Note: I’m currently working on the post regarding the Worm and the Water Cooler (which must sound strange if you don’t follow this blog – for context, see this post). In any case, I was nearly done when I realized it required another illustration. It takes me a good, oh, I don’t know… day or two just to draw a face. So the chances of posting this week were looking pretty slim. I decided to pull one from the vaults. This is a post from June 3, 2015 — my first year blogging. In fact, this was my 10th post and I think I had all of 10 followers. (Pretty sure they were all family.) It includes a recipe because I did that back then. Hope you enjoy it.
My Glorious Summer of ’76
Growing up in the 70s was great. I’m not even talking about the movies and music from that era, though we had some fine ones, have to admit.
What I’m talking about is the total lack of parental supervision. Even if a parent stayed home, they pretty much left us to our own devices.
It was great.
Brother and I had it even better, as our older siblings had already moved out. Meaning total lack of supervision, baby!
Frankly, it’s a wonder we didn’t burn the whole place down.
A few days ago we had our first real, honest-to-goodness snowstorm. It’s Dog’s first and she’s not sure what to make of it.
I, on the other hand, love it.
I also love the gray skies and the way my phone claimed it was -4° when I woke up yesterday.
Mind over matter, folks. Mind over matter.
I’ve always loved snow so this desert gal is glad to be back in it. The -4 and dropping?
Hey, I can handle it. As long as I have my LL Bean boots and down coat, I’ve got this.
I’m pretty sure our neighbors think we’re crazy. Moving from Phoenix, AZ to central Minnesota was the first clue, but when a grown woman tromps around in the snow and giggles?
Yeah, she’s a nut-job.
But then I’ve always been a little crazy when it comes to snow. Like, for instance, the time when I prayed for it.
I was an innocent preteen, back when there were such things, and we were headed to South Dakota in early October to celebrate my grandparents’ 50th anniversary. We usually visited them in June or July, on account of school, but I was a good student and my teachers gave me plenty of work to keep me occupied for the entire 10-day trip. (I finished it in two.)
When my parents announced the trip, I was beyond thrilled. For the first time in my life, I might see snow!
Okay, let’s back up. I’d seen snow before, but I’d never been in it. Never felt it upon my face. In the winter Dad might drive us a couple hours north of Phoenix, point out the window and say, “Look guys, there’s snow.” That was about it.
Twelve years old and never built a snowman.
But now, in South Dakota, in early October? Will it snow?
“It’s too early for that,” Dad said.
Mom agreed. “It never snows this early.”
Never? Never ever?
“Well, it’s highly unlikely.”
So there’s a possibility?
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
But I wasn’t leaving it all to chance. Every night, I made my requests known unto the Lord.
Please, oh please, oh pleeeease, let it snow! I don’t need a lot, just enough for a snowman. That’s all. All I want is to feel it on my face and build a snowman. That’s it. Please?!
Every night, over and over. (I was a strange 12-year-old.)
We left Phoenix on October 2. Two days later we were at a motel in Nebraska, right at the border to South Dakota. It was morning, our last day of travel, maybe three hours from my grandparent’s house. Dad took our luggage to the car.
He walked back in. “It’s snowing,” he said. Not happily.
I zoomed past him.
“Christi, get your shoes on!”
“Prayer works!” I cried.
Alleluia and praise be! This is the snow that the Lord has made, Let us rejoice and be glad in it!
My South Dakota relatives were not amused. It was one thing to deal with an early snowfall, but to find out your young relation had prayed for it? Hoo-boy, that didn’t sit well.
Even so, two of my uncles and one cousin aided me in my quest for a snowman. Despite everyone’s belief there wasn’t enough snow.
O ye of little faith. I knew better.
I had prayed for “just enough” snow and that’s what we had. Along with a lovely coating of leaves for rustic charm.
Uncle Bobby loaned his hat, Uncle Richard fashioned a pipe from a stick, Cousin Sheila found some fallen apples for the eyes and nose.
My first snowman.
You know, it’s funny. As much as I love this picture and the flood of memories it gives me, I don’t really believe it was divine intervention that created that snowstorm.
Had it happened today, my dad would have checked his weather app before we left Phoenix and would have known all about the storm. And he probably would have stopped off at a gas station to buy his silly daughter gloves because she forgot to pack them.
Don’t get me wrong — I believe in prayer and I pray daily.
Well, mostly daily. Sometimes I forget. (Hey, I’m human.)
I think far too often we confuse God with Santa Claus:
“If I’m a good girl and I pray really hard, God will give me what I want.”
Sorry. Doesn’t work like that.
I read something recently that said prayer is about making yourself open to a relationship with God.
Which, when you think about it, is a whole lot more scary and probably why I “forget” to do it.
Like I said, I’m human.
In any case, that’s my take on the situation. Maybe you have different views and that’s okay. There’s room enough for all here.
But right now there’s a layer of snow in my backyard with more to come, that’s for sure. And while I have no plans of building any snowmen, I remember a time when I did. With complete confidence it was God who made it possible.
And who knows? Maybe that 12-year-old girl had it right.
For context, see this article on how several towns are making it illegal for teenagers to go trick-or-treating.
However you stand on the proper age for trick-or-treating, you gotta admit that spending time and energy on passing a law is the type of folly this blog feeds upon. 🤗
Hello, I’m Roger Stolid and this is your evening news.
Our lead story tonight — trick-or-treaters are making their rounds tonight, but before you pass out those mini-Snickers, be aware: You might be abetting a criminal. On location with this story is Paula Propellant. Paula, what have you found out for us?
Paula: Thank you, Roger. Yes, it’s true, some of these trick-or-treaters are risking steep fines and possible jail time for soliciting suckers from citizens. I’m standing at the corner of 12th and Ambrose Street and by my side is Officer Handy, who’s been patrolling the area. Officer, who are these desperate individuals seeking sweets?
Off Handy: Well, Paula, it’s now illegal for anyone over the age of twelve to trick-or-treat, and that means we got ourselves a situation. Fact is, some teenagers think it’s fun to get all dressed up like, oh, I don’t know, vampires or serial killers or Hello Kitty. And that’s all well and good. But if we catch them going door-to-door asking for candy? We’re just gonna have to run them in.
Paula: I see. What should homeowners do if they suspect one of the children at their door is past the age of legal trick-or-treating? Should they attempt any action on their own?
Off Handy: No, I don’t recommend that. There’s no telling what a teenager might do in that kind of situation. I’d say the best course of action would be to ask their age and if they’re over twelve, tell them to kindly step away from your porch. But if they say they’re younger and you think they’re lying? You can call the station with a description and we’ll send someone over.
Paula: I see. They could say something like, “There’s a witch on fifth street who looks old enough to drive.”
Off Handy: Exactly.
Paula: What do we tell parents whose child looks big for their age? Like, let’s say their ten-year-old looks fifteen? Should they be concerned?
Off Handy: We’ve thought of that Paula. What we’re recommending to parents is if their Tommy makes a tall mummy, consider slipping his birth certificate into his treat bag. That way if anyone detains him, he can prove his age.
Paula: What if they bring their school ID? Would that help?
Off Handy: Problem there Paula is school IDs don’t show their age, and we might have a SquareBob SpongePants who’s been held back a few years.
Paula: You mean SpongeBob SquarePants?
Off Handy: Yeah, that guy.
Paula: I see what you mean. Like over there, that boy in the banana suit. He looks like he needs a shave.
Off Handy: I’m on it! Hey, you there! Drop the candy! (Runs across street; Banana splits.)
Paula: Thank you, Officer Handy. Roger, we’re also speaking with Bella Buttinsky, head of the local watchdog group, No Treats for Teens. Bella, when did your group start meeting?
Bella: Let’s see… I guess it started after last Halloween. One of my neighbors posted on Facebook that a Batman grabbed her whole bowl of candy. I mean, he just took it! The whole bowl! So we were all like, how old was he? That sort of thing. She was pretty sure he was a teenager. It’s a real problem. These kids are just too blame old to be trick-or-treating. I know with my kids–
Paula: So all this is on account of one rogue Batman?
Bella: No, he just started it. Her post wound up going viral. I think it got over a hundred likes.
Paula: I don’t think that’s what “going viral” means.
Bella: Well, there were tons of comments. Everyone agreed teenagers were ruining Halloween. I mean, honestly, parents need to–
Paula: Did you have any specific concerns about teenagers? Other than the lone Batman?
Bella: Of course we did! Anytime you get a group of teenagers hanging around together, you’re just asking for trouble. They’ll be smoking, drinking… they could be selling drugs to your little princesses and cowboys. Listen, all you have to do is let your imagination run wild and then you’ll see my point.
Bella: And teenagers are just plain rude. The little kids will take whatever candy you give them, but these older kids are all like, “Don’t you have chocolate?” and “I hate coconut.”
Paula: Okay, thank you, Bella.
Bella: If you’re begging for candy, you take what you get!
Paula: Thank you for talking with us, Bella.
Bella: Where are their parents? That’s what I want to know. I mean, when my kids were little–
Paula: Thank you, Bella. Roger, we were hoping to speak to someone in favor of teens trick-or-treating — or just in favor of teens in general — but we couldn’t find anyone. Until now, that is. Roger, this is Bud Light, a concerned citizen and father of the banana we saw earlier. Mr. Light, were you aware there was an age restriction on trick-or-treating?
Bud: Damn straight, I knew.
Paula: And yet you allowed your son to go trick-or-treating?
Bud: Allowed him? Hell, I told him to do it! I said, “Son, if you want to go out with your friends and enjoy Halloween, you damn well do it.” I even helped pay for the banana.
Paula: Even though you knew he might get fined or arrested?
Bud: Oh hell, the banana suit cost more than the fine. Listen, it ain’t often the boy still wants to do something fun from his childhood. If it means I have to pay a little fine to help him do it, then I damn well will.
Paula: I see. But what if the fine was higher? What if it was five hundred dollars?
Bud: The fine is five hundred dollars?
Paula: No, I think it’s a hundred dollars.
Bud: It’s a hundred dollars?! He told me it was twenty-five dollars! That damn kid lied to me! (runs across street)
Paula: Sir? Sir?!
Bud: (from a distance) Someone grab that banana!
Paula: Well, that’s it from me. Back to you, Roger.
Roger: Paula, what about adults? Can adults trick-or-treat?
Paula: I don’t think so, Roger. The law states no one over the age of twelve.
Roger: Oh, that’s a shame. Guess I’ll have to break it to the wife. Haha.
Paula: Haha. Happy Halloween, Roger.
Roger: Happy Halloween, Paula. And Happy Halloween to all our viewers out there. Have fun, be safe, and keep a lookout for fugitive bananas.
If you’d rather I read this story to you (think of it as story time for grownups) click here:
Once upon a time there was a very useful garden shed; it was made of wood and painted red. It had no windows, but it had two big doors that stuck a little in humid weather.
The shed belonged to a blogger named CJ Hartwell.
CJ was a gardener, or at least she liked to say she was a gardener. Between you and me, she kinda let things go to seed.
One afternoon on a frosty October day, CJ decided it was time to pick the last of the apples on her apple tree. She put on her coat and her Isotoner gloves and walked out to her garden shed to get a ladder. For the apples were very high on the tree and she could not reach them.
First, she unlatched the big wooden doors and pulled them all the way open. Next, she pulled out her seldom used lawn mower and her even more seldom used rake. And who do you suppose she saw hiding behind the rake?
Why, it was none other than Ethan, who made the garden shed his home.
Ethan was a mouse.
Ethan looked at CJ; CJ looked at Ethan.
Ethan didn’t say anything because Ethan was a quiet, unassuming little mouse. CJ did say some things, but we will not repeat them here because some of the words were naughty, and good little boys and girls ought never to use them.
Ethan didn’t know what the fuss was about, for while the garden shed was a modest home, he did his mousy best to keep it tidy and clean. So he squeaked a soft little squeak, which was to say, “I’ve seen your house, lady. You think you can do better?”
Did it do any good? No! CJ stomped her feet on the floor making a terrible racket!
This frightened poor Ethan something awful. He called out to his very special lady friend, Tiffany, who had come home with Ethan after a romantic evening together in the woods.
At this particular moment, Tiffany was on CJ’s bicycle.
Mid-stomp, CJ saw Tiffany scurry down the bicycle. She garbled a few more choice words for now there were two mice!
Ethan called out to Tiffany, “Hey babe, over here!” and together they raced underneath the ladder that was leaning against the wall.
Quick as a flash, or rather stumbling in her haste, CJ put the mower and rake back in the shed and shut the doors, latching them tight. She said to herself, “Screw it! The apples can rot!”
Then she went inside her house and opened a bottle of red wine that she had bought at Costco for $8.99. She had two glasses, one for each mouse.
After her second glass, she decided mice in the shed were better than mice in the house, and she was very happy she had a cat in the house.
As for Ethan and Tiffany, they were very happy CJ left. They agreed the less they saw of her the better, but Tiffany did enjoy a nice bike ride now and again.
Later that evening, Tiffany made a nice dinner of mushroom salad with a rotten apple compote. Ethan said it was the best meal he’d ever had.
Afterward they had consensual sex and fell asleep in the bed Ethan fashioned out of an empty box of Milk Duds.
Not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but I have an apple tree.
Here, look upon my apple tree:
Beautiful, is it not?
Better yet, it provides a marvelous view from my kitchen sink.
Here, look upon the view from my kitchen sink:
The window screen makes it a little fuzzy, but you get the idea. It’s a damn fine view.
For comparison sake, here was the view from my former kitchen sink:
You’re probably wondering why I bothered taking a picture of a brick wall.
About three months ago, give or take a day, I got a wee bit concerned about our move from Arizona to Minnesota.
I started thinking that at some future point — say, in February when it’s 30 below here and 70 in Phoenix — I’ll think to myself, “HOLY FREAKIN’ COW, WHAT HAVE I DONE?!”
So in preparation for that event, I took pictures of all the things in our Phoenix home that drove me nuts. Hence, the picture of a brick wall.
(Just curious, what’s that say about a person who plans ahead for panic attacks?)
I also have shots of my kids’ rooms (cleaning is not their strong suit), our “music room” (it was more a catch-all room), and – my personal favorite — a stack of dirty dishes one of my kids left by the empty sink.
The question is, will looking at a picture of dirty dishes ease the pain of moving away from my kids?
Um… yeah. It has. (I’m a monster.)
Anyway, back to the apples. I’ve no idea what kind they are except they are wonderful for baking. (Score!) Also, I’ve come to a better understanding of why commercial growers use chemicals. Up close and personal, my apples are not pretty.
Tell me, would you pay good money for these apples?
Neither would I. Yet they’re delicious in your morning oatmeal with a bit of cinnamon and brown sugar.
So far I’ve made a couple pies, muffins, several bowls of oatmeal, and a wonderful cake that I will share with you in a moment.
(*gasp* She’s actually sharing a recipe?!)
This weekend I plan on picking the entire tree; I believe it’s time and the bugs have had enough of a feast. I foresee a batch of applesauce and apple butter in my future.
But first, cake!
This cooler weather (54° this morning) put me in the mood for baking. I scoured my cookbooks for recipes using apples and found no less than five for cake, all a tad different. I took what I liked best from each (more apples and spices here, less oil and eggs there, ooh a glaze!) and came up with this one. It turned out marvelous and it works either as a coffee cake or a dessert.
By the way, the town in which I now live has the best coffee. Really! It’s a downtown shop called Reality Roasters. Their beans might cost a little more, but dang, they’re worth it.
Granola or rolled oats for topping (I used Full Circle’s oats & honey granola)
Glaze (see below)
Mix together sugar, oil, eggs and apples. In separate bowl mix together flour, spices, salt, and baking soda. Add to the apple mixture, stir well and pour into a greased 13 x 9″ baking pan. Sprinkle with about 1/2 cup of granola or rolled oats. Bake at 350° for 50 to 60 minutes, until cake tester comes out clean. Prepare glaze while cake cools.
Butterscotch Glaze: In small saucepan over medium heat, stir together 2 Tablespoons butter, 3 Tablespoons brown sugar and 2 Tablespoons heavy cream or half-n-half. Bring to a boil and stir for one minute. Remove from heat and stir in 1 teaspoon vanilla extract. Let cool slightly and drizzle on top of cake.
Can serve warm or cooled. 🍂
*I know it sounds like a lot, but the two teaspoons of baking soda is correct. 🙂
What does the Teacher require, but to sit still, do your work, and keep your eyes on your own paper?
Bring me a student who desires knowledge and I will fill her up.
But yea, the students of Babylon do not study.
The Snapchat and the Tumblr, they cry out to them.
They hear not my voice,
I weep for this generation.
Thus says the Teacher:
There shall be no cellphones in this classroom. No cellphone shall be on your desk, nor in your hand. Nay, I do not wish to see it. Put it away, for it displeases me.
It shall make no sound and neither shall you text. Not to your friend nor your mother shall you text.
Laws Pertaining to Food and Drink
You shall not have snacks in the Classroom; the eating of food is strictly forbidden. You shall not bring in bags of potato chips and open them, neither shall you eat them, for I hate the crunching noise.
Of crunching you shall not do.
Of drink, you may have bottled water. No soda may you drink, neither shall you have anything with a straw, for then you make that slurping sound when it is almost gone and push the straw up and down so it makes that squeaky noise.
There shall be no squeaky noise.
And when your bottle of water you have emptied, you shall not squeeze the bottle in your hand and make the crinkly sound.
Lo, how I detest the crinkly sound.
Of Tardies and Absences
For the first two days, of these you may be late, but after these two days you shall not be late. No, never shall you be late.
Why are you late? No, do not speak. I turn my ear from your excuses; they displease me. You shall be thrown into detention, where there is groaning and gnashing of teeth.
I say it again: do not be late.
Of absences, there shall be none. But if you are absent, your parent or guardian must call, or else there shall be no makeup work. You will fail, and oh, how great your failure!
Woe to the student who does not do their homework, for they shall lose points.
Of Extra Credit, there is no Extra Credit. O Foolish one, why do you ask?
Do the work, and no Extra Credit do you require.
Limitations of Teacher Authority
There are no limitations of Teacher authority. Nay, I say it again, there are none.
Do not question my authority, for the one who questions my authority will be thrown into detention, where there is groaning and gnashing of teeth.
I, the Teacher, have spoken.
Sharpen your pencils! Grab your notebook!
For I shall put you to the test!
It shall be multiple choice and short essay.
Blessed are they who listen, for they shall find wisdom.
Their grade point average shall not falter, forevermore.
O Legislature! O Destroyer!
You cut funding and raise up standardized tests against me!
But I, the Teacher, shall not fail,
Neither shall I surrender; nay, never shall I surrender.
Though one day, maybe next year, I shall retire.
A condo by the lake would be nice.
How pleasing it is when a child learns,
It is like honey on the lips and lovely to my sight.
I, the Teacher, have spoken.
Here’s wishing all my teacher friends their best year EVER! ❤️
It’s their first visit since we moved here, the first they saw our new place, the first time they’ve been in Minnesota.
Before they arrived, I told Husband how strange it felt. It was like I wanted to show off the place, impress them a little. He agreed.
We wanted them to understand why we abandoned them in Arizona.
Now let’s be clear, we knew we didn’t really abandon them. They are in their early 20s, old enough to be on their own. They have jobs, they have an apartment, they have family and friends nearby.
Why do these images persist? My daughter is at an intersection with a cardboard sign: “Hungry, Motherless, Please Help”
Son is on a street downtown, playing his keyboard. He’s got a hat in front of him and he’s singing…
When you comin’ home dad? I don’t know when. But we’ll get together then. You know we’ll have a good time then.
We parents love riding that old guilt train, don’t we? If there isn’t enough to feel guilty about, we’ll make something up to fill the void. (One mother told me she felt guilty her daughter had to wear glasses. If she had eaten better when she was pregnant, maybe her daughter’s vision would be better.)
So it was good for us to see they were doing fine. Somehow for these last six weeks, they managed to keep themselves fed, clothed and sheltered.
They liked our new house, agreed the area was pretty. They seemed to enjoy Minnesota but thought our evenings were a little cold (HA HA, wimpy Arizonans!).
Still, I wondered what they thought of our moving. Did they understand? Did they think we were nuts?
It was a short trip as they had to get back for work, but before we dropped them off at the airport, we walked around Mall of America. We discovered it is one FREAKIN’ big mall. It has its own amusement park, for cryin’ out loud.
Husband and Son went on Ghost Blasters, Daughter and I did our roller coaster thing.
At some point (it may have been on the plunge down), a thought occurred to me: Our kids aren’t thinking about us.
Do you remember back when you were young and out on your own? When we’re trying to figure out the whole adult thing and find our way in the cold, cruel world? The one thing we weren’t doing at the time was sitting around wondering what our parents were up to. We had our own concerns and our parents didn’t enter into it.
Which is how it should be. Right?
They left the nest and are doing their thing, and now mama and papa bird have to figure out their thing.
Until I hit the photo albums and, like a damned fool, I open one…
This is a picture of my dad with two Army buddies. Written on the back:
Swimming at Kamakura Beach July, 1946
My dad is the one on the left, but the other two? No idea.
As many stories as he told us about his childhood and family history, of his Army days he spoke very little.
I should have posted these on Memorial Day.
Moving on, here’s a photo of me as a baby, making five generations of my mom’s family:
On the far left is my grandmother, next to her is her father, and seated is his mother, my great-great-grandmother, Kate Goodroad.
There are three things I want to point out about this photo:
My mother’s dress. It’s lovely, don’t you think? She rarely wore dresses, so I’m thinking this was taken after church and given my age, we must have still been living in South Dakota.
The photo on the wall behind my mom — doesn’t it look like two cats? Did my great-great-grandmother like cats? Did she have cats? (I think I would have liked her.)
Look closely at the chair great-great-grandmother is sitting on. Specifically, the back and arm rests. See the dish towels? Every old person on my mom’s side of the family used dishtowels as chair protectors. It was the Goodroad/Jurgens way.
Several months after that photo was taken, my family moved to sunny Phoenix, Arizona, where we had a dog named Foxy.
Here’s a picture of Foxy in his doghouse:
I should point out that Foxy was black, so all you can see is his tongue.
Also in Phoenix, we had an above-ground pool:
I sure seem happy, don’t I?
And look at my brother Dean, standing behind me. He kind of looks like he’s planning something.
I wonder what?
What happened next, Dean?! Huh? WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?!
Oh, look! We have pictures from Husband’s childhood, too!
Here’s Husband with his trumpet, looking oh so cool and jazzy:
Do you think they planned this photo, or was it just happy coincidence the shadow landed as it did?
Also, I feel it should be pointed out, had Husband put more effort into his playing? Let’s say, practiced day and night? This would have made a mighty fine album cover.
Even so, I’m happy to report he played in his high school band.
Lucky for you, he gave me permission to post his band picture. His exact words: “Oh, I don’t care.”
As much criticism leveled against public schools nowadays, it might be tempting to think it was better in the past. Back when there was no standardized testing or government interference, back when parents had complete control. Then you read something about that earlier time and you realize it was only the rich who could afford good teachers; the rest of us poor slobs were on our own.
Continuing on with our perusal through my Great-Aunt Clara’s writings in Pioneer Memoirs, we come across her memories of school, or rather, the pioneer version of school. Specifically, two teachers whom she remembers fondly, however incompetent they turned out to be.
Keep in mind she’s writing this in 1911, regarding events that happened nearly 50 years prior. Imagine in this small country parsonage, somewhere in Dane County, Wisconsin, there lived our spunky writer, along with her parents and 10 younger siblings.
Someone must teach the children, yes? With no Board of Education or government funding, you take what you can get.
“One of them was old Berentsen. He must have died years ago. He came from Lindesnes in the southern part of Norway; “near the lighthouse at Lindesnes,” he said.
He had been a teacher of navigation. He tried to get a job teaching parochial school and pestered the minister with his many and lengthy testimonials. Once he was really allowed to try teaching, but he was not fitted for it, for, as a farmer declared, “We might just as well have a cow to teach school as this Berentsen.”
It was his first and last effort in these parts.
I remember Berentsen well — the square figure, the red wig, and the straggling hair handing beneath it. He had all his belongings in a bag that he carried on his back. He always shook hands, Mother said, with such a fierce grip that her fingers tingled.
She always treated him like a guest and never showed that he was not especially welcome. It amused us children to see him eat, for he had an unusually good appetite. He was not troubled with dyspepsia.
When he had eaten he always read the newspapers. He also read certain books. He asked permission to read Holberg’s Comedies nearly every time he came. He sat and read in a half whisper, chuckling as he read. Poor old man! Then he forgot his troubles and sorrows and lived in another world far away, where no doubt schoolmasters led a far more honored existence than fell to his lot.
Old Hans Heegaard was in many respects a complete contrast to Berentsen. Tall and thin I remember him, with an almost military bearing.
His long, well-worn coat was carefully brushed. He had a large neckerchief that he tied with great care. He would stand before the mirror as long as any lady of fashion. He would spread his silvery locks to cover his bare head. I remember how pleased he was once when Mother gave him a new neckerchief. He did not like to share the bedroom with John, the hired man who had been with us so long that he was a real factotum.
Heegaard once told Mother something about himself when he was in a talkative mood. In his youth he had been a clerk in one of the larger cities in Norway. He had gotten into gay drinking parties with like-minded companions and so gradually he went down. In brief, it was the old story — he lost, step by step, money, position, friends, health, all. By an accident he came to America, where for some time now he had wandered about in the Norwegian settlements.
He had also tried his luck as schoolmaster, presumably with not much better success than his colleague, Berentsen. When Heegaard came to us, he always asked Mother in his most polite manner, “O dear Mrs. Jacobson, may I stay a couple of days? I’m so tired and poorly.” Mother, of course, could not say no. The “couple of days” usually became weeks.
I remember the time brother Jacob was to learn to read. He was rather slow and had no liking for the A-B-C’s. As Heegaard happened to be there at this time, Mother proposed that he should undertake to be Jacob’s tutor. Heegaard expressed his willingness, and the lessons began quite impressively but were very short ones. The boy read about five minutes and then had a recess that lasted till Heegaard saw Mother, when he would tap at the windowpane and call, “Jacob, Jacob, you must come in again.” Soon both teacher and pupil became sick and tired of the reading and the boy had a vacation until Mother took hold in earnest.
As much as I love Clara’s description of these two men — it’s a wonder she never attempted a novel, right? — for my own part, I appreciate our modern version of schools. In particular, our teachers.
Here in Arizona, we are in our fifth day of teacher strikes. Their demands are modest. In a nutshell: competitive salaries and for school funding to be returned to 2008 levels. It is expected our legislature will have a favorable meeting today and classes will resume tomorrow. (Keep your fingers crossed.)
Due to being out-of-town, I haven’t been part of either the marches or the “Stand-Out” groups on city corners. But I have to say, the site of our downtown being turned into a sea of red is indeed lovely…