“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? 

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! 

Police Report from Smalltownville

Goodnight and I headed to Smalltownville for the Memorial Day weekend.  We usually tend to be at Gr8′s house the entire time – give or take a trip to the grocery store, but this time we did a few things differently.

When we rolled into Smalltownville, I stopped at the grocery store, handed GN some cash and told her to go in and buy herself a magazine and whatever snacks she thought she’d need while we were in town.  Then I told her I would see her at Gr8′s house.

She looked a little surprised.

Gram:  You think you can find your way?

GN:  I think so, Gram.

Gram:  Welcome to Smalltownville, honey.  You’re old enough to be a little more independent here.

The store isn’t that far from Gr8′s house, and Goodnight loved having the time to herself (and probably the magazine and the snacks, too.)

After we got settled, we decided to go to the library.  Goodnight hadn’t ever been in that one.  I have, but it isn’t the library that was there when I was a kid.  My library was three libraries ago. 

It was just the kind of lazy afternoon we needed.  Goodnight found a book to read and a magazine to page through and found a quiet corner – on the opposite corner of the library from where I had perched.

I will always pick a seat near the fireplace – even if it’s not lit.  I picked up the most recent edition of the Smalltownville newspaper.  I like to read the police report.

The first item in the report was a call to a newer edition in town.  I drove through that edition the last time I was there.  Someone had their music on too loud.  I suppose it was turned up a tad too high after they rolled up Main Street for the day.  So the police were called.  I have a feeling it was a senior citizen who’s hearing has deteriorated somewhat and needed the volume up so they could hear the Lawrence Welk show.

Item number two was a dog at-large in a different section of town.  Maybe the music bothered him, too and since he coldn’t call the police, he became ‘at-large’ instead.

Item number three was a report of a dead deer on the highway that skirts the edge of town.  I don’t even know what to say about that one.

The fourth item was my favorite.  It seems at some point ago, a resident had taken in a stray cat.  They no longer wanted it, so they called the police.  I didn’t know one could do that.  Gosh, I hope that doesn’t work for children, too.  I sent my sister a text about it and we laughed together, spearated by 400 miles.

The last item listed was a runaway juvenile.

I ran away from home once when I was a kid growing up in Smalltownville.  I took the family dog with me.  I got pretty far, too: eight whole blocks! I spotted some friends of mine jumping rope at the school playground, tied up the dog and joined them.  It was the middle of the afternoon, a beautiful day and I was having a blast with my freedom until the police car pulled up beside me.

The very tall, big officer rolled down the window and leaned over.  I thought I was in trouble big time.  I’ll never forget what he said.  “You’re brother says to bring the dog back home before you leave.”

My heart sank.  I untied the dog and we walked the eight blocks back home.

I hope the missing juvenile is safe and didn’t go very far.  Too much can happen in this world to children who are too young to be on their own.  But if Smalltownville has any ‘smalltownville’ charm left, they should check the playground at the school . . . . or the stairs that go down the hill to the old grain elevator . . . . . or under the football stadium bleachers.  One can get a lot of quiet reading done there when the library is closed.

I know there are other more worrisome things that have gone on in my home town over the years.  There were random calls to people asking if their ‘refrigerators were running,  (You better go catch it.) or “Do you have Phillip Morris in a can?”  (You better let him out.)

My favorite was when two kids snuck into the underwear factory late at night during a sleepover.  They just wanted a brief peek.  (pun intended)  Workers on the third shift had left the doors open in the heat of the summer and . . . . the outing just called to them.  The underwear factory is long gone and so are the kids.  I’m not naming names, but of the two kids, one was a girl who is now a criminal attorney and the other is . . . a Gram. 

The building in the photo below is on Main Street Smalltownville.  It was erected in 1896.  It’s not the oldest building on Main, but almost.  I lived on the top floor there for two years when I was four and five.  My siblings and I had to go to the roof to play.  Once in a while we were babysat by a blind man. (Not on the roof, though.)  It was a great life.

Czech Harvest Festival

Goodnight and I drove to Smalltownville on Saturday.  Gr8 bought some gutter filters for her garage and I didn’t want her to climb the ladder, so I offered to do it for her.

When we got there, it was nearly lunchtime, so we decided to wait on the garage project until after a visit to a neighboring town.

They were having a Czech Harvest Festival and I knew we’d get some great food there if we found the Czech food booth.  We got there in time to grab our lunch and find a spot to watch the parade.  Mom and I had Jiternice (Czech sausage) and Goodnight had Knedlicky (potato dumpling) with gravy, but I shared some of my sausage with her.

It was fun to watch the parade.  My mother is usually in them, but this time we could all watch together.

Take a look at the girl swinging around the bar on the float in the photo below.  Her hands were secured with a strap, but it was still quite an impressive sight!

This one got my high score for ‘cute’.  The motorized shopping cart made me smile.  What can I say . . . I’m a Smalltownville kid.

The rest of the parade was fun too.  The members of a local concertina club played on a float and the local high school band marched.  Because the Czech Harvest Festival was close to Smalltownville, I knew some of the politicians who were walking in the parade. 

After the parade, we found the Czech Village booths and had a look around.  I got some Christmas shopping done, so I can’t tell you what I bought.  But . . . you know when you find just the right gift that will make someone smile?  I got three of those!

The rest of the weekend in Smalltownville was one of those nice quiet home-comings that seal the deal for me to keep returning.  Mother is sweet . . . and we always talk over coffee and Scattergories or King’s Corner with Goodnight.  We watched birds at her feeder, all of us kneeling on a chair with our chins to the window, just to catch a glimpse.

The gutter filters took me less than a half hour to do, so while it was the reason for the trip, it didn’t vie for the largest portion of time.

All is well in Smalltownville and my thanks to the grocery store for having a sale on the Czech sausage.  I did my part to support the economy!

On our way home, Goodnight and I found a beautiful spot for a picnic lunch before getting back to laundry and math homework.  She found some rocks and sticks, and there is sand in the back seat of the car, but I consider it fair trade for our time together there.

Hope you had good weekends wherever you were.