tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30260200124659236522024-02-19T01:11:17.631-05:00Mary's MiscellanyMary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-79868242440469230542021-02-12T08:58:00.000-05:002021-02-12T08:58:44.592-05:00Fourteen Ways<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">Around 1995, when MCSD decided that teachers should use technology as a teaching aid, I was an Instructional Technology Specialist, with the responsibility to help them learn how use their new computers. Some of my “students” had never touched a computer, did not want to touch a computer, and were extremely frustrated with my directions. In a computer basics class, a very bright and annoyed teacher let me know that I was showing them several ways to do a task when all they wanted to learn was ONE way. More was a waste of time. (I think this was during a copy/paste exercise.) No right-clicks. No keyboard shortcuts. Just menus, thank you. From then on, I prefaced introductory exercises in all my classes with the statement that there were 14 ways to do everything on a computer, but I would show them just one for now. This assertion, never challenged or questioned in basic classes, became something of a trademark. Over the years I started teaching more advanced classes in specific programs and still continued using that statement, which was then greeted with understanding smiles.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img alt="14 Fan" border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="197" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuudqQcOFWY2g4cAnJ61VfJTBAim_NTZBUHP8lryOPWVUmfz48JcNRwm8aUC4YRDrkbiCfXNM7JK8N-pjM5jpFVImyAOlF4MYVz057mCy29Eh45MkMp433CB7H4p7en_vl0mW1-KlfSyT3/w152-h216/14_ed3.jpg" width="152" /></span>
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</div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My favorite assignment was working with Staff Development’s mentor teachers. That was a loud, funny, and dedicated group. They actually wanted to learn what I wanted to teach them. Wow! A teacher’s dream! We usually had day-long classes in one of Claflin’s old classrooms, sometimes with a lunch break at Rose Hill. During the morning of an intermediate PowerPoint class, I noticed something puzzling about the class. They would occasionally look at each other and smile. And sometimes give a little sigh. That afternoon we started on an entirely new procedure, and I finally said it: “And how many ways can we do this?” Within seconds, they reached into their notebooks and happily held up fans (like church fans) that they had made. There was a big “14” on each fan. And then we all laughed so hard we cried. I loved those folks! I loved them then, and I love them now. Through Facebook, over the retirement years, we have re-kindled that connection, that bond, by our jokes centering around “14 times.” And now one of us is gone. I can’t count the times Tina and I sent a “14” chuckle from one wi-fi to another. Oh, how I will miss that. There are 14 ways to be a friend.</span><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Written for Tina Jones, February 9, 2021</span></p>
Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-60914949185233019282020-10-19T20:46:00.000-04:002020-10-19T20:46:14.856-04:00Random Thoughts about Bibles<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3"></font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font face="Arial" size="3"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TB_bible.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjit2Tf3bLD0EBGCNJ8ZDui6hU0F2l46G7UQ_LEwEt-_DoQUXR_WNXCD4MTqjda3rXjIniUiONgq3wfDWzMuJ2whFCNDX_xnqalna20f5b4jd0F5OhyqagVkawiXFlZUJ2IPwYDxuOrE2Bs/s320/TB_bible.jpg" /></a></font></div><font face="Arial" size="3"><b>How many Bibles do you have?</b><br />
</font><p></p><p></p><font face="Arial" size="3">I can’t
count all the Bibles in my house; they’re upright and horizontal on shelves,
displayed flat on tables (at the proper angles, of course), and stacked in
boxes. And then there is that software program on my laptop. And the app that
pops up scripture verses on my cell phone.</font>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3"><b><i>Which Bible do you
read</i></b><i>?<br />
</i> <br />
Is it the one your mother gave you when you were six, or the one your church
gave to you when you graduated from high school? Is it the weird version you
bought to prove how enlightened you were at 14? Maybe it’s the white Bible you
carried down the aisle? (Nah, can’t read that one; it might get dirty.) Or maybe
it’s your husband’s great-grandmother’s Bible that contains the dates of family
marriages and births way back when—the one with the pages so brittle that you’re
afraid to open it. </font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3"><b>Do you have a special
Bible?<br />
</b> <br />
Nearly four decades ago, an
aunt presented me with an important gift, my paternal grandfather’s Bible. Rebound and sporting a brand-new cover with his name engraved in gold letters
and looking painfully unused, this Bible has been open maybe twice since it
arrived in my house. Quite a contrast to the frequency of its earlier use when
this sometimes-itinerant Methodist minister used it for studying and preaching.
But now it looks good—if somewhat out of place—closed tight on an antique desk
with other collections. (It’s also proof that he wins the Most Unwieldy Name
Contest: Rev. Thaddeus Bedolia Barrow.) </font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3"><b><i>Which version do you
prefer?<br />
</i></b> <br />
As a child who was
forced/bribed (I just had to get those stars on my chart!) to memorize verses
from the KJV, I now miss the sometimes arcane words and poetic phrasings from
1600s England whenever the minister reads a “modern” and more accurately
translated version. Somehow the old just <i>sounds</i> better than the new. Does
it bother you that the minister sometimes reads one version and the pew Bible is
another version and a child trying to learn to read can’t follow along because
his Bible has different words? I remember the bafflement in the eyes of two
young sons and then two young grandsons when the words just didn’t match. </font>
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3">(And we, as a church, still
haven’t solved that <i>version</i> problem, but we have worked on the <i>
politically correct word</i> problem. The <i>politically correct word</i>
solution is now in effect in our hymnal. You should thank me for not getting
started with my opinions about all the substitutions for “him” and “man” and
“mankind” that are now in our official songbook. You know, those changes that
make you flinch when you sing the “wrong” words because you’re OLD! Oh, this
paragraph is off-topic. Sorry. I added parentheses to show that I KNOW this
rambling is off-topic. But I’m not going to delete it.) </font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3">When I was teaching the high
school Sunday School class, I bought a parallel Bible, with four different
versions on a two-page spread. That was helpful in studying and preparing to
teach a class but not particularly helpful in reading for inspiration. My
current Bible, which is in a nice-looking multi-colored carrying case with a
handle--a totally necessary accessory--is titled The New Oxford Annotated Bible
and copyrighted 1991. It is also labeled New Revised Standard Version. I’m
already confused. So which one is it? This Bible is a mess: underlining on most
pages, untidy margin notes, and church programs haphazardly stuffed between
pages with almost undecipherable thoughts scrawled everywhere. Guess I’ll just
get a new Bible and start over—if I can figure out which version I need.</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3"><b>What is your most
overwhelming experience with a Bible?<br />
</b> <br />
Mine was not an emotional, heart-warming experience. It was when I tore out two
pages from our pulpit Bible. Yep. Read that again. Wait, I’ll do it for you: I
tore out two pages from our pulpit Bible. This devastating memory goes all the
way back to the early 70s. Someone called early one Saturday morning to summon
me to the church to clean up after a break-in. Entering through the broken door
in the Sunday School wing, about six of us found some disturbing scenes, some
that still pop up in my head occasionally. The crib mattresses in the nursery
had been slashed by knives, and the blackboards in the children’s rooms were
filled with obscenities. Anti-church and anti-government obscenities. In the
sanctuary, the US and Christian flags, dirty with footprints, were on the floor,
and the flagpoles were in pieces throughout the room. The metal cross on the
Christian flag had been snapped off and thrown under the back pew. The next stop
on the horror show was the pulpit. The large, treasured, and very old pulpit
Bible was open, and piled on a page was, well, to say it carefully, a big pile
of dog mess. </font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3">Because there were problems
throughout the church, we divided up responsibilities. I was assigned to the
sanctuary. To our dismay, my partner and I found that the moisture had
thoroughly soaked two pages of the Bible and stained two others. Although we
brainstormed frantically and cleaned carefully for an agonizing time, we knew
the stain--and the smell--had totally ruined the two pages. Neither of us wanted
to tear them out, but I finally performed that near-sacrilegious act. And put
them in the trash bag. That was very traumatic for me, but I felt a little
better after we glued the broken cross back on the top of the Christian
flagpole. The crack was visible only from a close-up view, and we gratefully
celebrated that the flagpole was in the almost-good-as-new category.</font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3">I was teaching the adult
Sunday School class at the time and incorporated the topic of the vandalism into
the lesson the next day. We talked about our responsibility to pray for others,
and then I asked the class how they felt about praying for the vandals. First,
there was total silence. For a long time. Then, there were halting comments
expressing feelings we weren’t proud of. We wound up having to pray for <i>us</i>,
because we simply were not able to pray for the vandals. We were angry. We didn’t want them to
be forgiven; we just wanted them caught and punished! That feeling, shared by
all present, was--and is--very disturbing to me. Even more disturbing than the
memory of tearing out those pages. </font></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><font face="Arial" size="3">And that disturbing feeling
could be the subject for another post.</font></p>
Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-72253444248489228072019-01-28T12:14:00.000-05:002019-01-28T12:25:40.430-05:00In Search of Heroes<br />
<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">On this anniversary of the Challenger explosion (1986), I
searched through my old files for a poem, a poem of anguish and questions. I don’t
remember why there was no school, but I was at home That Day typing a lesson, occasionally
looking at the TV to learn what was happening in our conquest of space. I
changed my lesson for the next day; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i>
is the poem we discussed as we talked about the concept of “hero.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">IN
SEARCH OF HEROES</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<table border="0" cellpadding="0" class="MsoNormalTable" style="mso-cellspacing: 1.5pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184; width: 60%px;">
<tbody>
<tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0; mso-yfti-lastrow: yes;">
<td style="padding: .75pt .75pt .75pt .75pt;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">Today,
Reagan said </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">you
"slipped the surly bonds of earth,"</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">but
slipping is more subtle, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">much
quieter, unwatched.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">You
rode into heaven on fiery, snorting horses </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">that
could not be controlled.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">You
knew the risks. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">We
had almost forgotten.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">You left us in a gigantic
fireball,</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">an
unplanned, not-quite-centered </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">fireworks
display,</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">a
spectacle of crashing color </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">that
would have been beautiful</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">had
we not lost so much.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">You
knew the risks. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">We
had almost forgotten.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">We together grieve,</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">a
nation not inured (not yet)</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">to
televiewed death,</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">a
nation astounded by failure--</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">deadly,
unthinkable failure--</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">where
we had become accustomed to success.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">Our children watched the
great adventure.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">Now
we worry about their troubled dreams. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">But
they wake from nightmares</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">easier
than we do.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">They
are too young to know</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">what
we had almost forgotten.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">Many have called you
heroes,</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">although
you did not quite </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">sail
among the stars.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">We
know your names and faces now--</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">death
your price for fame.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">Heroes
because you failed.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">Always in search of heroes,</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">we
were not prepared for failure.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">You
knew the risks. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">We
had almost forgotten.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">You reached, and came up
empty-handed.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"> <br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">So
did we.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;">January 28, 1986<br />
Mary Starke<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-91768349462971744832018-11-12T10:31:00.000-05:002018-11-12T11:13:15.628-05:00Musings of An Old English Teacher: Veterans Day<br />
Why isn’t there an apostrophe in Veterans Day? There’s one in Mother’s Day. (And why is that apostrophe before the “s”? There’s more than one mother.) Well, here’s the answer! The <a href="https://www.va.gov/opa/vetsday/vetday_faq.asp">United States Department of Veterans Affairs </a>website states that the possessive case (the one with the apostrophe) is not used because Veterans Day "is not a day that 'belongs' to veterans, it is a day for honoring all veterans."<br />
<br />
I also wondered about other related days and their occasions, like Armistice Day, Memorial Day, Decoration Day, and Remembrance Day. Are you up to a quiz? How much do you know about these special days?<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #990000;">VETERANS DAY</span></b><br />
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<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="6" style="width: 800px;"> <tbody>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">1.</td> <td>What is the purpose of Veterans Day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">2.</td> <td>How is Memorial Day different from Veterans Day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">3.</td> <td>When is Memorial Day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">4.</td> <td>What was the original name of Memorial Day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">5.</td> <td>Why is Veterans Day always on November 11?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">6.</td> <td>What is unusual about the time and date of the day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">7.</td> <td>What is the name of the final treaty?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">8.</td> <td>What was the original name of Veterans Day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">9.</td> <td>What President proposed the celebration of Armistice Day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">10.</td> <td>Who was President when the name was officially changed to Veterans Day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">11.</td> <td>Why was the name of Armistice Day changed to Veterans Day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">12.</td> <td>What is Remembrance Day?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" colspan="2" valign="top"><br />
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<b><i>VETERANS DAY ORIGINATED AFTER WORLD WAR I. WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT WORLD WAR I?</i></b></div>
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<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">13.</td> <td>What are the years of WWI?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">14.</td> <td>When did the US enter WWI?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">15.</td> <td>Why did the US enter WWI?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">16.</td> <td>At the time, WWI was called something else. What was it?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">17.</td> <td>Which country lost the most people in WWI?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">18.</td> <td>What started WWI?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">19.</td> <td>What are the names we gave to the two sides in WWI?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">20.</td> <td>What countries were on “our“ side?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">21.</td> <td>What countries did we fight?</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">22.</td> <td>What are the best-known battles of WWI? (my guesses – The references give different lists.)</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">23.</td> <td>What are the best-known figures of WWI? (my guesses – The references give different lists.)</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td></td> </tr>
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<b>ANSWERS</b></div>
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<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>1.</b></td> <td><b>What is the purpose of Veterans Day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Veterans Day honors those who served in the US Armed Forces, both living and dead.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>2.</b></td> <td><b>How is Memorial Day different from Veterans Day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Memorial Day honors those who died while serving in the US Armed Forces.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>3.</b></td> <td><b>When is Memorial Day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Memorial Day is observed annually on the last Monday of May.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>4.</b></td> <td><b>What was the original name of Memorial Day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Memorial Day was first called Decoration Day. It was an occasion to decorate the graves of the war dead after the Civil War.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>5.</b></td> <td><b>Why is Veterans Day always on November 11?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Major hostilities of World War I were formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, when the armistice with Germany went into effect.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>6.</b></td> <td><b>What is unusual about the time and date of the day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>The first treaty, signed in 1918, was temporary; the formal peace agreement came later.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>7.</b></td> <td><b>What is the name of the final treaty?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>The final treaty for World War I was the Treaty of Versailles, signed on June 28, 1919. However, it was signed by the Big Four, not by the US. An <i>associate</i> ally, not one of the Big Four, the US objected to the inclusion of the League of Nations in that treaty and did not sign an agreement with Germany until August 25, 1921, with the Treaty of Berlin.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>8.</b></td> <td><b>What was the original name of Veterans Day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Armistice Day</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>9.</b></td> <td><b>What President proposed the celebration of Armistice Day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Woodrow Wilson, in 1919</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>10.</b></td> <td><b>Who was President when the name was officially changed to Veterans Day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Dwight Eisenhower, in 1954</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>11.</b></td> <td><b>Why was the name of Armistice Day changed to Veterans Day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>To honor ALL who died in military service, not just in World War I (an idea of Raymond Weeks of Birmingham, Alabama, in 1945)</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>12.</b></td> <td><b>What is Remembrance Day?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>British Commonwealth’s version of Armistice Day</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>13.</b></td> <td><b>What are the years of WWI?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td><b>1914-1918</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>14.</b></td> <td><b>When did the US enter WWI?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>1917</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>15,</b></td> <td><b>Why did the US enter WWI?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>The immediate cause was Germany's sinking of neutral shipping in a designated war-zone. Five American merchant ships went down in March, 1917; Germany destroyed the passenger ship Lusitania in 1915, with 128 Americans on board.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>16.</b></td> <td><b>At the time, we called WWI something else. What was it?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>The Great War (The War to End All Wars) - 59 million troops were mobilized, over 8 million died, and over 29 million were injured in a struggle which sharply altered the political, economic, social, and cultural nature of Europe. (Different references give different numbers.)</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>17.</b></td> <td><b>Which country lost the most people in WWI?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Those who lost over a million:<br />
Germany 1,773,700<br />
Russia 1,700,000<br />
France 1,357,800<br />
Austria-Hungary 1,200,000<br />
----<br />
US 116,516 (mobilized over 4,700,000)</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20">1<b>8</b></td> <td><b>What started WWI?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>On June 28, 1914, a Bosnian Serb Yugoslav nationalist assassinated the Austro-Hungarian heir Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo. The assassination set into action a complex network of interlocking alliances throughout Europe.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>19.</b></td> <td><b>What are the names we gave to the two sides in WWI?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Allies (or Allied Powers) and Central Powers</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>20.</b></td> <td><b>What countries were on “our“ side?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Britain, France, Russia, and Italy were the Big Four. The United States was an “associate” ally.</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>21.</b></td> <td><b>What countries did we fight?</b></td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Germany, Austria-Hungary, Ottoman Empire, Bulgaria, Romania, Japan, and several others</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>22.</b></td> <td><b>What are the best-known battles of WWI?</b> (my guesses – The references give different lists.)</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Marne, Verdun, Ypres, Gallipoli, Somme, Amiens</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"><b>23.</b></td> <td><b>What are the best-known figures of WWI? </b>(my guesses – The references give different lists.)</td> </tr>
<tr> <td align="right" valign="top" width="20"></td> <td>Kaiser William II - Germany<br />
Czar Nicholas II - Russia<br />
Vladimir Lenin, Revolution Leader - Russia<br />
Prime Minister George Clemenceau - France<br />
President Woodrow Wilson - USA<br />
Prime Minister David Lloyd George - Great Britain<br />
Marshal Ferdinand Foch, France<br />
Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg, Germany<br />
General John J. Pershing - USA<br />
Marshal Philippe Petain – France<br />
Lord of Admiralty Winston Churchill – Great Britain<br />
Baron Manfred Von Richthofen, Flying Ace – Germany<br />
Mata Hari, Spy – Central Powers</td> </tr>
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Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-80109032721496192532018-10-10T17:53:00.002-04:002018-10-11T07:09:44.744-04:00When I Picked Cotton – About 70 Years Ago<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrWUMDVbHV6ZkPSsTfMsKVir0u7jTMfAFW9WS8_CehIZTpKB8lvkV9Bs6yjPky66y0_ygkroMHOhBQ6hYvUZwOAU01OKJuHHDthhhr_tcsuO2OjrdUaE6KejQ3qMTfiNdloThz88BPfto/s1600/cotton_ed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="813" data-original-width="654" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPrWUMDVbHV6ZkPSsTfMsKVir0u7jTMfAFW9WS8_CehIZTpKB8lvkV9Bs6yjPky66y0_ygkroMHOhBQ6hYvUZwOAU01OKJuHHDthhhr_tcsuO2OjrdUaE6KejQ3qMTfiNdloThz88BPfto/s400/cotton_ed.jpg" width="321" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The ole cotton fields back home . . . well, almost. Just down the road from my house, anyway,<i> in this picture</i>. But I did pick cotton. Once. Not quite ten years old and a city girl, I was envious that my cousins slung interesting cotton bags across their chests every morning and headed out to the fields to make some money. This was in the cotton-pickin' days in Oneonta, Alabama, in the late forties, when schools were on cotton-pickin' time--closed so most kids could contribute to their families' major source of income. My four cousins were considered responsible enough to work in the fields, but my uncle said I was too citified. What he meant, I thought, was that I just couldn't handle the job. One day, I wanted to go with them. I begged and pleaded and even pouted a little for the privilege of spending the day in such an adventure. Finally, he relented and handed me the bag, a long off-white sack with a wide strap. He also found some overalls and a long-sleeved shirt that almost fit and put a large straw hat on my head. (Where was my cellphone!) I'm now pretty sure that my beloved cousins were snickering behind my back at their visitor’s naivete, but I was too excited to notice. The boys hitched Ole Joe to the wagon and we climbed in for the brief journey to the field, with large woven baskets, water bucket, tin water dipper, and sandwiches. After a brief tutoring session, I eagerly set out to prove that I was worthy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I quickly learned that a soft white cotton ball grew from a vicious cotton burr with sharp spurs that deliberately pricked fingers, with special awards for blood. I also learned about sawbriars and cockleburs. Sawbriars are cruel vines that grow in cotton fields and sprout tiny sharp teeth and intend to saw your arms off, even through a long-sleeved shirt, and cockleburs are sadistic plants that produce evil creatures that collect on your clothing in an attempt to scratch their way into any exposed skin. I soon began to feel their sharp spikes under my shirt. I also learned that a straw hat doesn't protect your skin from the boiling water dripping down your chest and that the field uniform does not in any way protect you from the savage heat or the fiendish insects that discover your neck. The gnats’ hotels in my eyes made me half-blind, and of course I rubbed two pounds of dirt on my wet face. I was a sweating mess. After dipping more than my share from the bucket, I soon needed to pee. Or was that just shorthand for a short walk over to the trees to stand panting in the shade? My cotton sack, intentionally long enough to be dragged across the dirt, was woefully thin, almost weightless, but it pulled me off balance. And my callous country cousins were singing! I'm sure now that they were laughing at me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And my uncle thought I couldn't do it. Hmm. Well, he was right. But <i>they </i><b>had </b>to pick cotton. And <b>I didn't</b>. I slowly walked the long distance back to the house, somewhat dejected, but looking forward to a long, comforting soak in the tub. </span><br />
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Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-1025367279451728602018-06-10T19:29:00.000-04:002018-06-10T19:29:01.144-04:00The Snipe Hunt<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Backstory of the Idiom</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvF-91Fze-wYs1pnUv_rr0SOWVVhLehH8q0XhffljBqj-eMMYpDC9F7dfCgqGFZPI8ePHHxZfZtrLv-VWjgkaGwQSJew9OM8vnOHAJErXEkOmisap_vOdyVGaV0ZWkSAPqHmV6gcNHhDn8/s1600/snipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="368" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvF-91Fze-wYs1pnUv_rr0SOWVVhLehH8q0XhffljBqj-eMMYpDC9F7dfCgqGFZPI8ePHHxZfZtrLv-VWjgkaGwQSJew9OM8vnOHAJErXEkOmisap_vOdyVGaV0ZWkSAPqHmV6gcNHhDn8/s200/snipe.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">A snipe is a slender-billed bird of the sandpiper family. Its coloring makes it well-camouflaged in marshy areas. A snipe is so difficult to catch or shoot that <i>sniper </i>refers to someone skilled enough to shoot one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">In a snipe hunt, experienced people make fun of gullible newcomers by giving them an impossible task. A <i>snipe hunt</i> usually takes place within a specific work environment or social group; the task is part of a tradition, similar to hazing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">The phrase <i>snipe hunt </i>originates from a practical joke within a camping context. Inexperienced campers are encouraged (rewards or threats) to catch a snipe, which moves around in the dark from tree to tree. A snipe can be a bird or an animal, depending on who explains the rules. The dupes are given sacks and told the ways to attract a snipe, such as banging rocks together or whistling a specific way, while the other hunters push the snipe toward them. Of course, after getting the greenhorns lost in the woods, the old-timers just go back to the campfire and wait to see how long it takes the newbies to give up and show up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Meaning of <i>snipe hunt</i>: a futile search or endeavor</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">_________________________________________________________________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I have personal ownership of this idiom. When I moved to a new Girl Scout troop in the sixth grade, the five greenhorns in the group were included in the invitation to a weekend camping trip at a farm in Gold Hill, just outside Auburn. With brand-new sleeping bags on our shoulders, we emerged from family cars feeling both adventurous and apprehensive. None of us had ever slept outside. Overnight. In the dark. But soon we were having fun cooking over a large campfire, with the help of our leader, her husband, and her son. We sang songs and told stories and learned about constellations and petted the two farm dogs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Then the husband announced that we were going on a snipe hunt. The older girls cheered and talked about how much fun we were going to have. But this time, the new girls would have the most fun because we could catch a snipe, a harmless small animal that traveled in small packs from tree to tree, only in the dark. The son told us that snipes are attracted by a certain kind of noise, something like whistling. When a snipe hears the right sound, it stops to listen. Each of us was given a feed sack, and the older girls demonstrated how to whistle up a snipe. Our leader announced that the girl who caught the snipe would get a great prize, but we were encouraged to help each other. Because that’s what good Girl Scouts do. And the older girls generously said they would try to drive the snipes toward us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Off we went, away from the fire and the cleared area, into the woods, led by the lanterns of the husband and the son and the barking of the dogs. Somehow, the lanterns disappeared, and we couldn’t hear the dogs. In the increasing darkness of the woods we suddenly noticed that only the five rookies were left. We giggled with semi-fear and tried to tell jokes to keep from freaking out. We walked for what was surely nine or ten hours, whistling. Not for a snipe. Bagging a snipe wasn’t on our minds. I don’t remember how we managed to get back to the campfire, but we were too tired to enjoy the laughter that greeted us. I had no problem sleeping on the ground that night. And I had learned what a snipe isn’t.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEtySW6mHouL0GZmA3PEDL83rgtwv1Ti43EelKIj59z_4oMUAcVF1XK9-kbSrRL_ex09Y63eqj-gqoBmz_yS6Zc9uOaAb5WG9EnRsGF4SvMRqGWE3aMh4sAl2kIk7BnphKKUVNWpN-uR_y/s1600/snipe_hunt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="301" data-original-width="316" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEtySW6mHouL0GZmA3PEDL83rgtwv1Ti43EelKIj59z_4oMUAcVF1XK9-kbSrRL_ex09Y63eqj-gqoBmz_yS6Zc9uOaAb5WG9EnRsGF4SvMRqGWE3aMh4sAl2kIk7BnphKKUVNWpN-uR_y/s200/snipe_hunt.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<br />Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-23987696986025108212018-06-10T08:30:00.000-04:002018-06-10T08:34:13.960-04:00My Cousin Billy's Joke<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNyFQyzmATamjgGUz2MAq3bcE55y6992eRtsN61bSl7BDKdIL5gkLwDkZ8GnNpZSvElS7c03OwaB-wzj9CD8lFHbNJeDsX7rmceY8-trZyevD2vuz11G27IjKEDB3tFRD4vIMQMcrEGNst/s1600/elephant_ear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="487" data-original-width="728" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNyFQyzmATamjgGUz2MAq3bcE55y6992eRtsN61bSl7BDKdIL5gkLwDkZ8GnNpZSvElS7c03OwaB-wzj9CD8lFHbNJeDsX7rmceY8-trZyevD2vuz11G27IjKEDB3tFRD4vIMQMcrEGNst/s320/elephant_ear.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">If I close my eyes, I can almost
. . .</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">hear the sounds of Grandmama's switch red-striping Billy's
legs. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ten-year-old me chortled, but restrained myself from peering around the corner of the back porch. Grandmama believed that punishment should be private. But I wanted to see him suffer. Lord knows I was suffering. I ran my
tongue tentatively around my mouth, wincing as blister met blister. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Jimmy, sitting listlessly on the porch
steps, wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffled; his mouth was blistered too.
Sprawled on the black wicker swing, her head pillowed on her arm, Betty tried
to cry herself to sleep. Bobby noisily ate the cold biscuits and slurped
the buttermilk that Grandmama said would ease the burning.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">My cousins were totally absorbed with the pain
in their own bodies--I was much more interested in Billy's pain, in Billy's
punishment. Did the switching hurt? Bad? Would he have to do
our chores? All of them? For how long? Smiling at the steady
sounds of switch justice, I could hear Billy's bare feet dancing as he jumped up and
down on the back porch in rhythmic thuds, trying to avoid the switch, yet not
daring to move out of Grandmama's reach.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe next time he'd think twice before he set
me up--talking about how good those elephant ears tasted! Who would've
thought that those pretty green leaves could raise such blisters! Maybe next
visit I wouldn't be dumb enough to fall for another one of his practical jokes.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">If I close my eyes, I can almost
. . .</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">hear the sounds of
Mama's switch red-striping my legs and the rhythmic thudding of my feet dancing
up and down on the kitchen floor. Why was that dumb little kid across the
street stupid enough to believe me when I told him about those good-tasting
elephant ears?</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-46126854922990349502017-09-09T09:59:00.002-04:002017-09-09T09:59:35.548-04:00Good Friends, Good Memories<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am in a nostalgic mood today. I’m dealing with grief, but
I’m smiling because I have such good memories of being neighbors and friends
with Marvin and Carolyn Vickers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A little historical background: Before the parsonage for the
Seale United Methodist Church was built on McBride Street, the parsonage used
to be on what is now called Oswichee Street, my street. My father-in-law had given the
property to the church with the provision that it should always be owned by the
church. To sell that land in order to build the new parsonage, the church asked
my husband, his sister, his three brothers, and all the spouses to sign away
our possible claims—something we gladly did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When we moved to Seale in 1963, Marvin and Carolyn were our
neighbors. Warren’s family had already claimed the Vickers as family members,
and we soon learned why. They were special. We loved them and they loved us
back. Carolyn and my sister-in-law were very close friends and have remained so. Once you were friends with them, you
were friends for life. Marvin was a student at Emory’s Candler Seminary in
Atlanta during the weekdays and came to Seale on the weekends. Carolyn taught
in the elementary school in Seale and lived in the parsonage. My son Tom was a
toddler then and was quickly adopted by Marvin and Carolyn. When Sears
delivered a large gym set in several boxes to our back yard, Marvin recruited a
friend and they worked all day--under Tom’s supervision--to assemble an
assortment of swings and a slide. Tom always called Marvin “Uncle Peacher.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A couple of years later, on a Tuesday night, Carolyn and I
were cleaning up the kitchen after a fresh vegetable supper. Warren and
Tom were outside. I suddenly started having violent contractions—a few weeks
early. Panicked, I turned to her and asked, “What should I do?” Without missing
a beat, Carolyn exclaimed, “Doan look at me! Lawdy. I doan know nuthin’ bout birthin’
no babies!” After we stopped laughing, she made sure I got organized for a trip
to Columbus, where Ben was born three hours later. After Marvin baptized Ben,
he and Carolyn were part of our family celebration at Villula Tea Garden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVbgDT01-enFSfxQAmCJLF2r8HxYAeqpmQPVZkOokjGwksmfu6QiwR1IlsNXFKM26ui2Q_t5JfDs4CnQXueC4x14hft0UcII_3XvD_S4C314deZDrer2-b5j4RMv1XJ1-kTDdnelbx1yd/s1600/baptism.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="938" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVbgDT01-enFSfxQAmCJLF2r8HxYAeqpmQPVZkOokjGwksmfu6QiwR1IlsNXFKM26ui2Q_t5JfDs4CnQXueC4x14hft0UcII_3XvD_S4C314deZDrer2-b5j4RMv1XJ1-kTDdnelbx1yd/s640/baptism.png" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We have kept in touch over the years, through distance and
time, through children and grandchildren and motorcycles and Korea and Blue
Lake. They visited me a couple of years ago, and on June 10, 2017, they
attended our church’s 175<sup>th</sup> Anniversary. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We lost Carolyn last night. Yes, today I have tears,
but I also have a smile. Thank you, Lord, for good friends.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-52082714283059974662017-08-19T09:21:00.000-04:002017-08-19T09:21:03.073-04:00Independence<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Today is my birthday,
and I’m a grandmother. Early this morning I was thinking about my grandmothers—how
long they lived, what they were like. My husband’s maternal grandmother was an
important part of my life for over a decade. I wrote this tribute to her some
time ago and decided to post it today.<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></i>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTXidUB_Nh8_LkSQfKwi5kXr8L3vIwXAoE0YK55HEPK6nUSZLd1ah3Lv0z7ZGp6VPXpLXpKdr7whoGZgWwLupQWrtWlRcT0TLq-npUu7jsZjzpB7ip_QKWVUbvyuuBt1HBKWSdCXwsUmz/s1600/moore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="moore" border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1208" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTXidUB_Nh8_LkSQfKwi5kXr8L3vIwXAoE0YK55HEPK6nUSZLd1ah3Lv0z7ZGp6VPXpLXpKdr7whoGZgWwLupQWrtWlRcT0TLq-npUu7jsZjzpB7ip_QKWVUbvyuuBt1HBKWSdCXwsUmz/s200/moore.jpg" title="Minnie Moore" width="150" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The old woman peered over the top of her smudged
glasses to identify the visitor, then quickly dropped her eyes to the calico squares
on the quilting frame. Her bright blue eyes showed no hint of her 91
years, and her voice was strong and animated. Fingers skillfully pulling
the needle down through squares, batting, and lining and then back up through
the crazy-quilt top, she greeted me and spoke happily about a letter from a
California grandson and--hands too busy to point--nodded her head toward a
large cardboard box on</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">the bed. She said a young church friend had
just delivered a collection of fabric remnants.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">As always, I looked at her crowded room in
amazement. "Too busy to be tidy," she said apologetically, with
no apology in her eyes. On the brown tile floor, old shopping bags stuffed with
fabric squares of many colors and patterns, double wedding ring curves, and
Texas star points crowded against boxes overfilled with brightly colored
scraps. She wanted me to see the latest finished quilt, so I pulled a
battered brown suitcase from under the bed and examined a carefully folded
Dutch Boy destined for the newest great-grandson in Atlanta. Because
a basket of bananas and apples took up the extra chair, I pushed aside her blue
chenille bathrobe and sat on the bed with the new box of remnants, my feet just
missing an open breadbox and its tangle of colors in loose and balled thread.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The telephone rang. She moved a pile of
pieced squares and talked with a Texas grandson. I picked up the worn black
Bible on the bedside table and read several pages of the copious notes in the
margins, some written in a sure, tight hand, some in a loose scrawl. A
short time later, two middle-aged women from the local homemakers' club stopped
by to deliver a caramel cake and a summary of the latest news.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">As they chatted, with one visitor on the bed
next to me, leaning uncomfortably against the wall, and the other perched
gingerly on the window sill, I noticed that the ever-growing stack of sewing
boxes (a sameness of gifts) was now precariously propped against the
bookcase. Letters, snapshots, and greeting cards were jammed between and
into the books. Wandering Jew, trailing philodendron, and airplane plants
overran the top of the bookcase, creating a cool green chaos in contrast with
the color riot everywhere else. Although I could not see it, I knew that
there was a sewing machine underneath the rolls of batting. There was a
tiny black and white TV, I remembered, on the dresser under the mound of pale
yellow lining. The other corner of the outside wall was all quilting
frame, with Grandmama's chair jutting out into the middle of the room, blocking
most of the walking space.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The two ladies said their goodbyes until next
month. Taking with me clippings of philodendron, apples for the boys, the
caramel cake ("Take it home! I don't need the sugar. Besides,
it's Warren's favorite."), and a trash basket made from yellow egg cartons
tied together with green knitting yarn, I stepped into the hall, contemplating
the 104 quilts and 56 baby quilts made since she had decided to move here four
years ago. As I left that busy, happy bustle behind me, I suddenly noticed
the strong acrid smell of the nursing home.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> <br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Minnie E. Porter Moore, 1884-1975<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Written in July, 1984</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-55847248274699238782017-06-29T08:08:00.000-04:002017-06-30T13:34:53.927-04:00The Misadventures of Fuzz in Seale<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Have you ever tried to list all the pets you have had? Do you have a favorite? For my daughter-in-law's birthday, I just selected a picture to post on Facebook that pushed me into these thought patterns. But I didn’t have to spend any time choosing a favorite.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While Dr. Tedder, our long-time vet, was tending to Psyche, our tiny rat terrier, my husband asked about a friendly, uncaged Airedale with a bad skin condition. His owner had dropped him at the clinic to be put down, but Dr. Tedder kept him as a clinic dog. The outcome of the conversation was a promise that he would treat the dog whenever the skin condition flared up—medicine and board, for free—if we would give this unusual dog a home. So we left with an extra dog. The AKC registration papers said his name was Fuzz Wuzz Doodle. And thus began the Misadventures of Fuzz in Seale.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">An inveterate wanderer, Fuzz immediately investigated our small community and became well-known. We worried that he would become a pest and braced ourselves for the complaints. They never arrived. His base of operations was our farm supply store in “downtown” Seale. He greeted our customers, who enjoyed his friendliness. Sometimes he shared night space with the two store cats, Rover and Spot; sometimes he slept on our back porch with the house cats, Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot (who turned out to be Lancelena). Over the years, a good many dogs with wiry black and red hair appeared in Seale. And we loved Fuzz. Everybody loved Fuzz. He had been trained to be a gentleman. He didn’t jump up on people; he didn’t bark unnecessarily; he was affectionate with people, other dogs, and cats. He was a perfect companion for our two boys as they roamed the woods and creeks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He caused us trouble only twice. In the mid-70s, several area citizens decided to raise money to restore the abandoned old Russell County Courthouse building. Our biggest project was a large festival each year on the courthouse grounds with unusually good pork barbecue, prepared by a dozen or so men and a few of their wives, who would stay up all night tending to the meat and enjoying the fellowship around the fire. Of course, Fuzz became part of the group. Part of the night’s routine was eating barbecued chicken. During the second or third year of this event, Fuzz had apparently been pushed beyond endurance. He walked over to the grill, quickly helped himself to a chicken, and disappeared into the shadows. We weren’t there, but heard about his treachery the next day when we were informed that Fuzz would not be welcome the following year. From then on, he had to be locked up in the store every year on barbecue night.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The other time was more serious. We were totally unprepared. When we first brought Fuzz home, we were apprehensive about letting him wander in our backyard. Well, our back backyard, where my husband raised exhibition chickens. (I’ll have to explain that in another blog.) These chickens did not run free but were kept in breeding coops. The small pens were sturdy, but Fuzz was big. And strong. On his first trip to the chicken pens with Warren, he was carefully observed and supervised. We were delighted when he just nosed around, inspected everything with his usual curiosity, and then wandered away to check out something else. Over a period of time we stopped worrying about the chickens. But several years later, a good friend drove his pickup into our yard with Fuzz tied in the back. He started yelling as he jumped out of the car. In short, Fuzz had broken into his chicken house and killed over 20 of his chickens. We had to tie him up until a pen could be built. Gradually, we released the chastised dog back into the community. But he seemed different. He moved slower.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dr. Tedder said Fuzz had developed unusually bad arthritis, all over. He spent most of the time on the back porch. He whimpered a lot. One Friday afternoon we found him under an old storage house out back. We could not get him to come out. He just howled. We didn’t talk about what had to be done. The next morning, Warren dug a hole, told me to get in the house and stay there, and crawled under the storage house. I heard a shot and a short time later saw the truck moving up the road. He did not return home until late that night. He never talked about that day. And I never asked.</span></div>
Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-86989739861115728852017-03-06T09:58:00.001-05:002017-03-24T19:43:34.158-04:00My Collection: Plants I Have Loved<br />
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A recent article (<a href="http://www.nextavenue.org/nobody-wants-parents-stuff/">Sorry, Nobody Wants Your Parents’ Stuff</a>) explains why kids don’t want their parents’ old furniture and beloved knickknacks. And definitely not their grandparents’. Okay, I got it. That doesn’t mean I like it. I don’t like the idea of my prize “things” being trashed or donated. Sold? Nahh. Very little of monetary value here. Just sentimental. I have an old farm house full of odd things my gkids won’t want when I die or down-size, whichever comes first. My collection is the ultimate barrier to the idea of down-sizing—something that would be economically and logically easier on me. But I couldn’t fit all these things into smaller square-footage! At first I thought I’d write about the objects most likely to be ignored in order to guilt the most sensitive gkids into adopting some of my unlikely treasures. But maybe not. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Let’s just start outside. Outside? Yep. Plants. I’m sentimental about plants too. My favorite plant died years ago, but I still remember it with affection. I love its history. From Brewton to Jacksonville to Oneonta to Auburn to Seale. My father planted a tea olive in his mother's yard in Brewton (1930s). When my parents moved to Jacksonville (1940s), he took the young plant with him. Years later, he gave it to his mother-in-law in Oneonta. When she died (1960), he moved it to his house in Auburn. When my husband and I moved into his old family house in Seale (1969), my father planted it right below the den window, where I enjoyed seeing it for many years. And the smell! That special tea olive smell still transports me down Memory Lane. And then the Big Freeze hit us. My husband wrapped quilts around the tea olive, but it was not enough protection. Who cries over a plant? This person. I now have two large tea olives, but neither has an emotional pull. I enjoy the fragrance but that’s it. No family history.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Okay, that’s the plant that isn’t there. There is also a plant that is still outside my window. My father planted several of his azaleas and two camellias in the row where the tea olive was. One camellia died, but the remaining camellia is beautiful. It is a symbol of my father’s love for me and for plants. (I grew up with the idea that having a greenhouse and a large garden in your backyard was perfectly normal, even if you lived in town.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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My emotional tie with camellias is heightened by a shallow bowl that Mama used to float blooms. This bowl appeared in our house and in the homes of those suffering a loss or just needing a cheerful arrangement. My parents had this thing about camellias and hibiscus. Several years ago I bought another bowl of the same style at an antique mall, and quickly forgot which was Mama’s, the large one or the small one. Much later I finally figured it out: Mama’s name is still on the adhesive tape on the bottom of the large one!<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the last two months, Daddy’s camellia blooms floated in bowls in Panama City Beach and Fayetteville, Georgia, as well as in Seale. Continuity. Memories. Family.<br />
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(If I get this mushy about something <i>outside </i>the house, you can imagine the level of emotion about something <i>inside </i>the house. More later.)</div>
Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-289806574691343512016-01-04T14:20:00.000-05:002016-01-09T17:35:58.622-05:00NCAA 2015 Football Divisions - Simplified (Ha!)<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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I am a dedicated Auburn fan and a football fanatic, but for a long time I didn’t understand that the NCAA’s Division I football category has two subdivisions. I kept trying to make <span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;">FBS</span> and <span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;">FCS</span> two different divisions. (I am still annoyed that the NCAA didn’t take the time to make things a little clearer for those of us who illogically want things to be logical.) As I read through several websites, almost defeated by the boring history of frequent changes of categories and names, I finally got a little closure on this topic. Here are the results of my “research” for any of you who share my confusion.<br />
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The placement into divisions and subdivisions for football depends on the financial ability of a school to support a sports program based on NCAA’s somewhat bewildering requirements, including a maximum number of scholarships, minimum average attendance for home games, a specified number of funded sports <i>by gender</i>, and a commitment to academic achievement and appropriate facilities—all this plus adherence to scheduling criteria with plenty of legalese tossed into the mix. A school can even be in different categories for different sports!<br />
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Challenge: <a href="http://starketech.com/crossword1/empty.html" target="_blank">Try this crossword puzzle before (or after) reading below.</a></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->I.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="background: lime; mso-highlight: lime;">Division I</span> </b><i>– Two different groups of teams!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->A.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;">FBS - Football Bowl Subdivision</span> (128 football teams*)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Examples: Auburn, Alabama, Georgia, Georgia Tech, Notre Dame, UCLA<o:p></o:p></div>
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FBS schools are allowed 85** athletic scholarships. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The college football playoff is a contractual system of six bowl games (Rose, Sugar, Orange, Cotton, Fiesta, and Peach), plus the championship game. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A committee following NCAA protocol selects twelve schools for the six bowl games. These must include the champions of the five major conferences plus wild cards. (It's actually much more complicated than this!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_NCAA_Division_I_FBS_football_programs">List of 2015 Division I Football Bowl Subdivision (FBS) Teams</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->B.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;">FCS - Football Championship Subdivision</span> (125 football teams)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Examples: Jacksonville State and Samford (Alabama) and <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mercer and Kennesaw State (Georgia)<o:p></o:p></div>
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FCS schools are limited to 63 athletic scholarships. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For national playoffs, the field consists of 10 automatic qualifiers through conference wins and 14 at-large teams selected by the NCAA. The teams participate in a typical playoff format. <o:p></o:p></div>
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An aside: Jacksonville State advanced to the national finals in January, 2016, but lost to North Dakota State, now a five-time national champion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_NCAA_Division_I_FCS_football_programs">List of 2015 Division I Football Championship Subdivision (FCS) Teams</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->II.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="background: lime; mso-highlight: lime;">Division II</span> </b>(170 football teams)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Examples: North Alabama and Tuskegee (Alabama) and<o:p></o:p></div>
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Valdosta State and Fort Valley State (Georgia)<o:p></o:p></div>
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These schools are limited to 36 athletic scholarships.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The NCAA selects 28 teams in four regions to participate in the national finals in typical bracket structure.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_NCAA_Division_II_football_programs">List of 2015 Division II Football Teams</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->III.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> </span><b><span style="background: lime; mso-highlight: lime;">Division III</span></b> (248 football teams)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Examples: Birmingham-Southern and Huntington (Alabama) and<o:p></o:p></div>
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Berry and LaGrange (Georgia)<o:p></o:p></div>
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These schools do not offer athletic scholarships. (But athletes can get other types of scholarships, such as leadership.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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For the playoffs, automatic bids are issued to the winners of 25 conferences and seven at-large teams, resulting in eight teams in four brackets in a typical playoff structure.<o:p></o:p></div>
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An aside: For several years the national championship Stagg Bowl was played in Phenix City, Alabama.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_NCAA_Division_III_football_programs" target="_blank">List of 2015 Division III Football Teams</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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*The number of teams in each category varies with the different sources of information. One of the reasons for the inconsistency is that schools are constantly entering/leaving categories.<o:p></o:p></div>
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**The number of scholarships in each category varies with the different sources of information. Sometimes scholarships can be part- or full-time; this option leads to varying numbers of scholarships. The numbers here are approximations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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SOURCES<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.ncaa.com/">www.ncaa.com/</a> <a href="http://www.ncaa.org/">www.ncaa.org/</a> <a href="http://www.wikipedia.org/">www.wikipedia.org/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.d2football.com/">www.d2football.com/</a> <a href="http://www.d3football.com/">www.d3football.com/</a><span class="MsoHyperlink"> </span><span class="MsoHyperlink"> <a href="http://www.bleacherreport.com/">www.bleacherreport.com/</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://herosports.com/">www.herosports.com/</a> <a href="http://www.sbnation.com/">www.sbnation.com/</a> <a href="http://www.collegefootballplayoff.com/">www.collegefootballplayoff.com/</a><o:p></o:p><br />
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Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-19426742376466798422014-09-10T10:10:00.001-04:002014-09-10T10:13:28.883-04:00In Memory of Warren Starke (1939-1992)<table border="0" cols="2" style="background-color: white; width: 100%px;"><tbody>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Vine</b></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><i>Spring, 1993</i></span></center>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">After the service, back at the house, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">someone asked about the vine </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">on the front fence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">You remember, the one </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">I always nagged you </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">to dig up and out and gone </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">because the thick dead trails </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">of thin gray string made such a mess </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">after the blooms stopped</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">and I was tired of cleaning the fence. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">You always refused, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">saying--approval in your voice-- </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">the vine paid its way in blossom time.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">Disinterested, I regarded </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">the small flowers </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">in the mass of crawling vine and </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">tried to give it a name. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">I couldn't.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">Later, someone exclaimed, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">"Look! A hummingbird vine!" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">and moved to get a closer look. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">In the afterfuneral smalltalk, two visitors </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">recalled childhood memories </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">richly flavored with such a vine. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">To a chorus of startmesome, I promised.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">Today, for the second year </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">I've known the name, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">I pulled the gray tendrils off the fence </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">and I thought of you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">And, with pleasure, I thought of </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">the perfect, five-pointed blossoms</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">unpretentious scarlet stars</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">soon to appear</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">summer's bright red dots</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">punctuating the delicate, dark green traceries </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">cascading, looping from post to post </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica;">hiding the ugly wire fence.</span> </td></tr>
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Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-60365775684116746672014-04-11T09:42:00.000-04:002015-11-16T13:25:22.000-05:00National Siblings Day Post – A Day Late<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCh0Th_ro7gwo5LH8BnDP-IfRMM5lddaGeHpnMnficu_TQ8Y2Xuk-nsffwUJWYUhcrcqL2KImrtUlm9a7ZNjOw2snGK20jwe9iYSghGIj_ecGMl0mtzBXgXJmOkxldCR-u9CXWB5WtoSL4/s1600/cousins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Cousins and grandmother" border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCh0Th_ro7gwo5LH8BnDP-IfRMM5lddaGeHpnMnficu_TQ8Y2Xuk-nsffwUJWYUhcrcqL2KImrtUlm9a7ZNjOw2snGK20jwe9iYSghGIj_ecGMl0mtzBXgXJmOkxldCR-u9CXWB5WtoSL4/s1600/cousins.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It’s appropriate that this post is a day late because I don’t have any siblings! But I am lucky to have had ten wonderful cousins: four on my mother’s side in one Alabama family, and six on my father’s, three in Alabama and three in South Carolina. My maternal grandmother lived in my second home across the street from my four Oneonta cousins so the five of us grew up together, and I thought of them as mine before I ever heard the word </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">siblings</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> and realized I didn't have any</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. During my growing-up years, I spent nearly every Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and Mother’s Day with them, plus weeks in the summer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This picture was taken on Mother’s Day. Although I don’t know the year because there is no notation on the back (Oh, Mama, why didn’t you? Maybe the same reason I didn’t either?) I know it was Mother’s Day. I look at the flowers and remember our annual ritual of cutting white and red roses in Grandmother’s garden, making a white corsage for her, and pinning red roses on each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I was about ten, the five of us stood in a circle, held hands, and solemnly promised each other that we would never, under any circumstances, become teachers. Why was such a commitment necessary? We were supersaturated with school things. Both of my parents and my aunt were teachers. My grandmother was the principal of the elementary school, and my grandfather was the superintendent of education for Blount County. Of the five of us, three became teachers! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Although I was greatly influenced by my cousins, we departed ways when it came to college loyalty. As the child of an Auburn staff member, I of course yelled War Eagle, while the others screamed Roll Tide. (The youngest cousin, however, wound up at Georgia Tech with a PhD in something way out there, like nuclear physics.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I look at this picture with sadness because these four cousins are all gone now but also with happiness because I still enjoy the great memories of our time together.</span><br />
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Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-52373402351601176342013-01-22T09:14:00.000-05:002013-01-22T09:14:02.507-05:00The Checkerboard Table<br />
On my last round of over 300 booths in a Columbus antique mall, I saw a checkerboard table that looked vaguely familiar. It was stripped but not finished. Not pretty. Price: $45. I had already spent my budget for the junking trip, I was exhausted, and my friend was waiting for me, so we loaded our purchases into the car and started down the road. After a few miles it sunk in: that table had to be THE table!<br />
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Nearly 40 years ago, I took an old checkerboard table to a re-finishing store in Columbus to be stripped, repaired, and finished. After a year and many calls, I went to the store to check on the table. The owner said he hadn’t finished the project because the repair on the inlaid blocks was so difficult. A year later, I went back to the store; this time I saw the stripped table and was very disappointed. He assured me that it would look better when he finished the repairs. After another year of not hearing from the re-finisher, I went to the store to see what was going on. He told me that I had not complied with our agreement to pick up the table in a timely manner, and he had to sell it to get his money. I was furious. But the table was gone. I just walked away, sobbing. Occasionally, through the years, that table would haunt me. Several days prior to the visit to the antique mall, I had thought once again about how I lost that family possession and how I could have kept it.<br />
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The missing table, a library table, and a set of bookends were given to Aunt Alma by a skilled woodworker who wanted to marry her. But she was destined to be an old maid; her father decided that this man wasn’t good enough for his daughter. These three items were in the old family house when we moved in. Although the other pieces were stained, the checkerboard table was painted white, with the inlaid checker squares painted black and white. My husband remembered using the table to play checkers with Aunt Alma when he was a child, and my sons Tom and Ben used it frequently when they were kids.<br />
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So I turned around, drove back to the antique mall, and bought the table.<br />
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When Tom took it out of the van, without prompting he immediately exclaimed that it was Aunt Alma's table, pointing out some broken squares that he remembered. Then he recalled a broken part of the leg that had been glued. After he described the break, we examined the leg and saw where it had been glued together. Oh, my goodness. That's the only time I have ever seen him get excited about a piece of furniture! The next day, as I was cleaning the table, I checked the supporting curves on its leg and compared the design with the curves on the library table. The pattern of the curves is exactly the same. And there are other similarities in the techniques. It's ridiculous how happy this homecoming made me! (One day, I will get around to sanding and staining it.) And Tom pointed out how much money I had saved; surely the re-finishing guy would have charged me much more than $45 for stripping, repairing, and re-finishing the table!<br />
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Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-69282430427454220572012-12-01T19:29:00.000-05:002012-12-01T19:29:25.870-05:00Thanksgiving Assignment<br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While teaching tenth-grade English, I devised a Thanksgiving writing assignment that called for each student to help decorate a large wall with two index cards telling—in no more than two printed sentences—what he was thankful for, both serious and silly. I was amazed by the students’ humorous creativity and touched by their unabashed honesty as they read their two cards to the class and then posted them on the wall in the two categories. About three decades later, the presentation that still sticks in my head was that of the timid girl who softly proclaimed her serious thanksgiving to the class: “I’m thankful that I know who my daddy is.” In the hush that followed, there were no laughs or giggles, only quiet <i>uh huhs</i> from several parts of the room. I loved all my students.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I’m still fascinated by the things people announce that they’re thankful for, and this year I’ve been very interested to read the Facebook posts of my friends in the 30 Days of Thanksgiving project--in particular, the wonderful (and serious) writings of Louise Tolbert and Patricia Monterella. They are an inspiration! Since I can’t say what they have said as well as they have said it, I’ve decided to revise my original writing assignment to include a third category: the “sorta serious” category. You know, the things that are not silly, but the things that definitely can’t be included along with family, God, health, country, and the other serious blessings we have.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, I’m thankful for the old things in my old house—no cracks about old people, please—particularly the old Christmas decorations, and particularly the old nativity set. (I’m also grateful for the blog format, which apparently does not require that I stay on topic, or keep to the dreaded five-paragraph formula, with specified items like introductions and conclusions; I can cheerfully segue into another topic without losing cohesion points, as long as ideas are tangentially related. Or not. Ah, the joy of an English teacher set free!) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, about the nativity set, aka manger scene, or crèche. I don’t know what happened to the one I routinely set up in my childhood years but assume that Mama threw it out when it started looking worn. I wish I still had it, no matter the condition. Nearly 50 years ago, when our boys were toddlers, we bought a boxed manger scene at Sears, and now my grandchildren put those figures out first and pack them up last when we decorate. The stable, now in bad shape, well represents the desperate status of the Holy Family. No hotel, no money, no doctor. The devotional today in <i>Daily Guideposts</i> is an account of Pam Kidd’s visit to a museum exhibit of classic, famous paintings of the manager scene, all showing the Holy Family garbed in fancy clothes. She questioned the necessity of a “gold-leaf Jesus” and said she missed “smelling the hay.” What a powerful statement about the significance of the humble origins of Jesus! One of my favorite Christmas songs is <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8TXxlKLCCMY" target="_blank">4Him’s “A Strange Way to Save the World,</a>” a song from Joseph’s perspective, emphasizing his belief that he and Mary were just ordinary people. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As my thoughts wander, I wonder. I wonder how did I get lucky enough to have so many blessings in my life. The silly and the serious. And the sorta serious.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last random comment before posting: I’m watching the very good Alabama-Georgia game as I type and am thinking that it would be really great if they could both lose. (Yep, I’m orange and blue for life.)</span>Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-55957805869184255442012-07-29T18:36:00.000-04:002012-07-29T18:41:56.054-04:00BOOKS: Ramblings with No Thesis Statement, No Conclusion, Little Coherence, and a Big Need for Hyperlinks<br />
A book person. That’s what I’ve always been. I learned how to read early and started collecting books before I started school. During my early years, when we lived in Jacksonville, my parents would drop me at the Anniston public library and museum while they went shopping. I felt like I knew all the items in the museum on a first-name basis and, almost 70 years later, still remember its faintly musty smell. I always visited the mummies first, then wandered to the stuffed animals, the harpsichord, and my other friends and finally to My Spot among the books. I remember getting my first library card there when I was six and checking out my first Hans Christian Andersen book, <i>The Little Mermaid</i>, by myself. Several years ago, I was disappointed to learn that this wonderful old building in Anniston had been demolished but am pleased that the new museum still houses some of my old friends.<br />
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We moved to Auburn when I was ten, and I was thrilled to find that my father’s office was next to the college library, there was a great bookstore two blocks away, and the public library was in the same block as the bookstore. In a tiny, second-floor children’s library, I discovered Jules Verne and Agatha Christie under the supervision of a kindly woman whose name I have unfortunately forgotten. (She was such a great influence on me—you’d think I could at least remember her name!) The school librarian was Mrs. Francis, who assigned enjoyable library tasks to the new kid in town. That year I read <i>The Robe</i>, <i>The Magnificent Obsession</i>, all the <i>Sue Barton, Student Nurse</i> books, and a lame sport series that included <i>Blocking Back</i>, but I had to hide under the sheet to read <i>Gone with the Wind</i> with a flashlight. Unfortunately, I cried so hard at the end that my mother heard me and punished me for reading a forbidden book. <br />
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For years I collected the <i>Bobbsey Twins</i>, <i>Nancy Drew</i>, and <i>The Hardy Boys</i>, and the less-known<i> Five Little Peppers</i> series. Oh, and the <i>Miss Minerva and William Green Hill</i> books! And of course I had the Louisa May Alcott books. <i>Pollyanna</i>. <i>Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm</i>. <i>Cricket: A Little Girl of the Old West</i>. When I married and left home, Mama gave away all my books that were “cluttering up” the house. Sigh. But I've found a few of these titles in flea markets over the decades.<br />
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I love books. I love libraries and bookstores. I love the way books make my hands feel and my eyes smile. Imagine my surprise when I learned that I also love to read on my Kindle! Tired of tripping on the stack of paperbacks on my bedroom floor (because there was no more room on the shelves), I began to read books on my Kindle (first generation, October 2008) and now on my Kindle Fire. And also on the Kindle apps on my cell phone and two computers.<br />
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Visualize a laundry room. Mine is not typical. In addition to its clothes responsibilities, this fairly large room with tall ceilings has an additional function in my dilapidated old house: It is my library. The walls are covered in shelves. So when two rooms were recently remodeled and repainted, all books had to be removed from the laundry room shelves. The guys randomly threw everything in boxes, and when there were no more boxes, stacked the books throughout the house. And then covered everything in heavy white dust from sheetrock and ceramic tile. <br />
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It was a forced, perfect time to analyze which books could continue to live here. Getting rid of all college textbooks? A no-brainer. They were so outdated that they were useless, so they hit the garbage can. Cans. And I actually had fun trashing the old curriculum and ed psych books. And statistics! I didn’t like them then, don’t need them now, wonder why I kept them so long, and then remember, oh, yeah, because it takes time and effort to make such decisions. Most of my beloved English-teacher books (anthologies and volumes on teaching composition and literature) went to the Teacher Resource Center in Columbus—two trips with the mini-van so overloaded that it wobbled. The BK (before Kindle) contemporary books went to a local charity. Boxes and boxes, outta here. Don’t even miss them. I still have too many books on the shelves, for example, too many really OLD books, not valuable but just old enough to be interesting. To me. And I haven’t even started on the shelves in the other rooms. Or the tall stack behind the door in the dining room.<br />
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Now I can check in on Amazon (is this beginning to sound like a commercial?) to see all the books I have read in recent years—well, nearly all of them. And this circuitous journey takes me to what’s on my mind today: a recent strand in my reading. (I always have several strands going at one time; for example, right now my second strand is historical fiction about medieval England.)<br />
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Within the last year, I’ve gotten into World War II, the Pacific Theater. <i>Unbroken </i>(sub-title: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption, by Laura Hillenbrand, 2010) is amazing. It also is about much more than a battle in the Pacific Theater. When I told my brother-in-law Don about this excellent book, he recommended <i>Flyboys </i>(sub-title: A True Story of Courage, by James Bradley, 2003). From there, I bounced to <i>Flags of Our Fathers</i> (by Ron Powers and James Bradley, 2000).* <br />
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In the latter book, I met General Howlin’ Mad Smith, a person of great interest to me beyond my fascination with World War II. A historic marker <a href="http://seale.starketech.com/markers/smith.htm">(http://seale.starketech.com/markers/smith.htm)</a> on my property in Seale indicates his birthplace—an amusing proclamation since according to his autobiography, <i>Coral and Brass</i>, he was born in Hatchechubbee, a few miles down the road in Russell County. His family later moved to Seale, and he graduated from nearby Alabama Polytechnic Institute (Auburn) in 1901. He died in 1967 and left a small bequest to the Seale United Methodist Church.<br />
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*I like checking out movies that relate to my books. The title <i>Flyboys </i>is sometimes confused with a movie that takes place in WW I France and also <i>The Flyboys</i>, about two stowaways. <i>Unbroken </i>will soon be a movie. I have ordered a <i>Flags of Our Fathers</i> DVD and have <i>Letters from Iwo Jima</i> on my Netflix instant queue. I am currently exploring a somewhat related strand on Netflix: “Non-battle” WW II movies. Examples: <i>Island at War</i> (occupation of a channel island), <i>Wish Me Luck</i> and <i>Charlotte Gray</i> (British spies in France), <i>The Aryan Couple</i> and <i>Sarah’s Key</i> (Jewish persecution), and <i>Land Girls</i> (Women's Land Army).<br />
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</div>Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-49411448699395462612012-07-03T18:02:00.000-04:002012-07-03T18:02:51.832-04:00The Pain of Learning New Words<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Recently, I was the victim of a felon. On my right pinkie. Not the place you would generally look for a bad guy. For this Miz Word person, who delights in learning new words, to have gained a new definition of the word </span><i style="background-color: white;">felon</i><span style="background-color: white;">, well, I could have passed it up. </span><br />
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Two weeks ago, I cut a stubborn cuticle a little too close and a couple of hours later noticed that there was an infection around the nail. The next afternoon, after teaching a SMART Board class all day and becoming very aware that something was just not right under the band-aid, I left class a little early and drove to my doctor’s office. With a great deal of concern (and interest) he inspected the back of my finger and said, “That looks like a felon.” Then he called in two other doctors to take a look and they nodded their heads, Yep, it’s a felon. He quickly arranged transportation for me to see an orthopedic surgeon, saying he couldn’t let me drive (by then I was really hurting and was a little dizzy and nauseated) and it would take too long for my son to drive to town. Wow. The surgeon gave me pain pills and scheduled emergency surgery early the next morning. At that point the pad of my finger was tight and smooth and really looked weird, and the inflection around the nail even worse. Not for the squeamish. (That’s me.)<br /><br />
The speed of the infection was the flag that this was a possible big problem. Fortunately, we got to the infection before the bone was damaged. I give thanks to God for my doctor, who acted so quickly, to my teaching partner, for covering the end of the class for me, and to my son, who hauled me to the operation and the not-yet-completed therapy.<br /><br />
And that’s why I now have nine nails and a big bandage. And why a very patient physical therapist changes the dressing every other day and tries to coerce me to bend my finger--without hollering or fainting. But I have occasionally done both. Actually. And why I have had two drug reactions, one from the antibiotic and one from the pain meds. Can you say <i>wimp</i>?<br /><br />
And the lesson is: Clean your cuticle cutters with rubbing alcohol every time you use them. The surgeon said he sees this problem frequently after women visit nail salons. He was nice enough not to lecture me. Also, another lesson: Learn new words, but try not to apply them to your own personal body.<br />
<br />Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-61574898412393771002012-05-11T12:24:00.000-04:002012-05-11T12:24:12.598-04:00What My Mother Taught Me<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This post is in memory of my mother, Lucile Self Barrow, of Oneonta, Alabama, where her father was Superintendent of Education for Blount County and her mother was an elementary school principal. She was born in 1901, graduated from Huntington College in 1922, married in 1937, became a mother in 1938, and died in 1993.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I think of Mama, I am selective about the scenes I choose. I definitely do NOT want to linger over her last years. Those scenes are not fun to remember, but Mama was a fun person. She played games, told jokes, teased, and laughed. Oh, how she laughed! A full-time homemaker, she was always there when I needed her. She worked very hard to entertain me. Although Daddy usually wanted to teach me something useful, like how to read a map, take a picture, or use a jigsaw, Mama wanted to teach me that life was fun. My childhood years were so seamlessly happy, filled with laughter, and insulated from conflict that I was shocked when I learned that my home life was not the norm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Years later I learned that the pretty, black-haired woman who taught me and my friends how to play Hopscotch, Jacks, Snap, Old Maid, Authors, Rook, Touring, Pit, Monopoly, and Carom* was once a teacher of Latin and French, a scholar with a double major in Latin and Greek. She had a beautiful, well-trained soprano voice and enjoyed singing in the choir, but I never really thought about that when she taught me song after silly song, sometimes in the car, sometimes on the piano bench.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mama taught me to love shopping. We went frequently to Birmingham, where Daddy would drop us off in the Parisian’s block while he went to a teachers’ meeting or to Sears to look at some new equipment for his basement carpentry shop, and we would spend many happy hours looking at clothes. (For me. I realized much later that we never shopped for her.) When I got my driver’s license--Mama didn’t drive--we traveled regularly to downtown Columbus, to Kirven’s, Kiralfy’s, Davidson’s, and Kaiser and Lillenthal’s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My parents taught me the importance of family. They made sure that their only child had the opportunity to spend time with and get to know and love grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins on both sides of the family. Some of my favorite memories are of family gatherings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She and Daddy together taught me to pray, read the Bible, memorize scripture, use <i>The Upper Room</i> for devotionals, and treasure hymns. They enjoyed the various activities of our church, particularly their Sunday School groups. From an early age I saw them reading, reading, reading: books, magazines, newspapers. I wonder how they would have assimilated blogs into their reading habits! We often sat together in the living room to listen to the comedy shows on the radio or enjoy music from our collection of 78’s. When I was in high school in the mid '50s, we got our first TV, but they still liked to use the old cabinet radio.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’ll always be grateful for what my mother taught me. I just wish she had taught me how to cook!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">*And Red Rover, Simon Says, Treasure Hunt, Canasta, Checkers, Pick-Up Sticks, Scrabble, and, although she didn’t teach me to play croquet--that was Daddy’s game--she was the one who spent countless hours with me on the croquet court. (The croquet court is a topic I will write about later.)</span></div>
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</span></div>Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-75016056560518490182011-06-19T09:00:00.004-04:002011-06-28T18:51:25.768-04:00A Father's Day Post<b></b><br />
This post is in memory of my father, Williams Owens Barrow, born in Sweetwater, Alabama, in 1901, where his father was a Methodist minister.<br />
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Daddy graduated from Birmingham-Southern College with a major in English and was a principal in Brewton from 1926 until 1939. He married Lucile Self of Oneonta in 1937; she was a Latin and French teacher in Sylacauga. When we moved to Jacksonville in 1939, he taught physics and chemistry at Jacksonville High School. During WW II, he also worked at Ft. McCellan (Anniston) at night in the post office and was a photographer for Jacksonville State. With the influx of GIs coming into the college after the war, Jacksonville State hired Daddy to organize special counseling services. In 1948, Alabama Polytechnic Institute asked him to organize the new guidance center to help veterans, and we moved to Auburn. He retired from Auburn University and died in 1978.<br />
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These bare-bones sentences do little to describe the man and the influence he had on so many people. The newspaper article below is just an example of the way he is remembered. In 1992, students he touched in Brewton in the 1930s honored him.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yzpY6L7k_IepiJbal9zIJB8J4y4iQMxJWwdLqHLcf-ojiePJyykIzhWyZEiQIJky6kI0jMwFiqw-q-YHHcdl_cs_8-D1rhEeRzAJ2sCz0V6AKjVxQ5fPolhP8ehIjruCToO5atBIWmb2/s1600/nsp2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yzpY6L7k_IepiJbal9zIJB8J4y4iQMxJWwdLqHLcf-ojiePJyykIzhWyZEiQIJky6kI0jMwFiqw-q-YHHcdl_cs_8-D1rhEeRzAJ2sCz0V6AKjVxQ5fPolhP8ehIjruCToO5atBIWmb2/s400/nsp2.gif" /></a></div>Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-2763046392972009512011-06-11T09:03:00.001-04:002011-06-11T09:16:34.573-04:00Of Crickets and Mealy WormsNearly 73, I have finally decided to retire! It’s difficult for me to comprehend that I have only a few days left to be an employee. I’ve worked nearly all my life. Although my professional working life has been in education, as I reminisce—an apparently required chore of old age—I recall that there were a few jobs that were just, well, random.<br />
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I got my first regular job when we moved to Auburn a couple of months before I turned 10. Although I had always had regular house chores, my first “real” job was helping Daddy dig out the basement. The house had only a crawl space, and he wanted room for storage, a large shop, and a darkroom. I wanted a new wagon (to coast down that great hill near our new house), and he agreed to buy me a red Radio Flyer and pay me a quarter for every load of dirt I hauled out of the basement. I eventually paid for the wagon and earned some extra spending money. (I still have the wagon!)<br />
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Hmmm. Maybe I did have an earlier job. I just thought of the way I “bought” a typewriter. That was when we were still in Jacksonville. Before I could read, around age 4, I wanted to type a letter to my Aunt Dean on Daddy’s typewriter. I dictated the words for him to type and then copied each letter, poking the keys with my index finger. I remember sitting on a Sears Roebuck catalog so I could reach the keys. In the second grade, I no longer needed a note to copy, but I still poked the keys with my index finger, so he decided that I should teach myself to type the correct way: assigned finger to assigned key. He borrowed a typing textbook from the high school and told me that he would give me $5 for each 5 words a minute I increased my speed, and that when I got to 25 wpm he would give me my own typewriter. I don’t remember how long that took; it certainly wasn’t a quick process. At any rate, when we moved to Auburn, I had my own typewriter, and he had stopped giving me money at 50 wpm. Several years later, using my typing skills, I worked my way through college!<br />
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After we finished digging out the basement, he set up his carpentry shop and the darkroom. I loved helping him process pictures. In Jacksonville, I had “worked” in the darkroom when I was so little that he had to make a step stool so that I could see the top of the counter. In the Auburn darkroom, I actually got to develop and print my own pictures, first using the contact machine and then later the enlarger. I learned how to mix the developer for the film and the pictures and the hypo to “fix” the developing process. After threading the film in the little tubs, adding the developing liquid, and timing the process, we washed and then dried the negatives, using clothespins to hang strips on a string before cutting and filing them in envelopes. The picture dryer had thin, shiny metal sheets that curved around a heated surface. We used a roller to smooth the pictures onto the sheet. After they were crisp and warm, we would put them under something heavy to get rid of the curl, and then use a paper cutter to trim them. Soon my friends were asking for reprints of pictures I had made with my Kodak Brownie camera, and I developed a price sheet. I did custom printing for years, well into my teens, but with a better camera. For a short time, I had fun making cutsey labels on the pictures by putting alphabet soup letters on the photographic paper on the enlarger. Along the way, I had several contracted jobs, usually from realtors who wanted pictures of houses. (I still have the enlarger!)<br />
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After we had lived in Auburn for a few months, I started babysitting. Auburn home football games offered a great opportunity for me to make some money. I worked for one family several years, every home game, and sometimes for games in Birmingham and Columbus. (Auburn used to play Georgia in Columbus. Ancient history.) When they moved, I went to another family. Okay, so babysitting isn’t so random, but it’s connected with Auburn football games, which are the reason for the next job. After I could drive, some friends and I worked for a florist and sold mums on Toomer’s corner the morning of every home game. In those days, the boys bought their dates enormous yellow mum corsages with blue pipe cleaner A’s pinned on them. And the girls wore suits, high heels, and hats. (More ancient history.)<br />
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My most unusual job was raising fish bait: earthworms, mealy worms, and crickets. I did this for years, starting in the sixth grade. We had an agreement with a regular customer, the owner of the downtown hardware store. Daddy allocated a space in the garden for the earthworms; my job was digging them up and counting them out into cardboard containers. The crickets and mealy worms were kept in the basement in large tin containers with screened tops. In addition to counting them into the cardboard containers, I fed and watered them and kept the tins clean. The crickets needed to be sorted by gender to make sure we had enough females for breeding. I still remember how to tell the gender of crickets, but that wasn’t an issue with mealy worms! At some point the beetles had to be removed, after the females have laid the eggs. I have a fuzzy recollection of the life stages of the mealy worms: beetle, egg, larva (grub), and worm—not necessarily in that order. I should look up the facts in order to write with authority, but I’d rather keep this childhood memory fuzzy! The biggest problem with keeping the tins clean was removing the potato pieces we put in the bran to provide moisture for the mealy worms. I used chicken waterers for the crickets and put cotton in the trays so the little crickets wouldn’t drown. Crickets lay eggs right beneath the surface of loose soil; the baby crickets are tiny replicas of the adults; they don’t go through stages like the mealy worms.<br />
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In the early 70s, I stopped teaching (temporarily) and started helping at our farm supply store, where I routinely unloaded feed trucks, slinging a 50-pound bag on my shoulder with ease (probably a reason I have back trouble now), and learned about male and female plumbing joints and about the differences between pink-eyed, black-eyed, and purple hull peas. I learned about using a cash register (not electric), marking up items, buying on early discount, managing employees, and filing sales tax reports. I also learned how to go broke and shut down a business.<br />
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I’m struggling hard to get a connection between these random jobs and my “real” job in education, but there doesn’t seem to be a way to tie these disparate items together. But maybe the connection is the learning process itself. A friend recently gave me a little plaque: “When one person teaches, two people learn.” I’m so glad that I’ve had such wonderful opportunities to learn. And I don’t plan on stopping!Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-13603712107177955612010-10-15T08:01:00.000-04:002010-10-15T08:01:39.176-04:00The Case of the White Sandals<br />Wheel, Chief, Ozzie, The Absent-Minded Professor: These are among the nicknames I had in high school (no explanations available). Now, well into my twilight years . . . Uh, wait! That phrase needs re-tooling. How about . . . Now, well into my sunset years . . . Rats! Now that I am old, I take some comfort in the last nickname; it is proof that my current forgetfulness is not a symptom of advancing senile dementia; indeed, I’ve always been scatter-headed. <br />
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The most recent example of Memory Lapse is The Case of the White Sandals. Prior to a brief vacation in North Georgia in June, I bought a couple of outfits that needed white sandals. Now here’s the complication: I have seriously bad feet. Seriously. To be reasonably pain-free, I can wear only a few styles of shoes. And, to make things worse, my shoe size (long and narrow) is not generally available. I tried my usual shoe store in Columbus with no luck and then decided that the vacation trip would be a good time to locate the necessary almost-comfortable sandals. So my patient, long-suffering friends allowed me to play shoe detective throughout the trip and listened to me moan about my foot problems. We wasted incalculable time in boring shoe stores. No shoes found. On a business trip to Atlanta the next week, I tried again. No luck. Then last week I found the sandals I wanted. In my closet. In new condition. I don’t remember buying them and don’t know how long they have been in the closet.<br />
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At least I remembered that I forgot. Sigh.<br />
<br />Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-71093060819022152102009-09-07T09:22:00.005-04:002009-09-07T09:31:50.726-04:00What's with This Positive Attitude Business?<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9hzURnRlOb4xMAi4ElNmQwG05WI8L6-gJZVIWfnPR8xuDTkuSblBjW_rBBINlU_4WHRk1y0AQG1ECc2u7G309hau5F2-fMXIIGhKkm04idwcshqrCOXByd4NbQNTWHxF6tFSGuCmIAx8a/s1600-h/jamie_cast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" lk="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9hzURnRlOb4xMAi4ElNmQwG05WI8L6-gJZVIWfnPR8xuDTkuSblBjW_rBBINlU_4WHRk1y0AQG1ECc2u7G309hau5F2-fMXIIGhKkm04idwcshqrCOXByd4NbQNTWHxF6tFSGuCmIAx8a/s320/jamie_cast.jpg" /></a></div>My grandson fractured his wrist during football practice two weeks ago. The ER doctor doled out pills and dire predictions that Jamie would be out of sports six months, wiping out the entire seasons for both football and wrestling. The next day I checked him into school and went by the clinic to leave his medicine. The clinic clerk said that such a controlled narcotic (wow!) could not be left at the school—even locked up in the clinic. Basically, that policy meant that Jamie should be at home rather than at school, where he could possibly stay awake enough to learn a little something. After a few minutes of processing this inanity, considering the option of taking Jamie out of class and driving him all the way home and thus missing an important meeting at work, I flopped myself down in the office and vented to the secretary, a long-time friend. Finally, the secretary, the office clerk, two assistant principals, and the principal spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out what to do. I kept looking at my watch and stressing out. It was not a good way to start the morning.<br />
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That afternoon on the way home, I was still venting (just a little . . .) about the wasted time for so many people. Jamie, with a twinkle in his eye, said, “But Grandmama--I felt so LOVED!” <br />
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Such a great attitude. I think I need to go to Jamie for some life lessons.Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3026020012465923652.post-46095307953036198562009-09-06T11:21:00.006-04:002009-09-07T10:23:50.317-04:00The Chenille Plant<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbdXR-UiRx9xoGz27dBdF8ZwockVYtCe1BWQ2aoDx0u1gbtnlYXYU8qHy-j7Ah4rII9hCJnWxoGmOJlYB0nwJzTulFZy6uwwD82CRw8v6lYKG_qCbGSBWMWG3zg4wP2Rub37Q93RdyGd9P/s1600-h/chenille2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" lk="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbdXR-UiRx9xoGz27dBdF8ZwockVYtCe1BWQ2aoDx0u1gbtnlYXYU8qHy-j7Ah4rII9hCJnWxoGmOJlYB0nwJzTulFZy6uwwD82CRw8v6lYKG_qCbGSBWMWG3zg4wP2Rub37Q93RdyGd9P/s320/chenille2.jpg" /></a></div>Yesterday a friend and I spent the day at Callaway Gardens. We enjoyed the butterfly center, the horticultural center, and the birds of prey exhibit, but melted down before we could get to the hot air balloons. <br />
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I was fascinated with the large chenille plant on display in the horticultural center. The word “chenille” comes from the French for caterpillar and refers to a fuzzy, decorative cord. The plant is also called cat’s tail, fox’s tail, caterpillar plant, and Philippines Medusa. (Thank you, Mr. Google.) <br />
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The plant’s fuzzy flowers are amazing; they take me back to the days of the chenille bedspread. Bet the gkids can’t summon up an image of chenille bedspreads--or even the kids! What a generational allusion. I can not only see the bedspread, but I can feel the imprint on my face after an afternoon nap.Mary Starkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17462848937016732972noreply@blogger.com