By Anna Bernard
I see myself as a child industriously, curiously, dismantling flowers. I'd find an aging rose that was already played out, opened too far, petals beginning to hang limply from their holding spots - and I'd pull the petals all the way off to study them and marvel at the softness, softer than anything I knew. I'd study the way the color sat so deep inside and couldn't be rubbed off. I tried. I experimented with paper and a pant's leg but it was in there to stay - crimson, blush and butter - securely sealed in the rose petal fabric. Which was what exactly? It held together well but also tore if you tugged enough - similar to a well made paper towel. The colors made me dream about lipstick purchases of the future and beaus, gifts, proms, and wedding bouquets and all the things that made women smile.
The tuft, the sad plucked tuft, was reduced to a bit of plant life with all the beauty gone.
I marvel that I was once an observant child with time on my hands and summer afternoons to explore the natural world of a surburban neighborhood and I wonder if current children have time and opportunity to learn by direct exploration. I wonder if I would still know how to take delight in close observation. My world now is text, books, newspaper, HD television, movies, photocopies and the internet. Now that I am so recently and abruptly retired, I want the time to observe again in a relaxed state and leave tasks in the dust - the soft, loamy pale milk and coffee colored dust of a trail in late September - the kind that coats your shoes or your bare feet with the Earth's affection.
Roses
Roses in a garden.
Of all the gifts I treasure from my students
nothing quite compares
with a slightly frumpy, thorny rose
wrapped in a wet paper towel,
then wrapped in foil.
"For you, Teacher."
I always feel special.
Roses in a garden
Make me think of hot summer days
sprinklers and bees
sprinkly pollen
flower guts.
Roses in a garden.
I used to pull the old ones apart
to examine the interior.
I pulled a few new ones apart
to discover the way the petals
folded together and
squashed themselves up tightly.
To be closed upon oneself
is an amazing thing to children
who can't remember
when they were wrapped up tightly
and folded over on themselves
in the womb...
Rose in a garden.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
DO YOU KNOW THE WAY TO SAN JOSE?
I wrote this piece while I was in my teaching career. I wanted to show other teachers that they could travel for fun, fulfillment and to pay for their expenses. I wrote this article in 2000, but it is still a hot topic. I also title most of my pieces as songs. Watch for more and enjoy.
Are you interested in reimbursement for your vacations? Washington, D.C., San Jose, and London are a lot closer than they seem to be. Are you interested in a free summer vacation? Did you know that taking in the sights can actually pay you for your expenditures? You can become educated on what all of these and other cities can offer you. But, how can you make this a possibility? How can you make your vacations an educational expense? Read on and you’ll see how.
Money is what generally precludes many from taking the vacation of their dreams. Were you aware that every major company has a travel agency on call or has an employee who logs in and books flights for their employees? With the internet advances, most of us are able to access the web and plan our own trips with a click of a mouse. In addition, you can make money on their travel whether it is for business or personal in nature.
There are advertisements in the Los Angeles Times offering classes in SABRE or APOLLO travel computer systems. You could be trained in only a few short weeks to work in the travel industry. This summer you could take an investigative trip to a large city and begin the research. The next vacation should pay for itself. There are also discounted search engines for purchase such as YTB.
Did you know that you can have a great time when you travel to major cities; thereby you have the opportunity to report on the most historical sites? You could make your pictures and text into a travelogue and present it to your school. Who knows what can happen? Be an expert in your field! Just think; your summer vacations could pay for themselves!
Soon, you can arrange a head of time what city or country you are teaching about, and then go. It is fun to educate others while educating you. And “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” Now you will know!
By Roberta Mark Engel
Are you interested in reimbursement for your vacations? Washington, D.C., San Jose, and London are a lot closer than they seem to be. Are you interested in a free summer vacation? Did you know that taking in the sights can actually pay you for your expenditures? You can become educated on what all of these and other cities can offer you. But, how can you make this a possibility? How can you make your vacations an educational expense? Read on and you’ll see how.
Money is what generally precludes many from taking the vacation of their dreams. Were you aware that every major company has a travel agency on call or has an employee who logs in and books flights for their employees? With the internet advances, most of us are able to access the web and plan our own trips with a click of a mouse. In addition, you can make money on their travel whether it is for business or personal in nature.
There are advertisements in the Los Angeles Times offering classes in SABRE or APOLLO travel computer systems. You could be trained in only a few short weeks to work in the travel industry. This summer you could take an investigative trip to a large city and begin the research. The next vacation should pay for itself. There are also discounted search engines for purchase such as YTB.
Did you know that you can have a great time when you travel to major cities; thereby you have the opportunity to report on the most historical sites? You could make your pictures and text into a travelogue and present it to your school. Who knows what can happen? Be an expert in your field! Just think; your summer vacations could pay for themselves!
Soon, you can arrange a head of time what city or country you are teaching about, and then go. It is fun to educate others while educating you. And “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” Now you will know!
By Roberta Mark Engel
Saturday, April 11, 2009
August Amber
By Rita Murstein Wohl
It was August and people were sweating from the Monongahela to the Ohio River, along the great and the little Miami Rivers. The mighty Missouri was no place to cool down and the Mississippi was giving the South a chance to live up to its reputation as defined in books by Tennessee Williams and the rest of the great writers.
The steam from the Ohio River rolled up the state all the way to Lake Erie. Cleveland, the coldest city in Ohio, was suffering. Glasses with Mint Juleps, Tom Collins, and homemade lemonade were clinking all over the country. The kids couldn't stay in their clothesline tents. It was too hot to roll weed cigarettes. The dogs were heaving their breaths and drooling white foam. Everyone was back from the YMCA camp, Girl Scout sleep outs or a week in Canada with their families.
We were lolling around and totally lacking in energy. The elm tree offered the only respite around. We cooled off under the hose which we later used for drinking. We were lying around trying to figure out how they made opium from poppies. Mr. Hensler, the principal, had beautiful ones in his garden and we knew he wouldn't do that. We speculated about boiling them or drying them. But which part? That would be our next project but right now we could barely move.
The cicadas were singing like mad and butterflies were all over the gardens. In cooler times, given enough boredom, we would try to catch them with our nets from the dime store. I only know one person who ever caught one and he squashed it in a book because that's what scientists did. I had a lot of respect for him.
We were showing off some of our summer trophies. A broken antique vase from a trash pile, on old pipe, a shiny new knife, an aggie, and a clear yellow stone. We loved to go through trash piles and find fantastic stuff, and when we tired of our trophies, we would dump them back in the trash pile.
I remember the vase. It had a white base enhanced by a scenic painting. Its body was entwined with loops and scrolls of raised china. It still had its spout but was very broken. The new knife of course was the favorite. It spelled power and wealth. The only other prestigious item was the set of pearled handled guns that Lila had. The aggie was passed around for all to lovingly hold.
And then there was the clear yellow stone. Interesting, but what was it? The bottom of a beer bottle? Part of an old medicine bottle? Just as we were looking at it, two yellow butterflies fluttered right under our noses. Everyone rubbed their noses, fell backwards, and screamed. At last, there was some action today.
We laughed and grabbed the hose for relief. That is , everyone except Eunie. She just sat there thoughtfully. She told us that when the twin butterflies touched us, the yellow stone that she was holding got very hot. When that happened, a shadow grew inside of it.
Everyone wanted to see it. It wasn't passed around. It was grabbed around. Eunie polished it on her shorts and then cupped it to see if it had an inner light. No such luck.
Richard said his mom had a string of beads just that color. Tim said his mom had some too and she got them at Brown's Department Store on Main Street. Maybe it was a rare yellow diamond. Little Sugie said it looked like tree sap she had seem in a display at school. Lila said she had a set of Book of Knowledge in the house. As much as we had an aversion to books in the summer, most of us followed her into the house.
The house was always clean and not too hot. Wilda was babysitting today. She was so nice and pretty with lovely blonde ringlets around her face. She offered us water from the spigot but not ice. We had a ice box, not a refrigerator, and we had to save ice until the iceman came.
Wilda helped us look up yellow and then stone and then yellow stone. Somehow, Wilda got us to Amber. Wow. Sugie was right. It was tree sap encasing bugs from thousands of years ago. But this wasn't a bug - this was a shadow. What did that mean? If you opened the stone would the bug come out? Would it come out alive? If we opened the stone , what would come out? Should we dare? Wilda gave us a bowl of fruit and we went back under the elm tree.
We gravely pondered the immediate future. What was in the plum pit? Had anyone ever opened an apple seed? What about a peach pit or a cherry seed? What were we really doing when we spit watermelon seeds?
We knew these were seeds but what was inside them? Little trees? Small plants? Little fruits? Well this situation was asking for it. We picked out the seeds, opened them, and everything was gunk. How could God open a peach pit and we couldn't? Everything had something in it. Nothing had a shadow.The mystery was still there.
We loved mysteries. We love to solve them. Nothing was safe from our speculation. We noticed the comings and goings of everyone. Houses of mourning attracted the most attention. They all seemed to have a strange aroma. We decided that some people were murdered, but that's another story.
We speculated what would happen if we opened the yellow stone. Richard, who was older and liked to scare us, described the unleashing of a black cloud of evil. We would all die in our beds if we were good or be strangled if we were bad. Howie, a devout Catholic, whom I dearly loved, said we would die of pestilence. Not to be outdone, Annie, the group Protestant, said it would be the time of the Apocalypse.
After screaming at each other, jumping up, and raising our hands, we decided to open the stone. Tommy ran home and got a hammer and we began. Each one took their turn. We would hammer, cover our faces, and scream. We ended up with a glistening pile of amber.
Our dads were walking home, the big kids were riding their bikes home for dinner, and the moms were calling their kids. Reluctantly, we peeled off from the circle.
If only I could learn so much in a day today. Now it's your turn to figure out how the shadow existed.
It was August and people were sweating from the Monongahela to the Ohio River, along the great and the little Miami Rivers. The mighty Missouri was no place to cool down and the Mississippi was giving the South a chance to live up to its reputation as defined in books by Tennessee Williams and the rest of the great writers.
The steam from the Ohio River rolled up the state all the way to Lake Erie. Cleveland, the coldest city in Ohio, was suffering. Glasses with Mint Juleps, Tom Collins, and homemade lemonade were clinking all over the country. The kids couldn't stay in their clothesline tents. It was too hot to roll weed cigarettes. The dogs were heaving their breaths and drooling white foam. Everyone was back from the YMCA camp, Girl Scout sleep outs or a week in Canada with their families.
We were lolling around and totally lacking in energy. The elm tree offered the only respite around. We cooled off under the hose which we later used for drinking. We were lying around trying to figure out how they made opium from poppies. Mr. Hensler, the principal, had beautiful ones in his garden and we knew he wouldn't do that. We speculated about boiling them or drying them. But which part? That would be our next project but right now we could barely move.
The cicadas were singing like mad and butterflies were all over the gardens. In cooler times, given enough boredom, we would try to catch them with our nets from the dime store. I only know one person who ever caught one and he squashed it in a book because that's what scientists did. I had a lot of respect for him.
We were showing off some of our summer trophies. A broken antique vase from a trash pile, on old pipe, a shiny new knife, an aggie, and a clear yellow stone. We loved to go through trash piles and find fantastic stuff, and when we tired of our trophies, we would dump them back in the trash pile.
I remember the vase. It had a white base enhanced by a scenic painting. Its body was entwined with loops and scrolls of raised china. It still had its spout but was very broken. The new knife of course was the favorite. It spelled power and wealth. The only other prestigious item was the set of pearled handled guns that Lila had. The aggie was passed around for all to lovingly hold.
And then there was the clear yellow stone. Interesting, but what was it? The bottom of a beer bottle? Part of an old medicine bottle? Just as we were looking at it, two yellow butterflies fluttered right under our noses. Everyone rubbed their noses, fell backwards, and screamed. At last, there was some action today.
We laughed and grabbed the hose for relief. That is , everyone except Eunie. She just sat there thoughtfully. She told us that when the twin butterflies touched us, the yellow stone that she was holding got very hot. When that happened, a shadow grew inside of it.
Everyone wanted to see it. It wasn't passed around. It was grabbed around. Eunie polished it on her shorts and then cupped it to see if it had an inner light. No such luck.
Richard said his mom had a string of beads just that color. Tim said his mom had some too and she got them at Brown's Department Store on Main Street. Maybe it was a rare yellow diamond. Little Sugie said it looked like tree sap she had seem in a display at school. Lila said she had a set of Book of Knowledge in the house. As much as we had an aversion to books in the summer, most of us followed her into the house.
The house was always clean and not too hot. Wilda was babysitting today. She was so nice and pretty with lovely blonde ringlets around her face. She offered us water from the spigot but not ice. We had a ice box, not a refrigerator, and we had to save ice until the iceman came.
Wilda helped us look up yellow and then stone and then yellow stone. Somehow, Wilda got us to Amber. Wow. Sugie was right. It was tree sap encasing bugs from thousands of years ago. But this wasn't a bug - this was a shadow. What did that mean? If you opened the stone would the bug come out? Would it come out alive? If we opened the stone , what would come out? Should we dare? Wilda gave us a bowl of fruit and we went back under the elm tree.
We gravely pondered the immediate future. What was in the plum pit? Had anyone ever opened an apple seed? What about a peach pit or a cherry seed? What were we really doing when we spit watermelon seeds?
We knew these were seeds but what was inside them? Little trees? Small plants? Little fruits? Well this situation was asking for it. We picked out the seeds, opened them, and everything was gunk. How could God open a peach pit and we couldn't? Everything had something in it. Nothing had a shadow.The mystery was still there.
We loved mysteries. We love to solve them. Nothing was safe from our speculation. We noticed the comings and goings of everyone. Houses of mourning attracted the most attention. They all seemed to have a strange aroma. We decided that some people were murdered, but that's another story.
We speculated what would happen if we opened the yellow stone. Richard, who was older and liked to scare us, described the unleashing of a black cloud of evil. We would all die in our beds if we were good or be strangled if we were bad. Howie, a devout Catholic, whom I dearly loved, said we would die of pestilence. Not to be outdone, Annie, the group Protestant, said it would be the time of the Apocalypse.
After screaming at each other, jumping up, and raising our hands, we decided to open the stone. Tommy ran home and got a hammer and we began. Each one took their turn. We would hammer, cover our faces, and scream. We ended up with a glistening pile of amber.
Our dads were walking home, the big kids were riding their bikes home for dinner, and the moms were calling their kids. Reluctantly, we peeled off from the circle.
If only I could learn so much in a day today. Now it's your turn to figure out how the shadow existed.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
To Be A Child
By Gary Bernard
To be a child is to explore, is to ponder, is to experiment, is to enjoy.
One day in May of 1955, I found a packet of zinnia seeds while I was exploring inside our garage. I sat down on a cardboard box filled with LIFE magazines and looked at the pictures on the front of the packet. It was full of wonderful red and yellow zinnias. I turned the packet and read the instructions.It said to plant two or three seeds two or three inches into the ground, cover it, water, and let them grow.
It was Thursday afternoon and it was beginning to get dark. I put the packet down in a place I would find it the next day and went into the house to eat my mother's Thursday dinner:macaroni and cheese. That night, lying in my bed, listening to the crickets, maybe a million of them, I planned my zinnia garden.
Friday, when I got home from school, I went into the garage to reread my packet of zinnias. It was then I decided to plant the zinnias next to the garage between our house and our neighbor's, Mr. Celosi. That way, nobody could bother me and my zinnias.
Saturday, I woke up early, dug my trenches and planted my seeds precisely as I was instructed, and then I watered my garden and went off to play.
Sunday, there were no flowers. Not even anything peeking out of the ground. I talked to my mother with great concern. She told me to be patient and keep watering. Patience was not one of my virtues. The first plant life in my garden were weeds. And then more weeds. But after a week of toil, my zinnias began to grow. And they were beautiful and they were big, so big that my heart opened up and my soul - my eight year old soul, just sat back in an old rocking chair and sighed and rocked and sighed again.
To be a child is to explore, is to ponder, is to experiment, is to enjoy.
One day in May of 1955, I found a packet of zinnia seeds while I was exploring inside our garage. I sat down on a cardboard box filled with LIFE magazines and looked at the pictures on the front of the packet. It was full of wonderful red and yellow zinnias. I turned the packet and read the instructions.It said to plant two or three seeds two or three inches into the ground, cover it, water, and let them grow.
It was Thursday afternoon and it was beginning to get dark. I put the packet down in a place I would find it the next day and went into the house to eat my mother's Thursday dinner:macaroni and cheese. That night, lying in my bed, listening to the crickets, maybe a million of them, I planned my zinnia garden.
Friday, when I got home from school, I went into the garage to reread my packet of zinnias. It was then I decided to plant the zinnias next to the garage between our house and our neighbor's, Mr. Celosi. That way, nobody could bother me and my zinnias.
Saturday, I woke up early, dug my trenches and planted my seeds precisely as I was instructed, and then I watered my garden and went off to play.
Sunday, there were no flowers. Not even anything peeking out of the ground. I talked to my mother with great concern. She told me to be patient and keep watering. Patience was not one of my virtues. The first plant life in my garden were weeds. And then more weeds. But after a week of toil, my zinnias began to grow. And they were beautiful and they were big, so big that my heart opened up and my soul - my eight year old soul, just sat back in an old rocking chair and sighed and rocked and sighed again.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Through That Door They Come
By Anna Bernard
Anaphora -
"Repetition of the same word or phrase at the beginning of successive clauses or verses." This is one of the ways through the years that I have expressed my thoughts about teaching. The assignment would be,"Start with this phrase______" and whatever the phrase was, I would begin to write my feelings about classroom life. Consequently I have a series of teacher poems utilizing anaphora.
Through That Door They Come
Through that door they come every September
The overly short or tall
The overly chubby or thin
The just right
Like so many kinds of bears
or flavors of porridge.
Through that door they come year after year
Full of hope and excitement
Varying levels of fear and boldness
Curiosity and lack of
Sociability and shyness
Chalk full of gray matter
And with brains seemingly left behind on the pillow.
Through that door they come
Each one with bright clear eyes
And no idea what they will be
What joys and troubles life will dash upon them
These small sunwarmed beaches of life.
Fathers raking in the money
Fathers in prison
Fathers long gone
and Fathers drowning in too many beers.
Fathers who adore them
and Fathers who deny them.
Through that door they come--
The handiwork of their Mothers
Beloved
Neglected
Read to and well fed
Or short on story and weak in words,
Number loving and Math phobic
Through that door they come and then--
I close it.
And we begin to be a class family,
Another way of experiencing self
Set to balance with whatever and everything
they bring from home
From the treacheries of modern life.
Through that door they'll go
in June
and I will be an icon,
A set of memories and
the builder of a few new neural connections,
But in my heart,always a cheerleader
My megaphone teacher's voice
fading with time
Anaphora -
"Repetition of the same word or phrase at the beginning of successive clauses or verses." This is one of the ways through the years that I have expressed my thoughts about teaching. The assignment would be,"Start with this phrase______" and whatever the phrase was, I would begin to write my feelings about classroom life. Consequently I have a series of teacher poems utilizing anaphora.
Through That Door They Come
Through that door they come every September
The overly short or tall
The overly chubby or thin
The just right
Like so many kinds of bears
or flavors of porridge.
Through that door they come year after year
Full of hope and excitement
Varying levels of fear and boldness
Curiosity and lack of
Sociability and shyness
Chalk full of gray matter
And with brains seemingly left behind on the pillow.
Through that door they come
Each one with bright clear eyes
And no idea what they will be
What joys and troubles life will dash upon them
These small sunwarmed beaches of life.
Fathers raking in the money
Fathers in prison
Fathers long gone
and Fathers drowning in too many beers.
Fathers who adore them
and Fathers who deny them.
Through that door they come--
The handiwork of their Mothers
Beloved
Neglected
Read to and well fed
Or short on story and weak in words,
Number loving and Math phobic
Through that door they come and then--
I close it.
And we begin to be a class family,
Another way of experiencing self
Set to balance with whatever and everything
they bring from home
From the treacheries of modern life.
Through that door they'll go
in June
and I will be an icon,
A set of memories and
the builder of a few new neural connections,
But in my heart,always a cheerleader
My megaphone teacher's voice
fading with time
Friday, March 20, 2009
Long Before I Became a Teacher
By Rita Murstein Wohl
Over the ridge and sloping down near the river was the furniture store. Across the street was the hat maker. Haddie was very straightforward but warm. If you didn't see what you liked, she would make it for you. Many hours were spent designing and gently speaking well of others. Haddie didn't gossip. She spent her time twirling tulle and netting. There was a small assortment of feathers and small piles of felt waiting to be pressed into a superior design. Mama often took us with her. It was our female bonding.
Down the way was Main Street. On one corner stood one of our tallest buildings, five stories high. The top floors had offices and it always smelled like medicine. The Orr Felt Building had one of the few mechanical elevators that I knew of, but the ground floor was the best of all. Woolworth's was there. It was beige and brown and full of everything in the world. I think this is where I did my first and only theft. I stole two cellophane straws. The thrill was too much for me and that is why I went straight, I think.
In the next block over were Krege's and Murphy's. They were also beige with wonderful chocolate wood framed cases, with large chocolate and gold signs like candy bars hanging down on gold chains. Murphy's was on the corner in a lovely yellow brick building. All of the dime stores looked and smelled like Hershey bars. I bought a beautiful canary on layaway at Murphy's. It later, but not much later, had a nervous breakdown and died on its back.
A few steps over was Gallagher's Drug Store. It had a huge glass square of candy cases much bigger than I ever got to be. I lost my Mama in that store and still remember crying while she held my hand and led me back through the store while people smaller than I stared and made the experience go from tragic to traumatic. If my sisters or I had gotten a good report card, we sat in a booth at the back and could order Sundaes from the soda fountain for 25 cents. If we didn't do so well, Mom would order dopes for us. One scoop of ice cream was a dope. Chocolate. Fifteen cents.
The greatest place in the world was Bussers Ice Cream Parlor. You immediately smelled the soda and chocolate. The place was roaring from the giant belt churning the cream in the basement and reaching up to the gears upstairs. Nothing in the world will ever smell so good again. The counter and the tabletops were soft gray marble and the ice cream chairs were green.
Right next door was Brown's Department Store. This was the real thing. Rollers sent tubes with the money racing through the tracks to and from the office. Later the tracks became pneumatic tubes. We would go to the back of the second floor to stand in front of the dressmaker while staring at the bleak backs of the few other big buildings in town. The end of the block opened to the town square that had granite water fountains and flowers.A huge gray stone castle commanded an entire view of the area. The sidewalk was fitted with thick colored glass rounds. I loved to feel the round raised smoothness of them under my feet. I was so sad to discover they had a purpose - to light up the basement for the workers. I wanted them to be there just for beauty. We would march up the decorative iron steps to the large cool lobby. On the left, Pop would buy a cigar and shoot dice a few times. There were some sizable round holes in the large leather lobby furniture. I am told they were gun holes. Somehow, I always related them to Abraham Lincoln.
Around the corner again and we come to the furniture store with the funeral home across the street. This store has the biggest windows in town. Above it was the Elks Lounge, restaurant, bar and card room. Above that were the spooky maroon draped meeting rooms.
The furniture store was special. You didn't see one every day. This was where I stopped and stared. I stopped there after school and after funerals and after walking the gas light route to and through downtown every year. During this historical tribute, people put their old furniture and treasures in candle lit windows and stores did it too. I started there for the crowded Saturday night stroll down Main Street when the farmers were in town.
People would always gather on the sofas and talked in lowered tones if there were customers in the store. I remember telling my friend that a chair cost $3000 dollars because it was so big. I wanted so much to be a big shot so that my Daddy would let me be the elevator girl on occasion. I would ask which floor(there was only main and the basement). Then he would lower the big wooden gate and I would start pulling the rope for our journey.
Christmas was fabulous. The boxes were pulled from the back workroom and out came the shiny red and green trimmings. They were scratchy, but wonderous. We had to be a little older before we were allowed to help hang the swags. My mother spent a lot of time there talking to the people and handing out candy.
My father had the first TVs in town - Admirals and Motorolas. I told him to sell out. They were only fads. Did you ever know anybody's advice to ask for because the opposite was the right answer?
The store was close to home so we could always get there for nickels and dimes if we needed to. It was close enough so that we could eat dinner before 5:30 after the store closed at 5:00. Mr. Looney was the salesman and always looked the same. Miss Sigler was a wonderful and loyal secretary. There was usually a furniture finisher up the small steep ramp to the back where the furniture would be loaded onto the trucks.
The store was a place for serious family talks, celebrations, planning and mostly, with saddened heart I say, for memories.
Over the ridge and sloping down near the river was the furniture store. Across the street was the hat maker. Haddie was very straightforward but warm. If you didn't see what you liked, she would make it for you. Many hours were spent designing and gently speaking well of others. Haddie didn't gossip. She spent her time twirling tulle and netting. There was a small assortment of feathers and small piles of felt waiting to be pressed into a superior design. Mama often took us with her. It was our female bonding.
Down the way was Main Street. On one corner stood one of our tallest buildings, five stories high. The top floors had offices and it always smelled like medicine. The Orr Felt Building had one of the few mechanical elevators that I knew of, but the ground floor was the best of all. Woolworth's was there. It was beige and brown and full of everything in the world. I think this is where I did my first and only theft. I stole two cellophane straws. The thrill was too much for me and that is why I went straight, I think.
In the next block over were Krege's and Murphy's. They were also beige with wonderful chocolate wood framed cases, with large chocolate and gold signs like candy bars hanging down on gold chains. Murphy's was on the corner in a lovely yellow brick building. All of the dime stores looked and smelled like Hershey bars. I bought a beautiful canary on layaway at Murphy's. It later, but not much later, had a nervous breakdown and died on its back.
A few steps over was Gallagher's Drug Store. It had a huge glass square of candy cases much bigger than I ever got to be. I lost my Mama in that store and still remember crying while she held my hand and led me back through the store while people smaller than I stared and made the experience go from tragic to traumatic. If my sisters or I had gotten a good report card, we sat in a booth at the back and could order Sundaes from the soda fountain for 25 cents. If we didn't do so well, Mom would order dopes for us. One scoop of ice cream was a dope. Chocolate. Fifteen cents.
The greatest place in the world was Bussers Ice Cream Parlor. You immediately smelled the soda and chocolate. The place was roaring from the giant belt churning the cream in the basement and reaching up to the gears upstairs. Nothing in the world will ever smell so good again. The counter and the tabletops were soft gray marble and the ice cream chairs were green.
Right next door was Brown's Department Store. This was the real thing. Rollers sent tubes with the money racing through the tracks to and from the office. Later the tracks became pneumatic tubes. We would go to the back of the second floor to stand in front of the dressmaker while staring at the bleak backs of the few other big buildings in town. The end of the block opened to the town square that had granite water fountains and flowers.A huge gray stone castle commanded an entire view of the area. The sidewalk was fitted with thick colored glass rounds. I loved to feel the round raised smoothness of them under my feet. I was so sad to discover they had a purpose - to light up the basement for the workers. I wanted them to be there just for beauty. We would march up the decorative iron steps to the large cool lobby. On the left, Pop would buy a cigar and shoot dice a few times. There were some sizable round holes in the large leather lobby furniture. I am told they were gun holes. Somehow, I always related them to Abraham Lincoln.
Around the corner again and we come to the furniture store with the funeral home across the street. This store has the biggest windows in town. Above it was the Elks Lounge, restaurant, bar and card room. Above that were the spooky maroon draped meeting rooms.
The furniture store was special. You didn't see one every day. This was where I stopped and stared. I stopped there after school and after funerals and after walking the gas light route to and through downtown every year. During this historical tribute, people put their old furniture and treasures in candle lit windows and stores did it too. I started there for the crowded Saturday night stroll down Main Street when the farmers were in town.
People would always gather on the sofas and talked in lowered tones if there were customers in the store. I remember telling my friend that a chair cost $3000 dollars because it was so big. I wanted so much to be a big shot so that my Daddy would let me be the elevator girl on occasion. I would ask which floor(there was only main and the basement). Then he would lower the big wooden gate and I would start pulling the rope for our journey.
Christmas was fabulous. The boxes were pulled from the back workroom and out came the shiny red and green trimmings. They were scratchy, but wonderous. We had to be a little older before we were allowed to help hang the swags. My mother spent a lot of time there talking to the people and handing out candy.
My father had the first TVs in town - Admirals and Motorolas. I told him to sell out. They were only fads. Did you ever know anybody's advice to ask for because the opposite was the right answer?
The store was close to home so we could always get there for nickels and dimes if we needed to. It was close enough so that we could eat dinner before 5:30 after the store closed at 5:00. Mr. Looney was the salesman and always looked the same. Miss Sigler was a wonderful and loyal secretary. There was usually a furniture finisher up the small steep ramp to the back where the furniture would be loaded onto the trucks.
The store was a place for serious family talks, celebrations, planning and mostly, with saddened heart I say, for memories.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
THE BULLDOG MAGAZINE
By Roberta Mark Engel
It is now March. Do your child’s thoughts turn to love and spring? Have you ever thought of expressing your thoughts on paper? Would you and your child like to compose together? You both could convey your innermost thoughts. This is an opportunity for an innovative focus on education. Read on. I’ll show you how to write!
How about an example of the importance and enjoyment of writing for “The Bulldog Magazine?” I taught middle school and published this magazine for students. In March, my editorial board judged the student manuscripts which followed a standardized rubric. This was an arduous task, therefore only publishing those pieces with the top scores. Did you know the magazine also had an editorial committee as for our artists and followed the same procedure?
You can be a published writer also. Now, here are the basics. The Writing Process begins with a storyboard which is a precursor to the actual script. When I taught, my students composed a sentence and drew a picture for his or her proposed writing exercises. Then, I asked them to think of a title for this poetry or prose. We shared this title with the entire classroom and this creation belonged exclusively to each individual child.
The students even invited their parents to join our writing class. They chose to draft companion “pieces.” Research has shown that the family that shared a common interest (i.e. writing) had far fewer adjustment problems.
Revision of work was actually the most enjoyable part of writing and strengthened everyone’s craft. Students and their parents shared their work with each other in the class. They repaired final highlighted requests chosen by their members. These associates listened to what their partners said about their pieces and the criteria for the assignment.
After they were happy with the content of their text, they edited, reread, edited, and reread while using “Spell Check” and a “Language, Thesaurus”. The last stage was the publication of their artistry.
We printed our magazine in-house-a vanity press operation. I am sure that you can imagine that our students enjoyed seeing themselves in print. These magazines were available for purchase and also for viewing in the library. In addition, they were cumulative over several years and consisting of over one hundred pages. These stages of writing process produced several drafts until the final “perfect” rendition was ready. How exciting!!
Can you imagine the excitement your child would have to be published at such a young age? Did you check to see if your child had a school-wide magazine? Maybe your child could write about Valentines Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Memorial Day, Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. The writing choices are limitless. These interests are worthwhile and give your children validation?
Aren’t you more interested in the excitement of writing? There are writing classes advertised in your city’s brochure. Also, check the YMCA prices, and your local two or four year institution. The Learning Tree University also offers writing classes, but for an increased monetary amount. There are also on-line classes. You both will learn writing skills which would be your craft that you can share with your child.
And remember that this is the time that young girls’ and boys’ thoughts turn to love. Why not make their interests worthwhile and give them validation? Their choices are unbounded and so are yours!
It is now March. Do your child’s thoughts turn to love and spring? Have you ever thought of expressing your thoughts on paper? Would you and your child like to compose together? You both could convey your innermost thoughts. This is an opportunity for an innovative focus on education. Read on. I’ll show you how to write!
How about an example of the importance and enjoyment of writing for “The Bulldog Magazine?” I taught middle school and published this magazine for students. In March, my editorial board judged the student manuscripts which followed a standardized rubric. This was an arduous task, therefore only publishing those pieces with the top scores. Did you know the magazine also had an editorial committee as for our artists and followed the same procedure?
You can be a published writer also. Now, here are the basics. The Writing Process begins with a storyboard which is a precursor to the actual script. When I taught, my students composed a sentence and drew a picture for his or her proposed writing exercises. Then, I asked them to think of a title for this poetry or prose. We shared this title with the entire classroom and this creation belonged exclusively to each individual child.
The students even invited their parents to join our writing class. They chose to draft companion “pieces.” Research has shown that the family that shared a common interest (i.e. writing) had far fewer adjustment problems.
Revision of work was actually the most enjoyable part of writing and strengthened everyone’s craft. Students and their parents shared their work with each other in the class. They repaired final highlighted requests chosen by their members. These associates listened to what their partners said about their pieces and the criteria for the assignment.
After they were happy with the content of their text, they edited, reread, edited, and reread while using “Spell Check” and a “Language, Thesaurus”. The last stage was the publication of their artistry.
We printed our magazine in-house-a vanity press operation. I am sure that you can imagine that our students enjoyed seeing themselves in print. These magazines were available for purchase and also for viewing in the library. In addition, they were cumulative over several years and consisting of over one hundred pages. These stages of writing process produced several drafts until the final “perfect” rendition was ready. How exciting!!
Can you imagine the excitement your child would have to be published at such a young age? Did you check to see if your child had a school-wide magazine? Maybe your child could write about Valentines Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Memorial Day, Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. The writing choices are limitless. These interests are worthwhile and give your children validation?
Aren’t you more interested in the excitement of writing? There are writing classes advertised in your city’s brochure. Also, check the YMCA prices, and your local two or four year institution. The Learning Tree University also offers writing classes, but for an increased monetary amount. There are also on-line classes. You both will learn writing skills which would be your craft that you can share with your child.
And remember that this is the time that young girls’ and boys’ thoughts turn to love. Why not make their interests worthwhile and give them validation? Their choices are unbounded and so are yours!
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