2nd grade, a tale of TWO cities: Columbia & Alton (MO)

It's taken awhile to track down some missing pieces of this puzzle called my school career. I had some great help, though, so thanks to Cathy in Columbia and Lisa in Alton. These two ladies I contacted were able to help me fill in some blanks. After I wrote this, I did find a 2nd Grade photo, but I don't know whether it was taken in Columbia, or in Alton.

First part ~ Columbia, MO

We had lived in Columbia the summer of 1958 because my Dad was on some kind of construction job on the University of Missouri campus. When school started that fall, I was a 2nd grader at Thomas Hart Benton Elementary School. I was there a whopping 40-1/2 days and my teacher's name was Ms. Nettle. But the memories I have are quite clear, and there are three:

First memory: We sat in little chairs, in a circle, every day for "reading" time. We read about Dick and Jane, their whole family, and all their critters. Now, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to read to the end of the book the first day they gave me that book, so I was quite disappointed when I got to the last page to discover there really wasn't much of a plot. Thus, when I was called on for my turn to read aloud, it was just a re-hash for me of the plotless story line. I wondered what the other kids would think when they found out that this story was going nowhere.

Second memory: There was a little grocery store right across the street from our school. I don't remember the name of it. But I can sure see it in my mind to this day. Every day during our lunch in the school cafeteria, we could actually take our lunch tray to the principal's table and show him that we had eaten all our lunch, and ask permission to go across the street to the little store. There we could buy candy, gum, or soda pop, or anything else we could afford. He didn't always say "yes." But if we were one of the "good little boys and girls" chances are, he would. Now, the thing is, those good little boys and girls could give their unwanted lunch tidbits to their classmates, show the empty tray to the principal, then go across the street and have a candy bar and bottle of pop for lunch. My, my, how times have changed. I remember actually getting to go to the store a few times. It was pure magic to me that, as a six year-old, I would be on my own in a store, with a nickel in my pocket. Or--joy to the world--a dime!

Third memory: [Insert diabolical music here] dun dun DUN!!! This third memory is the memory that stuck in my mind the most. Probably the singular memory that was the cause of my remembering the other two things about good ol' Benton Elementary. You know, one of those memories you try to repress, but one day it just all comes flooding back. Well, here goes...

My Mom always dressed me like a little fashion plate for school. Our family didn't have much money, but I do remember that when school time rolled around, I always had some of the prettiest dresses and skirt sets of any little poor kid. And, apparently, for some of the less poor kids, too. My hair was always fixed impeccably when I went to school, too. At home, ripping and running and playing, not so much. But at school, or going out in public, not a hair would be out of place. And my dresses were always starched and ironed.

Anyway, one day after I got off the school bus and went home, my Mom took one look at me and almost went into hysterics. "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR DRESS?" I guess by the dumb look on my face she could tell I was unaware that anything had happened to my dress. So she reached down and grabbed my dress in the back, and pulled it around to the front where I could see it: it was hanging in shreds! I told her I didn't know what had happened to it. Then she asked a very strange question: "Who sits behind you in school?" I told her another little girl sat behind me, but I didn't really know much about her. So Mom told me to take my dress off, she put it in a brown paper grocery bag, and the next morning, instead of riding the school bus, she drove me to school. I had no idea what was going on...

Well, my Mom showed the dress to my teacher, Ms. Nettle. There was some whispering between the two women, then Ms. Nettle called the little girl who sat behind me up to her desk and questioned her. I guess I should say they interrogated her. She broke. Confessed it all. She said she had taken her little blunt-nosed scissors, pulled the bottom of my dress through that crack between where the wooden seat folds up and down, and proceeded to methodically cut that part of my dress in tatters. My Mom and Ms. Nettle gave each other knowing looks. Mom said it was because she was jealous of my pretty dresses. I just looked baffled. I didn't really know what "jealous" was. I was just glad it wasn't something I had caused. And glad she had cut my dress and not my hair!

I don't know who the little girl was, nor do I know what sort of punishment was meted out for her act of sabotage of my dress. But it created that memory for me to hang my hat on for my second grade. Little did I know I would bid adieu to Benton Elementary in such a short time...

Second part: Alton, MO

Alton, Missouri, (NOT the Alton that is in Illinois and is hooked to St. Louis) is in the part of the state that my Mom was born and raised. In fact, I would venture to say if any car drives by you while you are passing through that little burg, it's a high likelihood that the persons in that car are related to me in some way.

So my Mom was back in her home town, among her home clan (the Bartons), and I was the "new kid" in the second grade. My teacher was Vera Dorris. Two first names. You see, my folks bought a little business called the Daisy Queen (sound familiar?) and it was a regular fifties juke-joint / ice cream parlor / gas station, just like the kind you see on Happy Days! It was one block from the school, so that meant I got to walk home every day for lunch and play waitress to the "big kids," the high schoolers, who went there for lunch every day. Boy, did I feel like all that! To top it off, I got to fix my own ice cream sundaes any time I wanted one. It was heaven to a kid.

We lived in a mobile home that we pulled in right next to the business. Now, my folks didn't know this until my brother and I told them about it years later, decades later, actually...but we would sneak over to the place during off-hours, I would stand on my brother's shoulders, push the floor vent up and crawl into the little burger joint, reach down and pull him up, then we would eat candy or gum or whatever else we wanted for breakfast. After we were sugared up, we would play pinball with nickels out of the cash register. Oh, glorious pinball! We knew that when the pinball vendor guy came to take his money out of the machine, any coins with fingernail polish on them meant that was our own money and he would give it back. And there was a bottle of fingernail polish conveniently sitting next to the cash register. Well, after he started finding more and more with the red dots on them, My Dad apparently figured out the extra pinball games we had been up to. Being the inventive genius he was, Daddy actually thought of a way we could use the same nickel over and over. He simply drilled a hole through it and tied a string on it, and after we dropped it in, played the game, we just pulled it back out. I'm sure that was probably illegal on just about every level, but I waited until he was gone to let that cat out of the bag.

Sorry, Daddy. But they can't come after you now.

Anyway, that was the last part of my 2nd grade. I didn't remember much about the school itself, but I do remember how good it was to be a kid whose family owned the juke-joint in town! Good old Alton R-IV Elementary Schools. If you look at the list of teachers there now, two of them are some of those "Bartons" I was telling you about.

Thanks again, Cathy and Lisa, for helping me with this part of the puzzle.

There are also angels in the pews

This time of year we are asked to give so "those less fortunate" can be blessed. And you know, that's a good thing. A great thing, in fact. However, I just wanted to present it from a little bit different perspective, if I may.

The Word of God tells us quite pointedly that we are supposed to take care of "our own" first. Our brothers and sisters in Christ are "family", and we all know what God tells us about family: That a man who doesn't take care of the needs of his own family first is worse than in infidel (I Timothy 5:8). Pretty strong stuff, that!

When we were pastoring some years back, we discovered something that we had always suspected, but which became quite clear while shepherding a flock of believers. There were many people in our own little church family more needy than those we were asked to "reach out" to. We also learned something else...those people in our church, who had such great needs, would never, ever ask for help, or put their name on any kind of list that was distributed for the purpose of asking for help. It didn't take long to realize that all we had to do was simply listen to that still, small voice to know what God was telling us to do, and to whom we were to do it. We were to bless those people....our family....first. Then God would bless us with an over abundant measure, so that we could then bless others outside our family.

Now, I'm not suggesting at all that people shouldn't give to those who have asked for help, or signed a list, or anything else like that. I am, however, encouraging you to just look around you. And to listen. God will allow you to see a lot of "angels" right in your own church family, sitting on the pews next to you, praying fervently--but silently--that somehow, God will meet some pretty heavy needs. Needs every bit as real and as great as those of people who have asked for help. If you bless those people, whether knowingling or anonymously, I guarantee you that they will praise God, and only Him, as the source of their needs being met. And you? Well, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you ministered to one of God's own children, your own brother or sister! And there is no feeling greater than being used by God to answer a believer's fervent prayers!

Just think about it... If you don't choose to change the way you "reach out" that's fine. But reaching right across a pew to help someone can be even more of a blessing if you just try it.

Everything's coming up oranges

Anybody who knows me at all knows my favorite color: orange! Don't laugh. It's coming back into favor with the fashionistas now. I knew if I just held out long enough it would. Anyway, I digress...

When we bought our (first ever) house in the spring of 2009, there were lots of things we planned to do to it. After all, we now would have walls we would be allowed to paint, knock down, put a door through, or whatever we wished without asking permission.

Now, combine that first paragraph with the second paragraph, and what do you have? An ORANGE WALL, of course! And not just any old orange wall. An artistic, "faux parchment" wall that they would call on HGTV, an accent wall. One that stands out. Different. Like orange.

See, we didn't buy our house with the idea of how we could make it appeal to people who might live in it years after we're dead and gone. Huh? It's our house. If I want an orange wall to look at, I don't care if the HGVT crew comes in thirty years down the road and some little snip remarks about "Oh, that's dated, and ugly!" Ok, don't get me started on the HGTV snips. That used to be my favorite channel, but boy, that wore thin REALLY quick. Even watching it to get some ideas got to be too much to stomach. Digressing. Again???

Well, I knew I wanted white cabinets, and one orange "accent wall", and since I'm married to a virtual woodworking wizard, I decided I also wanted to replace the dark panel wainscot in the "dining nook" with something that would stand out. Something. Wasn't sure what yet. When I told Melissa about it, she said, "Mom, that sounds Tuscan." So that's it! I wanted a Tuscan kitchen! Now I had some other stuff I could look at to get ideas!

It didn't take much Googling to find a photo of almost exactly what I wanted. But I knew I didn't have the ability to do that "faux parchment" (their name for it) wall myself. A co-worker told me about a friend of hers named Susie Theroff who was a super talented artist, and she did that kind of stuff for people. And she also does full-blown wall murals! Long story short, Susie came in and looked at my wall, gave me a VERY reasonable cost estimate, then we scheduled an appointment. I wondered if she'd ever done an orange wall for anyone else. It turned out exactly like I had imagined and hoped! And Harold made new wainscot from scratch for me, I painted it white, and voila! Tuscan kitchen. Well, almost. Harold still has to build my white cabinets, but that's another whole project. He has his priorities...we both do. Next spring it's time to build a playhouse in our back yard for a certain little girl we know who is growing up way too fast. I told him the cabinets will still be here. But she won't always want to play in a playhouse.

Anyway, if you need any kind of artwork done in your house, give Susie a call. Or email her. She said it would be fine to recommend her in my blog. Here's how to reach her:

Designs by Susie
kentonsus@gmail.com
(573) 619-4361

Some "before" and "after" photos. I love before and after photos!!!

BEFORE: You'll notice the wall we knocked down and put a door through. FUN!

AFTER...so far. Still need some kind of window dressing:

1st grade, West Plains, MO...and so it begins.

The picture is blurry, a little like the memory, of my first day of 1st grade. I remember that my Mom wanted to take me to school, but I was adamant: "I'm a big girl. I want to ride the bus." Looking back, that must have broken my Mom's heart, and now I wish I had let her take me so she would have more than this blurry picture that she snapped of me, waiting for the big yellow bus, to to remember my first day of school. Hindsight.

But didn't I look quite the preppy little thing in my plaid, pleated skirt, the school-stripes cardigan, and the book bag as big as I was. In fact, the page in the book my Mom wrote things in about me as a kid said I weighed a whopping 28 pounds on my first day of school. Doesn't seem quite possible, but maybe my age had something to do with it.

See, there was no kindergarden. The year I started school, a child had to be six by December 31 to get to go to school. I made it by one day. December 30. So I was always the youngest in my class, wherever I went to school.

My first teacher had a very memorable name. Mrs. Kunkel. Annie Kunkel, to be precise. She seemed older than a Grandma to me. Well, actually, she was older than my Grandma. My only memory of Mrs. Kunkel, besides her name and her white-haired grandmotherliness, was one afternoon I just couldn't take it any more. I quite simply put my head on my desk and fell, unashamedly, asleep. When the kids all stood up and pushed their chairs back to start some kind marching and singing game, I remember opening my eyes just a second. When the kids tried to wake me, I heard Mrs. Kunkel tell them, "Shhhhh, let's just let her sleep. She's still little." Ah, I think I had just been insulted but I was too tired to care. Too big to let my Mommy bring me to school, but I still needed my afternoon nap!

Here's to you, Richards R-5. And good night, Mrs. Kunkel, wherever you are.

If you want to see all these cute little faces up close, click here.

School daze.

I was telling London awhile back about something very interesting from one of the 11 schools I attended during my 12-year K-12 (sans the "K") school career, and Harold said "You should write about that." Because neither of us could believe that, after having Googled it, I came up with nothing about it.

Yes, it was that unusual. And I saw by the look on London's face as I was telling her about it that it was indeed unique.

Well, you know how a little germ of an idea gets started and just grows from there...I decided that I would start from the 1st grade and journal my entire 12-year school career, as I remember it, then maybe someone else down the road who might Google that marvelous experience from my 6th-grade could actually find something written about it! Or one of my long-lost classmates I've been trying to find...finds me.

Being. And being still.

We spent some wonderful family time a couple of weekends ago close to the water. So close to the water it felt like I could reach right outside my window and touch it. Glorious, sunny days filled with splashing and tromping and climbing and laughing and eating and hugging and fishing and getting-dirty-without-caring.

And then just sitting down and drinking it all in. It was so refreshing to sit in the wee small hours of the morning, drinking from steaming mugs of coffee, and enjoying the quiet while waiting for the sun to come up.

While we were looking out on the beautiful views through our glass-walled house, we also spent time looking in. And just being. Specifically, being still and knowing that God is God.

Has it really only been two years?

I have been on vacation all this past week. Two years ago I was on vacation this same week in August. When I look back now, I realize that week two years ago was a gift from God because I spent it with my Daddy, and neither of us knew it was going to be his last week on earth. But God did. And I got to be with him all day, every day, all that week, and I was right there with him holding his hand as he took his last breath on earth and his first breath in heaven.

The last two years have seemed more like two centuries. I have to come to look at everything, everyone, differently, and to appreciate just how sweet life really is.

If there has ever been a person on this earth who truly loved life and appreciated it as a sweet gift from above, it was my Daddy. I miss you, Daddy. But I know beyond the shadow of any doubt I'll see you again. So keep the coffee pot on for me, ok?

Baby you can drive my car

And sleep at my house. And eat my food. And play with my toys. And track mud on my floor. For as long as you want.

Something that really hurts my heart is when I hear parents make statements about how glad they'll be when their children finally grow up and leave home. And their children still little tykes. It always puts a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. Like I have right now just typing these words.

When our daughter was a little girl, it never once occurred to me that I would be glad when she grew up and left home. And I think she sensed that. I think she always knew that if she decided to stay our little girl forever and live at home, that would be just fine with both me and her dad. That could be why every year on her birthday from age ten forward, she would cry. She told us it was because she never wanted to grow up. She said she was so happy being a little girl she could never imagine herself being as happy as an adult. (Which, of course, she is, but that's another whole blog).

The important thing is....she never felt rushed to grow up just so her parents could move on to the next phase of their lives. I think if I had ever heard my husband say something about wanting her to grow up and move away, I would have probably beaned him with something! But I hear other men say stuff like that all the time....in the presence of their wife and children! Both of us feel the same way about this subject. And when we hear someone say it, my husband and I just look at each other and we both get tears in our eyes. Because we're both remembering how hard it was for us to put our daughter on a plane and watch her fly off to college nearly 1,500 miles away. Heck, my hubby had to wear sunglasses for a full two weeks before and after that day just so folks couldn't see him crying.

Then came the day we watched her walk down the aisle to marry the sweetheart she met at that college. In fact, her dad walked her down the aisle as "dad," then put on his "minister hat" and performed the ceremony. I still don't know how he managed to pull that off without a total breakdown! He did have to stop a few times to regain his composure but, all in all, he made it through with flying colors.

Then, nine years later, we had a beautiful baby granddaughter. Our lives were truly complete. And seriously sweet! We have watched her grow day by day, for the past seven years, at that same rapid blur with which her mommy grew up. We try to stress to our daughter and her wonderful husband how quickly these days of their little one's childhood will evaporate. And that they will be wearing sunglasses while putting her on a plane before you know it. I think they get it. Because I have never heard them utter anything about wishing these days behind them. If they're really lucky, their little one will cry just a little on each birthday because she's so happy being their little girl.

Oh, and by the way, our granddaughter's favorite song when she was just a baby: "Baby, You Can Drive My Car" by the Beatles. Appropro, wouldn't you say?

One last summer fling

School starts Thursday. So this weekend was the last weekend of freedom for London. We decided to spend as much time as we could making it a memorable summer for her. She got to spend some GREAT time with her GiGi and Pop over the 4th of July in Denver, and we're still looking at all the great pics and movies showing how much fun they all had. We love it when she starts telling us about one of the things that happened: "When we were in Cah-wado..." It's so sweet.

So yesterday we made a day of it at the Missouri State Fair. A LONG day of it. London's "food" goal was to eat one of the giant corndogs. She DID it! The thing was almost as big as she is. Then on to the exhibits before hitting the rides.

We spent a lot of time in the Science Fair tent set up for kids. Her cup of tea.

This is the girl at the fossil booth saying, "Boy, you sure know your animals!" All those hours spent watching the Wild Kratts and Dinosaur Train paid off. She was identifying different kinds of fossils and asking lots of questions that really impressed the staff. In fact, I noticed the booth's photographer taking lots of pics of her. No telling where they will end up. We probably spent an hour and a half in that one tent.

Then on to the Midway and the rides.

Taken from the top of the big ferris wheel.

Then riding the more domestic-type rides, and feeding the animals.

By 6:00 we had decided we couldn't last long enough to take in the 7:00 rodeo, which we had planned to do. We were just too tired and getting too hungry. Left with the idea that we'd come back after we ate if we felt like it. We didn't. And to cap it off, on the ride home, the beautiful full moon rose in the sky to lead the little Jeep-load of happy, tired fair-goers back home to dream happy dreams of a day filled with squeals of excitement, wide-eyed wonder, and the sighs of ecstasy that only state fair food can evoke.

Life is sweet. Sweet as cotton candy and kettle corn and sticky-faced little girls with sun-kissed cheeks.

A little patch of heaven

Our little patch of heaven. It's not big. It's not fancy. And it's certainly not hip or cool by HGTV standards.

But I love our little patch of heaven. I've found it's a great place to grow stuff. Not only stuff like flowers and strawberries and blackberries and tomatoes and peppers and and all kinds of aromatic herbs...

...but the best things that grow here are the family memories.

Oh yes, and a little girl who just loves to come to Nana's and Pawpaw's house is growing here. Way, way too fast.

Are we there yet?

(Photo in memory of the gorgeous tree that used to be across the street from City Hall on E. McCarty).

Who would have ever thought that temps in the mid 90s would feel like a cold snap? Seriously. It's in the 90's here today, and still 15 degrees cooler than it was one day last week. Our poor plants went into shock. Keeping a hopeful eye on the sky for some more of that pop-up, drop-in water in the next few days. It would be a nice break from carrying water up the hill in a watering can. Harold plans to lay down some kind of water delivery system so all we will have to do is turn on a faucet and get the water uphill the easy way, but that's probably going to be a next-year project.

I really feel for the poor lawn guys who rely on mowing yards to make a living, or at least supplement their income. I haven't heard a lawn mower in a long time around our neighborhood. So I say, bring on autumn, baby! I love it. Everything about it. I'm just not a hot-weather person, never have been. I really don't mind cold weather and bundling up and all that stuff that accompanies winter. To me, not being able to get out and about because I'm "snowed in" is a cozy confinement. Just cook up a big pot of Plaza III Steak Soup (recipe below), or some spicy chili and watch it weather outside over a steaming bowl of whatever. NOT cozy...being literally driven inside because it's so hot your eyebrows burn off the second you open the front door, it's too hot to touch the porch railing when you go up and down the porch steps, or sitting on the carseats leave weird tracks on your skin.

I have a lot of friends who are of the exact opposite sentiment. So for those people I say, enjoy this weather for a little while longer, because my turn is right around the corner!

Plaza III Steak Soup

1 lb. Ground beef or leftover cooked steak cut into cubes
1 stick butter or margarine
1 cup flour
1 can diced tomatoes
2 qt. water
1 cup diced carrots
1 cup diced onions (I substitute onion powder as hubby won’t eat cooked onions)
1 cup diced celery
1 10 oz. Pkg. Frozen mixed vegetables
2 Tablespoons beef base
1 teaspoon ground black pepper

Brown beef; drain. Meanwhile, parboil onion, carrots and celery for about 2 minutes in 1 quart of water. Melt butter or margarine in large pan or dutch oven. Blend in flour to make smooth paste. Gradually stir in the other quart of (cold) water to make a thick liquid. Gradually add to the pot containing the boiled vegetables & other quart of water. Add all other ingredients, bring to low boil and simmer until meat and vegetables are tender. Recipe says do not salt, but I always add salt to taste. I also add about a teaspoon of Kitchen Bouquet for added rich color and flavor. Wonderful served with hot, buttered bread right out of the oven!

Downtown on the farm

There's a new farmer's market in town. It's only about 7 weeks old, or so I'm told. We went there the first time two weeks ago, and then again last Saturday. The guy in charge says that the booth spaces are free, but I don't know if there are any other kind of requirements. Bet it would be easy enough to find out.



It's at Lincoln University's agricultural research area on the end of Chestnut Street, lots of nice shade trees to park under, and walk around under, while you browse. And they have live music! Not many other farmers' markets can claim that!

It's on Saturday mornings from 8 AM to noon. You should go. And, since they have lots of space left, if you grow your own produce, or bake, or do other neat stuff like that, you should probably get yourself a booth and set up for business.

I told Harold maybe he could take some of his garden stuff. They have a huge garden made up of little plots where they grow all kinds of produce. He said maybe we should just go early and pick theirs, set up our booth, and put up a sign that says: "Locally grown. More locally than you know!"

We really wouldn't do that, but it sounded like a good idea at the time.

Anyway, here are a few pics of the goodies you might see. See the big, round loaf of honey mustard oatmeal bread? And that little granddaughter-sized cherry pie? They were both yummy!

Home sweet home

Now that we've been homeowners a couple of years, this summer we also became gardeners. Well, I should say, Harold became a gardener. I have never claimed to have a green thumb. Even a light shade of green. That was my Mom. And her green-thumbness skipped a generation right to Melissa, and apparently, it seems, to London.

But Farmer Harold has been hard at it this summer and I've been amazed at what he has been able to produce from our hill-of-a-back-yard. Literally. It's a hill so steep that I have to wear certain kind of shoes or I can't even get up to the top of it. And he carries his watering can up that hill several times a day to give those plants a drink.

Now, since he's been growing the stuff, I thought the least I could do is blog about it. And, of course, when it's harvested, that's when I get into the act. I have been canning and freezing, and cooking, and pickling, and loving every minute of it! And drooling over the Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds catalog to decide what we will plant next year when we expand our little raised beds to take up more of the top of our hill.

At my age, I'm on several brand new journeys in life, and I can't imagine how life could be better or sweeter. Sweeter than blackberry cobbler with homemade ice cream.

Oh, I will write about other stuff, too. But right now, that whole grow-your-own-food mentality has sort of captured our attention.