For most of you out there in the world, staying in and staying confined during the pandemic was difficult. It was for me! I had friends that didn’t change their lifestyles much at all. They had Christmas and all the other holidays with their families and had no ill effects. And then there were those who disregarded many of the orders from the CDC and paid dearly for it.
I felt like I was in the middle… I sanitized, wore masks, stayed home a lot but I also went to Walmart and ordered carry out. I cancelled our family get together because of my age and my husband’s age and our “underlying health issues”. I felt guilty and felt a little betrayed and even indignant when friends and other family members were not as careful as I was or didn’t share my fears and decisions.
I missed weekly activities with my two best friends. But we all have health issues and are all “of a certain age”. I still feel the need to justify my behavior, though I followed “the science”.
Yes, It had been hard staying in during the pandemic. But I didn’t realize how hard it would be to once again “go out”.
We’ve gone out for a meal a few times. The first time, I went home with my stomach in knots, sure that I had been infected by someone in the restaurant. I forgot how to interact with the server. I felt the urge to jump out of the booth and run back out to the car where it was safer. It was easier the second time but there was still the anxiety. I was angry because going out to dinner was supposed to be a fun and relaxing activity.. and it wasn’t.
I went to Walmart for the first time without a mask. I felt as if everyone there was judging me, whether they wore a mask or not. At checkout this sweet elderly lady ahead of me said to me, “It’s OK dear, you know you don’t have to stand that far back anymore.” I couldn’t move even with her permission.
A couple of summers ago I discovered an idea for a sunflower house.
To begin, a rototiller and able bodied operator are very helpful.
Three sides are enough, because you need to have an entrance!
A few weeks later, the sunflowers are growing, interspersed with some morning glories (for color contrast)
Keep growing! It needs to be a little taller so the grandkids can hide better!
Add a table and chairs for some fun!
Looking good! A great place for Grandma to hide on a breezy summer day.
Summer ends and frost comes and all good things come to an end.
Note: I added some tall plastic garden stakes for the morning glories to climb. Next time I will make it a bit wider. When the sunflowers and the morning glories grew, they took up more space than I had anticipated making the sunflower house a little narrower than I…
His name was Conrad. I don’t know if he was a full fledged professor or a grad student but he was the Instructor of Educational Psych class during Spring quarter 1970. And he wanted us to call him Conrad. Not Mr. whatever ( I don’t even remember his last name because we never used it). So we called him Conrad, hesitantly at first. It was so COOL! He wore jeans, shirts and sweaters and sometimes one of those corduroy blazers with the elbow patches. And shoes with no socks! He was so COOL.
He was there to teach us Psychology. And to provide us with 3 credit hours toward graduation. But first, he insisted that we know ourselves. His premise was…. how can you know anyone else without first knowing yourself? How can you know what you want to do with your life if you don’t know who you are?
Two years earlier, I had graduated from a little Midwestern High School that literally was in the middle of a cornfield and I traveled an entire hour from my home to a Midwest ern State University which was also in the middle of a cornfield. I was now out in “the real world.” I spent my senior year in high school still wearing dresses and skirts that needed to touch the floor when I knelt, and I had to ask my teacher for permission to go to the bathroom. Now here I was, wearing bell bottom jeans with ragged edges from dragging on the ground, tie dyed T shirts, no bra, and any piece of clothing made of leather with lots of fringe. My hair was getting longer and make up was no longer a necessity. I even had a pair of Birkenstocks. Out in the real world there was a midnight curfew on weekends at my dorm but quickly that was changed to “no hours”. Yes, the Times were changing fast and I was trying to keep up.
My roommates and classmates were eager for change. We didn’t like the way Society was trying to mold us into our parents. It was time to rebel. We couldn’t yet vote, but our male counterparts could be drafted and sent to Vietnam. The world was overpopulating so we joined ZPG (Zero Population Growth) and vowed only to replace ourselves in this world. We went to anti war rallies on the lawn of the university. We shouted and complained to each other and wanted nothing more than to live hand in hand as we stood together on the threshold of a dream. Which brings me back to Conrad….
I don’t remember much of what we learned in his classroom. It has been a long time. But I do vividly remember one particular week of class. Conrad had reserved the Grand Ballroom of the Student Union and class was scheduled to meet there for a week ; the Grand Ballroom, the size of a couple of high school gymnasiums with polished wooden floors.
It was to be the week we were to become enlightened. We were to “find ourselves” so that when we went out in the world, we knew who we were and what we wanted to do. Conrad enlisted the help of a record player and an album by The Moody Blues titled “On the Threshold of a Dream”. On the first night we sat on the floor in a big circle and listened to Conrad tell us what his goals were. Then all the lights were turned out and he played the album.
We could move about, we could lie down on the floor, but we were to fill ourselves with the music and the message of the songs and try to find our inner selves. I looked around at the other students. Our class of about 30 had grown somehow to many more. Friends of Conrad, I guess. Some students stood and swayed to the music, some appeared to be asleep, some quietly sat and listened. Over the course of the week, we divided into small groups and discussed current events and spent some time on team building activities. But it always came back to the music.
I hadn’t ever thought much about my inner self. I had goals but finding myself had never been one of them. I tried very hard to fit into Conrad’s mold but I wasn’t very successful. My world had always been filled with more practical things. Getting an education, finding a career, getting married.
Harvest was in full swing and my farmer husband of two months came in the house and decided it was time for me to help out in the grain hauling capacity. As a farmer’s daughter, I had ridden with my Dad many times to the grain terminal or the elevator as we called it. Into the truck I climbed with a vague question for my husband…. “What do I do when I get there??”
“Just follow the truck in front of you. You will probably have to wait in line and that will give you a chance to observe what everyone else is doing. ”
It seemed simple. I was a recent college graduate. I should be able to handle this.
As luck would have it, when I arrived and pulled into the grain terminal, there was no one in sight. No long lines of trucks waiting to dump their grain. I glanced in the rear view mirror hoping maybe someone had pulled in behind me. I would just let them go around me and then I could see what I should do. Again… no luck. I waited a few minutes, praying for someone else to come along and then remembering … they were waiting for my empty wagons back at the farm.
I spotted someone down the hill leaning on a shop broom next to the huge silos and the grates that covered the pits where the grain was dumped and I thought… well that’s where I need to be. So I slowly took off toward the dumping area. I lined the truck and wagons up so that my wagon was direcly over the grate and the gravity wagon door could be opened to release the grain. I was feeling pretty good about this until the young man with the broom came over and waited at the truck window. I didn’t know what he was waiting for so I said, “Hi. I want to dump my soybeans here.”
“Where is your slip?” he replied.
“I don’t have a slip. Where do I get one?”
He looked at me kind of funny and said, ” Did you weigh in at the scales?” I gave him a blank look. “First time here? ” he continued. I nodded my head.
He proceeded to instruct me to pull on through, go back to where I started and pull onto the scales to be weighed. “After they weigh your outfit, you go inside and they give you a slip of paper with the moisture levels and other information. Then you come back down here and you can dump your soybeans.” He was really very nice about the whole thing. Maybe I wasn’t the only first timer he had ever dealt with. But standing alongside the silos were a couple of other workers who were getting a big kick out of the girl in the truck that had no clue where to go. I felt my face flush a bit, put the truck in gear and headed back to the beginning.
Wouldn’t you know? By the time I got straightened around and back in line for the scales, there were three other outfits in line ahead of me. I had plenty of time to observe the correct way to weigh my grain and go to the dumping site.
When I got back to the dumping site for the second time, I was ready. I had my slip. I smiled at the guy with the broom, “Long time… no see.” He grinned and took my slip.
And when I got home with my empty wagons, my husband said, “Must have been busy at the elevator today.”
Back in the early 70’s, I was a young farm wife willing to do just about anything my farmer husband asked of me. I had grown up on a farm, which unknown to me was a prerequisite to becoming his life partner.
Even though I grew up on a farm there were many things that I was never asked to do as a farmer’s daughter. I had to do chores around the farm since we had dairy cows and hogs, but I had an older brother. He got to do some of the “fun” stuff like driving tractor and loading hay and straw bales and hauling grain to the grain elevator. Still, I knew pretty much what to expect, at least I thought I did.
I never really understood my mother’s advice which was “never marry a farmer.”
My husband knew how to delegate; something else which was unknown to me. The first thing he delegated me to do was plow a field with a two bottom plow. I had already received training in driving the tractors on our farm. There were three of them. An 1100 MF and a Case SC with a hand clutch, and a 2010 John Deere. So I hopped up on the tractor ready to work the ground.
“Where do I start?” I asked my husband.
“Go to the middle of the field and start a dead furrow,” he said. “When you get that done, you’ll see what to do next.”
“A dead what?” I questioned. I didn’t think plowing involved death and I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of it. I didn’t remember my dad ever killing anyone or anything while plowing. My husband rapidly, as is his manner, explained to me what a dead furrow was, after laughing hysterically and saying, “you don’t know what a dead furrow is?!?!?!?” This haphazard explanation became a standard in our marriage. I should have stopped it right then and there. But I was still blindly in love and eager to please.
So I said, ” Why don’t you go do the dead furrow thing, and then I will finish it.” I figured we may as well be partners in the crime. He agreed and the job was eventually completed.
The next thing he assigned me to do was to cultivate a field of corn. I had never done that before either, although he was incredulous when I told him that. “You lived 21 years on a farm and never cultivated corn?!?!?! ” There was less laughter this time. I could see he was rethinking his decision to choose me as his wife.
He took me back a long, long lane in a godforsaken area of weedy fence rows and spindly trees and pointed out the corn. It was about 8 inches tall in remarkably straight rows and my task was to line up the little digger things on the cultivator. I later learned that these little digger things were called shovels. I was to pull the cultivator behind the John Deere 2010 and cultivate the weeds that were growing between the rows of corn. He took off across the field, demonstrating how to raise and lower the cultivator on the ends of the field so as not to break anything. It looked pretty easy; I thought I could handle it. Then he drove off in his pickup truck with the promise of coming back to check and see how I was doing.
I started across the field, thinking I could go as fast as he did and thinking this job wasn’t going to take too long. But suddenly I discovered I had gotten a little off course and had plowed up some corn plants instead of weeds. Not sure why they didn’t plant those rows a little further apart. And then I noticed that if I wasn’t careful I was running over the corn plants with those big tractor tires on each side of my seat. That probably wasn’t good. With a little practice I began to improve my skills until I noticed that every once in awhile I missed an entire row or two of weeds. Ah, well, I thought… he probably won’t notice.
Four hours passed. I was dirty, dusty, thirsty and tired. My neck and shoulders hurt like the dickens from looking behind me at the rows of corn and fighting with the steering wheel to keep the tractor straight. I was also extremely sleepy. I didn’t know about the monotony of driving back and forth across a field for hours at a time. And no one had come to check on me!
Finally when I was nearing the end of the field, my husband arrived with an ice cold Pepsi and a candy bar. He looked over the field, and while I waited for him to tell me what a great job I had done he just looked at me and said, “I’ll finish this up. You can drive the pickup back home. Where are those cultivator shovels that are missing?”
I shrugged my aching shoulders…I had no idea what a cultivator shovel was but I hadn’t noticed any shovels when I climbed on the tractor. “Maybe you left them in the truck? ” I offered. He rolled his eyes.
When I was a kid, I rode the school bus everyday. When I was a senior in high school, I was still riding the bus everyday. We had one car and mom used it to drive to work. So I rode the bus. I did not have my own car. None of my friends did either. A few juniors and seniors had cars, but the student parking lot west of the school building was not full.
Once in a while I got to drive because I had something going on after school. But I had to get up early and take my mom to work at 7:00 AM and then pick her up after work at 4:00 PM so that cramped my style.
The first car I can remember was our little green 1950 Chevy. It had a button on the dashboard that the driver pushed to start the car. The headlight dimmers were on the floor next to the brake. No radio. No air conditioning. Crank windows. No seat belts. No bucket seats.
When I was in high school, we had a 1963 Chevy Belair. That was the car I learned to drive with. It had the same features that the little green car didn’t have but it had a radio! When I was a sophomore in college, mom and dad gave me the 1963 Chevy to drive back and forth to school.
My favorite memory in the 63 Chevy was driving home from college for the last time. I finished my coursework in the summer of 1971, loaded up all of my belongings and headed south on I 75. On the front seat beside me was a giant TV set that my parents had let me use in my apartment. It was the size of a small refrigerator, I swear! The trunk of the car was full of clothes and apartment stuff and the tv would not fit through the door to the back seat. So I pushed the front seat as far back as it would go and pushed and shoved until I got that TV into the passenger seat.
It was a hot summer day, I was on Cloud Nine, because I was going to graduate in a few weeks with my Bachelors Degree, I had a teaching job lined up, and I was getting married in 2 weeks. The radio was playing “Joy To the World” by Three Dog Night and I sang at the top of my lungs all the way down the highway. The windows were all rolled down and I was blowing in the wind.
This year I am not making a resolution. Instead I am following a more recent direction by choosing a word; a word for my yearly focus, a word to help me change or to remind me of what is important, a word that will help me reach my goals, a word that will be a daily reminder of what it is that I am trying to accomplish….
My word for 2021 is…. word.
I want to write more words. During the pandemic, I knew it was a perfect time to ramp up my writing…. I certainly had more time to devote to it. I wasn’t very successful, though, so I want to improve on the quantity and the quality of what I write.
I want to choose my words carefully. Those of you who know me are aware that I like to make people laugh. I want to choose only those words which make people feel good and smile.
I want to write more letters and notes to people. Not because I have something truly important to say, but because people need to know I am thinking about them and want them to know they are appreciated.
Yesterday, while youtubing, I came upon a recent recording of a song originally by the BeeGees. The song is “Words” and it is a new recording duet with Barry Gibb (The BeeGees) and Dolly Parton. Barry Gibb wrote the song along with his brothers, Dolly’s voice adds emotion to an already poignant song. Both artists have used words throughout their careers to tell stories and make their way in the world. In addition, Dolly has brought words to so many children through her Imagination Library.
I hope you enjoy the song as much as I do and I hope you find a word that resonates with you.
Christmas at our house was always celebrated on Christmas Eve. Each year my parents would come up with a plan to distract me and my brother while one parent placed all the gifts under the tree from Santa. For several years I had no clue. I happily believed that Santa was magical and could come and go without being spotted.
As I grew a little older and a little wiser, I began to think about it. Why did we never see Santa or even a trace of him? How is that even possible? I remember one year in particular. I was probably six years old and I was determined that Santa was not going to pay us a visit without being seen.
Our tree was placed on an enclosed front porch. On Christmas Eve that year, I planted myself at the kitchen table which had a clear view of the tree on the porch and decided I was not moving until Santa arrived. I was definitely going to see him. I sat and sat. Mom and Dad and my brother kept begging me to come into the living room and watch TV with them. Nothing they could say would convince me to move.
Finally, in desperation, my mother called to me, “Ruth. Come upstairs with me. We forgot to make your bed this morning. It needs to be done.” “But mom, I am waiting for Santa,” I responded as if they didn’t know this. “It will only take a couple of minutes and then you can come right back down and continue waiting,” was her answer. I whined and she finally said, “Well maybe Santa won’t come at all if he knows you are not listening to your Mother.”
I thought about this for a minute then dutifully followed my Mom upstairs to make the bed. I was in quite a hurry to get it done, but Mom kept finding things to drag it out a little bit longer. Finally we were finished and I dashed downstairs to find my chair in the kitchen.
My brother shouted, “Hey Santa was just here! Look at the presents!” I think he was in on the whole thing. He gave me this song and dance story about how he and Dad were just watching TV and never heard a thing.
My six year old self was quickly distracted by the gifts under the tree and we all spent the rest of the evening opening gifts and enjoying our new toys. But I still remember the disappointment of missing Santa again.
A tiny turkey breast seems almost lost in the oven. It’s almost time for it to trade places with the oysters and the green bean casserole. One oven, so everyone has to take turns. The pie was baked last night and is ready to go and a premade vegie tray awaits its turn in the refrigerator. Mashed potatoes of the instant kind, will be the last minute dish prepared. Just boil some water and add the potato flakes!
There are no grands or great grands coming up the back stairs and throwing the door open to announce their arrival, slinging their jackets wherever they land. There will be no cherry delight traveling from my daughter’s home (why do I always forget to clear a space in the fridge for that?). No hugs, no political arguments (thank goodness for that) and no Christmas wish lists to share with each other ( we have already done that online and with texts).
It will just be three of us, but we still have lots to be thankful for. Our family, so far, is healthy, and able to do their own things on this Thanksgiving day. We all have enough to eat and a place to live, friends that keep us centered or off kilter sometimes, and we all have hopes for the future.
I wish for you all a wonderful day, a different day, a hopeful day and a day full of thanks!
My love affair with pencil and paper began with my brother. Ron is 5 years older than me and I followed him around like a little shadow throughout my childhood.
I missed him when he went off to school in the fall. When he was nine and I was four, I began to wait for him when I knew it was time for the school bus. I would look at the papers he brought home and listen to him answer questions about his day from my mom.
The concept of school fascinated me, though I had never been there. I looked at the numbers and letters on the pages he brought home, he sometimes would bring me a coloring page that I would scribble on and pretend I was doing schoolwork. I learned to recognize his name printed at the top of every page and was quick to brag that I knew what that word was.
One afternnon we sat down together and he printed my name. He carefully explained how the letter u looked like a cup, the letter t looked like a cross, and the letter h looked like a chair. I was hooked. I sat down and tried to duplicate what he had written. Ron made some examples for me and showed me how to make an entire row of letters. After lots of practice, I was able to write my name. The first letter always gave me trouble, because it did not resemble much of anything except itself! But the cup, and the cross, and the chair stuck with me and made it easy.
Two years later, it was my time to go to school. I could already write my name. The next year, my teacher chose one of my writing samples to be exhibited at the county fair in an educational display.
I continued to love to write. I loved school. I became a teacher and taught manuscript writing to first graders. After that I taught cursive for several years to classes of second graders. Other teachers complained about teaching penmanship…they thought it was boring and tedious. Not me, I loved every minute of it.
And…I loved telling my young students who taught me how to write!