INCIDENT ON THE BUS
I’ve written before about riding the city buses to town. It was a method of transportation I used often when I was a child and even into my teens. And it was in the segregated bus that I rebelled against the system in a very small way.
The bus had a front door that was the entrance and a side back door that was the exit. Behind the exit were two rows of two-seaters and one long seat across the back. These back rows behind the exit were where the black people were to sit. If the bus was really crowded, the whites just moved on back and took up all the seats except for the long back one. It didn’t matter to them that the blacks had to stand; they were just interested in getting their own seats.
One day a friend and I boarded the bus on West End, heading to town. The bus was practically filled up with white people; the only seats available were on the very last row. At one end of the row were one or two black people, but the other end was free. So we decided to sit there until more African Americans got on and then of course, we would give up our seats to them. There was a man in front of us (who was actually in a seat reserved for “coloreds”) and he kept turning around and looking at us with a frown on his face. I knew what he was upset about and it wasn’t that we were taking the black people’s seats.
Sure enough, in a few stops two AA’s got on the bus and right when we noticed them, the man in front of us turned around and said in a nasty tone, “You all are going to have to move; you can’t sit with them.”
We were already starting to rise so I said to him, “We’re moving because these are their seats, not because we don’t want to sit next to them.” Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have had that much nerve to speak that way to an adult, but I was so angry, it just slipped out. We quickly made our way toward the front to stand in order to be away from him. He was the kind who might send the KKK after us.
Perhaps, you can understand why Rosa Parks is such a hero to me.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
THE SEGREGATED SOUTH
One of the reasons I write this blog is to show my children and grandchildren (and whoever else might be interested) the way life was back in the forties and fifties. There were some aspects about that life that were great (safe neighborhoods, no drugs, low crime rates), but one part that I abhorred, especially when I became old enough to understand it, was the segregation of the races in the South.
At first, of course, I was too young to comprehend what was going on. All I knew was that the only black person I had any knowledge of at all was Lizzie, Mother’s “day help.” Lizzie was a very sweet old lady who helped Mother clean, wash, iron, and occasionally baby sit when Mother went to town. We all loved her and I remember hanging around her and asking her personal questions, like how old she was (she didn’t know!). She lived with her niece and we always visited her every Christmas, taking her a big bag of groceries. This practice continued long after she “retired.” She seemed really appreciative and glad to see us every year.
When I look back on that time, however, I realize that I didn’t have a clue about what it was like to be an African American living in the South. There were separate facilities (water fountains, bathrooms, etc.) everywhere the “colored” were allowed to go, like the bus station and train depot, but other than that, I was unaware of the poverty in which they lived. Oh, I guess I vaguely knew that they were poor, but amazingly enough, I thought they were happy. I do remember that Villa Place (close to Belmont University) was their “Belle Meade” and I was fascinated every time I went down that street and would see fairly large houses that were nicely kept, but more colorful (no pun intended) than ours. And there were always Cadillacs parked in front of the houses.
Of course, the worst injustice took place on the public transportation vehicles, like the buses and trains, and also in the movie theaters. On the buses they were required to sit in the back or stand up. And in the theaters, they had to sit in the balconies and had different entrances from the whites. They couldn’t even go in the front door of a “white” hotel, much less be a guest.
By the time I was in my teens, I was aware of the unfairness of these practices and at least one time rebelled. But that is a story best saved for the next blog.
One of the reasons I write this blog is to show my children and grandchildren (and whoever else might be interested) the way life was back in the forties and fifties. There were some aspects about that life that were great (safe neighborhoods, no drugs, low crime rates), but one part that I abhorred, especially when I became old enough to understand it, was the segregation of the races in the South.
At first, of course, I was too young to comprehend what was going on. All I knew was that the only black person I had any knowledge of at all was Lizzie, Mother’s “day help.” Lizzie was a very sweet old lady who helped Mother clean, wash, iron, and occasionally baby sit when Mother went to town. We all loved her and I remember hanging around her and asking her personal questions, like how old she was (she didn’t know!). She lived with her niece and we always visited her every Christmas, taking her a big bag of groceries. This practice continued long after she “retired.” She seemed really appreciative and glad to see us every year.
When I look back on that time, however, I realize that I didn’t have a clue about what it was like to be an African American living in the South. There were separate facilities (water fountains, bathrooms, etc.) everywhere the “colored” were allowed to go, like the bus station and train depot, but other than that, I was unaware of the poverty in which they lived. Oh, I guess I vaguely knew that they were poor, but amazingly enough, I thought they were happy. I do remember that Villa Place (close to Belmont University) was their “Belle Meade” and I was fascinated every time I went down that street and would see fairly large houses that were nicely kept, but more colorful (no pun intended) than ours. And there were always Cadillacs parked in front of the houses.
Of course, the worst injustice took place on the public transportation vehicles, like the buses and trains, and also in the movie theaters. On the buses they were required to sit in the back or stand up. And in the theaters, they had to sit in the balconies and had different entrances from the whites. They couldn’t even go in the front door of a “white” hotel, much less be a guest.
By the time I was in my teens, I was aware of the unfairness of these practices and at least one time rebelled. But that is a story best saved for the next blog.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
MUSIC, MUSIC, MUSIC
Remember the old song, “Put another nickel in, In the nickelodeon, All I want is loving you, And music, music, music”? That sums up how I feel about music. I love all kinds --- from classical to fifties rock’n’roll to big band to inspirational, and on and on. But probably the music I appreciate as much as any is good ole Country.
First of all, the songs usually have a lively beat and often the lyrics are priceless. Kenny Chesney’s song about summertime brings to mind my high school summer days when life was soooo easy (although I’m sure we didn’t think so at the time). Trisha Yearwood’s “Jasper County Rain” tells the sad story of unrequited love, and while it is sad, there’s something about it that is so true to life. And songs like that about the South really hit me right where I live.
Many of them tell a great story. There’s one about a bus wreck in which four people, a teacher, a preacher, a farmer, and a hooker are described. Three of them die because there are “three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway.” We know as the song progresses that the teacher and farmer die, and that the preacher says to the hooker, “Can’t you see heaven?” but we are not sure until the end which one of them goes. Finally, the singer tells us that he is in church listening to his preacher tell the story. From the pulpit the preacher holds up the blood stained Bible and reveals that it was his mother who was the survivor. I had actually listened to this song quite a few times before I really "heard" the words and understood the ending. What a story of redemption!
Other country songs can be quite inspirational. Denise Jackson once told me that she was sure some of the songs that Alan writes are inspired by God (“Where Were You?”, “It’s All About Him”). But then she laughed and said “Not all of them, though --- ‘It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere’ was not.” But you know, I really like that song, and when Jimmy Buffet comes on in the middle of it, I just get chills --- I can just see him strolling out on stage as a surprise and joining in the song.
I think that one of the best lines in country music is from a song by Randy Travis (?) “Forever and Ever, Amen”. In it he sings “I’ll love you as long as old men sit and talk about the weather, and as long as old women sit and talk about old men.” Can’t you just see a group of old weather beaten old men sitting on a front porch talking while their wives are sitting in the kitchen complaining about them? I love it!!
Remember the old song, “Put another nickel in, In the nickelodeon, All I want is loving you, And music, music, music”? That sums up how I feel about music. I love all kinds --- from classical to fifties rock’n’roll to big band to inspirational, and on and on. But probably the music I appreciate as much as any is good ole Country.
First of all, the songs usually have a lively beat and often the lyrics are priceless. Kenny Chesney’s song about summertime brings to mind my high school summer days when life was soooo easy (although I’m sure we didn’t think so at the time). Trisha Yearwood’s “Jasper County Rain” tells the sad story of unrequited love, and while it is sad, there’s something about it that is so true to life. And songs like that about the South really hit me right where I live.
Many of them tell a great story. There’s one about a bus wreck in which four people, a teacher, a preacher, a farmer, and a hooker are described. Three of them die because there are “three wooden crosses on the right side of the highway.” We know as the song progresses that the teacher and farmer die, and that the preacher says to the hooker, “Can’t you see heaven?” but we are not sure until the end which one of them goes. Finally, the singer tells us that he is in church listening to his preacher tell the story. From the pulpit the preacher holds up the blood stained Bible and reveals that it was his mother who was the survivor. I had actually listened to this song quite a few times before I really "heard" the words and understood the ending. What a story of redemption!
Other country songs can be quite inspirational. Denise Jackson once told me that she was sure some of the songs that Alan writes are inspired by God (“Where Were You?”, “It’s All About Him”). But then she laughed and said “Not all of them, though --- ‘It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere’ was not.” But you know, I really like that song, and when Jimmy Buffet comes on in the middle of it, I just get chills --- I can just see him strolling out on stage as a surprise and joining in the song.
I think that one of the best lines in country music is from a song by Randy Travis (?) “Forever and Ever, Amen”. In it he sings “I’ll love you as long as old men sit and talk about the weather, and as long as old women sit and talk about old men.” Can’t you just see a group of old weather beaten old men sitting on a front porch talking while their wives are sitting in the kitchen complaining about them? I love it!!
Monday, February 25, 2008
EXTREME ALTERCATION
Last night we had the Jim IV family over for dinner, partly so we could visit with them, but also so they could visit with Jesse. I had fed the dogs and had given both of them a dog biscuit which is my usual routine for them. We were all settled in at the dining room table pleasantly eating our meal when a huge ruckus arose under the table. Then both dogs burst out and ran into the living room growling at each other. Not friendly growls either.
Some of the adults jumped up and grabbed each one. Obviously, something really traumatic had occurred between the two. We finally figured it out. Jesse had finished her biscuit and as usual, Rufus had just played with his and had some left, actually the whole thing left. Jesse had tried to take it from him and he reacted by growling. That is all a usual procedure they have performed many times. But, for some reason, (perhaps she was emboldened by her family being here), Jesse took it a step further and got serious about it, thus the growling chase of Rufus around the room.
The aftermath was interesting to watch. Rufus wanted nothing to do with her and just wanted to be held by his mommy. He wasn’t trembling, but he definitely wanted me to hold him in my lap for a while. Jesse sensed the coolness and stayed away from him. This self-imposed isolation from each other went on until bedtime, long after the other family had left. Then while Rufus was sleeping in their joint bed, Jesse slowly approached him and began sniffing him. Rufus awoke and just turned over on his back with his paws in the air, as if to say, “OK, I forgive you.”
From then on, things have been great. Last night they slept back to back with their feet touching me. That’s actually the closest they’ve ever slept, so I guess the fight brought them closer together.
How human can you get?
Last night we had the Jim IV family over for dinner, partly so we could visit with them, but also so they could visit with Jesse. I had fed the dogs and had given both of them a dog biscuit which is my usual routine for them. We were all settled in at the dining room table pleasantly eating our meal when a huge ruckus arose under the table. Then both dogs burst out and ran into the living room growling at each other. Not friendly growls either.
Some of the adults jumped up and grabbed each one. Obviously, something really traumatic had occurred between the two. We finally figured it out. Jesse had finished her biscuit and as usual, Rufus had just played with his and had some left, actually the whole thing left. Jesse had tried to take it from him and he reacted by growling. That is all a usual procedure they have performed many times. But, for some reason, (perhaps she was emboldened by her family being here), Jesse took it a step further and got serious about it, thus the growling chase of Rufus around the room.
The aftermath was interesting to watch. Rufus wanted nothing to do with her and just wanted to be held by his mommy. He wasn’t trembling, but he definitely wanted me to hold him in my lap for a while. Jesse sensed the coolness and stayed away from him. This self-imposed isolation from each other went on until bedtime, long after the other family had left. Then while Rufus was sleeping in their joint bed, Jesse slowly approached him and began sniffing him. Rufus awoke and just turned over on his back with his paws in the air, as if to say, “OK, I forgive you.”
From then on, things have been great. Last night they slept back to back with their feet touching me. That’s actually the closest they’ve ever slept, so I guess the fight brought them closer together.
How human can you get?
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
FIRST REAL JOB
There’s a short segment of my life that I realize I haven’t covered in my blogs. The memories are a little painful for me because my mother was very disappointed that I wanted to quit college and get a job. I finally convinced her that this was the best move for me at that time in my life. So I applied for a secretarial job at the Vanderbilt outpatient Mental Health Clinic and was hired a few days later.
I began work in June 1959 at the huge salary of $200/month, $25.00 of which went to Mother and Daddy for rent. Of course, that was a lot more money then than it is now, and I really had no expenses to speak of. Daddy drove Mother and me to work every day (in our one family car) and picked us up so I had no need for gas money. I thoroughly enjoyed the freedom and independence I felt from having my own money.
The work was not difficult and was certainly interesting. My main job was to type, file, make appointments, answer the phone, and check patients in. It sounds hard, but it wasn’t because there was another woman in the office who did the same things I did, except she was called the office manager; I was just a secretary. Most of the work came from the three social workers who took all of the case histories, etc. I typed up the histories from the notes that were made in the interviews and any later appointments. And that was the interesting part; my eyes were opened to the realities of life when I read what some of those people had been through.
My office was very close to the emergency room and at first, when an ambulance came in with sirens wailing, I would run to the window to see what was happening. I guess I expected to see blood and gore, but I can’t remember ever seeing that. It was usually suspected heart attacks or strokes or accident victims. This activity got old very quickly and after a few weeks, I scarcely paid any attention to it.
When I began work, I had no love interests, but I had made up my mind that I didn’t want to date any med students. I wanted a husband who would have reasonable hours and not be called out in the middle of the night. Actually, only two of them asked me out, but by that time I had met the genius and I couldn’t see past the stars in my eyes. Ironically, a few years later when we settled back in Nashville and he worked with IBM, there were many occasions when he had to work long hours. And he was called out in the middle of the night multiple times when important computers went down. So I had to adjust my ideas about marriage as all of us married folks must do from time to time. I still have to.
I worked for one year and then the genius and I married on June 18, 1960. I learned so much about “real life” that year that I’m sure I matured at a faster rate than if I had been in college. Additionally, I was able to finish my education later when I really appreciated it --- and in a unique way (playing tennis). So I’m grateful for those months and all worked out for the best.
There’s a short segment of my life that I realize I haven’t covered in my blogs. The memories are a little painful for me because my mother was very disappointed that I wanted to quit college and get a job. I finally convinced her that this was the best move for me at that time in my life. So I applied for a secretarial job at the Vanderbilt outpatient Mental Health Clinic and was hired a few days later.
I began work in June 1959 at the huge salary of $200/month, $25.00 of which went to Mother and Daddy for rent. Of course, that was a lot more money then than it is now, and I really had no expenses to speak of. Daddy drove Mother and me to work every day (in our one family car) and picked us up so I had no need for gas money. I thoroughly enjoyed the freedom and independence I felt from having my own money.
The work was not difficult and was certainly interesting. My main job was to type, file, make appointments, answer the phone, and check patients in. It sounds hard, but it wasn’t because there was another woman in the office who did the same things I did, except she was called the office manager; I was just a secretary. Most of the work came from the three social workers who took all of the case histories, etc. I typed up the histories from the notes that were made in the interviews and any later appointments. And that was the interesting part; my eyes were opened to the realities of life when I read what some of those people had been through.
My office was very close to the emergency room and at first, when an ambulance came in with sirens wailing, I would run to the window to see what was happening. I guess I expected to see blood and gore, but I can’t remember ever seeing that. It was usually suspected heart attacks or strokes or accident victims. This activity got old very quickly and after a few weeks, I scarcely paid any attention to it.
When I began work, I had no love interests, but I had made up my mind that I didn’t want to date any med students. I wanted a husband who would have reasonable hours and not be called out in the middle of the night. Actually, only two of them asked me out, but by that time I had met the genius and I couldn’t see past the stars in my eyes. Ironically, a few years later when we settled back in Nashville and he worked with IBM, there were many occasions when he had to work long hours. And he was called out in the middle of the night multiple times when important computers went down. So I had to adjust my ideas about marriage as all of us married folks must do from time to time. I still have to.
I worked for one year and then the genius and I married on June 18, 1960. I learned so much about “real life” that year that I’m sure I matured at a faster rate than if I had been in college. Additionally, I was able to finish my education later when I really appreciated it --- and in a unique way (playing tennis). So I’m grateful for those months and all worked out for the best.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
CAMP LAKEWOOD
Remember my two friends from first grade, Judy and Janice? When we were about ten years old, the three of us went to a Y camp called Camp Lakewood held at Montgomery Bell State Park. Both of the sisters had attended this camp and had had great experiences, so our mothers felt it would be good for us, also.
When we arrived on a Sunday afternoon in June, we were greeted by our counselors and shown to our cabin. It was tiny with four very narrow beds or cots and no electricity or plumbing. We met our fourth cabin mate, a girl I vaguely knew from church; she was a year younger than the three of us. When I look back on that time, I realize how difficult that must have been for her to be stuck with three really good friends who were all a year older than she. I do remember that we occasionally would try to include her with us, but I also recall that we considered her somewhat of a nuisance. She surely must have picked up on that.
The memories I have of the various activities during the two weeks are somewhat vague. I know that we all made lariats, and mine wasn’t very good. I also remember the tent campout one night and how a girl from Chattanooga spilled a bottle of citronella on the wooden floor of the tent. The smell was overbearing and we became very irritated at her. We swam in the lake and hiked the trails during the day, and of course at night sat around the campfire and sang. (Remember "Kookaburra sits on the old gum tre-ee"?)
I also remember the bath house where the concrete showers and old toilets and sinks were. We were all in mortal fear of the spiders that were supposed to be there. I don’t remember ever seeing any, but we knew they were lurking around close by. The one thing we didn’t want to do was have to visit that place during the night.
The best thing that happened to me, the event that was to have the most lasting benefit was when I finally jumped into water that was over my head and swam out. I had known how to swim in shallow water for a year or two but was still afraid when I got in the deep end. The instructor was very patient with me while I stood there for what seems like fifteen or twenty minutes just trying to get up the nerve to take the plunge. She had a long pole and she kept telling me to grab it when I came up if I needed to. Of course, when I did jump in, I wanted to swim all around and didn’t need the pole at all. It took just the one leap and I was fine.
When we had been there a week, it was visitation day. I still remember standing at the bottom of a hill and watching my family come down, MA and BJ running, and Daddy and Mother following at a sedate pace. I don’t remember how long they stayed or what we did while they were there; I just recall that when they left, I was sorry to see them go, but I had no desire to go with them. I really wanted to stay the remaining week. There were many girls around me who were crying and begging to go home (and some did), but I was not one of them. Looking back, I think that my reaction was healthy.
By the next summer, Judy had moved away from Nashville, and we didn’t go back. But I cherish the memory of that one summer at Camp Lakewood.
Remember my two friends from first grade, Judy and Janice? When we were about ten years old, the three of us went to a Y camp called Camp Lakewood held at Montgomery Bell State Park. Both of the sisters had attended this camp and had had great experiences, so our mothers felt it would be good for us, also.
When we arrived on a Sunday afternoon in June, we were greeted by our counselors and shown to our cabin. It was tiny with four very narrow beds or cots and no electricity or plumbing. We met our fourth cabin mate, a girl I vaguely knew from church; she was a year younger than the three of us. When I look back on that time, I realize how difficult that must have been for her to be stuck with three really good friends who were all a year older than she. I do remember that we occasionally would try to include her with us, but I also recall that we considered her somewhat of a nuisance. She surely must have picked up on that.
The memories I have of the various activities during the two weeks are somewhat vague. I know that we all made lariats, and mine wasn’t very good. I also remember the tent campout one night and how a girl from Chattanooga spilled a bottle of citronella on the wooden floor of the tent. The smell was overbearing and we became very irritated at her. We swam in the lake and hiked the trails during the day, and of course at night sat around the campfire and sang. (Remember "Kookaburra sits on the old gum tre-ee"?)
I also remember the bath house where the concrete showers and old toilets and sinks were. We were all in mortal fear of the spiders that were supposed to be there. I don’t remember ever seeing any, but we knew they were lurking around close by. The one thing we didn’t want to do was have to visit that place during the night.
The best thing that happened to me, the event that was to have the most lasting benefit was when I finally jumped into water that was over my head and swam out. I had known how to swim in shallow water for a year or two but was still afraid when I got in the deep end. The instructor was very patient with me while I stood there for what seems like fifteen or twenty minutes just trying to get up the nerve to take the plunge. She had a long pole and she kept telling me to grab it when I came up if I needed to. Of course, when I did jump in, I wanted to swim all around and didn’t need the pole at all. It took just the one leap and I was fine.
When we had been there a week, it was visitation day. I still remember standing at the bottom of a hill and watching my family come down, MA and BJ running, and Daddy and Mother following at a sedate pace. I don’t remember how long they stayed or what we did while they were there; I just recall that when they left, I was sorry to see them go, but I had no desire to go with them. I really wanted to stay the remaining week. There were many girls around me who were crying and begging to go home (and some did), but I was not one of them. Looking back, I think that my reaction was healthy.
By the next summer, Judy had moved away from Nashville, and we didn’t go back. But I cherish the memory of that one summer at Camp Lakewood.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
EXTENDED VISIT
We are now a two-dog family, at least for a month or so. Rufus can quit sitting on his perch in anticipation of Jesse’s visits because she has now come to stay for an extended visit. Jim IV and Laurie have sold their house and are in the busy process of moving, so we are delighted to have her come to our house until they get settled in.
Rufus is beside himself; surely he will get used to it and begin to settle down after a while, but so far he is still in the “ecstatic stage.” When she arrived yesterday, they were both glad to see each other (Jesse is getting more demonstrative) and ran around, nipping at each other for what seemed like hours. They had dual walks, which are sometimes not successful for Rufus because he is so enthralled with her that he forgets to do his outside duty. Then I have to unfasten Jesse and leave her while I take him back out. He is usually so anxious to get back to her that he goes quickly.
At some point in the morning they both collapse (usually Jesse first) and rest for an hour or two. Then they are at it again. One of their favorite games now is to play tug-a-war with one of the toys. They also like to get into the bigger bed I bought for them and wrestle and roll around in that confined space. I took a picture with them both resting in that bed and Brenda says they look like the two little magnet dogs we played with as children.
As far as eating goes, I do have to be careful that they both get their share. If Rufus is at all picky, which is often, Jesse will eat his food. So this morning I put it on two different paper plates and gave each their meal. They both finished their own and then went to the other’s to investigate and make sure that all was eaten.
They slept with me last night and did fairly well, although each one got restless at different times during the night. Jesse hasn’t learned to negotiate the bed steps yet so I have to pick her up to put her on the bed. And she can’t jump down, so she is there until I take her down in the morning. And that’s not all bad.
We look forward to the next few weeks having Jesse as a visitor. Having her around just proves my point that I’ve tried to make to the genius all along – having two dogs is in many ways easier than one.
We are now a two-dog family, at least for a month or so. Rufus can quit sitting on his perch in anticipation of Jesse’s visits because she has now come to stay for an extended visit. Jim IV and Laurie have sold their house and are in the busy process of moving, so we are delighted to have her come to our house until they get settled in.
Rufus is beside himself; surely he will get used to it and begin to settle down after a while, but so far he is still in the “ecstatic stage.” When she arrived yesterday, they were both glad to see each other (Jesse is getting more demonstrative) and ran around, nipping at each other for what seemed like hours. They had dual walks, which are sometimes not successful for Rufus because he is so enthralled with her that he forgets to do his outside duty. Then I have to unfasten Jesse and leave her while I take him back out. He is usually so anxious to get back to her that he goes quickly.
At some point in the morning they both collapse (usually Jesse first) and rest for an hour or two. Then they are at it again. One of their favorite games now is to play tug-a-war with one of the toys. They also like to get into the bigger bed I bought for them and wrestle and roll around in that confined space. I took a picture with them both resting in that bed and Brenda says they look like the two little magnet dogs we played with as children.
As far as eating goes, I do have to be careful that they both get their share. If Rufus is at all picky, which is often, Jesse will eat his food. So this morning I put it on two different paper plates and gave each their meal. They both finished their own and then went to the other’s to investigate and make sure that all was eaten.
They slept with me last night and did fairly well, although each one got restless at different times during the night. Jesse hasn’t learned to negotiate the bed steps yet so I have to pick her up to put her on the bed. And she can’t jump down, so she is there until I take her down in the morning. And that’s not all bad.
We look forward to the next few weeks having Jesse as a visitor. Having her around just proves my point that I’ve tried to make to the genius all along – having two dogs is in many ways easier than one.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
GETTING MY DRIVER’S LICENSE
Brenda swears I haven’t told this story, so here goes.
The summer I was sixteen (actually almost seventeen) my father decided it was time (finally!) to get my driver’s license. Because there was only one car in the whole family of five drivers, what was the use? But I did know how to drive, and the big day when I would try to become a legal driver had arrived. BJ, who was home from college, had had to get up early and drive both Mother and Daddy to work in order to keep the car for the day.
Before we left, Daddy called me on the phone to give me directions. First, he told me that all of the paperwork was on his dresser in his bedroom. And then I was to get BJ to drive me downtown, down Church Street all the way down to Third Avenue (which was a one way street), turn left, go up Third until we reached Union Street (another one way). Then we were to turn left on Union and pick him at Capital Hill. I agreed.
So we started off and all went well until we were on Church Street; then I told BJ to turn left on Seventh Avenue. We soon realized we could NOT turn right on Union so were forced to turn left and go around the block. Then I told her to turn left on Fifth Avenue, and you guessed it --- another time where we were stymied by the one way Union Street, and we circled another block. Finally, we made it down to Third where Daddy had said to come to in the first place. This time we made it fine and swung over to pick him up.
Unbeknownst to us, he had been standing on Capital hill watching us circle around the blocks, so was therefore mad as a hornet when he got into the car. Then I guess he realized that being angry wasn’t going to help, so he took a deep breath and said in a quiet voice, “Where is the paperwork?” I looked at him in horror and said in a small voice, “I forgot it.” Why in the world he didn’t just get out of the car and walk away, I don’t know, but he had BJ drive us back home and pick it up.
Somehow, I managed to pass the test, even to parallel park the car. But I’ve never forgotten that day.
Brenda swears I haven’t told this story, so here goes.
The summer I was sixteen (actually almost seventeen) my father decided it was time (finally!) to get my driver’s license. Because there was only one car in the whole family of five drivers, what was the use? But I did know how to drive, and the big day when I would try to become a legal driver had arrived. BJ, who was home from college, had had to get up early and drive both Mother and Daddy to work in order to keep the car for the day.
Before we left, Daddy called me on the phone to give me directions. First, he told me that all of the paperwork was on his dresser in his bedroom. And then I was to get BJ to drive me downtown, down Church Street all the way down to Third Avenue (which was a one way street), turn left, go up Third until we reached Union Street (another one way). Then we were to turn left on Union and pick him at Capital Hill. I agreed.
So we started off and all went well until we were on Church Street; then I told BJ to turn left on Seventh Avenue. We soon realized we could NOT turn right on Union so were forced to turn left and go around the block. Then I told her to turn left on Fifth Avenue, and you guessed it --- another time where we were stymied by the one way Union Street, and we circled another block. Finally, we made it down to Third where Daddy had said to come to in the first place. This time we made it fine and swung over to pick him up.
Unbeknownst to us, he had been standing on Capital hill watching us circle around the blocks, so was therefore mad as a hornet when he got into the car. Then I guess he realized that being angry wasn’t going to help, so he took a deep breath and said in a quiet voice, “Where is the paperwork?” I looked at him in horror and said in a small voice, “I forgot it.” Why in the world he didn’t just get out of the car and walk away, I don’t know, but he had BJ drive us back home and pick it up.
Somehow, I managed to pass the test, even to parallel park the car. But I’ve never forgotten that day.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
GOING TO THE OFFICE
During my eight years in elementary school I was sent to the office three times. Two of these were justified, but one was absolutely unfair and uncalled for. The easiest way to describe them, I believe, is in chronological order.
In the first grade I had a maternal, but strict teacher named Mrs. Whitfield. One day she went out of the room but before she left, she told us that if anyone was out of his/her seat when she returned, that person would be sent to the office. After she left, we were all good for a while, but for some strange reason I will never know, I stood up just seconds before she came back into the room. I will never forget running down the hall towards the office, crying, while Mrs. Whitfield came behind me hitting her yardstick on the floor. Mrs. Mathis, a veritable terror of a principal (even though she was less than five feet tall), talked to me a few minutes and sent me back to the room. That was my first experience of seeing the inside of her office.
The second is painful for me to recall because it was so unjust. We second graders were at lunch and our teacher was collecting our money at the end of the cafeteria line. I had brought my lunch, so I was only buying milk that cost 5 cents. Mother had given me five pennies and I had my hand poised over the penny bowl to drop in the money when she turned away for a second. During that time I dropped in two or three of the pennies and had the others ready to go. SHE thought I had taken the two pennies OUT of the bowl and was pretending to have dropped them in. In other words, she was accusing me of stealing five pennies from the bowl. I have thought and thought about that incident and I just can’t imagine why she would think that of me --- to my knowledge, I had never given her any reason to suspect me of cheating or stealing. But I can speculate that perhaps someone else had been dipping into the till and she was suspicious of everyone. At any rate, I can still remember the shock of her accusations and how mortified I was all throughout lunch, knowing I would have to go face Mrs. Mathis again. But that lady dismissed me quickly after she heard my story and that was that. It was a traumatic experience for a second grader to have to go through, however, and I have never forgotten the feeling of injustice I had that day.
The third time was when I was in the fifth grade. Several of us girls had been acting up, I believe, and we were all sent to see Mr. Thompson, a new principal. He took his paddle out of his drawer and placed it on his desk, while we were all watching wide-eyed. He informed us that he wasn’t above paddling girls if it were called for and he didn’t want to see us back in there. That did it for me. Except for the second half of my seventh grade year (when I probably needed a good paddling) I was a model student.
But that’s another story. It’s enough to say now that I managed to avoid the principal’s office for the rest of my education.
During my eight years in elementary school I was sent to the office three times. Two of these were justified, but one was absolutely unfair and uncalled for. The easiest way to describe them, I believe, is in chronological order.
In the first grade I had a maternal, but strict teacher named Mrs. Whitfield. One day she went out of the room but before she left, she told us that if anyone was out of his/her seat when she returned, that person would be sent to the office. After she left, we were all good for a while, but for some strange reason I will never know, I stood up just seconds before she came back into the room. I will never forget running down the hall towards the office, crying, while Mrs. Whitfield came behind me hitting her yardstick on the floor. Mrs. Mathis, a veritable terror of a principal (even though she was less than five feet tall), talked to me a few minutes and sent me back to the room. That was my first experience of seeing the inside of her office.
The second is painful for me to recall because it was so unjust. We second graders were at lunch and our teacher was collecting our money at the end of the cafeteria line. I had brought my lunch, so I was only buying milk that cost 5 cents. Mother had given me five pennies and I had my hand poised over the penny bowl to drop in the money when she turned away for a second. During that time I dropped in two or three of the pennies and had the others ready to go. SHE thought I had taken the two pennies OUT of the bowl and was pretending to have dropped them in. In other words, she was accusing me of stealing five pennies from the bowl. I have thought and thought about that incident and I just can’t imagine why she would think that of me --- to my knowledge, I had never given her any reason to suspect me of cheating or stealing. But I can speculate that perhaps someone else had been dipping into the till and she was suspicious of everyone. At any rate, I can still remember the shock of her accusations and how mortified I was all throughout lunch, knowing I would have to go face Mrs. Mathis again. But that lady dismissed me quickly after she heard my story and that was that. It was a traumatic experience for a second grader to have to go through, however, and I have never forgotten the feeling of injustice I had that day.
The third time was when I was in the fifth grade. Several of us girls had been acting up, I believe, and we were all sent to see Mr. Thompson, a new principal. He took his paddle out of his drawer and placed it on his desk, while we were all watching wide-eyed. He informed us that he wasn’t above paddling girls if it were called for and he didn’t want to see us back in there. That did it for me. Except for the second half of my seventh grade year (when I probably needed a good paddling) I was a model student.
But that’s another story. It’s enough to say now that I managed to avoid the principal’s office for the rest of my education.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
UNDERWEAR OF YESTERYEAR
When we were children, we wore underclothing that was quite different from that of today. We dressed much more warmly because we had to walk to and from school. (No, it was NOT five miles uphill both ways, it was about half a mile that was mostly level except for one small hill.) So there were layers of underwear that children don’t wear now.
In the winter we girls always wore a sleeveless undershirt much like a thin tank top. In addition, because we always had on dresses (pants to school were unheard of), we also wore a full slip shaped like a sleeveless dress over the undershirt. The thin-strapped slip was part of the passage into womanhood and came later when a girl began wearing a bra. Our underpants (the real star of today’s blog) were made of a thick nylon and were loose like boxers; they were held up with elastic than ran through a band around the waist. We did have long wool pants that we called leggings for especially cold days, but they were discarded as soon as we got to school.
One day during that memorable third grade year, I was eating lunch in the cafeteria. After I finished, I started walking to the window to deposit my tray and was halfway across the room (right in front of the 8th grade table) when disaster occurred --- the elastic in my underpants broke and down they came, puddling around my feet. Imagine my predicament: My hands were full holding the tray, and my feet were caught by my fallen underpants. So I did what any smart third grader would do --- just kept my cool and shuffled along as if this happened everyday. Thankfully, my boyfriend of the moment came along and asked me if I needed help; I immediately thrust the tray at him and pulled up the offending piece of clothing, which I then clutched from the outside of my dress to hold it up.
When I got back to the room, Mrs. Hardcastle, who was trying to keep from smiling, handed me a safety pin. Instead of excusing myself and in private pinning the underpants together, I just nonchalantly pinned them from the outside to my dress and went around the rest of the day with a big safety pin at the waistline of the dress. I’m still amazed at my actions that day as was my family when they got the news.
After that incident, Mother did a thorough inspection of my clothes, making sure all my pants were in good shape so I would not embarrass them again.
When we were children, we wore underclothing that was quite different from that of today. We dressed much more warmly because we had to walk to and from school. (No, it was NOT five miles uphill both ways, it was about half a mile that was mostly level except for one small hill.) So there were layers of underwear that children don’t wear now.
In the winter we girls always wore a sleeveless undershirt much like a thin tank top. In addition, because we always had on dresses (pants to school were unheard of), we also wore a full slip shaped like a sleeveless dress over the undershirt. The thin-strapped slip was part of the passage into womanhood and came later when a girl began wearing a bra. Our underpants (the real star of today’s blog) were made of a thick nylon and were loose like boxers; they were held up with elastic than ran through a band around the waist. We did have long wool pants that we called leggings for especially cold days, but they were discarded as soon as we got to school.
One day during that memorable third grade year, I was eating lunch in the cafeteria. After I finished, I started walking to the window to deposit my tray and was halfway across the room (right in front of the 8th grade table) when disaster occurred --- the elastic in my underpants broke and down they came, puddling around my feet. Imagine my predicament: My hands were full holding the tray, and my feet were caught by my fallen underpants. So I did what any smart third grader would do --- just kept my cool and shuffled along as if this happened everyday. Thankfully, my boyfriend of the moment came along and asked me if I needed help; I immediately thrust the tray at him and pulled up the offending piece of clothing, which I then clutched from the outside of my dress to hold it up.
When I got back to the room, Mrs. Hardcastle, who was trying to keep from smiling, handed me a safety pin. Instead of excusing myself and in private pinning the underpants together, I just nonchalantly pinned them from the outside to my dress and went around the rest of the day with a big safety pin at the waistline of the dress. I’m still amazed at my actions that day as was my family when they got the news.
After that incident, Mother did a thorough inspection of my clothes, making sure all my pants were in good shape so I would not embarrass them again.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
THIRD GRADE
I just noticed in the obituaries that the grandson of my third grade teacher died (he was 51), and I was transported back to that year when I had Mrs. Hardcastle as a teacher.
It was my first experience in a portable classroom, but certainly not my last. I was to spend a year in one as a fifth grader, and many years later, I taught in one for three years. There are some advantages (privacy, not bothered by others’ noise), but the disadvantages (a feeling of isolation, having to go through bad weather to the main building, very little supervision by the principal) outweighed the benefits.
In addition, the class was a split one with second and third graders in the same room. I vaguely remember my mother being upset about this arrangement, but I don’t know if she complained or not. At any rate, I stayed where I was --- in a single portable classroom vying with second graders for the teacher’s attention.
One incident stands out in my mind that occurred that year. At some point during the morning lessons I noticed a second grade boy, Robin, crying quietly on the other side of the room. Of course, we were all curious as to what his problem was, especially since he was an ill-behaved child who was also very tough when he was punished, which was often. His crying was a shock to all of us. The news finally circulated around the room that his parents were getting a DIVORCE! I still remember our horror at hearing that information – no one in the room had had that occur. And really when I stop and think about it, I knew very few classmates even in high school whose parents were divorced. How far we’ve come --- and not in a good way!
An addendum to the story of Robin is that years later, after I was married and living back in Nashville, I read in the paper that he had been arrested for something (burglary maybe) and I thought back to that day in the third grade when he was so vulnerable and and unable to hide his tears. I’m not going to be so judgmental as to blame his parents; my point is how different life was back in the forties and fifties from today. And what would Mrs. Hardcastle, who has been dead many years, think?
I just noticed in the obituaries that the grandson of my third grade teacher died (he was 51), and I was transported back to that year when I had Mrs. Hardcastle as a teacher.
It was my first experience in a portable classroom, but certainly not my last. I was to spend a year in one as a fifth grader, and many years later, I taught in one for three years. There are some advantages (privacy, not bothered by others’ noise), but the disadvantages (a feeling of isolation, having to go through bad weather to the main building, very little supervision by the principal) outweighed the benefits.
In addition, the class was a split one with second and third graders in the same room. I vaguely remember my mother being upset about this arrangement, but I don’t know if she complained or not. At any rate, I stayed where I was --- in a single portable classroom vying with second graders for the teacher’s attention.
One incident stands out in my mind that occurred that year. At some point during the morning lessons I noticed a second grade boy, Robin, crying quietly on the other side of the room. Of course, we were all curious as to what his problem was, especially since he was an ill-behaved child who was also very tough when he was punished, which was often. His crying was a shock to all of us. The news finally circulated around the room that his parents were getting a DIVORCE! I still remember our horror at hearing that information – no one in the room had had that occur. And really when I stop and think about it, I knew very few classmates even in high school whose parents were divorced. How far we’ve come --- and not in a good way!
An addendum to the story of Robin is that years later, after I was married and living back in Nashville, I read in the paper that he had been arrested for something (burglary maybe) and I thought back to that day in the third grade when he was so vulnerable and and unable to hide his tears. I’m not going to be so judgmental as to blame his parents; my point is how different life was back in the forties and fifties from today. And what would Mrs. Hardcastle, who has been dead many years, think?
Monday, February 11, 2008
MORE READING
For the first three months we were married we lived in Jacksonville, Florida. I read many paperback books during that time, but I don’t recall a single one; they must have been of what I would call the “mental pablum” variety. But while we were in Florence, Alabama, our next stop for two months, I recall vividly what I read --- I discovered the author Ayn Rand. First, I read the 1000 + page Atlas Shrugged, and then went on to whatever else she wrote, The Fountainhead, Anthem, etc. While not entirely agreeing with her, I became very intrigued with her ideas. And she was an excellent writer --- just grabbed me from the first page.
The business of becoming enamored with one author has continued until this day. Many times I will like one book that I read and then search out either all or some of his/her other novels that were written. Here are a few writers I have explored: Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Ellery Queen, Erle Stanley Gardner (all mystery writers), Michael Crichton, John Grisham, Grace Livingston Hill, Lawanna Blackwell, (even Barbara Cartland and Georgette Heyer because I was interested in the Regency period and then I met the master of that genre, Jane Austen). And there are many more. I like to read series --- for a while I read the Left Behind books, but didn’t finish those, then I got involved in reading huge tomes by Diana Gabaldin about a time traveler. Those were great and I’m eagerly waiting for book number seven which she has promised to write. The other day I bought four books by Anita Shreve, three of which are all set on the New Hampshire coast in the same house.
So in essence, I like a variety of novels. What I don’t like are scary, suspense ones that make me tense and nervous. I like to read for pleasure and relaxation, often before I go to sleep, and not be stressed out by something I just read. And I like endings that are somewhat happy ever after. I will never read another Nicholas Sparks book because he seems to thrive on unhappy endings. That’s also why I prefer Shakespeare’s comedies where everyone marries as opposed to the tragedies where all the main characters die.
One could argue that reading is an addiction for me and I wouldn’t disagree with that. In fact, I’ve been known to get slightly panicky when I run out of reading material. TV just doesn’t do the same for me and never has. So the answer I have found to my compulsion is to have several unread novels or biographies on hand, so I won’t get to that stage of not having a book standing by. Then it can take me once again to the world of the unexplored.
For the first three months we were married we lived in Jacksonville, Florida. I read many paperback books during that time, but I don’t recall a single one; they must have been of what I would call the “mental pablum” variety. But while we were in Florence, Alabama, our next stop for two months, I recall vividly what I read --- I discovered the author Ayn Rand. First, I read the 1000 + page Atlas Shrugged, and then went on to whatever else she wrote, The Fountainhead, Anthem, etc. While not entirely agreeing with her, I became very intrigued with her ideas. And she was an excellent writer --- just grabbed me from the first page.
The business of becoming enamored with one author has continued until this day. Many times I will like one book that I read and then search out either all or some of his/her other novels that were written. Here are a few writers I have explored: Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Ellery Queen, Erle Stanley Gardner (all mystery writers), Michael Crichton, John Grisham, Grace Livingston Hill, Lawanna Blackwell, (even Barbara Cartland and Georgette Heyer because I was interested in the Regency period and then I met the master of that genre, Jane Austen). And there are many more. I like to read series --- for a while I read the Left Behind books, but didn’t finish those, then I got involved in reading huge tomes by Diana Gabaldin about a time traveler. Those were great and I’m eagerly waiting for book number seven which she has promised to write. The other day I bought four books by Anita Shreve, three of which are all set on the New Hampshire coast in the same house.
So in essence, I like a variety of novels. What I don’t like are scary, suspense ones that make me tense and nervous. I like to read for pleasure and relaxation, often before I go to sleep, and not be stressed out by something I just read. And I like endings that are somewhat happy ever after. I will never read another Nicholas Sparks book because he seems to thrive on unhappy endings. That’s also why I prefer Shakespeare’s comedies where everyone marries as opposed to the tragedies where all the main characters die.
One could argue that reading is an addiction for me and I wouldn’t disagree with that. In fact, I’ve been known to get slightly panicky when I run out of reading material. TV just doesn’t do the same for me and never has. So the answer I have found to my compulsion is to have several unread novels or biographies on hand, so I won’t get to that stage of not having a book standing by. Then it can take me once again to the world of the unexplored.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
READING, READING, READING
From the time I learned to read at five years of age, I have been an avid bookworm. My love for all types of reading material has not diminished over the years; if anything, it has increased. Many times, especially because I taught literature, I have been asked what types of books I read. The answer is somewhat complicated because I go through different stages of reading.
When I was in grade school, I went through every Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton books as well as those orange colored biographies that were in our school library. (Does anyone else remember those?) I also loved all of the Little House on the Prairie series and Anne of Green Gables. When I was in the seventh grade, my favorite all time teacher Mrs. Evelyn Knight introduced me to Jane Eyre and other classics. She was really an inspiration to me and helped me to move to a different level in my reading.
(When I returned from the Christmas holiday, she had moved to Arkansas and I never saw her again. That was a very traumatic time for me, and my stress over the situation was demonstrated by my awful behavior to the teacher who took her place. I was ultimately to learn the lesson of “what goes around, comes around” when this same replacement teacher became the head of our children’s private school years later.)
I must have had somewhat of a lapse during my high school years because I don’t remember reading as much as I had before. I recall that I read of lots of periodicals like The Reader’s Digest, The Saturday Evening Post, and Life. I do remember reading a book entitled The Wall about the plight of Jews in Poland during WWII that really changed my religious views (I began to have serious doubts about the existence of God, etc.). And then there was all that good traditional literature that I studied during that period and didn’t appreciate.
In college I was the same as in high school --- more interested in my social life than I was in reading, but that was all to change when I married. That’s when my love affair with books was renewed.
From the time I learned to read at five years of age, I have been an avid bookworm. My love for all types of reading material has not diminished over the years; if anything, it has increased. Many times, especially because I taught literature, I have been asked what types of books I read. The answer is somewhat complicated because I go through different stages of reading.
When I was in grade school, I went through every Nancy Drew and Judy Bolton books as well as those orange colored biographies that were in our school library. (Does anyone else remember those?) I also loved all of the Little House on the Prairie series and Anne of Green Gables. When I was in the seventh grade, my favorite all time teacher Mrs. Evelyn Knight introduced me to Jane Eyre and other classics. She was really an inspiration to me and helped me to move to a different level in my reading.
(When I returned from the Christmas holiday, she had moved to Arkansas and I never saw her again. That was a very traumatic time for me, and my stress over the situation was demonstrated by my awful behavior to the teacher who took her place. I was ultimately to learn the lesson of “what goes around, comes around” when this same replacement teacher became the head of our children’s private school years later.)
I must have had somewhat of a lapse during my high school years because I don’t remember reading as much as I had before. I recall that I read of lots of periodicals like The Reader’s Digest, The Saturday Evening Post, and Life. I do remember reading a book entitled The Wall about the plight of Jews in Poland during WWII that really changed my religious views (I began to have serious doubts about the existence of God, etc.). And then there was all that good traditional literature that I studied during that period and didn’t appreciate.
In college I was the same as in high school --- more interested in my social life than I was in reading, but that was all to change when I married. That’s when my love affair with books was renewed.
Friday, February 8, 2008
GOING TO PETSMART
Whenever we go to Petsmart, Rufus gets very upset. As soon as we take the exit off the interstate, he jumps from my shoulders and leaps into the backseat shivering. He knows it’s time for his grooming. So yesterday when I had Jesse with us, I decided to take them both just for shopping.
Jesse had no clue about the place and walked right in. Rufus, on the other hand, dug in his heels and I had to pull him into the store. I took both of them into the grooming salon so Daisy, his groomer, could meet Jesse and could see that there is a dog in the family who is meek and mild tempered. Rufus is always very uncooperative, squirming and biting whenever she tries to groom him. (Well, think about it – they shave his “private parts”! No wonder he’s nervous.) But yesterday he actually put his paws on the half-door to the grooming area and wagged his tail. I guess he was calmed down somewhat by Jesse’s presence.
Then I took them out into the store to shop. I bought a bigger bed so they could both sleep in one together and also an attachment that allows me to put both dogs on one leash. I certainly needed it in the store because Rufus got into it with a Weimeranner, and in the process got wound around my leg several times. I had a heck of a time getting out of there.
But I did make it and the new leash attachment, which I tried as soon as I got home, is a big success. The bed is less so, but maybe they will get more attached to it as time goes on.
Today really is grooming day, and without Jesse with us, Rufus will probably go through the trembling-in-the-backseat process all over again.
Whenever we go to Petsmart, Rufus gets very upset. As soon as we take the exit off the interstate, he jumps from my shoulders and leaps into the backseat shivering. He knows it’s time for his grooming. So yesterday when I had Jesse with us, I decided to take them both just for shopping.
Jesse had no clue about the place and walked right in. Rufus, on the other hand, dug in his heels and I had to pull him into the store. I took both of them into the grooming salon so Daisy, his groomer, could meet Jesse and could see that there is a dog in the family who is meek and mild tempered. Rufus is always very uncooperative, squirming and biting whenever she tries to groom him. (Well, think about it – they shave his “private parts”! No wonder he’s nervous.) But yesterday he actually put his paws on the half-door to the grooming area and wagged his tail. I guess he was calmed down somewhat by Jesse’s presence.
Then I took them out into the store to shop. I bought a bigger bed so they could both sleep in one together and also an attachment that allows me to put both dogs on one leash. I certainly needed it in the store because Rufus got into it with a Weimeranner, and in the process got wound around my leg several times. I had a heck of a time getting out of there.
But I did make it and the new leash attachment, which I tried as soon as I got home, is a big success. The bed is less so, but maybe they will get more attached to it as time goes on.
Today really is grooming day, and without Jesse with us, Rufus will probably go through the trembling-in-the-backseat process all over again.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
POVERTY LEVEL CONT’D
Living in Flavet on the University of Florida campus on @ $250/month sounds like a pretty miserable life, but there were plenty of good times while we were there. In the first place, everyone living around us was in the same boat; no one had any money, so we could commiserate with each other. And for the most part, the people were intelligent and fun. So we enjoyed making new friends.
Also, we all knew that this was just temporary; it wasn’t like we were all going to have to spend twenty years living in these conditions. In fact, we all had hopes that we would be better off financially than we were before because of the additional education. A family of four moved in across the hall from us about the same time we did. The husband was getting his law degree and the wife told me that he had been quite successful in business; that she had gotten to the point where she could go into a store and buy anything she wanted. Now they were reduced to living like this.
We had no air conditioning, of course, and when the windows were open (which was most of the time), we could hear the frat parties not too far away. We heard “I Want to Hold Your Hand” by the Beatles over and over again and loved it. And speaking of music, we were able to see a very young Johnny Cash in concert. We sat on the gym floor not twenty feet away from him while he sang; he was obviously high on something, but we didn’t care, we just loved his music.
Another person we were able to see was the famous (or infamous) Steve Spurrier, quarterbacking the football team as he was on his way to winning the Heisman trophy. We have been Gator sports fans ever since and have had many hours of enjoyment watching the various teams. The highlight for me as a fan was attending the 2007 BCS Bowl championship game as my team upset favored Ohio State for their second national title. I’ll be forever grateful to my son-in-law Mike for getting such great tickets to that game.
So all in all, it wasn’t too bad living in Flavet. We celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary in 2000 by visiting Gainesville and other places we had lived in Florida. Where the apartments had been there is now an open field with the sign on it that reads “Flavet Field.” I wonder how many people have come back to remember that time they lived in “army barracks”; I bet there are many.
Living in Flavet on the University of Florida campus on @ $250/month sounds like a pretty miserable life, but there were plenty of good times while we were there. In the first place, everyone living around us was in the same boat; no one had any money, so we could commiserate with each other. And for the most part, the people were intelligent and fun. So we enjoyed making new friends.
Also, we all knew that this was just temporary; it wasn’t like we were all going to have to spend twenty years living in these conditions. In fact, we all had hopes that we would be better off financially than we were before because of the additional education. A family of four moved in across the hall from us about the same time we did. The husband was getting his law degree and the wife told me that he had been quite successful in business; that she had gotten to the point where she could go into a store and buy anything she wanted. Now they were reduced to living like this.
We had no air conditioning, of course, and when the windows were open (which was most of the time), we could hear the frat parties not too far away. We heard “I Want to Hold Your Hand” by the Beatles over and over again and loved it. And speaking of music, we were able to see a very young Johnny Cash in concert. We sat on the gym floor not twenty feet away from him while he sang; he was obviously high on something, but we didn’t care, we just loved his music.
Another person we were able to see was the famous (or infamous) Steve Spurrier, quarterbacking the football team as he was on his way to winning the Heisman trophy. We have been Gator sports fans ever since and have had many hours of enjoyment watching the various teams. The highlight for me as a fan was attending the 2007 BCS Bowl championship game as my team upset favored Ohio State for their second national title. I’ll be forever grateful to my son-in-law Mike for getting such great tickets to that game.
So all in all, it wasn’t too bad living in Flavet. We celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary in 2000 by visiting Gainesville and other places we had lived in Florida. Where the apartments had been there is now an open field with the sign on it that reads “Flavet Field.” I wonder how many people have come back to remember that time they lived in “army barracks”; I bet there are many.
Monday, February 4, 2008
POVERTY LEVEL
While the genius was still in the Army, he began applying to graduate schools for his master’s degree in engineering. Several really good offers came in (Lehigh, MIT, University of Kentucky are a few I remember), but the best one was from the University of Florida. So in the summer of 1963, we packed up all our belongings and headed to Gainesville.
Ashley was nineteen months old, and I was six months pregnant with Jim IV, so it was not easy to travel at this time. To make matters worse, our Plymouth Fury began having major problems about the time we hit Atlanta. We were pulling a U-Haul, and the car just wasn’t up to pulling that load. The problem was that we couldn’t get the gear to go into the low slot. So we had to be extra careful and be sure we stopped on the downhill; that way we could start off in second gear. What a tense and scary trip that was, but we made it to Gainesville in due time.
We had applied for Flavet (the married student housing that were converted army barracks), but we couldn’t get into them until December. The reason we wanted to be in them, of course, was the low rent ($25/month); instead, we had to settle for paying $85/month for a cute little wood frame house on the main drag. I actually loved that little house with its living room, dining room, and kitchen across the front and two bedrooms, bath and hallway across the back. It even had an attached single garage at the kitchen end. The genius bought a secondhand bike and commuted to classes on that. I would have been satisfied to stay there, but I knew that the rent was a strain on our budget.
The genius had a full ride plus $200/month from his scholarship. I know that sounds like an impossible sum on which to live, but it was actually doable. And my parents helped out with an extra $50/month for ten months. But it was a very tight time indeed, and when the opportunity came for us to move to Flavet, we took it. By then, Jim IV was born, so I indeed had my hands full with a two year old and a newborn.
I wish I had words to describe the apartments. They were tiny two bedroom affairs with a kitchen so small, I could hardly turn around in it. There was no bathtub, just a concrete shower which defied all efforts to remain mildew free. There were eight units on 2 levels, and everyone joked about the huge roaches. The bug people would come and spray and the roaches all ran across the street until they sprayed over there, and then they all came back over again. I couldn’t put down roach pills which had worked before when we lived in Florida because this time I had a toddler running around. That little house we had moved from seemed like a palace compared to this.
But there were reasons why it was enjoyable, and I will explain those tomorrow.
While the genius was still in the Army, he began applying to graduate schools for his master’s degree in engineering. Several really good offers came in (Lehigh, MIT, University of Kentucky are a few I remember), but the best one was from the University of Florida. So in the summer of 1963, we packed up all our belongings and headed to Gainesville.
Ashley was nineteen months old, and I was six months pregnant with Jim IV, so it was not easy to travel at this time. To make matters worse, our Plymouth Fury began having major problems about the time we hit Atlanta. We were pulling a U-Haul, and the car just wasn’t up to pulling that load. The problem was that we couldn’t get the gear to go into the low slot. So we had to be extra careful and be sure we stopped on the downhill; that way we could start off in second gear. What a tense and scary trip that was, but we made it to Gainesville in due time.
We had applied for Flavet (the married student housing that were converted army barracks), but we couldn’t get into them until December. The reason we wanted to be in them, of course, was the low rent ($25/month); instead, we had to settle for paying $85/month for a cute little wood frame house on the main drag. I actually loved that little house with its living room, dining room, and kitchen across the front and two bedrooms, bath and hallway across the back. It even had an attached single garage at the kitchen end. The genius bought a secondhand bike and commuted to classes on that. I would have been satisfied to stay there, but I knew that the rent was a strain on our budget.
The genius had a full ride plus $200/month from his scholarship. I know that sounds like an impossible sum on which to live, but it was actually doable. And my parents helped out with an extra $50/month for ten months. But it was a very tight time indeed, and when the opportunity came for us to move to Flavet, we took it. By then, Jim IV was born, so I indeed had my hands full with a two year old and a newborn.
I wish I had words to describe the apartments. They were tiny two bedroom affairs with a kitchen so small, I could hardly turn around in it. There was no bathtub, just a concrete shower which defied all efforts to remain mildew free. There were eight units on 2 levels, and everyone joked about the huge roaches. The bug people would come and spray and the roaches all ran across the street until they sprayed over there, and then they all came back over again. I couldn’t put down roach pills which had worked before when we lived in Florida because this time I had a toddler running around. That little house we had moved from seemed like a palace compared to this.
But there were reasons why it was enjoyable, and I will explain those tomorrow.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
SLUMBER PARTIES
During my teens, slumber parties were all the rage among my friends and classmates. Beginning in about the 7th or 8th grade, we girls would gather at someone’s house, don our “cutest” pajamas, listen to music, eat of course, and stay up till all hours, talking about “girly” things. There are several of these affairs that stand out in my mind.
One was at Peggy’s house a block and a half away that included five or six girls. We were all in the 8th grade and were pretty mischievous by that time. We would make prank calls to boys, or I remember calling our former teacher whom we all disliked intensely. Her first name was Beulah and when she answered the phone, we would yell, “Anybody bawling for Beulah?” (That was a famous quote from that era from a radio show about a housekeeper by that name.) It’s a good thing we didn’t have caller ID back then or we would have been in trouble for sure. Another thing we did that night was to leave the house at midnight, dressed in our baby doll pj’s, and walk three blocks to Anne’s house where we threw rocks at her window to wake her up. I forget why she couldn’t come to the party, but we felt bad for her and just took the party to her. We never went inside --- we just talked to her through her window. Then we went back to Peggy’s --- for more mischief, I guess.
Another time we gathered at Patsy’s house. That night boys were present also; thank goodness Mother never found that out, or I would not have been allowed to go back. I don’t think anything bad occurred, but I can only speak for myself. We had a great time playing basketball, flirting, eating, etc., but when we went to bed, we separated from the boys. I don’t remember where they slept.
When I was a freshman, the sleepovers picked up. The sorority always had several each year. I’m guessing that we had about 70-80 girls who were members, so the house had to be pretty big to hold us all. Helen in my class had several parties as well as Nina Beth and Nancy, and once we had one at Rawlings, a place we could rent in Joelton. That was really fun because they had a swimming pool, also. Of course, many of us just slept on the floor with nothing but a pillow and blanket to roll up in (that was before the days of sleeping bags).
Another I’ll mention was a fairly small one (maybe eight of us) when I was a freshman. The girl who had the party got mad at me over some boy who had double dated with me. I can’t remember all the details, but she thought I was trying to keep them apart. His date was at the party, too, but she somehow blamed me!! After the boys left, her mother even got involved, telling me I had really hurt the girl’s feelings!!! How unfair was that?!? I spent a pretty miserable night, but I was mollified somewhat by Mother’s reaction to the situation the next day; she was plenty upset that I had been unfairly accused. Whenever Mother took my side against another adult, I knew I was justified because she usually took the adult’s side and blamed me.
And then there was the night I had a slumber party at my house. I seem to remember there were nine of us --- I don’t know why that number sticks in my head because I don’t remember who all was there. I do recall that Connie, Carolyn, Linda, Kay, and Judy were in attendance. Mother had cooked some great food for snacks, and we stayed up pretty late. I remember being afraid that we would make too much noise – Mother and Daddy were upstairs and we had the whole downstairs to ourselves. So I probably didn’t enjoy mine as much as I did those held at other houses.
When I look back and remember those great times, I am once again thankful for the safety of the era. There were no fears that anyone would break in, or attack us as we walked outside at midnight. (However, my parents would have had a fit if they had known about that.) Overall, they were memorable, fun get-togethers where girls could bond in a healthy way.
I’d have one today, but I couldn’t stay up past nine o’clock and what fun would that be?
During my teens, slumber parties were all the rage among my friends and classmates. Beginning in about the 7th or 8th grade, we girls would gather at someone’s house, don our “cutest” pajamas, listen to music, eat of course, and stay up till all hours, talking about “girly” things. There are several of these affairs that stand out in my mind.
One was at Peggy’s house a block and a half away that included five or six girls. We were all in the 8th grade and were pretty mischievous by that time. We would make prank calls to boys, or I remember calling our former teacher whom we all disliked intensely. Her first name was Beulah and when she answered the phone, we would yell, “Anybody bawling for Beulah?” (That was a famous quote from that era from a radio show about a housekeeper by that name.) It’s a good thing we didn’t have caller ID back then or we would have been in trouble for sure. Another thing we did that night was to leave the house at midnight, dressed in our baby doll pj’s, and walk three blocks to Anne’s house where we threw rocks at her window to wake her up. I forget why she couldn’t come to the party, but we felt bad for her and just took the party to her. We never went inside --- we just talked to her through her window. Then we went back to Peggy’s --- for more mischief, I guess.
Another time we gathered at Patsy’s house. That night boys were present also; thank goodness Mother never found that out, or I would not have been allowed to go back. I don’t think anything bad occurred, but I can only speak for myself. We had a great time playing basketball, flirting, eating, etc., but when we went to bed, we separated from the boys. I don’t remember where they slept.
When I was a freshman, the sleepovers picked up. The sorority always had several each year. I’m guessing that we had about 70-80 girls who were members, so the house had to be pretty big to hold us all. Helen in my class had several parties as well as Nina Beth and Nancy, and once we had one at Rawlings, a place we could rent in Joelton. That was really fun because they had a swimming pool, also. Of course, many of us just slept on the floor with nothing but a pillow and blanket to roll up in (that was before the days of sleeping bags).
Another I’ll mention was a fairly small one (maybe eight of us) when I was a freshman. The girl who had the party got mad at me over some boy who had double dated with me. I can’t remember all the details, but she thought I was trying to keep them apart. His date was at the party, too, but she somehow blamed me!! After the boys left, her mother even got involved, telling me I had really hurt the girl’s feelings!!! How unfair was that?!? I spent a pretty miserable night, but I was mollified somewhat by Mother’s reaction to the situation the next day; she was plenty upset that I had been unfairly accused. Whenever Mother took my side against another adult, I knew I was justified because she usually took the adult’s side and blamed me.
And then there was the night I had a slumber party at my house. I seem to remember there were nine of us --- I don’t know why that number sticks in my head because I don’t remember who all was there. I do recall that Connie, Carolyn, Linda, Kay, and Judy were in attendance. Mother had cooked some great food for snacks, and we stayed up pretty late. I remember being afraid that we would make too much noise – Mother and Daddy were upstairs and we had the whole downstairs to ourselves. So I probably didn’t enjoy mine as much as I did those held at other houses.
When I look back and remember those great times, I am once again thankful for the safety of the era. There were no fears that anyone would break in, or attack us as we walked outside at midnight. (However, my parents would have had a fit if they had known about that.) Overall, they were memorable, fun get-togethers where girls could bond in a healthy way.
I’d have one today, but I couldn’t stay up past nine o’clock and what fun would that be?
Friday, February 1, 2008
RUFUS’S DAY WITH JESSE
Yesterday Jesse came to spend the day with me and today I am depressed. Jesse and I have so much fun together.
First, Y’Mommy tells me that Jesse is coming to see me, so I jump to my lookout on the back of the sofa to watch for her. Then the phone rings and I just know it’s something important!! And I am right!! It is Laurie, Jesse’s mommy, saying she is on the way and will be here shortly. This time I run to the door to wait, and soon I am rewarded for my vigil.
The first thing I do when she arrives is to jump all over her because I am so excited to see her. Then I grab her bear which Laurie has brought and run away with it. Of course, she runs after me and we chase around the house --- through the kitchen, down the hall into the living room, then around the dining room table and back into the kitchen. This usually keeps up for about ten minutes. Then Jesse grabs one of my toys and we do it all over again, but I’m doing the chasing. We keep this running around game going for thirty –forty minutes with both of us going lickety-split all over the house, even upstairs. Then Y’Mommy brings out my bed from my “place” in the laundry room and Jesse and I rest in our beds for a while. My bed is blue, Jesse’s is green, but Y’Mommy says she is going to buy us one big one so we can sleep together, and then Laurie won’t have to continue to bring her bed each time.
After relaxing, I begin to get restless, so Y’Mommy takes us out for a walk. Each of us has our own leash, which Y’Mommy holds in each hand. We love to run in and out so that the leashes get tangled up, but Y’Mommy is getting pretty adept at keeping them separate. (It’s amazing how agile she is for her age.) All throughout the walk Jesse and I play a game to see who can leave the last spot. Kinda like gotcha last. First I pee, then she does on top of it and then I go back and cover it up. Or Jesse covers mine up, then I go, etc. etc. Y’Mommy usually pulls us on if we stop too long, so nobody wins.
Jesse has the strangest way of relieving herself that I’ve ever seen. She balances on her front feet, sticks both back feet in the air and squirts. She may take a few steps while the process is going on, making it difficult to nail down the exact spot I have to cover up, and if I’m not careful, I might be in the line of fire. I must say she looks like a circus dog while performing this maneuver.
While we are out on our walk, we stop at the wooden fence to see Charlie. We sniff noses through the widest crack, and then I introduce him to Jesse. Charlie is very taken with her and begins howling his beagle howl. It’s really very annoying to me and I start barking and running back and forth. Y’Mommy doesn’t let this go on very long, and we head back home.
After lunch Y’Mommy thinks we are ready for a nap, but she is in for a surprise. We get on the bed with her and proceed to romp and play --- we wrestle, roll around, and jump back and forth, never leaving the bed. Just as she is about to give up, we settle down and sleep for a little while, so she does get a little rest, after all.
All too soon Laurie came to get Jesse and I was again an “only dog.” I was very lonely after she left, but also tired. I hope she comes back soon.
Yesterday Jesse came to spend the day with me and today I am depressed. Jesse and I have so much fun together.
First, Y’Mommy tells me that Jesse is coming to see me, so I jump to my lookout on the back of the sofa to watch for her. Then the phone rings and I just know it’s something important!! And I am right!! It is Laurie, Jesse’s mommy, saying she is on the way and will be here shortly. This time I run to the door to wait, and soon I am rewarded for my vigil.
The first thing I do when she arrives is to jump all over her because I am so excited to see her. Then I grab her bear which Laurie has brought and run away with it. Of course, she runs after me and we chase around the house --- through the kitchen, down the hall into the living room, then around the dining room table and back into the kitchen. This usually keeps up for about ten minutes. Then Jesse grabs one of my toys and we do it all over again, but I’m doing the chasing. We keep this running around game going for thirty –forty minutes with both of us going lickety-split all over the house, even upstairs. Then Y’Mommy brings out my bed from my “place” in the laundry room and Jesse and I rest in our beds for a while. My bed is blue, Jesse’s is green, but Y’Mommy says she is going to buy us one big one so we can sleep together, and then Laurie won’t have to continue to bring her bed each time.
After relaxing, I begin to get restless, so Y’Mommy takes us out for a walk. Each of us has our own leash, which Y’Mommy holds in each hand. We love to run in and out so that the leashes get tangled up, but Y’Mommy is getting pretty adept at keeping them separate. (It’s amazing how agile she is for her age.) All throughout the walk Jesse and I play a game to see who can leave the last spot. Kinda like gotcha last. First I pee, then she does on top of it and then I go back and cover it up. Or Jesse covers mine up, then I go, etc. etc. Y’Mommy usually pulls us on if we stop too long, so nobody wins.
Jesse has the strangest way of relieving herself that I’ve ever seen. She balances on her front feet, sticks both back feet in the air and squirts. She may take a few steps while the process is going on, making it difficult to nail down the exact spot I have to cover up, and if I’m not careful, I might be in the line of fire. I must say she looks like a circus dog while performing this maneuver.
While we are out on our walk, we stop at the wooden fence to see Charlie. We sniff noses through the widest crack, and then I introduce him to Jesse. Charlie is very taken with her and begins howling his beagle howl. It’s really very annoying to me and I start barking and running back and forth. Y’Mommy doesn’t let this go on very long, and we head back home.
After lunch Y’Mommy thinks we are ready for a nap, but she is in for a surprise. We get on the bed with her and proceed to romp and play --- we wrestle, roll around, and jump back and forth, never leaving the bed. Just as she is about to give up, we settle down and sleep for a little while, so she does get a little rest, after all.
All too soon Laurie came to get Jesse and I was again an “only dog.” I was very lonely after she left, but also tired. I hope she comes back soon.
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