The View from Here

Homes, Sweet Homes...

Over the past few years I’ve downsized my vast collection of photo albums. I had some of those old ones with the sticky pages and some with newer clear sheet protectors. All of them were bulky and rather useless since no one sat around looking at them anymore. There were only about half a dozen that I left intact. The others were disassembled. When we first moved from the country to town I took photos out of the albums, scanned them, and then stored the originals in photo boxes. I shared the digital copies with family and friends, stored some on CD and later on flash drive, and made printed albums of some of them. Shutterfly is wonderful!

This week I noticed that one album had been overlooked. It was tucked between some albums of historic photos that I keep for one of our community groups. Most of the photos in the album were of homes where I’ve lived. As you might recall, I’ve moved 51 times, so I could fill a few albums if my parents had been diligent about taking photos of my childhood homes. However, that was seldom their focus of attention. It was only after I married and we bought our first house that I began to take photos of our homes.

So…yesterday I had a great stroll down memory lane. I not only disassembled that album, but reorganized my digital album and filled in some of the gaps with the photos. There are a few I will share with family. I’m also going to load an album to Family Ties. Just a joy to see some of these sweet old homes and relive our experiences there.

Finally...

For weeks I have bemoaned the fact that I haven’t taken any “good bird pictures”. Dreary weather, strong winds, dirty window, busy schedule, distractions…fill in the excuses. I’ve enjoyed watching the birds from time to time and taken a few quick shots, but none were really satisfying. Yesterday the sun was shining, the winds were calm, and it was warm enough for me to stay outside. I stood at the corner of the patio until the birds were either unaware of or unconcerned with my presence. I also experimented with both of our cameras. I’m satisfied with the results…

The More Things Change...

Oklahoma supporters of Senate Bill 441 are hoping to return all students in the state to a five-day school week unless districts can provide sufficient justification for maintaining a shorter schedule. Currently there are 208 schools in 92 districts that are teaching four days a week…mostly due to budget concerns.

As I read the pros and cons of each schedule I can’t help thinking that we never solve the problem- THE REAL PROBLEM- that created this controversy in the first place, is the basis of nearly every educational “controversy” in the state’s history and that will undoubtedly confront us in the future.

The problem is MONEY, or lack of it. Always has been, and always will be as long as education remains at the bottom of our list of priorities.

I can show you our sad history from our own local archives:

 

August 30, 1901

Remember that the free school begins Monday…It behooves every parent now to see that their children are properly enrolled and kept in school this session.

 

February 28, 1902

The Caddo public schools closed last Thursday on account of the money giving out…

 

February 17, 1911

As the seating capacity of the primary department of the Caddo Public School is too limited to accommodate the large number in regular attendance, we are compelled to divide the work by daily alternating the attendance of each pupil. While we prefer the half-day sessions, yet there are some thirty pupils who come from the country accompanied by older brothers and sisters, we do not feel disposed to compel the little fellows to go to and from school alone. E. O. Shaw, superintendent

 

                I could give you examples of budget problems from almost any year. This is from a local school in 1935: “We have started Oklahoma History, but we haven’t enough readers to start reading.” Sadly, I doubt that you need my examples because you have plenty of your own. Lack of supplies, inadequate buildings, teacher shortages…

                I’m not a great accountant. Math is not my forte. I studied school finance in college, but I can’t recall a lot about those classes. When I attempt to understand how we got into this mess I get dizzy. However, some questions continue to haunt me and I wish someone would provide the answers for me.

In a country where giant sports stadiums astound fans with their innovative technology, why do we still have schools that are safety hazards for our children?

Why do we spend millions and millions of dollars several times a year praising and rewarding entertainers who are already earning millions and millions of dollars doing their job? Why don’t we spend some of that money praising and rewarding our children? We could reward them with better classrooms, more supplies, and greater safety.

Why are parents willing to pay extra money for sports equipment, dance lessons, art classes, “show” livestock, video games, etc. but say “no” to bond issues for school improvements?

Why are students punished because of where they live? There is such disparity between school districts!  Many children who live in poverty also go to schools that barely have enough money to keep their doors open. Schools on the “other side of town” often have the money for extra-curricular luxuries like swimming pools. (I know…property taxes. Let’s devise a new system.)

Why is education usually the last item considered on the state budget? Promises are made…seldom kept.

I’m anxious to see how this debate over the difference of a “day” turns out.

In The Middle of the Night...

Those of you who have been reading my words for a few years will recall that when we lived in the country we often had visitors who came during the night for a snack. Their presence was hardly surprising- after all we lived out in the middle of nowhere on a hill overlooking a pond. Creatures and critters were everywhere, even though we didn’t always see them. Those that visited the house provided us with many hours of entertainment and we enjoyed feeding them. Those that visited at night were an extra treat. We especially enjoyed the raccoon family.

When we moved to town I never expected to duplicate that situation or experience. Sure, we expected to have birds. We knew there were squirrels. However, our more recent visitors have been a bit of a surprise. I guess I just didn’t consider the facts: God relocated us to a street with neighbors directly across from our mailbox, but the back yard is at the edge of a pasture and on the other side of that pasture is a pond. We are technically “in town” and five minutes from Walmart, but we are still in the country. God is good. He knows this old country woman needs her critters. It just took me a while to realize that He had been so generous.

I first became suspicious when a couple of items on the patio were out of place. I thought the wind had knocked them over. Then I was somewhat sure that I saw raccoon scat in the yard. Then other clues added up to only one conclusion…nighttime visitors. So one night when I awoke to go to the bathroom I wandered into the dining room for a peek out the window. A gray opossum was finishing the bird seed in a dish. Now I routinely look out and occasionally my timing coincides with that of the local wildlife. Two nights ago I was thrilled to see this beautiful white opossum.

As I sit here writing this, I recall the mixed emotions I felt when we first moved to town. I was thankful for the improvements in our comfort, convenience, and safety, but I feared some of the sterile aspects of living in town and doubted I would ever feel as contented. Oh yea of little faith…

 

Note: these photos were all taken in the middle of the night, through a window, without a flash, with a camera held by a sleepy woman. Less than perfect! 

Ice Cream

At a music concert given in Caddo in July of 1875 the refreshments were cake and ice cream.

Ice cream…1875

So it shouldn’t surprise anyone that yesterday I celebrated my birthday with a cup of cappuccino chunky chocolate while sitting next to a table of young boys doing their own celebrating. Ice cream is part of our history. Eating ice cream is a national tradition. Loving ice cream is in my DNA.

While we were indulging and enjoying, Gary and I shared some of our ice cream memories- favorite flavors, experiences with making ice cream, ice cream parlors visited in the past. One in particular was a favorite for our children. Farrell’s served huge bowls of ice cream with cute names like “pig trough” and then loudly announced the names of customers who finished them.  It was quite entertaining! My sister-in-law worked for a short time at Swenson’s. They were known for experimenting with flavors- like pickle ice cream for pregnant women.

My father insisted that homemade ice cream was the only kind really worth eating. However, the elaborate process of acquiring ice and salt, mixing the ice cream, and then hand-cranking it for nearly an hour, meant that we seldom made it except on weekends after our chores were done. I have a very efficient ice cream machine that reduces the process to a little more than thirty minutes. It sat idle in the cupboard last summer. I don’t remember why, and I’m not sure I will use it in the future, but I might. At least homemade ice cream is better than the manufactured product because I can control the ingredients. And I can add lovely fresh fruit like my mother did.

When we bought our groceries this week I glanced at the ice cream aisle- yes, an entire aisle of choices- but we didn’t purchase any. We’re trying to reduce fat and sugar and…well, ice cream in the freezer is much more tempting than ice cream in a parlor down the street. So we eat other desserts like Jello or yogurt or fruit…and save ice cream for special occasions.

Thankfully there is a special occasion each month.

Our anniversary needs to be celebrated in March!

Another birthday...

My brother, David, was one of the best birthday presents my parents ever gave me. And he was gracious enough to arrive after I’d already celebrated and eaten my cake. Believe me, that first cake was the last one I had any control over. In the ensuing years there were lots of shared cakes and celebrations. For many years we also ate cake with Alton, my grandmother’s foster son, who was born on the 22^nd. Then came the glorious years when Gran made us individual decorated cakes. One year David got a big pirate cake and I got a Barbie in a Bundt cake decorated as an elaborate ball gown.

One year mom got the bright idea to save time and effort by having a shared birthday party for us and our little classmates. I’m not sure she gave a lot of thought to the fact that we lived two blocks from school. And I’m not sure she ever forgot the results. It was our one and only birthday party with friends…and several strangers.

David and I developed a close bond and shared many traits and interests. We often tried Mom’s patience with our far-fetched plans and our “creative” projects. And we had some epic arguments that she settled with her own “creativity”. Eventually she solved a lot of problems by having three more boys! They became playmates and I discovered other boys. Lol

David and I kept in touch over the years, despite many circumstances, travels, and moves that separated us. However, it was always our birthdays that gave us some of our best memories. Remembering today without him…

Happy Birthday to Me!

Surprise

Just when you grow accustomed to the orderly and ordinary in life, along comes something wild and wonderful. This startling creature appeared at our feeders twice yesterday. Perhaps she will return today and I’ll get a better photo. (BTW, this is not an albino. The bird has leucism, which only affects the feathers, not the eyes.)

We’ve encountered a few other odd birds in the past and of course, a few unexpected animals as well.

I’m eager to see what, or who, today brings.

I think My Brother Hates Me

I’ve posted this a time or two, but this week seems an appropriate time to post it again. My birthday is Wednesday and my brother David’s was the day after mine. We always thought of ourselves as best friends, even though we didn’t always get along. David died in July of 2017.

 

I think my brother hates me.

He won’t let me touch his baseball cards.

He won’t let me play with his robot.

I can’t even go in his room,

unless I knock,

and give him a cookie,

and just look,

but not touch anything.

 

My brother even says he hates me.

He said “I hate you!”

when I told Mom about the two cookies,

four plates,

three glasses,

and half-eaten apple core under his bed.

 

He said “I HATE you!”

when I told Dad about the snake

he borrowed from Jimmy Winters

and hid in his closet in a shoe box.

 

He said “I REALLY HATE you!”

when I told Grandma what he said

about the long black hair on her chin.

 

But maybe he just likes to say

“I HATE YOU!”

because it sounds BIG

and LOUD

and TOUGH.

Brothers are like that sometimes.

 

I think my brother does hate me,

sometimes.

But other times,

when he isn’t thinking about being my brother,

he sort of likes me.

He says I’m funny.

He says I’m “not so bad…for a girl.”

He tells me about curve balls,

and space invaders, and wrestling.

He even showed me how to spit.

 

My brother said “I love you” once,

when I had a fever

and little spots all over

and I had to say in bed for days and days.

He brought me a Popsicle.

“Why?” I asked. He said,

 “’Cause I love you,

you little squirt,

now shut up.”

 

I think my brother hates me,

but only sometimes,

and only a little,

and only for now.

Because he knows

and I know

we’re family.

Mistakes r Made

I’ve been typing for fifty-five years. You’d think that if a person had been doing the same task for that long their skills would be near perfection. You would be wrong.

I learned to type at home on an old black manual typewriter that my mom used to crank out her stories. My fingers were not always strong or accurate or speedy so I generally avoided typing until it was required. And it was required for a few formal letters and school assignments.

When I attended high school I took a typing class and sat next to a typing prodigy who made my feeble attempts at speed and accuracy seem pitiful by comparison. The switch to electric typewriters gave me hope and I did improve my skills, but not by much.

Fast and accurate typing was a job requirement that prevented me from acquiring several lucrative positions. I failed more typing tests than I can recount. It seems to me that most employers preferred 65 words per minute, and my speed hovered between 45-55 after subtracting my mistakes. Needles to say, my first two real jobs did NOT require any typing.

The word processor, followed by the computer, saved me. The fact that I didn’t have to go through a physically tedious process of correction (white ribbon or white-out liquid) or retype a whole page, seemed to free my mind and fingers from the fear of failure. My speed and accuracy improved enough to meet my personal needs and also qualify me for a couple of satisfying jobs. Typing became a task that was no longer intimidating.

Fast forward to today. Between personal tasks, research, and writing, I type about six hours a day. The ease of typing on a computer keyboard means I don’t get fatigued. No one cares about how quickly I type. Autocorrect helps with most errors. However…

I am constantly amused by a number of frequent, habitual mistakes that I make while typing.

Last week the staff at the genealogy library finished the indexing of my new book. During that process they also looked for errors, made a list of them, and allowed me to correct them before the book was printed. We’ve had this partnership for years. And for years I’ve been making the same mistakes! LOL

Here is my list of common errors:

form instead of from

ws instead of was

sate instead of state

ot instead of to

ofr instead of for

There are a few more, but these are the ones that appear almost every day. And Word will allow some of them, like ws, to stand without any indication of the error. Up to me to hunt for it, usually with the “search and replace” feature.

I know this isn’t a “words of wisdom” post. Probably has no purpose or value to anyone else. But the fact that I just typed “ot anyone” and had to correct it, says something about the way my fingers and brain work together. Some things apparently never change…