Grades 3, 4, & 1/2 of 5th: Bloodland R-V, Plato, MO

We moved near Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where my Dad was working on some huge construction jobs on the Fort. We lived outside the Fort, in the "Palace Community" which, I believe, was considered the rural part of of Plato, MO. We rented a house from Chesley ("Chess") and Daisy Helton, who lived right next door in the back of their little country store in which a postage-stamp sized Post Office was tucked into one corner. Miss Daisy was the Post Mistress, if I remember correctly. I do remember what our address was: "Palace Route, Plato, MO." Neat.

We attended a tiny schoolhouse called Bloodland R-V School. I think the the Bloodland school had only two classrooms, two teachers, a cafeteria, and the best cooks in the whole USA! I still remember those homemade rolls... But I digress. Back to school. If there was a third classroom for the "big kids" in 7th and 8th grade, they must not have made much of an impression on me because I only remember the two classrooms.

My first year at Bloodland was my 3rd grade (our room was the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grades), which put me in the same classroom as my brother, which was kind of a bummer. But since I was the Big Sis, it was good, too, so I could keep an eye on him during his career as a 1st-grader. Our teacher was Mrs. Carter. Bonnie Carter. I don't know how many students there were, but not very many. I'm guessing less than 20 in each room.

I moved to the 4th, 5th, and 6th grade room the next year, so my brother was on his own. Besides, that classroom had something magical in it: a piano! My teacher was Mr. Otis York, and I loved listening to him teach the 5th and 6th grade kids while I was supposed to be reading my 4th grade stuff and doing my 4th grade work. I sure learned a lot that year!

Anyway, back to that piano. There was a girl in school that knew how to play because she took real lessons and everything. I would stay inside during recess and beg her to play so I could watch her. I mean really watch. Then when she would go outside to play, I would stay behind and start pecking out the tunes she had played...by ear.

I went home and told Mom and Daddy that "I know how to play the piano!" I told them several times. They didn't believe me. I mean, how could I play the piano? We didn't even have a piano. But I begged and begged them to get me one, and finally one day Daddy said, "Well, if you prove to me that you know how to play, we'll get you a piano." DEAL!

One night we went to some friends' house to visit, and, oh joy, those friends had a piano. I knew my Daddy had by then forgotten his promise to me, but I hadn't. I sidled over to the piano, sat down, and while the adults were visiting, I busted into a two-handed rendition of a boogie woogie. My Mom and Daddy about fell in the floor. Well, it wasn't long after that I got a $35, upright, twelve-thousand pound piano. And boy, did I wear that thing out! It was the beginning of a lifetime love of "making music" with whoever we could round up. And that Bloodland boogie-woogie ended up affecting the path of my whole life.


Oh, and something else happened while we still were in the Bloodland School area: we had a new baby sister. I was almost eight years old when she was born, and now I was a Big Sis 2X over.

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.