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!

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.

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.