The Old School

Dean and I began school at the age of five in a two-room schoolhouse. It was built of brick with two rooms and a hall beside each for our coats. The town was Pence and we rode to school in a big yellow bus. The “Little Room” contained four rows of desks; the-all-in-one kind with holes at the top for ink bottles and a groove for our pencils. The first grade desks were small to fit our small bodies with each row having bigger desks. We idolized the fourth graders in their big desks and with their vast knowledge.
All children brought lunches in brown paper bags or tin lunch boxes. Not much swapping went on for everyone brought the same basics. Peanut butter or bacon sandwiches with an apple or dried fruit depending on the season. Water was available from a large a tin bucket with a tin ladle and all children drank from it. I do not remember an unreasonable amount of sickness; perhaps we were immunized to one another by a commingling of germs! An iron stove provided heat in the winter and the facilities were outside labeled boys and girls. The idea of privacy then was a wooden fence around three sides of the outhouse blocking a view of the door. A play yard held a swing and slide set and a small field for playing ball. Our favorite games were blind man’s bluff, red rover and tag with hide and seek a close second.
We were taught phonics, (which I credit for my ability to spell and pronounce almost any word), math, which I loved then, and reading. Dick and Jane, Spot and baby Sally were immediate friends. “See Spot. See Spot run” was my introduction to the written word. We had been told stories and read to since toddler hood, but now I got to read by myself! It was wonderful. Dean and I both had the first book read long before the teacher started another. Mary Sloan was teacher in the Little Room and was the perfect white-haired woman to instruct young children. She was loving and giving and wonderfully affirming. Mrs. Zimmerman was the stern mistress of the Big Room and we were all a bit wary of her. Later, at Judyville, I had her for math and found her to be strict but reasonable.
One reason for the success of those early learning environments was the opportunity for children to hear other classes recite and listen to their instruction. By the time we left that room we had heard all the lessons for four grades for four years. We were not taught as a group so the younger were not expected to know what the older ones knew. We were expected to sit quietly and do our assignment and not interrupt the class being taught. But if we finished our assignment quickly enough, we could listen to the older or younger classes. Those who were quick learners had everything but the textbooks within their reach and those who learned more slowly had four years to learn the basics as well as their new work.
I remember the excitement with which I learned my first ‘big’ word. The teacher had written ‘SOMEWHERE’ on the blackboard while teaching an older class. I was fascinated. What did the word say? What did it mean? I wrote it on my yellow tablet. I tried to sound it out. But it was very long for a first grader. Finally, the teacher pronounced it. I knew a long word! And I knew how to spell it even after she erased it. I had captured it on my yellow tablet. I truly believe that was the start of my love affair with words.
They gave achievement tests back then and most of our class ranked at least two grades above the average. Dean and I, Johnny Davis, Jim Brown and Beverly Ritter were reading at a sixth grade level by the time we reached third grade. When the ‘country kids’ got to high school we were consistently on the honor roll. The town kids had gone through elementary school in single large classrooms and knew only what they could retain for one year. We may have been hayseeds, but we were smart!
I never got to study in the Big Room. Our family moved across the township line when we were ready to enter fifth grade and we then attended Judyville School. It was larger than Pence, had two stories and single classrooms, but we had had our preparatory work at Pence and we were ready for the big time! Within a year or two there was a consolidation and Pence was absorbed into Judyville. My classmates were back! And several of us continued on together through high school. We rode the bus together, gossiped about our parents and classmates, swooned at the thought of the high school boys, and shared secrets with one another. .
Here at Judyville we had combined classes for music. There was a large room on the second floor with a stage and a piano. Big windows gave it a sunny disposition at all times. Our music teacher traveled between two schools to teach and was at Judyville three days a week. We sang out of the old yellow books with songs like “John Jacob Jingelhimer Smith”, “Old Folks at Home”, “Beautiful Dreamer”, “America the Beautiful”, and “Battle Hymn of the Republic”. I’m sure they were not all politically correct but they were ours. Dean and I were in the habit of singing for Church and various meetings. He sang soprano and I sang alto. At least that was the arrangement until his voice changed. We still sang but now I sang soprano and he sang bass. Music was a big part of our lives during the school years.

THE FIRST SNOW

The first snow came in last week. As with most first snows, it covered the dull brown landscape with its wooly blanket. Driving along the country roads, we saw underbrush turned to lace and trees transformed into majestic watchtowers for crows and hawks. In town, the streetlights softened into misty haloes and the garish Christmas lights somehow became natural and welcome as they peeked through the drifts.
This was the snowfall we were waiting for to get us into the Christmas spirit. Now, the tree could come out, the ornaments dusted and halls could be decked. No matter that we’d been shopping for a month or that the stores had had their sale signs posted since Halloween. No matter that the atheists are in a snit and the politically correct are demanding that we say “Happy Holiday” instead of Merry Christmas. We know that holiday is simply a shortened version of holy day.
We will read the beloved stories and watch Frosty and Rudolph and Charlie Brown with our kids. We will bundle them and unbundle them again and again as they brave the cold to build snowmen. Or, if we are grandmas and grandpas, we will watch our kids play with their kids and be glad we can take a breather when we need it. We will bring out familiar tales of what Christmas was like when we were kids and the little ones will look aghast at the thought of nothing more than a pack of gum or an orange as gifts.
Hills will be scouted for sledding and ice will be tested for skating. Marshmallows will be toasted in the fireplace and hot chocolate will become the beverage of choice for young and old alike. The weatherman says this will be a snowy winter. Of course, the weatherman always says this will be a snowy winter. It will be or it won’t which does nothing to spoil our appetite for the first snow. We know there will be just enough and we also know the last snow will be as welcome as the first.
Then, in the midst of winter will come a star and a stable and a babe born into the world He made; visiting His own creation as a created being. Awesome God as fragile baby – vulnerable and helpless in a hostile and violent world. A world much like we live in today. A world that has no time for peace. A world that often mocks our young men and women who lay their lives on the line to preserve Peach on Earth.
But if we can remember and if we can teach our children the truth of Christmas, then in another generation there will be those who keep the Spirit of Christmas alive in the midst of winter.

AN OLD VALENTINE

I loved you in that long ago world when love was
white-horsed knights and elven princes.
I loved you when Mama’s dress dragged on the floor behind me
and got tangled in her size-eight pumps.
I loved you when on coltish legs I ran through summer fields
at twilight and love was still a mystery.

And oh, I loved you in that first real kiss,
when callow lips met innocence.
And though I did not know you then,
I loved you.

Then, when heart and mind resolved upon one man;
when the one I’d loved so long
Became the one I would love forever,
Our love proved strong.
Stronger than the things we did not share;
stronger than the sorrows that sought to tear us down.

My love for you grew deep
and divided until it brought forth new life.
And, as we nourished those lives we had created,
our love reached all the way from bedrock to heaven

Our love grew deep and sure.
It did not sing romantic arias,
but whispered instead in midnight lullabies
and everyday smiles.

Now our love is still;
like the moon-touched surface of a quiet lake.
I love you now in the sunset times
as life slips quickly by.
The love that looked for white-horsed knights
has found her care-worn prince.
And as our children dream,
love becomes a circle.

Donna Swanson c.2009

THE FIRST SNOW

The first snow came in last week. As with most first snows, it covered the dull brown landscape with its wooly blanket. Driving along the country roads, we saw underbrush turned to lace and trees transformed into majestic watchtowers for crows and hawks. In town, the streetlights softened into misty haloes and the garish Christmas lights somehow became natural and welcome as they peeked through the drifts.
This was the snowfall we were waiting for to get us into the Christmas spirit. Now, the tree could come out, the ornaments dusted and halls could be decked. No matter that we’d been shopping for a month or that the stores had had their sale signs posted since Halloween. No matter that the atheists are in a snit and the politically correct are demanding that we say “Happy Holiday” instead of Merry Christmas. We know that holiday is simply a shortened version of holy day.
We will read the beloved stories and watch Frosty and Rudolph and Charlie Brown with our kids. We will bundle them and unbundle them again and again as they brave the cold to build snowmen. Or, if we are grandmas and grandpas, we will watch our kids play with their kids and be glad we can take a breather when we need it. We will bring out familiar tales of what Christmas was like when we were kids and the little ones will look aghast at the thought of nothing more than a pack of gum or an orange as gifts.
Hills will be scouted for sledding and ice will be tested for skating. Marshmallows will be toasted in the fireplace and hot chocolate will become the beverage of choice for young and old alike. The weatherman says this will be a snowy winter. Of course, the weatherman always says this will be a snowy winter. It will be or it won’t which does nothing to spoil our appetite for the first snow. We know there will be just enough and we also know the last snow will be as welcome as the first.
Then, in the midst of winter will come a star and a stable and a babe born into the world He made; visiting His own creation as a created being. Awesome God as fragile baby – vulnerable and helpless in a hostile and violent world. A world much like we live in today. A world that has no time for peace. A world that often mocks our young men and women who lay their lives on the line to preserve Peach on Earth.
But if we can remember and if we can teach our children the truth of Christmas, then in another generation there will be those who keep the Spirit of Christmas alive in the midst of winter.

REMEMBERING

John Mark Read, an old high-school chum, sent me a copy of his autobiography this week. As I read I was taken back to the days when all was simple, the future was ours for the taking and we were masters of our universe. Those were the days of the ‘sock hop’, watching basketball games in the tiny gymnasiums played between the small-town high schools where everyone knew the players and parents on both sides, and dating.
You know, I think the kids are back to socializing more like we did these days. You see them in bunches and groups, coming and going. We did a lot of things in groups back then as well, especially just before we reached 16. The one who got his driver’s license first was the hit of the gang. Oh, a parent sometimes took a group of us to the movies and picked us up, but our own driver was so much better! I remember seeing Moulin Rouge – the original – and Gone With The Wind. The latter, all four hours of it, was suffered through with a terrible case of poison ivy. Just how much fidgeting can you do in a theater seat?
You don’t forget those special high school friends. For me there was Judy Cox, Julie McCabe, Beverly Ritter, Patty Pasley, Ann Tate, Nancy Slauter and Mary Ellen Masters, among others. Twin brother, Dean, had his buddies, who of course, were subject to the whining wiles of his sister: Jim Brown, John Read, John Davis, Ray McGraw, and others. We would wind up after the basketball games at Ma and Pa Crumley’s for hamburgers and dancing in the basement or go to the Airport diner out on 41 south of Attica. After I snagged John as a boyfriend I didn’t spend as much time with the gang. I guess each of us ‘graduated’ from it as we began dating.
There were favorite teachers and teachers remembered for other reasons. Kenny Cole was coach and the boys either loved or feared him according to their last performance on the bb court or in the classroom. Miss Sims taught us how to type and Mrs. Gillespie taught us to sing and paint. Mr. Pribble suffered through many years of students in his history class.
There were also slumber parties for the girls. I don’t remember the equivalent for the guys. But we had a ball. Five or six teenagers in one house equals high octane bedlam. Ann Tate’s mother was the best hostess since she had as much fun as we did. I think Ann’s dad must have had a night job, or else he made other arrangements to get away.
It’s fun to reminisce about those days when we were bright and new and had it all before us. But now is great, too, and we’ve all added a lot of memories of our own. Have a great week!

CREATURES OF HABIT WE ARE

Which sock and shoe do you put on first? What is your automatic response to the query, “How are you?” Where do you sit in Church? What section of the newspaper do you read first? I’ll bet you took only a second or two to answer every question. Although not as relentlessly as the animal kingdom where instinct takes its place, we are creatures of habit,
Habit makes living less complicated. If we had to make a decision on how to do every task with which we are presented, we wouldn’t function very well. So, we get up on the same side of the bed – of course with ‘dear one’ lying beside us, it would be difficult to do otherwise! We fix breakfast, dress ourselves, brush our teeth, and start the day with little thought to most of it.
Some habits are good, some are not so good. We can usually tell which. Well, we can if we think about it. Counselors who work with addictions tell us it takes three weeks to make or break a habit and if we can just hold out that long, our cravings will be under our control. Same goes with creating a habit. I guess that’s why New Year’s resolutions are broken pretty much every year. It’s hard to keep them for three days, let alone three weeks!
If you want to see how much a creature of habit you are take a simple act you perform each day and try to change it. I ran into this when I had to begin using a different computer. My old hard drive which, thank Heaven, was still intact, now sits in an exterior dock. How many times have I automatically clicked on a program only to remember it now takes three steps to find it? And when I had high-speed internet installed it took the whole three weeks to remember I did not need to run the cursor down to the dial-up icon and close it so we could use the phone line.
I guess hubby got tired of saying, “I’m fine,” to the greeting, “How are you?” so now he answers, “Almost perfect!” Those who know him well have come up with some quick retorts to that, but we’ll not go into them here. Sometimes we use the habit of saying, “I’m fine”, to mask our true feelings but most of the time we know the one who asks does not want to hear about our recent bout of flu or how our arthritis is keeping us up nights or what our kids are doing that really bugs us. It’s easy to tell when the greeting is an automatic gesture of societal politeness and when your friend sincerely wants to know how you’re doing. Perhaps habit is one of the things Alzheimer patients lose control of. Perhaps he or she can no longer count on familiar habits to give cohesion to life.
Yes, we are creatures of habit. That’s why it’s easy to play practical jokes on one another, for knowing our automatic response, the jokester can rig a situation where the response calls forth a completely unforeseen event. Creatures of habit we are and creatures of habit we will remain. But that makes us human. That makes us workable. Have a good week!

BLIZZARD OF ‘77

BLIZZARD OF 77
We have been dodging the bullet where weather is concerned. Not only did we miss the storms this summer, but we have, so far, missed the ice storms this winter. While looking through some old Corner columns I came across a write-up on the blizzard of 197.
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It sure doesn’t pay to fool Mother Nature! All I did was say a few words about spring and POW, right in the kisser! Would you believe I haven’t even gotten my paper with the spring column in it? Living on the County Farm road, we usually have our road plowed out in record time, so it was a strange feeling to know there was no traffic moving by our house on Friday. Melanie wound up staying the night at the County Home to help out Rita who had been there since the night before. The rest of us kept feeding the fire place, keeping a roaring fire going night and day. As long as we kept the fire going, the furnaces worked a lot less. And, with the thermostats turned down it was nice to have one spot where the heat could be felt.
Once again we have been shown how dependent we are upon one another. Neighbors kept an eye on each other to see if fuel was holding out and all had enough food and medicine. Phones rang from home to home checking on senior citizens – who usually ended up better prepared than their younger neighbors! – and following the progress of men on their way home from work. Last week was no time to be estranged from people! Once again we realize we are not lonely little islands floating through life. If we were not each one known and wondered about by folks around us, all we had to do was lift a phone and make known our needs and the community put us on its list of people to think about.
Those of you who have CBs or scanners know more about the tremendous efforts of road crews and emergency staff than I do but stories keep drifting in as I talk to this or that neighbor. I heard John and Jim Max talking the other day on the phone about how all those who had blades or bulldozers would have plenty of work to do, and I knew the fun would begin as soon as they got organized. These guys don’t need snowmobiles or skies to have fun. Just give them a tractor with a snow blade or a bulldozer and they will be out from sunup to sundown “helping out”. It not only gets the roads cleared quicker, but it also provides the opportunity for some winter fun. Of course, someone may take offense at that remark and tell me he is just doing it because it needs to be done, but I’ll bet he wouldn’t let another guy take over his tractor and let him rest! We gals learned a long time ago just how long our husbands can stay homebound without going stir crazy. During the bitter cold it was all the men could do to keep the chores done night and morning and keep the motors running, but as soon as the temperature moderates you’ll see the chores done in record time and the men out on the prairie “opening it up”. So, if you see them going by the house and they’re moving slow enough, invite them in for a cup of coffee or a bowl of soup. You’ll be rewarded with some tall tales of enormous drifts that almost buried the tractor and only they could get through, and if there are more than one or two guys in the kitchen you’ll get some real tall tales. Like they say, “the first guy to tell a story ain’t got a chance!”
Daughter Melyssa has already informed me that she is going to blow this climate when she goes to college – she suggested I enroll her in Miami State – but I shiver a little, check the firewood on the back porch and decide winter in Florida would probably be terribly boring. Just think, you’d be sitting down there sweating and hearing about all the excitement back home and all the tales of daring. Give me Indiana with its infinite variety. I’ll enjoy the heat next July.
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Let us fervently hope this is as close as we get to a blizzard in 2009!

WILD WATCHERS

Isn’t it funny how little things can lead to big ones? Several years ago I was on a Yahoo bird list. Not sure how I ended up there unless Bill Ringer suggested it as a way to get info on the birds I was feeding. In any case I sent in a little poem I’d written and they printed it. It’s still online for I see it now and then. This little poem sparked a friendship that has continued until the present. Alyce Elliott, in upper New York, read the poem and responded to it. From then on we emailed one another two or three times a week – sometimes two or three times a day! And all from one little three stanza poem.
A chance meeting, an introduction by a friend, a class taken together, maybe a new face at Church; and suddenly you have a connection. Acquaintance grows into friendship and the world changes around you. Look for the connections. Think about your friendships and follow them back to the beginning. It’s fun to remember!
Oh, the poem. Here it is.

WILD WATCHERS
by Donna Swanson c.2009

Out on the prairie where the wheat blows free
lives a red-tailed hawk
and his daring family.
They hunt for their supper
and they wait in the trees,
out on the prairie where the wheat blows free.

Down in the valley where the wild river runs,
lives a great horned owl
and her wide-eyed sons.
They hunt all day in the rabbity runs,
down in the valley where the wild river runs.

Here in my yard where the violets grow,
lives a tiny brown wren
who loves her babies so.
She watches for the hawk
and she watches for the owl,
here in my yard where the violets grow.

Christmas Card Season

It’s that time again; time to think about Christmas cards. It’s hard to believe I’ve been making my own for almost 50 years. Who knew back then what modern conveniences would make it so easy? The first cards were truly hand made. There was no other way to do it. Thankfully, my list wasn’t so long back in the early days of our marriage. I really don’t remember what the first one looked like. I wish now I had saved one from each year. All I know for sure is that each was VERY simple and capable of being reproduced as easily as possible.

One year, I bought a package of small paper doilies, folded the heavy paper, then took all of them out to John’s shop, spread newspapers on the workbench and sprayed the first ten with gold paint. (The second ten I weighed down with a small rock in the center of each!) When all were dry they were taken back to the living room and finished off with a very short verse and signature. Another year was done on red paper with white ink. That was a challenge. They didn’t make red ‘white-out’ back then.

Later I found a little copy shop in Lafayette and, with a typewriter to help, the job got easier. Williamsport Christian Church installed a printer (I firmly believe Xerox was divinely inspired!) and in exchange for printing a few special booklets, etc. I was allowed to print my cards there.

Now, the computer has arrived with printers and special inks and graphics programs and Adobe Photoshop and Painter Classic and… And now the cards roll off an assembly line that I could not imagine 40 years ago. The craft shows on HGTV make me chuckle as they demonstrate the cute Cards you can make with stamps and ribbons and all the folderol. I’m sure those gals had a list of about five recipients.

Along the way, the card list grew. Friends and family expanded and the address book filled with names and addresses that were thought of and remembered with fondness each year. At first there were addresses marked out and new ones added. But the day came too soon that found names marked off because a friend or family member had gone home. The lines were faint that marked them off the list, for they produced a pause in the busyness of addressing envelopes; a time to remember and to reflect.

The cards have not yet been made for 2008. But I have a theme in mind and I did a search online for a photo to use. I told John I might not send cards this year because of the expense. “No, you can’t do that. I’ll buy the stamps.” he offered. Well, if I can design one that can be sent sans envelope and the post office will Ok the size, they will go out. And the address book will open again and memories will come again and the season will begin.

And that’s something to be thankful for!

A PARENT’S PERSPECTIVE

Not always pious, not always preachy. Not always perfect. Not always stuffy; parents are mostly uncertain, unheard, underpaid and unrehearsed. They are blamed for bad teeth, acne, traumatizing their children, and not keeping up with the Joneses. They are expected to produce a perfect product on the first or second try with no previous experience and with such a variety of instruction booklets that Henry Ford would probably have come up a Model A Rickshaw using comparable material.

What do parents feel? What are they really thinking when they look at their teenagers? Are they disapproving of you? Are they looking for some fault to pounce upon? Why do they criticize? Why do they seem to nag all they time? Well, here comes straight talk from one of the ‘othersiders’. In the midst of teenagers and grade-schoolers, I had the audacity of speaking for the majority of mothers. This inside look at your mother’s head might sound a bit sentimental at times, but I’ve a feeling you might like to hear a little more of that. Mainly because it’s rather hard for us mothers to say what we really feel to our cool young sons and daughters.

~*~

What do I see when I look at you? Well, I see part of me and part of your father. But I see more than that. I see a big part of my life. I see the baby who was a miracle of perfection. I see the struggle to be a person. I usually see you as a little younger than you are and I keep thinking I should somehow be able to protect you from the hurts and frustrations of the world. I see the real you peeking from behind the latest fads and fashions. I see your personality taking shape. When you and your brothers and sisters quarrel, I wonder if you will be close and loving when you are grown and have your own families. I look forward to the day when you begin bringing home young men with that starry-eyed look that says, “I think he loves ME!” Or when you, son, begin to mention rather often a pretty young lady.

And I look forward to the day when the house will ring with the laughter of families who have sprung from the love between your father and me. The grandchildren. The happy faces telling of the triumphs and dreams of young married people.

And then I begin to worry. Have I taught you enough? Have I planted the seeds of happiness and worth deeply enough in your mind that they will bear fruit and produce a beautiful person who will be a joy to him or herself and your future family? Have I given you the faith it will take to carry you through the hard times when life doesn’t seem worth living or when confusion threatens to overwhelm your best intentions? I wonder if I’ve held you enough as a baby and I wish there were some way to hold you now and give you some of my strength. I wish I could have had a little more patience, a little more wisdom, a little more time to be a mother.

And I try to compensate for some of my failings by last minute ‘touchups’. As though by calling attention to some little faults I can smooth off the rough edges and present the ‘finished masterpiece’ in all its beauty. Yet, even as I nag, I know that will not solve any long-range problems. My only defense is that of love and a concern for your happiness.

Your happiness. Such an illusive quality. And so misused and misinformed. What is happiness anyway? Is it instant gratification of our every whim? Is it a state of glorious euphoria? Is it wealth? Success? Partly perhaps, but real happiness is a harmony of life. Just as an out-of-tune musical instrument creates a discordant sound; so does a life that is out of harmony with itself and its Creator. Happiness is the by-product of a life lived in integrity and service. It is satisfaction with a job well done, an unexpected joy, a recognition of blessings.

This is what we wish for you, my child. A life lived so well that disappointment and even tragedy cannot overcome it. A life of love and laughter and community. Go in joy.