Finally, I Honored Others on Memorial Day

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

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

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. . .

...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. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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.