A Short Sunday Story......

.....because it is all too slippy-sloppy in Mother Nature's larder for a Sunday Stroll.


CHAPTER ONE, in which our four year old martyr refused to give up her pennies in Sunday School.
Every Sunday her gentle mother would load her three children into the car to deliver them into the pious hands of their respective Sunday School teachers, leaving their daddy behind at home...which if you have read any of the entries here about him, you would conclude that leaving Daddy at home ALONE, was a risky and somewhat dangerous move.
Every Sunday this little girl would have her hair carefully brushed, a ribbon tied on, a clean dress wrestled onto her wriggling little body, and wonders of wonders, a pair of sandals on those normally bare feet. Pennies would be tied up into her hankie for the collection plate. (Therese Defarge??)
It was that collection plate, with its gaping and
greedy mouth that caused such anxiety for this small person. What the reader does not know about her, is that each and every Sunday she wanted, she hoped, she prayed in her selfish four year old mind, to escape the confines of Sunday School with her pennies unsullied and still in the grip of her tightly tied handkerchief. She had plans for those pennies and those plans did not involve supporting the church, sending rice or Bibles to impoverished children; she wanted those pennies to spend at Kam Fui's store on the way home. She wanted to buy herself and ice cream cone. The fact that they rarely stopped at the store had no effect on her inherent greediness.
Week after week she would refuse to relinquish those shiny little coins, and week after week she would, in the end, heave a huge and dramatic sigh, get up out of her little chair, stomp her four year old feet across the ocean of linoleum and throw those pennies into the collection plate with a dramatic, "There!" It was her own personal Green Mile.
The writer of this tale does not remember how many times this was repeated, but she does remember very clearly what happens in Chapter Two.

CHAPTER TWO, in which our devious and conniving small person ends it all.
The three children are loaded into the car. The loving mother drives off, and perhaps because of distractions, fatigue or inattention, waits until the family is within close proximity to the church, and asks in her gentle voice, "Is everyone ready?" The older sister and brother respond affirmatively. The four year old small and devious person looks down, pulls up the skirt of her dress and shouts out happily, "OOPS!" to reveal that she has no underpants on.
Oh, Joyful, Joyful, Hallelujah and Amen!! It is too late to both turn around, go back home, put those panties on and then make it to Sunday School in time.
The car is turned around, it does wend its way home, but it is far too late to proceed back to church. It is her finest hour in her selfish little brain and it is the last time she remembers going to Sunday School, the last time that she will hoard her pennies.

EPILOGUE: Several years later she will begin accompanying her grandmother to the Episcopal Church in downtown Honolulu. She will no longer begrudge her pennies, but she will spend her time on her knees, next to her grandmother and offering up this prayer: "Please God, I want Gramma to take me out to lunch."

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Plum Nelly...

...is where this little rocker came from. It's old and worn and wears the battle scars from a budding carpenter who once applied the teeth of a saw to one of the arms.
We lived in Georgia for ten years when my husband taught at Georgia State University.
One of the things that we loved to do back then, was to go to craft fairs in little out of the way places.
Way up in north Georgia was one of my favorite places...Plum Nelly. According to what I heard, this tiny hamlet was so named because it was "Plum outta Tennessee and nelly outta Georgia."

We bought this rocker for our youngest son. I found a beautiful handwoven egg basket which I still have. It holds some of my yarn and a project or two. Both of these objects are so special to me. They contain the memories of two little boys who filled my life with joy....and at the same time, they are from an era that was one of my most painful, a time that was so difficult; and too, a time and a place where I grew so much and learned to appreciate "me". It was a hard time, but it was a good time for growing and learning. I am grateful for that. Isn't it amazing how small objects can contain such memories and gifts?

Plum Nelly is not too far from Rising Fawn, another name that I absolutely adore. Plum Nelly and Rising Fawn are also close to Gass.

Well, that does put a damper on poetic names of tiny places, doesn't it?



Best

A Whistle and Pieces of My Heart

For three years I had a little boy in my classes by the name of Rusty; my last year teaching kindergarten and then in the first, second and third grades when I taught in a multi-age classroom. Rusty was born way too early to a young woman who never should have conceived a child, at least not then. Too much alcohol, drugs and no support do not make a good combination nor do they make an auspicious beginning for a new life.
As an infant, Rusty was severely developmentally delayed. We take it for granted that children learn to roll over, sit up, crawl and walk on their own and in their own time. Rusty had to be taught to do all of these things. The insides of both of his arms bore the tracings and needle marks of the wires and tubes that were necessary just to keep this little guy alive.
In kindergarten he would often fall out of his chair and need help in getting back to a sitting position as he truly couldn't tell up from down. He struggled with many tasks, but his battles at school were cheerfully and willingly faced with determination and confidence. He grew, he learned, he flourished and he enriched all of our lives. He loved to declare that he was "amiracle" baby. One word, not two:Amiracle.
Each day he came to school joyfully, his face spread in a wide, goofy grin. He made friends, felt the safety of his surroundings and was unstoppably enthusiastic. He never left willingly; he never went home at the end of the day in hight spirits. He never wanted to leave.
On the last day of school, in the last year that I had Rusty, we were coming back from a swim and picnic at the park. I had been given directions to drop him off at the apartments near the school. He was not to take the bus that day. When I went to say goodbye and to leave him, he started crying and pleading. He did not want to go into that apartment. I did not know what to do. I did not want to leave him. Someone came out to get him and I had to let him go. To console him, I gave him my playground whistle, something he had always wanted and admired.
Rusty's mother moved him out of our school district to a much bigger one south of here. I never saw him again. I've thought of him many, many times over the years. I have been afraid for him: afraid for him to make the move, afraid of what junior high and high school may have been like for him. I have been angry; angry at his mother and angry at myself for my inability to protect him.
I gave Rusty my whistle and through the years, pieces of my heart. I am scared that they were not enough. I want to reach out and know that such a brave person was and is o.k. Experience tells me no. Sadness for such a bright and loving soul tell me these things were poor coinage for someone who needed so much more, much more than a whistle and pieces of my heart.

T is for Teaching

...or memories of my first year.
Fresh out of college, I began my first year of teaching at West Gresham Grade School. I was to be one of two second grade teachers. My salary was a whopping $5,000. I had a tiny apartment right off of Stark Street. It cost me $79.50 a month. You could justifiably describe my apartment furnishings and possessions as Spartan. I had a few dishes, some pots and pans, a single bed, a clock radio, two small rattan chairs and a table that was smaller than most peoples' computer screens are today. I had no dresser, no t.v. and no car. My good friend "K" who was the other second grade teacher did have a car, so that solved my transportation problem in going to and from school. Did it bother me that I had next to nothing on the home front? Not a wit, because I had a teaching job. I was a teacher at last and I was raring to go. I was full of enthusiasm and happiness. It was going to be a great year!
Two students stand out in my mind from that little class. They were both boys and I adored them. "T" was a character whose father was a swimming coach. One day I noticed that he kept bringing out a small object that he had carefully wrapped in a Kleenex. He would pull it out only when he thought I wasn't looking. I kept quiet about it, but kept sneaking peeks to see what he was up to. I could finally tell that it was a very small, but dead lizard. "T" would carefully unwrap the lizard, gently trying to open its mouth, while blowing little puffs of air down its throat. He would then place it on his desk and just as gently, with carefully curved finger, apply a wee bit of pressure to the lizard's abdomen. He would repeat this process as often as he could, trying not to draw the attention of his teacher. It finally dawned on me what he was trying to do, and where he had learned this life saving technique. I think he would have continued with this all day if I hadn't finally convinced him that his lizard was truly dead and beyond resuscitation.
We reverently consigned him, wrapped snugly in his Kleenex, to the trash can at recess. I think we even said a few respectful words. I gave "T" some hugs and life went on.
My other vivid memory is of "J". He was a bright and engaging little guy, but one who would perform a very odd ritual now and then. This ritual was the methodical and intentional habit of licking the surface of his desk. These were not randomly or carelessly applied licks. "J" had a plan and he stuck to that plan, by golly. He would start at the bottom right hand corner of his desk, lick all the way up to the top in one fluid movement, turn the corner, go across the top, down the left hand side, and finish at the point where he had begun...always the same, never deviating from his thoughtful self appointed task. Ahh.
My guess is that "T" became a danged good swimming coach like his dad.(Forgive me, he "followed in his father's wake") I'm not so sure about "J", but I would venture that he's highly successful and works in Washington D.C. for the Federal Government.
It was a wonderful year. I loved every minute of it. Oh, wait a moment while I eat my last words. I didn't appreciate the whopping case of measles my dear class shared with me.


Best!

H is for Hanahauoli

...my beloved elementary school. Hanahauoli is in Honolulu and I was a student there from kindergarten through the sixth grade. It was an amazing little school. Poor in as much as the buildings were simple wooden structures which gathered around a central court yard. Poor in that there was no glass on the windows except for the office, but absolute richness abounded in every classroom and in the expanse and depth of the curriculum. Looking back, I guess we were immersed in a sort of Waldorf/Steiner/Montessori soupiness of education. We had art, music, rhythms, shop and never ending opportunities to "study, make and do".
I learned to use saws, drills, hammers and nails and a treadle sewing machine in shop. I made a bird cage..it probably weighed 40 pounds. I made an entire set of bowls by pouring slip into my mold, firing them and then glazing them. I sewed and designed my own softies as you would call them now. We all designed and made a stepping stone. We carved linoleum blocks and printed with them.
I learned to make a "real" book with hand sewn pages and hard cover. I still have that book.
I could go on and on...it would take up pages. Hanahauoli was an amazing school. I loved it and the gifts it gave me still amaze and delight me.
This is a picture of my sixth grade class.(click on it for a ginormous view) Aren't we a raggedy, but happy looking melange of innocence and youth! I am in the second row, 4th one in from the left, dead center. I'd go back in time in a heartbeat and relive those years again.

Another Entry to D..

I have a very short entry to the letter D.
When I was an eighth grader, my beloved brother left Hawaii to go to school in California. I was bereft, I was in mourning, I couldn't imagine life without him.
My sister had been gone for several years...I was alone and I didn't know what I was going to do without my brother whom I adored. Enter a cousin whom I had never met.
Dan was the son of one of my Daddy's favorite cousins. He had survived horrendous things during the war in Korea. For some reason, he came to live with us. He had been a graduate of Stanford and, I think, just needed a place to be and call home.
He was my savior. He gently guided me through algebra, through geometry...he was my substitute brother, he was the one that allowed me to be silly and outrageous. He called me Bubbles, which I loved, because it affirmed and granted me the chance to be silly..to be, in my limited way, wild.
He still lives in Hawaii. He has Alzheimer's now. I will forever be thankful for him, I will forever love him and remember with joy how he helped me through such hard times. I will forever think of him and will probably be angry and unaccepting that he and his family are having to deal with this terrible disease. I love you Dan and I will always thank you for what you did for me.

D=Daddy and The Dear Diary of a Demented Domestic Diva

I can't talk about Domesticity without mentioning some of my Daddy's Disastrous and Deviant Doings. (You may want to have a rest before you read this...it may be long and Dumb)
We used to have a refrigerator like this. It was a behemoth, weighed a ton and couldn't be budged. We lived in a huge old house, the kitchen was immense. My mother wanted the refrigerator moved from one side of the kitchen to the other side. She kept threatening to call a moving company to do so. One day when I was very little we all went somewhere, leaving Daddy to his own Devices. When we came home several hours later, the refrigerator stood exactly where my mother had wanted it. Nothing in it had been removed: the milk bottles were still in the same place, the leftovers undisturbed. My father had attached a pulley and rope to the frig, had gone out to the garage and found a big can of axle grease. He greased the floor and slid the refrigerator across with the rope and pulley. It worked like a charm, except for the fact that it took my mother several days to remove the axle grease.
On another occasion when left alone, my father decided that our yard needed some fertilizer. He had some chicken manure on hand and an old pump. He somehow reversed the motor on the pump and blew the manure all over the yard. This also worked brilliantly except for the fact that he had neglected to close all of the windows in the house. We arrived home to find manure in every nook and cranny and the not so Delicate scent of chicken manure wafting through the rooms.
Now being the Daughter of such a man, you can imagine that now and then, I can indulge in Doubtful and Dodgey Domestic habits.
I have been known to wash chard in my washing machine (no spin cycle) when I had picked so much of it to freeze. I was going nuts rinsing it off in the kitchen sink. The little light bulb went off above my head! Ta Da..it did work.
I've used my handy dandy shop vac to suck up all manner of dried vegetable matter that has been hiding in my refrigerator. That worked too!
I also shop vac one of my Newfoundland dogs. She loves it. That also works well.
This I do not recommend: the Drying of bread crumbs with your hair dryer. It's not a pretty sight when you're done.
I leave you with a poem that's really not about housecleaning, Domestic Doings or brooms, but it's lovely. Emily Dickinson wrote this:

She sweeps with many-colored Brooms--
And leaves the Shreds behind--
Oh Housewife in the Evening West--
Come back, and dust the Pond!

You dropped the Purple Ravelling in--
You dropped the Amber thread--
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of Emerald!

And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars-
And then I come away--

Best!

Gone Are the Days.......

school days that is, but the memories are still there. When I think about my teaching years, all manner of memories come flooding back...projects, parents, students, good days, bad days, happy and sad days, my triumphs and my failures all are there for the calling up. Memories of each new year are inexorably bound up in scents: the smell of crayons, construction paper, chalk, erasers and new pencils. What could shout "New School Year!" louder than that?
End of the school year memories are much more about what we did, what we learned, what I learned, and the students who were in my class. This post is dedicated to a student I had twenty six years ago.
We had just moved here and I landed a job as a first grade teacher, something for which I was totally unprepared. I'd been teaching nine, ten and eleven year old kids previous to our move. The student I remember so vividly that year was a small, grubby faced, dark haired boy named Ronnie. He had the interesting habit of chewing on his shirt collars so that by October nearly all of his shirts were sporting only the ghost of a collar. To say that he was a character is a gross understatement. It was Ronnie who would jump up, and holding his scissors aloft, shout out, "These scissors are out of control!" It was Ronnie who would lament, "This pencil has a mind of its own." Once after we had spent several days learning about elephants, he charged out of his seat demanding that everyone stop and listen. "Stop, stop! Can't you hear it? The elephants, the elephants are coming!" Some of the class actually ran to the windows to look. Ronnie was no student, but neither was he slow. He struggled with the "three R's", but he was one of the most creative little guys I ever had.
One morning when he walked into the classroom, he sized me up and down and declared, "I told you not to wear that dress. I HATE that dress!"
Me: "But Ronnie, I don't have many dresses."
Ronnie: "Well, why don't you get you some?"
Me: "Well, dresses cost money and I don't have a lot of money. I have to buy clothes for my two boys and I have to buy food too."
Ronnie: Silence, time out to ponder, then, "Well, why don't you get you a JOB?"
Me: Mouth agape, bug eyed, "This is my job, Ronnie."
Ronnie: Incredulous look on his face, a hint of outrage, long pause, "You mean you get PAID to do this?"
Ronnie, wherever you are today, I realize that you are a grown man. I hope you haven't changed dramatically. Of course I hope that your scissors are under control, that your pencils are obedient, that your shirts are sporting fully intact collars, and that you have a son equally creative, unique and wonderful as you were so long ago in my classroom. I hope that there is a Ronnie clone in your family circle, although, somehow I think God shredded the blueprints when he created you.


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A Father's Day Remembrance: To Vincent

Born in 1906 on a sugar plantation in Hawaii
Mother English, Father Irish
Became a banker and businessman in Honolulu
Married his high school sweetheart
Fathered three children
Loved his family, friends, fishing and working on cars
Great sense of humor, gentle, kind and affectionate

Dear Daddy,
You've been gone so long and I still miss you. I wish that you could share in the joy that is my life. I wish that you could have been a part of my children's growing up. I wish that you could see what wonderful young men they have become and what loving families of their own they have created. I wish that they could have had the blessing of your presence in their lives.
Thank you for being the person you always were. Thank you for taking care of us, for being a loving husband and father. Thank you for your humor, the joy that you had over "the little things", that when added up, become something big..the wonder and sense of gratitude for those small bits and pieces that are a part of each day.
Thank you for teaching me the importance of love in my life, love of family and friends. Thank you for showing me the value of expressing that love not only through actions and deeds, but with words. I do not remember a day going by that you didn't say "I love you" out loud to each of us. I learned that lesson well by your example.
I remember so well you describing one of your friends: "He doesn't have a mean bone in his body." Neither did you.
Thank you, I love you Daddy.
Ellen