Merry Christmas!
Last year I got around to wishing my family and friends ‘Merry Christmas’ seven days after New Years. I am obviously doing remarkably better this year. ‘Giving up the shoulds’ was my 2010 New Year’s resolution (actually mine and yours since I recommended that you do the same). I asked that you let me know how you did; but, every last one of you took my request for a report as a “should” and ignored me. I will take that as a victory.
This year has been a mixed bag for our family. The good times have been really good, and the bad times have been rather challenging. There haven’t been many just okay days. As my sister-in-law, Shelley, reminds me, “We are just having life.”
Tim and I finally sold our house in Bold Springs, GA, the one around the corner from the goats. This was quite an accomplishment considering that we negotiated from Tunisia using my BlackBerry. Thanks to the recession, I’d rather not discuss the financial details for fear of, once again, triggering a terribly debilitating tick. In the middle of the hottest summer I can remember, we picked up all our stuff and moved to the lake. The lake house still looks like Beulah’s from Grand Rapids who starred on the last episode of Hoarders. Back in July, I hoped that we’d get settled in and renovate the house. But then…
Tim fell off a ladder, breaking several important body parts. When he got out of the hospital, we moved in with Jeremy, Jennifer, and Anna Lauren. I still don’t understand why perfectly healthy people ride bicycles weighing a few pounds, and handicapped people have wheelchairs that weigh a ton. I tried to be a good sport, but, dang, that thing gave me Stretch Armstrong arms.
Three family pets, Darby, Lou, and Chunk, relocated to heaven. Darby, Bryan’s and Shelley’s dog, decided that ALS wasn’t for her and traded for four doggy legs that all run in the same direction. Lou, BJ’s dog, wanted one last ride in the jeep and gave it up in the back seat in Rachel’s arms. Chunk, Rachel’s and Tyler’s cat and winner of several cat shows, did not want to move to another house. Knowing that when he was upset he could always throw up in BJ’s shoes wasn’t enough to entice him to stay. Our new family mantra is “all dogs and cats go to heaven,” and my grieving dog, Lucy, continues her treatments for depression.
Good times came in Goochland, VA when our son, Evan, married Krissy (who came with a daughter, Keegan) at an outdoor wedding by a lake in the sweltering heat. Actually, they got married twice—once in the steam room under the blazing sun and once in the hospital where Krissy’s dad was recuperating.
The little boys, Bryan and Tyler, started Kindergarten, while Anna Lauren became a reluctant ballerina. My son-in-law got a promotion, so he and Rachel sold their house next to the drug dealer. Ted got a new boss, and Shelley got a van to carry all of Bryan’s stuffed animal “friends” which now number in the hundreds. Jeremy still travels every week and maintains a comedy routine on Facebook while his wife, Jennifer, is learning to breathe.
Traveling brought new experiences and great friends. On Guernsey, John and Margaret Helyer invited Tim and me to their home and, along with John’s sister, Pat, treated us to an evening of amazing storytelling. We keep in touch with David and Joan Belton from Leeds, England by email. At the end of the summer, Julie Wear and I had a great adventure in England. We started the trip barely able to recognize each other; but after Julie received word that her mother had died, we became family.
A Disney cruise in October was one of our very best times. Tim rolled around in his wheelchair with a fake parrot perched on the handle while the rest of us chased down characters and princesses for photo ops. Anna Lauren squealed with delight and loved on every one of them. Bryan and Tyler tried to act cool, but they didn’t fool anyone. Rachel, Shelley, and I tried to keep up and took turns pushing Tim around.
I think this is the abundant life that God envisioned for all of us.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Creative Kindergartening
In August my two little pollywogs started kindergarten. At that time I was concerned that their first foray into academia would be less than an over-the-moon experience. Well, I am here to tell you that they are doing fine with the academics; the Three R’s—reading, writing, and arithmetic—have posed few, if any, problems so far. However, behaving is taking its toll.
Bryan loves to talk better than breathe, so I can understand why he doesn’t always hear his teacher. At some point, she probably mentioned that he should not put an empty Capri Sun pouch on his head in the lunchroom or roll rocks down the slide at recess. If not, he clearly knows now.
And although I appreciate his love of science, Bryan really can’t use “it was a science experiment” to explain away flushing the toilet 10-15 times to see how long it takes to overflow. Seizing this as a teachable moment, I pointed out that, had the toilet actually overflowed, he would have spent the rest of the day squishing around in socks and shoes soaked in pee water. I also advised him to never go to the bathroom with Riley, the tattletale.
Later that same day, Bryan found a broken rubber band on the floor and stuck it up his nose. It tickled. After digging the rubber band out of his nostril, he put it in a girl’s hair and told her that it was a spider. His teacher was not amused.
Still unconvinced that behaving was in his best interest, he began saying (according to him, of course), “Dan, dan, dan.” Two girls—one of whom was the recipient of the rubber band—told the teacher that he was saying, “Damn, damn, damn.” Again, his teacher was not amused.
Tyler hasn’t done any better. He skipped school to go with us on the Disney Cruise and was named Student of the Month while he was gone. We congratulated him on a job well done and hoped some of it would rub off on the rubber band man. About a week after he got back to school (Hickory Grove Baptist Church school), Tyler was honored during chapel. He cracked the very next day.
I don’t know why it is but most little boys simply can’t be good for very long. Tyler whacked two boys on the playground, was given a good talking to by his teacher, and whacked the boys again. When the teacher set him down for round two, he told her that he wished he had his bug sucker, because he would suck the breath out of her. Oh, brother. That wasn’t exactly a Christian response.
As of late the little boys are on the straight and narrow. Once Christmas is over, and the Naughty or Nice List is a distant memory, things may get back to normal. In the meantime, it’s a good thing they’re cute.
In August my two little pollywogs started kindergarten. At that time I was concerned that their first foray into academia would be less than an over-the-moon experience. Well, I am here to tell you that they are doing fine with the academics; the Three R’s—reading, writing, and arithmetic—have posed few, if any, problems so far. However, behaving is taking its toll.
Bryan loves to talk better than breathe, so I can understand why he doesn’t always hear his teacher. At some point, she probably mentioned that he should not put an empty Capri Sun pouch on his head in the lunchroom or roll rocks down the slide at recess. If not, he clearly knows now.
And although I appreciate his love of science, Bryan really can’t use “it was a science experiment” to explain away flushing the toilet 10-15 times to see how long it takes to overflow. Seizing this as a teachable moment, I pointed out that, had the toilet actually overflowed, he would have spent the rest of the day squishing around in socks and shoes soaked in pee water. I also advised him to never go to the bathroom with Riley, the tattletale.
Later that same day, Bryan found a broken rubber band on the floor and stuck it up his nose. It tickled. After digging the rubber band out of his nostril, he put it in a girl’s hair and told her that it was a spider. His teacher was not amused.
Still unconvinced that behaving was in his best interest, he began saying (according to him, of course), “Dan, dan, dan.” Two girls—one of whom was the recipient of the rubber band—told the teacher that he was saying, “Damn, damn, damn.” Again, his teacher was not amused.
Tyler hasn’t done any better. He skipped school to go with us on the Disney Cruise and was named Student of the Month while he was gone. We congratulated him on a job well done and hoped some of it would rub off on the rubber band man. About a week after he got back to school (Hickory Grove Baptist Church school), Tyler was honored during chapel. He cracked the very next day.
I don’t know why it is but most little boys simply can’t be good for very long. Tyler whacked two boys on the playground, was given a good talking to by his teacher, and whacked the boys again. When the teacher set him down for round two, he told her that he wished he had his bug sucker, because he would suck the breath out of her. Oh, brother. That wasn’t exactly a Christian response.
As of late the little boys are on the straight and narrow. Once Christmas is over, and the Naughty or Nice List is a distant memory, things may get back to normal. In the meantime, it’s a good thing they’re cute.
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
Experiencing Guernsey
One of my favorite books is 1000 Places to See before You Die by Patricia Schultz. I seriously doubt that I will get around to all 1000 of them, but I like the idea of trying. However, seeing is a long way from experiencing. A travel expert’s ideas of important and not so important places are fun to visit and satisfy my urge to see for myself, but experiencing…well, that involves so much more. Perhaps, by the end of my story, you’ll know what I mean.
Several months ago, Tim and I went to Guernsey, an island in the English Channel. Although Guernsey didn’t appear in 1000 Places or any other “must go” travel book, we didn’t really care. In the 1830’s, Tim’s family on his mother’s side summoned all the courage they could muster and moved to America. Letters from home survived the years, and Tim studied them carefully. After hours of research, he was ready to learn the truth about Peter Mollet and Betsey LePage.
After a quick 35 minute flight from London Gatwick, we landed at the tiny airport in the Forest which, by the way, has no trees. The car hire company was easy to spot, so in no time, Tim was sitting on the wrong side of the car. But he’s a pretty sharp guy and, a few minutes later, realized that he didn’t have a steering wheel.
Guernsey is a maze of two-lane, hedge-lined, unmarked, winding roads. On the way to the hotel, Tim hit an orange cone, drove across several sidewalks, scraped every hedge, came so close to an oncoming car that the mirror was knocked sideways, and accidentally turned on the rear windshield wipers. It hadn’t taken us 20 minutes to learn why the locals insisted on putting a large ‘H’ on the front of every hire car. The ‘H’ stood for ‘Horror!’
Tracey and Ash of Little Escapes in Jersey, another of the Channel Island, took care of the Guernsey part of our trip and made a reservation for us at the Hotel Jerbourg. Our room—up a flight of stairs, down four steps and up another two—featured a spectacular view of the neighboring islands from atop a cliff. Heather, the hotel’s friendly receptionist from Cornwall and part-time waitress at the Crow’s Nest in town, assured us that the dining room was still serving lunch.
“Have you seen that movie Walking the Line about Johnny Cash?” asked the waiter. “You sound just like the girl in the movie.”
Ah, Reese Witherspoon. Although Frankie never said that I looked anything like Reese, he and I became instant friends. He was a Guern working at the Hotel Jerbourg, and I was one of only two Americans on the island. Tim was the other. I thought that made us celebrities of sorts.
Most of the people working in Guernsey weren’t from around there. The red-headed waitress in the hotel’s dining room who seemed to work all day and all night “ran away from Wales.” The tall, blonde Australian waiter spent a summer at a camp in North Carolina. The German waitress had a strange fixation with matching the number of guests to the same number of chairs at the table. At the Crowe’s Nest, a rooftop bar at St. Peter’s Port, Jackie, a New Zealander, came to Guernsey to be near her boyfriend who was working in Spain. Nick, manager of The Absolute End, a restaurant along the water, was from southern Italy and was going home in a couple of weeks to visit his mother. At The Auberge our waiter was from Paris. And so it went.
A side note—the entire staff at The Auberge poured out of a van about 15 minutes before the doors were to open. I don’t know how they managed to get the restaurant up and running in such a short time, but they did. The place was packed, and the food was fabulous.
Tim applied my dad’s philosophy about dining in Florida (“If you’re in Florida, you have to eat seafood”) to Guernsey. Everywhere he went he found that the brill, salmon, oysters, scallops, and prawns were always fresh and delicious. At the Crowe’s Nest, Heather and Jackie insisted that he try the estada, a skewer of shrimp (complete with their little beady eyes), scallops, and veggies, and at the Petit Bistro, he downed over 50 mussels. Eventually, I thought he started to smell fishy.
We wandered through flower gardens, walked the streets of St. Peter’s Port, and toured the old castle and the German underground hospital. We squeezed through the various alcoves at the Little Chapel, a teeny, tiny one-of-a-kind church, liberally decorated with broken china. My friend, Becky McDowell, breaks china in the back of her garden as a way of relieving stress. The monk responsible for this breakage must have been wound really tight.
I don’t know what possessed me, but one afternoon I suggested a walk down to the water from our cliff-top hotel. We hadn’t made it all the way down when I came to my senses—I was going to have to climb back up. By the time I actually got back to the top, I was panting and climbing on all fours. So embarrassing!
Bluebell Wood was our favorite place. The bluebells bloom for about a month in May. I cannot possibly describe a ground cover of bluebells and ferns, so I’ll attach a picture.
On our first full day in Guernsey, we had an appointment at the Priaulx Library to discuss the Mollet-LePage letters with the research librarians. Margaret Edwards explained that Jean Vidamour who had been primarily responsible for the work on the letters was off that day. Margaret spent the next couple of hours answering our questions and guiding us through the library’s vast resources. When we left, we knew we would have to return the next day to meet Jean. Unbeknownst to any of us, Margaret and Jean became our friends over weeks of lunches discussing the subtleties of letters written in Guernsey patois.
When you decide to do something a little off the beaten path, word travels quickly. Before we left for Guernsey, Tim got a call from Pat English, a Guern who had immigrated to Tim’s hometown in Owego, NY. She was going to be in Guernsey visiting her brother and sister-in-law at the same time we were there, so they made plans for the five of us to get together.
We met Pat, John, and Margaret at St. Sampson’s bell tower and followed them home. The house, built in the 1830’s of local granite or “rubble rock”, was quite interesting. It was literally a corner house—the corner of the house sat on the corner of the road. The outside walls were 2’ thick, and the interior center wall was 3’. A new kitchen and bath had been added, but the two-door outhouse remained in the side yard. The dower wing included a living area and a kitchen downstairs and up the dark, creepy, narrow winding stairs was a bedroom. That would certainly discourage your mother-in-law from moving in with you.
Margaret served kirs of blackcurrant liqueur and white wine to everyone but John who preferred his whisky, and we all sat back ready to get acquainted. They were delightful and funny, and soon we felt right at home.
Tim and I had read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society which told the story of the German occupation of Guernsey during WWII. Earlier, we had seen the German underground hospital on the island and many of the fortifications. However, we never dreamed that we would spend the evening hearing a first-hand account of one of the worst times in the history of the island.
John was eight and his sister Pat was three when word came that the Germans would invade Guernsey. School-age children were to be evacuated to England for a few months ahead of the invasion. John’s mother doubted that the Germans would ever come, but still she sent John off with the other children. The Germans invaded six days after the children were evacuated.
As they boarded the ship for England, John and his best friend, Ronny, were told to stick together. In England, all the children were divided into groups and dispersed throughout the country. The 300 children in John’s group were taken to Manchester where families willing to house the children would make their selection. Catholic children were placed with Catholic families and did not have to suffer through the same sorting process as the other children. At the end of the evening, John and Ronny were the last two of the three boys left on the stage. They had refused to be split up, so there they stood. Finally, a family agreed to take all three boys.
The family’s two-bedroom house strained to accommodate three additional people. The daughter moved to the parents’ bedroom, leaving her brother to share their bedroom with the boys from Guernsey. The brother slept in his bed while the three boys slept in the other. After a day or so, the third boy was taken by a wealthy family, and a month later Ronny’s father came for him. John stayed for five years. During that time, he received four letters from home through the efforts of the Red Cross. Six months after the war ended, John went home.
When Tim and I left Guernsey, we spent a few days in London and Barcelona and then cruised the Mediterranean Sea. All along the way, we took the lessons from Guernsey and got to know the people we encountered. However, the evening we spent with Pat, John, and Margaret was the highlight of our trip.
Experiencing Guernsey was the way travel is meant to be.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wheeling on the Wonder
An actor, an imp, and a tiny sprite
Waited for the Wonder with such delight.
When the time came, their Granddaddy was broke;
He’d sail by wheelchair pushed by little folk.
“Oh my,” said the imp, sizing up the boat,
“Granddaddy weighs a ton more than a goat.”
The sprite giggled and responded with glee,
“I’ll be riding on Granddaddy’s good knee.”
The ashen-faced actor blurted at last,
“I have to give the old guy a sponge bath!!”
An actor, an imp, and a tiny sprite
Waited for the Wonder with such delight.
When the time came, their Granddaddy was broke;
He’d sail by wheelchair pushed by little folk.
“Oh my,” said the imp, sizing up the boat,
“Granddaddy weighs a ton more than a goat.”
The sprite giggled and responded with glee,
“I’ll be riding on Granddaddy’s good knee.”
The ashen-faced actor blurted at last,
“I have to give the old guy a sponge bath!!”
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
A Meadow of Orange Sheep and Other Oddities
Three weeks ago I flew to London by myself to meet someone I barely knew for a two week British sampler vacation. I should have suspected that this trip would be different. I had never flown to Europe alone before.
Actually, things started off rather well. The Delta gods moved me to business class with those seats that completely recline. Between the better-than-average airplane food and the comfy lodgings, I arrived in London rested and full. Then I had to find Julie, the person I met on a cruise last year and could barely remember what she looked like. I squinted at all the strange faces at the Hertz desk and finally just hollered out “Julie!” A tall blonde turned around, and I felt relieved. I wouldn’t be confused again—she was 6’1’.
Our itinerary began with a drive to Windsor Castle. According to Rick Steves, Windsor Castle is located at the end of a runway at Heathrow Airport and is impossible to miss. Well, the castle might be somewhere near Heathrow but it is quite possible to miss. As Julie struggled to keep the car on the wrong side of the road while practically driving from the back seat, I tried not to hyperventilate as she drove on sidewalks and through pot holes. Don’t even get me started on how long it took her to learn the art of negotiating the roundabouts. A time or two or maybe three, I accidentally told her to turn in the wrong direction and had to confess to directionality issues. Eventually, we found Windsor Castle and later stopped by Stonehenge long enough to take a few pictures of gigantic rocks in the middle of a pasture.
Bath proved to be something of a challenge. We drove in circles through the old part of town until we finally figured out the one way street system and exited the loop. Then there was the pole located smack dab in the middle of the parking lot access. Since Julie was driving, the pole became my responsibility. Let’s just say, l discovered, quite by accident, that the pole would disappear into the street as the car approached not as I whacked it. Next we couldn’t find our room. That was really embarrassing.
Some of the hotel desk clerks weren’t exactly sure how to approach two women travelling together. One young guy asked if we wanted one bed or twin beds. I had never travelled as a lesbian before, so I quickly replied “twin.” Later I tried to convince some guy that we were mother and daughter. After that, I just gave up.
In a day or two, Julie and I became well enough acquainted that we could carry on a reasonable conversation. However, by this time we were at Ruthin Castle in Wales where everyone whispered. Peacocks roamed the grounds, and John, a ginger, gave us a private tour of the creepiest parts of the old castle ruins. I was fascinated by the drowning pit but was glad to learn that the escape tunnels were closed to the public. A couple of years ago, my daughter, Rachel, and I bravely toured the catacombs in Paris, and since then, I’ve tried to stay above ground.
In the Lake District, we stayed at the Orchard House, a B & B near Keswick, and took in the play What the Butler Saw. The idea was to mingle with the locals, but David, our B & B host, was convinced that we just wanted to see a “raunchy” play. It wasn’t all that raunchy. I didn’t see anything I hadn’t seen before.
On the way to Edinburgh, we came upon a meadow of orange sheep. At first I thought they were pumpkins. Then I noticed that they were moving. We were still a little rattled when we got to Edinburgh which probably explains why we found ourselves going the wrong way down a one way street. I didn’t have time to explain the orange sheep to the frantic bus driver, but I must say that I was quite impressed that Julie’s driving skills had suddenly improved and that she could do a 180° right there in the middle of a four lane street full of cars.
After all the excitement, we were hungry. We found a nice pub and ordered haggis, neeps, and tatties. For those of you whose travels have never taken you to Scotland, haggis is a local delicacy made from sheep’s pluck, onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, salt, and stock. It is then simmered in the sheep’s stomach for 3 hours. Neeps are turnips, and tatties are potatoes. Yummy!
Feeling gastronomically satisfied, we were off to watch The Citadel from South Carolina perform at the Military Tattoo. The guy sitting behind us was from Austria and thought he was at a sing along. A really old guy hobbled up the steps to our row in the nose bleed section behind his rather buxom, much, much younger wife. I decided that since the sex hadn’t killed him she must be resorting to dragging him up a hundred steps to finish him off. But, of course, I didn’t know for sure.
Our few days in Edinburgh flew by, and we were on the train to London. When we arrived at platform 9 and ¾, I saw no reason to take a taxi to the hotel when the tube was so convenient. Unfortunately, the line to Victoria Station was under repair in preparation for the 2012 Olympics which meant I would have to study the tube map for a different direction. Julie didn’t smile much after I yelled “Get off now. We’re going the wrong way.” In fairness, I had disclosed my directionality problem on the first day. She had been duly warned. Anyway, she was a little stressed hauling both her suitcases up and down all those stairs.
We finally made it to the hotel in time to throw our luggage at the concierge and power walk to Parliament. I had already paid for our timed tickets, and the fine print clearly stated their “you snooze-you lose” policy. The guard said the tour started on our left, graciously pointed left (he must have been psychic), and said, “God bless America, madam.” I replied, “God save the Queen” and was off.
The next morning, Peter, the Irish maître d, spent at least five minutes explaining the breakfast buffet. He began to sound a little bit like the guy in Forrest Gump discussing shrimp. Anyway, Peter ended his litany with the suggestion that we try the beaver juice. We were speechless.
“I tried it. It wasn’t great but it was ok,” he said.
How in the name of all that was holy could anyone drink beaver juice and live to tell about it!
“I’m still breathing,” he went on cheerily.
I had to know.
“Exactly what part of the beaver do they squeeze to get the juice?”
“All but the core,” he said seriously and moved on to explain the hot bar to someone else.
Just when I had gotten used to the idea of baked beans for breakfast, the English throw in beaver juice. Oh, my.
I scooped some granola into a bowl and picked up a yogurt. I glanced at the juice choices and saw everything imaginable but no beaver juice. Just as well. We weren’t going to try it anyway.
As Julie and I finished our coffee, Peter returned and inquired about the beaver juice.I told him that there were several different juices, and I didn’t know which one was the beaver juice.
“Is it a vegetable or a fruit?” asked Julie, desperate for clarification.
“I think it is a vegetable.”
“Where we come from beavers are animals that make dams,” explained Julie and then she did the unthinkable—a beaver imitation, complete with beaver teeth and little paws—right there in the middle of the restaurant. Heads turned.
Peter looked a little shocked by the whole thing and then started laughing.
“I said beetroot juice—not beaver juice.”
Oh. Well, then, thank goodness. I was afraid the English had gone completely bonkers.
Cheerio!
September 8, 2010
Three weeks ago I flew to London by myself to meet someone I barely knew for a two week British sampler vacation. I should have suspected that this trip would be different. I had never flown to Europe alone before.
Actually, things started off rather well. The Delta gods moved me to business class with those seats that completely recline. Between the better-than-average airplane food and the comfy lodgings, I arrived in London rested and full. Then I had to find Julie, the person I met on a cruise last year and could barely remember what she looked like. I squinted at all the strange faces at the Hertz desk and finally just hollered out “Julie!” A tall blonde turned around, and I felt relieved. I wouldn’t be confused again—she was 6’1’.
Our itinerary began with a drive to Windsor Castle. According to Rick Steves, Windsor Castle is located at the end of a runway at Heathrow Airport and is impossible to miss. Well, the castle might be somewhere near Heathrow but it is quite possible to miss. As Julie struggled to keep the car on the wrong side of the road while practically driving from the back seat, I tried not to hyperventilate as she drove on sidewalks and through pot holes. Don’t even get me started on how long it took her to learn the art of negotiating the roundabouts. A time or two or maybe three, I accidentally told her to turn in the wrong direction and had to confess to directionality issues. Eventually, we found Windsor Castle and later stopped by Stonehenge long enough to take a few pictures of gigantic rocks in the middle of a pasture.
Bath proved to be something of a challenge. We drove in circles through the old part of town until we finally figured out the one way street system and exited the loop. Then there was the pole located smack dab in the middle of the parking lot access. Since Julie was driving, the pole became my responsibility. Let’s just say, l discovered, quite by accident, that the pole would disappear into the street as the car approached not as I whacked it. Next we couldn’t find our room. That was really embarrassing.
Some of the hotel desk clerks weren’t exactly sure how to approach two women travelling together. One young guy asked if we wanted one bed or twin beds. I had never travelled as a lesbian before, so I quickly replied “twin.” Later I tried to convince some guy that we were mother and daughter. After that, I just gave up.
In a day or two, Julie and I became well enough acquainted that we could carry on a reasonable conversation. However, by this time we were at Ruthin Castle in Wales where everyone whispered. Peacocks roamed the grounds, and John, a ginger, gave us a private tour of the creepiest parts of the old castle ruins. I was fascinated by the drowning pit but was glad to learn that the escape tunnels were closed to the public. A couple of years ago, my daughter, Rachel, and I bravely toured the catacombs in Paris, and since then, I’ve tried to stay above ground.
In the Lake District, we stayed at the Orchard House, a B & B near Keswick, and took in the play What the Butler Saw. The idea was to mingle with the locals, but David, our B & B host, was convinced that we just wanted to see a “raunchy” play. It wasn’t all that raunchy. I didn’t see anything I hadn’t seen before.
On the way to Edinburgh, we came upon a meadow of orange sheep. At first I thought they were pumpkins. Then I noticed that they were moving. We were still a little rattled when we got to Edinburgh which probably explains why we found ourselves going the wrong way down a one way street. I didn’t have time to explain the orange sheep to the frantic bus driver, but I must say that I was quite impressed that Julie’s driving skills had suddenly improved and that she could do a 180° right there in the middle of a four lane street full of cars.
After all the excitement, we were hungry. We found a nice pub and ordered haggis, neeps, and tatties. For those of you whose travels have never taken you to Scotland, haggis is a local delicacy made from sheep’s pluck, onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, salt, and stock. It is then simmered in the sheep’s stomach for 3 hours. Neeps are turnips, and tatties are potatoes. Yummy!
Feeling gastronomically satisfied, we were off to watch The Citadel from South Carolina perform at the Military Tattoo. The guy sitting behind us was from Austria and thought he was at a sing along. A really old guy hobbled up the steps to our row in the nose bleed section behind his rather buxom, much, much younger wife. I decided that since the sex hadn’t killed him she must be resorting to dragging him up a hundred steps to finish him off. But, of course, I didn’t know for sure.
Our few days in Edinburgh flew by, and we were on the train to London. When we arrived at platform 9 and ¾, I saw no reason to take a taxi to the hotel when the tube was so convenient. Unfortunately, the line to Victoria Station was under repair in preparation for the 2012 Olympics which meant I would have to study the tube map for a different direction. Julie didn’t smile much after I yelled “Get off now. We’re going the wrong way.” In fairness, I had disclosed my directionality problem on the first day. She had been duly warned. Anyway, she was a little stressed hauling both her suitcases up and down all those stairs.
We finally made it to the hotel in time to throw our luggage at the concierge and power walk to Parliament. I had already paid for our timed tickets, and the fine print clearly stated their “you snooze-you lose” policy. The guard said the tour started on our left, graciously pointed left (he must have been psychic), and said, “God bless America, madam.” I replied, “God save the Queen” and was off.
The next morning, Peter, the Irish maître d, spent at least five minutes explaining the breakfast buffet. He began to sound a little bit like the guy in Forrest Gump discussing shrimp. Anyway, Peter ended his litany with the suggestion that we try the beaver juice. We were speechless.
“I tried it. It wasn’t great but it was ok,” he said.
How in the name of all that was holy could anyone drink beaver juice and live to tell about it!
“I’m still breathing,” he went on cheerily.
I had to know.
“Exactly what part of the beaver do they squeeze to get the juice?”
“All but the core,” he said seriously and moved on to explain the hot bar to someone else.
Just when I had gotten used to the idea of baked beans for breakfast, the English throw in beaver juice. Oh, my.
I scooped some granola into a bowl and picked up a yogurt. I glanced at the juice choices and saw everything imaginable but no beaver juice. Just as well. We weren’t going to try it anyway.
As Julie and I finished our coffee, Peter returned and inquired about the beaver juice.I told him that there were several different juices, and I didn’t know which one was the beaver juice.
“Is it a vegetable or a fruit?” asked Julie, desperate for clarification.
“I think it is a vegetable.”
“Where we come from beavers are animals that make dams,” explained Julie and then she did the unthinkable—a beaver imitation, complete with beaver teeth and little paws—right there in the middle of the restaurant. Heads turned.
Peter looked a little shocked by the whole thing and then started laughing.
“I said beetroot juice—not beaver juice.”
Oh. Well, then, thank goodness. I was afraid the English had gone completely bonkers.
Cheerio!
September 8, 2010
Thursday, August 05, 2010
And They’re Off
Pollywogs inevitably become frogs, and my two are no exception. Bryan and Tyler are going to kindergarten, a major benchmark for all five-year-olds. I only hope that their teachers are ready.
These two know their letters and numbers, pertinent contact information, colors and shapes, and how to write their names (as well as each other’s name.) They can also describe several science experiments, perform magic tricks, drive and tie up a boat, find their gate at the Atlanta airport, and sit in the correct seat on the airplane. They can deftly escape from any situation and are kind to animals. They both have passports and aren’t afraid to use them.
I know what to expect from two little boys who are excited about the world and ask a hundred questions a day. Unfortunately, I don’t know what to expect from their teachers.
Classrooms that celebrate learning produce students who excel. Unfortunately, too many teachers think they shouldn’t even smile before Christmas in order to maintain discipline. By Christmas the excitement has been stomped out of every last one—students as well as teachers.
Several years ago Tim asked me to define “school” for his faculty. This sums up the kind of education that I want for my pollywogs.
School is the best part of childhood. It is
Singing the ABCs
Shooting spit wads
Recess
Leap frog
Learning to read
Spelling bees
Science experiments
Popcorn with movies
Field trips
Mummifying chickens
Edible maps
Squirrels named Shakespeare
Working at the supply store
Being a patrol boy
Talking to friends between classes
Journal writing
Memorizing poems
Dances
Field day
Debates
Skits
Mastering something new
Fall carnivals
Awards night
Cleaning the board
Giggling in the bathroom
Football during PE
Office aide
Working on the yearbook
Writing for the newspaper
Assemblies
Announcements
Starting the morning with the Pledge of Allegiance
Making the team
Baccalaureate
Graduation
School is about nurturing children. While we may disagree about many of the details, there should never be any argument about the primary mission of a school district. When educators take their eyes off the faces of the children, they are no longer educators. They are just ordinary people doing an ordinary job. Children deserve the extraordinary. Teachers are either beige or neon. God help the children who get stuck with beige.
August 5, 2010
Pollywogs inevitably become frogs, and my two are no exception. Bryan and Tyler are going to kindergarten, a major benchmark for all five-year-olds. I only hope that their teachers are ready.
These two know their letters and numbers, pertinent contact information, colors and shapes, and how to write their names (as well as each other’s name.) They can also describe several science experiments, perform magic tricks, drive and tie up a boat, find their gate at the Atlanta airport, and sit in the correct seat on the airplane. They can deftly escape from any situation and are kind to animals. They both have passports and aren’t afraid to use them.
I know what to expect from two little boys who are excited about the world and ask a hundred questions a day. Unfortunately, I don’t know what to expect from their teachers.
Classrooms that celebrate learning produce students who excel. Unfortunately, too many teachers think they shouldn’t even smile before Christmas in order to maintain discipline. By Christmas the excitement has been stomped out of every last one—students as well as teachers.
Several years ago Tim asked me to define “school” for his faculty. This sums up the kind of education that I want for my pollywogs.
School is the best part of childhood. It is
Singing the ABCs
Shooting spit wads
Recess
Leap frog
Learning to read
Spelling bees
Science experiments
Popcorn with movies
Field trips
Mummifying chickens
Edible maps
Squirrels named Shakespeare
Working at the supply store
Being a patrol boy
Talking to friends between classes
Journal writing
Memorizing poems
Dances
Field day
Debates
Skits
Mastering something new
Fall carnivals
Awards night
Cleaning the board
Giggling in the bathroom
Football during PE
Office aide
Working on the yearbook
Writing for the newspaper
Assemblies
Announcements
Starting the morning with the Pledge of Allegiance
Making the team
Baccalaureate
Graduation
School is about nurturing children. While we may disagree about many of the details, there should never be any argument about the primary mission of a school district. When educators take their eyes off the faces of the children, they are no longer educators. They are just ordinary people doing an ordinary job. Children deserve the extraordinary. Teachers are either beige or neon. God help the children who get stuck with beige.
August 5, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
The Story of a Boy and His Dog
Reprinted from The Owego Owl, 1961
Owego probably boasts no greater booster of children and young people than Mrs. Tillie Mallory. Practically all of her civic activities are aimed towards their benefit. She is the first to defend them when they are criticized, the first to sympathize with them in their troubles and problems, and the first to encourage greater opportunities for recreation and profitable leisure time for them. So when she dashed off a letter to us the other day about a story she says she “had to get off my chest”, we read it with great interest. It’s typical of the understanding Tillie possesses. Here it is…
“All too often we hear adults say ‘Kids no longer seem to respect and trust their elders’. Perhaps children are thinking ‘Why can’t older folks respect us and teach us trust?’ This is a true story and perhaps is a key to children’s rejection of adults.
“Last Saturday a boy and his little dog went for a hike. The boy is 12 years old, the little puppy was not even a half-year old, and they dearly loved each other and enjoyed things together that we grownups no longer take notice of.
“Spring was in the air. The sun shone warm on both of them as they started for ‘The Hill’. They explored all afternoon and had a wonderful time. The world was full of promise, delightful sights and smells.
“When they returned from their afternoon’s adventure, they came down a busy street. The happy, frisky little dog ran out into the road and was hit by a car. The boy stood frozen when he saw his little dog rolling under the car.
“The driver stopped (as required by law), asked the boy his name, got back into his car and drove to police headquarters where he reported it (as required by law), leaving the boy and his dog at the scene of the accident.
“Imagine, if you can, a man heartless enough to drive away without even offering to take this boy and his little dead dog to their home. Imagine, if you will, how that young boy felt, looking into the eyes of his little dying puppy, alone—with no one to comfort him, not help him to face his tragic loss.
“No one blames the man for hitting the dog. That was probably unavoidable. But what about a man who was in such a hurry that he could not help a boy in grief? I hope this man slept better that night than the boy did.
Next time I hear someone say something ‘today’s kids’, I will wonder if they ever helped a kid in need and distress.”
Thanks Tillie. I’m sure your story will cause a lot of people to pause for a few minutes of serious reflection and soul searching.
The boy buried Twinkle in his backyard. Today, Twinkle’s resting place is the backstop for a baseball field, so Twinkle gets to enjoy himself forever more as head umpire. The boy grew up to be just like his grandmother. He spent his life as a champion for children. I hope my grandchildren learn something equally as noble from me as my husband, Tim, learned from his grandmother.
Reprinted from The Owego Owl, 1961
Owego probably boasts no greater booster of children and young people than Mrs. Tillie Mallory. Practically all of her civic activities are aimed towards their benefit. She is the first to defend them when they are criticized, the first to sympathize with them in their troubles and problems, and the first to encourage greater opportunities for recreation and profitable leisure time for them. So when she dashed off a letter to us the other day about a story she says she “had to get off my chest”, we read it with great interest. It’s typical of the understanding Tillie possesses. Here it is…
“All too often we hear adults say ‘Kids no longer seem to respect and trust their elders’. Perhaps children are thinking ‘Why can’t older folks respect us and teach us trust?’ This is a true story and perhaps is a key to children’s rejection of adults.
“Last Saturday a boy and his little dog went for a hike. The boy is 12 years old, the little puppy was not even a half-year old, and they dearly loved each other and enjoyed things together that we grownups no longer take notice of.
“Spring was in the air. The sun shone warm on both of them as they started for ‘The Hill’. They explored all afternoon and had a wonderful time. The world was full of promise, delightful sights and smells.
“When they returned from their afternoon’s adventure, they came down a busy street. The happy, frisky little dog ran out into the road and was hit by a car. The boy stood frozen when he saw his little dog rolling under the car.
“The driver stopped (as required by law), asked the boy his name, got back into his car and drove to police headquarters where he reported it (as required by law), leaving the boy and his dog at the scene of the accident.
“Imagine, if you can, a man heartless enough to drive away without even offering to take this boy and his little dead dog to their home. Imagine, if you will, how that young boy felt, looking into the eyes of his little dying puppy, alone—with no one to comfort him, not help him to face his tragic loss.
“No one blames the man for hitting the dog. That was probably unavoidable. But what about a man who was in such a hurry that he could not help a boy in grief? I hope this man slept better that night than the boy did.
Next time I hear someone say something ‘today’s kids’, I will wonder if they ever helped a kid in need and distress.”
Thanks Tillie. I’m sure your story will cause a lot of people to pause for a few minutes of serious reflection and soul searching.
The boy buried Twinkle in his backyard. Today, Twinkle’s resting place is the backstop for a baseball field, so Twinkle gets to enjoy himself forever more as head umpire. The boy grew up to be just like his grandmother. He spent his life as a champion for children. I hope my grandchildren learn something equally as noble from me as my husband, Tim, learned from his grandmother.
Monday, April 19, 2010
In Search of Peter and Betsey
Peter Mollet and Betsey LePage had barely celebrated their first anniversary when it became apparent to Betsey that something was dreadfully wrong with Peter. Men like Peter were practical, focused, and, above all, sensible. However, lately Betsey worried that she no longer knew her distracted, and often aloof, bridegroom. Finally, Peter confided in Betsey.
Betsey tried to maintain her calm as the man she loved, and once trusted, confessed.
He said, “Betsey, I want a new start in an interesting and exciting place, one that would offer more opportunity for both of us.”
Betsey heard, “Betsey, I want you to leave the only place you have ever known and move with me to a foreign country where we will both try to learn the language.”
Eventually, after much improvement in Betsey’s hearing, Peter and Betsey left their homeland, family, and friends, never to return. They established a new life in a new country and kept in touch with home through letters. For Betsey, life in America would never be quite as wondrous as life in Guernsey, one of the Channel Islands.
Letters sent to Peter and Betsey tell a one-sided story of the families left behind and eager to stay in touch with their children. The earliest, written in Guernsey French, reveal many details about life in Guernsey in the 1830’s and include news from various family members and neighbors. Fortunately, much more is still to be learned about the Mollet and LePage families.
Pat, my mother-in-law, kept these family letters for years before giving them to my husband, Tim. As the keeper of the family jewels, Tim has carefully and lovingly catalogued the large collection of documents of which the letters are only a portion. Translators have labored over the Guernsey patois to provide understanding. After cataloguing, cross-referencing names and dates, and searching online ancestry sources, we are now ready for “a new start in an interesting and exciting place, one that would offer more opportunity” for research. On May 3rd, we are going to Guernsey.
Although we have never been to Guernsey, we have made many friends in the process of researching the letters and planning the trip. Jean Vidamour and Margaret Edwards, researchers at the Priaulx Library in Guernsey, provided valuable information about the families from their archives.
Ash and Tracey at Little Escapes on Jersey, a neighboring island, made our travel arrangements. Tracey, who sounds exactly like Eliza Doolittle, recommended Hotel Jerbourg which sits on a cliff and overlooks France.
Betty Gordon, writer for the Atlanta-Journal Constitution, recently wrote of her travels to the Channel Islands. I don’t know what possessed me, but I emailed Betty to tell her of our upcoming trip. I now know that Victor Hugo’s home is a 20-minute walk up a steep hill and that the post office will exchange money for no fee.
Betty’s wonderful story of the ginger cake will hopefully lead me to Sue’s Tea Garden on Sark, one of the smaller islands. Upon returning to Georgia, Betty wrote to Sue Guille requesting the recipe for ginger cake. For whatever reason, Sue never responded, so Betty was on her own to replicate the recipe. I am taking a copy of that story with me to give to Sue, believing that she will be delighted that Betty so enjoyed her ginger cake that she wrote a story about it.
Pat English, an old friend of Tim’s grandmother, Tillie, moved to Owego, NY from Guernsey years ago. Pat was the make-up artist who helped Tillie with her minstrel shows that performed throughout the area. More than likely, Pat was the one who made Tim believable as the front part of a horse in one show.
As luck would have it, Pat is also leaving for Guernsey on May 3rd. We have her brother’s phone number and an invitation to meet for drinks at St. Peter’s Port.
We are going to love Guernsey. How can we not? We are going to visit friends that we have yet to meet face to face but who are friends nevertheless.
Thank you Peter and Betsey! One can never have too many friends.
Peter Mollet and Betsey LePage had barely celebrated their first anniversary when it became apparent to Betsey that something was dreadfully wrong with Peter. Men like Peter were practical, focused, and, above all, sensible. However, lately Betsey worried that she no longer knew her distracted, and often aloof, bridegroom. Finally, Peter confided in Betsey.
Betsey tried to maintain her calm as the man she loved, and once trusted, confessed.
He said, “Betsey, I want a new start in an interesting and exciting place, one that would offer more opportunity for both of us.”
Betsey heard, “Betsey, I want you to leave the only place you have ever known and move with me to a foreign country where we will both try to learn the language.”
Eventually, after much improvement in Betsey’s hearing, Peter and Betsey left their homeland, family, and friends, never to return. They established a new life in a new country and kept in touch with home through letters. For Betsey, life in America would never be quite as wondrous as life in Guernsey, one of the Channel Islands.
Letters sent to Peter and Betsey tell a one-sided story of the families left behind and eager to stay in touch with their children. The earliest, written in Guernsey French, reveal many details about life in Guernsey in the 1830’s and include news from various family members and neighbors. Fortunately, much more is still to be learned about the Mollet and LePage families.
Pat, my mother-in-law, kept these family letters for years before giving them to my husband, Tim. As the keeper of the family jewels, Tim has carefully and lovingly catalogued the large collection of documents of which the letters are only a portion. Translators have labored over the Guernsey patois to provide understanding. After cataloguing, cross-referencing names and dates, and searching online ancestry sources, we are now ready for “a new start in an interesting and exciting place, one that would offer more opportunity” for research. On May 3rd, we are going to Guernsey.
Although we have never been to Guernsey, we have made many friends in the process of researching the letters and planning the trip. Jean Vidamour and Margaret Edwards, researchers at the Priaulx Library in Guernsey, provided valuable information about the families from their archives.
Ash and Tracey at Little Escapes on Jersey, a neighboring island, made our travel arrangements. Tracey, who sounds exactly like Eliza Doolittle, recommended Hotel Jerbourg which sits on a cliff and overlooks France.
Betty Gordon, writer for the Atlanta-Journal Constitution, recently wrote of her travels to the Channel Islands. I don’t know what possessed me, but I emailed Betty to tell her of our upcoming trip. I now know that Victor Hugo’s home is a 20-minute walk up a steep hill and that the post office will exchange money for no fee.
Betty’s wonderful story of the ginger cake will hopefully lead me to Sue’s Tea Garden on Sark, one of the smaller islands. Upon returning to Georgia, Betty wrote to Sue Guille requesting the recipe for ginger cake. For whatever reason, Sue never responded, so Betty was on her own to replicate the recipe. I am taking a copy of that story with me to give to Sue, believing that she will be delighted that Betty so enjoyed her ginger cake that she wrote a story about it.
Pat English, an old friend of Tim’s grandmother, Tillie, moved to Owego, NY from Guernsey years ago. Pat was the make-up artist who helped Tillie with her minstrel shows that performed throughout the area. More than likely, Pat was the one who made Tim believable as the front part of a horse in one show.
As luck would have it, Pat is also leaving for Guernsey on May 3rd. We have her brother’s phone number and an invitation to meet for drinks at St. Peter’s Port.
We are going to love Guernsey. How can we not? We are going to visit friends that we have yet to meet face to face but who are friends nevertheless.
Thank you Peter and Betsey! One can never have too many friends.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Good Deeds
I try to live my life by two creeds—of sorts. One is the Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The second is a life list that I created a few years ago; enjoy the day, travel the globe, write the stories. I never dreamed that both would ultimately lead me to a path of humiliation and shame. To spare others and to tell the stories before Shelley, my sister-in-law, does, here goes.
One morning not too long ago, Shelley texted “Burton’s mother died, and we are going to the visitation tonight.”
Poor guy! I knew exactly how it felt to lose your mother. I couldn’t make it to Huntsville in time for the funeral, so I did the next best thing—I sent a sympathy card. I wrote a sweet and tender note to Beirne about the relationship between mothers and sons.
A few days later, I happened to be in Huntsville at Shelley’s and answered the phone when Beirne called.
“Tim and I are so very sorry about your mother,” I told him with all the heartfelt sympathy one could muster.
“It was Burton,” he replied.
“What was Burton?” I asked.
“It was Burton’s mother who died,” Beirne explained as though talking to a complete dimwit.
I nearly fainted. The sympathy card had arrived in the day’s mail, and Beirne was more than a little surprised. He promptly requested a casserole; and, if I really wanted to make it up to him, I could take his very much alive mother to the doctor the following afternoon. My brother, Ted, suggested to Beirne that, with the aid of some White Out, he send the card on to Burton.
Oh, good grief. This will be one story that will get better with each retelling.
I had barely recovered from the humiliation of sending a sympathy card to the wrong person before I was at it again. This time I had “traveled the globe” to the Great Wolf Lodge in Concord, NC, and was “enjoying the day” with my two-year-old granddaughter, Anna Lauren, who clearly wanted to play in the wave pool instead being supervised by her grandmother in the baby pool. Suddenly and without warning, a bucket dumped water on me. I immediately felt colder than the cool water. My swim suit top had not survived in place. The row of fathers standing along the fence seemed startled at first, and then broke out in ear-to-ear smiles, and finally chuckles.
Oh, good grief. Another good story that will get better with each retelling.
For those of you who are Shrek fans, perhaps you recall the Christmas movie in which Puss-in-Boots shames himself. In the voice of Antonio Banderas, Puss begins telling a Christmas tale but soon becomes fixated on a pair of Christmas baubles. Before he comes to his senses, he begins playfully swatting the balls back and forth and back and forth. Realizing what he has done, Puss declares, “I have shamed myself.”
Well, I spent a week shaming myself, and now I have dutifully reported it. Shelley, who, according to her, is often the subject of my stories that are rarely flattering, threatened me. Either I wrote the story or she would.
Now I have one more principle to live by. “No good deed ever goes unpunished.”
I try to live my life by two creeds—of sorts. One is the Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The second is a life list that I created a few years ago; enjoy the day, travel the globe, write the stories. I never dreamed that both would ultimately lead me to a path of humiliation and shame. To spare others and to tell the stories before Shelley, my sister-in-law, does, here goes.
One morning not too long ago, Shelley texted “Burton’s mother died, and we are going to the visitation tonight.”
Poor guy! I knew exactly how it felt to lose your mother. I couldn’t make it to Huntsville in time for the funeral, so I did the next best thing—I sent a sympathy card. I wrote a sweet and tender note to Beirne about the relationship between mothers and sons.
A few days later, I happened to be in Huntsville at Shelley’s and answered the phone when Beirne called.
“Tim and I are so very sorry about your mother,” I told him with all the heartfelt sympathy one could muster.
“It was Burton,” he replied.
“What was Burton?” I asked.
“It was Burton’s mother who died,” Beirne explained as though talking to a complete dimwit.
I nearly fainted. The sympathy card had arrived in the day’s mail, and Beirne was more than a little surprised. He promptly requested a casserole; and, if I really wanted to make it up to him, I could take his very much alive mother to the doctor the following afternoon. My brother, Ted, suggested to Beirne that, with the aid of some White Out, he send the card on to Burton.
Oh, good grief. This will be one story that will get better with each retelling.
I had barely recovered from the humiliation of sending a sympathy card to the wrong person before I was at it again. This time I had “traveled the globe” to the Great Wolf Lodge in Concord, NC, and was “enjoying the day” with my two-year-old granddaughter, Anna Lauren, who clearly wanted to play in the wave pool instead being supervised by her grandmother in the baby pool. Suddenly and without warning, a bucket dumped water on me. I immediately felt colder than the cool water. My swim suit top had not survived in place. The row of fathers standing along the fence seemed startled at first, and then broke out in ear-to-ear smiles, and finally chuckles.
Oh, good grief. Another good story that will get better with each retelling.
For those of you who are Shrek fans, perhaps you recall the Christmas movie in which Puss-in-Boots shames himself. In the voice of Antonio Banderas, Puss begins telling a Christmas tale but soon becomes fixated on a pair of Christmas baubles. Before he comes to his senses, he begins playfully swatting the balls back and forth and back and forth. Realizing what he has done, Puss declares, “I have shamed myself.”
Well, I spent a week shaming myself, and now I have dutifully reported it. Shelley, who, according to her, is often the subject of my stories that are rarely flattering, threatened me. Either I wrote the story or she would.
Now I have one more principle to live by. “No good deed ever goes unpunished.”
Thursday, February 04, 2010
The World of Dick and Jane
Miss Taylor taught me to read in first grade at East Clinton Elementary School. The World of Dick and Jane was the reader of choice, and I fell in love with reading. I even named my parakeet “Puff” after the cat in the book. The World of Dick and Jane opened my world.
Back then, children weren’t expected to know how to read—or know how to do much of anything—before first grade. Well, things had changed since the days of Miss Taylor, and my two little boys had to get with the program. Kindergarten was looming on the August horizon, and they had to be ready.
I decided to start with Bryan; after all, he’s the oldest and should set a good example for Tyler. I’ll admit that I had no earthly idea about how to teach reading but surely it couldn’t be that difficult. I’m great at phonics and charades.
I caught Superman flying through the house and told him in no uncertain terms that it was time for him to get serious about reading. I explained that he could go back to fighting the bad guys after he read one chapter in The World of Dick and Jane.
Bryan, aka Clark Kent, curled up beside me on the sofa and began reading “Dick” with a little phonetic prompting from his crazy aunt. Shelley wandered in as he finished and asked about his progress, to which he replied, “I can’t read Dick.”
Where did I put my copy of Hop on Pop?
Miss Taylor taught me to read in first grade at East Clinton Elementary School. The World of Dick and Jane was the reader of choice, and I fell in love with reading. I even named my parakeet “Puff” after the cat in the book. The World of Dick and Jane opened my world.
Back then, children weren’t expected to know how to read—or know how to do much of anything—before first grade. Well, things had changed since the days of Miss Taylor, and my two little boys had to get with the program. Kindergarten was looming on the August horizon, and they had to be ready.
I decided to start with Bryan; after all, he’s the oldest and should set a good example for Tyler. I’ll admit that I had no earthly idea about how to teach reading but surely it couldn’t be that difficult. I’m great at phonics and charades.
I caught Superman flying through the house and told him in no uncertain terms that it was time for him to get serious about reading. I explained that he could go back to fighting the bad guys after he read one chapter in The World of Dick and Jane.
Bryan, aka Clark Kent, curled up beside me on the sofa and began reading “Dick” with a little phonetic prompting from his crazy aunt. Shelley wandered in as he finished and asked about his progress, to which he replied, “I can’t read Dick.”
Where did I put my copy of Hop on Pop?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
And God Likes Fruitcake
“How do you know there is a God?” was the mother of all questions and I had just summoned the courage to ask it of my dad. He looked at me as though I had just sprouted antlers and announced that I was moving to Finland for reindeer season.
He stood there, staring at me for a long few seconds. Then he took my hand and led me outside. With something of a flourish, he pointed to the full moon and stated in a tone filled with confidence and a little pity that his daughter was such a dolt, “See the moon up there? Man couldn’t have done that.” And with that profound explanation, he turned on the heels of his Allen Edmund shoes and went inside. I never asked for further details.
Malvin Lee Miller returned home after WWII, married the love of his life, and, together, they opened a mom-and-pop appliance and furniture store. Over the next 54 years, he greeted his customers with a smile and a kind heart. He was an ordinary man who had no idea that he lived an extraordinary life.
He financed his own accounts, building his business with customers who were routinely denied credit because of age, income, or race. He met every payroll and paid every debt on time. By the third of the month, the cash drawer was full, so customers without bank accounts could cash their Social Security checks. He often called taxis for the elderly ladies who walked from the housing project to pay their bills.
Customers could call, rather than come in, with a request for delivery of a washer or refrigerator. He handed out $2 bills to children and Claxton fruitcakes to customers during the Christmas season.
Before televisions were everywhere, he delivered them to schools so students could watch the latest rocket launch and to the hospitals when family or friends were ill. The delivery truck was routinely seen carrying empty boxes to Christmas Charities, schools, and churches for Vacation Bible School.
His children, their spouses, and grandchildren understood that they weren’t too good to take out the trash, clean the bathroom, count the change from the Coke machine, assemble furniture, or get up from the dining room table on Christmas day to deliver a bake element.
So what did I learn about God from my dad? That God trusts us to take care of one another. That God is neither too busy nor too important to lend a helping hand. And that God likes fruitcake.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
The New Year
I am sitting at my desk on this the seventh day of the new year, rummaging once again through the many Christmas cards, pictures, and letters that Tim and I received last month. If you sent one of them, thank you, thank you, thank you. It you didn’t, well then…don’t feel too bad. I didn’t send any either. Please consider this—albeit late—my Christmas card and New Year’s good wishes all rolled into one and sent especially to you and yours.
I hope you have a 2010 that exceeds all expectations and is better than anything you could possibly imagine in your wildest dreams. I say this realizing full well that most of us have pretty low expectations, a blah imagination, and gave up dreaming years ago. Still I wish for you…
Money for a rainy day,
Peace for a troubled heart,
Patience for every irritation,
Health for a long life,
Love for yourself and others.
I hope you visit some place you have never been before; stretch your mind by learning something new; and stretch your heart by forgiving an old grudge. If you have something that has bedeviled you for far too long, I hope you find a way to let it go. Oh, and if you haven’t given up the “shoulds,” this would be the time.
Mother, bless her heart, used to spend the majority of her time, energy, and efforts on the “shoulds.” You know exactly what I am talking about if you are female and over thirty. By that ripe age, any woman with even a modicum of intellect could make a list of the things she “should” do that would rival a five-year-old’s Christmas list. I suppose men have their own issues with the “shoulds,” but I am not exactly sure what they are.
On Mother’s 50th birthday, she declared that she was no longer paying any attention to the “shoulds.” Of course, she was celebrating in San Francisco which might account for some of her inspiration. At any rate, she came home a changed woman. No longer was she vexed by the myriad of things that others thought she “should” do.
Please don’t let this be one of those “beige” years. Instead, try a little neon. And seriously consider giving up the “shoulds.”
ps—Let me know how 2010 works out for you.
I am sitting at my desk on this the seventh day of the new year, rummaging once again through the many Christmas cards, pictures, and letters that Tim and I received last month. If you sent one of them, thank you, thank you, thank you. It you didn’t, well then…don’t feel too bad. I didn’t send any either. Please consider this—albeit late—my Christmas card and New Year’s good wishes all rolled into one and sent especially to you and yours.
I hope you have a 2010 that exceeds all expectations and is better than anything you could possibly imagine in your wildest dreams. I say this realizing full well that most of us have pretty low expectations, a blah imagination, and gave up dreaming years ago. Still I wish for you…
Money for a rainy day,
Peace for a troubled heart,
Patience for every irritation,
Health for a long life,
Love for yourself and others.
I hope you visit some place you have never been before; stretch your mind by learning something new; and stretch your heart by forgiving an old grudge. If you have something that has bedeviled you for far too long, I hope you find a way to let it go. Oh, and if you haven’t given up the “shoulds,” this would be the time.
Mother, bless her heart, used to spend the majority of her time, energy, and efforts on the “shoulds.” You know exactly what I am talking about if you are female and over thirty. By that ripe age, any woman with even a modicum of intellect could make a list of the things she “should” do that would rival a five-year-old’s Christmas list. I suppose men have their own issues with the “shoulds,” but I am not exactly sure what they are.
On Mother’s 50th birthday, she declared that she was no longer paying any attention to the “shoulds.” Of course, she was celebrating in San Francisco which might account for some of her inspiration. At any rate, she came home a changed woman. No longer was she vexed by the myriad of things that others thought she “should” do.
Please don’t let this be one of those “beige” years. Instead, try a little neon. And seriously consider giving up the “shoulds.”
ps—Let me know how 2010 works out for you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
