I Had a Teacher Who Read to Us

A few friends and I got together for dinner one evening and the conversation turned towards teaching. We all agreed that a teacher probably has the greatest influence on a child, other than a parent. We never realize how our words or actions can impact a child. My adult daughters think that I am such a nerd because I can remember (almost) every teacher's name back to elementary school. I was a military brat and changed schools frequently, attending at least a dozen schools before I graduated from high school.

 A few of my favorite teachers that I remember were:

 Ms. Prince, my fifth grade teacher, who gave me enough confidence to try out for the Christmas play. I was the new kid in class.

Mr. Croce, a short, balding, Italian man who instilled music appreciation in his Junior High students by playing classical records and Opera for us while we diagrammed sentences.

Ms. Gierl, our 7th grade teacher, who favored costume jewelry and bright colors, and loved English.

Mr. Standridge, my 9th grade English teacher, who encouraged my love of Writing (Composition) and Poetry.

Ms. Scholten, my 10th grade History teacher, who took us on field trips to France and England, and made History alive and interesting.

And then there was Ms. Hyde, my 6th grade teacher. We were living in Landstuhl, Germany at the time. She was a new DOD (Dept. of Defense) teacher and had just arrived in Germany. Ms. Hyde didn't smile much, probably because we had a few misfits in class. But every day, after lunch, she opened a book and read to us. She introduced us to the one and only literary spider, Charlotte, and Wilbur, the pig, from "Charlotte's Web," She took us on an imaginary journey with "A Wrinkle in Time," and kept us from falling asleep in class while reading chapters from the  "Island of the Blue Dolphins."

I went by our local library on Tuesday evening, and there on display in the Children's sections were the Newberry winners, "A Wrinkle in Time" and "Island of the Blue Dolphins."

Happy Reading!

Good-Byes and Promises

I went to two funerals last month. My aunt died at the end of April and two weeks later, to the day, my uncle's wife died at the young age of 52. For the second time in two weeks I drove the 90 miles to Tennessee.

Many of my relatives on my father's side still live among the rolling hills of middle Tennessee, where the scenery is picture postcard pretty. I wanted to stop and take pictures along the country roads, but we were in a time crunch. Oddly, I noticed many small buildings overgrown with weeds and grass, when I realized that these little out buildings were former outhouses.

The relatives came from nearby and  from far away. Alabama. Georgia. Virginia.
There was the young cousin from Savannah. Instantly I recognized her, even though we haven't seen each other in 15 years. Sunny (not her real name) is grown now, tall like her father, and has the honey-colored hair of her mother. She also inherited her father's cleft chin.  

Another distant cousin, two years older than me, grins at me, remembering when we were 10 and 12. I was the oldest in my family and he, the youngest. I tell him that he looks like Jimmy Carter, only more handsome. His wife, a pretty 50ish woman,  shares her email address and Facebook page and we promise to keep in touch.

"Jimmy" has a twin sister and she squeezes me in a real southern hug. She is flamboyant, dressed in bright colors, and extroverted. Her Mama, my great-aunt, 80ish, has perfectly coifed silver hair, and soft hands, holds my hands and doesn't let go. She lost her husband six years ago and is in the early stages of Dementia.

My uncle is shaken at the sudden death of his wife. He is lost without her. He has aged, and is thin and frail, and doesn't look like the Elvis look-alike of his youth. The girls were crazy about him and he would talk for hours on the black rotary dial telephone, before call waiting and message machines. His only child is a pretty young woman in her twenties and looks like her father when he was younger.

Then there is Jewel, who just lost her mother two weeks before. She has long, black hair and could pass as a Cherokee Indian. Her daughter, another beauty, graduated from high school this week.

Cousin Rusty stands quietly to the side. He is 50 and doesn't talk much. He is the sole survivor in his family. Thank God for his wife of 30 years. He is proud of his son, who recently graduated from college.

Another cousin, Billy, will perform the funeral. He is a preacher and an evangelist. His older brother has fought the devil his entire life, but Billy turned to God.

My sister and I catch up with everyone, trying to remember names and faces. We listen to stories and share some of our own. We talk nostalgically about long-ago family reunions and childhood memories. We hope to plan a reunion, under better circumstances, we tell each other.

It is night before we leave. One of our cousins and her family take us out to eat before we go. We linger, talking in the parking lot under the street lights. Finally, we say our good-byes. And promise to keep in touch.

I think of all the good-byes I've said through the years, and promises to keep in touch.

And my uncle's wife - she was a military veteran. She served in the Army when she was a young woman and returned home to these Tennessee hills at the end of her tour of duty.

Day is done, gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the skies
All is well, safely rest;
God is nigh.

(Taps)

This Memorial Day may we remember all of men and women who gave their lives for our country. God bless them all.

Blessings,

Anita

Watermelon Seeds

(I wrote this several years ago, when my children were young).

I was going on three years old when Mommy announced that I would soon be joined by a baby brother or sister. I had known something important was about to take place because Mommy's belly kept getting bigger and bigger, and she and Daddy kept referring to "the baby", and they obviously didn't mean me.

Daddy explained that Mommy had swallowed a watermelon seed. I loved watermelon, but didn't recall eating watermelon the whole time we lived in Germany, when Mommy's belly first started growing. I figured he was just pulling my leg.

Mommy said the baby was "due" around Christmas. My old crib was dusted off  and set up in my "playroom". Next, Mommy bought some brightly colored fabric and sewed curtains for the new nursery. My former "desk" became a changing table, completely outfitted with diapers, blankets, lotion and powder. The worse was yet to come. Mommy reclaimed all of my old baby clothes, which my dolls had been wearing, and left their wardrobes sadly depleted. They sat on my bed like raggedy orphans, just wating to catch a chill.

The baby, which turned out to be a girl, was finally born and came home on New Year's Day. She settled into our home rather smoothly, too quickly, in my opinion. Here was this little stranger that entered our lives and overnight became the center of attention. Where did I fit in, I wondered?

I slowly came around, especially when I found out all the good things my Mommy was feeding my baby sister. Mommy caught me more than once licking the spoon clean for my baby sister, but that didn't phase me one little bit! At the next feeding time I would be right there again, waiting to taste the carrots or banana pudding. What I really loved, though, was the baby bottle. Whenever I felt sleepy, I would sneak into the baby's room and take the bottle out of her crib.Once, Mommy found me hiding with the bottle, looking like the guilty culprit that I was. I got one of Mommy's "You know better than that" looks.

Still, Mommy noticed when I was feeling left out. She smiled and gave me a hug, reassuring me that she and Daddy loved me. That made me feel better.

I realized that I was now the older sister when my baby sister was strapped into the car seat and I was promoted to the seatbelt section. I had always hated that car seat, but it sure looked comfortable to me now. My beloved stroller also became the property of my little sister. I was fighting back tears on the day that Mommy took us for a walk and I had to walk alongside my old stroller. I deliberately gave Mommy a hard time, running ahead, or planting my feet in one spot and refusing to budge.

I'm four years old and I've learned to accept my little sister, sometimes grudgingly, but mostly lovingly. She's good at a number of things, like pinching, punching, pulling, pushing, that I admit she learned from me. But she's fun to play with, too, and Mommy says that I'll never be alone, since I have a baby sister. I have to look out for her, she tells me.
She'll probably always want to tag along, and I'll be advised by Mommy to share my toys and set a good example. There is one consolation, though. I was here first!

Rest in Peace

My sister called me this morning to tell me that my father's younger sister passed away during the night. She was only 63, not much older than myself. My extended family members are scattered and because my grandparents are gone and because of life's circumstances, or whatever reason, it's hard to get people together, unless there is a wedding or a funeral. And that is where I usually run into a cousin or aunt that I haven't seen in years. It's sad, but true.
Now there will be another funeral to go to.

 You hear about people having a hard life. That was my aunt. Like many poor, Southern girls of her era, Aunt B. got married at 15. She had her first child at 16 and another one at 18. There was another one, too, in between, another boy, that died soon after birth. I remembered the day they buried that little baby, in a little country cemetary, up on a hill. It was raining and we children had to wait in the car while the grown-ups huddled under the umbrellas. And my aunt, only a girl herself, sobbed for the loss of her child.

Rest in peace, Aunt B.

Country Roads

It is chilly this April morning. I put on my pink fleece robe to go out and get the paper. It is a bright, beautiful, sunshiny morning.
Chilly mornings remind me of childhood visits to my grandparents' house in Tennessee. .
There was no central heat and air in their little house in the country. Grandma would get up early and rekindle the fire in the fireplace. We quickly got dressed in the morning and turned our backs to the fire to absorb the heat. Like many rural families they still had an outhouse. It was no picnic walking to the outhouse on a cold or rainy day.
Still, there was something so basic and so simple about those long ago days. I can remember Grandma kneading biscuit dough for breakfast and smell the strong coffee percolating on the stove. Grandpa would be puttering around outside, perhaps working under the hood of the car, or going fishing at the pond which was within walking distance. I went fishing with my parents, once, when a thunderstorm dropped out of the sky. I cut my leg on a barb wire fence trying to make it home through the storm.
The little house had a good view with fields and meadows in every direction. We played on the front porch and could see the storm clouds forming in the distance or the sun set in the evening. After a long, hard day of playing we fell asleep listening to the grown-ups talk in the front room, stepping gingerly across creaky floorboards.

Growing Up in the 60's

Growing up in today's society seems so much different than it did 40+ years ago. The main difference between yesterday and today is definitely technology. There were no home computers in the 60's, no satellite television, no Wii, no cell phones, no Facebook, no email, no Twitter, no 24-hour news, etc. I can remember the days when TV went off the air at midnight and the station played "The Star Spangled Banner" at the end of the viewing day. Guess what? We actually had to interact with each other, instead of our video games and electronic gadgets.

I am the one in the middle, 1968.

It was a different world, a simpler world.

Remember hearing the Ice Cream truck come down the street and running outside just in the nick of time?

Remember those Toni home permanents and pink curlers that your Mom used to put in your hair? My hair was straight as straw and the home perms never lasted more than a few weeks.

Remember watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating Captain Crunch cereal? I loved watching the Flintstones and the Jetsons. And don't forget Captain Kangaroo.

Remember Moon Pies and ice cold bottles of Coca Cola that you bought at the corner grocery store, straight out of the cooler? We would return the glass bottles for a refund.

Remember having to share a room with a younger sister?

Remember watching The Ed Sullivan Show, Wonderful World of Disney and Mutual of Omaha's, Wild Kingdom? And of course, all the classic comedies, such as Andy Griffith Show, I Love Lucy, The Beverly Hillbillies, etc.

Remember the plain, black rotary telephone? We didn't even have a phone until the late 60's. I remember when the Princess phone became popular, in pastel colors. It was all the rage at the time.

Remember road trips and stopping at Stuckey's for souvenirs and a bite to eat, before the fast food chains and the Interstate highways took over?

Remember playing jacks and marbles in the dirt outside and drinking gallons of Kool-Aid in the summertime?

Remember shopping for new school clothes in August, which meant dresses for the girls, and a brand new pair of saddle shoes?

Remember the boxes of laundry detergent that came with a towel inside? And Mama hanging out the clothes to dry? And S&H green stamps that could be redeemed for all kinds of cool stuff?

Remember actually playing outside with the neighborhood kids?

The Houses that Built Me

In the country song, "The House that Built Me," a young woman visits her childhood home and takes a trip down memory lane. It is a poignant song and reminds us that we can't go home again. I don't think I was ever attached to our temporary homes, but more to the sense of place, at that particular time.

Growing up in a military family we didn't have one particular house that we could call home. We lived in a series of rental houses and government quarters (apartments) until I moved out on my own at the tender age of 19.

There was the two-bedroom house on a country road in Tennessee that had a leaky roof. The landlord farmed the acreage next door and gave us free vegetables. We had a beagle, "Pee-Wee" and a German Shepherd, "Lady". The school bus picked us up at the end of the long driveway. My mother watched "General Hospital" on the black and white television , and we went shopping once a month, because the military only paid you monthly.

When my father went to Vietnam we lived in another two-bedroom house near my grandparents in middle Tennessee. I was ten, and my mother had just given birth to my baby sister. She had five children to take care of and a husband at war. I helped wrap the Christmas presents that year, after picking out my own gifts.
My father came home safely from the war. A taxi dropped him off, surprising us all.

The next house was in Oklahoma. I was eleven and we were studying Oklahoma history in school. I loved the musty odor of the history books and loved the Indian culture that we learned about. I had never seen prairie dogs before, nor buffalo that roamed on the nearby refuge. The house had a crawl space that we would hide in during tornado warnings. It was scary.

When we moved back to Germany we were assigned a four-bedroom apartment on the third floor of government housing. Each stairwell had eight families. At suppertime we could smell what other families were having for dinner and hear footsteps running up and down the stairs with children coming in from the playground. We walked to school, and walked home for lunch, and then back again. We spent the next four years there and we saw many families come and go. I remember in particular one cute Hispanic boy who had played one of the children on "The Flying Nun." His parents drove a fancy car and had a car phone, something unheard of in 1970, so we were in awe of his celebrity status. His name was Ruben.

We moved back to Alabama for the second time when I started high school. The one thing that I remember about the rental house was how it withstood the tornado of 1974. Our family took shelter in a small hallway when we heard the storm pass over, sounding just like a train. When it was over our neighborhood looked like a war zone, with trees and power lines down and several homes damaged or completely destroyed. We were fortunate.

When my husband retired from the Army we wanted our two daughters to grow up in one place. I wanted them to have roots and close relationships with their relatives. They would have their own childhood memories, of course, and not experience the itinerant childhoods of their parents. But there were times that I would get itchy feet and wish that I could move again. My children would say, "Mom, you were so lucky to see so many things and visit all these places." And I was. The houses that built me gave me so much more than four walls.

A Mother and Her Son

Here is one of my favorite childhood poems, from a Scholastic book of poetry, now old and yellowed, and here is the pencil drawing I made of Abe Lincoln. I couldn't believe that I saved both all of these years. I still love Poetry, and the beauty of language, and wonder whether children still read and memorize poems in school, such as "Nancy Hanks."

"Nancy Hanks"     by RoseMary Benet

If Nancy Hanks
came back as a ghost,
Seeking news of
what she loved most,
She'd ask first,
"Where's my son?
What's happened to Abe?
What's he done?

"Poor little Abe
Left alone
Except for Tom,
Who's a rolling stone;
He was only nine
The year I died.
I remember still
How hard he cried.

"Scraping along
In a little shack,
With hardly a shirt
To cover his back,
And a prairie wind
To blow him down,
Or pinching times
If he went to town.

"You wouldn't know
About my son?
Did he grow tall?
Did he have fun?
Did he learn to read?
Did he get to town?
Do you know his name?
Did he get on?"

A Long-Ago Christmas

During the first six years of my life I lived in Germany with "Oma," which is what I called my grandmother. We lived in a tiny, picturesque village in a cozy duplex apartment. It was a hilly village and I remember walking down the steep roads with Oma to visit the butcher or baker. At night we could look across our berg and see the twinkling of lights from houses dotting the hillsides, surrounded by thick, wooded forests. At Christmastime, when the landscape was covered in snow,  it was especially picture-postcard pretty.
Oma would start the Christmas preparations in early December, by baking spicy Lebkuchen and the traditional German Christmas bread, Stollen. Everything was then wrapped and put away until Christmas. A freshly cut tree would be brought in on Christmas Eve and set up on a table in one of the two bedrooms. My grandmother, who had lived through two wars, never wasted anything, so wrapping tissue was carefully folded and saved for another use. I usually received a new sweater and mittens, a woolen hat, and other warm clothing. The winters in Germany could get bitterly cold and we stayed warm with the wood stove in the kitchen. Besides clothes, I would also  receive a doll or toy and a bar of Swiss chocolate. What I really adored, however, were oranges. They were a real treat. We didn't have them at any other time of the year.

I remember the excitement of waiting for Christmas and wondering if St. Nicholas would make an appearance. My uncle would often scare us with his loud footsteps and his gruff "Ho-Ho-Ho's". Oma always disappeared around that time, and it was only later that we discovered who played the role of St. Nicholas.

The church bells would ring on Christmas Eve, and we could hear the footsteps of people crunching through the snow, on their way to midnight  Mass. Tucked into bed on a cold and wintry night, underneath the featherbeds, it was truly a 'Silent Night, Holy Night.'

Money in Our Pockets

     I grew up in a military family in the 1960's and sometimes we were lucky enough to live near our grandparents in Tennessee. We were always excited about those weekend visits.

    We were spoiled on those delightful weekends, but not in the material sense of the word. We were spoiled by the delicious freedom we enjoyed when we came to visit. There were no shopping malls or video games and cell phones to keep us entertained, just our sense of imagination and adventure. We explored new neighborhoods, and waded in the 'old swimming hole' which was nothing more than a creek. We'd collect RC bottle caps from the grocery store and turn them in for free Saturday matinee movie passes. Afterwards, we'd walk around the Dollar General Store, looking as if we had money in our pockets.

As dusk fell the mosquitos came out in full force scouting for their supper. Grandpa would be leaning back on his chair on the front porch, nodding at passing acquaintances with a friendly, "How are y'all doing this evening?"

     We played in the street until after dark, catching fireflies in jam jars, until Mama called us inside to wash up for bedtime. Bed was a spare mattress on the floor, or the roll-away bed. Listening to the hum of the grown-up voices in the front room, we would talk and giggle and tell scary stories until a voice calling shushed us, "Y'all better be quiet now and go to sleep."

     Sunday morning came too soon. Grandma and Grandpa were early risers no matter what day of the week it was. The sounds of hillbilly music made us stir, or old-time Gospel, if Grandma had her way. She was already in the kitchen, coffee percolating on the stove, and rolling out biscuits. Grandpa would be puttering outside while the dew still clung to the grass. After breakfast, I rode the church bus with my Aunt and came home to a Sunday dinner of Fried Chicken and Mashed Potatoes, with homemade Banana Pudding, with real Meringue topping.

     With our bellies full and the clock ticking, we'd pile into the car and head on home. Until the next weekend.

Childhood Memories

This is a picture taken near the little town in Germany where I was born. I have very few photos of my place of birth. I found this on flickr, quite by accident. It is exactly the way I remember it, a picture postcard view with hills and valleys. The little town where I was born is near Giessen, which is about an hour's drive from Frankfurt. The views in the wintertime were breathtaking with clusters of houses nestled on the neighboring hills and everything blanketed in snow.

I lived with my Oma until I was 6 years old. Even as a little girl my grandmother would send me to the butcher with a note and a Deutsch mark clasped in my hand to pay for the purchases. We lived in a tiny, duplex apartment, with no hot running water. We  had a wood stove for heating. Oma's house didn't have shutters, so in freezing weather the window panes would freeze over, on the inside! Oma would put a hot brick under the featherbeds to heat the bed at night. She tended a large garden and kept a large bin of potatoes and root vegetables and apples down in her cellar. The woodshed was stocked for the winter with wood that my uncle chopped. She washed her clothes in a big galvinized washtub, which also served as a tub for bathing. Once a week the tub would be dragged upstairs and the water heated for our baths.

The baker would come around and bring fresh farmer's (bauern brot) bread, still hot from the oven and dusted with flour. That bread, smeared with real butter and homemade jam was the best there was!

Oma had a hard life. She lived through two wars and she and her children were refugees after the second war, forced to leave their farm and everything behind in the Sudetenland region of Czechoslovakia. My grandfather died right after the war, leaving her a widow with nine children.

Here's a picture taken of me right before coming to the USA. I didn't speak a word of English, but picked it up quickly.

Lessons From a Two-Year Old

There was a book published several years ago titled, "Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten." It was a charming, humorous book, but the author was wrong, because everything you need to know in life can be learned from a two-year old.

What I learned from a two-year old is that it's okay to play until you drop from exhaustion. When was the last time you did that as an adult? The two favorite words of a two-year old are 'No" and "Mine." What would happen if grown-ups started saying "No" more often? Would we be as over-scheduled and over-obligated as we are now? And what about "Mine?" There are some adults who can use a little 'me' time without feeling guilty.If we don't take care of our own needs, we are certainly no good to anyone else.

These tiny creatures from another planet can be obstinate and willful and lovable, all at the same time. Sometimes you can't get near them, and other times they want to plant wet kisses on you and give you those little hugs that you cherish.

When a toddler is tired, what do they do? If they are like my grand-daughter, she will bring me her favorite blankie and her doll and sippy cup, and then crawl up in my lap. After a few squirms and kicks she settles down for a nap. What if grown-ups could take an afternoon break with our favorite thing, be it the best-selling novel we haven't had time to read, or pick up our knitting where we left off - wouldn't work be less stressful?

Everything is a joy and a new experience to a two-year old child. They are thrilled by the tiniest bug, chase after bubbles, and run to their heart's content. Tired is not in their vocabulary, not like adults, who wake up tired. And boredom? Have you ever seen a 'bored' two-year old? They are too busy exploring their environment to be bored. And, don't want to sleep alone? No problem. When you are two, Mommy and Daddy will make room for you. Get away with murder? It helps to be two.

No, I don't think you have to wait until Kindergarten. You can learn a lot just by observing a two-year old. Of course, not all toddlers are perfect. Some actually do throw temper tantrums, but then again, I've seen some adults throw temper tantrums, too! So maybe its not just a phase.

If we looked at life with the innocence of a child, every day would be full of joy and wonder. We would laugh more often and play until nap time and eat Cheetos for breakfast and take pride in all of our small accomplishments - these are lessons that grown-ups should embrace.

God Bless the little children.