20 Years Ago It Was...

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

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!

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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.)

Teeny Business Brings Pleasure

Mississippi has given me a license as a creator of hand crafted jewelry. I'm really a hobbiest in the field of jewelry, shared by hundreds of thousands of true artists. However, I feel I'm in the arena doing my best. I have two customers, one that is tried and true. I receive enough orders per year to justify having a license. If I look for additional wholesale customers, I'd never have the opportunity to spend the earnings advancing my learning.

But it's the sharing of my interests that I enjoy the most. I give a few lessons now and then to neighbors, friends-- but a recent visit to a retirement home gave me the boost I needed to continue working. I shared my enjoyment of Precious Metal Clay with a group of 15 older citizens who in their younger days bought their good jewelry from jewelry stores. I showed them how I make fine silver pendants and pins. They were attentive and asked questions. Four want to make something for themselves, and I'll return in March to give them one lesson.


The idea that they can play with a blob of clay, roll it out, press a rubber stamp or using their fingers, form a pattern, is what intrigues these four ladies. That's what interests me, too. Any woman can create her own jewelry in a few hours with a tad of patience.

One attendee was a gentleman whom I recognized as just wanting to be entertained. He listened quietly, but made a beeline to the front after the demonstration and wanted to share his hobby with me: writing prayers. He boasted he'd written more than 95,000 prayers, and handed me a copy of one. I've not made that number of jewelry items, so I know he's far more inspired than I. Too, he's a few years older. It was a lovely thought to share with me.

I always joke at these demonstrations that I am going to be the Granma' Moses of jewelry making. And I want those present to remember this in 20 years so they can boast they knew me when...

The next time I have to complete my income tax form for all the wholesale work I do, I won't complain, because this business is leading me in directions I enjoy.

Oo--ee, Eli Showed His Stuff

Every Mississippian who could, remained glued to his television set Sunday night to cheer for the NY Giants during the Super Bowl game. I'm not, but I watched like others to see Eli Manning and his NY Giant teammates win the game. Only father Archie and mother Olivia are Mississippians, but father and sons are seen in many advertisements that are published and broadcast in our state, reminding us that they still feel connected. The sons attended Ole' Miss at Oxford and Eli is helping establish a children's wing to be named after him at the University Medical Center in Jackson.

Who got the free tickets from Eli to attend the game? Despite each player having 15 free tickets, Eli had 70 friends, some from high school and a few from Ole Miss plus a few friends of the parents. What a cheering squad! Unknown, but suspected, were the thousands of us cheering Eli, as we did with Peyton, only a year ago.

A recent update: The house in Drew where Archie lived, and the one I passed by for nine months, is now being renovated and will be a museum with photos and memorabilia. Green Street, where I boarded, will be renamed Manning Street. Whatever else happens in Drew is anyone's guess. It's not a growing town. The Delta just isn't the same anymore...

Remembering...

The summer of August, 1954, I graduated from college, packed my belongings and headed to a Delta town that seemed eons away from my home in Jackson, MS. I had been warned in school that if I wanted to teach in the city (where the best salaries were) I'd have to serve time in smaller schools. Since I interviewed with only one superintendent, I had one job offer. My salary was $150 per month.

Back in my seventh grade history class I should have learned more. I knew the outline of the state (always on our tests)and I knew we had a delta area because of the flooding of the Mississippi River, but I didn't know of any familiar towns in this area. Too far from Memphis and Jackson. So this first job location was on foreign soil for a 20 year old.

I taught English to seventh graders. With the shadow of the superintendent hovering over us five new teachers, I despaired that I couldn't teach without his presence. My supporter was the librarian, a citizen of the town, who gave me lessons on better understanding the superintendent.(Many years later I would be appreciate his guidance.) Every afternoon I'd leave the two story building and meet her downstairs at the school door, and we'd walk and talk across the playing field to her house one block away. On pleasant afternoons her little 5 year old son would come skipping to meet his mom and walk with us.

Not forgotten are that sleepy town of Drew, the lovely Mrs. Manning, whose little boy became known to everyone as Archie Who, and the wonderment of my slight brush with a future successful football player who produced two more renowned players--Peyton and Eli.

Mississippi Music

The Mississippi Musicians Hall of Fame, founded by Jackson Jim Brewer to single out legendary musicians not honored previously, recently named Jimmy Reed,the Rev. Cleophus Robinson, Blind Roosevelt Graves and the Mississippi Jook Band, Freddy Waits, Charlie Feathers and Tommy Johnson. They represented the fields of gospel, rock, R&B,jazz, country and blues, in that order.

Now retiring Brewer is handing the reins over to another Jacksonian who has plans for continuing the tradition set by the founder. Despite Brewer's consistency with his Hall of Fame (1998 til now), I've only noticed his work. Perhaps that's because I now have more time to reminisce, remember...

On a visit to Yazoo City last spring with my sister who was gathering information about the town for a magazine article, we were reminded in the chamber's museum located in an refurbished school building, that the city claimed a few blues musicians who originated there. John Lee Hooker and Arnold "Gate Mouth" Moore were the only two we recognized by name.

However, other towns around the state, notably the Delta area, keep these musicians alive through various venues.

Clarksdale, in the Delta, honor musicians with their Blues Museum. The Delta Blues and Heritage Fest held annually is one not to be missed. Despite the heat that sits with you in September, the music is deep-down great. While there you can eat at any of the three restaurants in Clarksdale owned by actor Morgan Freeman, who lives in a nearby town.

My first teaching year was spent in the Delta. Despite my college education, I hadn't ever visited the Delta, a treeless plain that used to get refreshed with the overflow of the Mississippi River. My fellow teachers and I would travel from the little town of Drew on Saturdays to Clarksdale to shop and see a movie. There was no Blues Museum, nor a Ground Zero restaurant where my husband and I ate in 2000, nothing of particular interest. Just a good movie theatre without rats running across our feet.

Quoting from the chamber website is a sketch of Delta Blues:

"Mississippi Delta Blues is globally recognized as one of the most America's important musical forms. A major catalyst for American popular culture, it exists in both a folk context and as a product of the commercial music industry. In the face of a historically brutal social experience, black folk in America affirmed their humanity by remembering and creating a rich expressive culture of poetry, tales, crafts, ritual, dance and music. This system embodied techniques of cultural transmission, transformation, adaptation and survival. Early Blues developed out of this rich fabric and cross-fertilized the work-songs, love-songs, slow drags, rags and spirituals. Delta Blues soon became the emotional and literary voice of black singers across the south."

Growing up and living in the city I was only accustomed to popular music. Once when visiting my relatives in the South Mississippi countryside, I was invited to go with cousins to a party. The music was name-denying. Three grown men with their fiddles and violins played in the small living room in the tiny house, windows open wide so guests could mill around outside, talking and dancing and singing along. As a thirteen year old I was in a strange environment. The singing made me laugh. Laugh at the plain-ness, the countryside patois that unknowingly entered my soul to remain there for a half century. Nowadays I am reminded of the music of the early century that snapped in and out of my life as a child. How wonderful now to have this music slre-recorded and available.

Thanks to Mr. Brewer for singling out these musicians and making us more aware of the rhythms that have emanated throughout this landscape for over 100 years.

Blues Music in Recent Movie

Recent articles have made me aware of the significance of music in our state. Most people know that rhythm and blues has been predominant in Mississippi for decades. Two recent articles from our local paper interested me.

Oxford-based writer Scott Baretta reported that he put together the music for The Great Debaters movie starring Denzel Washington, which is now showing nationwide. As he tells it he was called by the music supervisor G. Marq Roswell to help put together "a band that could perform music that one might have heard in the Marshall, TX area juke joints in 1935."

Baretta contacted Alvin Youngbood Hart, a Memphis-based acoustic blues master and the Carolina Chocolate Drops, a NC-based threesome now reviving early African-American string band traditions. He states that this combination was intended to "recreate the sounds of the Mississippi Sheiks, the most popular African-American string band of the pre-WWII era." There is a re-recorded album "Honey, Let the Deal Go Down: The Best of the Mississippi Sheiks" that has something for everyone.

(NOTE: In case you've not heard string bands, go to Amazon.com for string bands and listen to "String Bands, 1926-1920" In the list find and listen to the music of the Mississippi Sheiks and you'll understand the sound Baretta was reaching for.)

As in most movies large portions of filmed material are edited to fit the time frame, and the scenes with this music is no exception. However, the soundtrack features some great work by Hart, Chocolate Drops and singer Sharon Jones of the retro soul group Dap-Kings. Later guitarist Mabon "Teenie" Hodges also of Memphis, lent his guitar of soul sounds to the final songs. Be sure and buy the CD after you've seen the great movie. You can bet this addition was enouraged by Washington, upon hearing the music and wanting more. Tofurther realism, the musicians can be seen in the scenes inside the juke joint.

See The Great Debaters and what Baretta achieved to enhance the story.

See online:
www.carolinachocolatedrops.com

Those Christmases Long Ago

In the worst of times during World War II with rationing of gas and food, my family joined others in the United States by inviting a serviceman to lunch on December 25. For each of three Christmases we gave a soldier a few hours of attention and a home-cooked meal.

In preparation for the lunch in December, we saved a teaspoon of sugar in a special jar throughout the year. This was for two desserts. Each month Mother bought one food item. The menu never changed: turkey(sometimes a chicken), dressing, cranberry sauce, English peas, candied sweet potatoes, and pickled peaches. Dessert was Mother’s coconut cake and a chocolate pie -— made from scratch, of course.

Beginning in 1943 my grade-school sister and I, a gangly 13-year-old, planned and executed the room and table decorations: old Christmas cards dangling off a string hung above the doorways, a fresh cedar wreath on the front door, a small pine tree covered with silver balls and ringlets of construction paper (tinsel was needed for the war effort). Mother’s only white tablecloth, starched for the occasion, displayed her best dishes.

Thirty minutes before noon Dad left for the train depot, a mere 15-minute walk.Trains passed through our city to and from Memphis and New Orleans and crowds of service personnel choked the one-story building standing at the west end of downtown.

Dad’s responsibility was to select our guest. After entering the stuffy waiting room filled with cigarette smoke and the din of voices, he’d lean against a large column where he had full view. His eyes scanned each GI. He told us later how difficult it was to pick one serviceman from the hundreds milling around.

“They looked so vulnerable, so young,” he said later. “I hated that we couldn’t offer food to all of them.” He told us he searched for the young man who looked the most scared and lonely.

“You in town for awhile?” he’d ask the stranger. “There’s a hot meal waiting at my house. Want to join me and the family?” He and the hungry GI walked slowly back to our house chatting. This was Dad’s son for the day.

At the doorway we sisters rushed to embrace the soldier like he was a returning brother, pressing a small gift into his hands. At the table he could hardly swallow a bite of food, as we peppered him with questions about his life,his family, his state. After dessert and coffee we said our goodbyes reluctantly and Dad returned to the depot with a contented soldier, his duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a package of food for his supper in his hand.

Whether these young men completed their tours of duty, or died on some lonely spot of foreign soil, we never knew. However, they're a part of our memories of that time.


We sisters 10 years later

December Surprises

The large pot of geraniums are flowering again. Multitudes of Bradford Pears, which dot downtown Madison and homes in the subdivisions, are showing their fall color of luscious crimson, other trees still have golden leaves waving in the slight breezes we occasionally have.

It's December and typical of most winters this time of the year. The temperature has risen from 50 degrees of last week to a promise of 80 degrees for today. Gives us plenty of reason to get out and see the seasonal decorations.

Not having a reason for decorating our home for children, we have to visit nearby Canton, setting for many of John Grisham's novels, for their "Sip 'N' Cider" contest as we visit stores to view their wares. Seems you visit the store, taste their favorite cider recipe, judge which store produces the best tastin' cider, listen to the music and watch the glitter of the lights.

Our local drama group will present "A Wonderful Life" for those who never get enough of that traditional story.

I just would like a cold, cold day for the 25th. Traditional songs and customs seem to disappear when the weather is warm. Yes, I like tradition and customs, but I know that I'm really celebrating a special birth. And that doesn't need good weather.

Mississippi Has Redeeming Qualities

The local paper has the usual bad news on their front page. In recent weeks we Mississippians have found out that we are FIRST in obesity and in hunger. Figure that, please.

However, this Sunday on the page entitled "Viewpoint" appeared an article written by Dr. Gary Scott, who serves as Senior Research Fellow in Civic Literacy at the Intercollegiate Studies Institute.(See http://www.civicliteracy.org)

The headline screamed:

STUDENTS GET DEAL WHEN MISSISSIPPI BEATS YALE IN CLASSROOM

Whoa! I don't know many folks in the Northeast who'd have that opinion. But the article stated that in an "academic competition,2006, Mississippi's major state universities had defeated Yale."

Researchers tested some 14,000 students at random, half being seniors, the other half freshmen. In its second survey held, Miss State seniors ranked in their knowledge of civics 6th among surveyed schools, Ole Miss 10th. Although the seniors had taken few civic courses than the schools surveyed, these courses were of higher quality in the relevant subjects than Yale provided their students.

The article further stated that Yale, "despite its poor performance in teaching students about America and ranking 49th, imposes great costs on American taxpayers... The Mississippi schools, by contrast, impose relatively modest costs."

So to those folks who make fun of Southerners as not educated well enough to vote, never having read a decent newspaper, only view soap operas on television, I say, DO YOUR HOMEWORK before assuming that we're a bunch of rednecks.

No More Guilt Trip

I've lived long enough to have seen the changes in the makeup of toothpaste tubes. As a child my dad's advice, always given at the appropriate time, was "Squeeze the tube from the bottom and roll upwards, ALWAYS, VIVIAN". Why that was such a difficult job, I don't know. Pinching in the middle was the only sin I willfully committed with glee during that age.

Now the tubes are plastic. Not one to submit quickly to new changes, I've struggled at every toothbrushing time to press at the bottom to no avail. I didn't want Dad's words to boom through the clouds so my neighbors could hear. Today I examined a new tube of Crest Vivid White to be sure I wasn't supposed to keep my mouth full of foam for at least 30 minutes for a whitening effect, when I saw the following:

FOR BEST RESULTS, SQUEEZE TUBE FROM THE MIDDLE AND FLATTEN AS YOU GO UP.

My guilt slowly dripped through my pores. Now I have the ammunition needed upon greeting my dad at the Pearly Gates. As well as a photo of the directions. With a bit of effort you can read the words:

Where Are My Manners?

I've noticed recently that when I receive a compliment I am so involved with the content of the compliment that I fail to say, "Thank you." What has happened to my manners? I tried the other day to think of a single reason for failing to be polite. There was none.

Living in the summer out of my environment where rarely one hears "Hello" or "Good morning" from one stranger to another, I've begun to imitate this behavior. Perhaps I'm so involved in remembering that I'm not to ask a lot of questions upon meeting , that my manners have taken a back seat. To my chagrin I've not handed out many compliments myself.

Being courteous and mannerly is a Southern tradition we like to brag about. We are open people, who will tell a stranger our life story if time is alloted.

Introductions are the likely way we'll first show our manners. Eating breakfast in a dining area we begin a conversation with the new face at the next table. Before we know it, we find commonality in family, friends, home and leave with a good feeling that another acquaintance on this earth has been made. We'll tell each other where we're heading, who'll we see, where we've been and exchange ideas about traveling. Some worthwhile tips are gained over coffee and grocery store rolls.

I remember the first summer I met new people in that part of New York I love, I introduced myself by giving my first and last name. The other person failed to tell me his/hers nor didn't reply "I'm glad to meet you", so I made a note to remind myself that is not a point of etiquette in early part of cultivating friendship. Neither is a hug on the second or third meeting. Fortunately, these awkward moments fade as we get to know each other.

I recall going to a senior breakfast once in Maine. I sat down next to a gentleman and introduced myself, saying that I had accompanied my daughter to the meal and she lived in the area. After a few moments of silence, the old gentleman leaned towards me and in a low voice said, "We Mainers don't take kindly to strangers. Since your daughter lives here, I'll tell you my name is William." Not William Smith, William Jones. Just "William." I realized when repeating this incident later that most anywhere outside the South where we are perhaps appear too familiar with strangers, that hesitancy in revealing one's self is probably a safer move. Especially, now when telling that stranger too much can lead to a possible criminal act.

My new year's resolution, beginning now is to remember to say "Thank you." I do like those compliments. But I must give the other person a compliment so I'll receive the same reply.

Vacation Scenes Remembered

Although I live on a quiet two-lane street lined with trees, changing of these leaves is no drama. I have to look at my photos taken each summer and fall to see the glorious colors that spill onto the ground as the leaves fall.


Every area of the Continental United States has its beauty. When I was first aware of who "Leaf Peepers" were, I smirked at those who paid to ride through Vermont, New Hampshire,Maine, New York and Massachusetts every year. But I smacked that smirk when I myself experienced those same exciting watercolors Mother Nature displays yearly.


On our property we often see various kinds of mushrooms. Not knowing which are eatable, we just take photos to later research. The area is full of Russian immigrants who still speak their language or in halting English. One such couple lives nearby and are often seen searching the ground for mushrooms they recognize. Do you know these two?

Catching Up on News

Returning to our Mississippi home is not an easy task. Perhaps it's aging that puts so many obstacles in our path: renovations left undone to our 40 plus year-old home, the overgrown jasmine in the yard, the leggy branches of our shrubs, the stubborn absence of memory where we placed familiar items,the extensive growth on the few dishes left in the fridge,the dust balls and spiders caught therein--too much for me to take in one week.

To solve the above problems, I visited the library, checked out a few mystery books for the first weekend home and proceeded to forget the housekeeping duties. Now that Monday has passed and I'm sitting here in the middle of the week, I have to wake up in the morning with a chipper attitude to tackle each task deliberately. I'd rather ignore household duties. Let the jasmine continue to crawl up the outside walls, the shrubs go leggy until spring, locate missing papers by chance, throw out the leftovers as I see them, wave the duster around the corners at some given hour each day, and in about a month maybe we'll be back in our routine.

Missing friends here and there...that's the problem with leaving one place and returning to another. In the first week of our return I lost a dear friend in an accident, another to illness. They are my age. A gentle reminder that there'll be more peer deaths until one day not many will be left except those younger. I often think that these deaths are God's reminder for us to delight in every day left us.
I feel invincible. But I'm not.

Returning I realize I've not missed reading our newspaper. Same trouble in our capitol city with City Hall, the mayor, the firemen, the police...not any different from those cities in New Jersey, California, or Anyplace USA. However, there were some interesting articles:

remembering the day that the rock group Lynyrd Skynyrd lost members in a plane crash in the small town of Gillsburg, MS;
that a "feisty Asian weed" named Cogon has invaded the northern town of Tupelo, Elvis' old home place. This dwarfs kudzu that is seen scrambling over hills and in ditches of some small towns. Because of its highly effective reproductive method, I'm betting someone's going to find a way to put it in a pill to overpopulate the country;

that the writer darling of our state has written another best-seller: John Grisham. We can tell you how he bought 1000 copies of his first book and tried to sell them out of the back of his car for $10. Not too many takers. Now one is for sale for $3500. A Time to Kill. Grisham has not lived in the state for years now--too many visitors dropping in unexpectedly at his Oxford home. So he moved to Virginia. I guess readers aren't as aggressive about getting a book with his signature as are we Mississipians. One story told of a Saturday signing at a local bookstore with a mile of fans waiting in the hot sun. One lady went into labor, Grisham rushed out to sign her copy so she could be taken to the hospital. The next year she stood in line with another book, and her year old baby. Ahh, we Southerners love a good story.

Outside the state, the local rag printed, in Charlotte, NC, a new exhibit at Levine Museum of the New South examines Southern stereotypes through comics and cartoons. The purpose of this exhibit is to show their own citizens, both recent and old-timers, that stereotypes are rooted in some truth. Anyone visiting the South is bound to say first, "Everyone is sooo friendly." You betcha. Returning from NY we know we're in the South when we go for breakfast at the motel and everyone says "Good morning." Or when the waitress at the luncheon diner says, "Anything else I can do for you, honey?" Ahh, sweet sounds, and no Southern gentleman thinks "harassment".

Well, that's the South for ya'.

Cooler Weather--Changing Colors

We had planned back in the winter that if the weather turned cold in September, we'd immediately pack and return to the mild weather of Mississippi. Didn't happen. We hadn't finished around the cabin when the first low 40's came. Then a few days later a second night low hit. We had two down comforters on our bed and our cat between us and thought we could conquer most anything. Then before we knew it, a week had passed and now the temps are in the upper 50's at night. We are still in New York State and watching as the leaves slo-w-ly turn to reds and yellows. There's a grip in my throat when I see this natural wonder. Nothing compares in my state.

By remaining here through the month, we get to see the historic Von Steuben Festival, a gathering of German descendants parading down the small streets of Yulan, a band of old and young musicians whomping out German marches, and lovely young women of German descent sitting prettily in a convertible as participants inch slowly down the short streets. Afterwards, in the tradition of Octoberfest, there's a Big Lunch, featuring all the delicacies available. Beer, too.

The pride of those participating in the parade as well as those standing alongside viewing is so evident. For a descendant of some unknown couple from England, this is a great event in a tiny hamlet for me.

This is the month also that our neighborhood share a dinner. There aren't too many families in this group, but the yearly gathering is about the only time any of us can sit together and converse. Otherwise, it's a wave and a "hello" that drifts from our car window.

September is a wonderful month for us Southerners.

About that 650 lb Bear...

Today during our weekly breakfast at the local country store, we heard again about the BIG BEAR. Seems R and I are the only ones who've not seen him, although his footprints and the denuded barks of trees on the property tell us he's visited.

H mentioned that the dumpster in back of the store is 14 feet high, and he watched as BB put his arms on top, raised his left foot and hefted himself onto the top, mashing the dumster to the size of a crushed car. Then he went next door to the restaurant and did the same thing.

Another patron,D said at a cookout at his brother's house someone made the remark, "Now that the steaks are on the grill, wouldn't it be something if BB came into the yard?" Some few minutes later he did, heading, not to the grill, but to the huge apple tree in the corner of the yard. He reached to the top of his height, pulled off some apples and ate a few. Then he sauntered across the yard to the surprise of the guests, and disappeared.

D, a local whose been around bears all his life, assured us that this guy isn't going to bother anyone, so to watch and go on with our business. I'm afraid I would be frozen with fear to go on with any business.

...But the Memories Linger On

I've attended two concerts at the new BethelWoods in NY. The beautiful site is easy to maneuver by car and foot. Beautifully landscapted lawns make enjoying the concerts from either an indoor seat or on the lawn.

"Hippifest" was so much fun. Some of the presenters included names I've never heard of:The Turtles, the Rascals, Mountain Zombies, Badfinger, to name a few. Only two songs did I recognize and now can't remember them, so you know I have been out of the loop as far as rock bands are concerned. However, I felt good being at an historical event, seeing the original hippies of earlier times now in their 50's and 60's singing along while revisiting memories. Everyone, including original band members were reliving a bang-up time.

The lawn was no longer a muddy slush, but a green carpet stretching to everywhere. Plantings were minimal and the buildings were architecturally fitting. The amphitheatre in which we were seated followed the contours of the lawn that once held bodies packed like sardines.

A wonderful experience.

The following weekend we attended the performance of the Boston Pops playing music from oscar nominated movies and tony awarded television musicals. My date R declared that the Pops' selections were almost too tame after the rock 'n' roll music--this coming from a guy whose music listening extends no longer than 10 minutes.

Now we are preparing to hear "Earth, Wind, and Fire." What they play I have no idea; I just remember our kids having their albums. Maybe I'm more interested in sitting on the lawn while enjoyable music drifts by...

Note: Check out for a glimpse of past shows. First-rate for so little fee.

Acclimation Easy, But....

We are now back in the Catskills where the rain that fell in Mississippi has followed us here. Not fun to be cooped up in two 12'x12' buildings with two crossword puzzle books and fighting the humid air. But, that's not as bad as not being to communicate.

If I'd never known of computers and cell phones, I think I'd have been better off. I have to go 5 miles to be within a cell tower, which is ok, but my new wireless connection just didn't get me the help for my computer that I'd expected. That has been so frustrating, since I have a small business that depends on orders via emails.I now have found by hiking up the hill behind our cabin I can get just the right height to get a cell phone connection. But the hike isn't easy. Should I complain???

But let's look on the cheery side, mate. I love it here. Right now there are few animals or fowl roaming around, no bird sounds, only the scrubbing sound of a limb above our cabins. Makes us remember we're in the woods.

Neighbors say to look out for the 650 lb bear wandering on our property. You betcha! We are armed with whistles and a tin pan and spoon which we "play" as we wander. Now how can I ever find such excitement in the city?

Time to Eat Our Bounty and Leave

Within 48 hours we should be leaving Mississippi, our Madison home that has just been named one of the top 10 little towns in America (by Family Circle Magazine), to finish out the summer in the lower Catskills. I'm ready. No regrets about leaving this late.

When R came home with two tomato plants some few months ago, I barked, "What do you think you're doing? We've never had luck with raising tomatoes!" He planted them quietly in two terracotta pots and said, "Let's try once more. These are bush tomatoes, just the right size for eating."

Sixty-four days these tomatoes needed to bloom and produce slices for my bacon/tomato sandwiches. I knew we'd never see them turn pink before we'd be in New York. Our delay in leaving has brought us several ripened ones along with figs for our cereal most mornings.

We were never good at raising food. We would've starved had we been early pioneers. Nothing we did gave us a break in planting. We tried nut and fruit trees only to see them wither and die. We asked questions, read articles, followed directions. Nothing worked. The last tree we planted was the fig, and we put it in a corner where no other growth was, sheltered on one side by a fence and forgot it. Steadily it grew and occasionally gave us a hint of a taste but offered no bragging rights. Now it's an old tree and producing enough for enjoyment.


Some eight years ago the tree had grown four feet into the yard. Bushes planted by our neighbors nearby were vying for the sunlight. We had clipped and sawed limbs from year to year to control its growth to no avail. The tree kept growing upward, revealing its juiciest fruit out of reach.

I've had a week to enjoy these brown kisses as is or sliced into a bowl with a bit of cream. The tomatoes are sweet and juicy, making my BLT the best ever. These enjoyments are the few rewards I like about summers in Mississippi.

I Feel Guilty

When neighbor J takes his daily walk, he pushes a small cart with an oxygen machine. He takes a few steps, stops, looks around, watches a bird flit from one tree to another, then goes a few more steps, only to stop again to regenerate energy to finish his walk. He may get the equivalent of a city block or two, but he moves. Only a torrential rain, the only deterrent. He doesn't mind the misty rains. The cloying heat just shortens his walking time.

Always a proponent of exercise, J has several machines at home he continues to use. Despite heart trouble. He told us the other day that the doctors found some muscles not holding his heart upright, causing the organ to sit sideways. Difficult to diagnose.

Here I sit day after day doing what I enjoy in the air conditioning, not exercising because of the outside heat. Unless I'm in a giant mall, where I'll walk extra to make up for excessive sitting. I see J and wonder if some health condition will have to strike me before I become enthusiasic about exercising more. So often it takes a scare to push us into good habits.

Here's to all like J who, despite affliction and weather,"keep trucking," "hang in there," keep on goin'".

Parental Mentors

Neighbor M walks mornings and evenings carrying a small Rubbermaid container with succulent worms nestled in oatmeal. Birds know her and fly along the street, sweeping down to grab a grub that M has tossed and fly back to sit on a telephone line to feast. Some would call her obsessed, but, no, she's the bluebird guardian and teacher in our neighborhood. She has encouraged everyone on the block to place blue bird houses in their yards-- making them herself, and even installing for those who have little time.

This summer I observed a heartwarming situation of how bluebirds have the instinct to take care of their offspring so well.

A few months back a guy bluebird met a girl bluebird and they decided to take a nearby house (in our front yard), free of rent, and make a nest to raise a family. With eggs snug in leaves, moss, and fluff garnered from here and there, girlsoon realized that motherhood didn't agree with her. As she sat on her nest she dreamed of all that was missing in her life. After the babies hatched, she declared "Enough!" leaving crying babies behind to join a fly-by-night group seeking fun. New dad came home after a few days of hunting to find starving babies. Mama's gone! She had been missing so long in getting the kids fed on time, they eventually died.

Rejected boy bluebird flew around the yard, searching for his mate. When he realized she was gone for good, he spent no time before checking out the singles. He spied a young bird with big eyes and soft feathers. She found him handsome and virile. He and she made a nest. Readying for a family, she laid eggs. A few days later he came home late from being out with the guys and found she'd blown the coop! And four eggs churning! Like Superman to the rescue, he took over sitting on the eggs for weeks until one evening they hatched. We were watching from our dining room window, knowing birth time was within the next few days. What excitement! Little dad's journey to feed his brood every 10 minutes began. Back and forth he went constantly, bringing in food, and taking out the dirty diapers. He wasn't accustomed to housecleaning, but he knew the importance of keeping his babes germ free.

We kept a close eye on our cat, Bobbisox, who was keeping track of the birdies. R began to help little daddy by supplying worms between times of neighbor M's schedule. When the birdies began to fly, little dad was there, urging them not to get discouraged. He tucked them in at night and found a few hours rest in the branches above his house.

Bluebird parents have known "tough love" long before the term was used by humans. We turn to self-help books or tutoring from others in our quest to be decent parents. For the blue birds it's natural.

M has observed the antics of birds from the time a couple make a home in her yard to fledgling stage and later as young adults. One afternoon she told me that mamas discipline their kids with certain noises. One is the freezing chirp, used to teach kids manners. If a kid fails to behave, like getting a worm on time, a chirp sounds and the kid freezes in place. M has seen a birdie freeze with wings spread and one foot off the branch, ready to fly when the chirp sounded. If birdie doesn't follow the rules for eating, Chirrrrp! mama swoops down like a dive bomber to prevent the kid from reaching his supper. Mama will see that junior misses a few meals when he misbehaves. Oh, when have we sent our son or daughter to bed without supper or made him/her eat the same plateful at as many meal times as needed until all food is consumed??

Neighbor M has made me more aware of this wondrous aspect of nature through her constant care of/and information about bluebirds. She isn't the only bird lover, she's just the only one I've met. Time to clean out the bird houses so a traveler can find rest overnight.

It's Tea Time!

Nothing tastes better in the summertime than a cold glass of iced tea. Sweet, that is. In most restaurants and food service counters there are two urns for sweet and unsweet teas. Diets have caused this change. However, once your brain is attuned to sweet tea, nothing tastes the same after that moment of discovery.

Every morning after our two mile walk around Strawberry Park, Sis and I hit McD's for breakfast. I love their biscuits and sausage combo and I choose at 7:30 in the morning to have sweetened iced tea. Only at McD's is there no choice. The tea is sweeter than any Easterner can imagine, and almost too sweet for me. I have to add water, maybe a quarter to that super cup. Not one for coffee, I suck the cold tea through the straw relishing the morning pickup it gives.

An article by Lisa Singhania from The Associated Press states this about tea:

"Approximately 85% of tea consumed in the U.S.is iced. No one in the world except for us drinks sweet tea and no one in the U.S sweetens their tea as much as they do in the Southeast."

You have to love sugared tea, or use artificial sweetner, or drink as is. When Easterners think of the South, they imagine us sitting on our front porches (which few of us have now) drinking mint juleps, but you'll only find that on the Cool Drinks Menu of a New Orleans restaurant.

Southerners don't dip into a jar of instant tea--OH, NO! We brew in boiling water either tea bags or leaves to a strong dark, rich color (usually orange pekoe and pekoe), pour into a large pitcher, add sugar (watch it dissolve like magic before your eyes), water and a squeeze of lemon, stir, and pour over as many ice cubes as the tall glass can hold. Or you can put pitcher in the fridge to reduce quick melting of the ice.

A guest in a Southerner's home had better be prepared to forget the soda or wine on a hot summer day. If you're invited to sit on your host's patio with the soft southern breeze drifting across your face, then a tall glass of sweetened iced tea is the recipe for keeping cool.