by jphilo | Nov 25, 2013 | Reflections on the Past
Have you tuned into to any of the programs commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of President Kennedy? Some of them have been fascinating, like the rebroadcast of the story Walter Cronkite put together ten years ago for NPR.
It really is worth a listen.
Many radio programs encouraged listeners to call in and share their memories of November 22, 1963. Iowa Public Radio’s River to River was one of them. I toyed with the idea of calling in and describing my reaction as a seven-year-old second grader. But the idea was squelched by listening to the memories shared by callers who were years younger on that fateful day. They described how sadness pervaded their day and weekend that followed. One woman who was four at the time remembered crying when John-John saluted his father’s coffin.
Compared to those memories, mine seemed…how to put it?
Immature sounds about right. Because I don’t remember much about the day Kennedy was shot, except for Dad not smiling and being quieter than usual when my sister and I got home from school. My most vivid memory is from Saturday morning, when my parents turned the television on after breakfast.
Our television was never on Saturday mornings.
Because our parents were slave drivers. They didn’t allow the watching of Saturday morning cartoons until the house was clean. And since the sibs and I dinked through the chores, we rarely finished before 11:00 AM, and by then the really good cartoons like Alvin and the Chipmunks, The Jetsons, and Mighty Mouse were over. Only the dregs remained: Bugs Bunny (too weird), The Bullwinkle Show (it’s humor too mature), and Dennis the Menace (too boyish).
But the morning after President Kennedy was shot, our television set was on.
My first thought was hot diggity dog, we’re gonna watch cartoons all morning. But I was wrong. Because as Dad explained, there wouldn’t be any cartoons or any other regular programs on any stations all day long because the President had been shot.
But we still had to do Saturday morning chores.
Futhermore, my parents still sent us to school on Monday morning, too. Where Mrs. Eggleston still expected us to do our best coloring in the bird books science project. She still laughed at my stand up comedy routine during show and tell. She still let us use colored chalk on the zoo mural we were making on the the biggest chalkboard in the room. Our second grade class still argued with the other second grade class about which of our teachers had the strangest name: Mrs. Eggleston or Mrs. Bomgaars. We were still expected to be quiet in the halls. We still sang God Bless America in music class.
Maybe that’s why my memories of the day President Kennedy was shot are so dim.
Maybe I don’t remember much about where I was when the President was shot because adults protected me by keeping my little world as normal as they could. Maybe that’s why I remember more about how I felt on that fateful day and in the days that followed. I felt peeved about the Saturday morning cartoon situation. I felt put upon doing chores that morning. But most of all, though a terrible tragedy gripped our nation, I felt safe.
Exactly how a seven-year-old should feel, even after the President has been shot.
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by jphilo | Sep 9, 2013 | Reflections on the Past
I dreamed of you last night,
Three students who graced my teaching days.
Last night, a decade after the last good-byes
Of my final class of children faded away.
Why now?
My sleep-drugged brain wondered.
Out of all the students
Why these three?
The first question I could answer.
After a day of writing a mystery novel
With a elementary teacher solving crimes,
School was on my mind.
But why these students?
I can not answer, though a reason there must be.
So I whispered a groggy prayer to the One who knows,
Then fell into a dreamless, restful sleep.
by jphilo | Aug 12, 2013 | Family, Reflections on the Past
In last Friday’s post about the felling of a huge sugar maple in our yard, I neglected to mention a major repercussion of the grand tree’s demise.
The Barbie zip line is no more.
Yes, you read that right. The Barbie zip line. Anne’s Barbie zip line, to be exact. Of course, it hasn’t seen much action in the last decade, but in it’s day, my daughter’s rope and clothes hanger contraption provided hours of entertainment.
At the time I wondered why Anne and her friends kept running in and out of the house.
Turns out, the little girls, many of them Anne’s cousins, had taken the screen out of her second floor bedroom window. It was located about six feet below the peak of the highest roof in the above picture. She and her partners in crime creativity would then throw a long rope out the window, and finally run downstairs and outside to tie the end of the rope around the huge trunk of the old sugar maple. Then they would run back upstairs, strap Barbie dolls to metal clothes hangers and send them down the zip line. Once all the Barbie’s had succumbed to gravity’s relentless pull, the girls would clump down the stairs, and run outside to retrieve the Barbies and haul them back upstairs for another ride.
Had I known, I would ended their fun, worried the girls might fall out the window.
But, I didn’t investigate too closely since they happy since they were occupied so I could do my own thing–work on scrapbooks or freeze meals for the start of school. Besides, none of the children fell out the window, and they still giggle and grin when the subject of Barbie zip lines and bungee jumping Barbies (that’s a subject for another post) enters the conversation.
Today, looking out the window at the fallen tree, I’m homesick for the Barbie zip line days.
I miss my summer-tan little girl flashing her self-conscious smile as she runs past me and out the door. I miss her little friends saying, “Hi, Mrs, Philo!” and her cousins yelling, “Aunt Jo, this is so much fun!” as they rush by. I miss Anne’s tissue boxes lined with torn paper used to house her Beanie Babies. I miss her tempera paint all over the bathroom sink.
Those days are long gone, but until Friday the Barbie zip line tree stood tall.
Why, I wonder, as I lean my head against the window and gaze at the fallen memories littering my front yard, do the best things have to end?
by jphilo | Jul 29, 2013 | Reflections on the Past
A couple weekends ago, I turned 57. Not a Big–0 birthday, but big nonetheless. Because I’ve now been out of teaching for an entire decade.
This 1–0 anniversary is a good reason to think about what’s happened since my wonderful co-workers gave me a send off that included the granting of a childhood wish to be a flower girl by making a “Mrs. Philo Phlowergirl Phorever” sash for me. (Which, by the way, is still in my closet.) Here’s a smattering of where the decade went:
- We said good-bye to both Hiram’s parents.
- We hosted a foreign exchange student from Japan.
- My daughter and I went to Europe.
- My daughter graduated from high school and then college.
- Hiram and I adapted to the empty nest smoothly.
- Mom moved from her home to my brother’s house.
- Mom’s house sold 4 hours after it was listed on the market.
- Both our kids got married…within 3 months of each other.
- We helped them move from here to there to there to….
- Our first grandchild lit up our world.
- Hiram and I celebrated 10 more anniversaries, with the count now standing at 36.
- We’ve vacationed together in Alaska, Idaho, Savannah, Wisconsin, and probably other places that slip my mind because I’m 10 years older than I used to be.
- I’ve traveled to speaking gigs all over Iowa and in DC, San Diego, Long Beach, Nebraska, Missouri, Minnesota, Illinois, Texas and other places that slip my mind because of jet lag.
- Only my mother, 2 of her sisters, and 1 brother-in-law are left of her 7 siblings and spouses who filled my childhood with security and a sense of belonging.
- I worked for our church part time 4 years.
- God allowed our congregation built a new church, and He provided everything needed to furnish it.
- I’ve published scads of magazine articles and 2 books with contracts for 2 more.
- Those books have led to friendships with the most amazing people in special needs ministry around the country.
- I’ve gained enough tech savvy to be dangerous, but not enough to be proficient.
- My retirement pension started sending checks 2 years ago.
The list could go on and on, but you get the picture. God blessed my step of faith out of education and into writing and speaking. He’s been with us through every joy, every sorrow, every good-bye, and every challenge. Sometimes, He even provides opportunities so I can wear my Phlowergirl Phorever sash at speaking engagements.
What more could I possibly want?
by jphilo | Jul 5, 2013 | Reflections on the Past
That’s right. The trusted news source of childhood lied to an entire generation of gullible children in the 1960. How do I know this?
First, I’m reading Whitey: The Life of America’s Most Notorious Mob Boss by Dick Lehr and Gerard O’Neill. The biography casts doubt upon the 1960a Weekly Reader stories that assured school children that policemen in the Unites States of America cared so about little children that they made sure all the bad guys were in prison. Furthermore, children were assured that policemen were friends we could trust. If you’re of a certain age and want to continue believing that assertion, don’t read Lehr and O’Neill’s book.
Second, a Weekly Reader article about volcanoes contained a map that showed the locations of dead volcanoes all over the world. It intimated that volcanoes quit erupting thousands and thousands of years ago, so children didn’t need to worry about them. At all. As a kid growing up in tornado country, the volcano map lifted a burden of worry from my shoulders. I needed to be vigilant about tornadoes from May through September, but volcanoes didn’t warrant a second thought. Whew! Since then, volcanoes in countries like the Philippines and even in the USA–Mount St. Helens and Kilauea come to mind–proved that news story untrue.
But I’m giving Weekly Reader’s editorial staff the benefit of the doubt, assuming they are operating from a paradigm common to many adults, including myself. Adults can’t keep the world perfectly safe for kids, but we allow them to believe we can until they’re old enough to handle the truth and protect themselves.
Sometimes, I wish I was a kid again.
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by jphilo | May 24, 2013 | Reflections on the Past
Today’s post is an updated version of a piece written for Veteran’s Day, 2012. During the Christmas season, Uncle Leo was hospitalized after a fall. After a three month struggle, he died in early March of 2013. He is still dearly loved, deeply missed, and remembered with fondness.
Yesterday was Veteran’s Day, and in my world it went out with more of a whimper than a bang. However our state’s major newspaper, The Des Moines Register, in a moving salute to World War II vets, had the soldiers tell their stories in their own words.
That story, combined with the passing of my husband’s Uncle Harold, a World War 2 pilot last week, was a reminder of how little time remains for our nation to say thank you to the men and women who risked their lives in that great war. Here are the heroes in our family–some still living and some gone in the past few years–I am proud to call my uncles, and for whom I am grateful today.
Harold Walker, Hiram’s story telling uncle, and pilot in the Pacific Theater near the end of the war. He died a little over a week ago.
Marvin Conrad, my piano-playing and very musical uncle. I believe he served in the Navy in World War 2. He died a little over two years ago, only a few months after visiting Washington, DC on one of the Freedom Flights.
Ordel Rogen, my cattle-raising uncle. He served in some branch of the armed forces in World War 2, though I’m not sure of the details. He died several years ago in December.
Leo Hess, who tells harrowing tales of fighting during the Battle of the Bulge in World War 2. He celebrated his 90th birthday in August and still lives in his own home.
Jim Hoey is my history-loving uncle. He was also a dedicated friend to my dad during his long struggle with multiple sclerosis. Jim served as a Navy medic in the Korean War. He turned 80 in June and still loves to travel and write letters to his grandkids and great-nephews and nieces.
Dear uncles, our thanks for your service is not enough, but it’s all we have to give. Thank you for fighting for freedom.
Because of you, our shared family histories continue.
Because of your sacrifice, our family is able to reunite in the summer to reminisce about old memories and create new ones.
Because of you, little children play without fear.
Because of you, elderly men and women are cared for and safe.
Because of you, we live in peace.
Because of you, we are who we are.
Because of you, we are blessed.
Because of you.
