100 years ago today! Happy Birthday, Nina!

Nina (pronounced with a long I) was my mother. Today would have been her 100th birthday. She passed out of this realm in April of 1982, but her spirit and humor are alive and palpable in my home. She was near 40 when I was born, so I have no personal memories of her as a young woman, other than a few cherished photographs. Two of my favorite stories about her early days are how I love to think of her. The first night she met my father, a young Army Air Corp officer, instead of a gentleman's polite goodnight, he said to her, " I am going to marry you." This was not long after she had won a contest as a Clara Bow look alike. I think you will agree that she deserved it. That's Nina on the left, and Clara on the right. I really think the IT girls have a certain twinkle in their eyes. (Updated from an original post on this date 2009, the year I began this blog.)

Harold Lloyd Connection for Willow

Last night I noticed that our Willow of Life at Willow Manor has a current passion for Harold Lloyd movies. I had to dig out this cherished snapshot of my father as a 13 year old with an advertising drum for the movie Girl Shy to share with her. The first photo is the original, while the second one is a an enlarged version which shows more of the face of the drum. My best guess on the date for this .... other than "Monday at the Strand".... would be late summer or fall of 1924. I will check the release date for this movie. It was probably taken in some small neighborhood near Birmingham, AL. The movie recently aired on Turner Classic Movies.

Sadly, I was away from home and missed it.

School Daze & School Days

Just when I thought I was going to settle down and enjoy my last week or so of leisure before returning to school, I found myself rearranging furniture and replacing old bath towels for new (but still all white), and making extra room in closets. This fall my son and his wife and my one and only grandson will finally have made a move to just one house in the next state and no longer have a place here in town, which means when they are here (which will be often), they will stay with us. Then, last weekend, it was time for my 40th high school reunion! It was great fun, and most people commented on the fact that we were a class that really loved one another. (Believe me, as a classroom teacher, I have observed that entire classes have distinct personalities and sometimes hate one another while the next year's group will be completely opposite.) Our class had a 10th, 20th, 25th, 30th, 35th, and now 40th reunion. So yes, we really like one another.

Now that I am back at school, and have seen my schedule of all seniors for British Literature, I am experiencing my same old butterflies and mild stage fright: tomorrow is the first day of classes. How silly does that sound? I have been adding up all the years I have actually begun a school year. Above is my first grade picture. I did not attend nursery school or kindergarten, but I did spend the year before first grade enthralled with Alabama Public Television as teachers gave instruction in language and math and social studies designed for use in the elementary classroom. I would set up a little table and chairs in front of our black and white RCA, and I would "attend" school with my dolls and teddy bears. Public television in the US was certainly in its infancy. In fact, Alabama was the first state to have a public television network in 1955! Add to that programming, Romper Room & Captain Kangaroo, and I had a pretty good start! So, when I began to account for every year, from 1957 until 2009, I realized that every year, since 1957, I have returned to a school or college to begin the quest of a New School Year, either as a student or as a teacher. Sometimes, it was a dual beginning, as when I was teaching and attending graduate school. In later years, I was teaching high school during the day, and teaching in a community college at night. If you throw in my year with Public TV, that adds up to 54 consecutive years that I have participated in the ritual of beginning a new school year.

My mother was very much a traditional stickler when it came to dressing her children. Too bad she wasn't there at school to straighten my collar before this picture was taken. She always wanted my hair in ringlets and used a large fountain pen to roll my hair into sausage curls. I hated my bangs because I had a cowlick that always made my hair lift up on one side so that it appeared to me that my bangs were cut unevenly. So, she curled them as well! This was the only one of my school pictures that was black and white. (I think some of the entire classroom photos were in black and white.) All subsequent years, individual photos were in living color.

I vividly remember my first grade teacher, Mrs. Maude Clements. She was classic: Think of the darling little lady in the cartoons with Tweety Bird...adorably plump, sweet face, silver hair in a softy shaped bun. I think she was not really very old -- maybe a late forty something. Every morning she would read to us from Psalms or from a Bible passsage relative to a holy day. My best friends in first grade were Teena, Debbie (my maid of honor), and Harold. Teena was all fun and giggles; Debbie was a little blonde princess, and Harold was adored by all as a perfect gentleman who would become a fine, handsome athlete and class leader despite his brush with polio which left him with a limp. We had the little table and chair styled desks which had a cubby hole, so in the back of the room, Mrs. Clements set up chairs for our reading groups. The floor was that rough, unfinished wood that had to be cleaned by pouring an oily sawdust compound on the floor and sweeping it up. Teena's mother, ever active in the PTA and the only working mother I knew of, bought a darling linoleum floor covering featuring many classic illustrated nursey rhymes so that we could sit on the floor in our reading groups. My favorite part of the day was right after lunch. Mrs. Clements would have us put our heads down for a nap. The steam heat would softly hum and hiss while she would play classic fairytales for us on a record player. I rarely slept but listened with rapt attention to every detail and description. This was the first time I ever heard the story of The Billy Goats Gruff and the Troll and other tales like Rumpelstiltskin.

I am certain that first year in her classroom made me a teacher. I loved my classmates, my school, and I loved Mrs. Clements.

A Wedding Anniversary

Mountain Laurel on the bank

"If you came this way,

Taking the route you would be likely to take

From the place you would be likely to come from,

If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges

White again, in May with voluptuary sweetness."

This Sunday the Colonel and I will celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary. Yes, it was 1969;

he had just finished the US Army rotary wing flight school a few weeks before. We had been engaged for 5 months, and there was really no one to plan a wedding for us but ourselves. So, we did. Well, he did. He suggested the church camp he had attended in northwest Alabama. I wore the white dress I had made for graduation, and my First Lieutenant wore his dress blues. Our two best friends stood with us, D.S. Pearson and his wife. The Rev. Epps and his wife did all the rest. This is the chapel where we married. It was open air at the time with no glass. Though it was a simple building, and the service was read exactly from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer,

late on a May afternoon, it was quite grand to us.

"You are here to kneel,

Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more

Than an order of words, the conscious occupation

Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying."

We felt just as these two may have felt because we also had reason to be fearful for our future. The four people there with us knew and did all in their power to make this our very special day.
Mrs. Epps picked a glorious bouquet of mountain laurel from the steep bank leading down to Clear Creek behind the chapel. I carried it as if it had cost thousands. We had really beautiful gold rings etched with roses enhanced with black carbonising to make the images stand out. Our best man and maid of honor wore their Sunday clothes and their love for us.

Epps Hall as it is called today served as a reception hall where Mrs. Epps served us pound cake and Coca Cola. After we helped her put things away, we changed clothes, and went canoeing on Clear Creek for about an hour. Then we drove back to the city. We weren't too keen on a honeymoon because we mostly wanted to be with family.


So we said goodbye to what would become a very important and even sacred place in our lives.


Both our sons attended church camp here.


On Tuesday the 27th, I graduated from high school. My mother and ailing father, and my husband were in the audience. I am ashamed to admit that I cannot remember if either older sister was there. Afterward, I remember turning in my gown folded neatly in a box, and having a big cry as I said goodbye to classmates - many of whom I had known since the first grade.
We spent the rest of the week staying alternately at our parents' homes.

On the following Saturday, June 1st, our two best friends, my husband's mother and father, my husband and I, drove together to the airport. I vowed I would be brave and not embarrass my soldier. I was ... briefly ... until that plane took off to the other side of the world. I am forever grateful to the four people who peeled me away from the huge window looking on to the runway and upheld me through the longest year
ever....

*****************************************************

excerpts from T. S. Eliot's THE FOUR QUARTETS: Little Gidding

Wednesday Poem: A Spark Divine

One of my favorite Christmas presents last December was a collection of poems on the creatures I most cherish in this world -- dogs, of course. THE DOG IN BRITISH POETRY edited by R. Maynard Leonard was originally published in 1893. It features two hundred poems. I have been very blessed to share my time on this earth with some very memorable and loving dogs, but one was outstanding in her beauty, manner, and sheer devotion to our family. I will save the story of how she came to us for another day, but for my first offering of a Wednesday Poem, I came across the perfect tribute to our Chelsea.....aka Chelsea Pudding....aka Pudds.....and......well.....Damn!......I still miss her so much. This poem is from the chapter titled "Elegiac Poems."

I have color photos of her rich liver and white coat, but I call this her Walt Disney pose. My older son made this picture when he was taking a photography course. Look closely, and you can see the tip of her tongue. (Click on photo to enlarge.)

A SPARK DIVINE

Not hopeless, round this calm sepulchral spot,

A wreath presaging life we twine;

If God be love, what sleeps below was not

Without a spark divine.

by Sir Francis Hastings Doyle

Becoming REAL: Why I Feel Like the Skin Horse

"It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

****

Five Random Facts on Being a Mother

1. My first son was born while his father was flying missions in Vietnam,

and nearly twelve years later my second son came along and joined us...

so I have really had two distinct motherhoods!

2. I loved having a teen and a toddler...sort of like two only children... big brother loved dragging out all his classic Fisher-Price toys and Dr. Seuss books.

3. As I look through old photos, I recall the sweetest sound:

I can almost hear tiny feet thumping down the stairs in fleece sleepers

making a beeline to me for that good morning snuggle.

4. The hardest part of being a mother - the part that really HURTS- is knowing when I cannot interfere and that MY child may be hurt or disappointed

or betrayed or disillusioned no matter how much I love him.

5. My greatest joy is in celebrating each son's happiness,

his accomplishments, and his unique gifts to the world.

****

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.

"When you are Real, you don't mind being hurt."

*****

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse.

"You become. It takes a long time...

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

In the swing of things with Son #2

Outdoors with Son #1

High school senior, Mom, and kindergartner

Son #2 - May Day Program 1987

Even though I look at my younger self in these photos, and ask the inevitable, "How did these boys grow up so quickly as I grew older?" I just smile and remember my many, many, many happy hours, days and years spent with them. I embrace who I am today because of them and will enjoy our years yet to come!


"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive.

But the Skin Horse only smiled.



from The Velveteen Rabbit
by Margery Williams


This post was inspired by yet another wonderfully rendered
meme posted by Willow of Life at Willow Manor

on May 10, 2009.

Tra La! It's May! The lusty month of May!

The Fairy Feller's Master Stroke

by Richard Dadd

The Princess Out of School
by Edward Robert Hughes

Day
by Edward Robert Hughes

The Fairy Wood
by Henry Meynell Rheam

Indeed, it is a lusty month! Consider the Maypoles of the Romans and the ancient Druids with their floral vines and colorful ribbons intricately woven around a towering pole. It is a custom that still survives in some communities, or a least I hope it does.

The little country school I attended for grades 1 to 9 always presented a May Day program on a baseball field on the first Thursday evening in May. Each grade level presented a brief program. The first graders had a marching rhythm band every year. The junior high aged classes performed a square dance. Other classes might interpret a popular movie, song, or novel, but the fourth grade was as fixed as the sun in the sky, with the unabashed fertility dance ritually pairing a boy and girl around the Maypole. There were two on the field: one at first base and one at third. (There were only two fourth grade classes consisting of about 28 students each.) Every girl held a gold and each boy a purple shimmering ribbon. Girls wore pale spring colors and boys a white shirt and white pants. It was my favorite. I never wanted to be in the May Queen Court (Each class had a representative...but the Queen was always a 9th grader). Oh how I loved the Maypole. One of the 4th grade teachers, Miss Fitzgerald, a spinster and the most feared teacher in the school had been the guardian of this tradition, and the practice was intense for several weeks before the big event. It was truly the highlight of the night.
As the music was played over the loud speaker, each boy and girl faced one another, and the dance began....skipping and weaving....over and under.... over and under.... over and under.....until the the pole was a brightly woven symbol of spring!

Little did I know what a sordid event it was when I was ten years old! (The Puritans banned these during the Reformation in England...too pagan.) Whew! Later I would come to truly appreciate what it was all about when the movie Camelot was released!

To this day, I spend most of May 1st either humming, singing , or playing "The Lusty Month of May." And as the sun goes down, I will be remembering those magical first Thursday's in May when my older sister Sue and I -thrilled with all the performances - would walk home amid the dreamy, warm night fully redolent with the first opening and abundant blooms of wild honeysuckle woven along the roadside.

Rendering Rapture

Well that was the original title of this poem. I am not certain it fits, but I have not yet thought of one I like better. I have added St. Jude's story to a list of links for those of you who read that post a few days ago. And related to those events, I share with you the poem (published in the Auburn University Sunsource 1991) in which I attempted to describe a single moment. The photo was made a year before the surgery. My son was in PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit) for three days after a 12 hour surgery on March 29, 1989 to remove a tumor located in the center of his head. His surgeon met with my husband and me immediately after the operation to explain what she had accomplished. When she finished, I folded her hands inside mine and and gave a prayer of thanks for for her gifts as a surgeon and her dedication to the children she served. She put her arms around me and said, "God is my co-pilot."

Today, I dedicate this poem to Dr. Patricia Aronin, who --along with her Co-pilot--made this moment possible.

True, I held you as a newborn and
marvelled at your hands and tiny fingers

curling 'round my thumb.

Through baby years and kindergarten tears

and many times over

you were in my arms.

But never, never, never had I held you...

Eyes swollen and bruised

Swelled out from white gauze

Swathed 'round your skull,

Your every vital organ attached

To monitor, catheter, EEG, IV.

Three days I watched the screens and fluids.
The needles and nurses came and went.

Your only words through week tears

And whispering, quivering mouth,

"I'm so unhappy."

A hospital is the singular, most inhospitable place

Especially in P I C U

Where tiny infants and young children

Are wheeled in, struggle, and sometimes die.

But beside your bed, amid the cold and sterile scene

A warmly varnished reminder

Of contented nursing during newborn nights:

A spacious, cradling rocking chair held me.

Hour after cavernous hour, I watched and rocked

And waited with arms useless,

Needing only your slender, little form

To come against my aching soul.

Stable. Making progress. Everything came off.
No tubes, no wires, nothing attached.
"Would you like me to hold you?"
Your heavy, bandaged head could just move

A determined, nodding "Yes."

I pushed my arms under your neck and body
Guiding every move with care and grace

Far beyond any ventured on the newborn you seven years before.

Careful. Careful. Caution upon caution,

For I was reclaiming the most priceless

Treasure I would ever touch.

As I gathered you into my embrace,

Every nerve and sinew in my being burst into

A rapture of the purest form.

And if I should live through all Eternity,

Never will there be such an unattended,

Permanently suspended moment

As when the rockers curved themselves against the world

And made us something holy.

Sunsource 1991

Hey Saint Jude

Today is not Saint Jude's official feast day, but he has been greatly discussed, researched, celebrated, and remembered at my house this weekend.
Willow's photo of her gold Saint Francis medal and question about a treasured piece of jewelry was an important reminder to me of a Saint Jude's medal which belongs to my younger son, Cuyler, now 27.

On this date, twenty years ago, he, his father, older brother, and I were sitting in numbing silence while we were waiting the results a CAT scan he had just undergone. He was 7 and in the first grade. The previous day, he had complained of a headache upon waking, "My head hurts so bad that I can't move." I took him to his pediatrician immediately. After a thorough examination, his doctor consulted with three other colleagues in the practice and ordered the scan. (The hospital had just received its first MRI and the technicians were still learning how to us it.) When Dr. Smalley stepped in the waiting room, he looked at my older son, age 19 at the time, "Cameron, you stay with your little brother while I talk to Mom and Dad." We looked at the films and everything seemed in a blurred time warp. I remember the doctor very methodically stating the details. A tumor in the center of his brain. Most likely malignant. Neurosurgeon. The best. But the most important thing he had to say, all worked out in detail before ever calling us back, "Here is the plan!" He had already talked with the specialist at Children's Hospital, three hours drive away. "Get Cuyler some lunch; go home and pack a suitcase, and be there by five this evening."

My husband ever the officer, relied on his background, and said we should go ahead, while he and Cameron took care of things and closed up the house. Later that evening, after we were all at the hospital, my husband pulled out a medal on a chain. He had just ten days before returned from Germany where he had found it in the drawer of an old barracks there. I had seen it on his desk along with some German coins, but I never turned it over or really examined it. Cuyler put it on.

After several days of examinations and tests, a surgery was scheduled for March 29th. We left the hospital on Good Friday, the 24th and spent Easter weekend with my sister who lived only fifteen miles from the hospital. The doctor had explained that the particular steroid Cuyler was taking to reduce the tumor's pressure was powerful and dangerous so we needed to stay close. It was good to be with family.

The next two weeks are burned into my memory. The only thing I can relate to those days are accounts we hear of soldiers in battle. As a couple, as a family, I must borrow from Churchill , and say for us, they were our "finest hour" regarding holding on to one another and keeping the faith and praying and feeling the warmth and love from caring friends. After surgery, three days in PICU, three nights in McDonald House, and many goodbyes to nurses and doctors we ended our stay at Children's.

When we returned home, to a living room filled with gifts, cards, baskets, virtually from the whole town, it was truly overwhelming. I remember just sitting in a wing chair holding my little boy and reading card after card from Sunday school classes representing churches all over town. It was during one of those readings that I took the medal in my fingertips and turned it over, and read on the back: St. Jude's Shrine, Our Lady's Chapel, 600 Pleasant Street, New Bedford, Massachusetts. My husband and I both agreed we had mistook it for a St. Christopher. Even then, having come to the Episcopal church as a young adult not raised with the saints, I thought, "Ah yes, patron saint of children." Not satisfied, I pulled my 1957 World Book off a shelf, only to read, "St. Jude, patron saint of desperate cases, or as in modern times, cancer patients." I was stunned. Awestruck. Though I had been filled with great apprehension alternating with night terrors and crying spells (if I had to go anywhere in car away from Cuyler I would break down in sobs) about the impending radiation treatment, months of MRI's, and annual checkups, it all ended with reading those words in the World Book and on the medal. I read it aloud several times. I know now that a peace came to me, a comfort, that made me know that divine Grace had intervened for this child .

While there are many other details related to this episode of our lives as a family, some I will add here later, none are more compelling than the story of the little medal, that travelled to Europe, was left behind in a drawer, found by a father who somehow knew his son would want to wear it, and replaced crippling despair and fear with hope and strength and faith. Peace be with you.

I will post a link to the biography of Saint Jude later this week.
His feast day is October 28, three days before Cuyler's birthday.