When a "Watch" has been issued in our area, I run around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off and gather the items I want to have with me. We sit in a deep closet on stools. In a large bag I gather our check books and extra checks, at least a gallon of water, crackers and peanut butter, a plastic knife, a container of Wipes, toothbrushes and paste, tinted moisturizer, comb/brush, and basic jewelry that means something to me (not necessarily expensive) and my computer discs. I subscribe to Carbonite, so I don't worry about my computer files.
The latest online issue of This Old House adds the following: fishing line(for tying back doors to stay open), a solar fan, heavy gloves, vinyl tablecloths (cheaper and more useful in their sizes). These can already be packaged and in your favorite hidey hole.These items come in handy whether or not you have a house standing.
The rising of the Mississippi River reminds me of the time the Delaware River rose and we were unaware of this when we returned from Maine at night into Milford, Pennsylvania to return to Barryville, NY on the other side of the Delaware. There are more bridges in the area than one realizes. We got as far as the last bridge on the PA side and were met with policemen directing us to an elementary school for the night.
I recall the cafeteria workers on duty baking cookies and making sandwiches for all of us stranded folk. We had little to do to while away the hours. Then the Red Cross brought in cots that had been stored since World War II by the smell of them, but we lay down and snuggled under those thin, wool blankets that reminded us of being a soldier in a war. Terribly uncomfortable, warm. Just as we fell asleep we were awakened stating the roads were clear of high water. The time was 2 A. M.
Returning to the same bridge only a few miles away we were again rerouted on roads that at night time made our short trip a long one. We had to travel north some 25 miles and circle through state and county roads to arrive a familiar roadway running south that took us into Barryville. By then it was nearing 5 P. M. We had left Maine at noon, driving seven hours. The length of travel imprinted on our minds was not the difficulty, but what happens when flooding affects an area and the tremendous help given those stranded.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Visiting the Old Neighborhoods
Sis and I had motored through the old neighborhoods some 15 years ago, but on this occasion we had along with us a former neighbor and childhood friend, Sara, who had lived in a duplex adjacent to our apartment when she and Sis were six years old and I was 13. Sara was in town from Delaware to attend her high school reunion at Provine. After a light lunch I suggested Sis and I show her how Jackson had changed by touring our old neighborhoods where each of our families had lived periodically.
Not an easy task to wander through narrow streets we once thought were wide; past houses where we remembered this person and that lived; where once stately houses stood; and finally to the street, Fourth Avenue, where we had begun our lives knowing each other. At first finding the block was difficult. Some houses were torn down, others in states unfit to live in but were, and many boarded up. However, the little duplex with the front porch that wound to the side with a half bricked wall, we knew was our old home place. How small the yard is, we exclaimed. The porch, I'd recognize the porch anywhere, we added. We sat in our stopped automobile in the middle of Fourth Avenue while memories flooded.My suggestion that we knock on the door and ask to see the interior drew no yes's. None of us could remember if there had been a driveway, as there was now. Sara remembered a back yard and a garden. We each brought to mind something the other had forgotten.
We rode slowly down the block, turned into the wide Grand Avenue, which suddenly was narrower, looking at houses and trying to place certain houses that once held friends. We came upon a faded white stone house with a turret in much decay. We pulled out of our minds the fact we'd called this the "haunted house". It's beauty was hidden by layers of mold slathered across the turret's exterior, tree branches resting on the decaying roof. Overgrown yard.What a shame allowing such a lovely home sit in that condition. Sis suggested we find out its owner and buy it, recondition it and move into it. Silly dreams. We couldn't buy a door, much less the entire house. And the neighborhood would be too iffy for us to reside.
Another spin around the neighborhood brought more oohs and aahs. We had forgotten about the small church that had been only a block away. The large Lovelace home was now no longer standing,a new subdivision laid out in its place.Turning back onto Robinson Street we passed our old elementary school, Poindexter, and still sitting in its place. The large yard as we remembered with our small eyes had diminished. But the wording across the top of the school was as bold as we recall. Then a pass by our junior high school, Enochs, across from Poindexter Park brought memories of some of our happiest school days. The park now denuded of all the swings and sand boxes and benches is a grassy lawn. No reason to enjoy the outdoors as we three once did on those silver gliding swings. A quick run down Central Street where Sis and I had lived was another disappointment. We found our aunt's home, but the tiny grocery so convenient was missing. Familiarity was disappearing from this area. We may a well have been in another town in another state.
From there we entered West Capitol Street past the Methodist Church and headed towards the rail road tracks and the new buildings of the train station. Sara hadn't seen the newly-furbished King Edward Hotel, sitting majestically among the ruins of once thriving buildings we so fondly recalled. Abandoned, boarded up facades once watched us prance down the street unafraid to be alone or with a friend as we made our way to the State Theater or further uptown to the Paramount or the Lamar Theaters. Sara remarked how much we walked from our homes to anything in town without a thought of distance, choosing that over the city buses. I pointed to the modern structures that had replaced Woolworth's, several clothing and retail shops, pointing to Sara, "That's where Walgreen's used to be". Through our eyes we saw the safe streets we had walked from our homes in West Jackson to the busy downtown of Jackson circa 1940-1960. Our wonderful West Jackson was a memory.
We failed to drive by Hawkins Field, the Jackson Zoo, Livingston Park, down Robinson Street where our churches were located. So much still to find. That awaits for Sara's next trip to the state.
Not an easy task to wander through narrow streets we once thought were wide; past houses where we remembered this person and that lived; where once stately houses stood; and finally to the street, Fourth Avenue, where we had begun our lives knowing each other. At first finding the block was difficult. Some houses were torn down, others in states unfit to live in but were, and many boarded up. However, the little duplex with the front porch that wound to the side with a half bricked wall, we knew was our old home place. How small the yard is, we exclaimed. The porch, I'd recognize the porch anywhere, we added. We sat in our stopped automobile in the middle of Fourth Avenue while memories flooded.My suggestion that we knock on the door and ask to see the interior drew no yes's. None of us could remember if there had been a driveway, as there was now. Sara remembered a back yard and a garden. We each brought to mind something the other had forgotten.
We rode slowly down the block, turned into the wide Grand Avenue, which suddenly was narrower, looking at houses and trying to place certain houses that once held friends. We came upon a faded white stone house with a turret in much decay. We pulled out of our minds the fact we'd called this the "haunted house". It's beauty was hidden by layers of mold slathered across the turret's exterior, tree branches resting on the decaying roof. Overgrown yard.What a shame allowing such a lovely home sit in that condition. Sis suggested we find out its owner and buy it, recondition it and move into it. Silly dreams. We couldn't buy a door, much less the entire house. And the neighborhood would be too iffy for us to reside.
Another spin around the neighborhood brought more oohs and aahs. We had forgotten about the small church that had been only a block away. The large Lovelace home was now no longer standing,a new subdivision laid out in its place.Turning back onto Robinson Street we passed our old elementary school, Poindexter, and still sitting in its place. The large yard as we remembered with our small eyes had diminished. But the wording across the top of the school was as bold as we recall. Then a pass by our junior high school, Enochs, across from Poindexter Park brought memories of some of our happiest school days. The park now denuded of all the swings and sand boxes and benches is a grassy lawn. No reason to enjoy the outdoors as we three once did on those silver gliding swings. A quick run down Central Street where Sis and I had lived was another disappointment. We found our aunt's home, but the tiny grocery so convenient was missing. Familiarity was disappearing from this area. We may a well have been in another town in another state.
From there we entered West Capitol Street past the Methodist Church and headed towards the rail road tracks and the new buildings of the train station. Sara hadn't seen the newly-furbished King Edward Hotel, sitting majestically among the ruins of once thriving buildings we so fondly recalled. Abandoned, boarded up facades once watched us prance down the street unafraid to be alone or with a friend as we made our way to the State Theater or further uptown to the Paramount or the Lamar Theaters. Sara remarked how much we walked from our homes to anything in town without a thought of distance, choosing that over the city buses. I pointed to the modern structures that had replaced Woolworth's, several clothing and retail shops, pointing to Sara, "That's where Walgreen's used to be". Through our eyes we saw the safe streets we had walked from our homes in West Jackson to the busy downtown of Jackson circa 1940-1960. Our wonderful West Jackson was a memory.
We failed to drive by Hawkins Field, the Jackson Zoo, Livingston Park, down Robinson Street where our churches were located. So much still to find. That awaits for Sara's next trip to the state.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Shoes, Wonderful Shoes
A recent advertisement for a shoe company in town brought back memories. As you can see in the photo the wedge is popular now. The style is similar to ones I wore in 1954 when I began teaching in a very small community near Oxford, MS.
Newly married, I had moved with R to the student housing, not the best at that time but cheap. I had a job teaching in an unincorporated school district. To offset the few students I was assigned to, the principal asked me tobe the librarian. I had to enroll in two three-hour courses in June to be able to hold such a “responsible” job.
Already I had two years of experience behind me in the Delta in small communities, but this one near the University of Mississippi was a pitiful example of how necessary this district needed to incorporate with larger ones. This particular school began in July and released the students in the fall for one month so kids could help with crops. I wore my coolest clothing, as those days didn’t see air conditioners in school buildings. Topping my outfits were my lightest shoes, straw wedges. I wore them every day because they were easy to slip on and off. My job as librarian rarely saw me out of a chair, hence, removal of my shoes when no one was looking.
In the six short weeks I was employed, the local teachers let me know that I was too dressed up. The students had never seen shoes like mine;” citified” was barking loudly around me. I ignored their remarks, not understanding how anyone thought I was citified. I did speak better English—was that it, really?
Those shoes lasted the rest of the warm fall and the following spring when I was teaching in Jackson, Mississippi, where I transferred . Now, 57 years later this style is popular again. You can bet I’ll have another pair like the ones above, not to celebrate my teaching in the country, but to remember an early time in my life.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
A Week of Cold, A Day of Pure Warmth
You all know that putting away seasonal clothing isn't today's method. With the weather playing hop-scotch across the map, we need a closet for warm clothing and a closet for heavy outerwear. No longer in the South can we expect our winters to be mild. We had our worst winter this year in a decade, yet by eastern standards it was a breeze. Today, Saturday the sun is shining and the air is a warm 78 degrees. Tomorrow is expected to be cold again with the usual thunderstorms and tornadoes we have around March and April. Nothing new, is it?
Regardless of the weather, warm or cold, I am tied to the computer. After spending $$$ for a desk-type, I now long for a laptop so I can sit outdoors and pen the words rushing though my head. It has been said that writers are loners. Like jugglers, we attempt to balance family life with our desire to pound on the keyboard, hating to leave our seat to satisfy a son or daughter who wants us to join the rest of the family for dinner. Then we become robots in conversation, while holding a thought, a scene, an idea inside, and anxious to skip after-dinner coffee and dessert for a quick trip home. Or when I have to stop to hear my husband expound on what he's read, I give the impression that I'm not interested. Not so. With so little time in my life left to do what I've always wanted to accomplish, I feel rushed to write everything that comes to mind.
New words, new ideas flow like a thawing faucet and the fingers go into action. I'm not a many-published writer, but I write because I have stories to tell, created from my romantic instinct that runs constantly across my brain, becoming real in my whispered enactments -- someone would say I'm losing my mind. The openings of stories are just that -- openings. They sit in my Document file under "Unfinished Writings." Occasionally I pull up one and reread what has been typed, then add a few paragraphs. Are they worthwhile to keep? Maybe so, maybe not. But seeing the words flow across the screen gives me a personal satisfaction, like the feeling you receive from that first cup of coffee. One day some of the ideas will jell into one good story.
When I reach the point of being screen-weary, I stop, turn to genealogy or fulfill a jewelry order. By the time I return to the computer, I'm fresh with new ideas, born during family research and the fulfillment of creating something spiritual for an unknown customer. But I return to my stories and I'm happy, whether it is raining or sunny outdoors.
Regardless of the weather, warm or cold, I am tied to the computer. After spending $$$ for a desk-type, I now long for a laptop so I can sit outdoors and pen the words rushing though my head. It has been said that writers are loners. Like jugglers, we attempt to balance family life with our desire to pound on the keyboard, hating to leave our seat to satisfy a son or daughter who wants us to join the rest of the family for dinner. Then we become robots in conversation, while holding a thought, a scene, an idea inside, and anxious to skip after-dinner coffee and dessert for a quick trip home. Or when I have to stop to hear my husband expound on what he's read, I give the impression that I'm not interested. Not so. With so little time in my life left to do what I've always wanted to accomplish, I feel rushed to write everything that comes to mind.
New words, new ideas flow like a thawing faucet and the fingers go into action. I'm not a many-published writer, but I write because I have stories to tell, created from my romantic instinct that runs constantly across my brain, becoming real in my whispered enactments -- someone would say I'm losing my mind. The openings of stories are just that -- openings. They sit in my Document file under "Unfinished Writings." Occasionally I pull up one and reread what has been typed, then add a few paragraphs. Are they worthwhile to keep? Maybe so, maybe not. But seeing the words flow across the screen gives me a personal satisfaction, like the feeling you receive from that first cup of coffee. One day some of the ideas will jell into one good story.
When I reach the point of being screen-weary, I stop, turn to genealogy or fulfill a jewelry order. By the time I return to the computer, I'm fresh with new ideas, born during family research and the fulfillment of creating something spiritual for an unknown customer. But I return to my stories and I'm happy, whether it is raining or sunny outdoors.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Two Material Items I'm Thankful For
Living off the grid for five summers, three to six months at a time, taught me how simplified life should be. I'd return home and not desire anything new around the house to make me more lazy than I am. But since 2010 that has changed. I now own a dishwasher and a Kuerig Coffee Maker.
My husband objected to dish washer for using so much water and electricity when I could clean dishes faster, but not as clean as he desired. For instance, if I left a bit of smudge on a fork and he found it in the silverware drawer, he made a big deal out of it. I'd say "Just clean it and you'll be fine." That failed to satisfy him. Or if a bit of grease so tiny stayed on a dinner plate, he'd find it and fuss, fuss, fuss. Finally he took over the dishwashing job and within a year or so decided We Need a Dishwasher. I should have left more grease spots than I did years ago. Now our Bosch is like our child. We love doing dishes; we fight over who'll load and unload.
A coffee drinker, meaning one who drinks one or more cups daily, I am not. The first time I discovered that coffee wasn't only Maxwell House and Folger's (my aplogies to those who still use these products) was the visit to Boston in the mid 1980's when our daughter took us to a little cafe to sample the kind of coffee they serve there. What a surprise taste my palate enjoyed! This was so delicious I couldn't drink enough. This was long before internet ordering had begun.
Then came the websites and Gevalia. R loves Gevalia, but it never tastes "quite right". If I needed desperately to drink a cup of java because I needed to stay awake, I'd force a few sips in the A. M. We began making our coffee the Melitta way, because of our strength differences. However, I Never Could Make A Good Cup of Coffee.(Here I must apologize to all who've downed my Bad Java when visiting!) My thinking changed when I visited V2 on the Gulf Coast and she served me the most delicious cup since Boston. She had a Kuerig coffee maker. I returned home toying with the idea that I'd give us this maker for a holiday gift. But the "off the grid" mentality hit me. I didn't need another electrical appliance, I argued to myself. So what if coffee is now deemed safe, if not healthy, I still could continue to make it through my little coffee filter/holder. A chance remark to my sister who took that statement about the new coffee makers to heart. Christmas we opened her package and my life has been one-cup-a-day-happier.
My husband objected to dish washer for using so much water and electricity when I could clean dishes faster, but not as clean as he desired. For instance, if I left a bit of smudge on a fork and he found it in the silverware drawer, he made a big deal out of it. I'd say "Just clean it and you'll be fine." That failed to satisfy him. Or if a bit of grease so tiny stayed on a dinner plate, he'd find it and fuss, fuss, fuss. Finally he took over the dishwashing job and within a year or so decided We Need a Dishwasher. I should have left more grease spots than I did years ago. Now our Bosch is like our child. We love doing dishes; we fight over who'll load and unload.
A coffee drinker, meaning one who drinks one or more cups daily, I am not. The first time I discovered that coffee wasn't only Maxwell House and Folger's (my aplogies to those who still use these products) was the visit to Boston in the mid 1980's when our daughter took us to a little cafe to sample the kind of coffee they serve there. What a surprise taste my palate enjoyed! This was so delicious I couldn't drink enough. This was long before internet ordering had begun.
Then came the websites and Gevalia. R loves Gevalia, but it never tastes "quite right". If I needed desperately to drink a cup of java because I needed to stay awake, I'd force a few sips in the A. M. We began making our coffee the Melitta way, because of our strength differences. However, I Never Could Make A Good Cup of Coffee.(Here I must apologize to all who've downed my Bad Java when visiting!) My thinking changed when I visited V2 on the Gulf Coast and she served me the most delicious cup since Boston. She had a Kuerig coffee maker. I returned home toying with the idea that I'd give us this maker for a holiday gift. But the "off the grid" mentality hit me. I didn't need another electrical appliance, I argued to myself. So what if coffee is now deemed safe, if not healthy, I still could continue to make it through my little coffee filter/holder. A chance remark to my sister who took that statement about the new coffee makers to heart. Christmas we opened her package and my life has been one-cup-a-day-happier.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
January 15, 2011
Remember how we used to count hours, days, weeks, and months until that special day arrived? Each month since September I've been aware of the 15th. In September on a Sunday of that time in the month R and I received a wonderful gift--our first grandchild. Now to all of you who have grandchildren already running around may forget the first one; you probably were fortunate to have them early. But to R and me, we're in our mid 70's and having a grandson for the first time has revealed mixed emotions. January 15th will mark HB's fourth month to be in our world. He is adorable, the son of beautiful parents and loving grandparents. Now, R and I know we have to make the most of our time (and I'm not worried, as I'm living until 140!) profitable in experience for this little tyke.
As we think of the ensuing years we hope to make an impression with him so he'll remember us. Will we see him graduate? Marry? Have a family of his own? Probably not; however, we'll make each time with him the best we can contribute.
If you're a grandmom or g'pop, give me some good ideas how we can preserve our time with him so in future years he'll remember his other grandparents.
As we think of the ensuing years we hope to make an impression with him so he'll remember us. Will we see him graduate? Marry? Have a family of his own? Probably not; however, we'll make each time with him the best we can contribute.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Lifting My Spirits
It took a beautiful wedding in a nearby Catholic church to lift my holiday spirits. Not wanting at first to go out the eve of the dawning of a new year, but the weather turned quite warm. Of course the warmth was preceded by storms of great magnitude and tornadoes sweeping in and around our home, but at 7:30 p.m. when I was to leave, calm prevailed. Some would say the Heavens declared the union with its own brand of trumpets and roll of drums, but others would counter with "Ah, that's Mississippi for ya."
A road trip to the delta area of our state with my sister to gather info for an article gave us the wonderful opportunity to visit a small town, Rolling Fork. Nearby is the community of Onward where Teddy Roosevelt visited to kill his bears. The Rolling Fork community has a growing interest in revitalization. The subject of our trip, Mount Helena, an 1899 home built as a second home for Helen Johnstone and her second husband, an Episcopal priest, to serve as a summer place.
Traveling north along Highway 61 this home sits on the only raised area and is quite noticeable. The house was constructed on top of an Indian ceremonial mound. fronted by flat planting land. Time and destruction has caught this home in their grip. Today it's history on a hill. Reconstruction is underway and annually a play is presented in the downstairs living area that retells the house and family history.
The enthusiasm of the families who maintain the house's heritage is catching. One is reminded that delta families still cling to their ancestors' contribution to the area. It was refreshing to visit this home on a sunny January day and meet the families who are working to keep Rolling Fork, MS alive .
A road trip to the delta area of our state with my sister to gather info for an article gave us the wonderful opportunity to visit a small town, Rolling Fork. Nearby is the community of Onward where Teddy Roosevelt visited to kill his bears. The Rolling Fork community has a growing interest in revitalization. The subject of our trip, Mount Helena, an 1899 home built as a second home for Helen Johnstone and her second husband, an Episcopal priest, to serve as a summer place.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
This Holiday Season
I don't have much spirit this year. Gone is the excitement of decorating the home inside and out; searching and purchasing a tree to put in that right spot in the sun room; wrapping gifts bought secretively. Perhaps the emptiness I feel is (1) having our own grown kids in scattered places, or (2) having a grandson only four months old, too young to share much with him.
Too much sickness has roamed our home. Too little time for me to write down everything that somersaults through my mind. Too much of my life disappearing. I'm not the one ill, I"m the one desiring to accomplish so much more in the remaining short time. (I've asked for an extension of 40 years;that decision .)
I ventured out one day, camera in hand, to snap decorated mailboxes -- found only two examples. Our neighborhood has all their curbside mailboxes topped with pine bough/red ribbon. Outside the gates I found one mailbox beribboned as a package. Nothing more. In earlier years mailboxes were treated more affectionately as an extension of yard decorations. Perhaps there are others who are not exactly hot and heavy on decorating this year. Does money have anything to do with this lack of decoration? Nah, the houses are filled with over-60 years of age folks who, like me, just don't care to go to the trouble. Christmas has a different meaning, perhaps one that nearer what it should be.
The card this year we mailed out has our 50 year old's age six depiction of Christmas. He didn't miss anything. Oh, to experience that innocence again!
Midnight service at my church will invigorate me and help me remember that after tearing through the wall of tinsel I'll remember this is the commemoration of the Birth and become invigorated again.Despite my lack of enthusiasm for lighting the tree and house, I still have enough spirit to wish all of you the best for the season, a blessed new year, and peace to all mankind. Remember our men in service. AMEN.
Too much sickness has roamed our home. Too little time for me to write down everything that somersaults through my mind. Too much of my life disappearing. I'm not the one ill, I"m the one desiring to accomplish so much more in the remaining short time. (I've asked for an extension of 40 years;that decision .)
I ventured out one day, camera in hand, to snap decorated mailboxes -- found only two examples. Our neighborhood has all their curbside mailboxes topped with pine bough/red ribbon. Outside the gates I found one mailbox beribboned as a package. Nothing more. In earlier years mailboxes were treated more affectionately as an extension of yard decorations. Perhaps there are others who are not exactly hot and heavy on decorating this year. Does money have anything to do with this lack of decoration? Nah, the houses are filled with over-60 years of age folks who, like me, just don't care to go to the trouble. Christmas has a different meaning, perhaps one that nearer what it should be.
Midnight service at my church will invigorate me and help me remember that after tearing through the wall of tinsel I'll remember this is the commemoration of the Birth and become invigorated again.Despite my lack of enthusiasm for lighting the tree and house, I still have enough spirit to wish all of you the best for the season, a blessed new year, and peace to all mankind. Remember our men in service. AMEN.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Apps Can Be Catching
I don't own an I-Pod, I-Pad, or I-Phone. If I have apps on my ordinary cell phone, I don't know what they do. However, I'm beginning to miss what many people have shelled out dollars for: convenience. A common remark among friends like, "Wonder if XXX Restaurant is open Saturday night?" produces like a bolt of lightening a hand that whisks out an I-Phone, taps a few times and within seconds shows us a map, pertinent information, and the menu. The group decides to make a reservation and this I-Phoner hits a few more buttons and says satisfactorily, "Done. We have a table for ten at 8 p.m. Saturday night." Just like that. No phone calls or no flipping pages of the telephone directory.
One occasion I was talking with a friend who was recalling days of our teaching at a local high school. I said, "Remember that young senior who sang so well? She was the lead in all the musicals." And with I-Phone in hand, my friend had tapped the face a few times and come up with this graduate's latest album and her bio. Amazing!
You've had similar experiences with I-Phoners. Does their possession of this magic box entice you to purchase one? Does me. Businesses are joining ventures to put their companies readily available to the public via apps. Transactions conduct more easily via computers and cell phones. It's happening like a runaway roller coaster.
Where is the sweet voice that answers the phone? Where is the familiar disappearing to? What? I have to listen to a mechanical voice in the complaint department that refuses to let me speak? Technology is ruining social networking. Social, as in person-to-person. I predict that the future will have us meet each other via the phone. Imagine, our facing each other, carrying on a conversation with the bug in our ear, mumbling as we fumble with our packages, looking every where but directly at each other, afraid to converse naturally. Gads. . .
One occasion I was talking with a friend who was recalling days of our teaching at a local high school. I said, "Remember that young senior who sang so well? She was the lead in all the musicals." And with I-Phone in hand, my friend had tapped the face a few times and come up with this graduate's latest album and her bio. Amazing!
You've had similar experiences with I-Phoners. Does their possession of this magic box entice you to purchase one? Does me. Businesses are joining ventures to put their companies readily available to the public via apps. Transactions conduct more easily via computers and cell phones. It's happening like a runaway roller coaster.
Where is the sweet voice that answers the phone? Where is the familiar disappearing to? What? I have to listen to a mechanical voice in the complaint department that refuses to let me speak? Technology is ruining social networking. Social, as in person-to-person. I predict that the future will have us meet each other via the phone. Imagine, our facing each other, carrying on a conversation with the bug in our ear, mumbling as we fumble with our packages, looking every where but directly at each other, afraid to converse naturally. Gads. . .
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving Day, 2010
The weather is kind today. We are enjoying 80 deg with a light wind. Last year it was quite cold. The warmer weather this week has brought out the pollen allergies. Closed windows and air conditioning when we should be enjoying the fresh air.The cooler weather will rush in during the night and plunge the thermomenter to about 40 deg. On again, off again go the sweaters.
Nothing special happens for us on holidays anymore. I almost dread the dates. R is getting too decrepit to travel by car anymore and we are usually stuck going through the same living pattern on the Day as we do the days before. Fortunately we have one son visiting from NYC and the other living nearby, so all is not lost. I often long for their being kids again,and that'll occur when our grandbaby Henry grows older, as we do ourselves. I wonder if we'll be too old to romp with him in play or walk him around the park, pull him in the red wagon that sits waiting for him to age a few years?
Despite my darkness I hope the reader is blinded by the light of children laughing, playing, friends and family hollering, chatting and having a reunion of a good time. We have a lot more to be thankful for than what I've mentioned in words. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.
Nothing special happens for us on holidays anymore. I almost dread the dates. R is getting too decrepit to travel by car anymore and we are usually stuck going through the same living pattern on the Day as we do the days before. Fortunately we have one son visiting from NYC and the other living nearby, so all is not lost. I often long for their being kids again,and that'll occur when our grandbaby Henry grows older, as we do ourselves. I wonder if we'll be too old to romp with him in play or walk him around the park, pull him in the red wagon that sits waiting for him to age a few years?
Despite my darkness I hope the reader is blinded by the light of children laughing, playing, friends and family hollering, chatting and having a reunion of a good time. We have a lot more to be thankful for than what I've mentioned in words. Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Yikes--Another One with My Name?
I've often mentioned my family research using Ancestry.com. Today I was checking the resources under the name of my family and was struck, as I usually am, by the repetition of names of people who share my family's names. There it was, a 1948 California Voter Registration of someone with my full maiden name and married name. VAWN...I couldn't believe that such a person had exisited. At first reading I thought my identity had been stolen, but I didn't have the N in 1948. In fact, I was a single ninth grader. Later I found someone who shares my full maiden name VAW living in Florida at age of 2. Funny world, to meet yourself in different states and on different registers.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
High School Yearbooks
You'll do it as I'm doing now. Reviewing yearbooks. Remembering stories and people's faces. Recalling what was important in high school. As I search for ideas to write, I'm drawn to several incidents that occurred during my high school days. So I reach up to the topmost shelf and wiggle my fingers until they touch THE BOOK. This one relates my single year, the tenth grade, that I attended Central High School. I had earlier spent three years in junior high with many of the sophomores pictured in the Cotton Boll. For that reason I keep the book handy.
The photos are available when I'm helping someone research family members, when the annual is the only source for remembering a particular person, as cameras in the late 1940's early 1950's weren't like cell phones of today.
I've turned to a page to remember an old boyfriend; a friend who recently passed away; a neighbor I"m sure I know but can't place; or a teacher I want to point out to R with a fond experience to tell. Yearbooks are the portals to revisiting our youth.
Recently, while researching on Ancestry.com, I came upon a notice that annuals are being collected and torn page by page to microfilm to add to their vast research resources . I have been trying to tear the Cotton Bowl away from my knarly grasp, like pulling a child from its mother's arms. I'm fearful that if I send it off to the netherlands I'll find thousands of reasons for having kept it. That is something I'll have to work on.
The photos are available when I'm helping someone research family members, when the annual is the only source for remembering a particular person, as cameras in the late 1940's early 1950's weren't like cell phones of today.
I've turned to a page to remember an old boyfriend; a friend who recently passed away; a neighbor I"m sure I know but can't place; or a teacher I want to point out to R with a fond experience to tell. Yearbooks are the portals to revisiting our youth.
Recently, while researching on Ancestry.com, I came upon a notice that annuals are being collected and torn page by page to microfilm to add to their vast research resources . I have been trying to tear the Cotton Bowl away from my knarly grasp, like pulling a child from its mother's arms. I'm fearful that if I send it off to the netherlands I'll find thousands of reasons for having kept it. That is something I'll have to work on.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
A Contest To Win
Surely you have read about the national siesta championship in Madrid. I should have entered the contest. As an avid sleeper, I can take an afternoon nap for three hours and still be in bed by 10 p.m., sleep 8-10 hours more. So this contest was made for me. The purpose of the contest was not only to find the best napper but help revive the tradition of taking a snooze after lunch. We've always associated Spain and Mexico with siestas, haven't we?
Here are the highlights : Contestants lie on bright blue sofas in the middle of a shopping mall with their choice sleeping clothing; pulse monitors attached to their bodies. The winner is the one who manages to sleep for the full 20 minutes. Eight rounds are held daily with five participants each on sofas parallel to each other. Awards go not only to the longest napper, but to those with the most original sleeping position, loudest snore, and the most eye-catching outfits (yes, you could wear your PJ's.).
The National Association of Friends of the Siesta began the competition Oct 14 and ends Nov. 6. According to this organization "The mission of the championship is to spread the idea that the nap is something of ours that must be defended and practiced, because it is healthy and good for everyone." Yea!
I've been a proponent of naps since childhood when my parents insisted Saturday and Sunday afternoons were for rest. This has been a part of my life I cherish. Didn't some scientists recently state that those who nap live longer? I'm for that, too.
Here are the highlights : Contestants lie on bright blue sofas in the middle of a shopping mall with their choice sleeping clothing; pulse monitors attached to their bodies. The winner is the one who manages to sleep for the full 20 minutes. Eight rounds are held daily with five participants each on sofas parallel to each other. Awards go not only to the longest napper, but to those with the most original sleeping position, loudest snore, and the most eye-catching outfits (yes, you could wear your PJ's.).
The National Association of Friends of the Siesta began the competition Oct 14 and ends Nov. 6. According to this organization "The mission of the championship is to spread the idea that the nap is something of ours that must be defended and practiced, because it is healthy and good for everyone." Yea!
I've been a proponent of naps since childhood when my parents insisted Saturday and Sunday afternoons were for rest. This has been a part of my life I cherish. Didn't some scientists recently state that those who nap live longer? I'm for that, too.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
There Comes a Time . . .
. . .when changes occur you least expect. In my case, the cabin is no longer ours; our son has sold the property. I cannot enjoy the serenity that get-away provided me -- my knees won't propel me up and down hills, steps, or on the irregular slope that houses the beautiful trees that burn with color each fall. It was a wonderful visit for eight years. So the photograph will be taken down and you will be staring at me. Not quite the same.The small cabins are prettier. I'm still the Cabin Writer, no doubt about that. Inspiration comes, anyway, from all avenues of life.
What Aging Has Taught Me
The photo album slipped out of my hand, and onto the floor went pages and photos into a mix-up pile. I wasn't ready to sit down and gather them up at the time, but the mess was in the middle of a walking area. So I drew up a chair and leaned down to collect the memories of a lifetime. The album was started injunior high school. Each year as I received a photo or snapped one of my friends, I put a copy in this album. In the 1950's before college I didn't own a camera. They weren't items most average families owned. I must have used the old Kodak box camera that somehow my parents had owned since my birth.
I searched for and found my scrapbook. In it were all the articles of weddings and features of my friends. I gathered together the articles and paired them with the photos.
Picking up each photo became a journey. I laughed at the memory as I recalled the incident, my brain whirling through tons of mass to take me back to that time and place. I wondered Where are they? What are they doing today? I set aside a small stack of follow-ups. I wasn't sure of my next move.
A few days later I used Google to find the names of these friends. No hits. I checked FaceBook and found one. Tried the White Pages and found three. The latter had remained in Mississippi. Then I turned to http://.ancestry.com, where I'm researching four families. I entered the names to find death certificates. Bingo. Two. I was disappointed to find my junior high school friend Nancy had died five years ago. A boy I had dated in the tenth grade died on his birthday two years ago. No one was supposed to die, this early, I told myself.
How to contact three guys who probably don't remember me? Be armed with reminiscences. First, I called South Carolina to GB. He vaguely remembered me (naturally, who would after 60 years?). I told him our connection--Civil Air Patrol in Mississippi, attended CAP camp in Montgomery, AL for two weeks. . .he remembered slightly. Then I told him I'd email him all photos. A subsequent call opened up good conversation. I was talking to an adult my age whom I'd know as a kid. Wonderful to know who he'd become, the career he'd chosen. I promised to visit when I went through his hometown.
Next, I called Gulfport, MS. Talked to DK. I"d met through someone else. I had kept a newspaper article about his finishing army training, and I had a photo of him outside his tent during his Korean service. He told me he'd suffered loss of all memorabilia during Katrina; he'd like to have the photo and article. We chatted and during that time he didn't remember me from King Tut. That was OK. I remembered him. Sent him the material hoping he would enjoy a walk down memory lane.
One more contact left. A young woman who had shared CAP and cadet life with me. I located her graduation invitation and name card accompanying. I had her full name. A search through White Pages brought me no satisfaction. She was probably married and I wasn't sure of that new name. FaceBook came to my rescue. Although she didn't use the page much, she had registered in the name I recognized. That connected us. Thank you FB.
Now GG and I are corresponding. No, she didn't remember me at all until I sent her the photos (We were 16 years old). We had separated when I went to boarding school in the eleventh grade and she had moved to Florida. She doesn't live nearby, so through emails we can keep abreast of each other. Neither of us looks familiar, but the thin thread of cadet life keeps us together. We discovered how much we both had enjoyed the CAP encampment and the cadet program, sponsored by the Air Force. I don't recall us missing a single meeting held at Hawkins Field in Jackson. (Incidentally, the cadet program is still operational, at the same site.)
High school reunions are important. However, these friends were acquired from areas unrelated to a specific school. Thanks to the Internet I can make connections. These people had appeared in my youth and contributed to who I am today.
I searched for and found my scrapbook. In it were all the articles of weddings and features of my friends. I gathered together the articles and paired them with the photos.
Picking up each photo became a journey. I laughed at the memory as I recalled the incident, my brain whirling through tons of mass to take me back to that time and place. I wondered Where are they? What are they doing today? I set aside a small stack of follow-ups. I wasn't sure of my next move.
A few days later I used Google to find the names of these friends. No hits. I checked FaceBook and found one. Tried the White Pages and found three. The latter had remained in Mississippi. Then I turned to http://.ancestry.com, where I'm researching four families. I entered the names to find death certificates. Bingo. Two. I was disappointed to find my junior high school friend Nancy had died five years ago. A boy I had dated in the tenth grade died on his birthday two years ago. No one was supposed to die, this early, I told myself.
How to contact three guys who probably don't remember me? Be armed with reminiscences. First, I called South Carolina to GB. He vaguely remembered me (naturally, who would after 60 years?). I told him our connection--Civil Air Patrol in Mississippi, attended CAP camp in Montgomery, AL for two weeks. . .he remembered slightly. Then I told him I'd email him all photos. A subsequent call opened up good conversation. I was talking to an adult my age whom I'd know as a kid. Wonderful to know who he'd become, the career he'd chosen. I promised to visit when I went through his hometown.
Next, I called Gulfport, MS. Talked to DK. I"d met through someone else. I had kept a newspaper article about his finishing army training, and I had a photo of him outside his tent during his Korean service. He told me he'd suffered loss of all memorabilia during Katrina; he'd like to have the photo and article. We chatted and during that time he didn't remember me from King Tut. That was OK. I remembered him. Sent him the material hoping he would enjoy a walk down memory lane.
The third guy, JS, I'd known in junior college. Why I had so many articles on his basketball career, I don't know. Perhaps at HJC he was the star player. I discovered he had married the sister of a high school boyfriend. While helping an AR genealogist with this family, I'd run into this star's name and it tweaked my brain. Until I found the photos and articles did I make the connection. Calling him gave me the chance to check up on the family he'd married into.
BIG SURPRISE
One more contact left. A young woman who had shared CAP and cadet life with me. I located her graduation invitation and name card accompanying. I had her full name. A search through White Pages brought me no satisfaction. She was probably married and I wasn't sure of that new name. FaceBook came to my rescue. Although she didn't use the page much, she had registered in the name I recognized. That connected us. Thank you FB.
Now GG and I are corresponding. No, she didn't remember me at all until I sent her the photos (We were 16 years old). We had separated when I went to boarding school in the eleventh grade and she had moved to Florida. She doesn't live nearby, so through emails we can keep abreast of each other. Neither of us looks familiar, but the thin thread of cadet life keeps us together. We discovered how much we both had enjoyed the CAP encampment and the cadet program, sponsored by the Air Force. I don't recall us missing a single meeting held at Hawkins Field in Jackson. (Incidentally, the cadet program is still operational, at the same site.)
High school reunions are important. However, these friends were acquired from areas unrelated to a specific school. Thanks to the Internet I can make connections. These people had appeared in my youth and contributed to who I am today.
HERE I AM IN MY UNIFORM
AND HERE IS THE PATCH I PROUDLY WORE
Monday, September 27, 2010
A Special Bishop's Visit
We were a small mission with a mission---to establish a new sanctuary in the northern part of the city to accomodate new Episcopalians living in the suburbs of the city. Small -- meaning every adult and child needed to participate and support all events; adults taking on responsibilities in addition to their regular day jobs.Living at the church during "free" time. Much work. Finding new members to swell the church treasury, lay out plans for land purchase, make decisions for the kind of sanctuary/building to meet needs for the next ten years. . .plus serving as teachers and leaders and followers. Big Job.
One of the highlights of the first summer for our willing group of workers -- for any mission or church, actually -- was a visit from the Bishop of Mississippi. An affable man, good looking (looks never hurt a leader, you know), compassionate, loving, Bishop Allin in his myriad of annual visits throughout the state could recognize any of us in whatever different church where he met us. One one occasion he brought a special visitor whom he introduced to the state churches and missions. We would meet and hear an extraodinary man from South Africa. Yes, it was Bishop Tutu. At that time few people knew that this man's name in the near future would be on everyone's lips and most would come to recognize his face from thousands of photos that would be published.
The Bishop's office is located at St. Andrew's Cathedral in downtown Jackson. On these yearly visits he confirms new members who have taken the required course on church practices and the Prayer Book. Because of Bishop Tutu's visit, the mission communicants decided to rent the local Catholic priest's party boat (so called because it had double decks and was usually rented to groups for parties) and have dinner on the deck and informal chat while anchored in the middle of the new reservoir in Madison County.
The party boat was a success. Everyone had their time to chat with Bishop Tutu, enjoy his humor, his sincerity, and if a few snapshots were taken, I don't remember. At the time we didn't think of him as anyone but another visitor. The church often brought colorful men of cloth to visit churches around the city, if not the state. However, in those days of the 1960's we knew so little of this imposing little man that few, if any, failed to record this memorable meeting. We knew only what Bishop Allin had told us. He was an emerging figure of the Church. We laughed, chatted, toasted a glass of wine with a man who later became a national figure, a headline maker, a mover and a shaker for his country and his beliefs.
Only later did we realize what a gift we had been given with that visit on that sunny weekend in Jackson, MS some forty years ago.
One of the highlights of the first summer for our willing group of workers -- for any mission or church, actually -- was a visit from the Bishop of Mississippi. An affable man, good looking (looks never hurt a leader, you know), compassionate, loving, Bishop Allin in his myriad of annual visits throughout the state could recognize any of us in whatever different church where he met us. One one occasion he brought a special visitor whom he introduced to the state churches and missions. We would meet and hear an extraodinary man from South Africa. Yes, it was Bishop Tutu. At that time few people knew that this man's name in the near future would be on everyone's lips and most would come to recognize his face from thousands of photos that would be published.
The Bishop's office is located at St. Andrew's Cathedral in downtown Jackson. On these yearly visits he confirms new members who have taken the required course on church practices and the Prayer Book. Because of Bishop Tutu's visit, the mission communicants decided to rent the local Catholic priest's party boat (so called because it had double decks and was usually rented to groups for parties) and have dinner on the deck and informal chat while anchored in the middle of the new reservoir in Madison County.
The party boat was a success. Everyone had their time to chat with Bishop Tutu, enjoy his humor, his sincerity, and if a few snapshots were taken, I don't remember. At the time we didn't think of him as anyone but another visitor. The church often brought colorful men of cloth to visit churches around the city, if not the state. However, in those days of the 1960's we knew so little of this imposing little man that few, if any, failed to record this memorable meeting. We knew only what Bishop Allin had told us. He was an emerging figure of the Church. We laughed, chatted, toasted a glass of wine with a man who later became a national figure, a headline maker, a mover and a shaker for his country and his beliefs.
Only later did we realize what a gift we had been given with that visit on that sunny weekend in Jackson, MS some forty years ago.
Archbishop Tutu
(Photo taken from Internet files)
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Confusion in News This 2010
I'm about to declare war on health news. One year we're told not to drink coffee to protect our health. I don't drink that much to begin with, but the idea -- that many folks have to depend on coffee to get their motors running in the A.M.and continuing with this habit jeopardizes their health -- just baffles me. Now coffee is good for everyone, especially two cups per day which keeps the diabetes bug away.
Then there's Don't Use Real Sugar, use the wonderful substitutes; once we're hooked on Equal and Splenda we're informed that sugar has more benefits that artificial sweetners. Huh? Next, they'll proclaim eating bananas is the cause for arthritis, or eating good dirt solves sex problems. And what's this about NSAIDS? Don't take them, instead swallow acetominiphen and ibuprophen, but they may not agree with the other RX's you're taking?So what's a person in pain to take if avoiding prescription drugs?
SAVE MONEY ON YOUR NEXT PAIR OF ATHLETIC SHOES
I've just finished reading Born to Run by Christopher McDougall, who has researched the fact that those expensive athletic shoes we've all been told were necessary to protect our feet are in reality worse for them. His facts are backed up with good sources. I look at my expensive shoes and wonder how to get the value of its orginial price. The author reasons that the Tarahumara Indians who run great distances in light shoes have strong feet and never have the leg and feet problems we have today. Great reading. Read this if you are contemplating buying a good pair of the best brands out there.
ON THE BRIGHTER SIDE
If you don't subscribe to Discovery newsletter, you don't find out marvelous works of scientists who toil without notice until something good enough to reveal comes to light. Take diamonds. Since it's been proven they are a gal's best friend, they are now more so than ever, and that includes men's best friend. If you swallow a special type of diamonds, they can attach themselves to your cells in the digestive tract and clean you out.
Before you assess the diamonds in your jewelry box, note that you don't have to have those diamonds to swallow. And, for goodness sakes, don't swallow them thinking it can clean you out like some large dose of Milk of Magnesia! diamonds.
Indeed, the diamonds now being tested are nanodiamonds. They are " tiny pieces of carbon about 100,000 times samller than a human hair," says Discovery. Who swallowed these nanodiamonds? Our friends the round worms. Inside the tiny pieces are " tiny holes called 'vacancies' where a nitrogen atom fromt he air has replaced two carbon atoms."
How can you tell the difference between nanodiamonds and the ones in your ring, or watch, or necklace? The latter diamonds are yellow in tint because they receive more nitrogen. Nanos absorb yellow light and emit violet. Nanos can be used to attach themselves to cancer cells, immune cells, pathogens and other cells, delivering powerful drugs to help treat diseases. Guaranteed not to taste bad!
For more details check the website:http://news.discovery.com/tech/nano-diamonds
Then there's Don't Use Real Sugar, use the wonderful substitutes; once we're hooked on Equal and Splenda we're informed that sugar has more benefits that artificial sweetners. Huh? Next, they'll proclaim eating bananas is the cause for arthritis, or eating good dirt solves sex problems. And what's this about NSAIDS? Don't take them, instead swallow acetominiphen and ibuprophen, but they may not agree with the other RX's you're taking?So what's a person in pain to take if avoiding prescription drugs?
SAVE MONEY ON YOUR NEXT PAIR OF ATHLETIC SHOES
If you don't subscribe to Discovery newsletter, you don't find out marvelous works of scientists who toil without notice until something good enough to reveal comes to light. Take diamonds. Since it's been proven they are a gal's best friend, they are now more so than ever, and that includes men's best friend. If you swallow a special type of diamonds, they can attach themselves to your cells in the digestive tract and clean you out.
Before you assess the diamonds in your jewelry box, note that you don't have to have those diamonds to swallow. And, for goodness sakes, don't swallow them thinking it can clean you out like some large dose of Milk of Magnesia! diamonds.
Indeed, the diamonds now being tested are nanodiamonds. They are " tiny pieces of carbon about 100,000 times samller than a human hair," says Discovery. Who swallowed these nanodiamonds? Our friends the round worms. Inside the tiny pieces are " tiny holes called 'vacancies' where a nitrogen atom fromt he air has replaced two carbon atoms."
How can you tell the difference between nanodiamonds and the ones in your ring, or watch, or necklace? The latter diamonds are yellow in tint because they receive more nitrogen. Nanos absorb yellow light and emit violet. Nanos can be used to attach themselves to cancer cells, immune cells, pathogens and other cells, delivering powerful drugs to help treat diseases. Guaranteed not to taste bad!
For more details check the website:http://news.discovery.com/tech/nano-diamonds
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
A Gift Wrapper I'm Not
When I was growing up I never learned to wrap gifts. Maybe it was the lack of need, since the free wrapping service of department stores came to my rescue. Unlike my sister who had a job every Christmas vacation wrapping gifts for customers, I never worked. In my day only "low class girls" worked. A t hrowback to England, maybe?
All the years following I've tried to avoid wrapping, choosing to pay for the service that once was free. Only recently, when the store where I bought a baby gift didn't wrap and I couldn't find the only store that wraps for a price did I decided to tackle the job myself.
Armed with strong wrapping paper and tape I looked at the odd-shaped gift--a baby tub--to determine how to attack the problem. No amount of paper and tape would make my job easy. So I unrolled a long piece of the paper, plopped the tub in the middle and proceeded to wrap. The paper was not the regular wrapping kind, I had inadvertently selected a stronger type advertised as useful for imprinting. At least it wouldn't tear, I figured. I completed the job with a fellow non-wrapper and here are the results. I don't think I'll do this job again.
.
Step 1--Lay the the tub in the proper position
Step 2--Decide which folds to make and carefully crease the paper neatly in a symmetrical manner and tape.
Step 3--Pay no attention to the number of taped folds in the container, they'll all be on the bottom.
Step 4--Don't fight with ribbon, use colorful tape. I chose stars in blue, since this was a boy's tub.
Step 4--Turn the package over and admire. I had a miniature coffin. Not a happy gift for a happy occasion.
Step 5--Be sure the gift is swiftly given and opened before anyone notices the shape.
All the years following I've tried to avoid wrapping, choosing to pay for the service that once was free. Only recently, when the store where I bought a baby gift didn't wrap and I couldn't find the only store that wraps for a price did I decided to tackle the job myself.
Armed with strong wrapping paper and tape I looked at the odd-shaped gift--a baby tub--to determine how to attack the problem. No amount of paper and tape would make my job easy. So I unrolled a long piece of the paper, plopped the tub in the middle and proceeded to wrap. The paper was not the regular wrapping kind, I had inadvertently selected a stronger type advertised as useful for imprinting. At least it wouldn't tear, I figured. I completed the job with a fellow non-wrapper and here are the results. I don't think I'll do this job again.
.
Step 1--Lay the the tub in the proper position
Step 2--Decide which folds to make and carefully crease the paper neatly in a symmetrical manner and tape.
Step 3--Pay no attention to the number of taped folds in the container, they'll all be on the bottom.
Step 4--Turn the package over and admire. I had a miniature coffin. Not a happy gift for a happy occasion.
Step 5--Be sure the gift is swiftly given and opened before anyone notices the shape.
Bed Bugs? What Are They?
You've read about the new influx of bedbugs. In my day bedbugs were like lice in a kid's hair. Both came from unclean homes and bathless kids. Now scientists are telling us to be alert for these near-microscopic crawlers any place you sit or lie down: movie theatre seats, office areas, clothing, hotel/motel beds and sofas. They love to jump from one person to another, bite you on the neck, legs, arms.
I know from experience about bedbugs. I encountered them in the most likely place: Mexico.
A fellow teacher Fran and I planned to spend the summer in Mexico City attending Mexico City College. Six or maybe twelve weeks of study and travel. We found the perfect place to live in one of the better colonias in the city, a short distance to the bus stop, near Chapultepec Park and restaurants. This was the summer of 1959.
When the taxi that ferried us from the airport to the colonia (subdivision) we were amazed to find we were in one of the ritziest areas of the downtown area. The driver drove us to a two story white brick home with an equally tall brick fence surrounding the property. The woman who met us at the door was a maid, which raised our eyebrows--"A maid? Hmmm." Our hostess was an artist who spoke no English. I was able to communicate ok, since I'd studied previously in Monterrey, Mexico.
We helped the maid carry our bags up a beautiful winding stairway off to the side of a gorgeously decorated living room. And there the gorgeous decorations ended. We may as well have been in a low income apartment. No color, a simple bed in each room furnished with one chifferobe and one lamp and table. windows looked out on the back of the roof of the home. Drab draperies and bedspreads. We each picked a room and I immediately began to unpack, as I felt the drabness would disappear as we became accustomed to the living quarters. Outside properties were beautiful with landscaping up and down the streets. We were lucky to have found this place.
We turned in early and it was once in bed that I realized my mattress had that musky odor of having never seen sunshine. OK, I thought, I'll lie on a towel. Sometime after turning off the light I began to have an itchy feeling up and down my body--legs, neck, arms. Thinking of ants, I jumped up and turned on the light, pulled back the covers and inspected. Nothing. I went through that routine most of the night, getting little sleep. I assumed, without knowing how, that I had bedbugs. Never had I experience them, nor had I lice, but I sensed about both.
The next morning I repacked my bags, told my friend we had to find another place to live, as I couldn't sleep on that mattress. She had had a delightful night's rest. I was envious. My main problem was How to Say in Spanish "There are bedbugs in the bed." This had to be done diplomatically.
We had breakfast but the artiste was no where to be found. I'd have to discuss this after school that day. We proceeded to walk to the bus stop, and take the particular bus that would carry us on a 25 minute ride up the mountain north of the city. During the break at school there was a small woman holding a placard and standing in the middle of the campus where we changed classes, stating, "Come live at my nice quarters," or something like that. We approached her and she said she had a very clean apartment and the rent was more reasonable than in the Colonia. I told her my bedbug story and declared I didn't know how to solve my dilemma of a written agreement with the owner. She agreed to take care of the problem.
And she did. Oh, the fury of the artiste, the shrill voices of argument, the confusion. The artist would be losing a summer of rent. How could she find other renters at this late date? She did not have bedbugs, she declared. Our new landlady won the argument and we packed our bags into the small car that Senora had and we went to her place. We weren't too thrilled as we drove through a disaster-like area with people living in hovels. But Senora assured us her place was across the street from the American School whose students were the best in the City. She opened the front gate and we entered a paradise of beauty. Her "place" was a motel setting, with dual apartments dotted in a semi-circle, and her family's home at the middle in the back. Bright colors dotted each apartment roofed in sunbaked tiles.
Inside was a small living room/kitchen with stove and fridge, a sizeable bedroom furnished with typical Mexican crafted wood furniture consisting of twin beds with handsome woven bedspreads, a table with lamps in the middle, and a sizeable bathroom. Unbelievable that we had lucked up on the Senora.
Our new address was Avenida Observatorio. We later learned from Fran's local friend that we were living in the absolute worst section of town, and that was brought home to us when we attended a few functions in town and had to find a taxi after midnight to take us home. No one would drive down Observatorio. Only a few brave souls did the whole six weeks. That move was the best we could have ever taken.
What began as a bedbug experience of one night turned into a wonderful six weeks of learning that even today I maintain fond memories.
I know from experience about bedbugs. I encountered them in the most likely place: Mexico.
A fellow teacher Fran and I planned to spend the summer in Mexico City attending Mexico City College. Six or maybe twelve weeks of study and travel. We found the perfect place to live in one of the better colonias in the city, a short distance to the bus stop, near Chapultepec Park and restaurants. This was the summer of 1959.
When the taxi that ferried us from the airport to the colonia (subdivision) we were amazed to find we were in one of the ritziest areas of the downtown area. The driver drove us to a two story white brick home with an equally tall brick fence surrounding the property. The woman who met us at the door was a maid, which raised our eyebrows--"A maid? Hmmm." Our hostess was an artist who spoke no English. I was able to communicate ok, since I'd studied previously in Monterrey, Mexico.
We helped the maid carry our bags up a beautiful winding stairway off to the side of a gorgeously decorated living room. And there the gorgeous decorations ended. We may as well have been in a low income apartment. No color, a simple bed in each room furnished with one chifferobe and one lamp and table. windows looked out on the back of the roof of the home. Drab draperies and bedspreads. We each picked a room and I immediately began to unpack, as I felt the drabness would disappear as we became accustomed to the living quarters. Outside properties were beautiful with landscaping up and down the streets. We were lucky to have found this place.
We turned in early and it was once in bed that I realized my mattress had that musky odor of having never seen sunshine. OK, I thought, I'll lie on a towel. Sometime after turning off the light I began to have an itchy feeling up and down my body--legs, neck, arms. Thinking of ants, I jumped up and turned on the light, pulled back the covers and inspected. Nothing. I went through that routine most of the night, getting little sleep. I assumed, without knowing how, that I had bedbugs. Never had I experience them, nor had I lice, but I sensed about both.
The next morning I repacked my bags, told my friend we had to find another place to live, as I couldn't sleep on that mattress. She had had a delightful night's rest. I was envious. My main problem was How to Say in Spanish "There are bedbugs in the bed." This had to be done diplomatically.
We had breakfast but the artiste was no where to be found. I'd have to discuss this after school that day. We proceeded to walk to the bus stop, and take the particular bus that would carry us on a 25 minute ride up the mountain north of the city. During the break at school there was a small woman holding a placard and standing in the middle of the campus where we changed classes, stating, "Come live at my nice quarters," or something like that. We approached her and she said she had a very clean apartment and the rent was more reasonable than in the Colonia. I told her my bedbug story and declared I didn't know how to solve my dilemma of a written agreement with the owner. She agreed to take care of the problem.
And she did. Oh, the fury of the artiste, the shrill voices of argument, the confusion. The artist would be losing a summer of rent. How could she find other renters at this late date? She did not have bedbugs, she declared. Our new landlady won the argument and we packed our bags into the small car that Senora had and we went to her place. We weren't too thrilled as we drove through a disaster-like area with people living in hovels. But Senora assured us her place was across the street from the American School whose students were the best in the City. She opened the front gate and we entered a paradise of beauty. Her "place" was a motel setting, with dual apartments dotted in a semi-circle, and her family's home at the middle in the back. Bright colors dotted each apartment roofed in sunbaked tiles.
Inside was a small living room/kitchen with stove and fridge, a sizeable bedroom furnished with typical Mexican crafted wood furniture consisting of twin beds with handsome woven bedspreads, a table with lamps in the middle, and a sizeable bathroom. Unbelievable that we had lucked up on the Senora.
Our new address was Avenida Observatorio. We later learned from Fran's local friend that we were living in the absolute worst section of town, and that was brought home to us when we attended a few functions in town and had to find a taxi after midnight to take us home. No one would drive down Observatorio. Only a few brave souls did the whole six weeks. That move was the best we could have ever taken.
What began as a bedbug experience of one night turned into a wonderful six weeks of learning that even today I maintain fond memories.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Newsletters
Because magazine subscriptions can add up in costs, I subscribe to newsletters. My special email address is chock full of reading material about new discoveries, songwriting, creative writing, photography,just to name a few. I'm always signing my name to some avenue of learning. I enjoy reading and learing. My college studies were finished in the Middle Ages and so much can be learned today. But one newsletter I misunderstood and now I'm getting solicitations--well, one so far.
It was about biking. I can no longer bike because of bad knees. When the doc said "No walking long distances, no swimming, no bike riding, no long sitting" I wondered how much more sedate my life could become. However, the bike newsletter that I subscribed to was going to give me information AS THOUGH I were riding on weekends. I'd learn all about taking care of the bicycle, places to ride, how to prepare for a long ride--you understand?
So when no newsletter arrived for months, I figured there was a glitch in the computer system, and I forgot about resubscribing. Until---
Until I got an ad with a biker, his cap and sunglasses on his head, leaning against a huge motorcycle. He is 49, Caucasian, and lives in Santa Fe. He wants to "get to know" me. What a laugh he'd get to know he was solicitating a 78 year old gal! Well, we do seek younger companions nowadays, don't we? If I were single, I might wave a hello back. I've never ridden a motorcycle. Would he give me a ride if I were to fly to Santa Fe (my favorite place in the U. S.)? So far I've no wrinkles or any tell-tale sign of aging. Would I be able to "fool" him into thinking I'm a wee bit older than he? Perhaps before answering I could take a snapshot of me at the local Harley store dressed in the finery of a cyclist and send it to him. (I refuse to wear a bathing suit and a helmet.) Would he take the bait? How far could I go with this ruse?
Then I realize that he looks like a nice guy. You don't mess with nice guys. Guess I'll have to answer that I'm no longer biking, and thanks for the invite. Or just hit "Delete." My husband says the guy looks sincere and to reply and tell him I'm too old for a replacement. Problem is: I never recorded my pass word and refuse to retrieve it. I may get into trouble.
Would he laugh if I sent this photo of my daughter on her mini-bike?
It was about biking. I can no longer bike because of bad knees. When the doc said "No walking long distances, no swimming, no bike riding, no long sitting" I wondered how much more sedate my life could become. However, the bike newsletter that I subscribed to was going to give me information AS THOUGH I were riding on weekends. I'd learn all about taking care of the bicycle, places to ride, how to prepare for a long ride--you understand?
So when no newsletter arrived for months, I figured there was a glitch in the computer system, and I forgot about resubscribing. Until---
Until I got an ad with a biker, his cap and sunglasses on his head, leaning against a huge motorcycle. He is 49, Caucasian, and lives in Santa Fe. He wants to "get to know" me. What a laugh he'd get to know he was solicitating a 78 year old gal! Well, we do seek younger companions nowadays, don't we? If I were single, I might wave a hello back. I've never ridden a motorcycle. Would he give me a ride if I were to fly to Santa Fe (my favorite place in the U. S.)? So far I've no wrinkles or any tell-tale sign of aging. Would I be able to "fool" him into thinking I'm a wee bit older than he? Perhaps before answering I could take a snapshot of me at the local Harley store dressed in the finery of a cyclist and send it to him. (I refuse to wear a bathing suit and a helmet.) Would he take the bait? How far could I go with this ruse?
Then I realize that he looks like a nice guy. You don't mess with nice guys. Guess I'll have to answer that I'm no longer biking, and thanks for the invite. Or just hit "Delete." My husband says the guy looks sincere and to reply and tell him I'm too old for a replacement. Problem is: I never recorded my pass word and refuse to retrieve it. I may get into trouble.
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