Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Snow angel

Peggy’s Prompt—snow angel—45 minutes—011211




I never heard of snow angels until I was grown. We didn’t make snow angels in South Florida. We didn’t have snow. Ever. We did have sand, and salt spray, and seashells, and sandspurs, but they never showed up on the Metropolitan Reading Readiness Test. The Metropolitan Reading tests were widely used to see if children were “at reading level”, and the Reading Readiness test was usually given to kindergarteners to see if they were “ready” to learn to read. Since there were no free kindergartens in south Florida in the 1940’s, I didn’t go to kindergarten, and thus was spared the Metropolitan Reading Readiness test. But it I had taken it, I would have flunked, and perhaps been made to repeat kindergarten. Even though I had been reading since I was four years old. All because I wouldn’t have recognized half of the drawings of common, everyday things that the children taking the test had to identify (say the name of to the teacher.) I didn’t know about sleds, or snowmen, or snow angels, or icicles, or even mittens. I certainly didn’t own any boots or have a snowsuit or winter jacket. No truck came down our street shoving snow to the side of the road. And although my grandparents did have a fireplace, it had been replaced as a heating source by a large kerosene stove.



It never occurred to me how handicapped I was for learning to read. But, years after doing that very thing, I went to work as the Research Coordinator for Florida A & M University Laboratory School. FAMU is an historically black institution, as they are now called, and so all the children in the Laboratory School were African-American, as they are now called. Because of my research obligations, I took a look at what data were already gathered on these children, to see what I could see. Well, lo and behold, there were data on reading ability for a number of children for all 12 years of schooling. And wouldn’t you know, it turned out that kindergarteners at FAMU’s Lab School were seriously not ready to read, according to their scores on the Metropolitan Reading Readiness Test. But somehow, all of them did learn to read, as evidenced by their reading scores in subsequent years. No one had ever questioned this paradox. I guess they thought their kindergarten teacher was a genius, getting all those un-ready children to read in their year with her. But I was intrigued. How could a whole batch of non-ready children suddenly become readers, despite their unequivocal reading readiness scores. It didn’t take more than a cursory review of the MRRT itself to find the answer. All those “common everyday” items on the test, such as sleds, mittens, snow angels, that none of these children had ever seen, except maybe on TV.



From that moment on, I was a big believer in the effects of “culture” on standardized test scores. And grateful that public kindergarten and the Metropolitan Reading Readiness Test had never been a part of my life.

Imagine yourself hovering...

Peggy’s prompt—imagine yourself hovering—35 minutes—011811




Just imagine yourself hovering over a scene from your childhood---perhaps your family at the dinner table. Who do you see most clearly? Yourself, or someone else? In my case, I can hardly see myself at all. I see, first of all, my Daddy, who sat next to me on the long side of the table, where I sat at the foot of the table. Then I see my Mama, sitting across from me at the head of the table. Then, comes into view my sister Mary, sitting next to Daddy, and catty-corner to Mama. It sounds spread out, but really it was very close quarters, as one side of the table was pushed up next to the wall under the kitchen window. I remember a lot about those supper times, but not so much about any one in particular.

I remember that my Mama and Daddy usually did most of the talking, when there was talking. Sometimes we ate in virtual silence, if Mama was mad at Daddy, usually for staying out late drinking with his buddies. But most of my memories involve talking. Daddy would reminisce a lot about when he was a kid growing up in pioneer times in Fort Pierce, Florida. Mama would tell about her childhood on various farms, and about her grandmother (Grandma Minnie) and the summer visits they made to her house. I heard so many stories, sometimes repeated many times over the years, about Frank Parks, the iceman, and Theo Davis, a fisherman, and Terrell Hayes, a fisherman Daddy admired mightily, and Aida Wooley, an Italian woman who married my father’s cousin, and Heavy Root, who was somebody—I forget who. And the relatives, Uncle Berry, Pa’s brother, and Aunt Lee, Grandmother Roberts’ sister, and Uncle Olin and Aunt Bonnie, Grandmother Hunter’s brother and sister. And my mother’s sisters Martha and Betty, and her brother William and his wife Olive, who was red-haired until she was about 80 (when she suddenly became white-haired) and was older than William. And my father’s seven brothers and sisters, whom my mother would list in order—Joe (my father), Bob, Lorena, Libby, Mabel, Hazel, Curtis, and Lloyd. And Daddy would mention Johnny Johanson, who was Scandinavian, along with several other local fisherman. How they got from Scandinavia to south Florida I never heard. And Marcelle, a French woman who married an American GI during WWII in order to get to the USA, and then divorced him and married my father’s friend John Stenroos. She owned a restaurant near the Indian River when I was a girl. And Mr. and Mrs. Simonsen, who were from Michigan or Minnesota, and who went back home every summer and brought back canned fish from the Great Lakes that they shared with my folks. The Simonsens owned a restaurant next door to the fish house that my father was a member of during my childhood years, and they used to buy pompano and kingfish from my father when he caught them.

My mother would talk about the Longs, Sammy and Elizabeth. He was a farmer who had struck it big several times in his life, followed by bankruptcy, His daughter Alberta was married to Dick Innis, and the two of them were perhaps my parents’ best out-of-town friends. They used to come visit us every year or so, and go charter fishing and bring the fish and shrimp and oysters home for my mother to cook. They were much more outrageous than my folks, and swore a lot, and told off-color jokes (which my sister and I could never hear the punch line to, as they always lowered their voices to say the last line.)

I have really good memories of those dinner times. I probably would have hardly known my father  at all if we hadn’t had those sit-down suppers every night. Not all of them were memorable, or even pleasant, but the overall effect on me was awareness of my father and his family and background, and wonder at his interaction with my mother. I’m glad I didn’t miss out on those family suppers, and that I can go back in my mind and hover over that table again anytime I want to.

Shake well and...

Peggy’s Prompt—shake well and…… 45 minutes—011111




Forty-five minutes? For “shake well and….”? Which sounds, at least at first, like the beginning (or maybe the ending) of a recipe for a mixed drink. Or a smoothie, the new “mixed drink.” I’m not a big fan of pureed stuff, except maybe for chocolate milkshakes. I like a little texture to my food. I like to CHEW. In fact, I will chew whether the mouthful needs it or not. I’m like a puppy. I need to get my chew quotient in each day or I’m not happy. Give me some crunchy crackers, some baby carrots, some honey roasted peanuts, and I’m happy. Give me something that you have shaken well and poured, and I’m not as happy.



Also that sounds like a line from a James Bond movie. “Shaken, not stirred..” All to show a precious kind of taste—good taste, excellent taste, exquisite taste. A little pretentious to suit me.



I have some friends for whom going out to eat is a specialized ritual. Extra napkins, please. Dressing on the side. Please, no ice. Can I substitute A for B? Could I please have HOT syrup, not what’s already on the table? Do you have real cream? Real butter? I’m going to need a doggy bag, please. Could you bring it when I’m served my meal? After a while, it gets a little embarrassing. Not that any particular request is so unreasonable, it’s just that there are so many. Then there’s the wiping off of the utensils. The placing of the napkin at the throat. The inspection of the rim of the water glass. The careful squeezing of the lemon into the water, then NOT dropping the squeezed lemon into the water.



How do you decide how much is enough? On the one hand, there are the people who don’t wash their hands after using the bathroom. Ewww. On the other hand, there are those who cover the toilet seat with paper, who turn on the water (if it doesn’t come on automatically) with a paper towel, who use lots of soap from the dispenser, and who open the restroom door with the paper towel they used to dry their hands before tossing it (the paper towel) into the trash can on the way out, careful never to touch the door with their hands.



Herb Zim, who wrote a slew of children’s science books in the 60’s (The Little Golden Book of…..Shells/Seeds/Snakes, etc.) once said that Americans destroy their first line of defense against “germs” by washing their hands (and the rest of their bodies) all the time with germicidal soap. He claimed that the “good microbes” that live on the skin are an army against foreign invader bad microbes, and that we constantly kill them off (the good microbes) by our incessant hand washing. There is, however, a lot of evidence that hands play a big role in the spread of many infectious diseases—the common cold, for one. So what’s a person to do?



Well this is nowhere near 45 minutes, and has little to do with “shake well and….”, but it did remind me, once again, that moderation is probably the best route in all things. Thank you, Plato.

I know a lot about...

Peggy’s prompt—I know a lot about---081210---15 minutes




Hmm. I know a lot about…. Actually, more accurately, I know a little bit about a lot of things. It used to worry me that I was never going to be the world’s expert on anything in particular, but then in college I realized that “Renaissance man” (or woman in my case) could be a compliment, not a slur, as the word “dilettante” often seems to be.



But, giving it some thought, maybe I could lay claim to considerable knowledge to a few things--about breast cancer, about problem-based learning, about the physical and psychological effects of stress, about bankruptcy, and collection agencies and popular songs of the late 50’s, and how the various cars and models of cars looked in the 50’s, and red ’64 Volkswagen Beetles, and sight-reading piano music, and FORTRAN computer programming (now there’s a useless clutter of knowledge in my brain) and where most of the people I went to graduate school with are now, I know a lot about how to get around by roads in Asheville, in Fort Pierce, Florida, in Galveston TX. I’m pretty good at geography of where the states of the USA are relative to one another. I’m pretty clear on European country placement. I falter, though, in eastern Europe, Asia, South America, and Africa, except for the few places where I know people.



I know the first line to a million songs. I know at least one verse of most of the Christmas carols. I can play almost any hymn on the piano.



I can make chicken/vegetable soup, tossed salad, Waldorf salad, spaghetti sauce, banana pudding, Tollhouse cookies and a very few other dishes without a recipe. Not saying much for almost fifty years of cooking (or preparing meals, which isn’t necessarily the same thing.)



I used to know the books of the Bible in order, and I can still say the alphabet in English, Dutch, and Spanish. (most of the time.)



I know all the teachers I had in elementary school, but not the names of all my cousins. I can sing the FSU Fight song and its Alma Mater. (and the Start-Spangled Banner.) And most of the Stephen Foster songs.



I have a pretty good grasp on the gross anatomy of the human body, at least in terms of whole organs and where they are. I know most of the psycho-babble buzz words. I know my Pa and Grandmother’s old phone number (602-W). I know the address of most of the places I’ve lived, except for the house in League City, but that’s understandable. I know how many centimeters in an inch (2.54) and whoops, I’ve run out of my 15 minute time limit. Quite a hodge-podge of things I know. Well, I did say I was a dilettante.

Where I will go

Peggy’s prompt—where I will go---15 min-- Feb. 1, 2010






Where I will go….where I will go….where I will go….where I will go…where I will go….whither thou goest, I will go….I would go to the ends of the earth for you….where will I go?....I will go where? ….I go where will? This is not leading me anywhere. Maybe I’m not going anywhere. Maybe I’m just here, in the now. No future. No expectations. No wishes. No desires. Just what is here and now. Is that enough? Well, it’s something. It’s better than living in the past, or waiting for the future. But Now is not quite enough for me. I need a little bit of What’s Ahead. Something to plan for. Something to anticipate. Something to contemplate.



For years I lived in the past and the future, ignoring the now. Now I live mostly in the now and pay much less attention to the future and the past. Is this good? I guess the answer lies in whether I’m happier, less stressed, more at peace. Well, I’m definitely more at peace, less stressed, and, at times, happier.



Yesterday the two little boys two houses down the street came to my next-door neighbor’s house to sled down her nicely sloping front yard. They had such a good time, and the dad took his turns, and even the very overweight mom. They clearly were reveling in the rare winter pastime. And for once, I was happy to see someone else having fun. I conjured up memories of Jonathan (and I) playing in the snowing, sledding down the steep hill. And I was so grateful for warm and joyous memories of Jonathan as a child. My memories and my (observation) of the kids at play warmed my heart.

Why she is here

Peggy’s prompt—why she is here—10 minutes—090310




Why she is here no one seems to know. She came in with a crowd of people but I don’t think she was with them. She doesn’t seem to have spoken to anybody, except maybe the family. I didn’t see that. It’s not so odd to have an unknown person at a funeral, but she’s a little odder than most. Her hat, for instance. Nobody else is wearing a hat, but she’s got on one of those 40’s felt hats with a short veil. Navy blue it looks like. And she’s paired it with very high open-toe, sling-back heels. Also navy I’d say. And an old-lady navy purse with a gold clasp, big, really huge, clunky gold earrings, a gold link bracelet and a gold ring on her pinky with what has to be a fake ruby as big as a Bing cherry. All to set off her outfit—a long beige skirt with a slit up to you-know-where, a red, red long-sleeved peasant blouse that is nearly off-the-shoulder. What a get-up. And the hair. Long, blondish, frizzy. I haven’t gotten a look at her face. From the back she could be anywhere between 18 and 80. I hope not 80. I’m always so embarrassed for older women who try to dress like teenagers. Although there’s no teenager alive today who’d wear what she’s got on. So I wonder. What is she here? How did she know Milton? Maybe she’s a not-talked-about family member—a wayward niece or an ex-wife of somebody’s. Oh, no. She’s turned around and looking right at me. Uh-oh, now she’s smiling and waving at me. And here she comes. Well, I’ll be doggoned. If it isn’t Minnie Lamberth. I thought she’d never show her face in this town again, after what happened. What a nerve. And she thinks I’m going to speak to her, I guess. Well, OK, here goes.



“Hello, Minnie. What brings you back to town?”