Third Grade

     My third grade teacher was Mrs. Miller. She was young, tall, brunette with a Mary Tyler Moore flip in her hair. She was a Yankees fan, and she let us know that from the very first day. We all became Yankees fans too. Googling the 1961 World Series today, I see that the Yankees beat the Reds - so I guess that explains all the excitement in the room at the beginning of the school year.

     I liked Mrs. Miller a lot. One memory that has always stuck with me is the afternoon the class lined up to go somewhere, and the teacher asked for a volunteer to stay in the room with her to decorate the Christmas tree. We all raised our hands, and Mrs. Miller picked me! There was no special reason to choose me out of all the other kids – I was a random choice, and I knew that, and yet I have never forgotten that Mrs. Miller picked me.

     We had a delightful time trimming the tree together, and I asked her about Santa Claus. She was non-committal on that one.

     My grades got better that year, and more confidence in my academic abilities seemed to come along at the same time.

     Third grade is also remembered fondly because I had a boyfriend. He had red hair and freckles and seemed to like me too. We wrote love letters to each other, and I guess that was a pretty big deal because all our parents thought that was sweet, and Mrs. Miller encouraged the letter-writing. Mom kept two of the notes stashed away with my report cards all these years – and now I have them – one letter is written inside a pencil-drawn heart with an arrow going through it – inside it says “I like you very much! Do you like me?”

Love Letter from Third Grade

     It is probably scandalous to admit to, even after all this time, but secretly, I had a crush on someone else - the bad boy in the class! I don't remember if he behaved badly, or if it was his dangerous look that made me think of him as the bad boy. He was the new kid in town with no apparent friends and no appearance of wanting to have any friends. He was quiet and turned away from any attention. His hair came down to his eyes, and he gave the impression of brooding. It gave me a bit of a thrill to be attracted to him

     After third grade, the bad boy moved away – never to be seen or heard from again. But I had seen that I was capable of being untrue to the boy who had written me love letters.

     While my confidence in academics was growing, the thought that any boy could ever like me slipped away. After third grade I became gawky around guys. Forever.

66 20150307 Third Grade

Physics

   

my elegant husband

This past weekend Mike downloaded a physics book on his kindle called The Elegant Universe by Brian Greene. Mike is looking forward to learning more about string theory and stuff like that. And he asked me if I know what the Theory of Relativity is? So I recited the obvious stuff to Mike like the entire energy of the universe is relative to the mass of the universe times the speed of light squared, and we will never be able to go faster than the speed of light and that means space travel as we imagine it can never happen and that is sad, so Einstein has to be disproved so Star Trek can be real.

     Mike said, “so you really understand all of that?” 

     Oh my gosh, all the fuses that started to go off in my pea brain! I grabbed a pen and paper, “Let me get all these notes down for my memory-a-day blog before the sparks stop glowing!”

     My understanding of physics is, was, tenuous at best.

    When the spaceships are passing each other going at almost the speed of light – yeah, I can't wrap my brain around that. (I try, and then my whole body starts shaking, just like when computers in Star Trek go up in smoke because Captain Kirk has spoken illogically to them!) Sometimes I can almost see what the theories are painting, and then when I have to do the math to figure out which spaceship gets where first, well, it all slips away – kind of like someone else is pulling the universe strings leaving me in the dark.

    The day in physics class when we took our exam on all this stuff, there was one particular question about two vehicles going almost the speed of light, and I think the moon was involved, and somewhere in my thinking, I concluded that it was a trick question and my answer was nothing more than a paragraph of why the whole situation was not possible.           When I turned in the exam and walked out into the hall, my teacher was standing there smiling at me. I asked him about the trick question only to find out, of course, that it was not a trick. Sigh.

    What did I learn in college physics? There are no trick questions, just tricky solutions.

    That summer, after two semesters of physics, one with a B and one with a C, I had to meet with my adviser. It was the end of junior year, and many of us would be applying to other schools after graduation. And these other schools would be looking for recommendations from professors and advisers – so Dr. S. was trying to get to know everyone.

     He and I chatted for a little bit, and finally Dr. S. went over my grades. “Tell me more about this C in Physics,” he was expecting a sob story about some relative dying or anything to explain why I did so poorly when obviously I was a bright and intelligent young woman deserving of so much more!

     “Dr. S!” I began to babble, “I earned every last bit of that C! My pea brain can only grasp C's worth of the material. You did not ask me about the B! I did not deserve the B, but my blood, sweat and tears went into that C of second semester!” Dr. S realized he would not have to worry about any recommendations for me. And he was right.

      Hopefully Mike will grasp the material in the Elegant Universe without much difficulty – but right now he is telling me about bouncing photons, bouncing himself as he talks about them, and the speed at the front of the train versus the speed at the back of the train, and I'm afraid the train tracks might take him to a whole other quadrant of the universe, and without the capability of Star Trek travel, how will we be able to pluck him back to our little corner of the world again?

65 20150306

The Icicle

   This is the classic family story about Eric and the icicle written up a few years ago and told for many years before and since. When I was in the fourth grade and nine years old, my Mom got a job as secretary in a law office which was not too far away.

    From the time we got home from school until Mom got home a little after 4:30, we kids would be on our own. There was a phone number where Mom could be reached - but only only only if we had an absolute true emergency! Mom's boss would not like it if his secretary was getting phone calls all the time from her children – or so that was what we were told, of course, so we wouldn't be making nuisances of ourselves.

     Clark was in first grade at this time, and Eric was not yet old enough to go to school. A neighbor, Rita, who lived two houses away on Valley Circle Lane, was going to watch Eric during the day, and when the bus was heard dropping us off after school in the afternoon, Eric would walk home.

     One day in the coldest part of winter – winter in North Boston, New York meant lots of snow, high snow drifts, and cold – very cold, Clark and I got home from school and took off our boots in the back room – the room between the garage and the kitchen. It was getting to be about the time Eric would show up – and when Eric appeared at the door – his upper lip was split open and blood was gushing and gushing out! After walking home, he got to the back door and glanced up and casually grabbed one of the big icicles that had been hanging from the eave. The icicle came loose, slipped through his hand and sliced through his lip!

     Eric was crying and bleeding, and I did not know what to do. I thought I should maybe call Mom, but what if this was not enough of an emergency? Then she would be mad.                Finally I decided to call Rita, and she could tell me if it was the kind of emergency to call Mom about. Rita and her husband came right over to the house, and Tom took Eric to the doctor who was just down the street from the law office. Then he called Mom. A few minutes later, Mom walked into the doctor's examination room and fainted!

     Eric got some stitches and a dandy scar. I got a talking to about the fact that what happened to Eric did indeed constitute a genuine emergency. But there was never again an incident quite as serious as that one.

After I wrote this story in September of '08 (and found an older rendition of the family classic written in '88) Mom sent a paragraph that she had written up about those early days of my being in charge – this incident took place in the summer – so we were not in school, but the three of us were home all day, and here is Mom's paragraph: There was the summer Dad and I decided we no longer needed a sitter and Denise was old enough to be in charge. How well I remember that very first day after walking home from work and seeing Clark and Eric sitting on the front lawn, looking very sad and weepy. I asked what the matter was and they replied that Denise had not allowed them into the house for the entire day. After asking if they had lunch they told me Denise had opened the door at noon, handed them each a sandwich and closed the door. I believe a short briefing with Denise on the meaning of being in command ensued.

64 20150305 Icicle Story

Magic Beans

     When I was a kid, on summer Sundays, there was often company over for dinner – either my mother's relatives or some of my father's relatives. And Dad would grill while Mom made potato salad, usually a tossed salad, and a dish that we all would come to endearingly refer to as Mother Des Soye's Delicious Variation of Grandma Brown's Baked Beans.

     Grandma Brown was a brand name for commercially sold baked beans. We got them in cans off the shelf at the A&P. What we did not know at the time was that Grandma Browns Baked Beans were not sold throughout the whole country. When Mom and Dad moved to Florida, the beans were not on the Pilgrims Pride shelves there, nor are they sold where we live now, in Georgia!

     So much we had taken for granted helping ourselves to Grandma Browns Baked Beans back in those simpler times in Western New York!

     Well back then, Mom would open a big can of Grandma Browns Baked Beans and spoon the contents into a casserole bowl. Then she would add some ketchup, mustard, brown sugar, a chopped onion, and some molasses and mix them all together with the beans. Mom would smooth out the concoction, and on the very top she would put four strips of bacon. The casserole bowl went into the oven at 350 degrees for 45 minutes to an hour.

Within a few minutes of being put in the oven, a most wonderful smell of the beans cooking would permeate the house! And when the oven was opened to remove the finished product, the bacon was bubbling on top! A joy to the eyes, the ears, the nose!

     Now there are a few recipes of Mom's that just cannot be duplicated. Her potato salad is one glaring example; in fact, Mom refused to share her potato salad recipe because she feared people would be angry with her if they could not get it to taste just like hers! (She finally gave me the recipe for her potato salad one day when she was getting chemo and in a reflective mood – I did not want to appear overeager by hastening to get paper and pen to write it all down, so I endeavored to memorize it – since then I can make the potato salad and it almost tastes just like Mom's!)

     But Mother Des Soye's Delicious Variation of Grandma Brown's Baked Beans is a recipe that was not only lovingly shared, it is very easily duplicated, and, it tastes just like Mom's. In fact, I don't even have to put the ingredients together to taste those beans, all I have to do is think about them, and I can taste them and smell them exactly the way Mom made them!          They are that wonderful!

     These days, I might get a can of Grandma Brown's Baked Beans sent to me in a Christmas package from relatives still in Western New York. Or a can might come with family that visits occasionally. And when I get a can of Grandma Brown's Baked Beans here in my Georgia home, I put it on a shelf in the pantry and save it for a special occasion.

The last special occasion for which I opened the can of beans was the night before Amanda and Tony's wedding three years ago. The rehearsal dinner was in Athens, but there were lots of relatives around Lawrenceville not going to the dinner – so they were all invited to our house. There were of course lots of other goodies being served. But just before the guests arrived, I took the can of Grandma Brown's Baked Beans off the pantry shelf, opened it, and spooned the contents into a casserole bowl.

     Then I added some ketchup, mustard, brown sugar, a chopped onion, and molasses. That is what the jar of molasses in the cupboard is there for Mike. He sometimes asks why we have molasses in the house – the special baked bean recipe is the only reason why. I mixed everything together in the bowl, smoothed it out, and then lovingly placed four strips of bacon on the top. I put the dish into the oven at 350 degrees, and within minutes, the smell of wonderfulness permeated the house.

     And when the beans were removed from the oven the bubbling bacon touched all my senses – sight, sound, smell, taste, and the invoking of memories of family gatherings of the past mingling with the family gathering of the present turned on the fifth sense – I could feel the love!

     Mother Des Soye's Delicious Variation of Grandma Brown's Baked Beans are decidedly our family's version of the story of the magic beans!

63 20150304 Magic Beans

Chasing the Clouds

     In the summer, as kids, we would be out playing, usually in a big area, like the mowed field behind Boston Valley Elementary between the playground and the baseball diamond. And every once in a while, a shadow would start to move along the ground across the field. It was the shadow of a cloud moving across the sky! There was not a cloud shape to it – just a straight line across the field – and it would move. It moved at a speed that made us think we might keep up with it – so we ran along with the shadow, always, if I remember correctly, in the same direction from right to left across the field. It was always just a little faster than us – and so we could never catch the shadow.

     That did not seem like a weird thing at the time – we were just chasing the cloud shadows. But one night I told Mike about it, and he gave me such a look that I had to think about what I had just said and finally realized how odd that was.

     I don't see cloud shadows moving across the ground today. Were the shadows not from the clouds? If not, what were they? – because our running after the shadows on the ground was very real. Or am I right – there are cloud shadows – I just don't see them anymore because I am not in an area where they might be so easily seen and chased after, because the age of trying to catch a cloud shadow is past?

62 20150303 Cloud Shadows

The Crystal Beach Psychic

     The third time in her life that Mom went to Crystal Beach, it was on a date with Dad – they were not married yet. They boarded a ferry, the SS Canadiana, in Buffalo, it went across Lake Erie to Canada and disembarked at Crystal Beach – which was not only a town and a beach, but also a well known amusement park and wonderful place for kids, families, and dates to go.

The Crystal Beach Photo 1950

     Well, Mom and Dad spent a lovely afternoon at the park – playing games, riding rides, getting their pictures taken at one of those photo booths, and as evening came on, they were heading back toward the ferry to return to Buffalo when Mom saw a tent with a sign that said, Fortune Teller. She got excited and asked Dad if they should get their fortunes read? Dad told her that it was against his religion, but he would not stop her if she wanted to do it. So Mom went into the tent by herself to hear her fortune!

     “Do you remember what you were told?” I excitedly asked Mom when she told me this story sixty years after it happened.

     Mom got a mischievous gleam in her eye and she said, “the lady told me that I would pass water on my trip home.”

     Well, oh my gosh, that could mean anything!

     Mom could stop at the bathroom before getting on the ferry for the trip home and pass water.

     Or she could get on the ferry and pass over the water of Lake Erie!

     Or, Mom could use the bathroom on the ferry and pass water while passing water!

     What a dumb fortune!

     Mom laughed at my reaction – of course it was silly, and she had paid good money to hear it!

     But somehow I think deep down Mom wanted someone somewhere to be able to tell her something about the future.

     Mom did admit that when she and Dad lived in Florida and they had the house up North for sale – the Zimmerman house – she went to a psychic and asked if the house would ever sell. It is not that it was on the market for very long, it was just that the house was empty and they were so far away, everything seemed precarious.

     The psychic told Mom there would be an offer on the house and there would be something special about the offer and it would be 'okay.' Well, she did not feel totally reassured by the prediction – Mom was nothing if not cynical (one of her expressions was to always expect the worst – then you won't ever be disappointed) – but I do think that when the offer finally came in for the house and the offer had a special condition, Mom was more agreeable than she might have been without the words from the psychic, and the arrangement worked out quite well for all parties involved!

     So I guess the take-home message for us might be that a word of reassurance, even from a stranger, can go a long way.

61 20150302 Crystal beach psychic

I Don't Want To Be Hearing Any Ethiopia!

      The March 1^st quote comes from the afternoon that my parents took us to Crystal Beach. We did not go on the boat from Buffalo across Lake Erie to get to the amusement park – the way Mom and Dad did back when they were dating. Instead, we drove over the Peace Bridge that goes from Buffalo to Canada and then continued by road to Crystal Beach.

     Going back and forth from Buffalo to Canada was not an unusual thing for us. It did not require passports or visas or even birth certificates. The border guards would ask where we were born, what was our purpose in crossing the border, did we have anything to declare as far as purchases, (we never bought anything), and then we were allowed passage into Canada or return passage to the US. We made the occasional trip to Niagara Falls for sightseeing – because the Falls were so close and so awesome. And we had relatives who lived in St. Catherines, Ontario who we visited occasionally. So going to Canada was not something that was at all foreign to us.

     The day we went to Crystal Beach, I was still in grade school, and my best friend from grade school, Diane, came with us. So we must have been quite young because she and I and my two brothers all fit into the back seat of the car. I do not recall much of anything about Crystal Beach itself – the only memory of the trip that has stuck with me to this day is something that happened on the drive home.

     We were approaching the border to get back into the US. Dad turned to us in the back seat and said, “The border guard is going to ask each of you where you were born; you each tell him Buffalo! I don't want to be hearing any Ethiopia coming from the back seat!”

     To me, that was just Dad being Dad, and Ethiopia was silly, exotic and a really fun word to slide off of the tongue. But Diane started giggling! I looked at her as if to say, “we don't encourage him by laughing at his jokes,” but Diane said, “Ethiopia is funny,” and giggled some more.

     Ever since then, Ethiopia comes to mind whenever I hear people talking about traveling out of the country, or coming back into the country. Dad's quirky sense of humor sticks with me forever. “Don't be saying Ethiopia!” I warn the travelers.

     And if real truth be told, my brothers and I were born in Lackawanna.

     And yes, Ethiopia is funny!

60 20150301 don't be hearing Ethiopia