Veterans’ Day 11/11/11

For today, I want to use Smalltownville’s tribute to Veterans. 

The home of my youth has been working on a small park area to honor Veterans.  The last time I went home, it was nearly complete.  The flags were flying and the shelter had been erected.  There was still a mound of dirt left for landscaping, but I’m proud nonetheless.  When I took the photo below, a stiff breeze had called all the flags to attention:  The US Flag, the Minnesota Flag, the POW-MIA Flag, and the flags of the US Service Branches. 

Smalltownvilles all over the US have sent their citizens into harms way.  My heartfelt gratitude to all Veterans: past, present, and future.

To read an interesting piece (or listen to the nine-minute story) about Buglers, Veterans and the Lonely Yet Comforting Sound of Taps, follow this link:  http://www.npr.org/blogs/deceptivecadence/2010/11/09/131195065/buglers-veterans-and-the-lonely-comforting-sound-of-taps.  I heard a rebroadcast of the interview today. 

Smalltownville Historical News

A few weeks ago, I mentioned the police reports in the Smalltownville newspaper.  The newspaper also reserves a little space for historical pieces: historical to the city itself.  They divide the column as follows:  60 Years Ago, 40 Years Ago, and 20 Years Ago.  As a child, I never paid much attention to that little corner of the newspaper because I didn’t figure I would know anyone mentioned there.

Alas, enough time has passed that I do recognize some of the names – most recently my own. 

Forty years ago I was awarded the American Legion School Award for Courage, Honor, Leadership, Scholarship, Service and Patriotism.  I’ve never forgotten that I received the medal, but it had slipped my mind how long ago it had been.

Notice the box cover.  The National Headquarters for the American Legion is located in Indianapolis, Indiana – host city to the 2012 Super Bowl.  There is most probably some archived record listing  my name as one of the recipients of the medal.

The front of the medal lists the six qualities considered when making the selection of the award winners.

It has always been the reverse side of the medal that intrigued me.  It depicts soldiers, for whose protection and service I have always been grateful.  My photo doesn’t do the relief work justice.  It’s really quite beautiful.

The American Legion Medal came with a lapel pin as well.  The pin looks the same as the front of the medal.

The purpose of this post isn’t to brag about winning the award.  It’s really just another of my Smalltownville posts.  I’ve been spending a lot of time with Gr8 this summer and since the article was so recently published, she cut it out and saved it for me.  It will be tucked into the box with the medal.

My dad was a member of the American Legion.  I hope that I can live up to the qualities listed on front of my medal for his sake as well as my own . . . . . High School Literature Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner scam notwithstanding. 

“Water, water everywhere . . .”

The phrase I used for the title of this post has been on my mind since I started knitting my most recent Super Scarf – #34.  (See previous post.)

It’s a phrase I can still recite from a poem that I used to be able to recite – exactly half way.

It’s a Smalltownville story that I should just take silently with me, but . . . . I’ll share.

I liked high school, for the most part.  Classes were interesting, I got to see my friends every day, and any frustrations I could claim at that age, got banged out on the drums I played in the band. 

My dad taught Chemistry in the classroom that overlooked the track and field where my Phys. Ed. classes were held in good weather.  From his position at the front of his classroom, he could look out the window and watch his children as their gym classes ran past to and from the field.

There was a glitch in my day, however, and that was the Literature teacher – not the class – just the teacher.  Perhaps it’s a sign of maturity that I no longer remember her name and that I am more willing to point a finger at myself than at her.

On the first day of class, the teacher announced the following challenge: anyone who was able to recite the poem “The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner”, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, before the final exam, would be exempt from the exam and receive an ‘A’ in Literature.

I thought it was a perfectly swell challenge – doodle in class, skip the homework, no reading stupid old stories, poems, or books, recite a poem, slide onto the Honor Roll!  I decided to go for it.

I, of course, had to go to the Smalltownville library to find a copy of the poem.  The Lit teacher’s challenge didn’t include saving me some time by giving me a copy. 

I only knew the city librarian by the name that everyone called her.  ‘Tiny’ helped me locate a book where I would find the poem.  The library of my childhood occupied the space of one side of a building on the main street of my home town.  The way the building was divided made the library very long and very narrow.  Tiny’s desk was near the door and the Children’s and Youth section was way at the other end of the library.  Samuel Taylor Coleridge was somewhere in between.

I found the book with Tiny’s help at the Card Catalogue – during the era where there were card catalogue actually had cards!

I didn’t check the book out immediately.  I sat down in the library to begin memorizing.  I spent many of my Saturday mornings in that library and the habit continued all through high school.

There are 143 stanzas in The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, most having four lines, but some having more – making for a memorization task of over 600 lines.

After I did the math, I gave this challenge a lot of thought . . . . and then I decided to hedge a bet.  I was the only student who decided to accept the challenge, so I decided to memorize half of the poem.  That was well past the “Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink . . . ” stanza.  I just didn’t figure the Lit teacher would actually take the time to listen to me recite the entire poem.

Oh, I worked plenty hard at what I did memorize.  One of my weekend chores was to help Gr8 (my mother) with the ironing.  I ironed a lot of shirts!  And we still ironed bedding back then too.  With tablecloths and cloth napkins, I had P-L-E-N-T-Y of time to memorize my lines.  I placed my library book, open to the page I was working on at the time, on top of a shelf near the ironing board and repeated lines over and over again, each time adding the next stanza.

When I decided that I had memorized enough, I told my Lit teacher that I was ready to recite the poem and get my ‘A’.  She was impressed that I had finished early – before the end of the term.  I had to stand next to my desk in in the classroom as I recited.

“The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.  Part I.”

I thought the ‘Part I’ thing was a good touch and played well for me.  It also helped that I had been participating in Declamations since my freshman year: Short Stories and Humorous Speech, mostly.  I recite my lines with a great deal of affect, and a great deal of dishonesty.  I didn’t lie outright and tell her that I had memorized the entire poem.  I simply told her that I was ready.

On and on she listened.  I slowed my pace and recited with emotion in all the right places.  Poor old albatross . . . . I did his part proud! 

“Water, water everywhere . . . ” is the 29th stanza, so when I got to that part, I could get my bearing and decide if I was going to win my bet with myself.

I did win.  The teacher didn’t really want to waste time listening to a high school kid recite 143 stanzas of a poem that turned out not to be included in the Lit curriculum that term.  Alas, she stopped me when I had two stanzas left of the half I had memorized.

The key to pulling it off was not to look at all worried as I approached the last stanzas I had committed to memory.  I went on confidently throughout.  Cheating?  Yes, absolutely!  Lying?  Not at all.  More than Literature, I had learned creativity.  I had been misleading, to be sure.  But . . . hadn’t the teacher been misleading, as well, by not giving me the courtesy of listening to the entire piece?

This was the first of two Literature challenges I was offered during my education.  The second happened in college.  I got an ‘A’ in that class, too.  I did the entire task in a week, and still get to brag about that one from time to time in my current position at the college where I work.  It involved an entirely different piece of Literature and the challenge was much more interesting.

“Water, water everywhere

And not a drop to drink.”

This piece has many lines to it.

I’ll just learn half, I think!”

(With deepest regrets to Samuel Taylor Coleridge for the above verse.)

Today, I drove past my Smalltownville high school where the above incident took place.  I’m well past the shame and have made great strides in integrity, but for the life of me, I have no idea what my classmates did in Lit that term.  Probably Dickens.  Or, could it have been me who was the dickens? 

Christmas Dilemma in Church . . . What’s an Organist to Do?

I still have the key.. . . . . 

I was the church organist in my Smalltownville church for many years: from seventh grade, through high school, and then all through my college years.  Somehow the key to the organ has moved with me from Smalltownville, to Hell** and back, and resides with me now in Seven Hills.  I’m sure the key would still unlock the roll-top cover to the organ’s keyboards.  Though things change in Smalltownville, things don’t change that quickly.  They change slower still in the religious corporation that owns the church where the organ is the only piece of permanent furniture in the balcony.

I spent much of my youth in that balcony, practicing or playing for services.  When one or two of the pipes would whistle in the summer humidity, I climbed the narrow staircase of the belfry, listened for the offending pipe(s), then pulled them out.  That was the simplest solution to end the incessant noise!  It also ended my ability to play that particular note, too, but there are creative ways to get around that.

I spent so much time in that church that it seriously impeded my free time for things . . .  like Christmas shopping.  As a general rule, I didn’t shop much.  I either made my gifts or somehow managed to figure something out.  One year, though, I wanted to buy my mother (Gr8) a sweater and I didn’t want her to have a single clue about it.  Shopping wasn’t really a pastime in Smalltownville back then, so my free time was spent on math and chemistry homework, helping with household chores, babysitting and of course, playing the organ.  When I thought I had a moment to buy the sweater, Mother was either with me or waiting for me at home and would have spotted my bag.  That wouldn’t do.  It’s not a surprise if it’s not a surprise.

What to do?  With two services on Saturday evening each week, and three services on Sunday, it seemed as if I was always in church and would never have a chance to sneak to the store to buy my mother’s Christmas sweater.

I decided to be a little bold. (Brash, bossy and sassy, if I’m honest) but to this day, I take secret delight in my solution.  Prior to the service, I told the presiding minister that I was going shopping during his sermon and he needed to keep talking until he saw me return to the balcony.  I explained that I was going to play the song before the sermon, then r-u-n the two blocks to the main street, and bolt the last half block to the store where the clerk was holding my mother’s Christmas gift for me.  I told him I would have the cash ready, pay for the gift and r-u-n back to the church in time for the song after his sermon.  He understood and agreed.

So that’s how it went down, sort of.  My family members were all seated in a pew in the church below my perch.  The service progressed through opening hymn, prayers, etc and the time had come for the sermon.  I tiptoed down the balcony stairs.  I gently opened and closed the side front door to the church.  I made my two-block sprint to the main street.  I took a right turn  and dashed past the five and dime to the clothing store and paid for my mother’s sweater.  I had some change to spare.

The mistake in my plan was having that change to spare.  I walked out of the clothing store and into the five and dime next door.  I bought a soda – which we didn’t have very often – and after all, weren’t we were getting close enough to Christmas for a special treat?  I opened the bottle and took a long slow swallow.  What a treat – freedom from what was, by that time, my 1040th service in a row in that church!  That’s a lot to ask from a high school kid.

I couldn’t actually r-u-n back to church with an opened, glass soda bottle, so I strolled a bit.  I had a chance to look at the snow in the trees and take it all in breath by breath, step by step.  In fact, I strolled a bit longer than I had realized.  When I arrived back to my organ bench in the balcony, I turned to see the associate pastor pacing back and forth in front of the altar as he ad-libbed the part of the sermon that was NOT on his carefully prepared and typed paper.

First of all, Catholic priests at that time did not pace when they preached.  And secondly, they did not ad lib either.  I had been gone a half hour and it was long past time for the sermon to have ended.  Bless his heart, he didn’t give me away (other than the pacing and the ad-libbing.)

I hid my mother’s sweater under the roll-top cover to the organ, for which I had the key.  And since I was the only organist for that church, there wasn’t much danger of my gift disappearing until I had a chance to wrap it and bring it home after I played the last note of the final Christmas hymn for the Midnight Mass that year.

The associate pastor is no longer a priest and I am no longer a church organist.  The one thing that remains is my mother’s Christmas sweater.  She still has it and wears it from time to time.  It’s a part of me and my Smalltownville memories.

** Hell is my pseudonym for all the times and spaces and places between Smalltownville and Seven Hills, which are generally not addressed in this blog.

We went to get a dozen eggs

As I mentioned in my previous post, Goodnight and I took a drive to Smalltownville to visit Gr8.  It’s been a lovely visit so far.

This morning, my mother told me that she would like me to pick up a dozen eggs for her.  Rather than make the five block trip to the Smalltownville market myself, I asked her if she was up to getting out and joining me.  She was.  So I  rolled Goodnight out of her comfy position in Gr8′s recliner to join us.  I had a plan.

When Gr8 got into my car, I said, “I just want to warn you ahead of time, that I’d like to take you on a drive in the country before we get your eggs.  It will do us both some good.  My knee still hurts like crazy and I think mental health is as important as physical health.  Okay?”

Gr8 just smiled at me.  She knew I would find a country road that neither us had ever been on and find a way to make us all smile about it.  It just happens, though, without too much planning on my part.

We left at 8:45 a.m. to ‘get the eggs’.

I headed north out of Smalltownville.  I told her that I was actually curious about where a specific road in the next small town would lead us.  I didn’t know where it went and wanted to find out.  So . . . . we took a left turn at the corner where, for most of my life, I’ve taken a right.  In retrospect, I’m certain I was influenced my the ghost of Robert Frost and his Road Not Taken.

The towns are small, so it wasn’t long before we were out in the countryside again.  We drove a while and soon I realized that I was headed to a town where I had travelled with my high school band to play in their summer festival – a festival of corn-on-the-cob.  What a good place to do some sight-seeing.

Sight-seeing in a small town isn’t like going to big places boasting tourist attractions.  It’s much different.  We looked at very old brick homes that are sturdier than they appear on their time-worn exteriors.  We looked at old businesses that used to employ many of the local residents and drew residents of neighboring communities for work, as well.  We noticed that the main thoroughfare in the business district had been transformed enough to prohibit cars from ‘cruising the main drag’ like folks did when I was young.

Not a problem for my Chevro-sleigh.  I could see that all I had to do was go around a building, drive through a parking lot, and come out on the other side to continue my drive.

What was on the other side?  Could that be a thrift store?  Oh my!  ”Mom?  Wanna stop in for a moment – you know, just for a quick look?”

Gr8:  I doubt if they are open on Sunday.

Gram:  It’s Saturday.  Let’s see if they have Saturday hours.

We went into the store and had a great time looking around.  All three of us found some useful things.  More importantly, someone who knew my mother, introduced herself and had a good long chat with Gr8.

When we left the thrift store, we pointed the car toward home, but via a different route.  We were making a loop rather than backtracking.  Backtracking wouldn’t be as fun.

When we arrived at the small town between the one where the thrift shop was and Smalltownville, I noticed the time and thought it would make a nice stop to take Gr8 and Little Gr8 out for a meal.  We found a quiet family restaurant and enjoyed our dinner together.  The restaurant was across the parking lot from the public swimming pool where I got to go once every summer when I was a child.  The restaurant wasn’t there years ago.  It had been an ice-cream shop and cones were only five cents.  Ah the good old days, eh?

By the time we left the restaurant, we had been gone from home about three hours, just to go five blocks for a dozen eggs.  Fun!

We headed toward home.  When we were a mile out of Smalltownville, Gr8 wanted to see if a friend of hers was at home, but as we drove past her house, Gr8 remembered that her friend was going to volunteer at the Smalltownville food shelf and had told Gr8 to stop by for a visit.  So . . . we did.  GN calls Gr8′s friend her BFFWAOP (Best Friends Forever with an Old Person), so she had to say hi and give her a hug, too.

Fun stop for me.  The Smalltownville food shelf is housed in an old convent that is no longer inhabited by nuns.  I had attended the grade school that was adjacent to the convent, but never really had an occasion to see much of the convent – only the kitchen when I would rake the leaves away from the back door for the nun/cook who would pay me back with a cookie.  I raked for her whenever I could. 

When I was in grade school, the old convent housed ten nuns.  Eight of them taught in the grade school, one was a cook and the other was the church organist who gave piano lessons, too.  I took piano lessons from her beginning the summer after I completed first grade.

I remember my first piano lesson distinctly.  She opened the music book to the first page and asked me to read.  It said, “To the pupil:”

The old nun asked me if I knew who the pupil was.

I wasn’t sure.  It was an unfamiliar word to me and had an aire of importance to it, so I said, “You are!” with all the innocence of my youth.  She just smiled at me and had me continue reading.  I don’t remember exactly when I figured out that I was the pupil, but I remained her pupil until I took over her post as the church organist when I was in the seventh grade.  She retired and moved away from Smalltownville to the priory where she lived out her years – to the age of 103.

I’m sure one of the upstairs bedrooms in the empty convent was hers.

The kitchen looked much as it I remembered.  The hill where the autumn leaves collected outside the kitchen door had been leveled for the back addition to the grade school.  It didn’t level my memories, however.

By the time we left the convent and said our good-byes to BFFWAOP, we had been gone over four hours.  The Smalltownville grocery market was two blocks from the convent.  Gr8 and Little Gr8 went in to finally find the eggs that were the reason for getting out of the house in the first place.

I sat in the store and texted my sis in another state to tell her about the convent and to make her a wee bit jealous at our thrift shop treasures.  We had a good electronic trip down memory lane while I waited for the egg-hunters.

Smalltownville holds a charm for me.  Perhaps it’s because I can leave it and come back whenever I want to – something I couldn’t do as a child.  Perhaps it’s because Gr8 still lives there and she is the reason to enjoy it still.  It could be that the dusty roads close to home that I have yet to discover lure me there.  What I really believe, however, is that Smalltownville holds a charm for me because I have grown up enough to notice what was there all along. 

Besides, it’s so much fun going out to buy a dozen eggs! 

Mother’s Day in Smalltownville

It may be because I grew up there and am still rooted to Smalltownville, but Mother’s Day weekend there was so very quiet and sweet.

Goodnight and I got to Smalltownville in time to watch the Derby with Gr8.  We usually are watching separately and talking on the phone while I text my sister so we all know each other’s favorite horse.  Gr8 picked the winner. 

We didn’t play a single table game this weekend.  We just chatted.  Goodnight was tired from her busy day at the track meet so she crashed in front of a movie after dinner on Saturday.  She threw the shot put and thinks she qualified for a ribbon at the 18-school invitational meet.)  We’ll find out later.

Mother and I just talked.  House talk, yard talk, garden talk, weather talk, spring cleaning projects, etc.  Nothing big or special – and yet that’s what makes it special, that everyday spice that picks up where it left off the last time we spoke.

We went to an early morning church service for Mother’s Day.  There was a lot of poking going on at that service.  I got poked in the ribs on the way in.  I turned sharply, startled at first, to see an older woman with her arms outstretched to give me a hug.  I let her.  

Halfway through the service, someone poked me again.  A gentleman that I didn’t recognize poked my elbow  just to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day.  I wonder if it was someone I was supposed to know.  He had a look that seemed to show he understood that Angel was gone, but yet, with Goodnight next to me, I wasn’t really sure.  I’m mistaken for her mother regularly.

The service continued as usual until near the end.  As soon as the organist played the first three notes, I recognized the piece.  The hymn number wasn’t announced because it’s not in any hymnal there.  It’s in the hearts and minds of those who know it from the ‘Old Country.’  They sang the hymn in Czech.  I am not of Check heritage, but growing up in Smalltownville when I did, it rubbed off a bit.  There’s even a way they speak in English that is recognizable: not only the accent, but the grammatical structure when asking a question.

I had reached for my hymnal when the music began, but as soon as I recognized the tune, I put it down.  I knew the hymn too.  I knew the Czech words and I knew the tears that would flow from the oldest of folks there.  The last time I heard the hymn sung there was when I played it myself as their young church organist.  It’s a part of home that has not only rubbed off on me, but has been embedded in my heart.  If I had any Czech in me, I might have cried, but since I am not, and since I hadn’t heard it in decades, it made me cheery in that settled sort of way one feels when trying to recall something from bygone days and finding that it comes back flawlessly.

On the way out of church after the service, a third poke on my sholder from another gentleman who asked me if I was one of Ms. Gr8′s daughters.  He graduated high school with my sis, but probably hasn’t seen either one of us since then – so wasn’t exactly sure if he was talking to his classmate or not.

He wasn’t talking to his classmate, but he sure handled his uncertainty in a gracious way.  He introduced himself asked about my sis and mentioned my sis’s BFF from high school.  I promised him that I would text my sis as soon as we got to the school basement for the annual Mother’s Day breakfast.  He appreciated it and told me I was aging gracefully.  I just smiled.  The boys I knew when I was younger and their younger siblings still surprise me with their grown-up manners.

It’s the guys who put on breakfast for Mother’s Day.  Gr8 and Little Gr8 sat next to each other and I sat across the table from them for easier visiting.

It’s just the stuff of small towns.  Bimbo (from my childhood neighborhood football games) was one of the servers.  He’s grown old gracefully, too.  He was several years ahead of me, married one of my classmates and has nine grandchildren now.  But he always stops by our table to say hello.  His father owned one of the grocery stores in town and his grandmother had a little corner store two blocks from Gr8′s house.  We scavenged the neighborhood to find glass pop bottles to take to her because she paid us $.05 apiece.  Seeing him stand before me and chatting brought back all the good memories.

His wife is a good woman, too.  Her grandfather was blind.  I remember him vividly because my folks would have him and his wife babysit once in a while when I was pretty young.  Despite his inability to see, I didn’t get by with any monkey business.  His pipe and his cheery disposition fascinated me.

Seated next to me at the Mother’s Day breakfast, was a woman I didn’t know.  No matter.  The question of the day is never “What’s your name?” but “What year did you graduate?”  The answer to that seems to set things in time and place and just presumes that the one questioned grew up in Smalltownville.  I love it! 

It turns out that she lost a child, too . . . an adult child, though just barely.  He was twenty-one.  For most, perhaps a difficult conversation on Mother’s Day, but not for me.  I ‘got it’ immediately.  We had an easy chat and nodded our understanding. 

“We don’t get over it.  We just get used to it.”  That’s what she whispered to me. 

“How long have you been getting used to it?” I asked her. 

“Twenty-one years,”  she replied.

Twenty-one Mother’s Days without her son.  I am a rookie compared to her.

At Gr8′s house, Goodnight found a magnifying glass to have fun with. (So far she doesn’t know the story about her grandmother burning the prematurely balding spot on the top of her cousin’s head in the sun with one.)  She just got the biggest kick out of seeing one of my eyes grow larger and larger as I held the magnifying glass further from my face.  She did the same with Gr8.  Then she had to see herself, too.

It made us all laugh:  old discoveries for a new generation.

Though tears have their place, laughter is welcome – especially on Mother’s Day.  We celebrate life, for in that gathering of three, I was not the only mother who had lost a child.  Gr8 did too – before I was born.  And though it’s so many decades ago, she has her “Angel”, too.

Fifty-nine years of . . . .  ’getting used to it.’

Thank-you, Smalltownville, for such a tender Mother’s Day.

I hugged the mayor and then I ran my fingers through his hair . . .

I love Smalltownville!

Goodnight and I went to my mother’s house this morning and then the three of us headed to a Czech Heritage Fest/Expo.

Right at the entrance to the Fest/Expo was the mayor of Smalltownville.  I walked right up to him and gave him a big hug.  Then I ran my fingers through his hair.  There was a younger fellow standing nearby who caught all this and then walked closer.  My mother leaned in to speak to him so he wouldn’t interrupt me.

Now before you let your imaginations run away with you (though it might be more fun), the mayor was a school chum of mine from primary days all the way through high school.  And I ran my fingers through his hair because it has a 100% pure white patina and mine has only a few patina highlights – if the light is at the proper angle.  The mayor and I are the same age and I had to tease him royally about that.

The younger fellow who turned and walked closer was his kid brother and he wouldn’t have known who I was.  My mother leaned in to tell him.  The kid brother recognized my mother because he trims her trees.

After the introductory teasing, the mayor and I leaned in for a chat.  I told him that I thought he did a great job handling the media during the decade’s worst fire in Smalltownville last year.  A large apartment building burned beyond saving in the cold of winter.  The mayor was on his way back into town from meetings about how small communities can work together. 

On his way into town, he spotted a yellow fire truck.  Smalltownville’s fire trucks aren’t yellow, so he followed the truck.  He realized soon enough why it was there.  Smoke billowed from the apartments.  Firefighters came from nearby communities . . . already working together.

By the time the mayor arrived all the residents had escaped unharmed.  Most were elderly or disabled.  They had just had a fire drill the week before, so they knew what to do.  They checked on their neighbors and helped each other get out.

No firefighters were harmed either.  The mayor reminded me how devastating the fire really was.  There are still people who are struggling after losing everything.

I told the mayor that I had sent in my donation to help the fire victims and that I also emailed people on my Smalltownville contact list to let them know how to help, too.

Then the mayor hugged me again and . . . handed me an apple.  It’s a HUGE apple and it will be my lunch at work tomorrow.  His kid brother, the tree trimmer – was giving them away at the Fest/Expo.

All this and we had only walked in the door!

I love Smalltownville.

Goodnight, Mother, and I walked around the rest of the Fest/Expo.

Each booth had something of interest.  There was the Smalltownville hospital where I was born, and where my kid sis volunteered in high school.  They were giving away band-aids.

I must say, though, I lucked out twice with spinning a wheel for door prizes.  I won a nice calculator with a spin at one booth, and a flash drive with a spin at another booth.  I’m not sure I answered the trivia question properly, but I made something up and they gave me the prize.

I stopped at the American Legion booth.  I knew someone at that booth too.  But what caught my eye was the Memorial Day 2010 binder on the table.  I quietly picked it up and was paging through it.  I knew what it was, but a uniformed Legionnaire walked up to me and told me that within the binder was the list of people to be remembered at the service this coming May.  I was simply checking to make sure my dad’s name was there.

I chatted with the Legionnaire a moment.  I asked him if they still ran the Voice of Democracy contests.  He told me they still do.  I told him I won when I was in high school.  Then I asked him if they still award the American Legion gold medal for Patriotism to a graduating senior.  I was awarded that medal on my graduation night.  He told me they dropped that program and changed it to a scholarship to help with tuition.

Another one of the Legionnaires was standing away from the booth, but I walked up to him to say hello.  I knew him, too.  I wanted to thank him for taking such good care of my mother.  He’s the town electrician and sometimes I know he doesn’t charge my mother.  When I thanked him, he simply waved his hand at me.  “Awww, she’s a great lady. We don’t mind helping.”

I love Smalltownville.

There were Czech singers and Czech dancers putting on short performances all afternoon.  I recognized the costumes even before the women took off their coats.  Another schoolmate of mine plays the concertina for some of those groups.  Mother has an 87-year-old friend who sings with the Czech singers.

The last booth we stopped at before exiting the Fest/Expo was a garden booth.  One woman working at the booth walked up to my mother and gave her a big hug.  Mother introduced her to me and told me that she teaches at the elementary school.  Mom has a State lifetime teaching license and is still called to sub every year.  The woman then told me a funny story of what my mother took for lunch one day when she was called at the very last-minute to sub at the school.  All she had time to grab was a hard-boiled egg and a piece of bread.  Knowing my mother, though, she probably boiled the egg ahead of time – just in case.  Mom and the 6th grade teacher visited for a long while and goodnight and I stepped away to let them chat.

I love Smalltownville.

Goodnight is a city kid, but she’s being raised by her Smalltownville gram.  She gets to see the best of both worlds, I hope.

Small Town Christmas

I must admit, I love being at home with my mother for the holiday – snow and all.

We shoveled twice on Christmas Eve Day.  The news kept saying there would be four waves to the storm.  We knew we wouldn’t be able to shovel it all if we waited until the end.  So we got to work on Thursday morning.  Before I lifted the first shovel full, I stuck a 12-inch ruler in to see where we were at.  I almost lost the ruler!

On Christmas Eve, my mother, Goodnight, and I went to church.  It’s the church I attended as a child and later was the organist for nine years.

It looked like most churches this time of year, I suppose:  families gathered together, Nativity scene someplace visible, poinsettias everywhere, lots of candles burning, children too excited to sit still, and Baby Jesus crying.  Yup!  Baby Jesus was crying.

We decided to go to the early service – more geared toward the children.  And the young school children were waiting to act out part of Luke’s gospel.  And they had a real infant for the Mother Mary to hold – and Baby Jesus was crying . . . but not for long.

A group of children took turns reading and at the appropriate times, the children dressed as Mary, Joseph, the angels, the shepherds, the Wise Men, the camel all took their places.  One of the tykes reading couldn’t pronounce a word.  He tried. “P . . .   P. . .  P . . . ” until finally the child behind him stepped up to help, whispered the word in his ear and then he could keep going.  “Prophecy.”  It was all very sweet.

Going to church in my home town is the best way to see folks that I might know.  Some of my high school classmates are still in town.  Glen’s daughter was at the service.  Glen’s they guy who sang to me in the grocery store earlier in the day.

After the service, we made our way to the parking lot, where I promptly fell flat out on a splotch of ice.  Wow!  Those things still happen so quickly, don’t they?  I must admit that hurt!!!

I limped to the car and we made it to my mother’s house.  We crashed in the living room, played some quiet music and opened gifts.

My sister and I both loved that angel of Mom’s so much that we both have one too.  I found mine at an antique store one year.  I stumbled onto it by complete surprise.  I was so thrilled.  I hadn’t actually been looking for it, but I’m glad I found it.  When I told my sister about it, she asked me to help her find one, too.  So I did.  That took a little more work.  Mine didn’t come in the original box, but Mom had hers, so she told me the information on the box and I checked eBay.  Yah.  I did eBay.  That’s the only time I bought anything on there.  It came in good condition, but the one I had was better, so I sent mine to my sister and kept the one that wasn’t quite as nice.  Shhhhh . . . don’t tell her.

The angel is plastic – just what they could afford when Mom and Dad were looking for something to top the tree, Mom said.  But it’s actually kind of pretty and my sis and I were fond enough of the memory to want one, too.  Darned if I didn’t run into one more angel at another antique store a couple of years later.  I know where to go if I need anther one.

Mother’s Christmas Cactus bloomed on time!

Mom dressed up the table – even though it was just the three of us.  I always tell her not to fuss, but truth be told, I fuss for her, too.  It was lovely.

I already told you the stories we told at the table.

After the Christmas dinner dishes were washed, I took Goodnight for another walk around my home town.

The playground was COVERED with snow, but that didn’t stop Goodnight.  She cleaned off the slide by going down it!

We hit Main Street again so I could take some photos.  The snow plow always leaves a pile in the middle of the street and the pile runs the length of Main.  It looks like a mountain to a kid.  Goodnight walked the length while I took pictures.

My home town has a Czech heritage.  They have gotten better at appreciating it.  I worried about that because the folks who spoke Czech there were already getting old at the time I left for college.  But they have a heritage center now and they are working to keep people educated about the history of the town.  ‘Pokoj’ means ‘Peace’ as it’s used here.  And ‘Radost’ means ‘Joy’.

When we got back to my mother’s house from our walk, Goodnight made a snowlady.  The snowfall on Christmas Eve day was not sticky, but the snowfall on Christmas day was!

There was a lot more snow to shovel, so I got to it.  Goodnight helped, but I took this photo during one of her breaks.

All the fresh air and hard work makes for great sleeping and early lights out . . . . sort of. 

Ha!  I came prepared.  Now I am an adult, an old enough one at that, and I can go to bed when I want to and stay up as late as I want to, but I brought my lighted knitting needles so I can knit in virtual darkness and still get quite a bit accomplished. So while everyone else is sleeping, I’ve been knitting for a while.

These lighted needles are great.  I take them with me to movie theaters and knit through the previews.  I’m polite and turn them off during the feature.  Plus . . . I take them in the car with me when I go to work because there are a few intersections that have very long red lights, so I knit.  I remember one time I was the first car at the light and was having so much fun knitting that I forgot to watch the light.  But, hey, thanks toall of you who honked me out of my knit-induced stupor! 

I’ll show you what’s was on the needles when I finish it.  ;-]

He Sang to me in the Grocery Store!

I took Goodnight for a walk around my home town on Christmas Eve Day.  When I was living there the population was 3280.  Pretty small!  Needless to say our walk wasn’t going to cover a lot of miles.

We started at one end of town where my mother’s house is and walked past the building where I went to high school.  I showed Goodnight where her great-grandfather, my dad, taught chemistry.  They will be tearing down that old wing this spring.

We walked past the cement place.  I didn’t tell Goodnight that we always climbed the gravel pile on our way to school.  Not a safe thing to do, but we didn’t know that at the time.  Luckily, no one ever sank in so far that they couldn’t get out!

We walked past the place where the old train depot used to be.  The train came through town at 12:00 noon every day.  You could set your watch by it!  I told her how the mail used to be caught on the fly.

When we got to main street, we walked to the bakery to buy two dozen Czechoslovakian buns.  I’m not Czech, but I grew up with that culture, and seldom make a trip home without stopping at the bakery.  The man who owned the bakery died last week.  He was 90 years old and had worked in the bakery since high school.  His widow wasn’t in the bakery on Christmas Eve day, but his employees were there selling the traditional buns.  Goodnight loves to eat them as much as I do.

We past the flower shop – closed early for the holidays because so much snow had fallen that no flowers could be delivered.

When we got to the end of Main Street, we called Great-grandma (my mother) and asked her if she needed anything from the grocery store.  She said no, but Goodnight and I went in anyway.  It was a good place to warm up from our walk, before we took the last leg home.

Just inside the door of the store is a little area set with a few small tables and some chairs.  That’s mostly where the old folks gather for their morning coffee.  When I looked in the corner, I saw an old man that I knew.

“Glen?”

“Yup!  That’s me!”

“Hi Glen!  Merry Christmas.  I’m Hank’s oldest girl. How are you?”  I shook Glen’s hand.

“Boy do we miss Hank.”  Glen’s face got quiet and he looked down.

“Yes, we miss him too.  How’s your wife doing?”

Glen’s wife is still in the nursing home where my dad passed away.  She’s been in the dementia unit since 1988.  I sat down to chat with Glen and he told me that his wife never recovered from the loss of one of their children.  Boy can I relate!  It takes a firm decision everyday not to go there myself.

I asked Glen if he still sang in the church choir.  He does.  He was in the choir when I was the organist for nine years.  He still has a beautiful voice.  His daughter is my age and we were in school together from Kindergarten through high school.

After a long chat, it was time for me to go.  I stood up, offered my hand to Glen and wished him a Merry Christmas.  He said, “You too.”  He continued to hold my hand and right then and there he sang to me in the grocery store. 

He started softly, but soon his strong baritone voice got the better of him and he belted it out for anyone to hear.  I sang with him – right there where the canned fruit was on sale.  Goodnight thought it was a little weird, but she held her tongue (bless her).  I thought it was absolutely perfect!!!

Glen is Irish, so the song he chose was no surprise to me.

“May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again,                                                               May God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

Just perfect!