Happy Fourth of July Everyone!
Photo Credit: www.freedigitalphotos.net
Where a Minnesota Farm Girl and Queen Elizabeth Meet
Our cousins across the pond held a big party last week to celebrate the 60th anniversary of their monarch. Queen Elizabeth. The media was full of the event. Factoids about the queen’s life were everywhere.
But one important fact escaped the media circus. My mother considers Her Royal Majesty as a constant entities in her life. So this weekend, I did a little pictorial research to see why Mom regards HRM as almost a friend. What I discovered confirms a suspicion I have long held. Though Queen Elizabeth was raised in the lap of luxury in an English palace and my mother was raised in poverty on a Minnesota farm during the Great Depression, the two women led parallel lives. Here are a few pictures to prove the point:
Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret in the 1930s
Photo Source
Mom (right) with her sister Ruth during the 1930s
Princess Elizabeth in the 1940s
Photo Source
Mom in the 1940s
The Queen at the 60th Anniversary Celebration wearing fancy hat
Photo Source
Mom at family celebration wearing fancy elf hat
I know.
Parallel lives.
Sends shivers down the spine, doesn’t it?
So I’m praying that some Tuesday in the future, when Mom and I go out for lunch together, she will be at the center of a huge, fawning media circus. ‘Cause in my eyes, her life is every bit as remarkable as Queen Elizabeth’s, and I’d like the world to know it.
Tissue-ology
As a former elementary school teacher and survivor of a respiratory virus that’s still holding the man of steel hostage, today I’m officially launching a personal research study into a new branch of science.
Tissue-ology
My interest in this area of research was first piqued during 25 years of teaching. Early on, I observed an interesting pattern. The number of boxes of tissues used by students in a given year correlated directly to the number of learning and behavior issues among those students.
Correlation 1: More learning + behavior issues = More tissues consumed.
Correlation 2: Fewer learning + behavior issues = Fewer tissues consumed.
Tissue-ology
More recently, I’ve discovered that the whereabouts of tissue boxes in our house are good indicators of the healthiness of the inhabitants of a household under respiratory siege.
Stage 1: Tissue boxes in normal positions in each bathroom = everyone feels hunky dory.
Stage 2: Tissue boxes the couch or end table = everybody’s in denial about how fast they’re goin’ down.
Stage 3: Tissue boxes on couch or end table + overflowing wastebasket nearby = hell health in a hand basket.
Stage 4: Tissue boxes back in normal position + stray tissues on bedside and end tables = getting better, but not quite there yet.
Stage 5: Tissue boxes in normal position + dust on the tissue on top = God’s in his heaven + all’s right with the world.
Tissue-ology
According to official scientific monitoring underway at our house, I am currently at Stage 4, while the man of steel is at Stage 3. I am also looking for volunteers willing to participate in this research study. At this point, I can’t afford to pay you, but your name will be added to the list of charter tissue-ologists, which will be a big deal when the field of tissue-ology gets up and blowing running. Leave a comment below if you would like to participate in the study. And remember, you heard it here first.
Tissue-ology.
Super Bowl 47 Top Ten Observations
Another Super Bowl has come and gone, but it left these top ten lingering impressions in its wake:
10. My, my, my, those players have to be sore this week.
9. The more a TV show (like Parenthood, Downtown Abbey, or West Wing) draws me in emotionally, the more likely it is to enter my dreams. Rest assured, Super Bowl 47 and I were not bedfellows Sunday night.
8. Between brothers who are head coaches and the power outage, Super Bowl 47 should provide a motherlode of obscure facts for color commentators in the decades to come.
7. The best thing about the Super Bowl is the socially acceptable, junk food extravaganza that accompanies it each year.
6. Surely, John Harbaugh will leave his Super Bowl ring at home when he goes to Jim’s house for Thanksgiving dinner next year.
5. Finally, we know how to render football commentators speechless. Just turn off the lights in the stadium.
4. So, are the football players with the braids really football players, or are they Saruman’s fighting Urak-hai moonlighting on the sly?
3. The lack of sportsmanship displayed by players, coaches, and fans left me feeling sorry for elementary PE teachers and any adult on recess duty. How can educators encourage kids to be good sports when their pro-athlete role models are such bad examples?
2. The Super Bowl is considered family entertainment, right? Did someone forget to remind Beyonce and the producers of the halftime show about that?
1. Most of the Super Bowl commercials didn’t make much sense, which shows how out of touch I am with popular culture. However, the Doritos commercial where the dad dressed up as princess and played with his daughter and all his friends joined in was very cool. The world needs more dads like that.
Always the Bridesmaid, Never the Flower Girl
Spoiler alert for those who’ve not yet watched episode 2 of the third season of Downton Abbey! Wait to read this until after you’ve watched it.
For those of you who have watched episode 3, at least the women readers, could you believe what happened to Lady Edith? Is this woman doomed to always be the bridesmaid, but never the bride? Only since Lady Sybil eloped and Lady Mary didn’t bother with bridesmaids, Lady Edith never got to be a bridesmaid, either.
And she was jilted at the altar.
In a gown I personally considered more beautiful than Lady Mary’s. And I’m quite the expert on wedding dresses, having spent a considerable amount of my childhood rating wedding gowns worn by my older cousins. I also rated the bridesmaid dresses, wedding programs, embossed napkins, cake, mints, mixed nuts, and the frilly net aprons worn by the young teens who helped serve. Over the years, I kept careful track of which cousins were asked to be bridesmaids, groomsmen, ring bearers and flower girls.
Which brings me back to Downton Abbey and poor Lady Edith.
I know how she felt. I totally understand why she ripped off the veil and threw it over the railing. (Didn’t you just love its romantic and tragic billow to earth?) I understand why she threw the headpiece on the floor, refused supper, moped all night, and rose in the morning determined to be the best spinster ever. How, you might ask, can I understand?
Because I never got to be a flower girl.
My sister did, and her middle name is guess what? Mary. Sure, she let me wear her gown when we played dress up, but it wasn’t the same. Not only that, but my brother got to be a ring bearer. But no matter how winsome and irresistible I acted when the latest bride and groom-to-be stopped by to visit–kinda like Lady Edith acted around Sir Anthony Strallan–I never got the flower girl nod.
Never. Ever. Not once.
But like, Edith, I’ve decided to stop moping. Instead, I’m working on my accent and posture, adding to my matching hat and gown collection, learning wield a walking stick with an imposing air, and perfecting the art of leveling pointed looks at one and all.
Watch out Dowager Countess of Grantham, your competition is on the move!
Tiny Town, Gigantic Heart
State Highway 20 west of Camp Crook, three miles from the Montana border.
Long time readers of this blog have been subjected to posts about Camp Crook, SD where the man of steel and I lived from 1978 after we graduated from college to 1985. This post subjects you to another story about Camp Crook. It boasts a population of about 62 and is not far from the McFarthest Spot in the contiguous United States. It is very remote town in one of the most sparsely populated counties in South Dakota. It’s a town full of cowboys and cowgirls, college and professional rodeo stand-outs, and people with gigantic hearts.
How gigantic?
I’m glad you asked. A recent article in the county newspaper, The Nation’s Center News, gives an idea. The article, Julia Davis Benefit Is An Incredible Event, describes a fundraiser held on Friday, December 28, 2012. Julia and her husband ranch about 10 miles south of Camp Crook. She’s also the secretary in Harding County’s State’s Attorney office. Julia has had surgeries throughout her life for a congenital hip defect. In 2012, surgeons in Denver replaced her hip joint with an artificial one. But Julia developed a stubborn bone infection, and the only course of treatment left was amputation of her leg at the hip.
So her friends organized the Julia Davis Benefit to encourage and support her.
The night of the benefit, the streets of tiny Camp Crook were double-lined with 250–350 vehicles. Over 500 people from South and North Dakota, Montana and Wyoming crowded into the Community Center for the pot luck supper and auction. Over 200 items were donated for the silent auction. During the live auction, ten spotters helped the auctioneers keep up with the bidding. The benefit was a tremendous success.
How successful was it?
I’m glad you asked. The people in this tiny town with a gigantic heart–where many of the same people raised $1500 to defray our son’s medical costs, a substantial sum in 1982–outdid themselves in 2012. The big-hearted people in the town we’re proud to have called home for 7 years raised over $73,000 for Julia and her family.
You read that right. $73,000.
I read the article in the paper and told the man of steel about it when he got home from work. His eyes grew large. He thought for a moment and then said, “There’s power in that place.” I nodded in agreement. Neither of us could keep the silly grins off our face during supper. And every time I think about the benefit, the silly grin comes back. But when I think of Julia, who’s leg was amputated on January 14, the grin fades and I begin to pray.
Oh Lord, wrap your arms around Julia and her family as she recovers and learns to walk and cope. May the gigantic hearts in that tiny town lift her up in the months and years to come. May your presence be the power in the place. Amen.
Author Jolene Philo
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