informed that sugar has more benefits that artificial sweetners. Huh? Next, they'll proclaim eating bananas is the cause for arthritis, or eating good dirt solves sex problems. And what's this about NSAIDS? Don't take them, instead swallow acetominiphen and ibuprophen, but they may not agree with the other RX's you're taking?So what's a person in pain to take if avoiding prescription drugs?

SAVE MONEY ON YOUR NEXT PAIR OF ATHLETIC SHOES

I've just finished reading Born to Run by Christopher McDougall, who has researched the fact that those expensive athletic shoes we've all been told were necessary to protect our feet are in reality worse for them. His facts are backed up with good sources. I look at my expensive shoes and wonder how to get the value of its orginial price. The author reasons that the Tarahumara Indians who run great distances in light shoes have strong feet and never have the leg and feet problems we have today. Great reading. Read this if you are contemplating buying a good pair of the best brands out there.

ON THE BRIGHTER SIDE
If you don't subscribe to Discovery newsletter, you don't find out marvelous works of scientists who toil without notice until something good enough to reveal comes to light. Take diamonds. Since it's been proven they are a gal's best friend, they are now more so than ever, and that includes men's best friend. If you swallow a special type of diamonds, they can attach themselves to your cells in the digestive tract and clean you out.

Before you assess the diamonds in your jewelry box, note that you don't have to have those diamonds to swallow. And, for goodness sakes, don't swallow them thinking it can clean you out like some large dose of Milk of Magnesia! diamonds.

Indeed, the diamonds now being tested are nanodiamonds. They are " tiny pieces of carbon about 100,000 times samller than a human hair," says Discovery. Who swallowed these nanodiamonds? Our friends the round worms. Inside the tiny pieces are " tiny holes called 'vacancies' where a nitrogen atom fromt he air has replaced two carbon atoms."

How can you tell the difference between nanodiamonds and the ones in your ring, or watch, or necklace? The latter diamonds are yellow in tint because they receive more nitrogen. Nanos absorb yellow light and emit violet. Nanos can be used to attach themselves to cancer cells, immune cells, pathogens and other cells, delivering powerful drugs to help treat diseases. Guaranteed not to taste bad!

For more details check the website:http://news.discovery.com/tech/nano-diamonds

A Gift Wrapper I'm Not

2010-08-31T04:13:00.000-04:00

When I was growing up I never learned to wrap gifts. Maybe it was the lack of need, since the free wrapping service of department stores came to my rescue. Unlike my sister who had a job every Christmas vacation wrapping gifts for customers, I never worked. In my day only "low class girls" worked. A t hrowback to England, maybe?

All the years following I've tried to avoid wrapping, choosing to pay for the service that once was free. Only recently, when the store where I bought a baby gift didn't wrap and I couldn't find the only store that wraps for a price did I decided to tackle the job myself.

Armed with strong wrapping paper and tape I looked at the odd-shaped gift--a baby tub--to determine how to attack the problem. No amount of paper and tape would make my job easy. So I unrolled a long piece of the paper, plopped the tub in the middle and proceeded to wrap. The paper was not the regular wrapping kind, I had inadvertently selected a stronger type advertised as useful for imprinting. At least it wouldn't tear, I figured. I completed the job with a fellow non-wrapper and here are the results. I don't think I'll do this job again.

.
Step 1--Lay the the tub in the proper position
Step 2--Decide which folds to make and carefully crease the paper neatly in a symmetrical manner and tape.
Step 3--Pay no attention to the number of taped folds in the container, they'll all be on the bottom.

    Step 4--Don't fight with ribbon, use colorful tape. I chose stars in blue, since this was a boy's tub.

    Step 4--Turn the package over and admire. I had a miniature coffin. Not a happy gift for a happy occasion.
   Step 5--Be sure the gift is swiftly given and opened before anyone notices the shape.

Bed Bugs? What Are They?

2010-08-31T03:51:00.001-04:00

You've read about the new influx of bedbugs. In my day bedbugs were like lice in a kid's hair. Both came from unclean homes and bathless kids. Now scientists are telling us to be alert for these near-microscopic crawlers any place you sit or lie down: movie theatre seats, office areas, clothing, hotel/motel beds and sofas. They love to jump from one person to another, bite you on the neck, legs, arms.

I know from experience about bedbugs. I encountered them in the most likely place: Mexico.

A fellow teacher Fran and I planned to spend the summer in Mexico City attending Mexico City College. Six or maybe twelve weeks of study and travel. We found the perfect place to live in one of the better colonias in the city, a short distance to the bus stop, near Chapultepec Park and restaurants. This was the summer of 1959.

When the taxi that ferried us from the airport to the colonia (subdivision) we were amazed to find we were in one of the ritziest areas of the downtown area. The driver drove us to a two story white brick home with an equally tall brick fence surrounding the property. The woman who met us at the door was a maid, which raised our eyebrows--"A maid? Hmmm." Our hostess was an artist who spoke no English. I was able to communicate ok, since I'd studied previously in Monterrey, Mexico.

We helped the maid carry our bags up a beautiful winding stairway off to the side of a gorgeously decorated living room. And there the gorgeous decorations ended. We may as well have been in a low income apartment. No color, a simple bed in each room furnished with one chifferobe and one lamp and table. windows looked out on the back of the roof of the home. Drab draperies and bedspreads. We each picked a room and I immediately began to unpack, as I felt the drabness would disappear as we became accustomed to the living quarters. Outside properties were beautiful with landscaping up and down the streets. We were lucky to have found this place.

We turned in early and it was once in bed that I realized my mattress had that musky odor of having never seen sunshine. OK, I thought, I'll lie on a towel. Sometime after turning off the light I began to have an itchy feeling up and down my body--legs, neck, arms. Thinking of ants, I jumped up and turned on the light, pulled back the covers and inspected. Nothing. I went through that routine most of the night, getting little sleep. I assumed, without knowing how, that I had bedbugs. Never had I experience them, nor had I lice, but I sensed about both.

The next morning I repacked my bags, told my friend we had to find another place to live, as I couldn't sleep on that mattress. She had had a delightful night's rest. I was envious. My main problem was How to Say in Spanish "There are bedbugs in the bed." This had to be done diplomatically.

We had breakfast but the artiste was no where to be found. I'd have to discuss this after school that day. We proceeded to walk to the bus stop, and take the particular bus that would carry us on a 25 minute ride up the mountain north of the city. During the break at school there was a small woman holding a placard and standing in the middle of the campus where we changed classes, stating, "Come live at my nice quarters," or something like that. We approached her and she said she had a very clean apartment and the rent was more reasonable than in the Colonia. I told her my bedbug story and declared I didn't know how to solve my dilemma of a written agreement with the owner. She agreed to take care of the problem.

And she did. Oh, the fury of the artiste, the shrill voices of argument, the confusion. The artist would be losing a summer of rent. How could she find other renters at this late date? She did not have bedbugs, she declared. Our new landlady won the argument and we packed our bags into the small car that Senora had and we went to her place. We weren't too thrilled as we drove through a disaster-like area with people living in hovels. But Senora assured us her place was across the street from the American School whose students were the best in the City. She opened the front gate and we entered a paradise of beauty. Her "place" was a motel setting, with dual apartments dotted in a semi-circle, and her family's home at the middle in the back. Bright colors dotted each apartment roofed in sunbaked tiles.

Inside was a small living room/kitchen with stove and fridge, a sizeable bedroom furnished with typical Mexican crafted wood furniture consisting of twin beds with handsome woven bedspreads, a table with lamps in the middle, and a sizeable bathroom. Unbelievable that we had lucked up on the Senora.

Our new address was Avenida Observatorio. We later learned from Fran's local friend that we were living in the absolute worst section of town, and that was brought home to us when we attended a few functions in town and had to find a taxi after midnight to take us home. No one would drive down Observatorio. Only a few brave souls did the whole six weeks. That move was the best we could have ever taken.

What began as a bedbug experience of one night turned into a wonderful six weeks of learning that even today I maintain fond memories.

Newsletters

2010-08-14T12:54:00.002-04:00

Because magazine subscriptions can add up in costs, I subscribe to newsletters. My special email address is chock full of reading material about new discoveries, songwriting, creative writing, photography,just to name a few. I'm always signing my name to some avenue of learning. I enjoy reading and learing. My college studies were finished in the Middle Ages and so much can be learned today. But one newsletter I misunderstood and now I'm getting solicitations--well, one so far.

It was about biking. I can no longer bike because of bad knees. When the doc said "No walking long distances, no swimming, no bike riding, no long sitting" I wondered how much more sedate my life could become. However, the bike newsletter that I subscribed to was going to give me information AS THOUGH I were riding on weekends. I'd learn all about taking care of the bicycle, places to ride, how to prepare for a long ride--you understand?

So when no newsletter arrived for months, I figured there was a glitch in the computer system, and I forgot about resubscribing. Until---

Until I got an ad with a biker, his cap and sunglasses on his head, leaning against a huge motorcycle. He is 49, Caucasian, and lives in Santa Fe. He wants to "get to know" me. What a laugh he'd get to know he was solicitating a 78 year old gal! Well, we do seek younger companions nowadays, don't we? If I were single, I might wave a hello back. I've never ridden a motorcycle. Would he give me a ride if I were to fly to Santa Fe (my favorite place in the U. S.)? So far I've no wrinkles or any tell-tale sign of aging. Would I be able to "fool" him into thinking I'm a wee bit older than he? Perhaps before answering I could take a snapshot of me at the local Harley store dressed in the finery of a cyclist and send it to him. (I refuse to wear a bathing suit and a helmet.) Would he take the bait? How far could I go with this ruse?

Then I realize that he looks like a nice guy. You don't mess with nice guys. Guess I'll have to answer that I'm no longer biking, and thanks for the invite. Or just hit "Delete." My husband says the guy looks sincere and to reply and tell him I'm too old for a replacement. Problem is: I never recorded my pass word and refuse to retrieve it. I may get into trouble.

Would he laugh if I sent this photo of my daughter on her mini-bike?

Love My Ice Tea!

2010-07-29T14:10:00.005-04:00

Today, Thursday, is Free Tea Day around the country, and Mississipi has its best iced tea, sweetened of course, served just about in every restaurant. We have one company with cafes scattered around the Jackson Metro Area that is really famous for their tea, McAlister's. If you haven't gotten a McAlister's you are missing some good Southern sandwiches and their tea.

A recent article revealed that the company is particular about making and keeping their prepared tea. Their recipe and the fact that they don't keep prepared tea around long are two secrets. In fact, oftentimes they run out just when I'm ready to order. We get 32 ounces of cold tea sweetened too much for some and just right for others. Until I saw a recipe, did I realize that a pinch of baking soda in the tea as it brews reduces the bitterness of the tea and gives it a dark color. The taste is perfect and if you finish with 32 ounces, you can get a refill. Refreshing!

We Southerners consume lots of tea year around, not just the summers. Unlike the literary books and movies about the South that has made you think we sit on our porches drinking mint juleps, you can hardly find anyone who has an afternoon julep.It must be tea. Iced, meaning cubes sitting in the glass; no tepid tea that sat in the fridge attempting to get cold.

As one local restaurant owns states,"I see it as a staple. You best not open a restaurant if you're not able to provide iced tea." And that sums it.

P. S. We say "Ice Tea" not "Iced Tea" We've swallowed the -d so long we've forgotten it belongs!

It's That Southern Thing

2010-07-24T10:03:00.004-04:00

Today's sports section of our local newspaper carried an interesting article entitled "Childress, Favre now have better understanding." Seems the Viking coach and Brett had difficulties Childress' first year of coaching the famed quarterback. Favre has held off his decision to return to the Vikings' clubhouse. So Childress decided to come to Mississippi and entice Brett to return. What he discovered is this, in his quoted words:

"The Deep South is different, and he'd (Favre) would be the first to tell you that." The time spent, as the article continues, gave Childress a stronger understanding of Favre's way of life and his way of thinking".

Every section of our country has produced people whose philosophy and general way of life are slightly different from other areas. Southerners are no different. Despite our slow speech, our laid-back life, our seemingly less informed minds (although we do have highly educated people), we treat life as it comes. A friend from the Northwest remarked, when I sent him a photo of a friend and me both over 70 years old, commented, "You women look so young!" We don't have searing cold weather to erode our skin, and the moisture of our humidity does preserve our bodies. Most of my neighborhood is made up of vibrant young-looking, women over the age of 60.

On the same day of the article, a friend from Memphis forwarded a poem about Mississippians. With all the bad publicity we've had, somehow we folks seem to thrive in our little world.

If Mississippi's In You

(by Patricia Neely-Dorsey, Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia, page 86)

If Mississippi's in you,
It'll always be that way;
It matters not how far you go,
Or how long you stay.

If Mississippi's in you,
It always plays a part;
In how you live and move and breathe,
And in every notion of the heart.

If Mississippi's in you,
It's in you through and through;
It's who you are and how you be,
And it's in everything you do.

If Mississippi's in you,
There is some special glow;
A different something down inside,
That all the home folks know.

If Mississippi's in you,
It'll always be that way,
From the time you enter in the world,
Till in the grave you lay.

Every true Mississippian,
Can surely have it said:
"I'm Mississippi born,
I'm Mississippi bred,
And when I die,
I'll be Mississippi dead."

The Older I Get the Worse Food Becomes

2010-07-20T19:46:00.008-04:00

Weekly I receive a newsletter from the state Department of Health citing articles of interest to those on the free subscription list. My son is the webmaster. Usually he sends an extra email with information about how we should care for ourselves. Usually, I have already read them elsewhere.

I had earlier dismissed a newspaper article about salsa and guacamole found in numerous restaurants around the country, and when my son emphasized that article with this title, " Salsa and Guacamole Emerging as Transmitters of Food-Borne Illness" I was somewhat appeased with my last meal.

Cooking isn't my forte, so I rely on whatever comes to mind one hour before a meal. I've wanted Mexican food for a month. Yes, I know that that's not the healthiest to select, but I need my Mexican fix every two months. Laziness prevented our going out to eat, so I created a near-Mexican meal of tomatoes, black beans, cilantro, and cayenne pepper. Served over spaghetti, served with Fritos. I thought it was 4 on scale of 5 but R offered, after a second helping, a 2. I don't create meals as my friend Laura does (see her website www.gluttonforlife.com) and this one was my "open cans and heat" recipes. Afterwards,I still longed for the salsa made at our favorite restaurant.

The next two articles were entitled "Wider Waistline and High Triglyceride Levels Together Indicate Heart Disease" and " Excess Weight on Hips Linked to Memory Problems in Women" which really upset me. Wouldn't you say that some guy has a grudge against women? I don't need to be reminded that the wide waistline I now carry is related to possible heart disease. I've tried, honestly, to whittle down my hips and thighs with no improvement. Alas, yes, I'm having trouble putting a name to an object, as in, "Honey, take the THING there on the stool and put it in the, you-know-where." Nowadays, a third of my daily conversation is uttering "thing".

And now my favorite drink, milk, is under attack. What is this world coming to?

Celebrating Independence Day 2010

2010-07-11T14:14:00.007-04:00

R and I were glad to have chosen a small town to celebrate the Fourth of July. We could have been in AnySmallTown, USA. Its citizens were "down home" type, full of southern hospitality. And it isn't "put on". Tourist shops line the town's square, a variety found in most small towns. The square anchored by a large building once the city hall. The town is Dahlonega, GA. Never heard of it?

First, it is pronounced Duh LON e guh (note how easy to speak southern?); second, it is the gateway to the Appalachian Mountains, the beginning of the Appalachian Trail nearby, so you see a lot of hikers and bikers; third, it's an hour's drive north from Atlanta on State Highway 19; and fourth, it is near the site of the first U. S. gold rush in the 19th century.

All it took for the rush was a farmer kicking up a clod of dirt and recognizing the gold sparkles. This was on Cherokee Georgia land of Araria. Within 24 years Araria was growing with prosperous mines circling the town, and finally a mint being established in Dahlonega to convert the gold flakes into coins. The city hall, now the Gold Museum, presents a video chronicling those early days, along with displays of early coins and history in photos and writings. The building was constructed of hand-made bricks from area dirt and a close look at any brick reveals gold flakes. Nearby a chapel at the Northern Georgia University and College sporting a gold leaf roof, beckoning cars from the highway to come sit a spell in Dahlonega.

For two people who labored for five days learning new jewelry techniques, the square with its myriad of benches was a welcome sight. Sunday, the fourth, we sat in the shade of a building's overhang, feeling a light breeze as a church choir sang selections from WWII, the U. S. flag was raised, politicians stood in the sun giving their prepared speeches, and the reading of the Constitution. In the late afternoon visitors and citizens watched a colorful parade. Just what you'd expect in a small town.

Nothing makes most citizens more proud than to participate in the celebration of our independence from England. The most touching in Dahlonega were the white crosses listing deceased soldiers from the area who died defending their country. Patriotism and love of our country couldn't have been more visible.

Tuberculosis Scare

2010-06-12T10:12:00.017-04:00

I was six years old when my mother picked me up during first-grade at the local Catholic school. Since I was an obedient child, I didn't question her motives. I'm sure she told me because I was sickly I needed special care. But I didn't realize a separation from my parents and my new baby sister was imminent.

I recall a long drive past fields and thick woods from Jackson, MS, to a town called Magee, MS. There I was led to a large dormitory, shown a bed(not unlike double bunks of metal frames) and a locker, had only a few minutes to say goodby to my parents, and I was left to assimilate into a new way of life. A lady handed me a pair of white panties and a tee shirt. My good clothes went into the locker, a four-some at the end of two sets of bunks. I wore those clothes home six months later.

Within a short time I was regimented into sleep, play, sit and listen, weekly examinations by doctors, eating three full meals a day, and school. Visitors were allowed twice monthly. I always had someone visiting me on Visitors Sunday. The idea that isolation and protection from the germs that could be brought in from outside would be minimized. The medical team there thought sickly children could more easily take TB and needed special care not otherwise. At six years of age I weighed 20-25 pounds. I had chronic illnesses that gave me a slow start in life. I've often told my own children I resembled a war orphan then. My parents blamed my skinniness on their inability to provide milk and proper food during the years after the Depression.

The Missisisippi State Sanitorium opened its Preventorium in 1929, so my presence years later gave the staff plenty of time to be organized. Actually the system of taking care of sickly children lasted into the mid-70's. The lifestyle of nutritious food, the outdoors, and rest was an experiment. Since the weather is so wretched this time of the year, the Preventorium would have had a difficulty time running in the summers today.

Services provided a swimming pool, a play village, and a golf course with a duck pond. The course was for the adults, but I remember the pond. My sixty-odd years of memory have almost dissolved like sugar in hot water. I recall as the cooler weather came, we still wore our white bloomers with a sweater. Fresh air was most important, yet, no one thought that that air being circulated from the Sanitorium past the Preventorium and in and around the nearby town of Magee could be tainted. The Sanitorium, I recall, had TB paitents in their beds on porches and in the yards, enjoying the same air.

Our schedule allowed us schooling in the mornings, play, fat-rich meals, an hour's rest, and medical examinations. We were introduced to music. I recall hearing Kate Smith sing "God Bless America" for the first time when all children were gathered in a general meeting room. I remember having to shut our eyes while lying on our backs at the beginning of our naps so the head mistress could glance from her perch to check on us. That simple activity has lasted my entire life. I love naps. Christmas came and we celebrated opening our gifts from home. We made simple cards for our family to send home. In February the doctors declared they had done enough for me, I was TB free. I assume that meant I had gained enough pounds to be considered average in weight.

I never felt unloved, ignored by the family, or put in the Preventorium for any reason but a good one. The experience has always been in my memory and I appreciate my parents for having the good sense to follow the doctor's orders to send me there. The only regret is that I don't remember any of the other children who were present. Although I'm on a Yahoo message board for children of the Preventorium, no one has remembered me. But that is because those who belong to the group are younger and have better memories from the 1950's to 1970's. The reunion today in Magee MS will gather many former youth, but I will skip that. I doubt anyone from 1938 will be there.

One Last Attempt

2010-06-02T11:40:00.027-04:00

Southern Living touted the recipe as a two-step process. Surely after all these years of baking failures I can make pound cake in two steps. Dump all the ingredients into the bowl at once--no more beat after each addition as Mother once instructed.

When I discover I have discarded all cake pans several years ago because R said we had to reduce our sweet intake eliminating baking altogether, I spent twenty minutes of unforgetful memory of that time trying to find my pound cake pan. To no avail. I decided to make half the recipe and use the glass loaf pan I did keep (for meat loaf).

The only hold-up was the butter. I had to dash each block into the micro a few seconds to get it to the right softness: "test softness by gently pressing the top of te stick with your index finger. If an indention remains and the stick of butter still holds its shape, it's ready to use." I used a small dish and cut each block into smaller pieces and dashed each dish into the micro. While the second dish was softening, I was busy dumping the eggs, sugar, flour and milk. Then I had to taste. Remember that wonderful cake batter taste as kids? I had to relive that moment.

I was too caught up in deja vu. I poured the batter into the glass pan and whisked it into the oven. As the baking continued into thirty minutes, I opened the micro to warm up a dinner dish and voila! there sat the second stick melted to a liquid.

Now the question was: Should I pour the butter over the batter beginning to brown? Should I remove the batter, stir the half-baked cake through with the butter? Or should I have dumped the pan into the trash?

Worried earlier that I had left out the baking powder or the salt, which the recipe called for neither, I never once thought of the second stick of butter (making a cup). I had to allow the cake bake on its own. Testing, not quite done in the middle, the cake baked a bit longer than an hour and a half.

When I removed the pan, the cake had an imperfection on one side: an indention. Was the cake telling me it was unhappy? When I sliced it I was cutting into a loaf of stale bread. However, I knew that with a few fresh peach slices and juice, the cake would rejuvenate.

Ummm. Not bad when this is all you have for dessert. And for breakfast, I can top it with butter and whisk it under the broiler.

By the looks of the cake in the photo all you bakers can tell something is missing. What would you have done?

Family History--Again

2010-05-16T09:10:00.005-04:00

I've written about my journey into family lines before, encouraging readers to begin their own journey. This time I want to report the excitement of finding old friends, regretably, long since passed, but discovering a tiny bit more about them after we parted.

One such was a junior high (middle school) friend. Pretty, blond with a reserved manner, Nancy was my favorite friend. I don't recall her ever going to movies with me, but she did play board games. We had a group of girls during the last few years of 8th and 9th grades who enjoyed playing games, also. We'd meet at different homes on Saturday and play all afternoon. Then we'd depart and catch the city bus back home.

On one occasion Nancy and I decided to bike (the common means of transportation when you didn't ride the city bus) from her house in west Jackson to a two-lane road in South Jackson--quite a ride. Then, Raymond Road was little used on Saturdays. and years later would be a main road. I took photos of her and she of me of that journey. I found those photos recently in my photo album I kept from seventh grade through high school. After she moved to Tuczon, AZ she sent a few pictures, graduated from college, married and she and her husband became Bible translators for Wycliffe Translators.

Being a member of http://www.ancestry.com/ allows me to enter a name and check birth, death, and censuses primarily on anyone who has died. I found Nancy's death, plus an article from the Tuczon's newspaper about her missionary family returning for several months furlough from Korea. She and her husband lived among native people in the most primitive conditions while translating portions of the New Testament into a language and teaching the natives to read.

At that time I was a new teacher enjoying a semblance of life away from home, eating well, having fun with fellow teachers, all the while Nancy and her family were living opposite. I often thought about her but I didn't know how to get in touch. So using ancestry methods to find my dear friend gave me such an unexpected deja vu.

Next I discovered a family member had entered her profile in the Ancestry bank, and I was able to read that she had died in Tennessee. I wrote that person stating I had photos of Nancy, would he/she want them to complete Nancy's file? Yes, came the answer, and with joy I sent them.

That one day discovering dear friend Nancy gave me the most joy, despite knowing she no longer lives. She had a tremendous spirit of giving, and I know that had I checked in 1995, two years before her death, I would probably found her and visited with her before her death in 1997. My next step is to find where her grown children are located.

Thankfully I have Ancestry's bank of research to discover people who once passed through my life.

Those Tornadoes You Read About. . .

2010-04-27T09:42:00.007-04:00

They were big, numerous, and devastating. Debris hurled for miles. People huddled where they could: bathtubs, basements, closets. "Came so fast, I didn't have time to put a pillow over my head."

W are accustomed to expecting tornadoes in the spring. Sometimes they pass over, other times they skip here and there without damage. Mississippi has lots of land filled with trees, not a clear, open landscape. And when there is a warning, we spend more time at the television set or huddled near the radio than at any other time, sometimes hundreds of times during the season. I've been known to usher my parents and children into closets, fully clothed, pillows nearby to put over their heads, water and food nearby. All the while Dad relaxes in his comfortable chair watching the weather news. Rarely perturbed, at times he laughs that I've taken such measures. I recall putting my 80-year-old parents in the bedroom closet while I was sitting in a hall closet and hearing them, like children, after 30 minutes, whisper, "Can we come out now?"

When the kids were small, we donned our rain gear and headed out to the "gully" a depression in the wooded area behind our house. At the time the ground was clear of leaves and debris and seemed safe enough. Today they laugh at the many times we sat out there. We should have had a clubhouse, they say, since we visited so often.

But you never know.

A local columnist of our newspaper, Rick Cleveland, summed up Yazoo County like this:

"The people of Yazoo have endured the Civil War, the great flood, a deadly yellow fever epidemic, the Great Depression, numerous tornadoes and a fire that burned most of downtown Yazoo City to the ground.

Often described as half hills and half Delta, Yazoo County is 100 per cent tenaciously durable. Folks here have to be."

Recently, Mississippi was considered top of the line in charity work. We believe in giving until it hurts. We furnish clothing, food, home items to anyone who needs help. Neighborhoods band together to help local small organizations by collecting shoes, clothes, hygiene products, water, or whatever is requested. We furnish homes and wardrobes for those in need. So helping those stricken with the loss of their homes is nothing new for fellow Mississippians.

The above map shows how the line of tornadoes--28 in all--ravaged its way across western and then east. Our home is located at the dot. We were fortunate to have intermittant rain. Now it's time to go through our closets and find good clothing we no longer need and give to the needy.

We take care of our own.

April in Missisippi

2010-04-18T15:54:00.018-04:00

We are luxuriating in 80-degree weather: warm days full of sunshine, soft breezes, outdoor dining, and no mosquitos. Those bugs don't bother us until April begins to leave and we welcome May. So I finally get to enjoy sitting outside on the neglected patio more now than any other time of the year. I glance around in silence and see our old azalea bushes still flowering.

A walk into the front yard and we are greeted by a Grandfather Greybeard waving with his beard in full form. We decided to plant a few more of them this year since they are so graceful, but the local nursery we use couldn't obtain seedlings.

In a few weeks the green stalks of our yellow daffodills will bloom, adding more color to the yard. Following will be the two crepe myrtles in the front yard. That's all two aged folks can keep up with.

Let's Go Back to 1950

2010-04-09T10:00:00.011-04:00

Don't let the title fool you--I'm talking about FOOD. Back then I was a twig, always able to eat or drink anything, like chocolate milk shakes with French fries, and never gain a pound. I didn't have to check labels either. Nowadays here's what's happening:

R all our married life has been a rare reader, until now. He reads labels, food advice, checks the Food Network, and like a parrot from the moment he gets up chants what he's read or heard, oftentimes challenging me. He still weighs 130 pounds, I've added a few pounds; he thinks he should remind me to stay healthy. Here's a sample of what I hear daily with my responses in parentheses:

"Check your vitamins, are you getting too much copper, zinc?"(Of course not, I read, too)

"Did you know that you should consume only cereal with 2 grams or less? Isn't that in your bowl higher? Hmmm. Indeed, you can't be eating this stuff!" (I don't eat Rice Krispies often, Hon.)

"Have you taken your vitamins today?"( I don't need to be reminded. I'm a big girl.)

"Did you know the Mediterranean diet is best for us?"(You're just finding out about that one?)

"Why don't you serve more salads and greens?" (You don't want a salad every day and the lettuce wilts!)

"Did you know we shouldn't eat too much red meat, stay with fish and chicken?"(You should be swimming or clucking by now to know that answer!)

"Are you still ordering the salmon capsules?" (You're taking them, aren't you?)

"Get rid of those canned goods, they're not healthy." (Not until we've eaten all the contents.)

"We need more frozen veggies ." (Take out your ice cream containers and walnuts and we'll have room.)

"Why don't you buy fresh foods? (I don't like what is sold in our chain grocery stores.)

"You mean you went all the way into town to buy organic food?"(What other option do I have?)

"How much did this organic cabbage cost? (I'm not telling.)

"You've got to quit eating so much sugar. Don't eat that muffin!" (Here, take half and we both can enjoy it.)

Phoebe Allens Has Laid Again

2010-03-29T12:00:00.007-04:00

I wrote a few entries back about watching on my computer the expected arrival of the hatching of two eggs.Up to the last minute thousands of folks from all over the world were watching. Well, this gal has done it again. She's laid one egg and if that nasty ole' lizard stays away, perhaps this time Phoebe will get her fledgling. I couldn't imagine how this simple process caught so many people's attention. It is something like this that takes us away from the ugly situations we are caught in throughout the world. Check the website and find out the date Phoebe will become a mom hummingbird. Go to www.phoebeallens.com and watch when you're ready.

The Party's Over

2010-03-16T23:38:00.003-04:00

For the last four days I and millions of others have watched, sometimes too much, their computers waitin...waiting...waiting for two eggs a phoebe allen hummingbird has tended to with responsibility. Over 385,000 in the U. S. watched, and thousands more all over the world. This tiny bird would have gone nuts if she had realized the number of eyes watching for the hatching event. The eggs were due to crack wide open today, March 16. One opening egg was attacked by a lizard so mama had to discard that one. The other egg just wouldn't progressed.

And so by 5 pm (more or less)by Southern California time lil' mama deserted her nest. The world was as disappointed as she was. I am greatful to C M for informing me of the website.

The party's over until another webcam begins...

2010 Natchez Literary and Cinema Celebration

2010-02-28T22:58:00.014-05:00

Attending a southern celebration in one of Mississippi's oldest towns, Natchez, was a delight last week. Listening to writers on southern humor emphasized our connection with the rest of the world. A tribute to Horton Foote by Scott Dixon McDowell through a documentary that took 20 years to complete was one of the outstanding aspects of the week. McDowell has a film that will be viewed by college and post college students of literature and writing for eons to come. Horton Foote died last year at age 94 and left us two of many endearing movies: "Trip to Bountiful" and "Tender Mercies". One of his many movie adaptations "To Kill a Mockingbird," revealed his subtle humor. (Sis and I were pleased to have heard Mr. Foote seveal years ago when he was celebrated at a Southern Writers' Conference in Alabama.) Gerald McRaney, actor originally from Mississippi, gave us his views on Mr. Foote in his sharing of "Horton Foote, the Man That I Knew". McRaney is a member of the advisory board that produces this literary festival yearly.

Another bright light that shone was Clifton Taulbert, author of Once When I Was Colored,Last Train North, and Eight Habits of the Heart. He grew up in Mississippi and now lives in Tulsa, OK where he runs the Building Community Institute, which he founded. He spoke of the humor that George Washington Carver possessed. Always he is a popular speaker.

One speaker delighted us with referrals to "Double Names, Conniption Fits and 'Kiss My Foot':Laughing at Ourselves with Eudora Welty and Other Southerners" An actress of television, movies, and theatre, Jane Welch, entertained us with behind the scenes struggle of snatching a role in TV, theatre, or movies with her "Life in the Theatre: The Agony and the Ectasy".

Others reminded us of how gentlemanly manners pervaded the Old South and how Pogo, Snufy, Lil Abner and other comic strips used southern humor. Our own cartoonist from Jackson's Clarion-Ledger, Marshall Ramsey, delighted us with a series of his political cartoons and a running commentary of how he found humor in serious subjects.

Collectively, these speakers, southerners who live and work in the east and south, reminded us of the traits of behavior, speech patterns, and use of flowery expressions that are slowly disappearing as we adapt to modern life, thereby losing our identity as southerners. Only our accent remains.

Valentine's Day A Bust

2010-02-14T11:30:00.009-05:00

I'm a romantic. My R is the least romantic guy on earth. He rarely thinks creatively (do engineers think any other way than rationally?) so his idea of readying himself for this loving day begins this way:

"I guess I need to buy you something for Valentine's Day, huh?" I say nothing. I am going to let him be the instigator of any gift or thoughtfulness for the day set aside for lovers, knowing all the well it'll be a bust.

"What do you want?"

"Something in diamonds," is my reply. I hate diamonds but I may as well suggest it knowing that'll never happen. "Just don't buy me a box of candy." That is a hint that I'm tired of the cheap candy he buys at the drug store.

"Well, Joe (our neighbor R walks with) is going to ask me what I got you, as well as the kids."

"Don't worry about what they say," I tell him, all the time wishing he'd be hit by a guilty stone and rush to the bakery and purchase one of those heart-shaped cookies. But no, by the time he'd wait, the cookies would be sold out.

Sunday arrives, I open a card from Sis (we understand to remember each other when a guy doesn't)and I buy her the valentine cookie. We meet for a movie, appropriately entitled "Valentine's Day" and split her cookie.

The songwriter of these words must have thought this of my husband:

I can't give you anything but love, baby
That's the only thing I've plenty of, baby
Dream awhile, scheme awhile, you're sure to find
Happiness, and I guess, all the things you've always dreamed of...

Gee, I'd like to see you looking swell, baby
Diamond bracelets, Woolworth doesn't sell, baby
'Til that lucky day you know darn well, baby
I can't give you anything but love.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY TO ALL YOU UNLUCKY WOMEN FROM ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS

Sedum Heralding Spring?

2010-02-08T16:47:00.015-05:00

My husband bought himself a camera. Not the one I would have selected. I thought we needed a SLR digital. But he chose a small one to fit into his pocket. That was his birthday gift to himself with my urging. Next, one son gave him a book on digital photography which had beautiful photos of macro/micro photography. That got me to begin looking at textures and beautiful colors I could find around the house outdoors. The sedum is a cropped photo of a larger snapshot of sedum regrowing in a pot outside.

I decided to think of textures and captured some closeups with my Canon PowerShot. Then using simple choices of Adobe Photoshop I came out with these photos of a droopy poincettia:

For a different texture I added from Adobe the plastic feature to get this:

For an interesting texture look at this:

Can you guess what I took here?

Dealey Plaza, Dallas TX

2010-01-22T12:49:00.009-05:00

I was quite hesitant when Sis insisted she had to visit Dealey Plaza Museum. She's writing an article about a Jacksonian who was eyewitness to the tragedy that November, 1963. There had been so much information on television and in books, how could I experience something new, I asked myself. However, with a warming trend due to hit Dallas, the opportunity to travel somewhere was too enticing.

Sis and I inherited our wanderlust from our mother, who never hesitated to take us on a quick trip to Houston or New Orlans or Memphis, just for the heck of it. Daddy stayed at home. He didn't like to travel, he always said. I suspect it was the need to be away from three chattering magpies he had to endure daily. Even in the waning days of Mother's life she would look at me and say, "Let's drive to Colorado." I would get out the atlas and we'd look at routes we could take. We didn't make it to Colorado with her. But every trip since then that Sis and I take is in memory of Mother.

We traveled to Dallas on a Tuesday, stayed all day downtown to visit the sites made so famous by the shots that rang out that sunny day. We found the spot where the young woman had stood by comparing a photo, took the tour through sixth floor of the Book Depository and experienced anew a fascination borne of a tragedy that swept people of all ages into a whirlwind of sadness. That tour was worth the trip. I firmly believe all U. S. citizens should visit Dealey Plaza, see the Xs in the road, glance upward at the grassy knoll which stands today as a silent reminder of earlier people who were a part of a history-making day.

The young woman of that year recently died of cancer, several days before she was to talk with Sis to expound on her oral history that is in the archives. So much she didn't say and Sis hoped to open her up. We discovered that very few witnesses have given their oral testimony of that fateful day. And that's been over 40 years.

My photos are familiar but I wanted to record a few sites to place in my own family history.

Earthquake Experience

2010-01-10T12:44:00.008-05:00

The 6.5 earthquake that recently hit 20 something miles offshore of Eureka, California, and the television responses to the shaking and quaking, remind me of the only quake of which I've been a part.

I accompanied a large group of high school students to Mexico City one Easter holiday. Oh, it was in the late 1980's. Even before we left there were reported rumbles from the interior of Mexico, and I guess we teachers felt nothing could harm us as we proceeded with our trip via bus and plane into D. F. without making any "What If" plans. I alone had checked up on earthquakes and on what to do if one should occur. On the second night in the hotel I was awakened by glass bottles falling in the bathroom and an undulating feeling rushing through my body in bed at 2a.m. I knew instinctively to get up and check the kids.

Moving about in the few minutes after the big rumble wasn't easy. I threw on my bathrobe and started with the adjacent rooms, waking up students and urging them to use the stairs and assemble on the bottom floor. I could imagine the top floors crumbling any minute. A few doors opened and we all formed a line one behind the other, holding onto some part of clothing of the person before us.

The lobby was filling up quickly. When I saw we still had students missing I made one more round to the sixth floor, muscling my way up the stairs now more crowded. No amount of knocking would arouse anyone--if there were anyone--in the rooms. I gave up and returned to the lobby. As we huddled around one sofa we looked around and saw a couple entirely shrouded in sheets. Ah ha! we thought. Caught in the act!

Word spread that the epicenter was near Acapulco. The quake recorded at 5.6 on the Richter Scale. Whispers resounded off the walls with talk of where folks were going next. We sat through several aftershocks, discussing the event and assuring those young women who couldn't take adversity. When the all clear came, I saw each young lady back to her room. The guys took care of themselves, laughing as though nothing serious had occurred minutes before. As I walked up and down the hallway on floor six, doors to rooms from which I couldn't arouse anyone flew open. Confessions flooded my ears. "We were just sitting around talking, Mrs. N. and were afraid you'd get onto us if you discovered we were together." "I knew what to do, Mrs. N., I hid in the closet." It seems some guys were visiting in the girls' rooms(a forbidden rule at that time) and decided it was better to stay huddled together in the room rather than risk the wrath of a teacher. What stories they told the remainder of the year!

The next day I accompanied a group on an excursion to the downtown area of Mexico City. We were stunned at what an earthquake does to a city several hundreds of miles from the epicenter. Sidewalks had buckled up, much like what we see in the south when excessive dry weather wreaks havoc. Some buildings were leaning towards the street one and two feet. Fortunately, the hotel we were staying in had been built with a rocker foundation, so the only damage was to a three-story window. Outside the adjacent buildings were leaning forward a couple of feet beyond our hotel. We felt safer just seeing the effects on other structures. Glass was everywhere and we made a lot of detours off the main avenue. Office workers on upper floors spent time looking out the windows unmindful of their safety inside,chatting with passers by. Within 24 hours the city streets were clean and with exception of crowds of people vying for taxis and buses, normalcy began to return.

The local newspaper in our town found out the school group was in mid Mexico so my family was interviewed. My son was quoted as saying, "Mother knows how to take care of herself, so we aren't worried." Calling home was impossible as all phone lines were inoperable. With his remark I hoped the families of my students felt comfortable knowing their children were in the hands of a calm leader. Many parents took it in stride while only a few demanded their children leave immediately. Unfortunately, with hoards of people leaving the capital city, getting a ride to the airport was a task. Only one student got to the airport at the inconvenience of a our American bus driver(who stayed with us the entire trip)and flew home, but it took all day. The remaining parents allowed their children remain with us. And they had the best time ever.I'll bet they, too, upon reading about the latest California earthquake were reminded of their own experience in Mexico City.

Candy Making Beckons

2009-12-24T10:35:00.010-05:00

When R and I were in our early stages of marriage, we decided to continue my mother's habit(and that of thousands of others) of making candy for Christmas. Not being a cook, R decided a delicious candy for the season only would be his contribution. Through several years of adjusting the recipe from the side of the carton of Hershey's Cocoa (we believed in this ingredient--bar chocolate was foreign)he came up with the fudgiest chocolate fudge, full of refined sugar, cream, and butter. Anyone eating a piece had to check out another, and another, etc. Then we'd lie around the rest of the day castigating ourselves.

Today this fudge is a part of our memory. R refuses to bend to my wishes for just "a little bit" so I can refreshs my memory as to the taste, thinking that should last another 10 years of remembrance. But no, he is too "busy".

So what do I do to kill the dire need for sugar? I order (mind you, I'm no cook, either) from our local deli, Primos, one of the oldest in the city, one sweet potato pie and one pecan pie!(OK cooks, don't tell me how easy these pies are made--I hate doing anything in the kitchen!!) One of our guests for Christmas lunch brought her berry pie, and my sister made our mother's recipe for Fruit Drops (miniature drops of baked fruit cake batter). Also, I had on hand plenty of egg nog (I luckily was the only one to partake of this delicious drink so I had enough for sips whenever). I didn't miss the fudge at all--well, just when I say the word or think it!

New Direction

2009-11-28T18:01:00.009-05:00

I love to write. Most of my writing is for this blog or essays or short stories. I've even written a novel, 50,000 words! Whew! Took me three months to get to the end. Now it sits tucked away while I tend to the other writings in my flock. After all, I can't give preference to one and ignore the others.

Two weekends ago my sis and I attended a writing morning at University of South Alabam, Mobile. Reason 1: another viewpoint from authors; Reason 2: one author was Carolyn Haines, who writes the Bones series of mystery books. She is writer-in-residence at the college. Alas, she spoke about novel writing, a course which I'd had plenty of instruction. What actually peaked my interest was the poetry author, a Sue Brannon Walker (Poet Laureat of Alabama), an exhuberant lady who made writing poetry sooo easy. We did one exercise I've seen on many blogs: the "Where I'm from..." That was answering a series of questions about one's self and writing it in sentence form. She eliminated the sentences,used phrases and clauses. She reminded us how quickly we can write prose and drop lines and eliminate a lot of punctuation and voila! a poem is born. And sure enough it seems easy.

Sunday morning after returning I awoke with a poem in my head. Unfortunately, it wasn't anything we had been introduced to. A limrick. How that got caught in my brain I'll never know. Read on. . .

There once was a horse named Katrina
Who loved prancing in the arena,
But when a lady got on
with nothing but a thong
Katrina behaved like a hyena!

Isn't that disgraceful after an earlier morning of good poetry writing?
Time now to write a more graceful one. Next, writing a poem with only two words per line:

POWER OF SWEETS
I look
At you
And wonder
If I
Can afford
The pounds
I'll earn
From you
Chocolate, Vanilla
Strawberry, Nuts
Oh, gosh
Those bars
Are much
Too much
I know
It's hopeless
To feed
My tummy
I have
To leave
And find
My mommy.

Ok, I gotcha. Improvement. I will have to study Mrs. Walker's students' poetry. Let's see...what page do I want to start with?

For Ladies Who Hate Carrying Handbags

2009-11-01T19:24:00.008-05:00

Carrying a handbag means to me carrying the proverbial "kitchen sink," so I try not to take anything more than a few dollars, one credit card, and keys tucked in my pockets, unless I am to be gone for a length of time and need the hundred of items I stash in a purse.

A few weeks ago I should have taken my handbag. Needing to be at doctor's office for an epidural, I had insisted that R not accompany me since he wasn't feeling well. Meaning to be a help, he accompanied me. After an hour's wait R began having difficulty breathing. I told him to go to the car, wait for me to get cleared about my leaving the office for a few minutes to pick up my cellphone I left behind. R was going on to his own doctor for a check up. I informed the clerk, who said I had to wait and clear with the nurse, who then said she had to clear with the doctor--was I up next after an hour of waiting?? I ran out to the car anyway, to discover R had left me--almost naked. Despair filled my body. I had no purse (why, with hubby along?) and my cell phone had gone with him. A Hummer sat in our parking space. I returned to the office and told the clerk I was back but would have to cancel. She insisted I had to wait for the nurse to whom I explained I had to call my sister to come pick me up. Nurse said she had to consult the doctor.

After 10 minutes I told the clerk I was leaving, she said for me to wait for the nurse and before I could sit down the nurse came in and said I had to have someone in the office NOW. I explained my situation, asked if I could take the injection without a sedative to avoid waiting for my sister to come, she said wait, she'd talk to the doctor. While sitting there I tried to figure out my next move to get to hubby's doctor. Nurse returned saying doctor wouldn't okay my being there alone and would prefer that I take the sedative. Meaning I needed someone present in the waiting room throughout the procedure. I then said I would
cancel, the nurse said to wait until she consulted the doctor. Another five minutes passed and she finally came out and said doctor thought I should not take injection but take care of husband. Then I realized I knew only one phone number and that friend was out of town. I didn't know my sister's cell phone number, nor any other person's cell number. Most friends were not in town. Not living in a city with public transportation, I couldn't think of a way to get to hubby's doctor's office unless I walked the 10 miles...until I thought of a taxi.

In the meantime, R found my cell phone and had a clerk figure out how to use it to call my sister to come. He told her I was at one place when I was at another (did someone say men can't remember important info?). She looked for an hour at a hospital trying to find my doctor, whose name was R's doctor (he was too sick to understand her questioning). I called R's doctor to ask the clerk to get $5 from R for my taxi (I hadn't ridden in a local taxi in 30 years)that I was coming to where R was and not to leave me.

The taxi cost $ll.80, thankfully, R had no change other than twenties. We made contact and my sister and I laughed at the turmoil that happened on that Monday. I learned a valuable lesson: If I don't carry a handbag, for heaven's sake, CARRY THE CELLPHONE!!!

Checking the Fridge

2009-10-05T20:35:00.012-04:00

Since R has become aware of food labels, he checks frequently the pantry and the fridges,discarding dried or moldy food and foodstuff with expired dates. Left to my decision I'll allow foods to hobble along as long as 12 months. This crazy man now checks my fridge weekly to determine what should be discarded. I know after all these years he understands that cleaning our fridges is not my favorite hobby. I push items I think we need to keep just a bit longer hidden on the back shelves. Discarding left overs is a difficult task for me. Makes me feel I am not a decent cook who is careful about leftovers. It's OK that I know that fact, but R's knowledge is too much for me. However, prior to leaving for summer vacation, I cleaned our two fridges until it was near-empty and gleamingly clean.

However...after two months we return and voila! a bowl with food dried to the bottom. The artistic me saw a beautiful painting. Practical husband saw something differently. At least his vocal exclamation rattled my senses as to how astute he has become in recognizing fresh food. If the picture above reminds you of the heavy brush strokes full of intense colors, then you understand why I had to take the photo. I'm thinking of framing this one.

Two Months Recap of NY Visit

2009-09-25T12:38:00.008-04:00

I have to state that our stay in the woods of the Lower Catskills was rather uneventful this year. First, we left too late to really enjoy our time there, second, we had to break up the weeks to include a trip to Maine for 10 days, and third, I insisted that what family was around had to follow me on cemetery trips. The latter were usually one day trips, but terribly boring for everyone except me.

Before leaving for NY I had stumbled upon the Newkirk ancestors as having been residents of Ulster Co, Montgomery Co and Orange Co, NY. We traveled to Kingston, Marbletown, Old Hurley, and Middletown to view tombstones of folks gone by. I was the only excited one, because I finally have reached that point in life in which I appreciate history. Snapping photos of headstones that were barely legible as well as those illegible and the buildings that formed the early Dutch Reformed Church were totally worthwhile. Armed with shaving cream and paper towels, we were ready to wet down the old concrete stones to discover who was buried beneath. However, one cemetery anticipated the move of "bounty" hunters and forbade such "defacing." so we ended up with standing this way and that way to pick out with the naked eye some recognition of the letters of the last name.

Most of the remainder of the trip was enjoying the beautiful water around Georgetown Maine, visiting with friends and new relations, and packing for the trip home.

I'm getting too old to pack and unpack. Maybe that's why I had a birthday recently and added a year--to remind me I just can't go at the pace of a youngster.

Watching Fall Dance

2009-09-07T14:18:00.004-04:00

Here in New York, a hike upwards from the Delaware River in the hamlet of Yulan, so named by the Chinese laborers who lived in the area during logging days, the beginning of fall is beautiful. One tree which we can see from our deck is already putting on new leaves. The ferns,so abundant in this area, are still green. Even they have a beauty about their browns when the green fades. Ferns in these parts are the perennials that border property, dress up bare spots, and proudly stand along the rustic road leading to our sheds.

Temperatures plunged (I write this because as a Southerner we don't get temps like this so early) to 40's several times last week and we declared "It's time to go home" and then the days following the temps were upper 50's nights, so we said, "Let's stay awhile longer." Those cold nights must have ushered in the right medicine for the leaves to change.

As time nears for us to return to the South, we suddenly feel we've not made enough contacts with friends, haven't taken enough out-of-town trips, haven't enjoyed the outdoors enough. It takes us weeks to relax together before wanting to connect with others...then suddenly time has run out.

I have new projects in mind, now that I feel invigorated,so I don't face fall and winter reading. I've read enough books here to last for the remainder of the year. I need action of a different nautre. Ahh, life in these mountains do relax us and gives us incentive to examine our blessings more frequently.

Behind the Obituary

2009-08-21T11:14:00.010-04:00

I'm a fan of obituaries. It is the first page I read every morning. At my age I'm interested in knowing who in my realm of friendship has passed on. But even those whom I don't know, I read to discover what a fine contributor to our life the person has been. Whether a man was a farmer who worked hard (a seemingly less appreciated trait), served on the town's board, loved kids, kept a garden or a woman whose life was devoted to others' welfare--these were important to their families and to our life.

When R and I started our life after college in Jackson, we met a young childless couple as we who attended our church. Within a few years children came: two boys and a girl for us, two girls and a boy for them. Ironically, our daughter J and their second daughter S were born on the same date of the same year: August 28, 1963. Although not close during school years because we had moved further north while they continued to live in Jackson, we remained friends to celebrate special dates. New Year's Eve was a gathering for over 15 years until S married and J moved west.

Life rocked on beautifully. J traveled, living in different parts of the U. S, while S and her husband settled down and had two children and a thriving business. S and J met together in January at our oldest son's wedding to find time to chat as they did as youths. Reconnection.

A few weeks ago S's life was shattered by the loss of her well-respected husband in a headline-making situation that no one could have foreseen. This couple, who gave so much of their time to helping others, gaining a wealth of friendships in their years of marriage, and having been blessed as a family, were kind, active in their small church, loving to their families. The shots that rang out that day in the front yard of this couple took two lives and injured another. S survived with wounds in her arm, cheek, and chest. A terrible forever reminder of a tragedy that should never have happened.

No obituary can say how genuinely good T was, how seriously he took his role as father and husband, how he helped his neighbors, especially those older, and did what any young man could to better his neighborhood, his community, his church. His passion was flying and at one time had been an instructor. He is one of those young men who would have made his part of the world a better place to live. And now he is now gone. His community and we friends mourn his loss.

We are left to wonder why.

Todd Randolph died three weeks before his wife's 46th birthday. May you rest in peace, Todd!

Enjoying Maine

2009-08-21T11:00:00.005-04:00

As a landlubber who doesn't go near water any further than the swimming pool for aerobic exercise, R and I have spent ten days on the shores of salt water on the Georgetown island in Maine. Our son-in-law emphasized that what I call peninsulas are really islands in this area. If you were to stretch out the Maine coastline it would be longer than the entire Atlantic coast. These shorelines are jagged and each piece holds mystery, history, and lure for those who love to swim and boat and revel in storytelling. I've been a landlubber too long to find the excitement others do. That doesn't mean I haven't enjoyed my stay. Watching the tide go in and out, seeing stillness of the water on hour and movement the next enchants me because it's so new.

Daughter J recently married a Mainer. He doesn't speak like one, but his lifestyle is such that being around him and his family who have enjoyed summer cottage life involving swimming all day at favorite swimming holes, enjoying boating and fishing outside their cottage door and ending with big suppers nightly during their growing-up years speaks for a well-rounded individual who is sharing this same life with J.

We'll never get to explore the whole coastline of this magnificent state, but we'll discover enough to want to continue revisiting each summer.

Return To The Hills

2009-08-04T13:55:00.004-04:00

We're ba-cccck! Back in the hills and behaving like pioneers, almost. No utilities. Using a cooler for a fridge, going to the mountain stream for water, going to sleep nights when Mother Nature turns off the lights at 8:30, and waking up 12 hours later, something we'd never do at home!

Despite the fact that we left home with searing, humid heat,we came into the mountains that has seen fewer days of sunshine this summer than ever before. Rain, rain, and more rain. The sunny days find us constantly on our new deck, another thing we can't do at home. Being cooped up in a 12' x 12' building we call a shed, but fancily we say cabin, during the constant rain isn't our idea of a vacation. But, hey, we sleep under a down comforter nights, and we don't have to pay utility bills for two or three months. There's some equalizing to all of this.

We aren't pioneers because we don't plant a garden, build our fire for cooking, use the same clothes constantly, or sit by a fire nights mending our socks. But we feel like pioneers because our way of life here in the lower Catskills is a dramatic change from our usual life in town. We love it and hate to grow too old to return.

City LIfe

2009-07-22T21:01:00.005-04:00

The noises are muted. It's 9 p.m. and I hear outside the sounds of an occasional city bus, cars passing, an occasional taxi taking off.This isn't New York City, it's Brooklyn--across the river. In all the years we've visited this part of the world, away from Mississippi, I've never been anywhere but Manhattan. Only through movies have I heard of Brooklyn. Now I've crossed over the Manhattan Bridge for the first time into a city of interest.

Without our adult kids moving around, probably R and I would never have seen the inner workings of Boston, Cambridge, Portland OR, Portland ME, Salt Lake City, Bluff, UT (town of 58)or Barryville and Yulan NY. These are places they've lived and worked and we've had the privilege of visiting. We tried to influence one of ours to not remain in Mississippi, but choose Paris France, his and our fav place to visit, but J is a homebody and has been the chief caretaker of his parents. We'll have to visit Paris again without his invitation.

We'll stay in Brooklyn another few days and then to Yulan where we'll prepare to live "off the grid" for the next few months. Our advancing age keeps us wondering during the winter if we can continue to live this way summers. But once there we are there we are estatic, rather like a kid at Disney World (almost).Yes, that is hard for material girls and boys, but our summer life is invigorating, mind settling, nerve soothing.

Until then we are enjoying our Brooklyn stay, watching the dog walkers, using the sidewalks which we don't have (and miss)at home and visiting the unusual grocery stores and shops.

Keyboard Stress

2009-07-17T16:06:00.005-04:00

In my life of owning computers, five machines to be exact, all the used ones had just the right keyboards, although I didn't select any of them. However, I ordered my last-nearly a year old-HP on the telephone and forgot to ask for a simple keyboard. The computer came with one that businesses own--complete numbering on the right side, which I don't use. I learned to type on a manual typewriter that didn't have such a division.

In August I will have had this computer a year and still I've continued to place my hands on the wrong keys. So when I write a compliment to a friend on Facebook and say "I like your new photo" the typing comes out like this"

O ;ove upir new [jptp!

Sometimes I have to rewrite several times just to hry yjr lrud yp eptl gpt ,r/.(get the keys to work for me). I'm ready to pitch this keyboard in and get one that beckon my fingers to the right landing so they'll be on asdf jkl; every time!

Old Habits Never Die

2009-06-29T08:32:00.012-04:00

With temps soaring into 100 degrees last week and the heat index hovering at 108 deg. our 13 year-old air conditioner compressor decided to die a slow death. We were unaware that the coolness had declined by Friday. One of those mechanical failures you least expect. Like everyone else, we've become accustomed to home air conditioning. We are into Day Four of the art of staying cool.With July Fourth looming, we may spend a lot of time in the mall reading.

How reminiscent this is of the temps I faced teaching school. No matter how neatly dressed and made up I was at 8:00 a.m., by 8:30 my makeup was sliding towards my waist, strands of hair were losing their stance on my head(no hair spray has been invented to ignore heat), and the light starch in my blouse was wilting. In one hour my appearance likened me to a Rip Van Winkle nap. No fans were provided for the classrooms, so I contributed one.There was such a fuss made over the direction the fan should face I eventually turned it off to avoid classroom conflict. I was fooling myself that this medium-sized fan would offer relief. But the psychology was worth more than the actual cooling. By the end of the day exhaustion filled our bodies like a tank of hot water. The difficult part of teaching was keeping students alert in all the heat. The next difficult part was maintaining control with humor.

For some inconceivable reason architects of early schools chose to face the buildings where a lot of sunlight floods classrooms, not taking into account heat that often begins in mid-to-late April. Yet, you check the buildings and those that do face south have tall windows that create havoc in the classrooms with students jockeying for a seat on the other side of the room. Those days are memories.

With a tall glass of ice water and a good book, I sit near a fan that does its best to make me comfortable. I can't complain. Some people don't have the luxury of one fan.

Waiting. There's bound to be the fridge, the washer or dryer or the hot water heater ready to blow its valves. Doesn't it happen in pairs?

'Grams of Love

2009-06-18T13:13:00.008-04:00

Oftentimes we learn more about our parents when it is too late to ask questions. I recall when my mother was alive I quizzed her about her courtship with Daddy: How long did you and Daddy date? Why did you pick out each other? Did you meet his family, vice-versa? And in her 85 years of memory she gave me the answers. However, never understanding why she had such a short courtship I found the answer in a packet of telegrams sent to my mother by an ambitious, overeager, testosterone-driven, and most of all, poetic father.

In 1931 telephones were few, telegrams were many.Daddy was a telegrapher with the Postal Telegraph(later, Western Union) and sent his new girlfriend a telegram, many with the words that came out of a teletype machine on one long strip of paper 3/8” wide. Dad tore off the strips to fit the 8 ½” wide page, wet the pasty side by running the strip across a porcelain roller sitting in water and pressed the strips onto the paper.

At one time Mother worked across the street from Daddy’s office in a discount store. Deliveries of telegrams arrived frequently, and her boss was well-aware of a budding romance. Dad’s very first telegram, which Mother wrote in pencil at the bottom “the first wire I ever got from H. E.” began this courtship. If you notice the date, it is 1931 June 22. On July 12 they were married in the home of a Presbyterian minister. Dad worked fast and furious, didn't he? Mother was 18 years old; Dad 22. But for my dad, winning this pretty young lady was very important.

The first telegram, delivered by a messenger on a bike, reads, “This seems the only available means of communicating with you. Called you but you “were out”(as usual). Will call you tomorrow at seven bells sharp. Be there or there might be another shootin’ in town.” Fresh out of business school Mother had found a room at the local YWCA which housed young women on a month-to-month rental. The Y was located at one end of the main downtown street and Daddy’s office was at the other end. No other young woman ever received a telegram, making Mother a popular topic of conversation when one arrived.

Succeeding posts increased Daddy’s poetic side. Just before their planned wedding he wrote on July 3, 1931, “Your li’l voice sure sounded sweet over the phone this a.m. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking of you. But I don’t regret the sleep as long as my thoughts are of the sweetest girl in all the world--you. All my love and here’s looking forward to the time when you will be all mine.”
Dad couldn’t voice his words as well as he wrote them, so he sent another telegram-- the words typed directly onto the paper--a special three-page love letter asking Mother to marry him. How could she have refused this love-sick young man?

Daddy's enjoyment for writing telegrams didn't cease when computers and fax machines replaced the old-fashioned teletype machines that spit out the ribbons of type. He switched to handwritten notes that were pinned on her pillow or on the fridge, and even on the living room floor so she'd see them when she arrived home from work. Notes when he didn't buy a gift; notes to remind her of his love; notes to wish her a happy trip or a welcome-home note. Many are lost, some were saved.

But nothing can compare with the telegrams. After her death I found a small number of them in her cedar chest. Glued together from moisture and heat, the messages remind my sister and me of the way our dad showed his creativity and love for his "sweet girl".

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Where Is My Pipe and Holmes Hat?

2009-06-15T16:06:00.005-04:00

I am a dedicated detective. Even without the paraphenalia Sherlock wears. I own a copy of Idiot's Guide to Private Investigation. But I don't use my "skills" to find people alive. They've usually been in the ground or a small box, or in the wind, sea, or mountains. I'm a genealogist.

I use the same skills I used to obtain information for news articles when I was a budding journalist. I scare people with what I want to know. And they shut up tighter than the proverbial "Dick's hatband." So few folks today understand the importance of preserving family history. Sometimes I fall flat on my face with reasons why I want the information. Who has time, they say, to dredge up birth and death dates as well as family members of my grandparents? That happened too long ago! And I leave them searching for another member of the family from whom to draw the info. These are the ones who have never been asked family questions.

Keeping all information of your immediate family in one place, even a bank box, you will have ready for your family genealogist when she/he calls. his includes certificates of all types (birth, death, divorce,baptism,awards) letters, diaries,photographs, medals, and the like. Sounds like you need a special box to put them in? Indeed! Handwritten letters and notes are so special and fade with age that you need to make copies only a few times if any at all. Put them in UV ray-free enclosures you can purchase in a photography store. This careful attention as you age will be appreciated and easier to find at your passing.

A glance at www.ancestry.com (now advertised online and tv) to find a public search of your family is the beginning of a great treasure hunt. Only recently did I connect the Newkirks to families in New York, who had lived less than 100 miles from where we stay summers! How exciting now be able to plan a trip to visit cemeteries and place names where these elders once lived.

WARNING: This family checking can be habit-forming. When you find a long-lost great uncle or note which ship your great great grandfather sailed to the new world, you will have a whole new world of information to digest.

When Folks Get Together

2009-06-07T12:41:00.003-04:00

This weekend I've been to two places to meet new folks and renew friendships.

The first was a funeral of a sister of my best friend in high school. Although P and I hung together all through high school and into early marriage, raising kids parted us for those extra responsibilities that impeded our get-togethers. We last talked on the telephone ten years ago vowing to meet each other for lunch to keep the friendship ties. That didn't happen. When I entered the funeral home and signed the visitor's book I looked up and saw this beautiful woman. We didn't recognize each other. She glanced down at the book to see the last entry and saw my name. We enveloped each other and looked hard into the eyes to validate their owners. P made a comment that emphasized how important keeping close to old friends. "I've been so depressed these last years, I wondered what happened that I no longer saw my true friends anymore." And here we were, two of many high school friends we had shared. Where the others are no one knows. But we know the importance of picking up the chain of long ago and keeping it off the ground from now on.

By the evening R and I were enjoying the friendship of our neighborhood at an outdoor party. The weather was perfect. Warm, cool breeze, music, and the best friend chicken around. We have great cooks in our neighborhood. What is wonderful is the strong friendship the neighbors have. We are mostly retired folks. A smattering of younger families have moved into the area. Then there were the first-timers, many of whom have lived in the neighborhood but haven't attended earlier parties. As one neighbor said, "I think folks thought our parties were alcoholic ones and didn't want the hassle of meeting neighbors that way."(We refrain from alcohol to help those in AA) The strongest drink served was a New England bottle of Moxie (or was it another M word?). A transplant from NE had brought several bottles over for other transplants to have a bit of home. One woman from New Hampshire and an over 20 year neighbor, declared she'd never had such a drink. Stronger than Dr. Pepper the giver said. I didn't get a taste, most consumers kept it to themselves to transport themselves home for a few swallows.

I have found it easy to stay home and have little contact with others. But I know as my friend P says, depression can set in before you know it. I want nothing to do with that!

Finally, I Honored Others on Memorial Day

2009-05-25T15:47:00.006-04:00

For over thirty years on Memorial Day I've closed out the school year by completing final paperwork. After I retired I celebrated by attending quiet parties. or I shopped, unmindful of the significance of the day.

Last Monday my sister and I attended the services for the Royal Dutch Flyers who had trained in Jackson, MS during WWII. We both realized minor parts our parents played in that long ago time and it was somehow necessary that we attend one service in our lifetime. We are aging just as many vets are. Loyalty to their comrades brings most vets to any memorial service. Ours was delayed respect.

Mother worked as one of several PBX operators--you've seen them in old photos or in early movies sitting at a board plugging and unplugging wires to connect phones--and Daddy repaired all the telegraph/teletype machines at the base. In those days airbase workers couldn't reveal much about their work or what they saw at the base.

The activity at the Jackson Air Base of 1941-47 was the reason we saw so many airmen in town. A number of American squadrons came and went at different periods of time. In May 1942 the base was designated as the Army Air Force Specialized Flying School and would be open to the Netherlands East Indies Air Force to train here. One story is that the Dutch base in the East Indies had been taken over by the Japanese and training had to be conducted somewhere else. The Jackson base was selected by the Dutch Air Force for basic and advanced training while Fort Levenworth in KS would conduct primary training.

Today one veteran from the Viet Nam War told us he'd heard stories of these young men, many in their late teens, who were daredevils, flying loops under telephone and utility lines, flying low over buildings and homes--any scary tactic imaginable. I faintly remember one occasion looking upward and hearing that same remark from the few around me as a light plane flew just above our heads. Many died during their training or on flights across the U. S. The war activity prevented the transfer of bodies in the United States back to Holland, so the remains were sent back to Jackson, Ms where a plot of land in the city's cemetery was designated for the Dutch Airmen. For over 60 years a service has been held in honor of these young men and their commandants.

Over the years a member of the Royal Dutch Family came to lay the wreath at the base of the monument.Other times a special guest did the honors. This year veterans of four conflicts lay the wreath while 100 persons, mostly vets and their families, watched.

A few years ago one of the oldest men in the Dutch Air Force was laid to rest alongside his comrades, last year his wife's remains were buried next to him. This year, an airman whose remains were in a Florida cemetery were transferred to be laid to rest with his squadron. In the rear of the cemetery known as Cedarlawn lie 36 airmen, two children, and one wife in a quiet area unknown to most of the traffic passing daily.

The 9:30 a.m. day began cloudy with the sun peeping until it found a wide gap in the clouds. Within thirty minutes the humidity has risen and heat had replaced the few breezes we experienced earlier. Military honors with gun salute, fly over, a lot of speeches of reminiscence reminded us of the once presence of the Flying Dutchmen. May 4 is the Dutch celebration of Memorial Day. I'm sure they honor those buried in Mississippi.

Bedbugs Resurgence Recalls Memories

2009-05-16T16:23:00.014-04:00

I was settling into a bedroom in a beautiful two-story home in Mexico City in June, 1959, expecting to enjoy summer study with my high school collegue Mary F, a history teacher who traveled with me. We would attend Mexico City College on the outskirts of the city on a mountainside. We had been met at the airport by the Senorita's maid and dropped at the door in front of one of the houses in a fashionable neighborhood. Time enough to have supper and unpack. Our hostess was an artist, and appeared excited to have American boarders for the duration of the summer.

However during the night something attacked me. I jumped out of bed and turned on the lights, pulled back covers to discover---nothing. At this point I'd only heard of bedbugs, but not really experienced them. It was easy to recognize the feeling of what was nestling in my musky mattress. I fought them all night. The next morning I felt as if I'd downed 10 Margaritas without food as I stumbled down the curved staircase for breakfast. How to say "bedbugs" in Spanish? My dictionary was still packed away. Our hostess spoke enough English to say hello and good morning and the maid none. I was a bit jealous that Mary F had enjoyed a good night's sleep. She knew very little Spanish so I was left alone to figure out how to explain to our hostess there were bedbugs in the mattress in the room assigned to me. I knew not to say Tiene (you have) because would mean she owned them; I made my best effort, telling her first, that the mattress needed sol. Then to dispel the quizzical look on her face, I said hay mosquitos pequenos... and then I walked my fingers like the adverts did for yellow pages years later, repeating "... caminan en la cama." She looked at me and said "Absolutament NO" or something similar. I then had to explain "un variedad de mosquitos" but she left the room in a pout.

Mary F and I took the bus to school that one morning, riding in a Trailways-like coach for about 20 minutes and filled mostly with American students. Between classes when students flocked to the snack bar Mary F and I stumbled upon a lovely little Mexican lady speaking good English soliciting summer boarders. She had a nice place, she insisted, for two ladies as we. I repeated my experience the previous night and she said "Come with me after class,I will explain, then you rent from me." Srta. Artista was angry and refused to believe we were moving because of the bedbugs, but she understood we had an ally and wanted our deposit returned. Before long we were stuffed in Sra. Solana's little car on our way to the outskirts of town. We parked and dragged our suitcases across the wide street and entered through a non-descript door in a wall.

We stepped into a fairyland of color: a square area of yard with green grass, shady trees, and colorful flowers. Ten Mexican bungalows huddled in a U-shape around the green area. We were greeted by a monster on four legs they called a dog that stood up to our thighs and only understood Spanish. He had to smell us and hear our voices so we'd be protected on the outside of the fence. Otherwise, he would have torn us up when we inserted our housekey into the outside door. Later we would discover how difficult it was to obtaining taxi rides late at night. One driver asserted that we were located in a dangerous part of town where taxi drivers were robbed. No one in the neighborhood bothered us, despite our having more money probably than the poor taxi drivers.

The little bungalow had a small living room/kitchen and bedroom. The bar separating the living room, or la sala, from the kitchen, la cocina was shaped like an ironing board--for that very use. Every day we'd leave this beauty situated across from the American School,walk into another world to the corner and turn to walk several blocks to the highway and wait for the bus. The streets screamed poverty--people sleeping and cooking in lean-tos,half dressed as they swept the dirt floors of their hovels,as we, bowing out of the way of half clothed children playing in unsanitary conditions. Would we safely return to our little slice of heaven? We passed semmingly unnoticed.

Those darn bedbugs, so tiny and white that I couldn't locate a single one during the night, caused a new experience for Mary F and me. Oftentimes I wonder how we would have fared in that beautiful neighborhood, rubbing elbows with the arts crowd, and having downtown D. F. within blocks of us. Los senores Solana took care of us, explaining Mexico and their fare. They served as our parents for the time we spent with them. Neither Mary F nor I will forget living on Calle Observatorio.

We never missed the artist and her home and the bedbugs she refused to acknowledge.

Something New

2009-05-13T19:29:00.005-04:00

Remember when your family moved to a newer house containing two bathrooms instead of the usual one? Remember the rising glee as each of you ran to one bathroom, then the other, admiring all the new fixtures, and realizing how each of you can shower or take a tub bath with more privacy? If you’ve had that experience, you'll understand about yesterday.

That same penetrating excitement washed over me when a member of the Geek squad hooked up my husband’s computer Tuesday afternoon. Now we each have our own. This isn’t a story found in most households. Nothing new about families owning several computers. For us it's different. R hasn't cared to use the computer until recently A rising apprehension began welling inside me in December as R learned on the desktop this black key moves the screen that way, this other key at the top does that, and then with two fingers and a bit of magic the printer turns on spitting out a wealth of information.

Now R is the proud owner of a netbook, a waif-like machine that shrinks even more in a large man’s hand. The screen is approximately 10” wide and closed, the machine fits into an 8 ½” x 11” envelope weighting three pounds. R behaves as if he’s bought a brand-new Bentley.

And I’m relieved that I can plop down in front of my desktop any time of the day to empty my head of ideas that rush into a short story or that still-to-be-published manuscript that keeps me forever young.

Fifty Years Ago. . .

2009-04-26T11:21:00.007-04:00

...I was a young teacher with four classes of tenth grade English and one class of Spanish in the original building housing Central High School in Jackson, MS. The half century class reunion of 1959 held its gathering last evening in Jackson at a site that was a wooded area fifty years ago. Those posing for a photo showed that despite the number of deceased, there were a large number still living. They are now retired or nearly so, have contributed much to their community, and only twelve years younger than I.

Today I wish I had begun my teaching at Central. I had chosen to "learn the ropes" in two small Delta towns before tackling a large school in the capitol city. Blessed is what I call my years at Central, a school being torn apart by progress--new high schools in the northern and western ends of town. Soon Central High would be an empty building with its wide hallways, creaking wood stairs, stalwart lockers lining the walls like sentinels, dark basement rooms, empty patios. Silent but for the echoes of the once-heard marching of ROTC students outside and the commands of their drill instructors, locker doors slamming between classes, and the thousands of feet pounding the wood floors only to quieten when the bells clanged to warn of classes beginning or ending. With little trouble I can transform myself mentally into those hallways just left or right of the auditorium. As I progress through the hallways,I hear teachers explaining the history lesson, the math problem, the rules of grammar. No school was like Central High, and I was in a bit of heaven last night as I saw and talked with many of my former students, my mind reeling with photos of them as seventeen-year olds.

There were five of us teachers out of ten who attended. At our table we talked about the meaning of this school and declared that our time at Central High was the best of any school where we had worked. We were family. What better way to explain the warmth we still hold in our hearts for these students and faculty with whom we worked?

I Could Have Had the Best Mentor. . .

2009-04-03T11:15:00.015-04:00

Now that I'm retired I have time to reflect on those with whom I've been in contact who could have changed my life had my decision at the time been opposite. I seem to have floated through life making a few bad ones. Here's one example.

Fresh out of college I took a summer job with a suburban newspaper. My goal was to teach a few years and then to enroll in journalism school. My new position was to work with the owner and his wife. Marlene covered the business side and dipped into the social scene with her reporting. When I was hired I reported just about every angle until Sam decided I could write features. I interviewed the kid who won a monkey, the award-winning rose grower, the prim antique collector, the college trekker. Then I began to cover the evening parties with a photographer, getting names of the posed. That was par for the course, I suspected. I had spent four years writing for a community college newspaper, covering every aspect of putting out a papers except printing.

One day an imposing lady wearing a hat whose brim was as wide as an umbrella and as springlike as daffodils entered the doorway. She wanted to see Sam. Later Sam exclaimed she was the owner of two small newspapers. Her name was Mrs. Smith. Uh, yea, Mrs. Smith in disguise I said to myself.

However, she came in often, always sporting a different wide-brimmed hat. I thought by then that she was interested in buying Sam's newspaper. In early August I received a letter from her asking me to join her staff in Lexington, just north of Jackson. That request sent me into the struggle of "Should I or Should I Not?" Already I was preparing to teach in a Delta school. I had learned in college -- YOU DON'T BREAK CONTRACTS. Here was my opportunity to work full time at what I truly loved. I leaned towards staying with my contract, regretfully. By the following year I was ready togive my body a hundred lashes for the mistake.

Little did I know Hazel Brannon Smith and her zeal for values. As a staff member of the Lexington Advertiser, I would have become embroiled in civil rights with Hazel. Her complete bio is found online at www.journal of Mississippi History written by Newman, Mark, “Hazel Brannon Smith and Holmes County, Mississippi, 1936-1964: The Making of a Pulitzer Prize Winner,” Journal of Mississippi History 54 (February 1992), pp. 59-87.

The summer I received the invitation was 1954 and during the following year as I struggled with 150 students Hazel Brannon Smith struggled with the Supreme Court's decision to desegregate public schools. She stood alone while white merchants and citizens boycotted her newspaper.

By 1964, ten years after my invitation to join her staff, Hazel Brannon Smith became the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for her editorials expressing her strong opinions. The last edition of the Lexington Advertiser was printed in 1983. She won the Fannie Lou Hamer award in 1993 and died May 1994.

I often think of the exciting and dangerous ride I would have had with Hazel Brannon Smith. Would I have stayed and fought alongside her? Could I have coped with the burning cross in her yard? The anger and meanness of the citizens? I had no strong political opinions but I agreed with many of her beliefs. I would have witnessed zeal and heartbreak and courage in one woman. I would have had the best mentor anyone could have wished for.

Now the Mississippi Legislature has honored Hazel Brannon Smith with Resolution 83 for her courage in the heat of adversity. Look online at the Clarion-Ledger, Jackson, MS, March 31, 2009 for an article by Emily Wagster Pettus reporting the honor and giving some background. I can see Hazel now, standing on a cloud wearing one of her wide-brimmed hats, smiling down on all of us.

Mexico Nowadays a Danger to Travelers

2009-03-08T14:33:00.011-04:00

I spent three summers studying in Mexico in the 1950's, when the country was safe enough for me to travel via Trailways bus to the Texas border of Laredo, waiting an hour in a messy bus station, relying on my American-taught Spanish to get me on the Monterrey-bound and later the Mexico City-bound buses. I never gave a thought of danger those summers. Now with trouble exploding in Mexico, I'm glad my students were introduced to the colorful, exciting, historical Mexico in their teen lives that today is difficult to capture as drugs endanger travelers.

I was to repeat that trip several more times for myself, then when I became a teacher of Spanish, knowing the ropes of getting around the country from one point to another, I planned trips for my students. I knew the customs, and I pushed those customs down the throats of my passengers, including the length of the skirts of the female students. The acceptable length in Mexico was below the knee, and we Americans were just beginning to raise the bar to above the knee. Also, no shorts. And no flirting. Now try to convince American girls they didn't flirt! I told them dating Mexican boys was NOT the object of our trip. Well, who listens to an old fogey of a school teacher? That's another story.

On one trip to Mexico City, I expressed to the boys and girls not to get caught with a shadow. There were guys who'd follow them around hoping to be included in meals, day trips, anything where the Mexican didn't have to pay. We weren't in the Capitol 24 hours before I saw a group of my guys with one Mexican youth their age insisting on taking them places "the teacher would never tell you about." He spoke English well and an invitation to go to the red light district of D. F. were enough to convince the students to follow this guy. By the next day I sat the students down and explained that when they least expected it, they would be paying this guy's meal ticket. They smiled, acted like they knew better than I, and proceeded to continue this "friendship."

The seventh and last morning the male students rushed in anxious to sit with us and tell us their latest experience. I never was so relieved to hear the words "You were right, Mrs. N, he seemed never to have any money when we were ready to eat!" Then the Mexican came in, sat down with them, ordered his breakfast and ate his last meal with them. The boys remained cool, laughing with their visitor. The students got up, shook hands in farewell to their "friend" and left. I remained behind to witness the ending of this story. When the Mexican finished his breakfast, he started out the door only to be stopped and asked to pay his bill. He tried to explain that his "friends" had paid, but he got nowhere. The manager took him somewhere out of sight.

You can bet I had the best reputation for being strait-laced about behavior that helped my future Mexico excursions. My trips from the 1950's to 1990's were successful giving beautiful memories for the students. From the first trip of 8 students traveling in two cars driven by moms to the bus loads of 36-40, there was never a situation that couldn't be handled. However, I know some activities occurred without my knowing it (thank goodness!) and I'd love to hear from those students who are now in their mid-fifties in age tell me what they did those Mexican nights that I never knew about.

These photos are from my last two Yucatan trips where the students were few but delightful. By this time we were using air flights to allow for more time for sightseeing.

We Have Wild Animals, Too

2009-03-05T22:36:00.004-05:00

After reading several blogs from folks who live in the East, the authors write much about the animals they see in the woods. Our yard, our neighborhood, our small town are backed by woods and water--and the deer, rabbits, squirrels and probably a few other wild things roam around freely. There's a story that the neighborhood has a wildcat that wanders from one side of the area to the other. Few have seen it. It's not uncommon to come home late nights and find our car headlights startling four grown deer in the back yard. We talk next morning to neighbors who can swear to the number seen crossing the street early that morning.

Madison is gobbling up nature. Because our neighborhood borders the famed Natchez Trace Parkway, where woods are seen on both sides of the road, we can count on a continuous parade of large deer in the future.

There's always an inner thrill to arrive home and see these beautiful beasts visiting--and the thrill disapates when we see our outside plants are . . . no more.

Keeping Up with the Electronic Age

2009-02-18T21:02:00.005-05:00

I hadn't intended joining Facebook. I thought it was for the younger generation. But I wanted to see a video daughter J had shared on her page. Then I began to read the notes (public notes, that is) from her friends with whom I was familiar. Well, I thought, maybe this is a good way to keep up with news of all her friends. So I joined. In this way I'd not have to ask her from time to time "What's going on with LW?" I could just check her Facebook page and see if she had written J a note. Then my son S joined. Surprisingly, because he has trouble just reading and answering his emails. However, by checking these two pages I see photos never before shared with us. Not because the kids are thoughtless, just because they don't send us every snapshop.

I'm not nosy. I'm curious about everything and everyone. Who knows when I'll meet someone who knows someone I know or my kids know? It's good for conversation when you can speak a little about a lot of things and people. Back to Facebook--I don't know how to find pages of people my age, so I have to be happy to read what is going on in the minds of folks younger than I. Half of the time I think they're speaking in unknown tongues. Someone told me to watch "Family Guy" on TV and learn the latest lingo. I failed to recognize what was being said, so I'm trying to translate the latest vocabulary on Facebook.

I don't use a closeup pic, so my photo won't appear on someone's passport or driver's license. You can see me rappelling down the side of a tall hill in Tennessee. After that first jump when I thought my life would end,I was able to enjoy the drop; the climb up was impossible. One time rappelling was enough for me.

Visit me at Facebook. Become my friend.If you want to.

Warm Days of February

2009-02-11T11:08:00.003-05:00

Just last Saturday the temp soared upwards to 76 degrees! A beautiful time to get out. Like folks our age, we hit the flea market track south on Highway 49. We need two bedside tables. We ended up in a community of shops that have more glasswear than anything else, but did find one table. Some shops are so crowded with items that you have to lift and move them to search for just your selection. Other shops had displays that were more enticing. The owners know how to treat the customer. They sold cold drinks for $1 or less. And the day was warm enough to sample the cans and bottles of carbonation.

However, there weren't many cars on the road. Until we were ready to cross to the other side and head north. Highway 49 south goes to Hattiesburg and eventually the Gulf Coast. By spring the traffic will increase, as folks head to the casinos and whatever beach they can find between Gulfport and Mobile.

Usually February is our coldest month, but this year we are having unseasonal weather. Daffodils are already sprouting, but the camellias are troubled, preferring the cold weather for blooming. There are a handful of buds on the bushes. I planted tulips in pots and their sprouts are showing just enough to let me know I placed them
in the correct position for growth.

If this weather holds up by the weekend, we'll head north on another route to find that perfectly shaped, one-of-a-kind bedside table to complete our shopping for the year.

Whoever said the fun is in the journey not the destination is absolutely correct!

The Wedding's Over

2009-02-07T10:20:00.011-05:00

It's history. Gone are the confusion, the searching, the decisions. Our oldest son married January 24 and the entire time we chided the whole process of spending so much money (not ours entirely) for such an elaborate outpouring for a simple ceremony. But as one couple of friends said,when expressing their feelings about their son's wedding, there was a euphoria after the weekend. The fuss and bother, the strain and stress, the anticipation and results were worth all the preparation.

I'm reminded of the old hymn that begins with "Precious memories, how they linger..." They do. But memories that are precious don't have to cost and arm and a leg, in my opinion. If our newly-weds could have had the dollars that were spent on an elaborate cake, flowers, expansive buffet dinner, music, clothing and the likes, they would have been able to furnish their home, maybe put a little in savings...but I'm a penny pincher, and many would disagree with me. In the long run we are proud of our son's choice for a mate and they are happy. Why should I worry about expenses?

Our family was grateful to watch our oldest experience a weekend of his own. And that...is a precious memory.

Sister and Brother waiting for ceremony to commence.

Discovering Old Letters

2009-01-21T17:52:00.010-05:00

Fishing through the myriad of boxes and folders that contain family history, I’ve come upon several letters written to my parents. They bear dates of 1937 and 1938. At that time my parents had been married less than ten years.

The letters are brown and faded, written in pencil, as pens were a luxury only afforded by the few. But the three cent stamps and the post office stamp with date, time, and place are indelible.

The first is from my grandmother who lived a simple life in South Mississippi. Her husband was a store keeper. Grandfather Mitchell had built a one-room store across the road from the house and the corn mill. So much bartering went on in those days that money seemed to be used for extras, as in what they sent to their daughters and families. The letter was addressed to Annie, my mother. At the time my grandparents had two daughters living in the Jackson, Miss. area. My aunt's name was Wilmouth; everyone called her Will.

The short note was written on lined paper, within a 5” x 8 tablet. The kind you bought in a country store. The paper has browned considerably with age.In the 1930s loose-leaf paper was a thing of dreams. The envelope is dated May,1938; I doubt this envelope contained the letter at all, since the contents reveal a different time:

Dear Annie. Enclosed you will find a check for four dollars. You have it cashed an give will(my aunt) one dollar & Elsie (her daughter) one you keep one give viv a fifty cts Hubert fifty cts this is your Christmas Presant. Buy any thing you all want
From. Dad & Mother.

Despite their offspring receiving high school and college educations, these humble folk never had the opportunity past the fourth grade. Just enough to write notes and add and subtract.

The second letter received by my parents was from a couple who had lived in the neighborhood and had moved west. Only a portion of this letter is repeated, just to inform the reader of life in this California city in August, 1937. This time the letter is on unlined paper from a similar tablet, and also written in pencil.

Dear Mr.and Mrs. W: guess you folks think we’ve forgotten you, but really we’ve been so much on the go since leaving you all. This is a beautiful country. Nothing like it anywhere. We’ve been in this town two weeks, stayed a week in San Francisco. We are 48 miles from there now. This town is surrounded by mountains. With all kinds of orchids growing right up the sides of them (mountains). Four of us drove up Mount Hamilton after dinner and coming back we coasted 19 miles. The top of it is 4200 feet above sea level.

Most of the work here is controlled by the union. It’s a wonderful thing. Snooks (the wife) is making $18 a week and $1 to $1.25 in tips daily. It cost her $5 to join the union and $1.25 a month dues. My pay is $7 per hour for 8 hours, and I paid $25 to join and five dollars a month dues. Grocery stores and markets open at 9 a. m. and close promptly at 6 p.m. --Saturdays, too. We have a swell five room apart. for $35 a month.

This is the home of Edmund Lowe, Fatty Arbuckle, Jackie Cooper, and Janet Gaynor and a number of other stars. The pop. Is about 80,000 people. Expenses are not much more than in Jackson. Jobs are not as plentiful as expected but when you do get on you get well paid.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about the desert. There is about 300 miles and hot as fire. We bought ice and dry ice too, and then almost died.

We are going to get us a large Kodak and make some pictures and send some to you. This is just like you see in the Wild West pictures. You sure can enjoy picture shows after you have seen this country. P. S. This town is pronounced
San o-zay.

This letter must have set my parents to thinking about their future travels. By 1945 we family of four would climb into a packed Ford station wagon (with real wood panels on the sides) and take a similar trip to California along Route 66. And yes, we thought we’d die there in the desert at Blythe, California, despite packing ice in a bag and tying the bag at the front of the car’s engine and hanging a sack full of dry ice at the passenger-side, nearly-closed window to give the car’s inside some cool air...What a trip that was!

New Year's Resolution for You

2008-12-30T20:11:00.013-05:00

As I greet another new year, I vow to continue recording my experiences, adventures, and observations of everyday life. Not everyone is interested in sitting down and writing what he/she feels may take up a lot of time. I'm a firm believer everyone should try to make a habit of maintaining a journal. A composition book does just fine. Typing on the computer is a better way if handwriting has become a chore. Of course, most of you who are reading this are bloggers, who believe in doing this very thing. The excuse that one doesn't write well for such a project is making excuses. Write as you speak. Nothing fancy, no heavy vocabulary. Using the internet, which records for posterity, is one way of being sure that the words aren’t lost in some bank box, shoe box stored at home, or in your trunk in the attic.

In my Documents is a folder I label “Writings.” Some topics have two sentences; others pages, still others have paragraphs. What is revealed are for the future enjoyment of my adult children when they are too old to remember much of what happened in their lives. They’ll be introduced to people I’ve met who made a difference in my world, rationing and air raids during World War II, my grandparents whom they never met, joyous birthdays, Christmases, and summer trips. Some minds diminish as they grow older and finer points of these happy (and sometimes sad) times are forgotten. But not when there is written confirmation.

Recently I bought a tape recorder. I do my most creative thinking driving to and from destinations. Short ones to the grocery store; longer ones to the other side of town. Nevertheless, I’ve lost thoughts, ideas, contacts I wanted to record because I couldn’t remember later what had floated through my mind as I wrestled with traffic. The tape recorder will have my voice, something easy to forget by a son or daughter as my existence grows faint.

Home movies also record important events. But they don't substitute for a journal, but supplement the written word. Some journalists add photos, clippings, ticket stubs to important events--all these are wonderful and leaves a colorful history to be treasured. Likewise with family history.

A few months ago I found my mother’s 1938 diary.It is approximately 4”x6”. She wrote something within the three lines marked for recording . Some entries were short phrases; other entries had significant informtion. By reading the entire year I discovered how my mother thought that year, what she did, whom she saw, how she felt on special or ordinary days.

There was little money in 1938. The United States was struggling from the Depression of 1928. Since most people we knew were in the same situation, life dealt nearly everyone the same problems Mother expressed at times the sadness that she couldn't buy a new dress or additional groceries to feed the continuous company that arrived on her doorstep. She never wrote that life has passed her by or was unfair. She possessed optimism, as several times she wrote: “But that’s ok. “ or “We’ll do better next time.“ It is that optimism that Sis and I remember about our mother when she met obstacles in her path.

Her precious words are important to us today. She took the time to write even the mundane everyday chores she faced, the movies she and I saw (and we saw several a week at 5 cents a ticket)and who our neighbors were. I learned that I first attended the local movie theatre’s “Kiddie Matinee” that year, that my sister was born without much fanfare, that the death of our grandmother ripped the heart of her youngest daughter.

While my parents enjoyed retirement and were alert, I presented each a composition book with instructions of “Write about your life.” Daddy immediately scratched his history within days, even adding an Addendum. Mother wrote about her life before marriage. When they came to live with us in Madison, I plied them with questions about what they’d not written. Daddy told about the entertainment groups that traveled along country lanes and roads, performing on a make-shift stage from the back of their wagon. He explained their simple costumes, the songs and skits they performed. I handed him our old tape recorder one day at the breakfast table and Daddy became the actor, mocking the announcer at one of those performances, introducing the performer--himself-- who sang every verse of some of the old songs, just as though they had been played for an audience. If he could have danced--he would have.

Until you read or hear recorded memorable events composed by your own parents, siblings, or other relatives do you understand the importance of the written and oral word. For this reason I implore all of you readers to think seriously about writing or recording your own experiences for the sake of those who come after you. Writing a blog doesn’t tell the entire story of your life. Developing further material for your family is as important as the box filled with an odd assortment of photos, letters, and documents you bury in your backyard to be found many years later.

Fifty years from now there'll be laughter and tears from your grown children as they read about family adventures you took the time to detail in writing.

Welcoming Extended Family

2008-11-28T12:35:00.007-05:00

Rarely, these days, do I prepare a lavish lunch for Thanksgiving. Perhaps because there's no one to cook for except R and me, and we don't need to overeat. Yes, yes, I know we could volunteer at a homeless shelter, but the holdup is standing on our feet. But that day, because we were welcoming four new people to our family in January, two of them had lunch with us five, two of our adults came from NY and ME for this special time. I COOKED to the astonishment of my family.

Despite beginning the day before, having a menu, shopping in advance,and the stress of finding our parents' old china with enough plates to service everyone, my legs and feet cried "Need rest!" However, I don't welcome this job every year because I don't pretend to be a creative cook. Who wants to eat a meal in which I open cans and packages and heat? For special days? Absolutely NOT! I'll let the adult kids take over next time.Our tradition for years.

Oh, I stopped during the day, the week, to think how fortunate we are at our age to continue to enjoy the fruits of the earth, be blessed with happiness, relatives, friends, and a few glitches in life (needed to keep us balanced). We know blessings happen every day, not just once a year.

The highlight of the week was watching our NYC son fit his brother and his dad for their "wedding suits". We saw S in action--just another day at his job. No, he doesn't fit wedding suits, but he does deal in clothing and can instantly size you up and tell you what you can and cannot wear. A big help for our upcoming wedding in January. A wonderful Thanksgiving week for us to be together. I hope yours was equally as rewarding.

Fall Is Here at Last

2008-11-08T17:47:00.005-05:00

While all the East was having their leaves change, here we sat in Mississippi looking longingly at our trees surrounding us trying to get a clue as to when they would change their garments. Suddenly we awoke one morning last week to find across the street, down the street, around the corner, yellows had appeared. Reds and oranges are not often seen among the commoners. One has to ride out where the countryside has been ripped apart by concrete jungles to find age-old trees that give off the oranges and reds. But with the cold spell upon us, we are enjoying a feast for the eyes.

NaNoWriMo

2008-10-28T21:33:00.007-04:00

RESEARCH ALONG THE WAY AIDED IMAGINATION

Can't read my title? If you have always wanted to write a novel, NaNoWriMo may be your ticket.

In my Mississippi writing group several years ago a successful writer suggested 50,000 words in one month--ONE MONTH???!! Impossible, I thought. But in further conversation with this fine lady, she reported that you sit at your computer and WRITE. She states that you can't stop and edit, you just write, anything that comes to mind, whether it makes sense or not. The point of the exercise is to empty your brain of all the words stored there. In this way the writer begins to truly write. Winners are those who complete 50,000 within the 30 days Hidden within these millions of words will be a seed of a novel. My writer friend did this and produced her first novel.

Well, I started my own NaNoWriMo novel in September to see how successful I could be without a time constraint. I wrote daily from 4 to 8 hours the entire month ignoring housekeeping, meals for R, appointments, fitness--all for the sake of this novel. By the end of the month I had totaled 25,000 words. I wasn't disappointed, because I had begun with a story in mind, based on a blog entry of my daughter's of something that occurred in the 1950's when I was a teen.

As October waned I finished the novel with 50,700 words. Unbelievable! I found myself --as I left 25,000 words behind-- typing as fast as the words came. My mind had opened up to give me support. I now know that I didn't need NaNoWriMO at all, just a good story line and...imagination. Next, edit, and prevail on friends to read and give me their reaction, and who knows...?

NOTE: NaNoWriMo=National Novel Writing Month

Book Signings Reward for Authors and Readers

2008-10-15T10:49:00.004-04:00

Recently I attended a book signing for a fellow writer. John Floyd of Brandon, MS, has compiled and published his second book of short stories. He is the master of shorts, mysteries that anyone can be read when there’s little time, like on a short bus ride, a bathroom trip, or waiting for the gas tank to fill up.

He once told me, after I had read my version of a short story to a writing group, that magazines and readers were crying for stories that were “short and sweet.” I had labored over one story because I thought it was “too” short. I should have taken his advice ten years ago. He did. And he’s been publishing ever since.

Floyd is a prolific writer. He enjoys spinning yarns that have an unexpected ending. I can see him at his computer wearing a sly grin and chuckling, outwitting his readers as the words flow faster than he can type. His plots are as varied as plants in a nursery. He teaches night classes in creative writing and has a large following. That was evident in the two-hour long line that waited patiently for his signature. But Floyd doesn’t scribble his name; he writes a personal note to each purchaser. That endears him more to us.

This is an unassuming man who is most grateful to those of us who attempt to follow in his footsteps. He’s our cheerleader. With his urging he’s seen several fellow writers go from zero to publishing. He has mastered the technique of writing and fills the mailbox of magazines with an overload of stories. He can be found mostly in “The Strand Magazine” and “Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine“, although he‘s had stories in more than 200 publications. In 2007 he received the Derringer Award.

Floyd walked swiftly into a small auditorium after the signing period to speak to a waiting audience. He told us one story about sitting next to a lady reading the “Ellery Queen Magazine” on an airplane. In that issue was one of his contributions. He watched her out of the corner of his eye to see if she would read his story. She did. After she closed the magazine, he leaned over and said, “I’ve a copy of that magazine. Did you enjoy the stories?” She answered “Yes”. He then asked if she liked the last story she read, and again she said she did. Then he announced “I wrote that story.” She looked at him incredulously and begged to differ with him. He insisted, but only until he identified himself through his driver’s license did she believe him.

John Floyd isn’t a big name--yet. However, his books have been found as far away as Toronto. Nevada Barr and Steve Hamilton, both famous in their own right, have a few words to say on the jacket. If you happen upon Midnight or his first book Rainbow’s End and Other Stories be sure to purchase a copy.

A Weekend of Fortune

2008-10-06T10:39:00.003-04:00

Everyone told us, “You’re inviting STRANGERS to stay with you ?” Our local son said, “Do you know what you may be getting into?”.

Everyone told them, “How can you just go that distance (Arkansas to Mississippi) to stay with someone you DON”T know?” “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Yet, two couples-- a fellow genealogist and her husband and my husband and I spent a weekend in our Mississippi home filled with unsuspecting surprises.The weekend resounded with camaraderie, common ancestors, and equal sharing of chores, making for a visit far more worthwhile than any of us expected.

I had met V online at www.ancestry.com where she was researching a family no longer alive. I had known this Jackson family during my high school years and had enough information to share with her. This family’s only son had been my first steady boyfriend. From there the emails flew. When I discovered V’s husband was a descendant from the same old Mississippi family as my husband, R, that sealed the trip. A family reunion was held on Saturday,October 4, an opportunity for V to located two cemeteries (only researchers like to wander among tombs looking for relatives), take snapshots (an important duty) and share stories.

The weekend came to an end and the couples who were complete strangers had become friends.

Living in a New World

2008-09-08T11:41:00.006-04:00

Stephen Colbert is sending his DNA into space. Have you read that the video game designer Richard Garriott was one of the few civilians planning to travel with the next astronauts into space? He wants to carry with him some cloning examples in case our world goes kaput. A new world can begin with cloning all the DNA that has been put in a time capsule and buried in outer space. What will this New World do with dozens of Colberts?

I need to be cloned. I’m not famous as Colbert, but my qualifications may well be as good as his. Who is his he? According to Wilkipedia:

“Stephen Tyrone Colbert (pronounced /koʊɫˈbεɹ/; born May 13, 1964
is an American comedian, satirist, actor and writer, known for his ironic style particularly in his portrayal of uninformed opinion leaders), and for his deadpan comedic delivery.”

You have to see him on Comedy Central to get a hint of this guy who wants a dozen or more like him to inhabit this New World.

Why can’t I be cloned?
I am not a comedian, although I make some folks laugh occasionally;
I am not a satirist, but can be biting in the defense of my principles;
I’ve had my chance at acting on theater stages and the stage of life;
I am a writer, of sorts, of many manuscripts still lying in desk
waiting to be dusted off, edited and sent into the arms of a waiting
publisher;
I am a person who is honest , forthright, sincere, hard working, nostalgic, romantic, friendly--well, just an all-round nice gal;

I’ve never cheated, physically injured anyone, stolen goods (well, I did take home a few sheets of copy paper once from school), served time in jail or the pen, had a DUI or a speeding ticket, held up a bank or a convenience store, embarrassed anyone (although a few students may disagree), disgruntled anyone (uh, oh, does a parent seeking school rule exceptions for his daughter count?), never been considered hoity toity, nor have I disowned my family (although I’ve entertained the idea occasionally).

So with all those good vibes strumming, why not nominate my DNA to begin a few good folks on the next planet, while my first soul basks in heavenly pastures?

Tropic Thunder

2008-09-03T11:20:00.003-04:00

No, this isn’t one of the storms that hit Louisiana and Mississippi last weekend. It is one of the latest comedies my sister and I saw on my birthday. She was a bit skeptical when I said I needed some laughs, but she went along with me like the trooper she is and waited in the dark theatre while I reviewed the plot. We are sticklers for a good plot, creative dialogue, good directors, and excellent photography. So you can imagine that she felt inwardly that I had chosen a poor movie.

Ben Stiller sometimes makes me laugh, sometimes not. But in this picture, in which he starred, directed, and produced with help, he creates his comedic antics which are more exaggerated than funny. But when you combine four other actors playing roles almost out of their genre, you have laughter bubbling into the empty seats in front of you. (We go to the first showing.)

First, you have to sit through two ridiculous advertisements, actually a part of the movie we learn later, wondering how far off you’ve been in new sodas and music, then the movie begins unexpectedly. Here are five guys--Stiller, Robert Downey, Jr, Brandon T. Jackson, Jack Black and Jay Baruschel who play their characters to a T. Special notice goes to Robert Downey, Jr. in an Academy-award class perfection who unbelievably plays a black soldier (complete with a dye job on his skin) and speaking in an unfamiliar voice. He doesn’t seem to know much about the common expressions of black people, of which Jackson, a true black, reminds him constantly, but he slings out lines of black characters from TV shows and movies he’s seen(like lines from "The Jeffersons").

The premise is that these five are to play soldiers fighting a battle in Viet Nam, the story of which has been taken from a book written by a former ‘Nam vet, Nick Nolte. To save his skin, the director takes the author’s suggestions to give credence to the actors in a real setting and dumps the actors in the wild jungles of ‘Nam with a script and directions to the locations of the scenes. Unknown to them hidden cameras are placed high in trees.

Although there are a lot of explosions and gunfire, at least there aren’t any wrecking automobiles, buses and trains, so I was able to sit through this part of the action. Sometime laughing uncontrollably by the dialogue, I released all frustrations of having been in bed for two weeks with an infected sciatic nerve. Surprisingly one character, whom I shall not name, is totally disguised and plays a character unlike any he’s done before. If you don’t guess him early in the movie, he’s last in the roll call of characters at the end of the show. Even though my sister said early “Isn’t that ???” I replied “Noo way!” only to find out how right she was. (Just don't read the list of characters before you go so you can enjoy the surprise.)

For an entertaining couple of hours, see Tropic Thunder, especially if it’s raining outside--you get enough mud and rain and thunder-like noise sitting through this movie.

Throw Out the Old...

2008-08-25T10:43:00.005-04:00

We've spent most of the summer "thinking" that certain pieces of furniture should be out of our house because we are going to furnish with CLEAN in mind. For some reason R thinks that clean means nothing on top of any surface. If I let him, the bookcases would stand stark nekked. Our first move was to isolate the pieces we wanted to give away, sell, or consign. At the time we weren't sure what to do. Son J didn't want our old stuff, son S and daughter J would die if we shipped our choices to them, so we had to tear our emotions away for these objects, especially a living room set that had kept us comfy for over 20 years. A chance sight of a sign had me turning the car around and checking out this consignment store. At least they could come out and load the furniture. Now that the deed is done we have 90 days to hope that some customer will visit the store and declare what we have on display there will be just what they have always wanted. In the meantime, as the end of the term approaches, we'll have to decide what to do with the unwanted, unsold items.

I'll just wait until November to worry about that problem. For now I'll have to tackle my studio and see what I can do without. Another few months of separating my emotions from the simple tools I've come to enjoy using but have found unnecessary should keep me busy.

20 Years Ago It Was...

2008-08-07T11:19:00.008-04:00

One of the advantages of a blog is that the writer can record events that can aid ancestry researchers and generations to come to assess the events and writing techniques of the time. Following is my fading recollection of three weeks in NYC.

About to re-enter the teaching world after 10 years of writing and compiling construction information into a weekly newsletter, I searched for a short summer school session where I could revive my skills in Spanish. With son S’s consent, I chose The New School in NYC and moved into his two-room apartment, seven floors up in a brownstone on 76th street W.

My routine began with a train ride to 16th street, then walking back two blocks to the building housing the school. This was my first time to attend a school within a city, not on a wide-spread campus.

My first impression of the class was the circle of chairs around the room, the immediate speaking of Spanish when the bell rang (and I usually arrived at the bell), and the charming Mexican professor, Senor David Zuniga. Students were few enough to enjoy: a priest, a young college student, a woman married to an Argentine, another woman recently moved from Jamaica, a third woman teaching Spanish to adults, a businessman interested in improving the language, and a few others I’ve totally forgotten about. And, yes, Me, Myself and I. We introduced ourselves the first day in Spanish. I explained I was from Mississippi reentering the teaching field and wanted to speak and use more Spanish in the classroom.

By the second week I was getting to class five minutes early. This allowed conversations in English. My plans were to sit in different chairs every few days in order to get to know those around the room. I chose first , the priest who said, “I’ve been waiting to see if you spoke Southern, as you don’t in your Spanish.” That broke the ice with the others, and soon I was arriving 10 minutes early so we could all chat. I switched seats several more times before the end of the session.

The class was a review of Spanish grammar as well as conversation. We had to read the La Prensa that our prof’s partner edited. This gentleman visited the class and my friend who was married to the Argentine was the only one who could understand him. She had felt lost with the Mexican-accented words of Sr. Zuniga. The rest of us were lost with the Argentine accent of Mr. Editor. That class session was recorded for ever with the photograph above.

Those three weeks were filled with various classmates’ directions to see this and see that, to avoid this subway and that street. All this occurred after I was asked how I got to and from the apartment every day. Explaining the difficulty of climbing up seven flights of stairs daily was limited to one time only, I told how I slowly walked from 14th to 76th, taking all afternoon, stopping for lunch, sitting on public benches, lounging in book stores, strolling through parks. One woman insisted on taking me on several occasions to a different place after class. She showed me the market at Washington Square, introduced me to my first Japanese lunch, took me to Forbes Building to show me the boyhood toys of the family,saw the telephone building with displays of old and new telephones, and pointed out various shopping areas. Then the Jamaican woman insisted on taking me to the tourist office where I could get discounted tickets to visit museums, use the subway, attend plays, etc. She warned me not to go into the underground at that location because of the high incidence of crime. And this came because I was from the South. I played the part of a bumbling Fanny Mae and enjoyed every minute of their aid.

Those days were filled with wonderment at my second time in the big city. I reveled in losing my way trying to find a subway station that was different from my usual route, discovering a high school in the city, stumbling around SoHo, wandering through Chinatown-- all during the month of June. And at the end of each day as I arrived at 76th street I’d buy a dinner and trudge up the flight of stairs I swear was a replica of those of the Pyramids outside Mexico City—steep, steep, steep.

These memories came flooding back when I found the newspaper photo. Now, which woman is the author of this blog? Hint: she on the front row and is holding a copy of the paper. Find who looks more Southern, and you have ME! (And remember, hang near the prof for a good grade!)

Perks of Vacationing

2008-07-31T20:06:00.007-04:00

Traveling with my sister takes us to the far reaches of a town in any state that has something of interest.Time doesn't stop us. We want to see a place, we see it. Sometimes these destinations take a lot of inquiry and getting our mind’s compass in gear. We do this the hard way, without a GPS. We stop folks on the road, beginning with “Good morning, ya’ll” and ending up where we had planned. Sometimes, we are surprised at the unpleasant areas we have to ride through, as in the case of the cemetery for Buddy Holley’s grave.

Who knew when he was buried that Lubbock, TX would extend the opposite way, a new overpass would be constructed nearby, and the subdivision of tiny houses would almost be forgotten? It was 9 o’clock on a Sunday morning when we drove into the cemetery, not knowing which of the sites would be Buddy’s. However, a slow drive, and suddenly, there it was, alongside the paved road! We snapped our photos and left, high-fiving our success.

From the website "hollywoodusa.co.uk" is a synopsis of Who BH was,for those of you who’ve forgotten his music, or never heard of him:

7thSeptember 1936 - 3rd February 1959
Born Charles Hardin Holley, Lubbock, Texas.
Rock musician who in his short career of 18 months changed the face of Rock N Roll music. Buddy was the first singer to sing with his fellow group members (The Crickets), which had until then been singers in front of a group. Way ahead of his time in using many recording features unheard of at that time. These included sound effects, acoustic & voice dubbing. His music inspired the groups of the 60's including "The Beatles" and "The Rolling Stones". Buddy and his music still live on to this present day through films, radio, TV and stage shows. The Buddy Holly Appreciation Society still meet once a year to remember Buddy and make sure the music never dies. Died in a plane crash with Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper near Clear Lake, Iowa after appearing at the Surf Ballroom. There is a fans memorial at the crash site to the singers . Buddy has been immortalized in both film (The Buddy Holly Story) and song (Don McClean's "American Pie"). Unlike many recordings from that time Buddy's records & sound have not dated and are still played by DJ's all over the world. Buddy's legacy is that he paved the way for all future groups and began many recording techniques which are still used today. A legend whose music still lives on and probably always will.

Ohh, We're Soo Fat!

2008-07-24T15:10:00.003-04:00

Surely, you’ve read recently that Mississippians have won the Fat Award for the fourth time. Hey, if you had our biscuits, cane ribbon syrup, grits and real butter, summer vegetables cooked in ham hock, cornbread with chitlin’s, and the variety of fruits at our disposal, you’d find it difficult to think thin.

Mississippians love their desserts. Home made ice cream, baked goodies, fudge brownies, not to mention candies made in our kitchens, and the sweetest of all—iced tea!! We drink gallons of sweetened tea during the summer. A day isn’t considered a good one without a tall, frosted glass of sweet tea. Go to any McDonald’s, McAlister’s, Krystal, and restaurants scattered throughout the state and you will find sweet tea so sweet your brain waves will jitterbug if you aren’t attuned to sugar.

In this week’s local Clarion-Ledger one of my favorite columnists, a popular chef and cookbook author, Robert St. John, defends us Mississippians and our love for good food by making this suggestion to the CDC on polling:

“Instead of a telephone poll to decide which state is fatter, the CDC needs to rent the Georgia Dome and host an Olympic-style competition of all 50 states. We might not win the 400 meter relay every time, but we could kick butt in the shot pu ,dead lift and pie-eating contest.

We’ll dust off all of the old high school cheers. When competing with Colorado—the nation’s skinniest state—we can chant from the sidelines:

“Two bits, four bits, gumbo roux, you better look out or we’ll sit on you!”

(Thanks, Robert, for your cheering words!)

We never get tired of fried chicken, barbecued meats, and catfish found on every day’s menu. And when you hear of a friend saying he’s going to neighboring New Orleans, he’ll mention in the same breath, FOOD: Louisiana is fourth in obesity with their mouth-watering Cajun foods, among them gumbo and jambalaya, which we Mississippians have adopted into our menus.

There's a local country restaurant just on the edge of Madison called Hamil’s. Ohh, do they know how to barbecue ribs. Their menu of “down-home” cooking packs the dining halls every day between 11 a. m. and 2 p. m. The folks there are known not to turn down a hungry straggler a bit past closing time.

My family has agreed that any of our northern friends who will brave the hot summer and visit us will be treated to lunch at Hamil’s.

The Long Days of Summer

2008-07-19T19:10:00.009-04:00

What do you do on a rainy night in Rio?
What do you say when the lady says, “Si, Si”
Where do you go when can’t go for a walk—
Do you stay home and talk, or do you sit and sigh
“Ay, Ay.”

This old song from either a Hope/Crosby movie or one of those extravagant musicals of the 1940’s runs through my mind. It’s Latin rhythm keeps me swaying. Here’s my poetic entry:

What do I do in Madison, when the temperature is high?
What can I say when I’m asked why not New York?
Looking outdoors I see the sun and dappled shade
and turn back to my book, and, yes, I sigh
“ Oh my,Oh my!”

That’s the record of my days at home, battling the urge to move around outdoors. No interest in improving my jewelry work, no custom orders, no deadlines. Reading six books a week (Don’t ask me names or authors) has become a nighttime labor of love. So for daytime business—no television for me—I’ve returned to my roots. On I’ve begun to enter into my family tree three years of methodical gathering of letters, public records, and correspondence, as well as notes from hundreds of phone calls scratched on bits and pieces of paper. A lot of updating from the last time I worked. This move came after emphasizing—in the harshest tone of voice-- to my kids not discard a single box of genealogy. Being unable to predict their interest in holding on to thousands of pictures gathered from over 100 sources and those notes no one can interpret, gave me impetus to go online.

Sitting before the computer during the morning, I turn my head occasionally, looking through the window to check the droopiness of the plants on the patio, making the decision to water or not, then gulping a mouth full of cold water before resuming work.

By 2:00 p.m. I take a siesta and dream of what I could be doing at our bit of heaven in the lower Catskills. I like to imagine that the temperature there is similar to Madison this summer. (We still haven’t discovered a battery-operated fan that moves the air satisfactorily for the cabin.) In this state of mind with the air conditioning keeping me cool, I don’t miss lying on a steaming mattress in a stifling cabin on a sun-drenched hillside waiting impatiently for the cool of the evening.

Be satisfied with what you’ve got, I remind myself. And that’s why I’m not pining for the hills and water and woods of New York.

Landscaping Makes for Beautiful

2008-07-07T12:22:00.010-04:00

Summer in my hometown is glorified by its landscaping. Main street and neighborhoods are showy places worth driving through. Anywhere in Madison and nearby Ridgeland, two neighboring cities outside Jackson, the capital, some of the most beautiful plantings can be found on street corners, fronting wooded areas, gasoline stations, private businesses with drive-up access, entrances to schools, parks and subdivisions. The largest plantings use crape myrtles, those gorgeous trees whose flowers resemble bunches of grapes. They bloom from spring through fall. The colors are magnificent: lavender, light and dark rose, and white.

The name crape has been often seen spelled as crepe. We give it the hard sound that rhymes with "grape." I've never heard "krehp" despite one spelling it as "crepe". The family name is Lagerstroemi. They are so popular that some nurseries specialize in producing and selling just this one tree. (see www.crape-myrtle.com) They grow up to 40 feet and as short as three. One breeder sells miniatures as small as eight inches. Because this shrub/tree can grow anywhere in the world, in temperatures as low as –15 degrees F, it’s any wonder gardeners haven’t discovered and planted this beautiful flowering wonder. They are a “genus of some 50 species of deciduous and evergreen trees and shrubs native to the Indian subcontinent, southeast Asia, northern Australia and parts of Oceania…the French botanist Andrew Michaux introduced this species to Charleston, SC circa 1790.”(www.Wilkipedia.com)

We decided to join the rest of our neighbors by planting two in our yard in April. Already they are blooming. The one below can be seen from our bedroom window.

Crape Myrtles are hardy, woody, perennials that deserve a spot in everyone's yard.

Surprise, Surprise!

2008-06-22T10:49:00.005-04:00

The time was heading towards 11a.m. Saturday.The telephone rang:

HE--Is this Vivian?
I--Yes, sir ( I immediately knew he was an older man)
HE--I found your tape recorder in the parking lot of Fresh Market Friday.
I--Uhh (I don't own a tape recorder)
HE--Well, it's a Samsung (aha!)
I--My cell phone! I lost it??? I didn't realize it wasn't in my purse!!
HE--Well, I know how that is, I used to sell phones. Anyway, I'll return this to Fresh Market to the manager's office and you can pick it up.

He didn't offer his name, but I thanked him profusely, wondering if I should ask to meet him for coffee to further show my appreciation---but I didn't.

Funny how he didn't know it was a cell phone, but that may be because he doesn't own one. My Samsung is RED and a flip top. Perhaps he was afraid to open it, as if it were a woman's purse. I retrieved the phone, the battery was still active, and when I turned it over, there was the self-adhesive address label I had put on just two weeks ago. Lucky me. This phone could have been in the hands of a young businessman who needed some free phone calls.

Why We Love Our Summers

2008-06-09T20:56:00.022-04:00

Here's a hodge-podge of what we love about the lower Catskills:

Our 12'x 12' cabins, the right one houses the kitchen/dining with the bedroom on the left.
We're proud of the outdoor bath house where the vanity greets you.
Our prized 1932 tub,where we stand for our showers. The compost toilet isn't exciting to show.
A quick look at our kitchen stove...and our eating area...

The fern "painting" that greets us as we approach the cabins from a different direction...and Beaverbrook, right, a stone's throw down the hill. A short trip up the hill from the brook is our son's cabin, below. He lives "off the grid" weekends only.

In Mississippi we sit in our roomy home with all necessary amenities when we'd rather be in our small cabin, where we haul water several times a week, replenish the ice in the ice chest just as often, and sit on our new deck, which isn't quite ready for a snapshot. This is our little heaven, our Shangri-La.

Burma/Myranmar

2008-05-25T16:00:00.016-04:00

We have some beautiful photos taken by second son several years ago of people and scenes of Myranmar, or Burma, as I remember it. The former is the original name. Perhaps the English renamed it when they inhabited the area. So much destruction in that peninsula of a country! I want to share some of the beauty.

Today we don't know what is and isn't. Gone are the houses on stilts, the fishermen, many of the elderly. Looking into faces of the destitute we don't see color and beauty, only sadness. Sometimes the only memories of a place are found in photographs taken in happier times.

One Less to Care For

2008-05-24T19:21:00.004-04:00

Another hot day was waning. Sunlight still reflected on the fields spread out across the delta plains. Cooler air wouldn’t settle until the early morning hours. Inside the concrete block building, lying on a cold, steel table covered with a white sheet lay Earl Wesley Berry. Through his lawyers he had attempted to avoid this departure, but Mississippi law and the U. S. Supreme Court deemed otherwise. At six o’clock Berry died quietly at age 49.

His attempts to remain alive splashed for weeks over local media. His crime was kidnapping 56-year-old Mary Bounds as she was leaving her church one evening. He took her into the woods and beat her repeatedly to death—for no reason than he and she were in the same place at the same time. That was 1988.

Mrs. Bounds’ family relived that evening for 20 years, faithfully attending all of Berry’s appeals, never forgetting the horror this mother, wife, and grandmother suffered. A few nights agao, May 21, the husband and one daughter of Mrs. Bounds watched as a lethal injection ended this man’s life. Berry admitted he killed Mrs. Bounds but never expressed remorse. He said his 21 years in jail was payment enough for his crime. Jena Bounds Watson, Mary’s daughter, is quoted as saying, “…I kept thinking how more humane capital punishment is than what my mother suffered. He was just lying there and then he was asleep” (courtesy of the Clarion-Ledger, Jackson, MS).

Many don’t believe in capital punishment, just incarceration of perpetrators. I haven’t been in the shoes of the families of Mary Bounds, James Goodman, Sharon Tate and the like.Do we know how deeply stress erodes the health of the families? How revisiting at appeal time floods the memory of feelings and sadness that can’t be forgotten even for a short space of time? I find it equitable that someone who has committed a horrible crime is unable to have 3 meals a day, a clean bed, television, and no labor for the rest of his life. I agree with Jena Bounds Watson that to see the criminal go to sleep is far easier to witness followed by a peace that passes understanding that finally wraps and comforts the souls of the victim’s families.

A letter from Virginia to the editor recently from the relative of a murder victim implored the governor, Haley Barbour, to halt the execution and recognize that “capital punishment is not an ethical response to his (Berry’s) crimes.” He goes on to say that “we should not live our lives trying to right wrongs, but instead we should help make a difference.”

How is allowing any vicious murderer to live until natural death with room, board and free health care financed through our taxes make a difference? These executions rid society of another evil person. We can forgive the transgressor, but allowing him to keep his life when he stole another’s is not easy for a victim’s family and friends to live with.

However, it is the cruel, inhumane act such as the unforgettable killings of three young men working for civil rights in Philadelphia, MS, oh, so many years ago (but never too long ago to forget) in which the highest punishment should be required.

In my opinion, capital punishment wielded to those whose crimes are unspeakable is justified.

Can You Hear Me?

2008-05-13T10:50:00.001-04:00

It booms, thunders across other sounds, wraps around the ears until nothing else can be heard. My voice. A simple conversation with me and you think I'm preaching in a coliseum. R waves his hand at me, a signal to lower my voice. I do, then I see my audience straining to hear me. There’s no middle ground for me, only too high or too low.

Once my voice was small, quiet, until I discovered play acting. I can still hear the directors’ voices: “Throw your voice, Vivian, so I can hear you,” as they waved from the last row of the college theatre. And so, to continue acting I began to raise the decibels.

Then came my career in teaching, and I realized that a loud voice worked better for me than a quiet one. That was in the early years when I taught in ancient school buildings that bounced the voice against the 12 foot tall windows and absorbed into the three foot thick walls.

Former students shopping in the same store as I have come up to me with the remark: “I KNEW that was you Mrs. N, we recognized your voice!” And I was only talking to a friend in another part of the store!! My voice has dropped pitch considerably from early days. You’d declare I was a radio announcer.

Cell phone conversation is tough. I have to find a closed spot to make and take my calls. If I go outside the house, neighbors can hear me six blocks away. Well, maybe three. Inside the house I have to find a distant room, close the door, and turn music to low.

When R makes a trip to Home Depot or a department store, especially in pleasant weather, I usually remain in the car and call everyone I need to contact. Inside the vehicle is like being swathed in bubble wrap where I can chat without a hand waving before my eyes.

In my family are three adult children. Two are loud and one is quiet like his dad. When we are together you’d wish you could spray a foam that would fill our mouths and harden. We know we are loud mouths, but in our excitement of sharing conversation, we get completely carried away with the moment. I feel so accepted when we are together.

I’m looking for someone to design a modular telephone booth, light enough to move around the house and yard. Better still, something in a can I spray around my head, creating a sound barrier. What is your idea for me?

Mesa Verde National Park

2008-04-16T20:25:00.003-04:00

A former boss of mine, who must have thought I wanted his job, admonished me for taking out of the trash can copies of his business magazines. He was hard to convince that I liked reading anything of interest. So it was that I glanced through a copy of "The American Surveyor", a magazine my retired husband still gets (free) and found an interesting article about an organization I didn't know existed: CyArk.

CyArk is a high definition Heritage Network which goes about "preserving Cultural Heritage Sites through collecting, archiving and providing open access to data created by laser scanning, digital modeling, and other state-of-the-art technologies."

Having recently visited Mesa Verde Park, I was interested to note that CyArk was asked to be on a location shoot in this area, and just happened to pack a scanner to be used as a "prop" for the show. That prop became an important tool in scanning and measuring some of the cliff dwellings that are in danger of disappearing due to wind, rain, erosion, and temperature changes. CyArk studied the park's Square Tower House site, whre a large boulder had detached from the alcove face and damaged some of the walls of Square Tower House and one of the kivas.

According to "The American Surveyor" report by Elizabeth Lee, CyArk's founder Ben Kacyra loved the park's old dwellings and decided on the spot that his company should collect information and give a structural analysis of parts of one place, the Square Tower House. Tourists like this site which has the only square building seen among many round ones in the entire park. Alongside is a large kiva that was included in the scanning and getting equipment down to the site from a ledge above was a trial of gymnastics. Computer files of the results can aid field personnel with remote access for researchers and students.

The close-up photos of the work and the area are large and easily identified, compared to my eyes peering across a wide canyon. Anyone interested further in CyArk's work in preserving historic sites around the world will enjoy their website: www.archive.cyark.org.

Disaster Strikes Again in Mississippi

2008-04-08T10:32:00.006-04:00

I was having a great vacation out West only to be informed that at home another rip-roaring storm of great magnitude was uprooting gigantic trees and dropping them onto houses, ripping utility poles from the ground and leaving homes without power. When I returned three days after the storm, the weather report stated that up to six tornadoes had roared through North Jackson, and the metro area, skirting my City of Madison. The angry winds pushed so many trees down that streets had to be closed for the weekend. Now all you see are piles of cut limbs, huge tree trunks uprooted in yards, and tarps over affected roofs. Some areas look scary. This area hasn't been hit like this since Katrina, so say those whose homes were damaged.

We are seeing our own area, years ago on the firing line, once again in the path of these tornadoes. This hasn't happened since we first moved into the area forty years ago. In those early days with our three kids really kids, the lot behind us was our safety net. It has a crevasse where we'd huddle when the warning came. Now we just grab our pillows, all necessities, and sit in various closets. When my elderly parents lived with us some 10 years ago, I held "tornado drills" to get them accustomed to basic moves. We used that education only once. Like little children themselves, they sat quietly for 20 minutes, only to ask the question, "Can we get out now?" I had to laugh. They were seriously sitting with pillows in their laps, their robes and slippers on, following directions. I had to take a photo of them to remind me of that one serious night.

Our state has had it easy, compared to you who have seen so much rain that flooding is occurring. The Mighty Mississip is getting to the overflow stage---any hour now. I wonder if these acts of nature are in any way showing the wrath of God for our obscene behavior here on earth? Many believe that. Me? I'm not sure.

Who wants to hear about my vacation? No one. They're too busy cleaning up debris in and outside their once-happy homes and trying to figure out how to get back to normal.

A Letter from the Past

2008-03-17T20:13:00.013-04:00

I finally began tackling the old file cabinet I purchased years ago. It is a lateral file that has to weigh a ton. The metal underneath is appalling; it's so heavy it is a perfect project for weight lifting. Among the many items I discovered hidden in the folders was a legal size envelope. Inside was a long-forgotten letter reminding me of a bad teaching experience.

In the early months of our marriage the only teaching job available was in a non-consolidated school 20 miles from the university. The students were from very poor families. Because of the small student population I agreed to be the "librarian" for several periods and teach three classes of English

I didn't think of my other responsibility until my turn for bathroom duty came along. Once weekly I (l) flushed the toilets after every two class periods and (2)cleaned and mopped the bathroom at the end of the day. With such a small group of students, I figured this was a pushover. My first day of duty revealed my low tolerance for odors. The five toilets had their tops and levers removed. I had to reach into the fresh water and pull the stopper (you know which one I mean). The students had never been encouraged to keep paper off the floor. After school I took the mob and bucket, filled it with water and soap to clean the floors, then wipe down the lavatories and toilet bowls. I learned to hold my breath long enough to rush in and out during the day.

The school day was a farce. When he felt like it, the superintendent called any group of students to his office, especially the football players, to "talk." Each of my classes had less than seven students. I brought the problem to him. How could I teach a missing student and get him to hand in his homework? He grinned and said his "talks" were more important than my class.

One day my one football player arrived late to class. I reprimanded him about his tardiness. He looked at me angrily and shouted "You can't tell me what to do, you xx??** teacher!" He turned to leave and stopped at the door long enough to pitch his text book in my direction. As he walked out of the room and down the stairs he continually slammed his fist on the walls, alerting everyone on both floors of his anger.

After school the superintendent asked me to explain my behavior towards his star player. After relating my side of the event, he began with an explanation:
"Mrs. N, you have to recognize how I run this school. I can call anyone to my office anytime of the day. As to this student, he is my star player and I won't have you being disrespectful to him. You should be glad he didn't throw you out the window! He tried that with a teacher once. John is the brother of a school board member and you have to be nice to him--or lose your job."

In the remaining week I heard warnings from the local teachers about the general behavior of this student. I was told to check my room each morning for any signs of snakes or bugs that this young man might put in the desk drawer. I feared my car engine might be tampered with, so I began riding with other teachers. The young man never returned to class. I stayed a total of two more weeks before resigning.

When I changed jobs I began to research the need for consolidation and planned to write an article in the state education magazine. I had discovered that a few superintendents still were holding on to their little fifedoms. I remembered the local teachers having told me how insubordinate they felt, embarrassment from the superintent they had to endure, how grades were changed for favorite pupils, how easily they would lose their jobs if they complained. I thought I had a good topic for discussion in print.

The letter I had saved was written by one of the teachers at this small school. She urged me not to reveal the behavior of this superintendent, as it would harm the remaining teachers and the town itself. I never finished the article, for within a few years that school was consolidated and the superintendent fired for sloppy leadership and failing students. That was proof enough I had vindication.

A Masticating Memory

2008-03-15T17:36:00.007-04:00

The Village Ladies are those in our subdivision who meet monthly for interesting programs and plan socials. Annually this group holds the egg hunt for all the kiddies in the neighborhood. After hours of "intensive" work one evening there was still a huge bag of candy remaining. I offered to carry the remainder home and purchase additional eggs to stuff. I was thinking deep within my soul that I could-- on the sly-- taste each type candy as a "reward" for my work. Today I was stuffing the last of the eggs with the assorted candies and gum, realizing how many more I could get into the larger ones. Digging down into the bag of candies I discovered a box that hadn't been opened. To my surprise it was my favorite chewing gum--Bazooka. Having given up this delicious gum eons ago, I had to have a piece to see if it still was easy to chew. It was, and I delighted in rolling it and pushing my tongue through it to see if I could still make a bubble.

Recently my dental hygienist warned me that my gum chewing days must end. When she found out that I was chewing Wintermint, a Wrigley sugar-filled gum, she tut-tutted that I should at least chew the sugarless type.

"But that stuff is like chewing sugar cane!" I moaned. I know the point of the gum companies is to sell their sugarless gum by making you exert your jaw muscles so vigorously that after 15 minutes of chewing you discover this chicle doesn't soften. So what? You just put in another piece of gum. At this rate, a pack won't last a day.

When that piece of Bazooka gum began to squirt its sugary taste, my memory bank tapped into a time bubble gum was so important in my life:

Summer camp in North Carolina during WWII. I was nearly 13 years old and getting mail had always been the highlight of any camper's morning. Parents knew how much packages meant to their camper kid. One camper, the biggest in our "tribe" opened her package one morning to discover a box of 144 pieces of Bazooka bubble gum. She shrieked, drawing the attention of the rest of us.

Manna from heaven. Food fit for little princesses. We salivated through our "ahh-hhs" as this suddenly Most Popular Girl rolled around in her mind how to leave the premises without dozens of starving-for-gum campers ploughing into her to grab a piece. She held the box above her head and announced "Anyone with a quarter can get a piece!"

In those days a quarter was almost unheard of. We thought in pennies and nickels. A few rich campers immediately assured MPG that they had the coins. The rest of us sighed, left to imagine the taste of this forbidden fruit.One of the rich kids, a little New Yorker who thrilled me with tales of her living in a high rise home in the city, was kind enough to split her piece of gum with me. She was to be my friend forever. Unfortunately, I never wrote her after that summer. But I did get to chew that gum for several days, being careful not to have it in my mouth at meal time.

Gum was a rare commodity during the war. Stick gum was always wrapped in aluminum foil, which was needed for the war. Eventually when we could get stick gum, it was wrapped in paper. Bazooka didn't come in aluminum foil. It's rounded shape, the size of a spool of thread, was always cuddled in waxed paper. Somehow the chicle in bubble gum became a commodity needed for the war. I believe more foreign kids got gum than any American kid during the mid forties. GI's gave away our gum. Photographs printed in magazines showed soldiers demonstrating to these kids how to blow bubbles.

Today, many years later, I carefully opened a piece of Bazooka, whose shape had shrunk considerably, and chewed it slow--ly. Ah, the juice was just as I remembered. As the juice disappeared, the pink gum became more pliable. And...I was transported to childhood.

Mandates Lifted from Madison County

2008-03-02T12:20:00.003-05:00

Recently the Federal Court of Appeals in New Orleans lifted the guidelines for full integration of the Madison County, MS, public schools. Almost forty years have passed since the federal government forced integration of a district school system divided mostly by demographics and culture. The southern portion of Madison county steadily grows upward, having added one additional new high school and several new grade school buildings in recent years. Physical improvements have been made in schools of the northern portion where there’s little to no growth.

The federal mandate was lifted by the Court after the superintendent through intervention of their lawyers ask for a review of the integration attempts made to provide every school with the necessary learning tools and transferring teachers and students to balance the white/black ratio. The mandate created havoc when new buildings were needed to accomodate a surging student population, bonds for construction couldn't advance, or changes to curriculum were put on a back burner. Lacking these advancements caused excessive crowding of schools in southern Madison county.

The struggle to integrate this county has had its successes and its failures these years. During much of that time I was a member of the high school faculty in the city of Madison and watched compliance with changes that were instituted. Transportation was a major struggle. Parents, but not the federal government, understood that under no circumstances would they have their children bussed all over the county, regardless of the benefits, to satisfy just the government. The distance meant no parental support for night meetings and student activities.

Two magnet schools were organized many years apart in different sections of the county. Besides new buildings, up-to-date equipment, sound curriculum, time and resources were spent establishing a bi-racial advisory committee, implementing procedures to recruit minority teachers-- creative ways to fulfill federal guidelines. Students used to the local shopping, movie theaters, and variety of school activities in the southern area couldn’t fathom leaving their happy high school life for a place considered “country” and isolated from two cities’ attractions(Madison and nearby Ridgeland). Demographics and culture were the culprits. Fortunately, now the facilities of one magnet school are being utilized for summer training of teachers.

Now, with mandates lifted, within five years the district will begin to move forward. The Court recognizes that this district has done its best, because the county is naturally divided in black/white population and culture. Expansion northward will occur as families look for new places to build homes and small towns get a second life.

The biggest lesson the government learned is the old adage: "You can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear."

(Note: information was gathered from an article in the local newspaper,The Clarion-Ledger and the author’s memory of her small involvement in the process.)