The Procedures
As Philip was under age 18, a doctor-friend got us a last minute appointment with a pediatrician, a Dr. Hirshfield. We were on our way in a hurry, with me preceding Phil down the stairs to try to break his fall, just in case he did fall, for he was extremely weak. Phil lay down on the back seat of the car and I drove down State Street, heading for downtown. About two miles into the trip, we stopped and picked up my husband who had walked from his office to State. He took the wheel.
Dr. Hirshfield made a fast but adequate examination and said Phil had to go into hospital immediately. At St. Luke’s, he was assigned a room with a bright red-painted door with a small glass window in it, a “contagion room.” John and I were not allowed inside at this point, for they did not know what Phil had. Blood was taken for various tests, and we watched through the window as a giant (it seemed to me) needle went into his sternum while Phil never flinched. It would take awhile to get results, so John and I went home for a quick supper, stopping by his office to pick up his car. After a while we got a call to come to Dr. Hirshfield’s office. It was after 5:00. We realized it could not be good news he called us about.
Phil had acute lymphoblastic leukemia, one of the worst kinds, and an oncologist was already on the case. He asked us if he could be the one, alone, to tell Phil what he had. We mindlessly agreed. Later I asked Phil what the doctor told him. He said, “Dying from leukemia is not painful.” How my heart broke as I heard this. If the statement were true, that was not the time to bring it up. Later I learned that doctor told my husband Phil had about two months to live. I was so thankful John kept that information from me. I suppose that doctor told Phil the same thing. But Phil lived another two and a half years, continued in sports as long as he could, made the honor roll, graduated from high school, and pre-registered for college. And he kept his great sense of humor.
When word got out about Phil’s illness, an acquaintance from yet another town, where I had taught for 18 years, came to see us and told about his wife’s treatment for brain cancer in Mexico. It was too late for her, but Laetrile kept her pain-free as she weakened and died. He took her from a Boise hospital, ostensibly for one last weekend at home, rushed her to the airport where a private plane waited to take them to Mexico. This man suggested we take Phil to Tijuana. As soon as chemotherapy got him into his first remission, we drove down to the home of dear friends who lived near San Diego. On that visit, Phil swam in our friends’ pool with their daughter Nancy, and one night the six of us saw a pro baseball game at Padre Stadium. Phil and Nancy had a radio on which they also heard the broadcast of the same game. We took sack suppers with us and had a wonderful evening together. Another day we visited the San Diego Zoo, one of the best in the nation. Phil was delighted.
Before the summer was spent, John had a confrontation with the oncologist about the use of Laetrile. He maintained that treatment was experimental, without acknowledging the authorized drugs for cancer are also experimental. So we switched hospitals and switched doctors.
Laetrile did not save Phil’s life, but it did keep him from ever having any nausea which almost 100% of cancer patients suffered at that time from chemo. We brought Laetrile home from Mexico and John learned to give the injections intravenously. When Phil awoke one morning to find a handful of his hair on his pillow, we saved it in a jar, and bought him a wig though it was not the exact shade of his beautiful red hair.
To be continued.
♥
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
How and When It Started
Before school let out for the summer that year, 1977, Phil started coming to my empty classroom the last hour of the school day and sat at a front desk, while I worked six feet away. He usually carried no books, and rested his head on his folded arms, and perhaps slept. I always made one more trip to the office on the ground level of the building, to check my mailbox for notices, then we drove the 17 miles home.
There were only three of us living in the townhouse condo, with our older three children “grown and gone.” We had just bought the condo, located in a school district that was not where I taught, but not far from my husband’s office. In the fall Phil should be starting at a local high school, while I taught in another town. He had a motorcycle to get him there. (None of our children ever rode school buses to get to and from school.) Phil’s large bedroom was on ground level, along with the double garage, the laundry and a bathroom. Sliding glass doors of his room opened onto a postage stamp-size patio with a tiny bit of ground where we grew tomatoes, herbs, columbines, and an evergreen tree─some type of fir, I think─in a sheltered spot, for it usually did not grow in our geographic area. (My husband’s college major was forestry.) With a chair or two placed there, it could be a good place to rest and think, but not big enough for throwing a ball unless the catcher stood on the road behind ours, at a higher elevation. Alas, said ball could not make a return throw because of the sliding glass doors. So Phil designed ballgames on thick cardboard.
Phil had started high school, playing football, basketball, and baseball, with bowling on the weekends. Plus chess on his lunch hour, with no organized team, just with buddies. By the end of tenth grade, he gave up football, for . . . he was sick.
I had committed myself to full-time writing that summer in those pre-computer days, and after cooking about all day for four days, I began the great American novel on the following Monday. In the 1,500-square foot house, I had no writing room and took over the dining room table. Of course, I got nowhere that first day for I felt extremely bad that Phil had gone to spend the day at his big brother’s house so that I could write alone.
Then he took on a summer job, helping with the landscape chores at the condo complex. The first day of pulling weeds he got so tired that when he came in for lunch, he took a nap and slept all afternoon. This was not like him. I knew something was wrong, in addition to his likely being fired. I never knew if the boss, Dale Duffy, ever realized he was a sick boy that day.
Soon after that Phil rode his motorcycle home from somewhere, came up the stairs, dropped into his dad’s recliner and said to me in the nearby kitchen, “Mom, I’m sick.”
And he was.
To be continued.
♥
Before school let out for the summer that year, 1977, Phil started coming to my empty classroom the last hour of the school day and sat at a front desk, while I worked six feet away. He usually carried no books, and rested his head on his folded arms, and perhaps slept. I always made one more trip to the office on the ground level of the building, to check my mailbox for notices, then we drove the 17 miles home.
There were only three of us living in the townhouse condo, with our older three children “grown and gone.” We had just bought the condo, located in a school district that was not where I taught, but not far from my husband’s office. In the fall Phil should be starting at a local high school, while I taught in another town. He had a motorcycle to get him there. (None of our children ever rode school buses to get to and from school.) Phil’s large bedroom was on ground level, along with the double garage, the laundry and a bathroom. Sliding glass doors of his room opened onto a postage stamp-size patio with a tiny bit of ground where we grew tomatoes, herbs, columbines, and an evergreen tree─some type of fir, I think─in a sheltered spot, for it usually did not grow in our geographic area. (My husband’s college major was forestry.) With a chair or two placed there, it could be a good place to rest and think, but not big enough for throwing a ball unless the catcher stood on the road behind ours, at a higher elevation. Alas, said ball could not make a return throw because of the sliding glass doors. So Phil designed ballgames on thick cardboard.
Phil had started high school, playing football, basketball, and baseball, with bowling on the weekends. Plus chess on his lunch hour, with no organized team, just with buddies. By the end of tenth grade, he gave up football, for . . . he was sick.
I had committed myself to full-time writing that summer in those pre-computer days, and after cooking about all day for four days, I began the great American novel on the following Monday. In the 1,500-square foot house, I had no writing room and took over the dining room table. Of course, I got nowhere that first day for I felt extremely bad that Phil had gone to spend the day at his big brother’s house so that I could write alone.
Then he took on a summer job, helping with the landscape chores at the condo complex. The first day of pulling weeds he got so tired that when he came in for lunch, he took a nap and slept all afternoon. This was not like him. I knew something was wrong, in addition to his likely being fired. I never knew if the boss, Dale Duffy, ever realized he was a sick boy that day.
Soon after that Phil rode his motorcycle home from somewhere, came up the stairs, dropped into his dad’s recliner and said to me in the nearby kitchen, “Mom, I’m sick.”
And he was.
To be continued.
♥
Monday, June 28, 2010
The End of Our Baltimore Stay
Something did inspire me, but not at midnight. I thought about it before I got up this morning. I would do another series and tell you about Phil. He was our youngest child of four, always slender, grew to six feet, two inches tall, and had red hair and blue eyes like Grandmother Lindsley, our only blue-eyed child. (Susan’s eyes were green, like her father’s, and the two middle boys have brown eyes, like me.)
Phil was sometimes called “an encyclopedia of sports.” When he wasn’t playing a game outside, he created board games for inside. At his last Christmas we gave him an electronic chess set for one player. He wasn’t able to work it much, for on January 2, he died at age 19. This happened at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore at 3:33 in the morning.
I didn’t know it then, but learned soon afterwards, most people who die natural deaths, do so around 3:00 in the morning. If you’re ever awake at 3:00 a. m., and not loaded up with drugs, you can be confused as to whether it’s yesterday or tomorrow. Hold on. “Today” is not the correct answer. Just try it sometime when you’re not thinking about it.
Phil’s father, his sister, and his brother Mike, and I were with Phil as he died. When he had expired, the lady doctor said, “Well, that’s that.” I thought it a terrible thing to say, but proceeded to ask if a noise we’d heard was a death rattle. She said, “Yes.”
Mike, who had a wife and three-months-old baby boy back home, prepared to leave Baltimore immediately. He took Phil’s chess set with him and I didn’t know till years later he didn’t even remember taking it. Someone, somewhere, found a wonderful belated Christmas present. I hope they enjoyed it.
While John spent more time with the head doctor in Oncology, Dr. Santos, making arrangements for the autopsy (which Phil had agreed to when he first got there) and flying the body home, Susan and I returned, by hospital security car, to our hotel, The Sheraton, across the street but still a few blocks away. The car was for our protection for the hospital was located in a high-crime area. Susan called the airport to make our reservations for us three, and to up the grade to first class. We were exhausted and heart-broken and did not relish the idea of riding coach. Tomorrow we will go back two and a half years.
♥♥♥
Something did inspire me, but not at midnight. I thought about it before I got up this morning. I would do another series and tell you about Phil. He was our youngest child of four, always slender, grew to six feet, two inches tall, and had red hair and blue eyes like Grandmother Lindsley, our only blue-eyed child. (Susan’s eyes were green, like her father’s, and the two middle boys have brown eyes, like me.)
Phil was sometimes called “an encyclopedia of sports.” When he wasn’t playing a game outside, he created board games for inside. At his last Christmas we gave him an electronic chess set for one player. He wasn’t able to work it much, for on January 2, he died at age 19. This happened at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore at 3:33 in the morning.
I didn’t know it then, but learned soon afterwards, most people who die natural deaths, do so around 3:00 in the morning. If you’re ever awake at 3:00 a. m., and not loaded up with drugs, you can be confused as to whether it’s yesterday or tomorrow. Hold on. “Today” is not the correct answer. Just try it sometime when you’re not thinking about it.
Phil’s father, his sister, and his brother Mike, and I were with Phil as he died. When he had expired, the lady doctor said, “Well, that’s that.” I thought it a terrible thing to say, but proceeded to ask if a noise we’d heard was a death rattle. She said, “Yes.”
Mike, who had a wife and three-months-old baby boy back home, prepared to leave Baltimore immediately. He took Phil’s chess set with him and I didn’t know till years later he didn’t even remember taking it. Someone, somewhere, found a wonderful belated Christmas present. I hope they enjoyed it.
While John spent more time with the head doctor in Oncology, Dr. Santos, making arrangements for the autopsy (which Phil had agreed to when he first got there) and flying the body home, Susan and I returned, by hospital security car, to our hotel, The Sheraton, across the street but still a few blocks away. The car was for our protection for the hospital was located in a high-crime area. Susan called the airport to make our reservations for us three, and to up the grade to first class. We were exhausted and heart-broken and did not relish the idea of riding coach. Tomorrow we will go back two and a half years.
♥♥♥
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Druthers and Drathers
I just don’t want to write a blog today. There’s so much sun outside to enjoy and I’m expecting a telephone call. Not only that, but I’m watching this tropical storm, Alex, that is moving very fast, according to the telly, and may head for the Gulf of Mexico. If so, everything accomplished there will be undone. Lots to think about. Something may yet inspire me to write before the day is gone, even at midnight.
♥
I just don’t want to write a blog today. There’s so much sun outside to enjoy and I’m expecting a telephone call. Not only that, but I’m watching this tropical storm, Alex, that is moving very fast, according to the telly, and may head for the Gulf of Mexico. If so, everything accomplished there will be undone. Lots to think about. Something may yet inspire me to write before the day is gone, even at midnight.
♥
Friday, June 25, 2010
Looking to the Future
From the film referred to above comes a wonderful idea by two characters, both spoken to the same other character. That is, putting in a garden helps one look to the future. What a lovely idea. The two men and a little girl make a beautiful garden for the lady of the house. This is in Italy after a bombing tragedy drew them all together.
So this Monday Amy is planning to bring some of her numerous hollyhocks from her land and plant them out back against the house in a bed shaped like fifteen minutes of a big clock. Yesterday we bought some yellow coreopsis grandiflora that attract butterflies. ♫ This fall we’ll divide the yellow irises in the front yard to share with the back “garden.” I especially like yellow flowers, mixed with white, in the yard. Perhaps white peonies out back too.
You see, I am looking to the future.
♥
From the film referred to above comes a wonderful idea by two characters, both spoken to the same other character. That is, putting in a garden helps one look to the future. What a lovely idea. The two men and a little girl make a beautiful garden for the lady of the house. This is in Italy after a bombing tragedy drew them all together.
So this Monday Amy is planning to bring some of her numerous hollyhocks from her land and plant them out back against the house in a bed shaped like fifteen minutes of a big clock. Yesterday we bought some yellow coreopsis grandiflora that attract butterflies. ♫ This fall we’ll divide the yellow irises in the front yard to share with the back “garden.” I especially like yellow flowers, mixed with white, in the yard. Perhaps white peonies out back too.
You see, I am looking to the future.
♥
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Signing In
In one of my favorite films, the main character asks the detective if he is a Virgo. He says he is. Then she says that’s strange, that usually detectives are not Virgos. I wonder if that is true. My detective, Nate Griswald, is not a Virgo (since I heard that in that film), but I don’t know what his sign is. Yet. For he hasn’t said. (I don’t decide for him, remember.) And isn’t that strange that I know one fact, but not the other!
Now my position on astrology. All the heavenly bodies are God’s, and it’s difficult to think they don’t have special significance, such as the rainbow and its meaning, the moon’s connection with the tides, and the special star over Bethlehem. But it seems to me that if the planets have anything to do with human life, it would take affect at the time of conception, not at the time of birth. After all, the child has been in existence for nine months when it is born. I like to think God meant something by these planets and their relationships with earth and its creatures, but I do not believe He meant for anyone on this globe to attempt to predict coming events, such as Taurus will get a bundle of money on the fifteenth. That’s ridiculous. Or even such advice as Tuesday will be a bad day for Capricorn, or Friday a good one for Gemini. The mere suggestion of such might make these so, with the planets having nothing to do with it.
That’s how I feel about astrology, but I want to add one more idea that might have got past you without your noticing it. All the astrological signs have some creature in them, such as fish, crab, or water bearer─except one─and that is Libra. Libra shows weight scales. I don’t know what it is supposed to weigh, but I’ve always thought it had to do with justice, not dishing it out, but living by it. I like this one best and that’s why I chose to be born under Libra.
♥
In one of my favorite films, the main character asks the detective if he is a Virgo. He says he is. Then she says that’s strange, that usually detectives are not Virgos. I wonder if that is true. My detective, Nate Griswald, is not a Virgo (since I heard that in that film), but I don’t know what his sign is. Yet. For he hasn’t said. (I don’t decide for him, remember.) And isn’t that strange that I know one fact, but not the other!
Now my position on astrology. All the heavenly bodies are God’s, and it’s difficult to think they don’t have special significance, such as the rainbow and its meaning, the moon’s connection with the tides, and the special star over Bethlehem. But it seems to me that if the planets have anything to do with human life, it would take affect at the time of conception, not at the time of birth. After all, the child has been in existence for nine months when it is born. I like to think God meant something by these planets and their relationships with earth and its creatures, but I do not believe He meant for anyone on this globe to attempt to predict coming events, such as Taurus will get a bundle of money on the fifteenth. That’s ridiculous. Or even such advice as Tuesday will be a bad day for Capricorn, or Friday a good one for Gemini. The mere suggestion of such might make these so, with the planets having nothing to do with it.
That’s how I feel about astrology, but I want to add one more idea that might have got past you without your noticing it. All the astrological signs have some creature in them, such as fish, crab, or water bearer─except one─and that is Libra. Libra shows weight scales. I don’t know what it is supposed to weigh, but I’ve always thought it had to do with justice, not dishing it out, but living by it. I like this one best and that’s why I chose to be born under Libra.
♥
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Getting Meaning Out of a Puzzle
Just as not everyone has a sense of humor, not everyone understands poetry. In poetry exist the great gems, clever poems, corny rhymes, and perhaps blahs, which are only attempts at poetry and failures. In my blogs you have seen─and I trust, read─not great ones, but at least some clever ones. But let me explain where trouble might lie, if you don’t understand poetry. If it is any good at all, poetry is about two different things, something actually stated on the page, and then the real thing the poem is about. Take a look back at last Sunday’s blog. You had no trouble, I assume, recognizing a piece of furniture in Chinese design. But with the last line added, we have a metaphor. Without that last line, there would hardly be a poem. What does the poet say here? You have to know what the poet means before you get a poem out of the whole thing. Why not read it again? Understanding brings appreciation.
♥
Just as not everyone has a sense of humor, not everyone understands poetry. In poetry exist the great gems, clever poems, corny rhymes, and perhaps blahs, which are only attempts at poetry and failures. In my blogs you have seen─and I trust, read─not great ones, but at least some clever ones. But let me explain where trouble might lie, if you don’t understand poetry. If it is any good at all, poetry is about two different things, something actually stated on the page, and then the real thing the poem is about. Take a look back at last Sunday’s blog. You had no trouble, I assume, recognizing a piece of furniture in Chinese design. But with the last line added, we have a metaphor. Without that last line, there would hardly be a poem. What does the poet say here? You have to know what the poet means before you get a poem out of the whole thing. Why not read it again? Understanding brings appreciation.
♥
Monday, June 21, 2010
Sense of Humor
Some people don’t have a sense of humor. It’s to be assumed, they don’t know they lack this important personality trait. But it does no good to enlighten them, for they may make an attempt to be funny, and it always falls flat. One of them may demonstrate what he thinks is humor with a story that might be funny and clever spoken by someone else on the spur of the moment, but it appears this guy has worked hard at planning the presentation, even dressing up for it, while expecting praise and laughter. But all that preparation is obvious, causing us to conclude there are no more stories up his sleeve, and he is defeated by the lack of response and seldom tries again.
Humor is more of a cleverness than funniness, with the cleverness providing the fun. How does one acquire cleverness? I don’t think one does. It seems one is born with it, or not. It goes hand-in-hand with knowledge and as the child grows in knowledge, the sense of humor grows with it. But don’t all children grow in knowledge? Of course, but by different rates, in different settings, and with different genes. While some will be clever, some will be corny, and some will be blah, in that department. Setting for this growth is more important than realized at first glance. Humor is more likely to spring from a large family than from an “only child.” Published and filmed stories bear out this premise, with several children in a given family’s figuring out fun-plots to fool their parents to an only child’s cleverness often being related to evil-plots. These two aspects grow as children grow. But it certainly does not mean all those born in the “only child” group are evil, or even self-centered, but often just lacking in humor for whatever reason. And, just as true, all large families are not blessed with humor, and may even have a “black sheep” among the herd.
So I imagine some of my readers do not understand my humor sprinkled throughout these blogs, a word here, a phrase there, or perhaps the whole episode. But like the Royals with several names, as in Arthur George Henry Philip, my name is ____ ____ ____ Humor ____. Got it? Have a nice day!
♥
Some people don’t have a sense of humor. It’s to be assumed, they don’t know they lack this important personality trait. But it does no good to enlighten them, for they may make an attempt to be funny, and it always falls flat. One of them may demonstrate what he thinks is humor with a story that might be funny and clever spoken by someone else on the spur of the moment, but it appears this guy has worked hard at planning the presentation, even dressing up for it, while expecting praise and laughter. But all that preparation is obvious, causing us to conclude there are no more stories up his sleeve, and he is defeated by the lack of response and seldom tries again.
Humor is more of a cleverness than funniness, with the cleverness providing the fun. How does one acquire cleverness? I don’t think one does. It seems one is born with it, or not. It goes hand-in-hand with knowledge and as the child grows in knowledge, the sense of humor grows with it. But don’t all children grow in knowledge? Of course, but by different rates, in different settings, and with different genes. While some will be clever, some will be corny, and some will be blah, in that department. Setting for this growth is more important than realized at first glance. Humor is more likely to spring from a large family than from an “only child.” Published and filmed stories bear out this premise, with several children in a given family’s figuring out fun-plots to fool their parents to an only child’s cleverness often being related to evil-plots. These two aspects grow as children grow. But it certainly does not mean all those born in the “only child” group are evil, or even self-centered, but often just lacking in humor for whatever reason. And, just as true, all large families are not blessed with humor, and may even have a “black sheep” among the herd.
So I imagine some of my readers do not understand my humor sprinkled throughout these blogs, a word here, a phrase there, or perhaps the whole episode. But like the Royals with several names, as in Arthur George Henry Philip, my name is ____ ____ ____ Humor ____. Got it? Have a nice day!
♥
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
A Great Literary Work
In addition to the Bible’s being the holy book of a great religion, it is a great work of literature. But in generations to come, the English language will suffer a severe blow to its literary heritage. The average citizen will not understand certain biblical references that have long been part of our speech, because today the young people, as a whole, are not really being taught that book. In recent years I have run into several young adults who did not recognize the bibical phrases I used in talking with them. How much worse that will get with the world’s drive to stamp the Christian religion out of every area of our lives. Perhaps for a while only Christians will understand the meanings of these terms. Here are just a few of many examples of what I mean:
The fatted calf.
Render unto Caesar.
The handwriting on the wall.
An eye for an eye.
Unto the least of these.
The loaves and fishes.
My cup runneth over.
The widow’s mite.
Den of thieves.
Den of iniquity.
The Word.
The Sabbath.
Head on a platter.
The burning bush.
The Lord’s supper.
Pieces of silver.
A seamless robe.
The letter of the law.
The spirit of the law.
Walking on water.
At the same time, the demand for Bibles is great in some parts of the world, China, for instance. The American Bible Society has a drive on now for getting those Bibles to China. And wouldn’t it be something, if someday China sent Christian missionaries to evangelize America?
♥
In addition to the Bible’s being the holy book of a great religion, it is a great work of literature. But in generations to come, the English language will suffer a severe blow to its literary heritage. The average citizen will not understand certain biblical references that have long been part of our speech, because today the young people, as a whole, are not really being taught that book. In recent years I have run into several young adults who did not recognize the bibical phrases I used in talking with them. How much worse that will get with the world’s drive to stamp the Christian religion out of every area of our lives. Perhaps for a while only Christians will understand the meanings of these terms. Here are just a few of many examples of what I mean:
The fatted calf.
Render unto Caesar.
The handwriting on the wall.
An eye for an eye.
Unto the least of these.
The loaves and fishes.
My cup runneth over.
The widow’s mite.
Den of thieves.
Den of iniquity.
The Word.
The Sabbath.
Head on a platter.
The burning bush.
The Lord’s supper.
Pieces of silver.
A seamless robe.
The letter of the law.
The spirit of the law.
Walking on water.
At the same time, the demand for Bibles is great in some parts of the world, China, for instance. The American Bible Society has a drive on now for getting those Bibles to China. And wouldn’t it be something, if someday China sent Christian missionaries to evangelize America?
♥
Friday, June 18, 2010
Just One Foot Before the Other
Yesterday I added just one word to the novel in progress. Thursday is my really busy day, but at least I try to say hello to the novel daily. I may start leaving off a Thursday blog. Much of my writing time recently has gone into the current contests. I thought all those submissions were done and sent, but I had an idea, an occasional delight. The short stories, the essays, and the poetry, were all mailed, but I wanted one more manuscript to compete in another category. I went through my files and found one for “creative nonfiction.” It had never been entered in any contest, was the right length, and needed just a few more words to make it fit the required theme or title. That was mailed yesterday. That means nine contests I’ve entered. Last year, it was fourteen. About twenty-two entries are possible.
Anyway, the reading continues. Right now, I’m a third into Robin Cook’s Foreign Body. What a master of suspense this doctor-writer is. For an ophthalmologist, he knows a great deal about medical fields not his own. That’s not too common, I believe. If you’d like to read about an organization of nurses with the aim of killing certain American patients in India, this is for you. I trust we shall have our heroic characters popping up in time to stop all criminals involved, perhaps before the third murder.
That’s just one of the books I’m enjoying at this time. Remember, I often read in a dozen simultaneously.
♥
Yesterday I added just one word to the novel in progress. Thursday is my really busy day, but at least I try to say hello to the novel daily. I may start leaving off a Thursday blog. Much of my writing time recently has gone into the current contests. I thought all those submissions were done and sent, but I had an idea, an occasional delight. The short stories, the essays, and the poetry, were all mailed, but I wanted one more manuscript to compete in another category. I went through my files and found one for “creative nonfiction.” It had never been entered in any contest, was the right length, and needed just a few more words to make it fit the required theme or title. That was mailed yesterday. That means nine contests I’ve entered. Last year, it was fourteen. About twenty-two entries are possible.
Anyway, the reading continues. Right now, I’m a third into Robin Cook’s Foreign Body. What a master of suspense this doctor-writer is. For an ophthalmologist, he knows a great deal about medical fields not his own. That’s not too common, I believe. If you’d like to read about an organization of nurses with the aim of killing certain American patients in India, this is for you. I trust we shall have our heroic characters popping up in time to stop all criminals involved, perhaps before the third murder.
That’s just one of the books I’m enjoying at this time. Remember, I often read in a dozen simultaneously.
♥
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Food for Thought
Coolish, darkish morning here, and I arose at 7:44, practically in the middle of the night. Perhaps breakfast and lunch won’t run in together today. Well, just so long as I finish those by suppertime! But speaking of eating reminds me of something AOL offered a few minutes ago. To help your memory, eat nuts, it said. It’s the fat, of course, and nuts have the right kind of fat for us. And if you recall, those of you on my email list at the time, one half of an English walnut is shaped like the brain, remember? Walnuts are brain food. There’s a bunch of walnuts on my breakfast plate right now. I keep walnuts and almonds on hand all the time, and peanut butter with no additives, of course. I need all the help I can get in the memory department. So do you.
Recently an article came to my attention─I think from the YOU doctors─about the foods that helped build and protect the body’s muscles. Those foods are eggs, yogurt, salmon, beef, olive oil, raw almonds, and water. As to the amount of almonds, it said two hands full. Can you imagine eating that many almonds in a day? I can. They’re delicious. But I don’t. I eat about twelve a day. And I just happen to love eggs, salmon, and beef. I tolerate plain yogurt once a day with fruit. The only oil in my house is olive oil, so I seem to have been on the right track all along. However, as to memory, I really think I inherited my good memory from my father. He loved fat. Fat meat! And died at age 52. Leave off fat meat and get the good kind of fat in your diet and shoot for a long life with great memory and strong muscles.
I started out this morning to write about the lack of “Thank you,” in so many people these days. How did that happen? Remember, it’s the second most important sentence in the world and it should be second nature to say it.
♥
Coolish, darkish morning here, and I arose at 7:44, practically in the middle of the night. Perhaps breakfast and lunch won’t run in together today. Well, just so long as I finish those by suppertime! But speaking of eating reminds me of something AOL offered a few minutes ago. To help your memory, eat nuts, it said. It’s the fat, of course, and nuts have the right kind of fat for us. And if you recall, those of you on my email list at the time, one half of an English walnut is shaped like the brain, remember? Walnuts are brain food. There’s a bunch of walnuts on my breakfast plate right now. I keep walnuts and almonds on hand all the time, and peanut butter with no additives, of course. I need all the help I can get in the memory department. So do you.
Recently an article came to my attention─I think from the YOU doctors─about the foods that helped build and protect the body’s muscles. Those foods are eggs, yogurt, salmon, beef, olive oil, raw almonds, and water. As to the amount of almonds, it said two hands full. Can you imagine eating that many almonds in a day? I can. They’re delicious. But I don’t. I eat about twelve a day. And I just happen to love eggs, salmon, and beef. I tolerate plain yogurt once a day with fruit. The only oil in my house is olive oil, so I seem to have been on the right track all along. However, as to memory, I really think I inherited my good memory from my father. He loved fat. Fat meat! And died at age 52. Leave off fat meat and get the good kind of fat in your diet and shoot for a long life with great memory and strong muscles.
I started out this morning to write about the lack of “Thank you,” in so many people these days. How did that happen? Remember, it’s the second most important sentence in the world and it should be second nature to say it.
♥
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Blah, Blah, Blah
No time for a real blog today. I was working on transferring a short story to a new document, when some of my blog jumped into the pot, spoiling my story and my nerves. You know I like mysteries, but I can’t solve this one. Why should a blog entry─with my blogs not even on the screen─attach itself to a short story? In the process I lost part of the story, which is for a contest. So, I’ve decided to chuck it for today, say hi to you, and type the whole thing over again tomorrow. So hi! And bye! And you have my heart!
♥
No time for a real blog today. I was working on transferring a short story to a new document, when some of my blog jumped into the pot, spoiling my story and my nerves. You know I like mysteries, but I can’t solve this one. Why should a blog entry─with my blogs not even on the screen─attach itself to a short story? In the process I lost part of the story, which is for a contest. So, I’ve decided to chuck it for today, say hi to you, and type the whole thing over again tomorrow. So hi! And bye! And you have my heart!
♥
Monday, June 14, 2010
Postscript
Before we get too far away from the above story, let me remind you of something I think recorded here earlier. My training and work in the Navy earned me 17 college credit hours. Not bad for 14 months, all expenses paid, is it? When I returned to Nashville, Sears offered to train me to become a store’s Personnel Director. That would mean spending six months training in Atlanta, Georgia. But I didn’t want to stick with merchandising. Working at Sears just helped me get through college. Let me say here something that may astound my children and grandchildren: My parents did not spend a penny on my college education and I did not ask them for help. I worked and paid my own way those first two years. After the war, I made use of the G. I. Bill to complete the first four years and get a Bachelor of Arts degree, with a major in language and literature, one of the tougher fields at that time. I think it still is.
Along with the G. I. Bill, I still worked, and guess what at. With my naval training, I was Assistant Dean of Women in a girls’ dormitory! This was in Idaho, and it was there I met my husband to be. We married when I had only one semester of undergraduate studies to complete. Before I met John, I had anticipated moving north to the University of Idaho to begin studies for a Ph.D in literature and languages. But I got sidetracked by marriage. I had not trained to be a teacher but had a degree with honors. However, in a fairly short time I became a high school English teacher.
♥
Before we get too far away from the above story, let me remind you of something I think recorded here earlier. My training and work in the Navy earned me 17 college credit hours. Not bad for 14 months, all expenses paid, is it? When I returned to Nashville, Sears offered to train me to become a store’s Personnel Director. That would mean spending six months training in Atlanta, Georgia. But I didn’t want to stick with merchandising. Working at Sears just helped me get through college. Let me say here something that may astound my children and grandchildren: My parents did not spend a penny on my college education and I did not ask them for help. I worked and paid my own way those first two years. After the war, I made use of the G. I. Bill to complete the first four years and get a Bachelor of Arts degree, with a major in language and literature, one of the tougher fields at that time. I think it still is.
Along with the G. I. Bill, I still worked, and guess what at. With my naval training, I was Assistant Dean of Women in a girls’ dormitory! This was in Idaho, and it was there I met my husband to be. We married when I had only one semester of undergraduate studies to complete. Before I met John, I had anticipated moving north to the University of Idaho to begin studies for a Ph.D in literature and languages. But I got sidetracked by marriage. I had not trained to be a teacher but had a degree with honors. However, in a fairly short time I became a high school English teacher.
♥
Sunday, June 13, 2010
A Few Haiku ©
♥
. . . among reeds . . . hiding
a mallard that got away
. . . nobody’s fall guy
♥
. . . Russian olive tree
with a thousand blackbirds
. . . swoosh . . . thinking alike
♥
. . . mourning doves atop
the bell tower . . . out of key
. . . Easter mass below
♥
. . . scent in April air . . .
show of pink and white glory
. . . will apple taste match?
♥
♥
. . . among reeds . . . hiding
a mallard that got away
. . . nobody’s fall guy
♥
. . . Russian olive tree
with a thousand blackbirds
. . . swoosh . . . thinking alike
♥
. . . mourning doves atop
the bell tower . . . out of key
. . . Easter mass below
♥
. . . scent in April air . . .
show of pink and white glory
. . . will apple taste match?
♥
Saturday, June 12, 2010
The Trip Home
The Navy paid my way home only to the first destination. That was to Alhambra; the rest of the way I paid out of my own pocket. I had a job at Sears waiting─if wanted it─but I didn’t want it. I chose coach, knowing riding on a Pullman car didn’t guarantee I’d sleep, and saving money was important at the moment.
My car was almost empty. A young man, several seats ahead of me, kept looking back until he finally got up and asked if I minded his sitting across the aisle from me. As he had a nice-boy-next-door good American look about him, I told him I didn’t mind. He took the aisle seat. I was already in my aisle seat. So he must have had conversation in mind. As the journey was a three-day one, of course, we talked, and ate our meals together in the dining car. Both the conductor and the porter, who came through two or three times a day, bore grins to themselves, when they saw we’d gotten together. And I’d bet we were the nicest travelers they’d ever served in their whole careers. We made no demands and left no trash anywhere.
I don’t recall the man’s name, so I’ll call him William, for that suits him. Not Bill, at least to me, but William. He was from Ohio and making a train trip across the country and back. His family had a metal manufacturing business that had made war materiel, allowing him now to have a real vacation. He had been deferred in the military draft because of his work in the family’s defense business. I asked what the company made in peacetime. He said, “Household items, such as metal tops for crystal salt and pepper shakers.” He added, “Big things too. Whatever is needed.” This was his first vacation since World War II started. I felt he really deserved it.
At night, when we got tired enough to sleep, William, who sat beside me now, turned the seat in front of us backwards, so that we could prop up our feet on it. Soon after the first time we did that, he told me I had pretty legs. He wasn’t being fresh. I don’t think he ever could get fresh with a girl. He was an incredibly nice man. When we actually slept, he was back across the aisle with the seat in front of him turned backwards and his feet on it.
So we talked about many things and solved the problems of the world. You can do a lot of talking in three days. One big date with a really interesting nice guy. We even went to a movie in New Orleans. It was August, and when we stepped off the train, the heat and humidity nearly did me in after eleven months of California weather. I needed air-conditioning. Not every place had air-conditioning in those days. Since we had three hours before the train would continue the journey, William suggested the theater for a cooling-off place. We saw “North West Mounted Police,” starring Gary Cooper. Come to think of it, I’d like to see that movie again. All those bright red jackets on the men, I well remember.
That long date measured about six months of ordinary dating off the train, I figured. Nevertheless, I was totally surprised when William, somewhere between New Orleans and Memphis, proposed marriage. I’m well aware men who become successful in life make up their minds about things quickly, and many of their biographies tell of knowing at first glance the woman they want to marry. Lyndon Johnson was one of those; Dwight Eisenhower, I think, another; Henry Luce (his second wife); and many others. But that didn’t matter. I wasn’t in love, and how could William be? We had not had one romantic moment, so far as I was concerned, and I still thought of Tim. What would William’s mother have thought if he had brought me home with him? I can imagine. And I would have been in military uniform to alarm her further! Perhaps he had in mind stopping off in Nashville a few days first. But I kindly told him no.
If William had gotten to Ohio and then headed back to Nashville, looking for me, I might have considered dating him awhile, but that didn’t happen. He wasn’t in love, but perhaps was seriously looking for a wife. That wasn’t me.
Now you have heard my story in the WAVES. Well, just a small part of it. Let’s get back to now next time.
♥
The Navy paid my way home only to the first destination. That was to Alhambra; the rest of the way I paid out of my own pocket. I had a job at Sears waiting─if wanted it─but I didn’t want it. I chose coach, knowing riding on a Pullman car didn’t guarantee I’d sleep, and saving money was important at the moment.
My car was almost empty. A young man, several seats ahead of me, kept looking back until he finally got up and asked if I minded his sitting across the aisle from me. As he had a nice-boy-next-door good American look about him, I told him I didn’t mind. He took the aisle seat. I was already in my aisle seat. So he must have had conversation in mind. As the journey was a three-day one, of course, we talked, and ate our meals together in the dining car. Both the conductor and the porter, who came through two or three times a day, bore grins to themselves, when they saw we’d gotten together. And I’d bet we were the nicest travelers they’d ever served in their whole careers. We made no demands and left no trash anywhere.
I don’t recall the man’s name, so I’ll call him William, for that suits him. Not Bill, at least to me, but William. He was from Ohio and making a train trip across the country and back. His family had a metal manufacturing business that had made war materiel, allowing him now to have a real vacation. He had been deferred in the military draft because of his work in the family’s defense business. I asked what the company made in peacetime. He said, “Household items, such as metal tops for crystal salt and pepper shakers.” He added, “Big things too. Whatever is needed.” This was his first vacation since World War II started. I felt he really deserved it.
At night, when we got tired enough to sleep, William, who sat beside me now, turned the seat in front of us backwards, so that we could prop up our feet on it. Soon after the first time we did that, he told me I had pretty legs. He wasn’t being fresh. I don’t think he ever could get fresh with a girl. He was an incredibly nice man. When we actually slept, he was back across the aisle with the seat in front of him turned backwards and his feet on it.
So we talked about many things and solved the problems of the world. You can do a lot of talking in three days. One big date with a really interesting nice guy. We even went to a movie in New Orleans. It was August, and when we stepped off the train, the heat and humidity nearly did me in after eleven months of California weather. I needed air-conditioning. Not every place had air-conditioning in those days. Since we had three hours before the train would continue the journey, William suggested the theater for a cooling-off place. We saw “North West Mounted Police,” starring Gary Cooper. Come to think of it, I’d like to see that movie again. All those bright red jackets on the men, I well remember.
That long date measured about six months of ordinary dating off the train, I figured. Nevertheless, I was totally surprised when William, somewhere between New Orleans and Memphis, proposed marriage. I’m well aware men who become successful in life make up their minds about things quickly, and many of their biographies tell of knowing at first glance the woman they want to marry. Lyndon Johnson was one of those; Dwight Eisenhower, I think, another; Henry Luce (his second wife); and many others. But that didn’t matter. I wasn’t in love, and how could William be? We had not had one romantic moment, so far as I was concerned, and I still thought of Tim. What would William’s mother have thought if he had brought me home with him? I can imagine. And I would have been in military uniform to alarm her further! Perhaps he had in mind stopping off in Nashville a few days first. But I kindly told him no.
If William had gotten to Ohio and then headed back to Nashville, looking for me, I might have considered dating him awhile, but that didn’t happen. He wasn’t in love, but perhaps was seriously looking for a wife. That wasn’t me.
Now you have heard my story in the WAVES. Well, just a small part of it. Let’s get back to now next time.
♥
Friday, June 11, 2010
All in the Family
When my train arrived in Alhambra, I didn’t have to look for my uncle; he spotted me quickly. With so many other females in naval uniform buzzing around, I asked how he could tell who I was. He said, “By your Lindsley look.” I thought that strange, for most of the Lindsleys had dark hair. Other than one half-uncle, I was the only blonde I could think of in the family. Then he added, “Your carriage. The way you stand, the way you walk.” I said, “I thought that was just military.” “No, I think it is pride.” Well, I was indeed proud to have served my country in the Navy. But I don’t think he meant that. Yes, there were some in the family who showed a great deal of pride and others in the family who resented that. Oh, well . . .
It was dinner time, so Uncle Hal and I ate dinner at Mike Lyman’s. I don’t recall now if it was in Alhambra or in Monrovia, where he lived and where, it turned out, he was the City Manager. His wife was an invalid and had a live-in care giver, so Uncle Hal was free to spend some time with me. At Mike Lyman’s we were immediately seated at a table with a “reserved” sign on it in the middle of the room. He told me he brought his wife in her wheelchair to dinner there one night a week, every week, and this was their table. I thought that great of him. How many men would do that? And how many wives in wheelchairs would want to do that? The rest of the place was full of diners. Just off the train, I needed to freshen up a bit and asked to be excused for a few minutes and would he order for me. He said, “Do you like roast beef?” I said, “Yes.” That night I ate my first really rare roast beef and liked it.
My father’s youngest brother, Uncle Hal had gone west as a young man and seldom came back to visit the family in the South. Perhaps his generation of relatives kept up on his whereabouts and news over the years but I had not. At one point, he said, “So you were the one in your generation to come west. I was the one in mine.” My sojourn in the West, of course, had been only a brief one, and I never dreamed then I’d be back to stay.
Uncle Hal showed me his orange groves and his stables. He had a matched pair of Palominos, as well as several other horses. He said the movie people always wanted to use his horses in their productions, but he said no, for he thought horses were treated too roughly in the action. He did allow his horses to be used by one actor. Bill Elliott, I think it was, for Elliott saw the animals got good treatment. If this was the famous Wild Bill Elliott, I never knew. If so, B-Westerns. Perhaps it takes rough handling of horses to rate an A.
Uncle Hal also showed me the Rose Bowl, where every New Year’s Day he rode in the Sheriff’s Posse, leading the parade. He showed me his uniform. It was olive drab, with a huge rose-colored rose, embroidered in satin stitch on the back of the shirt, expertly creased across the shoulders. He also gave me an 8x10 photograph of himself, in uniform, on one of the Palominos.
Eventually I boarded the train again, to head for New Orleans, Memphis, and then home.
♥
When my train arrived in Alhambra, I didn’t have to look for my uncle; he spotted me quickly. With so many other females in naval uniform buzzing around, I asked how he could tell who I was. He said, “By your Lindsley look.” I thought that strange, for most of the Lindsleys had dark hair. Other than one half-uncle, I was the only blonde I could think of in the family. Then he added, “Your carriage. The way you stand, the way you walk.” I said, “I thought that was just military.” “No, I think it is pride.” Well, I was indeed proud to have served my country in the Navy. But I don’t think he meant that. Yes, there were some in the family who showed a great deal of pride and others in the family who resented that. Oh, well . . .
It was dinner time, so Uncle Hal and I ate dinner at Mike Lyman’s. I don’t recall now if it was in Alhambra or in Monrovia, where he lived and where, it turned out, he was the City Manager. His wife was an invalid and had a live-in care giver, so Uncle Hal was free to spend some time with me. At Mike Lyman’s we were immediately seated at a table with a “reserved” sign on it in the middle of the room. He told me he brought his wife in her wheelchair to dinner there one night a week, every week, and this was their table. I thought that great of him. How many men would do that? And how many wives in wheelchairs would want to do that? The rest of the place was full of diners. Just off the train, I needed to freshen up a bit and asked to be excused for a few minutes and would he order for me. He said, “Do you like roast beef?” I said, “Yes.” That night I ate my first really rare roast beef and liked it.
My father’s youngest brother, Uncle Hal had gone west as a young man and seldom came back to visit the family in the South. Perhaps his generation of relatives kept up on his whereabouts and news over the years but I had not. At one point, he said, “So you were the one in your generation to come west. I was the one in mine.” My sojourn in the West, of course, had been only a brief one, and I never dreamed then I’d be back to stay.
Uncle Hal showed me his orange groves and his stables. He had a matched pair of Palominos, as well as several other horses. He said the movie people always wanted to use his horses in their productions, but he said no, for he thought horses were treated too roughly in the action. He did allow his horses to be used by one actor. Bill Elliott, I think it was, for Elliott saw the animals got good treatment. If this was the famous Wild Bill Elliott, I never knew. If so, B-Westerns. Perhaps it takes rough handling of horses to rate an A.
Uncle Hal also showed me the Rose Bowl, where every New Year’s Day he rode in the Sheriff’s Posse, leading the parade. He showed me his uniform. It was olive drab, with a huge rose-colored rose, embroidered in satin stitch on the back of the shirt, expertly creased across the shoulders. He also gave me an 8x10 photograph of himself, in uniform, on one of the Palominos.
Eventually I boarded the train again, to head for New Orleans, Memphis, and then home.
♥
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Goodbye, San Francisco
Before I tell about getting out of the Navy, I want to add I was in San Francisco several times while stationed in Oakland, usually during the day. We saw the sights, which didn’t compare with New York’s, of course, and we saw a great matinee of “Rhapsody in Blue,” which was sweeping the country. We found great places for lunch and walked in parks and took pictures of ourselves. I shopped at I. Magnum’s Department Store, in its book department, naturally. In some book store I purchased copies of German I and German 2, never dreaming I would eventually study the language in college. The books were in Gothic type and had no English. I loved trying to translate them. English is from the German, therefore the two languages have many cognates. “Hand” in English is “Hand” in German. All nouns in German are capitalized. But “gift” in English is a present while “Gift” in German is poison! Take care.
One weekend, while I was still posted at the WAVE barracks downtown, two or three carloads of Wave officers and NCOs drove to Yosemite National Park. When we were doing something in the sports field, such as hiking in a national park, we were allowed to wear civilian clothing and we did so on this trip. I remember delicious chicken with a dip served in baskets at a stop in Merced. We slept in cabins at the park, where we heard the roar of water all night long, if we were insomniacs. At least one was. Those cabins no longer exist, I heard.
So the day came when I received, in San Francisco, my honorable discharge from the Navy, after fourteen months of service. I said goodbye to friends and boarded the train for Alhambra, California, where an interesting relative would recognize me instantly, never having seen me since I was a baby. To be continued.
♥
Before I tell about getting out of the Navy, I want to add I was in San Francisco several times while stationed in Oakland, usually during the day. We saw the sights, which didn’t compare with New York’s, of course, and we saw a great matinee of “Rhapsody in Blue,” which was sweeping the country. We found great places for lunch and walked in parks and took pictures of ourselves. I shopped at I. Magnum’s Department Store, in its book department, naturally. In some book store I purchased copies of German I and German 2, never dreaming I would eventually study the language in college. The books were in Gothic type and had no English. I loved trying to translate them. English is from the German, therefore the two languages have many cognates. “Hand” in English is “Hand” in German. All nouns in German are capitalized. But “gift” in English is a present while “Gift” in German is poison! Take care.
One weekend, while I was still posted at the WAVE barracks downtown, two or three carloads of Wave officers and NCOs drove to Yosemite National Park. When we were doing something in the sports field, such as hiking in a national park, we were allowed to wear civilian clothing and we did so on this trip. I remember delicious chicken with a dip served in baskets at a stop in Merced. We slept in cabins at the park, where we heard the roar of water all night long, if we were insomniacs. At least one was. Those cabins no longer exist, I heard.
So the day came when I received, in San Francisco, my honorable discharge from the Navy, after fourteen months of service. I said goodbye to friends and boarded the train for Alhambra, California, where an interesting relative would recognize me instantly, never having seen me since I was a baby. To be continued.
♥
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The Last Hurrah
I missed Tim when he went back to sea, and was not particularly interested in dating anyone else, though there was still Bob whom I met at church. Guys continued to visit us in our office, one being the Chief Petty Officer who handled the base’s mail. He must have brought the Waves our mail last, for he stayed a while when he got there. Not because of me. He was attracted to another Master-at-Arms named Gibson, whom we called Gibby. He had been married to a girl from England, and they had lost a baby, which broke them apart. I learned many years later 70% of the couples in this country who lose a child, end up divorcing. The other 30% usually have stronger marriages. Eventually I learned that Gibby and the Chief married and were working with children in California.
Time was flying and I knew it would not be long before our barracks at Oak Knoll would close and I would be discharged from the Navy. But I could sign up for the Reserves and I did. Then one day I received a happy surprise. I got another chevron on my sleeve. I was now Petty Officer, Second Class. I didn’t hear of anyone else’s getting a promotion at that time.
One evening when I had the duty, just before dark in walked a Wave who had been AWOL for twenty-nine days. She was hatless; her seersucker collar was open; she wore no tie; wore a brown belt around her waist; and her hair was long enough to reach her collar. I called the O. D. (Officer of the Day) and reported Zona Flavin had reported in. My orders were to keep her by my side till someone else got there. Within five minutes, that someone arrived, placed a wide band around Flavin’s left arm, which read “Prisoner-at-Large” and another on my left arm which read “S. P.,” for Shore Patrol. He read her orders aloud. She was restricted to barracks except for her work time in the hospital, and for meals which she would eat in my presence. She was to stay in uniform at all times in the presence of others. And she was not allowed to talk with others in public. Final judgment was to be in thirty days. That judgment, I figured, would depend to a great extent on her conduct in these thirty days. She likely suspected that too.
Well! I wasn’t about to eat with her in the Hospital Corps women’s dining hall; she had to go with me to the Ship’s Crew dining hall. This turned out to be hilarious. The men saw her arm band and knew the rules perfectly. They had a ball talking to her, making comments they knew she’d want to answer but could not. I will say this for her, she did not break the rules. In the following evenings, she often came into my office to sit but with no conversation from her, only from me. I don’t recall what I said to her, but I certainly did not preach. I’m sure I gave her a tiny job to do now and then, such as alphabetizing a stack of papers.
Before Flavin’s number was up, I opted for discharge. On the street in downtown Nashville some time later, I met Captain Dowlen from Oak Knoll, who told me Flavin had cleaned up her act, busted, of course, and had made a good Wave. I was delighted to hear it.
♥
I missed Tim when he went back to sea, and was not particularly interested in dating anyone else, though there was still Bob whom I met at church. Guys continued to visit us in our office, one being the Chief Petty Officer who handled the base’s mail. He must have brought the Waves our mail last, for he stayed a while when he got there. Not because of me. He was attracted to another Master-at-Arms named Gibson, whom we called Gibby. He had been married to a girl from England, and they had lost a baby, which broke them apart. I learned many years later 70% of the couples in this country who lose a child, end up divorcing. The other 30% usually have stronger marriages. Eventually I learned that Gibby and the Chief married and were working with children in California.
Time was flying and I knew it would not be long before our barracks at Oak Knoll would close and I would be discharged from the Navy. But I could sign up for the Reserves and I did. Then one day I received a happy surprise. I got another chevron on my sleeve. I was now Petty Officer, Second Class. I didn’t hear of anyone else’s getting a promotion at that time.
One evening when I had the duty, just before dark in walked a Wave who had been AWOL for twenty-nine days. She was hatless; her seersucker collar was open; she wore no tie; wore a brown belt around her waist; and her hair was long enough to reach her collar. I called the O. D. (Officer of the Day) and reported Zona Flavin had reported in. My orders were to keep her by my side till someone else got there. Within five minutes, that someone arrived, placed a wide band around Flavin’s left arm, which read “Prisoner-at-Large” and another on my left arm which read “S. P.,” for Shore Patrol. He read her orders aloud. She was restricted to barracks except for her work time in the hospital, and for meals which she would eat in my presence. She was to stay in uniform at all times in the presence of others. And she was not allowed to talk with others in public. Final judgment was to be in thirty days. That judgment, I figured, would depend to a great extent on her conduct in these thirty days. She likely suspected that too.
Well! I wasn’t about to eat with her in the Hospital Corps women’s dining hall; she had to go with me to the Ship’s Crew dining hall. This turned out to be hilarious. The men saw her arm band and knew the rules perfectly. They had a ball talking to her, making comments they knew she’d want to answer but could not. I will say this for her, she did not break the rules. In the following evenings, she often came into my office to sit but with no conversation from her, only from me. I don’t recall what I said to her, but I certainly did not preach. I’m sure I gave her a tiny job to do now and then, such as alphabetizing a stack of papers.
Before Flavin’s number was up, I opted for discharge. On the street in downtown Nashville some time later, I met Captain Dowlen from Oak Knoll, who told me Flavin had cleaned up her act, busted, of course, and had made a good Wave. I was delighted to hear it.
♥
Monday, June 7, 2010
Oak Knoll and Tim
Oak Knoll Naval Hospital spread out over 167 acres, with mainly one-story barracks-type buildings. Its purpose was for treating American military personnel who had been wounded in the Pacific theater of World War II, but it also later served for the Korean and Vietnam wars. In 1965 a large multi-storied main hospital was begun and opened in 1968. The base closed in 1996.
The WAVES barracks was a two-story structure, situated into a hillside with plenty of outside steps to navigate. Again, we Masters-at-Arms were “ship’s crew” and the Waves we supervised were “ship’s company.” These girls were in the Hospital Corps and went to work every day in the hospital, in shifts, of course. My duties were about the same as at the downtown barracks, but now we had unscheduled visitors right inside our office. We had two rooms, the second one serving for consultations and counseling, with a few easy chairs in it, a table and a lamp, plus a window. I must say little counseling was required, for Waves were generally a level-headed group, with both feet on the ground. But it was at this base that I actually had to take a “prisoner-at-large,” which you’ll hear about later.
Ship’s Company of Waves ate their meals in their own dining room. We Ship’s Crew ate our meals with the men’s Ship’s Crew. There’s one plus for being Crew instead of Company. We were a smaller group and that was another plus. Sailors were good conversationalists. As we walked to the dining hall, always two or three of us together, we had to pass some of the hospital units. Through the open windows we daily heard from patients lying in their beds, “Hup, two, three, four─your left, right, left─left, right, left.” We stayed in step with the cadence for it would have been silly and insulting not to do so. We were, of course, most of the time, in our favorite navy blue dress uniforms. But we got the attention even in our seersucker dresses.
One afternoon a career Navy man, about 40 years old, showed up in our office. He was a patient who had got into occupational therapy in a big way. He did macramé from used parachutes and came over to teach it to us. All of us staff personnel learned it, but it never really appealed to me. I never made anything in that craft except whatever I made in those few days he dropped in. Joe, I think we called him, kept referring to me as “nice people.” I never knew what he meant by that, for we were all nice girls. Anyway, one day he arrived with another patient, Tim, Petty Officer, First Class, to introduce to me, as I later learned. Tim got to showing up every day when I had the duty. We knew not to ask how a man got wounded in the war, but if a guy talked about it, we listened. I never met one who talked about it. It was too fresh, I suppose. Since Tim was not supposed to leave the base at this point, we had our dates while sitting outside on the concrete steps and walking about the compound. At night he was in the hospital. Finally he was about well enough to go back to sea and would be leaving the base soon to do so. He asked me to go to dinner with him in San Francisco before that time. Anyone who knows San Francisco is well acquainted with fog and I warned Tim my hair would get straight on the other side of the bay, but he said he didn’t mind. But I did! Nevertheless, we went by cab, with my curls holding up through that, and to an elegant restaurant, where I ate my very first caviar. After we had ordered, he looked at my hair and said, “It did, didn’t it?” I felt terrible, but at least, it was blonde and perhaps not so noticeable across the room. Girls, this was before hair spray and I have very fine hair. It must have been time for a new perm, but I’d been too busy to get one and had no idea he was going to ask me to go into that murky fog. After dining on a wonderful meal, we took a boat ride and I still got in by curfew at midnight. A few days later, he called me to ask if I would come to see him off. I did, a walk of a few blocks, I’d guess. The bus was already loaded with the sailors’ duffle bags, and it seemed to be waiting for Tim’s girl to show up to say goodbye. Several sailors watched me as I came in sight and walked still farther to meet Tim. I wondered what Tim might have told them about me, for they were all eyes. I had the feeling he told them I was “nice people.” But it was a definite goodbye. I knew he was not for me.
A curious aspect of this acquaintance was that Tim hoped one day to be a police detective in Los Angeles and here I am writing fiction about such things. Another curious aspect is that the way I met Tim was similar to the way I met the man I eventually married, and they had much in common.
♥
Oak Knoll Naval Hospital spread out over 167 acres, with mainly one-story barracks-type buildings. Its purpose was for treating American military personnel who had been wounded in the Pacific theater of World War II, but it also later served for the Korean and Vietnam wars. In 1965 a large multi-storied main hospital was begun and opened in 1968. The base closed in 1996.
The WAVES barracks was a two-story structure, situated into a hillside with plenty of outside steps to navigate. Again, we Masters-at-Arms were “ship’s crew” and the Waves we supervised were “ship’s company.” These girls were in the Hospital Corps and went to work every day in the hospital, in shifts, of course. My duties were about the same as at the downtown barracks, but now we had unscheduled visitors right inside our office. We had two rooms, the second one serving for consultations and counseling, with a few easy chairs in it, a table and a lamp, plus a window. I must say little counseling was required, for Waves were generally a level-headed group, with both feet on the ground. But it was at this base that I actually had to take a “prisoner-at-large,” which you’ll hear about later.
Ship’s Company of Waves ate their meals in their own dining room. We Ship’s Crew ate our meals with the men’s Ship’s Crew. There’s one plus for being Crew instead of Company. We were a smaller group and that was another plus. Sailors were good conversationalists. As we walked to the dining hall, always two or three of us together, we had to pass some of the hospital units. Through the open windows we daily heard from patients lying in their beds, “Hup, two, three, four─your left, right, left─left, right, left.” We stayed in step with the cadence for it would have been silly and insulting not to do so. We were, of course, most of the time, in our favorite navy blue dress uniforms. But we got the attention even in our seersucker dresses.
One afternoon a career Navy man, about 40 years old, showed up in our office. He was a patient who had got into occupational therapy in a big way. He did macramé from used parachutes and came over to teach it to us. All of us staff personnel learned it, but it never really appealed to me. I never made anything in that craft except whatever I made in those few days he dropped in. Joe, I think we called him, kept referring to me as “nice people.” I never knew what he meant by that, for we were all nice girls. Anyway, one day he arrived with another patient, Tim, Petty Officer, First Class, to introduce to me, as I later learned. Tim got to showing up every day when I had the duty. We knew not to ask how a man got wounded in the war, but if a guy talked about it, we listened. I never met one who talked about it. It was too fresh, I suppose. Since Tim was not supposed to leave the base at this point, we had our dates while sitting outside on the concrete steps and walking about the compound. At night he was in the hospital. Finally he was about well enough to go back to sea and would be leaving the base soon to do so. He asked me to go to dinner with him in San Francisco before that time. Anyone who knows San Francisco is well acquainted with fog and I warned Tim my hair would get straight on the other side of the bay, but he said he didn’t mind. But I did! Nevertheless, we went by cab, with my curls holding up through that, and to an elegant restaurant, where I ate my very first caviar. After we had ordered, he looked at my hair and said, “It did, didn’t it?” I felt terrible, but at least, it was blonde and perhaps not so noticeable across the room. Girls, this was before hair spray and I have very fine hair. It must have been time for a new perm, but I’d been too busy to get one and had no idea he was going to ask me to go into that murky fog. After dining on a wonderful meal, we took a boat ride and I still got in by curfew at midnight. A few days later, he called me to ask if I would come to see him off. I did, a walk of a few blocks, I’d guess. The bus was already loaded with the sailors’ duffle bags, and it seemed to be waiting for Tim’s girl to show up to say goodbye. Several sailors watched me as I came in sight and walked still farther to meet Tim. I wondered what Tim might have told them about me, for they were all eyes. I had the feeling he told them I was “nice people.” But it was a definite goodbye. I knew he was not for me.
A curious aspect of this acquaintance was that Tim hoped one day to be a police detective in Los Angeles and here I am writing fiction about such things. Another curious aspect is that the way I met Tim was similar to the way I met the man I eventually married, and they had much in common.
♥
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Books in the Barracks
Before I describe Oak Knoll here, let me tell you about that library in my office at the Oakland Wave Barracks. No one checked out a book, nor did I have time or inclination to take a look at them. (Wartime books had no colorful dust jackets.) But when we were closing down the barracks, the officers told us the books were ours. Because I love books and reading, I was interested but it seemed no one else was. So I shipped home a large box of them. That box wasn’t opened till I had been home for several months. Finally the day came. I began reading one of the smaller books Citizen Tom Paine by Howard Fast. I read one page, and then I started over and read that page again. Something was terribly wrong. The tone of the book was clash, clash, clash. Fast was supposed to be writing about an American patriot, but he did so with an ulterior motive. I got through the story, began the second book, found the same sort of propaganda, and began spending time at the Carnegie Public Library, looking up the authors of all these books. (It was before the days of the Internet, or even computers.) All the authors of the books were or had been Communists, or well-known Communist sympathizers. Next, I looked up the organizations that had donated these books to the WAVES. That information was stamped on the books. Most were from one group which, I learned, was on the Government’s list of subversive organizations. I ordered the list from the Government Printing Office in Washington, D. C. You may be surprised to learn that while the publication was about 5/8 of an inch thick, the subversive organizations it listed as being on the LEFT filled the entire list, except for less than one page of various Klans in the South.
All this effort and study convinced me organizations were/are out there doing their best to brainwash military personnel into becoming anti-Americans. Add to that little library of about one hundred books in my office at the barracks, the seven other libraries in those buildings there, and think of all the damage possible at that place at that time. And then think of the other opportunities: every military base everywhere. It pays to be sure one is a patriotic American before signing up for the military. Thank the good Lord, we continue to hear of numerous American heroes, gallant patriotic Americans in uniform.
♥
Before I describe Oak Knoll here, let me tell you about that library in my office at the Oakland Wave Barracks. No one checked out a book, nor did I have time or inclination to take a look at them. (Wartime books had no colorful dust jackets.) But when we were closing down the barracks, the officers told us the books were ours. Because I love books and reading, I was interested but it seemed no one else was. So I shipped home a large box of them. That box wasn’t opened till I had been home for several months. Finally the day came. I began reading one of the smaller books Citizen Tom Paine by Howard Fast. I read one page, and then I started over and read that page again. Something was terribly wrong. The tone of the book was clash, clash, clash. Fast was supposed to be writing about an American patriot, but he did so with an ulterior motive. I got through the story, began the second book, found the same sort of propaganda, and began spending time at the Carnegie Public Library, looking up the authors of all these books. (It was before the days of the Internet, or even computers.) All the authors of the books were or had been Communists, or well-known Communist sympathizers. Next, I looked up the organizations that had donated these books to the WAVES. That information was stamped on the books. Most were from one group which, I learned, was on the Government’s list of subversive organizations. I ordered the list from the Government Printing Office in Washington, D. C. You may be surprised to learn that while the publication was about 5/8 of an inch thick, the subversive organizations it listed as being on the LEFT filled the entire list, except for less than one page of various Klans in the South.
All this effort and study convinced me organizations were/are out there doing their best to brainwash military personnel into becoming anti-Americans. Add to that little library of about one hundred books in my office at the barracks, the seven other libraries in those buildings there, and think of all the damage possible at that place at that time. And then think of the other opportunities: every military base everywhere. It pays to be sure one is a patriotic American before signing up for the military. Thank the good Lord, we continue to hear of numerous American heroes, gallant patriotic Americans in uniform.
♥
Saturday, June 5, 2010
More of the Story
My position at the Wave barracks required being a blend of house mother for a sorority or in a dorm, fire warden, sleuth, and confidant and counselor. Duties included sorting my building’s mail, to be picked up when the Navy buses returned the girls; receiving and dispensing notices from the main building; posting the order for Uniform of the Day (determined by weather); checking the cubicles on the day shift to ascertain residents left all areas neat with no personal possessions in sight; making routine walks through the entire Building 1 to check for fire (every hour on the night shift); reporting any signs of lesbianism (never came across any); reporting every girl “in” by curfew to the main building; accompanying (with a clipboard) any officer who arrived to do a surprise inspection, as well as announced ones; checking out girls going on liberty and checking them in when they returned; checking out library books but I never checked one out, a good thing (more about that later); keeping awake on the night shift; supervising fire drills; and making sure girls stayed “in uniform.” The latter meant buttons were buttoned, no extra belt added, ties tied correctly, etc. No problem in that respect. The girls liked their uniforms too well to mess them up by breaking the rules. One important task was checking out girls who were being discharged from the Navy and heading home. Our little “base” was getting smaller and smaller. I must have forgotten a dozen more duties, for I stayed busy.
On weekends, we three Masters-at-Arms had a change in schedule. Two of us did all the duties with twelve-hour shifts, while one had the whole weekend free. So, every three weeks I had weekend liberty. I did my shopping, went sightseeing, and found a church of my denomination. It was a small church, not big like St. Pat’s in New York, but it was a small town, not big like New York. I rode a bus to get there, but never rode a bus back to barracks, at least alone. The people at that church were so friendly, they invited me to their house for Sunday dinner, after which they brought me home. Sometimes I stayed with them all afternoon and someone brought me home after evening service. One sailor attended that church, and so long as we were only one Navy man and only one Navy woman in the congregation, we naturally gravitated toward each other. He was a nice young man and we ended up sitting together in church whenever I had weekend liberty. Sailors didn’t have cars in those days, or even now, I suppose, and Bob brought me home by bus, right to the gate in the fence around the barracks’ compound, with a guard on duty. I don’t remember Bob’s last name.
When I had the night shift, I first picked up from the main building a boxed meal for the middle of the night. This was always a meat sandwich, chips and fresh fruit. It seems it also contained a carton of milk, but I don’t recall a refrigerator in our building. The fire check walk-through, with a flashlight in my hand, and making sure my girls were all safely tucked in, was the main real duty at night. Staying awake in the office took real effort. I had three remedies: eating the boxed goodies, embroidering, and talking on the telephone with a guy who was trying to stay awake at another naval post. These worked. We had a radio but that could put me to sleep.
Shortly before Christmas, Sears in Nashville sent me a generous supply of “play money” that I could use at any Sears store. I bought presents for all my family and mailed them home.
The Oakland Wave Barracks finally closed for good and I transferred to Oak Knoll Naval Hospital in Oakland, where a Country Club and golf course formerly existed, but which closed during the Great Depression. I was about to begin the most exciting stretch of my naval experience.
♥
My position at the Wave barracks required being a blend of house mother for a sorority or in a dorm, fire warden, sleuth, and confidant and counselor. Duties included sorting my building’s mail, to be picked up when the Navy buses returned the girls; receiving and dispensing notices from the main building; posting the order for Uniform of the Day (determined by weather); checking the cubicles on the day shift to ascertain residents left all areas neat with no personal possessions in sight; making routine walks through the entire Building 1 to check for fire (every hour on the night shift); reporting any signs of lesbianism (never came across any); reporting every girl “in” by curfew to the main building; accompanying (with a clipboard) any officer who arrived to do a surprise inspection, as well as announced ones; checking out girls going on liberty and checking them in when they returned; checking out library books but I never checked one out, a good thing (more about that later); keeping awake on the night shift; supervising fire drills; and making sure girls stayed “in uniform.” The latter meant buttons were buttoned, no extra belt added, ties tied correctly, etc. No problem in that respect. The girls liked their uniforms too well to mess them up by breaking the rules. One important task was checking out girls who were being discharged from the Navy and heading home. Our little “base” was getting smaller and smaller. I must have forgotten a dozen more duties, for I stayed busy.
On weekends, we three Masters-at-Arms had a change in schedule. Two of us did all the duties with twelve-hour shifts, while one had the whole weekend free. So, every three weeks I had weekend liberty. I did my shopping, went sightseeing, and found a church of my denomination. It was a small church, not big like St. Pat’s in New York, but it was a small town, not big like New York. I rode a bus to get there, but never rode a bus back to barracks, at least alone. The people at that church were so friendly, they invited me to their house for Sunday dinner, after which they brought me home. Sometimes I stayed with them all afternoon and someone brought me home after evening service. One sailor attended that church, and so long as we were only one Navy man and only one Navy woman in the congregation, we naturally gravitated toward each other. He was a nice young man and we ended up sitting together in church whenever I had weekend liberty. Sailors didn’t have cars in those days, or even now, I suppose, and Bob brought me home by bus, right to the gate in the fence around the barracks’ compound, with a guard on duty. I don’t remember Bob’s last name.
When I had the night shift, I first picked up from the main building a boxed meal for the middle of the night. This was always a meat sandwich, chips and fresh fruit. It seems it also contained a carton of milk, but I don’t recall a refrigerator in our building. The fire check walk-through, with a flashlight in my hand, and making sure my girls were all safely tucked in, was the main real duty at night. Staying awake in the office took real effort. I had three remedies: eating the boxed goodies, embroidering, and talking on the telephone with a guy who was trying to stay awake at another naval post. These worked. We had a radio but that could put me to sleep.
Shortly before Christmas, Sears in Nashville sent me a generous supply of “play money” that I could use at any Sears store. I bought presents for all my family and mailed them home.
The Oakland Wave Barracks finally closed for good and I transferred to Oak Knoll Naval Hospital in Oakland, where a Country Club and golf course formerly existed, but which closed during the Great Depression. I was about to begin the most exciting stretch of my naval experience.
♥
Friday, June 4, 2010
Life at the Oakland WAVE Barracks
From the train, some of us were transported by bus to the Oakland WAVE Barracks, consisting of a main building containing officers’ quarters, offices, and our dining hall, with, presumably, a kitchen, and four long buildings of quarters for the non-officers. Each long building was divided in half and numbered something like 1-A and 1-B, on through 4-A and 4-B. On each side of the long central hall were cubicles, containing four bunks, two desk/tables with a mirror above them, two chairs (I think), and two large built-in cupboards, each divided into halves, one half for each girl. In these well designed closets we hung our uniforms and stored anything else we had in the several drawers and on shelves. This, of course, is where we kept our purses at night and anytime we were away without them. These units had combination locks.
The compound was surrounded by a strong fence─not to keep us in, but to keep others out─with one gate and a guard around the clock. He was our protector and our friend but was not allowed to be chatty with us. That was good.
The WAVES whom I supervised here, for eight hours a day or night, went to work daily by bus to places where they worked at repairing ships, painting them, or whatever work they needed, or the same on Navy planes. Each one of them doing that sort of work released a man to go to sea to fight the war.
Except the war was now over, remember? We’d celebrated that in August in New York. But some work needed to continue. WAVES were getting out of service and heading home, though, and when I got there, these barracks were already ¾ vacated. Only Building 1 was still operating. I was called a Master-at-Arms─alarming sounding, isn’t it?─and I had an office shared by two other WAVES who manned the other shifts. Yeah, they manned them. They didn’t woman them. At the beginning I quartered in one of those cubicles with Frieda Novak, Juanita Salazar, and a tall girl whose name I do not recall at the moment. They put on work pants and tops and got on a bus and went to work. I, wearing a skirted uniform, walked down the hall to my office. Soon another Master-at-Arms was discharged and I moved into a room, all by myself, hearing right away, some had no idea the room could be so neat!
This is getting too long. To be continued.
♥
From the train, some of us were transported by bus to the Oakland WAVE Barracks, consisting of a main building containing officers’ quarters, offices, and our dining hall, with, presumably, a kitchen, and four long buildings of quarters for the non-officers. Each long building was divided in half and numbered something like 1-A and 1-B, on through 4-A and 4-B. On each side of the long central hall were cubicles, containing four bunks, two desk/tables with a mirror above them, two chairs (I think), and two large built-in cupboards, each divided into halves, one half for each girl. In these well designed closets we hung our uniforms and stored anything else we had in the several drawers and on shelves. This, of course, is where we kept our purses at night and anytime we were away without them. These units had combination locks.
The compound was surrounded by a strong fence─not to keep us in, but to keep others out─with one gate and a guard around the clock. He was our protector and our friend but was not allowed to be chatty with us. That was good.
The WAVES whom I supervised here, for eight hours a day or night, went to work daily by bus to places where they worked at repairing ships, painting them, or whatever work they needed, or the same on Navy planes. Each one of them doing that sort of work released a man to go to sea to fight the war.
Except the war was now over, remember? We’d celebrated that in August in New York. But some work needed to continue. WAVES were getting out of service and heading home, though, and when I got there, these barracks were already ¾ vacated. Only Building 1 was still operating. I was called a Master-at-Arms─alarming sounding, isn’t it?─and I had an office shared by two other WAVES who manned the other shifts. Yeah, they manned them. They didn’t woman them. At the beginning I quartered in one of those cubicles with Frieda Novak, Juanita Salazar, and a tall girl whose name I do not recall at the moment. They put on work pants and tops and got on a bus and went to work. I, wearing a skirted uniform, walked down the hall to my office. Soon another Master-at-Arms was discharged and I moved into a room, all by myself, hearing right away, some had no idea the room could be so neat!
This is getting too long. To be continued.
♥
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Anchors Aweigh Again
Let’s get back on the train and continue the journey westward in my Navy days. Or maybe we hadn’t actually got on the train, when I left off writing about it. We were leaving New York, headed for Chicago, en route to California, two Pullman train cars of Waves just out of Boot, in the charge of a few of us who had just graduated from Specialist (S) school supervising them, and with one Chief Petty Officer responsible for all. Everyone was so well behaved and excited about going to California that I don’t think that Petty Officer even had to get out of her seat to supervise anything.
In Chicago we left the train, spent some time at the YWCA, where we had showers. We ate a meal somewhere, but I don’t recall where. After eight hours in the Windy City▬and it lived up to its nickname▬we boarded the train again and went on our way. With one girl missing!
The train left without her. I thought it was perhaps a planned desertion, for it was so foolish not to stick with the group when “ashore.” However, she managed to catch up on another train and rejoined us at some scheduled stop. I don’t recall any more of that story, if I ever knew anything more, and never saw her again after reaching our destination. But what a risk to take.
We had an interesting stop at Albuquerque, where some American Indians met the train with their displays of turquoise and silver jewelry spread out on canvas or blankets. Some girls bought pieces of it, but we could not wear jewelry with our uniforms. Or perfume, for that matter. After about thirty minutes, we boarded the train once more.
Our next stop was at Barstow, California, where the two cars separated. One headed farther south to San Diego, and mine went north to Oakland, across the bay from San Francisco. To be continued.
♥
Let’s get back on the train and continue the journey westward in my Navy days. Or maybe we hadn’t actually got on the train, when I left off writing about it. We were leaving New York, headed for Chicago, en route to California, two Pullman train cars of Waves just out of Boot, in the charge of a few of us who had just graduated from Specialist (S) school supervising them, and with one Chief Petty Officer responsible for all. Everyone was so well behaved and excited about going to California that I don’t think that Petty Officer even had to get out of her seat to supervise anything.
In Chicago we left the train, spent some time at the YWCA, where we had showers. We ate a meal somewhere, but I don’t recall where. After eight hours in the Windy City▬and it lived up to its nickname▬we boarded the train again and went on our way. With one girl missing!
The train left without her. I thought it was perhaps a planned desertion, for it was so foolish not to stick with the group when “ashore.” However, she managed to catch up on another train and rejoined us at some scheduled stop. I don’t recall any more of that story, if I ever knew anything more, and never saw her again after reaching our destination. But what a risk to take.
We had an interesting stop at Albuquerque, where some American Indians met the train with their displays of turquoise and silver jewelry spread out on canvas or blankets. Some girls bought pieces of it, but we could not wear jewelry with our uniforms. Or perfume, for that matter. After about thirty minutes, we boarded the train once more.
Our next stop was at Barstow, California, where the two cars separated. One headed farther south to San Diego, and mine went north to Oakland, across the bay from San Francisco. To be continued.
♥
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
“Unto the Least of These”
The other day, when I was listing the travels of my children and grandchildren, I forgot one important trip. (I think that’s the only one I forgot.) But Rob and Melissa had a week or two in a Latin American country for their church, helping the group build a church, or something like that. Melissa, I think, worked in the food department. The secret for the success of such an endeavor is organization. With good planning, much can be accomplished in a week. I was and am very proud of this grandson and his wife for taking part in this program.
Many churches engage in this type of activity and other groups too. One of the most remarkable, in my opinion, is Samaritan’s Purse, headed by Franklin Graham. It goes where disasters strike, supplying sleeping tents, blankets, little cooking stoves, drinking water, and the like, as well as clothing and food. But in the process, Graham says one of their chief concerns is to show love for the disaster victims, especially the love of God for each individual in every country. I believe Samaritan’s Purse is now connected with the American Bible Society, an old organization which some of our founding fathers had a hand in establishing. ABS has Bibles printed in as many languages as possible, depending on funds available.
Another group doing similar work is Medical Teams International, based in Portland, Oregon. And that reminds me of an additional traveler in the family, though distant. A nephew-in-law of my late husband, Dr. Ken Magee, has made several trips to other countries with a medical team, to Iraq, to Afghanistan twice, I believe, and to one in Africa, a village at the edge of the jungle. He writes about this work in his retirement. He probably never heard of a blog in those days (most of us hadn’t, or perhaps none had), but a blog would have been idealif one had the energy after doing the work one wrote about. Dr. Ken now does hospice work. I am also proud of this family member and his wife Jo.
I recommend the three charities mentioned here. They will spend your donations wisely.
♥
The other day, when I was listing the travels of my children and grandchildren, I forgot one important trip. (I think that’s the only one I forgot.) But Rob and Melissa had a week or two in a Latin American country for their church, helping the group build a church, or something like that. Melissa, I think, worked in the food department. The secret for the success of such an endeavor is organization. With good planning, much can be accomplished in a week. I was and am very proud of this grandson and his wife for taking part in this program.
Many churches engage in this type of activity and other groups too. One of the most remarkable, in my opinion, is Samaritan’s Purse, headed by Franklin Graham. It goes where disasters strike, supplying sleeping tents, blankets, little cooking stoves, drinking water, and the like, as well as clothing and food. But in the process, Graham says one of their chief concerns is to show love for the disaster victims, especially the love of God for each individual in every country. I believe Samaritan’s Purse is now connected with the American Bible Society, an old organization which some of our founding fathers had a hand in establishing. ABS has Bibles printed in as many languages as possible, depending on funds available.
Another group doing similar work is Medical Teams International, based in Portland, Oregon. And that reminds me of an additional traveler in the family, though distant. A nephew-in-law of my late husband, Dr. Ken Magee, has made several trips to other countries with a medical team, to Iraq, to Afghanistan twice, I believe, and to one in Africa, a village at the edge of the jungle. He writes about this work in his retirement. He probably never heard of a blog in those days (most of us hadn’t, or perhaps none had), but a blog would have been idealif one had the energy after doing the work one wrote about. Dr. Ken now does hospice work. I am also proud of this family member and his wife Jo.
I recommend the three charities mentioned here. They will spend your donations wisely.
♥
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