The Spring Nest Project

March 17, 2013 //

When my kids were all three, I taught their Sunday School classes and one of my favorite projects was making spring nests. I’m pretty amazed that I did it with a whole class of little ones, but I was a lot younger then. Today seemed like a good day to try it with my youngest granddaughter. She’s going to demonstrate for us, showing that you can even wear a tutu while cooking.

First, we made the grass. She did it basically all by herself with me putting coconut in a bag with some green food coloring and letting her shake it. Pretty fun to make green grass.

Then we made the nests, which are basically Rice Krispies treats made with Cocoa Krispies. Before there were Cocoa Krispies, we just added cocoa to the mixture of marshmallows and butter. We watched the marshmallows rise in the microwave…

Then we stirred the marshmallows and butter until they were smooth…

Then we added the Cocoa Krispies and stirred everything together.

Then I put big spoonfuls of the mixture on waxed paper…

And then coated my hands with butter so I could shape them into rough nests.

Then we added the grass to the nests, or nestess as she called them.

And added tiny jelly bean eggs.

And she even mastered wrapping them in clear wrap – at least for one.

And we put them in a basket or two.

Spring Nests to give to those we love!

Categories Family, Recipes

The Ugly Words

March 16, 2013 //

There are some ugly words out there, some of them mean and cruel, racist epithets, hateful terms. But there are a couple that I find the ugliest of all.

The first one is Cancer. If you hear this word, no matter what you know or who it’s about, you immediately think DEATH. Tell me you don’t automatically go there, no matter how many people you know who have beat it or are in remission. In those first shocking seconds, that’s what makes you gasp! From what I’ve read, it’s always there and it just gets a foothold on us when our immune system is down or we suffer a trauma or many other reasons. And it never really goes away, even if you’re in remission for years. You may never have another occurrence, but it is always hanging there. If it’s active or recent, you live from scan to scan. Even after the all clear, there has got to be a gulp before a doctor’s visit or every time you feel a twinge or ache. It’s not a death sentence for all, thank goodness, but it’s still pretty devastating to hear it said. I’ve lived through it with my husband and son, both of them gone because of the disease & the treatments, and with friends, some who lived through it, some who are still dealing with it and some who are now gone. It’s just an ugly word.

The second ugliest word to me is Widow. I looked it up and it’s been used since before the 12th century. That’s what it feels like…archaic. It comes from Middle English, Old English, Old High German and Latin variations of the word. The Latin word, videre, means to separate. I learned that widowhood is also called viduity. That’s an obscure, strange term that sounds like…what does that sound like? Anyway, widower doesn’t seem to have the same ugly sound to me. Widowers are men, sad and lonely, who most often will find another woman as quickly as they can. That’s kind of cold, but it’s very often, not always, true. This doesn’t mean they didn’t love their wives, but it’s just a male thing. I’m not making a blanket statement, just an observation. There are always exceptions.

I don’t know what the label Widow does to most women, but I didn’t like it. It’s a strange word to check on forms, an ugly word for a strange club you never wanted to join (as another widow friend of mine said). Here’s what the word conjures up to me.

Now, tell me the truth. Isn’t that the image that jumps to mind? Some variation of this, at least. Especially the wringing the handkerchief part. At least this one isn’t wearing a black veil. I’m not trying to be flip about it, because it is a painful, painful state of being at first. Your heart is ripped apart, if you loved your husband, and you feel like you’ve been torn in two. It’s not an easy thing and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I know people who have suffered through this at all ages, although I guess at some point as you get older, you suspect it will happen to you or your spouse. Even then, it’s not easy and can still be a shock. My parents were married over 50 years and my mother was devastated. She was a strong woman, but this was her life. Like all of life, everyone handles it differently, hence, the merry widow, the black widow, etc.

I don’t know where I’m going with this but it was on my mind since I’m marking 15 years of living with this label. I still think of him every day, I still miss him, I can still hear his voice. Mostly, I remember with love and humor and I’m lucky to see him in our children and grandchildren. My life isn’t like I pictured it when I was young and in love. It’s not even how I pictured it when I was turning 50, but it’s pretty darn good. Maybe because I know how loved I’ve been all my life. But, that crappy word. What can we do about that? Or would any word be just as bad? Just ugly, ugly, ugly!

Tags cancer, death, family, grief, widow

Categories Family, Memories, Reflections

Family Truths

March 12, 2013 //

A dear friend and I were talking this morning about how different members of a family see things. With our old age wisdom we can accept it, but it’s one of those things you learn as you live. I remember, as an adult, talking to my mother about something that had happened years before and she said, “that’s not what happened, at all,” and proceeded to tell me her version, which was shocking and slightly annoying. It was interesting to get the different perspective, so I just added to my own memory of the event.

As a mother of four, I became keenly aware of how differently my children saw things. Each has his or her own personality and ability to process what is going on with their age, position in the family, and accompanying life experience and level of maturity added on to skew the event even more. A child of ten sees an event differently than a child of fourteen or sixteen and differently than an adult. I’m assuming everyone figures this out at some time, but it’s always funny or strange to hear someone else tell their version and have it seem so incredibly different from our own. Sometimes, everyone tells it so much that all the stories become a more cohesive party of family history.

The importance of this is that we all need to respect each other’s truths. Just because it varies from ours doesn’t mean it isn’t valid. It’s valid to that person and is how they are processing life and its lessons. It’s also important for all of us to not only respect but watch for the things that may skew that person’s truth into something far away from how everyone else saw it. Easier said than done. We all look back and think we should have seen something that hurt someone or should have been more understanding or even looked at something more broadly ourselves, but it’s always looking back. And we probably did do the right thing at the time with what we knew then…hopefully. I even look back sometimes and am sorry I can’t remember a special fun moment better because I just wasn’t paying attention. That’s another lesson…something that may be memorable to us may be totally forgettable to someone else.

Photos are important to me to jog my memory or to catch an expression later on and wonder what in the world was going through that person’s mind at the time. I’m going to end with this one of my kids on a probably fun Christmas long ago. You’d never know it was fun now, would you? I’m assuming they were annoyed at me for taking one more picture, but who knows? Regardless, I love them for expressing it rather than giving me a fake smile. This is so much more true, isn’t it?

Tags memories, perspective, siblings

Categories Family, Reflections

Sixteen years ago today…my new life..

March 10, 2013 //

Sixteen years ago today, I became a different person. I went from mother to grandmother in one second that exploded into years that fill my heart and life. Sixteen years ago today, my first grandchild was born, followed by another one eleven or so weeks later and another one eight months later and then they kept coming until I now have eight, six boys and two girls. The first seven are between eleven and sixteen as I write this. The youngest is three.

But, sixteen years ago, my husband and I entered this new phase with joy and humor and all the anxieties that come with watching your children enter new phases of their lives along with you. We took the Grandparenting Class at the hospital to refresh our memories and see what was new in the world of babies. We learned, with amused glances at each other, that we were expected to do things a little differently this time around. There were car seats to contend with from the moment the baby left the hospital and infant CPR to learn and other things that I’m sure I’ve already forgotten. We graduated with a certificate that declared us as ready as we could be.

Shopping with my first time mother-to-be was an experience. In the years since I’d had my children, the baby business had exploded. I went with her to register at Babies R Us (the name makes this old English major cringe) and was overwhelmed by the aisles of choices to get this little one started. How did I ever manage in my little duplex right off the college campus when I had my first one, the inexperienced, but very educated, young mother that I was? Where we had one brand and one size of disposable diapers and only used them when traveling, there was an aisle filled three shelves up on both sides with diapers. Just disposable diapers. There were new kinds of diaper pails, which we probably could have done without, but listed anyway, going with the hype.

I used a new kind of baby bottle with my babies, Playtex with disposable liners. They had those, but there were infinite other kinds. Where to begin? There were different styles of binkies, which we called pacifiers and my babies never used. And accessories for the binkies. And an aisle of cribs and an aisle of strollers and an aisle of high chairs to match every decor and an aisle of car seats and an aisle of cribs and then there were the crib accessories. It went on and on and on…I couldn’t even begin to give advice because I had never seen most of these things or never had so many choices. Besides, most of the things we had so carefully protected our babies with had now been deemed unsafe. I think a lot of the industry is built on guilt and fear because who doesn’t want their child or grandchild to be as safe as possible?

Then you got to the cute side and all the clothes and toys and you just oohed and ahhed your way through the store, ending up with a long list of what you thought you needed along with all the things that looked so cute you couldn’t resist. The registry led to baby showers with young mothers and other grandmothers-to-be. Of all the parties that women have devised, baby showers are about the most fun. Opening all those gifts with those cute little clothes…it’s our way of playing dolls again.

When the time came, my daughter had read her copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting through and through and was moving on to the next book in that series, leaving me to flip through my old copy of Better Homes & Gardens Baby Book and remembering having to prop it open to follow the pictures on how to bathe a baby when I was starting out. My mother had done the same with her copy and she stood by me as we both began that journey together all those years ago. My daughter was induced, which has become pretty common for who knows what reason. On the morning of the birth, the entire family gathered, except for our son who was away at college. This was a far cry from our days when nobody was allowed in with the mother and the father sat in the waiting room with the other fathers. When it was over, he could call the rest of the family from the phone at the hospital. No cell phones for instant pictures then!

We could all go into the labor/delivery room to visit until closer to the time and my husband and other daughters, both of whom were also pregnant by this time, and I waited with the other grandmother-to-be. What a difference a generation makes. My son-in-law was not only allowed in for the delivery, but carried the baby to the nursery. That was pretty scary since I’m not sure he had ever held a baby, but he did it like he had always known how. He got to stand there with pride while they weighed this not so little 9 pound 5 ounce boy and we all watched through the window. By that night, everyone had gathered and we filled the room, baby talk beginning to stream out of our mouths. How instinctive is that?

They throw the moms out of the hospital as soon as possible these days and they have the babies with them most of the time, so it’s a little bit hectic between the nurses, the visitors, and trying to figure out what is going on with your body. I was happy to remember my two-five days stays when I had my babies as times I could get some rest and gear up for the rest of my life. I was visiting the hour that the lactation nurse came to explain breast feeding and I’m sure my son-in-law would have killed to be back at his job at that moment. It was all my daughter and I could do to keep from giggling as she told her how to stop swelling by plastering her chest with cabbage leaves. I hadn’t nursed because it was kind of out of fashion at the time I had my first child, but was happy with my choice by the time this nurse got through with us. I’m all for it, but it was a bit of overkill from an overzealous advocate that day.

The parents were thrown out on their own with this new baby and I spent a lot of time remembering the ropes myself, hoping to be helpful as I remembered what an overwhelming responsibility it is to become a new parent. Fortunately, it is amazing how quickly you remember how to hold a slippery, wiggly baby. My mother and I laughed a lot remembering our own adventures and bonded with her new role as great-grandmother. It was a time of happiness and joy. What is better than having a little baby snuggled up against you?

By the end of that year, we had three new grandsons and I was well on my way to being known as Mimi as well as Karen (I’m not sure all of my grandkids know my real name even now).

We had had first trips to the car show, the zoo, the Drillers baseball games, the swimming pool and the pumpkin patch. Life was changing and repeating itself in the best ways. It was also teaching us about life and death as my husband was diagnosed with cancer in the middle of this season of births. He died a week after this oldest grandchild had his first birthday, changing all our lives and teaching us how love heals those losses and life is never-ending cycles.

Once I became a grandparent, grandkids started coming at a fast rate. Within the next couple of years, there were two more boys…

Then a girl and a boy.

Each time there was a birth, the ever increasing family filled more and more of the hospital waiting room, ready to greet the newest addition. We could all diaper a baby in seconds, had wiped more faces than we could count and the babies probably had to figure out sometimes whether the person holding them was a parent, grandparent, aunt or uncle. They were interchangeable at family gatherings. And they grew up way too fast.

Then we had another one. The only two births I missed being at the hospital for were my two granddaughters. The first one was born while I was in Seattle with my son as he battled cancer, so we met her together over the computer, laughing at her first hospital picture, and then meeting her in a few days at the airport. The second one was my son’s daughter, also born in Seattle. I’d have been there, but we didn’t know when she was coming, so I heard from a text in the middle of the night and saw her first pictures on Facebook the next morning. Such was the new technology in those fast moving years since the first baby came.

So, now I have eight wonderful grandkids and each is unique and a delight, just as their parents were. They teach me so much and keep me up with what is going on in the world and make me feel old and young at the same time. Following their busy lives, watching them grow into young adults, sharing their mistakes and triumphs, is a blessing beyond words. I am lucky to have all eight of them here with me. I make some of their ball games…soccer, football, basketball, baseball…and their assemblies and their confirmations and graduations. The biggest problem is that they grow at a faster speed than my kids did. Maybe I’m just on that downhill slide that comes when you go over the hill. We won’t talk about that.

Sixteen years ago, I started on a new journey with my children, watching them become parents, watching them grow as people, watching them nurture their children through life. Now we’ve got babies who are taller than their parents but not as smart…yet. Sometimes I think that watching my own children with their children may be the very best part of it all. May I live long enough to see my grandchildren with their children and my children become grandparents! How much love can one family have? There’s always room for more.

Tags family, grandchildren, grandmother

Categories Family, Memories, Reflections, Uncategorized

Rainy Night in March

March 9, 2013 //

When you’ve had a drought, like we have had lately in Oklahoma, thunder and lightning are a welcome surprise. My first thoughts this night were how incredible rain must have felt to the people in the Dust Bowl decade plus. I can’t even imagine living through that time and, having learned about it, now appreciate the rain even more. Here’s a remnant of a Dust Bowl house I passed in the Oklahoma panhandle, a lonely reminder of those who walked away.

Tonight, every little drop is a delight and all the songs about rain keep running through my head. There’s one that my grandmother used to sing to me, although in the song she changed some of the words a little from the poem I found on the internet. She sang me songs that must have been old folk songs, passed down through families…

Two little clouds one summer’s day

Went flying through the sky.

They went so fast they bumped their heads,

And both began to cry.

Old Father Sun looked out and said,

“Oh, never mind my dears,

I’ll send my little fairy folk

To dry your falling tears.”

One fairy came in violet,

And one in indigo,

In blue, green, yellow, orange, red,–

They made a pretty row.

They wiped the cloud tears all away,

And then, from out the sky,

Upon a line the sunbeams made

They hung their gowns to dry.

There’s Rain, Rain, Go Away…my favorite version other than us singing it as kids is Peter, Paul & Mary blending their incredible voices. Raindrops keep falling on my head…but I’m snugly inside tonight, not running outside to stomp and splash through the puddles in the summer, coming home soaking wet, like we did as children. It’s nice to remember times when rain wasn’t just a nuisance, something to escape so you weren’t trapped in traffic, worrying about getting your shoes and clothes wet, trying to keep from catching your death, as they used to say. Remember the fun times when we walked through it and laughed about it, played in it, rejoiced at dripping our way into the house to get warm and dry. When do we get too old to stop and look up at the rain and let it hit our faces? Remember that thrill?

Anyway, tonight is blessed rain to help the farmers, nourish the trees and wash the dust off our winter lives. March showers bring spring dreams. When I wake up tomorrow morning, these flowers in the dark will have soaked up the rain and blossomed in all their glory. Magic Mother Nature.

Categories Family, Reflections, Seasons

The Birthday Cake

March 3, 2013 //

Every year on March 3, I make a birthday cake, German Chocolate cake made from scratch, for my husband. It takes awhile and it’s not my favorite in the world, but it was his. He died fifteen years ago this year. We don’t spend a lot of time sitting around grieving, but we do remember and we laugh a lot. I just make the cake and tell the kids it will be ready and they show up.

I met Alan when we were both 16, just before he turned 17, at a church dinner during our junior year in high school. I was there with another boy and he told me I just had to meet this guy, he was so funny. I was hoping to get to know another boy I liked, but that didn’t turn out to be so great. Anyway, I remember this tall guy rushing through the room with some other boys, acting goofy. I actually thought he was younger than me and that was that. But, for some reason, I never forgot that moment I first saw him, it stuck in my head. That summer, we met again at a church retreat where we spent a week on a small college campus. This time, I did get to know him and really liked him. He was tall, about 6’2″ at that time, and weighed about 220. He was silly and fun to be around, liked to dance, and we could talk to each other. I don’t know what we talked about but I wanted to see him again when we got back to Tulsa.

He had enlisted in the Navy Reserves and went to boot camp right after we got back. I remember writing him for the two weeks he was gone. We had a retreat reunion right after he got back and he had lost 30 or 40 pounds at boot camp and I remember riding on his shoulders in the lake at what was then Skyline Amusement Park, which had a small lake, roller coaster and other rides. It’s now Post Oak Lodge in Jenks. We hit a wall after that. He wanted to go out with a friend of mine and I admit she was a little hotter than I was. Finally, after many phone calls and conversations with my girl friends trying to figure this out, I asked him to a dance my social club was having. We had our first date in September and danced and danced. I’m not sure how I got him to ask me out again or who badgered him into it, but we really did start dating and that was the beginning. We were seniors in high school, I was skinny and had braces on my teeth that came off right before the prom, he grew two more inches and was skinny with his ears sticking out and I was in the advanced classes and he wasn’t even close, but we filled each others gaps (a quote from Rocky).

We went to separate schools in the fall, he went to two years of active duty the next year while I stayed in school, and we wrote a ton of letters to each other. Long distance calls were expensive and we didn’t have computers, cell phones, etc to communicate. By my senior year in college, he was home and returned to school as a sophomore and we got married during our two week Christmas break. I graduated and started teaching as a graduate assistant while he went to school, he started working for my father in the summers, we had our first daughter, and we finally came back to Tulsa for him to work full time for Daddy. Three more children came along, and we lived our life together with a big fun family.

I can’t say what made us a couple. He always made me laugh but he could be moody, my brooding Scotsman. I always understood him though. All those talks and letters for 4 1/2 years had given us a pretty good sense of each other. We were always each other’s best friend, we shared the same values, we loved our family, we loved each other, and we laughed so much….so very, very much. We would look at each other when we were the maddest and sometimes break out in laughter at the absurdity of it all.

We lost him way too early through cancer that attacked fast and furiously and took him right after he turned 53. Life moved on for all of us, but we always take time to stop and remember. As I bake his cake today, there will be a flood of memories, sweet, funny memories that surely sift into that cake. I will always love my sweet guy. Happy Birthday, Alan!

Tags family, memories, traditions

Categories Family, Memories

Estate Sales and Auctions

March 1, 2013 //

One of my mother’s great passions was collecting antiques. Growing up poor in the Great Depression fueled her enjoyment and appreciation of the things the rich people had, which is not to say she was a snob. She never forgot what her life was like and helped so many people over the years, but she learned to appreciate the beauty, craftsmanship and history of beautiful pieces. She taught me a lot when I was first married…mainly the fun of getting a bargain. Or something that “gladdens your heart,” as she said. Especially if that thing was a bargain to boot. She loved estate sales, auctions, and antique stores and became friends with many of the owners. For one thing, she loved the stories about the items, the history of the pieces. She became quite a sophisticated buyer, bargainer and bidder through the years, ending up with some pretty gorgeous pieces. I tended more towards English pieces and she liked the more formal French, but we were both pretty eclectic. For her, getting the piece was part of the game. Years later, when I had a retail store, she had a keen eye for what would sell and what was a keeper from the new items on the market.

I got my dining table, 6 chairs, and a matching buffet at an auction with her when I was about 22 years old. I paid a whopping $150, which I had to borrow from her and pay back. I was newly-wed and still in college and she had to store it at her house, using it for awhile, until I had a house for it. Over the years, she often commented on how the set got prettier to her every year. It was that bargain, I’m sure. I’m not sure I would have even picked these items out, but they have served our family well over the past 40+ years as they served the families before us. That was another thing she taught me – that antiques appreciate rather than depreciate. Usually, that is. It’s also recycling, although she didn’t mention that.

For the past two days, I worked at an estate sale. I spend more than I make, so it’s not a real job, but, it’s fun to see the things in the sale and all the people who come through. Many observations came to mind. First is that the majority of the people who come are about my age or older. I’m guessing that it’s a combination of all the things that made my mother go to them. It’s getting out of the house, running into friends, looking for bargains, seeing what you already have is worth, adding to a collection and finding a treasure you can’t live without. There’s such a variety in an estate sale – everything in a house and based on the owner’s taste and what the family hasn’t taken out. Dealers rush in first to scout for the really unique and see what they can come back to get at bargain prices on the last day…one dealer called himself the Buzzard because he swoops in at the end for the real bargains.

Such a shopping spree…where else are you going to find silver services and fine crystal,

replacement parts for your kitchen items, along with cookbooks that are out of print that you want to give someone,

pressed glass for your friend who collects it,

a miniature scuttle, which we decided was used for cigars, although we didn’t really know and loved it anyway,

lovely oil paintings at bargain prices,

unusual wicker pieces,

an old stamp collection, along with books,

old family photographs (this horrifies me),

and, my favorite, an antique iron.

The iron was a source of constant conversation as we saw how it heated up with flame and then had to be picked up with a cloth or potholder wrapped around the hot, hot handle. On top of that, I could barely lift it. Imagine trying to plop that down on a piece of clothing and move it over the area without scorching. Wow! We all had a greater appreciation of our light electric steam and spray irons and for the women who had to wrestle these monsters!

The comments I heard over and over were “omigod, my house looks like this. I need to clean things out,” followed by “I have to have that,” and “my kids don’t want any of my things.” Having cleaned out my mother’s home, after she had cleaned out a lot of it herself, I learned what she had already taught me when she cleaned out homes for relatives and friends. You can’t imagine how much is in there until you have to touch every item in every drawer, shelf and closet. On the other hand, cleaning out her things taught me a lot about her and brought back many memories. It can be a healing thing.

On the comments about our kids not wanting our things, I have a few suggestions. My mother left us with a list of the things in her house and where and she got them, who the artist was, and what she paid for them – the provenance, so to speak. It was invaluable. It didn’t mean we had to love it like she did, but it kept us from selling it as a piece of junk in a garage sale. I was working on a list like that for my kids, but it’s tedious. My grandson is going to help me videotape everything, with me telling the story of the item so my family will know why it meant anything to me or if it’s valuable or not. After that, I assume they will also treasure it or send it along to a proper new home, recycling it once again.

I don’t know what the newest generations will like or want, but I love the history of my old and new things. I’m hoping that I live long enough to pass some down to my grandkids as they launch into their adult lives, as my mother did for my children. The history of some of these items has passed through other families and is now part of my family’s history. Except for those many things that will end up in my estate/garage sale one of these days. Hope someone enjoys plowing through my treasures looking for a treasure of their own. One of these days. I’m not ready to part with my stuff yet…

Tags art, auction, bargains, estate sales, furniture, history, sales

Categories Art, Uncategorized

Riding the Bus

February 26, 2013 //

There’s a lot of talk these days about our need for more mass transit or rapid transit. Way back when I was little, the bus was a big part of my life. Not that I took it all the time, but it was a pretty fun way to travel or get around town. One of my grandmothers drove a little, around Ardmore, but not on the highway, so she always took the bus to come see us or stay with us while my parents were on a trip. We would pick her up or drop her off at the bus station. I loved the bus station when I was little. It was such an exotic place to go and watch all the people coming and going. Tulsa had the beautiful Art Deco bus station – and airport – in those days.

Sometimes, I would go home with my grandmother, riding the Greyhound with her all the way to Ardmore, which must have been about a 6 hour drive in those days. It was fun to sit beside her watching the landscape go by, different than from the back seat of my parents’ car. As I got older, and I’m talking about 9 or 10, I got to ride the bus by myself. I would take it to Oklahoma City to see my other grandparents and my cousins. Once, I took it all the way to Ardmore. On that trip, my aunt in Oklahoma City met me at the station there and waited with me until it left again for Ardmore. I remember sitting next to a window, reading a book and looking out the window. And watching the other people on the bus. Quite the adventure.

While my grandmother stayed with us, we took the bus downtown. I think she could have driven my mother’s car, but that was a scary thought for all of us. She wasn’t the best, an understatement, driver, even in her own car. She walked a lot at home. Anyway, we’d walk about two or three blocks to the bus stop and ride downtown to eat and shop at the Kress store, walk around, look in all the store windows, and come home. It’s hard to describe how much fun that was. I guess it was just different than driving downtown with our parents and because she always bought us some little thing at the store. She didn’t have much money, so it wasn’t much, but it was a treat. And, we weren’t in any hurry so the waiting and slow pace was nothing to us.

As I got older, my friends and I rode the bus downtown. I can remember being in Oklahoma City when I was about 12 and going to a movie downtown with my cousin. My aunt dropped us off and we were to take the bus home. We got tired of waiting for our bus, so we just took the first one that came along and ended up somewhere other than where we were supposed to be. On purpose. Not that we were scared…we often did stupid things together, giggling all the way. We walked for a long time after getting off the bus and I can’t imagine how we found a phone to call my aunt to come get us when we realized we were probably in trouble. No cell phones in those days! My aunt wasn’t too happy with us…giggle, giggle.

As shopping centers popped up and I became a teenager, we began to walk to those places for hanging out with our friends. Waiting until we could drive cars. No more buses after that!

It’s been a long time since I’ve taken a city bus in Tulsa. We’re very much a driving city, which doesn’t help those who can’t afford cars or don’t want the hassle of parking or driving in traffic. The only thing that will change our driving habits is the cost of cars and gas, although that doesn’t seem to matter to most people. I drive a small car that costs almost as much as my first house. And it’s a cheap car comparatively…a hybrid. Getting places quickly is the main issue, I think. Nobody has or takes the time to wait for a bus… or anything else. The age of instant gratification extends to getting places, too.

The buses I take these days are mostly charter buses or tour buses or shuttle buses. Taking the bus long distances has the reputation of being dirty and dangerous. Pretty sad. Oklahoma State has wonderful buses, the BOB (Big Orange Bus) system, for those who commute to the university in Stillwater. I rode one with a group and they are plush compared to what I remember. A comfortable place to study on your way to class down the highway.

I rode the buses a lot in Seattle when I used to visit my son, later son and daughter-in-law, there. I easily learned the bus routes and loved the ease of jumping on and riding downtown or back rather than fighting that traffic or finding an expensive place to park. They were colorful trips to say the least. The diversity of Seattle was seen in force on the buses, a never ending parade of humanity. I looked forward to it actually.

I still have a little origami bird that an elderly Chinese man made for me while we rode. I was sitting across from him, watching him create this little treasure from a piece of newspaper. I found out later that he was known for riding the buses, giving away his little birds. He quietly folded the paper, then looked up at me, smiled, and handed me the bird. Charming! One of those serendipitous experiences in life that we should treasure!

I don’t know where the bus system will end up here in Tulsa or if my habits will ever change or have to change. All I know is riding the bus was a special part of my childhood, one that I wouldn’t trade. As I sing “The Wheels on the Bus” with my granddaughter, I’m sure what I see in my mind is so different than her vision…the wheels go round and round, round and round, all over town.

Tags 1950s, bus ride, family, memory

Categories Family, Memories, Reflections

Parents

February 22, 2013 //

I’ve been a kid and I’ve been a parent and now I’m a grandparent. How does that happen so quickly when I’m still so young?

Anyway, I have four kids and eight grandkids, so I’ve got a little bit of experience. I’m not saying I’m an expert because each one is different and presents you with an infinite variety of happiness, challenges, pride, fear, disgust, amusement, moodiness, anger, tears, laughter and every other emotion…sometimes all in the same day. You never know everything about them because it changes all the time. Mine are all pretty good kids, not perfect, but pretty great all the same.

This week, I’ve had two of my grandsons for several days while their parents are out of town. It’s been quite awhile since I had the day to day routine of a 15 and 11 year old, so it’s brought back a lot of memories. They’ve been pretty terrific, so I’m not really getting the first-hand experience their parents get to have. They get up and get ready without a fuss, say Thank You for every little thing I do, don’t fight, and are cute as can be. Isn’t that what they’re like at home? I know better.

Their parents warned me that the older one might retreat to text and not talk much. Well, duh! I don’t think I came out of my room during high school except to run to get the phone, which was in the hall. Then I stayed on it for hours or went back to my room to read, study or…what the heck did I do? I just didn’t find it that fun to sit with my family all evening long. They called me the “mole in her hole.” Which was annoying. I can hardly criticize any teenager since I was one myself and so were my friends. Even good kids do some stupid, idiotic things. All we can hope is that they don’t get hurt.

I’m also rediscovering how they go through food, have homework and endless activities, and, in general, take a lot of time to raise. No slacking off in this job. Glad I’m still up to the required energy level. I also get to share their day and spend some time with them. Pretty special!

There is a reason that we usually have our children while we are young. The best reason is to watch them grow up and have their own children and watch this wondrous cycle continue. I loved Lady Violet’s comment on Downtown Abbey, “People forget about parenthood. It’s the on and on-ness of it.” When you hear that as a parent, you sigh. When you hear it as a grandparent, you sigh…and then you smile!

Tags family, memory, parents

Categories Family, Reflections

Research Papers

February 19, 2013 //

Here’s how I got to this topic today…

I saw a movie about Joan of Arc, the one starring Ingrid Bergman as a 3o something year old playing a 16 year old, although she did a great job with what she had. I’ve always loved the story of Joan of Arc and find her story absolutely fascinating. Late last year, I had seen an old movie of Joan of Arc, I think it was silent, that had been on a list of top ten movies or female performances or something of all time. It was based on the actual transcripts of Joan of Arc’s trial and was just brutal. The poor actress never acted again.

Anyway, that took my confetti brain to a paper I wrote in college when I was taking a semester of Mark Twain in graduate school. My thesis for that class was on Twain’s Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, not one of his more well known books, but one he called his favorite. The book was highly criticized when it was published, probably because it was so different from his other works, especially the ones where he viewed religions so irreverently. It was called too sentimental and not historically correct. I took the stand, with all my 21 years of experience, that Twain based the work on more historic truth than they thought. He probably did base his own image of Joan on his beloved daughter, Susie.

Those thoughts morphed into memories of those term papers that I always seemed to be writing. As an English major, it was part of the deal. While I was taking the Twain class, I was also teaching Freshman Composition as a graduate assistant, having to teach how to write those papers. In those golden old days, a research paper was a tedious thing, unless you really liked researching, which I did. It required many visits to the library, a grand place to go at Oklahoma State University. There you plowed through the card catalogue by hand, looking for anything remotely connected to your topic. Then you had to find this book or article and either check it out or sit in the library and read it. I think I made notes on little note cards for some reason. Maybe I organized them into something…who knows.

After you digested all of this information, you took all the notes and started writing a rough draft…by hand. I learned to write papers in junior high and high school, using the rules in this little blue book, which I can’t believe I still have. I may need it some day and it does have really good information on just writing in general.

Either in high school or college, I also used this book, good old Strunk & White. While writing this, I looked it up and found that it was considered antiquated just a few years ago. If you know nothing about writing, it still gives you some good lessons.

After you had your final draft finished, and you may have had to write several, you were faced with some of the low tech of the time. Papers had to be turned in typed, sometimes with more than one copy. We didn’t have copiers then, so we used carbon paper. I knew people who had to have several copies of each paper. Oh yeah, there could be no errors. Sometimes, the professor would let you get by with one or two. Picture sitting down at your typewriter, which was an electric one by the time I got to college. I learned to type on a manual. Electric typewriters were all we had until word processors came into being by the time some of my kids were in college. At least they had copiers.

Anyway, you sat down to type your paper, which had to have footnotes and a bibliography, knowing you couldn’t have any mistakes. There was also the time factor because few college students got to this point until the night before the paper was due…no matter how long you had worked on it. You had to stop and roll the paper down part way to insert the footnote number, hoping you would get the paper back in the same spot. And you had to plan when to stop the page so that you could have room for the footnotes. It was a delicately balanced process.

Then came the dreaded mistake. You had to peel back each copy and correct each one with a typewriter eraser and something to scrape off the carbon word. Later we got Liquid Paper, although teachers didn’t like that so much. Even later was correcting paper or tape. Imagine a 20 page paper with this process. I’m cringing now…and I was an excellent typist.

OK. You finished the final page and rolled it out of the typewriter. Then you had to proofread the paper. Oh no! You find an error and you have to start all over. I was a student counselor in the dorm as an undergraduate and saw some real drama with term papers. When I was teaching….well, I saw some real interesting final products. And you might have more than one paper due at the same time. Super drama!

So, I have gone from Joan of Arc to this tale of research papers. I’m so grateful for what that old process taught me. There was a real sense of accomplishment when you had a good idea and found information to prove it. There was a discipline to it all. I don’t know how they teach this process today or why it’s nearly as hard with computers, but I’m sure it is. Students are students and they probably still write their papers the night before.

This is one of those times I’m just glad I can look back on all of it and don’t have assignments due or grades to worry about. Life is worrisome enough after college. In fact, those worries don’t seem so big now. Happy Spring Term to all those students out there. You’ll end up ok, even if you procrastinate. Smile.

Tags college, education, high school, research papers, writing style

Categories Memories

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