Summer!! Or Good Enough, At Least

FRIDAY FREE-FOR-ALL
I'll be honest.  I have no idea what I'm blogging about today.  I'm simply happy that school is out and summer vacation has officially begun today.

Taking a quick look out the window, it would be difficult to call it summer.  The sky is overcast, leftover from early morning storms, and the temperature, which reached into the low 90s yesterday, is just under 70.  I have no doubt that will quickly change by tomorrow.  But we need the rain here, and there's no reason not to welcome a cool day.  After all, we already passed 100 earlier this month.

Mallory, the youngest of my four, and I spent much of yesterday attending graduation ceremonies.  (Two of my grands, her nieces.)  The first was youngest granddaughter Payton's Pre-K.  The class presented parents and friends with songs they'd learned over this school year.  I especially liked the "Five Little Monkees Jumping On the Bed" song.  It reminded me of my own girls' days in Brownie and Girl Scouts.





The little guy on the left in the light blue shirt was a showman and such a cutie.  When one of the songs was over, he turned to his mom (blonde, in white shirt) and said, "Take a picture of me, Mom."  He was obviously proud, as well he should be.  They all should.  After all, they came away from the year with nifty songs, knowing their alphabet and able to count, and especially how to get along in a classroom of their peers.  A step in the right direction!







All the kids seemed to understand how special the day was for them and their families.  Smiles abounded, giggles and squeals filled the room.  These kids were excited!




A little over an hour later, we were back at the school for Payton's older sister's graduation from 5th grade.  While the Pre-Kers had been in a party mood, the older group understood what this day meant for them.  Grade school would be a memory, when the doors to middle school open in the fall.  Many of them had spent the past six years together, growing and learning.  A video presentation at the end of the ceremony of random shots of the students in classrooms and on the playground was followed by a beautiful rendition of Katie Perry's Roar filling the auditorium.  These kids understood that they're were stepping out of one stage of life into the next.

The last group of four to receive their diplomas stood patiently in line.  That's Allie, waiting her turn to get her Certificate of Promotion.

 It's hard to believe that it wasn't all that long ago that Allie was finishing Pre-K and then Kindergarten.  She's growing up into a fine young woman, and I hope she weathers middle school well.  From my own memories, it's the worst of all the stepping stones of education.

The graduates listened to a memorable speech by the Operations Division Director of the City schools, and he presented each one of them with a special gift:  A small, flat black stone, like the one he had carried throughout his own school years and still kept as a reminder of how far he'd come and the wonderful gifts in his life--his family.

And of course these are the years of giggling girls and selfies.  How lucky we are that technology has given us instant photos to keep that will remain as memories in our hearts for years.  Let's hope these girls all remember the good times they had in grade school as they walk, sail, and fly through their lives.

Then it was over.  Another year, another two graduations.  Last year it was oldest granddaughter Scarlett (our ice-skater) from 5th grade, and youngest grandson Jaxon's graduation from Kindergarten.  Next year will be another two.  Gavin from 5th and Payton from Kindergarten.  It's like stepping stones.  Before we know it, we'll have three 8th grade graduations in a row, and then will come high school.

The years go quickly.  Too quickly, most of us would say.  Each year brings new memories for us to treasure.  How lucky is that?

HAPPY SUMMER!

Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going. ~ Tennessee Williams

Another Step Back

1915 Library

I honestly can't remember a time when I didn't read.  I don't necessarily mean literally read.  My much younger days, even before learning the alphabet, included a large stack of Little Golden Books.  Although I only have a couple of them left, I remember the drawings in them, if not the words.

But it wasn't only those cardboard and colorful children's books I read.  There were trips to the library.

The other evening, a friend and I were talking about the big library downtown.  She never went as a child.  I went quite often.  I loved going to the library.  Not only for the books, but because of the atmosphere.  Walking up the stone steps to the door always gave me a flash of excitement.  Stepping through the door, the scent of books, the sound of footsteps on the marble floor, and the sight of the John Brown mural would come together to remind me that, once again, I'd be finding a story that would take me into another world or make me live as another person.

Library reference desk

In 1876, local business owners funded the establishment of the library. It became a Carnegie library in 1912.

Inside the doors and ahead was the main section of the library, with its hexagonal reference desk.  To the right, marble slab steps led up to my destination, the children's room.  As I climbed them,  my footsteps echoed in my ears.  "Whisper," my mother would remind me, as we reached the top.

Children's room

I don't remember all the tables and chairs in the children's room.  What I remember were the rows and rows of bookshelves that filled the room.  I knew exactly where to find the books I wanted to read.

My favorites.

In first grade, I read both of them, while sitting at home with the mumps at Christmas. 

 And let's not forget the Bookmobile that brought new books to our schools and offered us more to read than what our small, school libraries could contain.

To move the thousands and thousands of books from the original library, students formed a brigade, passing the books to the new library across the street..  Novel idea, isn't it?

In the summer, we take my grandkids to one of the branch libraries and participate in the summer reading program.  It's nice there and has a fairly large children's area. If only we could teach the four of them what QUIET means, we'd have it made!

I miss the old library.  It sat empty for several years, but is now occupied by a financial group.  I don't think I'll miss the current library nearly as much, if at all, when an even newer library is built on the river bank.  Although the opening date for that was in 2012, I'm not even sure ground has been broken.  That library promises to be even bigger and better.  For me, it own't have the memories the old one still does.  Isn't that the way it always is?

Take care of all your memories. For you cannot relive them. ~ Bob Dylan

Oh, (S)No(w)!

MONDAY MADNESS aka MONDAY MEMORIES

Seriously?!

As I posted on Facebook this morning...

Dear Mother Nature,

What the (fill in the blank)?

Yes, I know February is one of the winter months.  I expect cold and even snow.  But the past week has netted us 13 inches of the white stuff.  9 inches last Tuesday, which had not melted away, only melted a little and froze...harder and harder throughout the week.  And now another 4+ inches over night.  One sweep of the car with a broom last week was quite enough.  This morning invited another, and I had no excuse not to accept.

I'll admit that snow can be pretty.  I've seen the beauty of Jack Frost's artistry.  But I'd really rather see it in pictures, not deal with the stuff.  My three oldest daughters and I once spent five hours sitting on a country road, two miles from home, and no way to get there, thanks to an unexpected blizzard.  The road grader/snowplow had gotten stuck, and five cars full of neighbors and friends, including ours, sat and waited, while he hoped help would arrive while we tried to stay warm.

At that time, my girls were 3, 5, and 7.  I'd left work early and picked them up at the babysitter, then drove ten miles farther--sliding sideways once--to meet their dad at a small gas station.  The plan was to follow him and the road grader.  Until the road grader got stuck.  And so did all of us who thought we were smart by follow the snowplow.  Uh, no.

We had no snacks, no drinks, and just enough gas to keep the car warm enough so we wouldn't freeze.  After four hours of waiting, we all walked more than half a mile to the closest neighbor's house.  They offered all us warmth and friendship, fixed us sandwiches and drinks, and assured us that help was on the way.  Help came from two other neighbors, who drove their four-wheel-drive tractors and picked us up to take us home, when they could have stayed snug and warm in their own homes.

No driving the tractors on the roads.  No one could see where the road ended and the deep ditches on both sides began.  We traveled cross-country over winter wheat fields.  And let me tell you, a driver (my brother-in-law and the only one seated), plus five of us in the cab of that tractor was not a picnic on the plains of Kansas.  (Hint: Tractors in fields are not smooth-going.)  The girls were bounced around like billiard balls, and I lost track of how many times my head hit the top of the cab.

When the driver let us out across the road from home, we headed straight for our house---only we forgot about the ditch.  We couldn't see it.  I nearly lost the youngest in the 4 feet of drifted snow.  I kept telling my daughters that we were on a great adventure, and that someday we'd look back and laugh.  I chuckle now, but a laugh is hard to come by.

We're not the only ones who've been dumped on this year.  The Pacific Northwest has had more than its share, as has the East Coast, the South, the Midwest, and most of the country.  Really?  If I wanted Canadian weather, I'd move to Canada.  It's beautiful there and they know how to deal with snow and blizzards and cold and...  All those things I'm not so crazy about.

Frankly, Mother Nature, I've had enough, and I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one.  While Spring is not my favorite season---thanks to tornadoes---I really wouldn't mind if it came early.  This is one of the longest cold spells in winter that I can remember.  So cold, the City opted not to salt the streets to melt the snow and ice for two reasons.  Isn't that an oxymoron?

1. They're low on salt.  It's all sitting at the salt mines, fifty miles away, and the roads are too bad to go get it.  
2. It wouldn't do any good.  The temps have been in single digits, making the use of salt, well, useless.

But we'll thaw.  By the weekend, temps are expected to hit 50 degrees.  I'm not sure I want to look beyond that.  In spite of wishing for spring, we have at least five more weeks of winter.  I don't expect my feet to thaw until July.

What's your weather been like?  Have you been snowed in?  Spent far too much time clearing snow from your car so you can crawl to work, hoping you don't get stuck and/or no one slides into you?  Or are you basking in the Florida/Arizona/etc. sunshine?  (If so, a resounding raspberry to you. ;) )

A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water. ~ Carl Reiner

A Little History of Home

Campbell Castle 1890

Call me weird, but I have a thing for history.  Local history, to be precise.  There are two places that tickle my interest.  One is Wichita, the city where I was born and spent my childhood.  The other is Clearwater, where my mother's family settled, after immigrating from Germany and where I finished growing up.

The reason for the first is probably because my dad told stories about Wichita when he was growing up.  Born in 1910, he remembered things that are no longer there.  Theaters, drug stores, street names that were changed along the way.  Later, after I married, my dad and my grand-father-in-law, who were only a few years apart in age, would sit and share memories.  Of course I don't remember everything, but all of them fascinated me and made me aware of how history changes.

1885 Occidental Hotel 

Last night, my #3 daughter tagged me in a photo on Facebook, with an old photo of a building that was known as the Occidental Hotel.  According to the information where she found the photo, the hotel "was one of the Old West's most famous and grand hotels in its day. The Occidental played host to numerous notorious guests (including General Sheridan and outlaw Frank James) and the storied poker games of Room 12."  That set me off to visit the website where the photo had appeared, and I've now wasted spent at least an hour looking at Then & Now photos.  I've driven by the "Now" building many times and knew it wasn't new.  What I didn't know was the history behind it.

For the past three or four years, I've gone on a local "ghost tour" of an area of the city that wasn't a part of the city in the beginning.  The Arkansas (pronounced Ar-kansas', not like the state ☺) River bordered the original town/city on the west.  Beyond that was an area known as Delano. Infamous for gunfights, brawls and prostitution, the river kept the notorious out of Wichita.  In fact, guns were checked at the bridge before entering Wichita from Delany. (photo below)  Yeah, gun control in the 1800s. ☺  I never new about this, until I went on the first ghost tour with my youngest daughter. We've since dragged other family members along with us, but that first visit was the best. There's a story about an 1873 gunfight between two saloon owners, "Rowdy" Joe and "Red" Beard, in which Rowdy shot and killed Red.  During the ghost tour, this is one of the stories that's told.  Red's ghost still haunts one of the buildings that is now a hair salon.  Many of the buildings there now were built in the 1870s.  While Wichita has it's Cowtown Museum (a living museum of original buildings moved farther up the river and includes re-enactments of the time), it's exciting to hear and read the stories and see photos of the "other" Wichita, especially because I spent my childhood only a few blocks south of Delano and never knew the history, although I'm sure my dad mentioned it.  These days, the Delano District includes shops, businesses, restaurants and art galleries.  A wonderful place to visit.

Wichita (now East Wichita) on the left, Delano (now West Wichita) on the right

My dad also talked about Ackerman Island, situated in the middle of the Arkansas River.  (large island on the middle right)  Not just a simple island, it held an amusement park, complete with a roller coaster.  A drive along McLean, which I take often to go to the far west side of the city and follows the west bank of the river, now shows a completely different river.  No islands, no old boathouse, where people rented small boats, canoes and paddle boats.  I can only imagine what that might have been like.

While Wichita doesn't have the history of Boston or Charleston and cities along the east coast and south, it does have some some interesting stories.  Okay, a lot that are interesting. :)  Carrie Nation visited our fair city and smashed a bar in one of the local hotels, for one.  Then there's Rowdy Joe and Red Beard...  Ah, history.

Just another look at my childhood memories and far far before that.  Check into your own hometown history and see what you can find.  You won't be disappointed!

The past actually happened but history is only what someone wrote down. 

~ A. Whitney Brown

Sound Blast from the Past

High school band, 1968

Last night, I attended my oldest granddaughter's instrumental concert.  I missed the first one, so going to this one, themed for the holidays, was one I didn't want to miss.  Because these were middle school band and orchestra students, many of them are just beginning their musical journey.  But I must say I was impressed with their playing--especially the 6th graders, who played after only a few months of instruction.  The teacher/conductor also impressed me.  Sure, there were some missed notes and, as I and my fellow former high school band members can remember, the tempo of each piece being played tends to speed up as the end approaches.  Last night, they handled that very well.

My granddaughter plays the viola.  She wanted to play the cello, but she's on the tiny side, and the girl across the street from me won out on that one.  By the way, the girl across the street is a sweetie and friend with both of my granddaughters.  I remember wanting to play the cello.  For a year or so when I was ten, I took private French lessons with a group of older girls, one a neighbor.  They were in what's now middle school at the time.  I'd learned French in fourth grade, so I at least had a clue.  That and the fact that a family friend had taught me several French phrases and to count from one to ten before I ever started school.  The daughter of the woman who taught those of us in the private group played the cello.  I fell in love with it.  So how did I end up playing flute?  I have no idea, but I did.  (I also missed seeing JFK before he was elected President, all because I had to go to French lessons.  Who knew?)

Watching the middle school students last night and listening to them play brought back memories of being a member of my high school band.  I went to a small school (56 in our graduating class), where the only instrumental was band.  A good thing I didn't take up the cello!  Because our junior high shared the building with the high school, we 7th and 8th graders were integrated into the high school band.  We were pretty good.  But we got better.

Senior year, the second year without our beloved band teacher.

My freshman year in high school, we were introduced to a new music (band and vocal) teacher.  He was young, had a wife that was just as young and fun, and two small children.  We adored them, and especially him, whether band members or vocal music members.  He worked us hard, especially the marching band.  We went from a disordered bunch of kids on the football field at halftime, scrambling to find our places to create a cherry tree (George Washington) and a stovepipe hat (Abraham Lincoln) to a precision, synchronized marching band.  You've probably seen college bands perform during football games

Goofing off after a parade (no, not me)

that do the same on a much bigger scale.  We had no idea how our movements appeared to onlookers as we zigged and zagged across the field, eight steps to each five yards, while playing.  Or marched in a parade, all in same step, while dodging piles of horse...well, you know.  Bill. Rotter knew not only how to teach music, he knew how to make playing it a joy.  He could also play a mean sax and piano.  One of my best memories is of him playing the piano and singing the song, Little Egypt for us.  (Only 'us oldies' remember it. ☺)  He was fun, he was talented, and he was the best.  His second year, we competed in a state marching contest and won a I rating, the highest.  The nearly 6 hour round trip was worth it.  He

Napping-or trying to-on the bus

left us a year later, moving on to direct at a community college in Pratt, KS.  Some of us visited him and his family there one weekend.  One very memorable weekend with good friends, not simply a former teacher.  He's now in Oklahoma, directing a band of his making and bringing enjoyment to many.

Those are the things that went through my mind last night, as I watched the 6th, 7th, and 8th grade bands and orchestras perform.  When Carol of the Bells played, I remembered singing it in vocal music.  It's one of my favorite songs of the Christmas season.  But our favorite in band, not played last night, was Sleigh Ride.  Each time we played it i concert, the audience was on its feet, applauding and cheering when it ended.  I can't hear the song without thinking of Mr. Rotter, standing before us, waving his wand, while we made magic the way he taught us.  We were blessed, and they continue in our memories.

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent. ~ Victor Hugo

Family Gatherings

MEMORY MONDAYS

Great-Grandparents and their children & grandchildren.  Mid-1920s

It's that time of year when I start thinking of the Good Ol' Days.  Holidays do that, and with Thanksgiving only a few days away, those memories of my family's holiday get-togethers come tumbling back through my mind.

I'm not technically a member of the genealogy of my family.  I'm adopted.  But my adopted family is all I've ever known, and I'm proud to be a part of them, even though I won't ever be listed in the official genealogy records.  I don't mind.  It's still my family.

My grandmother was the oldest girl of seven children.  Her grandparents immigrated to the U.S. from Germany in 1886 and settled on the farmland of Kansas.  She passed away when I was six months old, so I don't remember her.  But I have known most of her brothers and sisters, my great-uncles and great-aunts.  And their kids and their kids' kids.  I have a LOT of cousins.

The family enjoyed getting together and did so often.  The photo on the right was taken in the late 1930s.  The bib-overalls are proof that this was a farming family, although the photo was taken in the city at my grandparents' house.  I love this picture, because it's the house where I grew up, after my grandparents passed away.  The boy in the overalls standing with his hands in his pockets is my uncle.  My mother's younger brother.  As it is with many families now, the men would gather in one spot, while the women gathered in another--usually the kitchen!

Thanksgiving and Christmas were always big family affairs when I was growing up.  As many as possible would gather for a big dinner out in the country on one of the farms.  Quite often it would be at the home  of one of my Great-aunts, Aunt Dorothy or Aunt Lucy.  Lucy had a twin, Louis, but I didn't see much of him.  It was those two Great-aunts and their families who celebrated the holidays together.  There was never a lack of good food.  Everyone brought something.  My mom was often the one who cooked and brought the turkey, so I'd always wake up to the smell of roasting turkey on holiday mornings.

They were a noisy bunch.  Talking, joking and laughing went on throughout the day.  When everyone had stuffed themselves, but still sneaked an olive, celery stick or carrot, or another slice of homemade pie, they cleared the table, washed the dishes.  Once the chores were done, the grownups sat at the table for an afternoon and evening of playing cards.  Pitch was always the card game played, and I've never learned how to play it.  The level of sound would go up, and we kids could often hear the friendly arguments and shouts, while we climbed trees and scouted out the livestock outside.  I remember bottle feeding lambs and gathering eggs, which I detested, convinced that if a hen pecked me, I'd get chicken pox.  That proved to be untrue, of course, even though I did have chicken pox when I was 10.

As they evening grew later, talk of going home would begin, but it would take some time before everyone could tear themselves away from the good company and that last piece of Aunt Dorothy's chocolate pie.  When we kids were older, we'd have Aunt Dorothy bring out the wood folding table.  Four of us would sit at it and ask the table (spirit) questions.  The table would tilt on two legs, then drop down to "knock" once or twice for yes or no.  I've discovered mine wasn't the only family that did this, so we weren't the only "crazy" ones.

The drive down to the farm had seemed hours long, but it was barely 25 miles.  On the way home, as we drove in the dark through the small town that would one day be where I finished growing up, we followed a diagonal road shortcut that appeared to lead straight into the big grain elevator.  Of course it didn't end up at the elevator, instead leading to the north-south road that would take us home.  It wouldn't be long before I fell asleep in the quiet of the night, only to be roused, sleepy and grumpy when we arrived home.  Then off to bed, thinking of how fun and happy the day with family had been, eager for the next holiday.

I hope your memories of long-ago are as happy as mine!

Family is not an important thing. It's everything. ~ Michael J. Fox

Remembering the End of Camelot

A writing blog post didn't seem right for today.  Instead, I thought it would be more appropriate to take a look back in time.


Today is the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  Those of us who witnessed this shocking and sad moment in time should pause and remember it.  Whether we listened on the radio or watched on TV, it's something we will never forget.



In the fall of 1963, I was in junior high, new to the small town where we'd moved a month before and the small school I attended.  The school building was only a few years old and had been built large enough for both junior high (7th & 8th grades) and high school (9th-12th grades) students and faculty.  We were doing our regular work in Mrs. Slater's 7th grade English class, when the loudspeaker suddenly came on.  There was no announcement, only the voice of a radio news reporter saying that the President had been shot.  I've never sat in a class that was so quiet.  If a pin had been dropped in that room, it would have been as loud as a large boulder.  I think that for a moment, none of us breathed.  Throughout the rest of the period, we listened in shock to the new reports.


Memories drifted through my mind.  JFK in his rocking chair.  Caroline and John-John playing in the Oval Office.  Jackie's beautiful smile and her stunningly perfect wardrobe.  It was hard not to like JFK.  His strong charisma made him one of the favorite Presidents of that time. Well, except for some in Dallas and other places.

After English class, the bell cut in, and we filed silently out of the room, then went to Mrs. Willis's World History class across the hall.  We found Mrs. Willis at her desk, crying.  Somehow, seeing her tears, we accepted the reality and let loose our own tears.  JFK was gone.

While most schools were closed on November 25, 1963, the day of JFK's funeral, we attended school.  The administration believed too many of us would use a day off from school to have fun, ignoring what was going on in the nation and world around us.  I have no doubt they were right.  We attended school that day, with TVs in the gym and most of the classrooms.  I remember sitting at one of the tables in Mrs. Adams' Home Ec room, watching the news.

The images of that day, along with the ones from three days earlier, were burned into my memory.  It was a quiet day.  A day of reflection.  A day of sadness.  Not only for us, but for people across the country.  We came together, most of us, as one, to say goodbye to a great man, our President.  Who can ever forget John-John's salute as his father's horse-drawn coffin passed by?  Or watching Jackie Kennedy kiss her husband's casket in the rotunda?  The lines of people who came to pay their respects on that cold, November day and more will forever be remembered.


The death of a President, the leader of our country, is a sad time, no matter what political stand a person had.  Because JFK was the second youngest President, Theodore Roosevelt the youngest, and his death was at the hands of an assassin, we will always remember November 22, 1963.



Fast forward nearly 44 years.  In the summer of 2007, I attended an RWA conference in Dallas.  One of the first things a person does after entering a hotel room is to take a look out the window, especially when on the 20th floor.  The view was great!  And then I saw some things I recognized.  Dealey Plaza.  The Texas School Book Depository.  Several days later, I made my way down to the plaza.  I wanted to visit the 6th Floor Museum, but time was too short.  I stood across the street from the building where Oswald fired the gun that (reportedly) killed JFK.  White Xs had been painted into the middle of Elm Street, where the motorcade had traveled that day.  With cars whizzing by on the busy street, I dashed out into it and took photos of the Xs.  I'm still wondering where I saved those pictures.

The year 1963 might seem long ago.  For some of us who experienced the 1960s, it was different.  We may be older, but our memories continue of a time when we believed our country was, for a short time, Camelot.

In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot. 
~ King Arthur (Richard Burton) in Camelot
(lyrics & music ALAN JAY LERNER/FRDERICK LOEWE)

RIP John Fitzgerald Kennedy 

Sad Time

L-R: Sandy, moi, Mickie, Betty

In the midst of working to beat a deadline, I and my former high school classmates received sad news that our friend, Mickie, who's been dealing for many years with fibromyalgia, early onset Alzheimer's and Parkinson's, wasn't expected to live more than a couple of weeks.  Yesterday, we learned she passed away Saturday evening.

After the initial shock, in spite of knowing in advance, I decided to focus on the good memories we all shared, "throughout our imprisonment in CHS," as one friend wrote in my senior yearbook.

Mickie was always a beauty and just as lovely inside.  She would arrive at school looking like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine.  She left looking exactly the same.  Her clothes were classic, and she always looked put-together, whether in cutoffs and a shirt, her cheerleader uniform, or pajamas at one one our many slumber parties.  Me?  I went to school looking okay.  Hair combed, a little makeup and appropriate clothing.  By the time I left, I looked like I'd spent the day wrestling a pack of dogs.  I truly envied her.

I arrived at CHS just into my seventh grade year, knowing only a few people.  By junior year, Mickie and I had become close friends.  She studied hard and made good grades and was in the top 10% of the class for two years.  She was involved in many school activities, including Annual (Yearbook) Staff, a cheerleader and member of the pep club, Basketball Homecoming attendant, Girls Glee Club, Mixed Chorus, and Kayettes, a service organization.  She became a lifeguard at the local swimming pool the summer before our senior year.

I can still hear her throaty laugh and remember one Saturday evening, during a big snow in the winter of our senior year, when she and Sandy stopped by to see if I could go with them "on an errand" to a larger town about 12 miles away.  The roads were slick and my mom refused to let me go with them.  What my mom didn't know, nor did their moms, they were going on a beer run.  Sandy, you see, had turned 18, and at that time 18-year-olds could legally buy it.  I've never cared much for beer.  The only way I could drink it was by adding tomato juice (Red Beer), and even then, it wasn't all that great.  An hour later, Mickie and Sandy returned to smuggle in a sack, which we promptly put in my opened bedroom window and closed the door.  I don't remember drinking any of that beer,with or without tomato juice, but I probably had a little of the Pink Catawba wine that we'd had at Halloween.  (But that's another story.)  A couple of hours went by, listening to the radio and sipping our drinks.  When Mr. Lonely, by Bobby Vinton, came on, Mickie began singing in a drunken voice, although she wasn't at all inebriated.  We taped it on small reel-to-reel tape recorder, and I wish I knew what happened to it.  We laughed and giggled the rest of the night.

Then there was the night when we hid two six-packs of beer in the bushes in front of Sandy's house. At about 2 a.m., we decided to take it down to the park, and we slipped out of the house, while Sandy's mother was sleeping.  Keep in mind, this was a small town of less than 2,000.  We walked to the park, undetected.  Under the shelter house, we each popped open a can, but the beer was warm and tasted (as usual for me) terrible.  We sat there a while, then decided to go back to Sandy's, leaving the beer--all of the beer--behind for anyone who found it.

There are more stories, none involving alcohol we didn't drink or even buy or have bought for us.  We dragged main for endless hours in Sandy's mom's Opel Kadette.  We laughed, cheered and sang on the pep club bus on our way to and from football and basketball games.  There were dances and slumber parties and after-school days, summer and more.

And then we went away to college, Mickie and I attending the same school.  I only stayed for a month.  College wasn't for me.  But Mickie stayed, and we saw each other less and less.  She married her high school sweetheart, another member of our class, and they had two children, a daughter and son.  They lived in our home town for many, many years, where she worked at the local mortuary.  She had a special way with those in mourning, a calm that eased the sorrow of others.  She was there when my dad died, and I was grateful to have her with me.  Later, her husband took a job in Oklahoma, but by then, her health had begun to deteriorate.

Mickie isn't the first classmate we've lost.  There have been seven others before her, in a class of 54 students, in addition to our beloved principal.  It was his son who told us the news of Mickie's passing.

I'll miss Mickie, as many who know her will, but I'm proud to have been her friend, and I'll always have the memories we shared.

Rest now, my friend, and know that we all love you.  Still.

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.” ~ Old Irish Saying 

'Twas the Night Before Halloween

'Tis the Eve of the Eve.  All Hallows Eve, that is.  Yes, tomorrow is Halloween, the time of ghosts and ghouls, princesses and ballerinas, ninja warriors and transformers.

Halloween has become my favorite holiday.  Usually it's spent watching television and answering the door once or twice.  There aren't many trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood, so a big bag of candy would last for years...if not eaten by my own g-kids.  But a tradition of watching favorite Halloween movies is as good as it gets.

This year I've chosen two movies.  Hocus Pocus and Practical Magic.  After all, it is the season of the witch.

I remember walking through my neighborhood as a child, accompanied by the older next-door-neighbors, collecting a large paper bag of goodies that seemed to last forever.  My mother nearly always made my costumes.  Homemade were always the best.  I was a monkey, a bride, a clown, and more than I can remember.  There are home movies I can watch, if I really wanted to a list.  Maybe next year.  The most

memorable Halloween was the year I was a Pilgrim/Dutch Girl.  Yeah, a bit weird, but the costume resembled that of a Pilgrim, complete with a yellow pig-tail wig, and those older-than-me neighbor's let me borrow their grandmother's wooden shoes for the evening.  They weren't all that comfortable, either.  We stayed within our own block, both across the street and the street behind us.  Two blocks of goodies, and everyone had something to pass out.  As we approached one house, a witch appeared from the side of it, scaring me.  I truly believed it was an old, scary witch, and I took off running for home and screaming.  In the process of trying to run in a pair of too-small wooden shoes, I lost my hat and my wig, arriving home frantic, crying, and shouting that a witch had tried to get us.  My dad looked at me and said, "Looks like you lost your hair and hat, too."  Devastated that I'd lost part of my costume, I begged him to go back for it, but to watch out for the witch.  I waited, afraid the witch would catch him, but he returned some fifteen minutes later, with Pilgrim hat and wig in hand.

I hit the age of twelve, grew up, and had just moved to a small town.  Life changed and so did Halloween.  But life in that particular town was exciting.  Pumpkin patches were raided, and the main street was littered with smashed pumpkins.  An outhouse or two was stolen and placed in the center of town.  Small fires and bales of hay littered the street.  Costumes?  Who needed them?  They'd have only been covered with eggs.  By the Halloween of my senior year in high school, the Sheriff's Department sent officers on horseback to corral the destruction.  But we were smarter and managed to make Halloween memorable.

I married, had children, and found myself creating costumes for my own girls, just as my mother had for me.  We often used items we already had or old fabric left from my childhood.  My youngest's first Halloween was spent as a Gypsy, created from odds and end of clothing we had.

Over time, as more daughters were born and became old enough to knock on doors, we went along with one of their cousins, in the tiny country town near where we lived.  By then they'd become fairly good at minding their manners with "Trick or Treat" and "Thank You," as we visited the homes of friends, family and neighbors.  During all that time, we went through a wide range of costumes.  Devils and angels, a tough kid with a black eye, a cheerleader, a ballerina, and an Indian Princess.  (That's the boy cousin during one of his robot phases).  The last costumes I made were four genies, all in different colors.

My girls grew up and had their own little Trick-or-Treaters, and at times, I was coerced into making a few costumes for them.  There are five to created for, and it can take some time an imagination.  Although we'd planned a Peter Pan theme this year, time got away from us--thanks to that family wedding less than two weeks ago--so we're sticking to face painting only, this year.

2009 with all 5 g-kids and oldest daughter

2011 in full costume and looking great!

2012 and, oh, how they've grown!

Not too bad for a group with different tastes and desires, not to mention from help from Goodwill and anything we found around the house, some years.  Yes, that's my crew, who are here to drive me to cackling.  An almost 12-year-old, an almost 11-year-old, a 9-year-old, 6-year-old, and the youngest is 4. 

I haven't dressed up for Halloween for a long, long time.  I've been too busy with costumes for the others to have time to think about me.  But this year, I was invited and attended a party at the home of a local author friend.  Just dressing up at the last minute, grabbing this and that from my closet and painting my face was fun.  The party proved even more fun!  Maybe next year I'll give more thought to it.  The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, Maybe?  It's a thought...

Enjoy your 2013 Halloween, whether you're partying, escorting off-spring or off-spring of your off-spring around the neighborhood, or simply sitting at home, thinking of the times gone by.  Because it's believed by some to be the night the veil is lifted between our world and the world beyond, think of the loved ones you've shared with on some of those past Halloween nights.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

But I love Halloween, and I love that feeling: the cold air, the spooky dangers lurking around the corner. ~ Evan Peters 

Time Off

THE WRITING LIFE

The time came for me to keep a running To Do list.  I kept forgetting to do things, then rushing to get them done when I realized they needed attention.  My list never seems to be finished.  Each day I add something new, in spite of marking off at least one or two items that were already there.

Sometimes we simply need to take a break.

In addition to writing, I design author websites and provide childcare for my grandkids.  All but one of the five (a step-grand makes it six) is in school.  (Hear my hallelujah?)  So last week, still in the throes of not having my taxes filed yet, website work to do, and a proposal that needs some changes and polishing, my youngest daughter decides we need to take the youngest grand (her niece) to the zoo.  One more thing to add to the list.  But I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Okay, if you really want to."  After all, there's a special admission price this month on Wednesdays, making it less painful on the pocketbook.

With a backpack stuffed with sandwiches, and my camera in hand, we went to the zoo.  It's been a while since we've gone.  In fact, Payton (above with the bears) has never been to our zoo.  She wasn't exactly wild about the idea at first, but once there, when told, "Come on, we have to go," after looking over an animal, she cried.  Yeah, I think she liked it. :)

We have a wonderful zoo here, much better than the tiny (free) one in a park that I visited as a child.  Not that I've never seen better than that old one.  I've been to some of the best, including the Chicago Zoo and the San Diego Zoo.  But I have to say that ours now ranks among the best.  While there are some of the more common animals (lions and tigers and bears and, of course, elephants, and Michael Jackson once bought a baby giraffe from our zoo), we include the more uncommon from all over the world.  The best part is that the animals are shown in their natural habitat, not sleeping or pacing in cages.

Stork

The zoo is divided into sections, including areas of the world.  There's the Children's Farms that include an Asian Farm, American Farm, and African Farm.  Our new Penguin Cove opened a few years ago, and there's an indoor Amphibian & Reptile building, that begins with three large, and very old, tortoises and ends with the snakes (shiver).  Since seeing Harry Potter, I have images still in my mind of how the glass disappeared when I stand in front of the Anaconda exhibit.

Inside the Jungle

The Jungle building is one of the most popular and includes not only a real waterfall, but fruit bats flying freely and vampire bats in a dark, glassed in area.  Plants are everywhere, and the birds are free to fly and roam...and make a lot of noise.  There's the North American area, with bears and buffaloes and more, the Gorilla Forest that's so much fun to watch.  Africa and Asia, which includes the Tiger Trek, moves on to Australia and South America.  Most of the animals from those last two regions were unavailable, thanks to our colder weather here, but we'll catch them the next time.

Gorilla playing with a sheet

The exhibits are all well-marked as is the way to each area, and the information shared on each animal is fascinating.  School children from the city and surrounding school districts take trips to the zoo every year and learn new things.  And, yes, I do read those information signs.  Flamingos get their pink/orange color from eating greens that contain iodine.  I remember the flamingos at Cyprus Gardens in Florida when I was child, but I never knew until yesterday that the underside of a flamingos wings are black, thanks to them taking low flight from the shore to the pond yesterday.

While it wasn't the beautiful day forecasted, and the sun refused to come out from behind thick clouds, with a stiff breeze and 10 degrees cooler than expected, we still had a wonderful time!  Proof, once again, that time off is needed by everyone, and it doesn't take much to make some of those times memorable.

“Sometimes it's important to work for that pot of gold. But other times it's essential to take time off and to make sure that your most important decision in the day simply consists of choosing which color to slide down on the rainbow.” ~ Douglas Pagels