Fourteen Ways

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.

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.

Written for Tina Jones, February 9, 2021

Random Thoughts about Bibles

How many Bibles do you have?

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.

Which Bible do you read?

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.

Do you have a special Bible?
 
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.)

Which version do you prefer?

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 sounds 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.

(And we, as a church, still haven’t solved that version problem, but we have worked on the politically correct word problem. The politically correct word 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.)

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.

What is your most overwhelming experience with a Bible?

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.

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.

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 us, 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.

And that disturbing feeling could be the subject for another post.

In Search of Heroes

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; this is the poem we discussed as we talked about the concept of “hero.”

IN SEARCH OF HEROES

Today, Reagan said  you "slipped the surly bonds of earth," but slipping is more subtle,  much quieter, unwatched. You rode into heaven on fiery, snorting horses  that could not be controlled. You knew the risks.   We had almost forgotten. You left us in a gigantic fireball, an unplanned, not-quite-centered  fireworks display, a spectacle of crashing color  that would have been beautiful had we not lost so much. You knew the risks.   We had almost forgotten. We together grieve, a nation not inured (not yet) to televiewed death, a nation astounded by failure-- deadly, unthinkable failure-- where we had become accustomed to success. Our children watched the great adventure. Now we worry about their troubled dreams.  But they wake from nightmares easier than we do. They are too young to know what we had almost forgotten. Many have called you heroes, although you did not quite  sail among the stars. We know your names and faces now-- death your price for fame. Heroes because you failed. Always in search of heroes, we were not prepared for failure. You knew the risks.   We had almost forgotten. You reached, and came up empty-handed. So did we. January 28, 1986 Mary Starke

Musings of An Old English Teacher: Veterans Day

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 United States Department of Veterans Affairs 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."

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?

VETERANS DAY

1.	What is the purpose of Veterans Day?
2.	How is Memorial Day different from Veterans Day?
3.	When is Memorial Day?
4.	What was the original name of Memorial Day?
5.	Why is Veterans Day always on November 11?
6.	What is unusual about the time and date of the day?
7.	What is the name of the final treaty?
8.	What was the original name of Veterans Day?
9.	What President proposed the celebration of Armistice Day?
10.	Who was President when the name was officially changed to Veterans Day?
11.	Why was the name of Armistice Day changed to Veterans Day?
12.	What is Remembrance Day?
VETERANS DAY ORIGINATED AFTER WORLD WAR I. WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT WORLD WAR I?
13.	What are the years of WWI?
14.	When did the US enter WWI?
15.	Why did the US enter WWI?
16.	At the time, WWI was called something else. What was it?
17.	Which country lost the most people in WWI?
18.	What started WWI?
19.	What are the names we gave to the two sides in WWI?
20.	What countries were on “our“ side?
21.	What countries did we fight?
22.	What are the best-known battles of WWI? (my guesses – The references give different lists.)
23.	What are the best-known figures of WWI? (my guesses – The references give different lists.)
ANSWERS
1.	What is the purpose of Veterans Day?
	Veterans Day honors those who served in the US Armed Forces, both living and dead.
2.	How is Memorial Day different from Veterans Day?
	Memorial Day honors those who died while serving in the US Armed Forces.
3.	When is Memorial Day?
	Memorial Day is observed annually on the last Monday of May.
4.	What was the original name of Memorial Day?
	Memorial Day was first called Decoration Day. It was an occasion to decorate the graves of the war dead after the Civil War.
5.	Why is Veterans Day always on November 11?
	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.
6.	What is unusual about the time and date of the day?
	The first treaty, signed in 1918, was temporary; the formal peace agreement came later.
7.	What is the name of the final treaty?
	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 associate 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.
8.	What was the original name of Veterans Day?
	Armistice Day
9.	What President proposed the celebration of Armistice Day?
	Woodrow Wilson, in 1919
10.	Who was President when the name was officially changed to Veterans Day?
	Dwight Eisenhower, in 1954
11.	Why was the name of Armistice Day changed to Veterans Day?
	To honor ALL who died in military service, not just in World War I (an idea of Raymond Weeks of Birmingham, Alabama, in 1945)
12.	What is Remembrance Day?
	British Commonwealth’s version of Armistice Day
13.	What are the years of WWI?
	1914-1918
14.	When did the US enter WWI?
	1917
15,	Why did the US enter WWI?
	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.
16.	At the time, we called WWI something else. What was it?
	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.)
17.	Which country lost the most people in WWI?
	Those who lost over a million:    Germany 1,773,700    Russia 1,700,000    France 1,357,800    Austria-Hungary 1,200,000 ---- US 116,516 (mobilized over 4,700,000)
18	What started WWI?
	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.
19.	What are the names we gave to the two sides in WWI?
	Allies (or Allied Powers) and Central Powers
20.	What countries were on “our“ side?
	Britain, France, Russia, and Italy were the Big Four. The United States was an “associate” ally.
21.	What countries did we fight?
	Germany, Austria-Hungary, Ottoman Empire, Bulgaria, Romania, Japan, and several others
22.	What are the best-known battles of WWI? (my guesses – The references give different lists.)
	Marne, Verdun, Ypres, Gallipoli, Somme, Amiens
23.	What are the best-known figures of WWI? (my guesses – The references give different lists.)
	Kaiser William II - Germany Czar Nicholas II - Russia Vladimir Lenin, Revolution Leader - Russia Prime Minister George Clemenceau - France President  Woodrow Wilson - USA Prime Minister David Lloyd George - Great Britain Marshal Ferdinand Foch, France Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg, Germany General John J. Pershing - USA Marshal Philippe Petain – France Lord of Admiralty Winston Churchill – Great Britain Baron Manfred Von Richthofen, Flying Ace – Germany Mata Hari, Spy – Central Powers

When I Picked Cotton – About 70 Years Ago

The ole cotton fields back home . . . well, almost. Just down the road from my house, anyway, in this picture. 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.

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.

And my uncle thought I couldn't do it. Hmm. Well, he was right. But they had to pick cotton. And I didn't. I slowly walked the long distance back to the house, somewhat dejected, but looking forward to a long, comforting soak in the tub. 

The Snipe Hunt

Backstory of the Idiom

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 sniper refers to someone skilled enough to shoot one.

In a snipe hunt, experienced people make fun of gullible newcomers by giving them an impossible task. A snipe hunt usually takes place within a specific work environment or social group; the task is part of a tradition, similar to hazing.

The phrase snipe hunt 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.

Meaning of snipe hunt: a futile search or endeavor

_________________________________________________________________________

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.

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.

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.

My Cousin Billy's Joke

If I close my eyes, I can almost   .    .    .

hear the sounds of Grandmama's switch red-striping Billy's legs. 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. 

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.

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.

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.
 

If I close my eyes, I can almost   .    .    .

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?