by jphilo | Nov 26, 2011 | Reflections on the Past
If you read yesterday’s post which listed three Thanksgiving faves, you might be assuming today’s entry continues the holiday weekend favorites theme. In which case, the color of choice would be black because of Black Friday.
A logical thought, but not quite where this post is going.
This post is going for a memory triggered by this morning’s sunrise. Or more specifically, by my sister’s comment about the lovely Minnesota sunrise visible from their four season porch. “Look,” she said, “it’s sky blue pink with a heavenly border.”
Something stirred deep inside, and I asked, “What did you say?”
“Sky blue pink with a heavenly border. That’s what Dad always said when we asked him to name his favorite color.”
Suddenly, Dad was with us, two little girls hanging on the arms of his wheelchair. Two little girls asking, “What’s your favorite color?’
“Mine’s blue,” my big sister said.
“Mine’s pink,” I added.
“And mine,” Dad winked and grinned, “is a little bit of both. Sky blue pink with a heavenly border.”
The true meaning of his words went over my head and into my heart where it lay dormant for decades. Until this morning, when my sister commented on the sunrise, and I understood that Dad – a man normally more attuned to humor and practicality than to poetic and artistic thought – loved the beauty of sunrise.
From now on – whether my morning walk proceeds under gloomy, grey skies or those streaked blue and pink and orange by the rising sun – if you inquire about my favorite color, the answer will always be the same.
“Sky blue pink with a heavenly border.”
Thank you, Dad, for loving beauty more than you let on.
by jphilo | Oct 31, 2011 | Reflections on the Past
If you watched Bonanza on Sunday evenings in the 1960s, you know this grizzly truth: women who caught the eye of one Pa, Adam, Hoss, or Little Joe suffered a fate worse than death. Not because those hardy Cartwright men were serial killers or members of a weird cult.
Television of that sort wasn’t allowed in the 1960s.
Every one of the little fillies (that’s what Hoss called the girls at Ponderosa hoe downs and barn dances) never lasted long. They either suffered a variety of maladies, like blindness or rabies, that felled them in a show or two. Or they stuck around for three shows, just long enough to reveal a major character flaw.
And break the heart of one of them strappin’ Cartwright fellas.
Well, last night PBS spilled the beans during the TV Westerns installment of their Pioneers in Television series. Apparently, one of the creators of the show, David Dortort, nixed the idea of marrying off the Cartwright men. He didn’t want to make them appear weak or beholden to women.
I guess we know who had issues with his mother, don’t we?
But – and this is purely conjecture on my part, not something stated during the documentary – Mr. Dortort thought it was perfectly okay for the Cartwright men to be beholden to Hop Sing. You remember him? The tiny Chinese cook who ran into the dining room brandishing an enormous butcher knife with frightening regularity.
Hop Sing aside, last night’s documentary finally laid to rest one of the last, unanswered questions from my childhood. Now I understand why Hollywood starlets didn’t hang their hopes on being cast as a Cartwright love interest. And I understand why my cousins and I argued continually about who got to be Little Joe when we played Bonanza together. In the absence of female roles to claim, Michael Landon was the prettiest person on the Ponderosa. So how did they always talk me into being Hoss?
I think I figured it was better than being Hop Sing.
by jphilo | Sep 27, 2011 | Reflections on the Past
The autumnal equinox is a few days past. Which means this recycled post is slightly belated. But when you read this post from September 21 of 2008, perhaps your will agree with my opinion that it’s a perfect antidote to the winter-comes-after-fall blues that strike this time of year. And if anyone knows where Ruth Monroe now lives, please leave a comment. I’d love to catch up with her!
The Equinox – Recycled
The radio announcer said today is the equinox. While he explained the day’s significance, I thought of my college theater professor, Dr. Ruth Monroe. She directed a story theater show when I was a freshman. She chose one of Rudyard Kipling’s Just So tales, maybe “How the Elephant Got It’s Trunk” for us to turn into a children’s scene. For over thirty years, I’ve been able to remember only one sentence fragment from the story: One fine morning in the middle of the procession of the equinox.
Least you think I’m a total kook, I can remember the fragment because Doc Monroe jazzed it up into a chant that opened the show. We started out with:
One fine morning in the middle of the procession of the equinox,
I say the equinox,
I say the equi-equi-equi-equi-equinox…
and went on from there to I don’t remember what, except that it was pretty cute and kids laughed a lot.
But every September and March, when the equinox rolls around, I do remember what a wonderful teacher and director Doctor Monroe was. I remember Thoren Hall, now torn down, where we rehearsed. I remember Alpha Psi Omega initiations at midnight on the stage and cast parties at her house after shows and trips to Minneapolis to visit the Guthrie.
I don’t know where Doctor Monroe lives. I don’t know if she’s still alive. But each fall, when the sumac turns and each spring when the crocuses bloom, suddenly she snaps her fingers and jives to the beat. So I join her in the chant:
One fine morning in the middle of the procession of the equinox,
I say the equinox,
I say the equi-equi-equi-equi-equinox…
…as I prance down the road.
Out of breath and still dancing, we laugh.
by jphilo | Aug 24, 2011 | Reflections on the Past
The kids around here went back to school on Monday. The teachers officially started work the middle of last week, but most of them have been preparing their rooms and doing some work from home since August began. Last year, I wrote this post about my annual August gut reaction. This summer, the yearly tummy twist has me thinking about how to encourage the teachers in our town. They are ever and always my heroes!
Gut Reaction – Recycled
Ever since 1961, when I set foot in Franklin School as a kindergarten, the same its-almost-time-for-school-to-start-pit-in-the-stomach-reaction occurs at summer’s end.
It doesn’t matter that I graduated from high school in 1974 and college in 1978. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been out of teaching since 2003. It doesn’t matter that my kids’ public school days are a thing of the past. One rustle of the calendar page turning from July to August, one glance at the back-to-school ads in the paper, and my stomach ties up in knots. I can take deep cleansing breathes, engage in positive self-talk, and count my blessings until the cows come home, and my gut still feels queasy.
I tell myself it’s a conditioned response. You know, my personal version of Pavlov’s dogs. Only instead of salivating at the thought of food, my intestines go all grumbly at the thought of entering a classroom. Why is that? I loved reading and learning as a kid. As an adult, I loved teaching and developing relationships with students.
I attribute my annual August gut reaction to one thing. Teaching is hard work physically, emotionally, and mentally. It’s harder than any job I ever did. Detassling corn, working in the Hy-Vee Deli, washing dishes and cooking at a nursing home, being a nurse’s aid at the same home. All of those were child’s play compared to teaching. The same can be said of my present career which involves writing books and speaking to large groups of people.
Here’s why. Every day teachers must be organizational whizzes, entertainers, mind readers, communicators, multi-taskers, disciplinarians, record keepers, clock-watchers, counselors, comforters, problem-solvers, and tough guys in the classroom. But that’s only half the job. The other half involves trying to keep up with the legislative requirements that change and grow more demanding every year.
So say a prayer for teachers this month. Then put your prayers into action by doing something special to. Bake cookies. Send an encouraging email or card. Take them supper. Mow their lawn. Pick a bouquet of flowers. Say thank you.
This August, do something to untwist their tummies.
They’ll be glad you did.
by jphilo | Aug 3, 2011 | Reflections on the Past
A few weeks ago, on one of this summer’s blistering hot July days, three former colleagues and I spent the afternoon together. Vicky, Pat, and Pauline are still teaching, though I jumped ship in May of 2003. We loved teaching fourth grade together, collaborating and sharing ideas freely. But we shared more than work. We shared life, trading recipes, advice about raising teenagers, and how to care for aging parents.
After too many years apart, we gathered in Pauline’s cool and comfy living room and picked up our conversation without missing a beat. We talked about what our kids are doing, and their life journeys so far. We shared disappointments and unexpected joys, sorrows and hopes, our dreams for the future and our fears. Most of all, we encouraged one another, just like we used to do after hard days at work.
Believe me, these women are about the most encouraging people around. Or course, encouragement is second nature to people who teach fourth graders their multiplication facts, persuade unwilling students to write cursive, and can make the geography of the United States interesting. Vicky, Pat, and Pauline – they are masters of the craft.
After a few hours with them, all of us crying a little and laughing a lot, I knew what I miss most about teaching.
Not the paperwork.
Not the politics.
Not the paycheck.
Not even the students so much.
What I miss most are these three, strong women who encouraged me to take a risk and pursue my dream of becoming a writer. And, I envy the students, the parents, and the faculty who will rub elbows with them when school starts in a few weeks.
Do they have any idea of the treasures these women are?
by jphilo | Jun 28, 2011 | Reflections on the Past
My mother highly prized education, something her three offspring are more grateful now than during our childhoods. Even Mom’s gifts were designed to further our education and prepare us for the college careers she was determined we would all pursue. Every time I look at this game box, now displayed in my kitchen with other dust-catching memorabilia, I shake my head. Did she really think a kid would want a geography game for a birthday present?
Happy Landing – Recycled
Recently one of my childhood games, passed on to younger cousins when I outgrew it, was returned to me. The thrill of owning Happy Landings: A Geography Game (Whitman Publishing, 1962) did not overwhelm me when I received the game as a birthday present when I was 9 or 10.
For me, a geographically challenged child from the word go (my best guess is that the game was given after a particularly abysmal score on the social studies portion of ITBS) playing the game was an exercise in failure. The board was a world map marked with red stars. After drawing a card with commands like “Ride over Mackinac Bridge which connects upper and lower Michigan” or “Climb towering Mt. Everest in northern India,” players placed their marker on the corresponding star. I don’t remember ever getting a star in the right place. And since the map, the cards and the markers are in pristine condition, the game didn’t see a whole lot of play at our house or anywhere else.
But as a kid, one thing about the game intrigued me: I could spend hours gazing at the children on the cover. The boy was okay, mostly because he’s holding the pointer which was cool, but the girl was fascinating. She was the epitome of early 1960s perfection. Note the curly hair, the lovely bow in her hair, the unwrinkled shirtwaist dress with it’s own gigantic bow, the lace on collar, cuffs and waistband, and the wonderfully full skirt. And from the look on her face, you can bet she can answer every Happy Landings question without breaking a sweat. She was everything I aspired to be and couldn’t accomplish, no matter how hard I tried. That’s why I spent hours gazing at her picture, trying to imagine what it would be like to have a dress like hers, curls like hers, and smarts like hers.
I’m thrilled to possess the game again because it brings back so many memories: the chalky, booky, dusty smell of the elementary school I attended, girls wearing shorts under our dresses so the boys wouldn’t see our panties on the jungle gym at recess, the joy of discovering Laura Ingalls, the Bobbsey Twins, and Clara Barton inside the covers of library books, and the disappointment of failing another spelling test because I got “b” and “d” mixed up again.
But mostly, I’m thrilled because the game reminds me of how far I’ve moved beyond the child who once owned it and yet how much of her remains. I no longer obsess over lace, bows, ironed dresses, and curly hair. But, I still mix up “b” and “d” when I’m tired, and I still love meeting characters inside a book.
One last thing that hasn’t changed? I still don’t like playing geography games, so please, buy something else for my birthday this year!
