My first and second grades were spent in Buttonwood School, just a hop and a skip up the street from where we lived. It was a square building, housing grades one through eight. It seems to me that each room had two grades. Going to that school was very good for me. My memories are precious.
When it came time for us as Roman Catholics for our First Holy Communion, my brother and I needed instruction in the Catholic faith so we could receive communion. So we spent two years at the parochial school down the little hill to 'downtown' Plymouth. Larksville and Plymouth were located adjacent to each other. We lived on the very edge of Larksville. He and I had to walk to school and then back home. It seems to be quite a distance because we were very young. It was perhaps almost a mile to our school, St. Stephen's School. Nearby was St. Stephen's Church, a Slovak church, perhaps.
On our walk to school we passed the Lance Colliery, the bridge to Lynnwood across the river, the Polish National Church, Bull Run which was a big intersection with a street leading to the town of Larksville farther up a hill, Woolworth's 5c and 10c Store on the same side of the street, a couple of movie theaters, a couple of furniture stores, and many more buildings.
It was third and fourth grades for me, and second and third grades for Joe. There was the regular saying of the Rosary, I don't remember what time of day, perhaps the first thing in the morning. We had to stand in the hallway as a large group to say the Rosary, and I would frequently be so tired of standing for such a long time. I had a heart murmur as a child and I wonder if that is why I was so tired.
Spelling was one of my favorite lessons. We would have a spelling bee very often, and had to spell all of our words. That was fun for me. I'm sure we also had lessons in which we were taught about many of the saints. I don't remember other classes, but I'm sure that there were others. Perhaps I didn't care for those subjects.
One weekend our family went to visit my maternal grandparents and family. That was always a lot of fun for me, my grandmother had young children during the same years my mother did, so there were three kids our age to play with. Three of my older aunts were so interesting, some in their early 'teens'. We may have stayed overnight, or just for the whole day of Sunday, sometimes overnight on Saturday.
My teenage aunts were doing the nail polish thing. How special! They put polish on my fingernails, also. Wow! Such excitement! I felt important, of course.
Another thing they would do was to listen to the Hit Parade on Saturdays. If the girls would go out for the evening to the local dance, they would give my Grandma a sheet of paper and a pencil, and begged her to write down all the songs of the Hit Parade while they were gone to the dance. She would be ironing clothes with the radio right there, with the piece of paper very handy. We younger kids would be playing quietly, having fun, at the same time. From time to time I would see her writing on that paper.
Back to school on Monday, my brother and I. As soon as I got into my classroom, Sister came to my desk, handed me a pair of scissors, and demanded that I scrape every single bit of that nail polish off my finger nails! What a shock that was to me! Apparently I did not know that wearing nail polish was forbidden.
Recess always was a nice experience, because I could play Jacks. I really loved those jacks. We would play Jacks on the concrete steps in front of the school, or on the sidewalk. The little ball which was about an inch in diameter had a good bounce to it. You 'throw' the jacks out onto the surface, and bounce the ball, pick up a jack and catch the ball before would bounce again. Then you pick up two jacks before the ball would bounce again, and then three, and so on. It does take a little practice before you can be very good at it. I still have my jacks!
I wasn't fond of running games, or racing, or ball games where you must run bases, because I would get a 'stitch' in my side.
One of my very favorite things to do was to read. I've always loved reading, even unto this moment! The Bobbsey Twins! Oh, how much I loved that series of books. I would read the book in about two days, and then I would have to wait until I could get to the library again. Tuesdays and Thursdays were the days that I could go; or perhaps were the days that the library was open.
One day when the parochial school was not in session, I visited the Buttonwood public school and I was so thrilled to be able to sit in the back of the room where the books were located on shelves. I remember books like The Gingerbread Man, and other books of that genre. It was blissful to be so close to those books and pick them out to read while I was visiting. It may have been the first and second grade room.
I'll see you at the Corner Post...
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
My Sister Was Born; Vegetarian Vegetable Soup; Two Little Roses.
We had moved from one side of Buttonwood Street to the other side, diagonally across the street, to an apartment upstairs. I have a couple of sad memories of that apartment. One of those brings back a feeling of sadness, and I was hiding on a lower shelf in the pantry. I said that I wanted my daddy. Had I been scolded for something? Was I really missing my daddy? Or was I unhappy about something else? I don't remember that part. One time I was under the table and didn't want to come out.
This is the house where my brother Joe's buddy Georgie lived, in a basement apartment, it seems. We remember things, but often don't get details correctly. They played a great deal together -- they may have been the same age. They were hardy little boys.
One day, my brother Joe and I were being cared for by Mrs. Dula, who lived next door on the first floor. I remember vividly that we two children were having lunch of a bowl of Campbell's Vegetarian Vegetable soup, and it seems that I didn't care much for the soup. Was it because I didn't want to be in her house, or didn't I really like the soup? It was strange to be there, and the soup was served in flat-like adult size soup dishes. Or was it because I didn't know why she was caring for us on that day?
All three of us children were born at home, which was probably the way it was done in those 'olden days'. The reason we were being cared for by Mrs. Dula was that a new baby was coming to our house!
My sister Regina was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck and she was turning blue. Luckily everything turned out all right, and she was a beautiful little baby, with a sweet personality. She was and is well-loved. She was born on the Fourth of July, and we were very happy to have her come to live with us. My Dad frequently called her his little Firecracker. She was an active little girl, wanting to do everything. When she got older, I think she liked playing with my brother, who was closer in age to her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't remember the date that I entered first grade at Buttonwood School. I always loved school, and liked learning, very much. This may have been the year that I colored the line-drawing of a pumpkin! I will never forget coloring that pumpkin with an orange crayon! To this day, I really love the color orange, but I have several other favorite colors, too. And I love pumpkins very, very much.
I remember Miss Stapleton, she was my teacher. I would love those stories she told or read, and I was a good student. As time went on, my passion for reading grew and grew. We also learned how to write in cursive, via the Palmer Method. I am still very grateful that I was taught the Palmer Method, as it makes one's handwriting very legible and neat.
I'm not sure when exactly, but I learned to sing a very pretty song in the Buttonwood School, Two Little Roses. It was in an Elementary Song Book, and I really loved that song. It tells about two little roses that creep up on the fence and into the child's window to say Good Morning. I'll write some more about that song in another posting.
I'll see you at the Corner Post...
This is the house where my brother Joe's buddy Georgie lived, in a basement apartment, it seems. We remember things, but often don't get details correctly. They played a great deal together -- they may have been the same age. They were hardy little boys.
One day, my brother Joe and I were being cared for by Mrs. Dula, who lived next door on the first floor. I remember vividly that we two children were having lunch of a bowl of Campbell's Vegetarian Vegetable soup, and it seems that I didn't care much for the soup. Was it because I didn't want to be in her house, or didn't I really like the soup? It was strange to be there, and the soup was served in flat-like adult size soup dishes. Or was it because I didn't know why she was caring for us on that day?
All three of us children were born at home, which was probably the way it was done in those 'olden days'. The reason we were being cared for by Mrs. Dula was that a new baby was coming to our house!
My sister Regina was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck and she was turning blue. Luckily everything turned out all right, and she was a beautiful little baby, with a sweet personality. She was and is well-loved. She was born on the Fourth of July, and we were very happy to have her come to live with us. My Dad frequently called her his little Firecracker. She was an active little girl, wanting to do everything. When she got older, I think she liked playing with my brother, who was closer in age to her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't remember the date that I entered first grade at Buttonwood School. I always loved school, and liked learning, very much. This may have been the year that I colored the line-drawing of a pumpkin! I will never forget coloring that pumpkin with an orange crayon! To this day, I really love the color orange, but I have several other favorite colors, too. And I love pumpkins very, very much.
I remember Miss Stapleton, she was my teacher. I would love those stories she told or read, and I was a good student. As time went on, my passion for reading grew and grew. We also learned how to write in cursive, via the Palmer Method. I am still very grateful that I was taught the Palmer Method, as it makes one's handwriting very legible and neat.
I'm not sure when exactly, but I learned to sing a very pretty song in the Buttonwood School, Two Little Roses. It was in an Elementary Song Book, and I really loved that song. It tells about two little roses that creep up on the fence and into the child's window to say Good Morning. I'll write some more about that song in another posting.
I'll see you at the Corner Post...
Notebooks; limericks are great - sometimes; what a history!
Some of my notebooks posing as journals / diaries are lined up on a shelf in my bedroom. As I pick one up and peruse a bit, I find it amazing that there is so much written in it. Poems that I've copied from books, because I liked them so much; mention of phone calls from family and friends; bits of conversation of those calls; found recipes that were important to me, to keep; things I did that day or another; my deepest feelings in those trying years; -- it is endless. Those notebooks are jumbled histories of some of my years.
Oh, what a surprise THIS is! I see an entry that I chanced upon without even trying! A serendipitous paragraph written exactly seventeen years ago today! November 11, 1994, birthday of my sixth and last child, Ger.
This is what I wrote about his birthday: "I called Gerald for his birthday, and sang 'Happy Birthday' a la The Hallelujah Chorus. He liked it. He received as gifts, a popcorn bowl very large, candy, a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble Book Stores, and a plunger for his trumpet. Maybe more. I forget."
Happy Birthday AGAIN, Ger!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On February First, 1995, at two o'clock in the afternoon, I wrote this poem:
Little Bird
There once was a bird who spoke not a word,
But I didn't seem to care;
For it really pleased me
As I watched him with glee
While he flew 'round and 'round in the air.
He spoke not a word, this brown little bird,
For in fact he wasn't that kind;
It just didn't matter
That he couldn't chatter ~~
It would drive me right out of my mind.
Instead, he would whistle, I'm positive this'll
Explain what I'm trying to say:
He'd sing all day long
His enchanting sweet song,
And I wish he'd come back here to stay.
I'd even plant thistle, so he'd sit there and whistle
As I'd hoe all my beans and my peas;
Little bird, come to me,
Won't you come, sing to me?
Won't you please sing for me, pretty please?
-- Anna Mae Schroeder
February 1, 1995.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, you can see what all my notebooks mean to me. They are full of odds and ends, important things,
sad things, deliriously happy things, and quite unexpected things, What A History!
I'll see you around the Corner Post...
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Milkman's horses; "Cherry" nose; a haircut; coal mines.
My New Year's resolution at the beginning of the year 2011 was to jot down some of my memories each day. I was so glad that I could keep this resolution, it seemed so easy. I would write a short account of one or two of my memories each night before I'd go to sleep. Well, I kept that resolution for one month and two days! Perhaps I'll do a little better with the 2012 New Year's resolution.
My very first jotting:
When I was very young, I would run screaming toward my daddy and/or my mommy when I heard horses' hooves outside coming up the cobblestoned street. This happened every single day, because this was the milkman with his deliveries to the neighborhood, in his horse-drawn little milk truck.
We lived in a pair of small rooms in a house on Drinker Street in Dunmore, Pennsylvania. In 1934 my brother Joe was born in this house, but I doubt that I remember anything about that. I am a year and a half older than he is, and we usually don't remember much at that age. Anyway, it was probably a very private affair, because we, all three of us siblings, were born at home. My birth took place just one street over from Drinker, on Warren Avenue.
My daddy would say that I had a "cherry" nose; it was red from the cold air of winter, he said. And he told me how scared I would be of the sound of the horse's hoofs as the milkman came nearer and nearer to our house.
My parents told me that I used to play with the little girl, Marie, who lived in the house. I think her parents owned the house. There was a baseball field across the street from our house, just one or two doors down.
My brother and I were baptized in All Saints Church a few streets away. My father worked in the coal mines in Dunmore. Not very long afterwards, the miners were working infrequently, so my parents had to move to another town for work. This other town was Larksville/Plymouth, near Wilkes-Barre.
(About the "cherry"nose, just a week after I wrote about this memory, I read about Johnny Marks who wrote "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer ". The article mentioned the cherry proboscis. This article was in the Autumn 2010 copy of the Colgate SCENE publication.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My parents had to move to Plymouth/Larksville, because of lack of work in Dunmore, but I don't know what year that was. Probably about a couple of years later. We lived on Buttonwood Street, in our first home which was a small apartment. I am not sure who owned the house, but there was an older lady Mrs. Rudnitski, who lived very near. (It could have been Mrs. Rudnitski who owned the house.) I used to love going into her kitchen, because she had a large shelf clock in there. I liked the way it looked, large, pretty, and up on the shelf. And most of all, I liked the way it ticked so loud!
My mother asked Mrs. Rudnitski to cut my hair one day, saying something like "po' ooshi" meaning 'just below the ears'. Well, Mrs. Rudnitski cut it above the ears, which was not a pretty sight! Who knows? maybe she was hard of hearing, and didn't hear the instructions right, that it should be below my ears, but I don't think my hair was cut by her, ever again... My mother told me about it many years later.
My father worked in the Lance Colliery, which is at the corner of Main Street and Chestnut Street. The men walked to the mines, deep under Lance Colliery. There were 'cages' for carrying the men, that were pulley-ed down from the surface to the deep mine, and pulley-ed up when the whistle blew signifying the end of the work day. Just like the elevators in an office building, but the 'cages' were open-air with a grill around them, and the 'cages' were full of grimy-black men with grimy-black clothes. No business suits on men going to their offices, or pretty dresses on women going shopping. My parents were not well off, many times barely making it. Money was not plentiful, as the miners didn't work every day even though they wanted to.
I'll see around the Corner Post...
My very first jotting:
When I was very young, I would run screaming toward my daddy and/or my mommy when I heard horses' hooves outside coming up the cobblestoned street. This happened every single day, because this was the milkman with his deliveries to the neighborhood, in his horse-drawn little milk truck.
We lived in a pair of small rooms in a house on Drinker Street in Dunmore, Pennsylvania. In 1934 my brother Joe was born in this house, but I doubt that I remember anything about that. I am a year and a half older than he is, and we usually don't remember much at that age. Anyway, it was probably a very private affair, because we, all three of us siblings, were born at home. My birth took place just one street over from Drinker, on Warren Avenue.
My daddy would say that I had a "cherry" nose; it was red from the cold air of winter, he said. And he told me how scared I would be of the sound of the horse's hoofs as the milkman came nearer and nearer to our house.
My parents told me that I used to play with the little girl, Marie, who lived in the house. I think her parents owned the house. There was a baseball field across the street from our house, just one or two doors down.
My brother and I were baptized in All Saints Church a few streets away. My father worked in the coal mines in Dunmore. Not very long afterwards, the miners were working infrequently, so my parents had to move to another town for work. This other town was Larksville/Plymouth, near Wilkes-Barre.
(About the "cherry"nose, just a week after I wrote about this memory, I read about Johnny Marks who wrote "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer ". The article mentioned the cherry proboscis. This article was in the Autumn 2010 copy of the Colgate SCENE publication.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My parents had to move to Plymouth/Larksville, because of lack of work in Dunmore, but I don't know what year that was. Probably about a couple of years later. We lived on Buttonwood Street, in our first home which was a small apartment. I am not sure who owned the house, but there was an older lady Mrs. Rudnitski, who lived very near. (It could have been Mrs. Rudnitski who owned the house.) I used to love going into her kitchen, because she had a large shelf clock in there. I liked the way it looked, large, pretty, and up on the shelf. And most of all, I liked the way it ticked so loud!
My mother asked Mrs. Rudnitski to cut my hair one day, saying something like "po' ooshi" meaning 'just below the ears'. Well, Mrs. Rudnitski cut it above the ears, which was not a pretty sight! Who knows? maybe she was hard of hearing, and didn't hear the instructions right, that it should be below my ears, but I don't think my hair was cut by her, ever again... My mother told me about it many years later.
My father worked in the Lance Colliery, which is at the corner of Main Street and Chestnut Street. The men walked to the mines, deep under Lance Colliery. There were 'cages' for carrying the men, that were pulley-ed down from the surface to the deep mine, and pulley-ed up when the whistle blew signifying the end of the work day. Just like the elevators in an office building, but the 'cages' were open-air with a grill around them, and the 'cages' were full of grimy-black men with grimy-black clothes. No business suits on men going to their offices, or pretty dresses on women going shopping. My parents were not well off, many times barely making it. Money was not plentiful, as the miners didn't work every day even though they wanted to.
This is the house where my brother Joe locked himself in the bathroom, and they were trying to get him out of there. I was so concerned that he hadn't eaten his cooked egg, so I brought his plate to him, and told my parents that he has to eat. (How? with the door locked!)
I'll see around the Corner Post...
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Fifth grade; Dimock library; Fairy Tales.
When I was in fifth grade, I was a new-comer, rather shy and withdrawn, and didn't know the routine at my public school. Fifth and sixth grades were in the same room; it was a rural school in a small town. People knew each other, but of course, I didn't know anyone there except our neighbors who lived on the same dirt road that we did. We knew them just a few months, as we moved there in April, so very long ago, from 'the city' to a farming area.
I remember with embarrassment, it could have been the first day of school, or that week, that I began to eat my lunch when it was time for recess. I thought it was lunch time. As I nibbled at my sandwich, a sixth-grade boy passed by my desk and said, "It's not lunch time." Pretending I knew all about it, I said, "I know." I took one more little bite of my sandwich and put it back in my lunch box or bag, and put it back in the drawer under my seat. So nonchalantly, I thought. I could have crawled under my desk or hid in the cloak room, I was so embarrassed.
Dimock was a very small town, and we were allowed to walk from the school to the library near the crossroads on certain days. As I try to remember now, it must have been a distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile, perhaps less.
It was such a wonderful place to be in, that library! I have always loved books, and couldn't get enough of them. Reading was a passion. At that particular time, I was quite interested in the Fairy Tales. The Brothers Grimm I remember so well. I liked almost all of the Fairy Tales that I came across. They fed my imagination!
Let me explain a bit about the library. To me, it was the greatest place that I could visit. In reality, it was one small room, with no apparent attic, and probably only one door, the single front door. The librarian was the third-and fourth-grade teacher. There were bookcases lining the walls except for perhaps two windows, and probably a few bookcases in the middle of the room. It was no bigger than a very small garage. It was a cute little 'house', much smaller than the other houses on that street. It was a very small room but it was extremely important to me. It lives in my memory and takes up a big area...
Around this time three years ago, I was thinking about fairies. They could do anything, you know. I began to imagine their coming out into the meadow at the edge of their woods, and having a lovely time, especially playing music and dancing.
Fairy Music
In the darkened linden wood
The fairies come to play;
They appear at deepest night --
And disappear by day.
Dressed in leaves and petals fresh,
Making music to enmesh
Gathering from all around,
All who listen to this sound.
Some have pipes between their lips,
Others softly do their flips
Jumping, running, to and fro --
Dancing, prancing as they go
Singing songs that they all know,
Soon their repertoire will grow;
Blowing trumpet flowers they grew
Makes soft, glad tunes so old, yet new.
Their melodies all known by man,
Yet no one knows when this began...
-- Allegra, October 9, 2008
I'll see you at the Corner Post...
I remember with embarrassment, it could have been the first day of school, or that week, that I began to eat my lunch when it was time for recess. I thought it was lunch time. As I nibbled at my sandwich, a sixth-grade boy passed by my desk and said, "It's not lunch time." Pretending I knew all about it, I said, "I know." I took one more little bite of my sandwich and put it back in my lunch box or bag, and put it back in the drawer under my seat. So nonchalantly, I thought. I could have crawled under my desk or hid in the cloak room, I was so embarrassed.
Dimock was a very small town, and we were allowed to walk from the school to the library near the crossroads on certain days. As I try to remember now, it must have been a distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile, perhaps less.
It was such a wonderful place to be in, that library! I have always loved books, and couldn't get enough of them. Reading was a passion. At that particular time, I was quite interested in the Fairy Tales. The Brothers Grimm I remember so well. I liked almost all of the Fairy Tales that I came across. They fed my imagination!
Let me explain a bit about the library. To me, it was the greatest place that I could visit. In reality, it was one small room, with no apparent attic, and probably only one door, the single front door. The librarian was the third-and fourth-grade teacher. There were bookcases lining the walls except for perhaps two windows, and probably a few bookcases in the middle of the room. It was no bigger than a very small garage. It was a cute little 'house', much smaller than the other houses on that street. It was a very small room but it was extremely important to me. It lives in my memory and takes up a big area...
Around this time three years ago, I was thinking about fairies. They could do anything, you know. I began to imagine their coming out into the meadow at the edge of their woods, and having a lovely time, especially playing music and dancing.
Fairy Music
In the darkened linden wood
The fairies come to play;
They appear at deepest night --
And disappear by day.
Dressed in leaves and petals fresh,
Making music to enmesh
Gathering from all around,
All who listen to this sound.
Some have pipes between their lips,
Others softly do their flips
Jumping, running, to and fro --
Dancing, prancing as they go
Singing songs that they all know,
Soon their repertoire will grow;
Blowing trumpet flowers they grew
Makes soft, glad tunes so old, yet new.
Their melodies all known by man,
Yet no one knows when this began...
-- Allegra, October 9, 2008
I'll see you at the Corner Post...
Imagination; short story.
Does this ever happen to you, that all of a sudden your imagination comes alive and you're off into another world?
This morning, as I looked out the front door to say "Good morning, World", I was thinking of how lovely the sky was, the air looked so clear, but I also knew that later in the day or evening, we would be experiencing a thunderstorm.
And then, a fly came zooming in towards me, smack into the pane of glass. Within multi-seconds, this thought came to my mind, imaginary, but it became real to me. I'll tell you:
The Fly With the Bruised Nose
Freddie Fly had a sweet wife -- the best partner anyone could have. It was a good life that they shared.
She prepared his regular porridge for breakfast. They ate their porridge together and chatted the while.
They rubbed noses, and then he was off on his daily rounds.
Oh, what a beautiful day to begin the weekly chores in his neighborhood. They lived in a wealthy neighborhood with brick homes lining the streets. The Fly Colony was doing quite well there, sometimes they had abundant refuse piles to spend their days in.
As I said before, it was such a glorious sunny day, not too cool, not too hot. It was so lovely, Freddie Fly almost let go of the steering controls of his body because the currents he chose were almost carrying him without his help.
Meanwhile, as I was standing at my front door, drinking in the beauty of the day and looking through the pane of glass, I suddenly saw a large fly heading my way. In an instant, since he didn't know the pane was there, he rammed into the pane of glass.
I could almost feel the pain that he felt in his nose! He was flying so fast that it was like a brick wall to him! I didn't hear his expletives, since I was inside the door, but I could imagine what he said.
But, being as sturdy as his species is, he just flew away.
Later that evening as he arrived home, he asked his wife to fetch the band-aids. She looked at his bruised nose, and then kissed it to make it better.
-- Allegra, 8:30 am. November 8, 2011.
I'll see you at the Corner Post...
This morning, as I looked out the front door to say "Good morning, World", I was thinking of how lovely the sky was, the air looked so clear, but I also knew that later in the day or evening, we would be experiencing a thunderstorm.
And then, a fly came zooming in towards me, smack into the pane of glass. Within multi-seconds, this thought came to my mind, imaginary, but it became real to me. I'll tell you:
The Fly With the Bruised Nose
Freddie Fly had a sweet wife -- the best partner anyone could have. It was a good life that they shared.
She prepared his regular porridge for breakfast. They ate their porridge together and chatted the while.
They rubbed noses, and then he was off on his daily rounds.
Oh, what a beautiful day to begin the weekly chores in his neighborhood. They lived in a wealthy neighborhood with brick homes lining the streets. The Fly Colony was doing quite well there, sometimes they had abundant refuse piles to spend their days in.
As I said before, it was such a glorious sunny day, not too cool, not too hot. It was so lovely, Freddie Fly almost let go of the steering controls of his body because the currents he chose were almost carrying him without his help.
Meanwhile, as I was standing at my front door, drinking in the beauty of the day and looking through the pane of glass, I suddenly saw a large fly heading my way. In an instant, since he didn't know the pane was there, he rammed into the pane of glass.
I could almost feel the pain that he felt in his nose! He was flying so fast that it was like a brick wall to him! I didn't hear his expletives, since I was inside the door, but I could imagine what he said.
But, being as sturdy as his species is, he just flew away.
Later that evening as he arrived home, he asked his wife to fetch the band-aids. She looked at his bruised nose, and then kissed it to make it better.
-- Allegra, 8:30 am. November 8, 2011.
I'll see you at the Corner Post...
Friday, November 4, 2011
The Dandelion; My Dad and A Pair of Young Horses; The Bull.
The Dandelion (of November 1977)
Childhood favorite,
Thing of joy
To blow the seeds
As girl or boy
Who could've known
That it would be
A symbol of hope
To self-pitying me?
One cold and bleak
November day
When leaves were gone
And skies were gray
I felt alone
And sad inside --
I thought a walk
My tears would hide
A broken heart --
My daydreams shattered
It seemed to me
That nothing mattered
I trudged along
With eyes downcast
Wond'ring how long
This mood would last
There at the base
Of an old maple tree
Was a bright yellow dot
Waiting JUST for me
A dandelion!
At this time of year!
I knew at that moment --
The answer was clear --
It was the Almighty
Saying to me
"Your life will improve!
Just wait and see.
"No matter how bad
Your troubles may seem
Things will get better --
Hold onto your dream."
I've never forgotten
How on that dark day
That small spot of color
Has caused me to say:
Whenever there's trouble
Don't take too long a-sighin'
But try to remember
That bright dandelion.
-- Allegra, April 20, 1986
aka Anna Mae Schroeder
In the summer of 1990 I had to go to Dearborn to stay with my Mom for quite a while, because she was quite sick from chemotherapy. She then had bad moments and good ones. One day she was up to talking and reminiscing.
She was talking about Babe and Bill, a pair of young work horses. My Dad bought this particular pair of horses to work on our newly-purchased little farm in Springville. (I was only nine-and-a-half years old at this time, in 1942.) He wanted this pair because he desired young SPIRITED horses. In this case, spirited meant 'full of energy, enthusiasm, and determination'.
They were spirited, all right. Bill, especially, would prance around, resisting any attempts at being harnessed up. Someone had to stand in front of him while my Dad harnessed him. Dad's brother-in-law Uncle Stanley was going to help my Dad. They were going to show the horses that THEY (the men) were The Boss. They were going to hook the horses up to the road drag (my Dad was paid by the county to drag the dirt road and level out the bumps and holes).
The men finally got the horses harnessed and hooked up to the road drag, thinking it would temper them a little. The horses ran down the road with the drag, the men running after them. The horses were rearing up, the men hanging onto the reins, trying to calm them down. This probably happened more than once, as the horses were newly purchased, and had to be broken in. It's a miracle that no one got hurt during all of this 'calming them down'.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One day my Dad took our bull about a quarter-mile on our narrow dirt road to the neighbor's place because his cow was ready to be serviced by the bull. Farmers know when the cow is ovulating. The bull was young, and probably spirited also, as in the above story. Dad tied the rope to the bull's neck or nose ring, and they started down the road. My Mom was watching from the kitchen window, a bit worried.
The bull would dance around, to and fro, and every once in a while he would attempt to 'boot' or 'attack' Dad in the posterior with his horns, playfully, I would hope, but perhaps to express his annoyance at being tethered. My Mom was watching through the window, worried that the bull would knock Dad down. Nonetheless, it did make a beautiful picture.
I'll see you at the Corner Post...
Childhood favorite,
Thing of joy
To blow the seeds
As girl or boy
Who could've known
That it would be
A symbol of hope
To self-pitying me?
One cold and bleak
November day
When leaves were gone
And skies were gray
I felt alone
And sad inside --
I thought a walk
My tears would hide
A broken heart --
My daydreams shattered
It seemed to me
That nothing mattered
I trudged along
With eyes downcast
Wond'ring how long
This mood would last
There at the base
Of an old maple tree
Was a bright yellow dot
Waiting JUST for me
A dandelion!
At this time of year!
I knew at that moment --
The answer was clear --
It was the Almighty
Saying to me
"Your life will improve!
Just wait and see.
"No matter how bad
Your troubles may seem
Things will get better --
Hold onto your dream."
I've never forgotten
How on that dark day
That small spot of color
Has caused me to say:
Whenever there's trouble
Don't take too long a-sighin'
But try to remember
That bright dandelion.
-- Allegra, April 20, 1986
aka Anna Mae Schroeder
In the summer of 1990 I had to go to Dearborn to stay with my Mom for quite a while, because she was quite sick from chemotherapy. She then had bad moments and good ones. One day she was up to talking and reminiscing.
She was talking about Babe and Bill, a pair of young work horses. My Dad bought this particular pair of horses to work on our newly-purchased little farm in Springville. (I was only nine-and-a-half years old at this time, in 1942.) He wanted this pair because he desired young SPIRITED horses. In this case, spirited meant 'full of energy, enthusiasm, and determination'.
They were spirited, all right. Bill, especially, would prance around, resisting any attempts at being harnessed up. Someone had to stand in front of him while my Dad harnessed him. Dad's brother-in-law Uncle Stanley was going to help my Dad. They were going to show the horses that THEY (the men) were The Boss. They were going to hook the horses up to the road drag (my Dad was paid by the county to drag the dirt road and level out the bumps and holes).
The men finally got the horses harnessed and hooked up to the road drag, thinking it would temper them a little. The horses ran down the road with the drag, the men running after them. The horses were rearing up, the men hanging onto the reins, trying to calm them down. This probably happened more than once, as the horses were newly purchased, and had to be broken in. It's a miracle that no one got hurt during all of this 'calming them down'.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One day my Dad took our bull about a quarter-mile on our narrow dirt road to the neighbor's place because his cow was ready to be serviced by the bull. Farmers know when the cow is ovulating. The bull was young, and probably spirited also, as in the above story. Dad tied the rope to the bull's neck or nose ring, and they started down the road. My Mom was watching from the kitchen window, a bit worried.
The bull would dance around, to and fro, and every once in a while he would attempt to 'boot' or 'attack' Dad in the posterior with his horns, playfully, I would hope, but perhaps to express his annoyance at being tethered. My Mom was watching through the window, worried that the bull would knock Dad down. Nonetheless, it did make a beautiful picture.
I'll see you at the Corner Post...
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