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Secretary – with Benefits

We moved the summer of my junior year of high school. It wasn’t always easy changing schools. One just doesn’t go to a new school and break through the cliques and infiltrate friendships that are already established – but that’s another story. It really didn’t make much difference to me anyway. I only just tolerated school at best.

To me, moving was an adventure. I thought of new friends and relationships that I wouldn’t have otherwise and didn’t want to miss out on that. Just within a week or two, I was invited to the Planetarium/Science Center to rappel off the building. That certainly piqued my interest!

When I pulled up to the building, I was greeted like an old friend. That’s where I met Mr. Smith, who at that time was Coordinator for Curriculum for the county schools, as well as the founding director of the planetarium which opened in 1967, and his wife who was a school counselor. Mr. Smith and I had an immediate connection – we were both PKs. That was the beginning of a relationship that has lasted for years.

I climbed the stairs to the top of the building that was also the observatory for star gazing. I got rigged up, hooked up the carabiners to my seat, and jumped off the side of the building. Of course, someone tied my seat and showed me what to do while they explained the safety precautions. That day and every time after when we rappelled, Mrs. Smith ALWAYS said, “Check your break bars.” That’s a warning I carried with me from then on. When I left that day, I had a standing invitation to join them anytime.

The relationship forged that day grew to something greater. Not only did I gain good friends, I also gained a teacher and great mentors. And, I was offered a job. In order to take the position, I was required to take the Vocational Office Training Class offered at school. One purpose of VOT was to place students into office positions to gain work experience in that field. Though I had already acquired the office skills needed, I complied so I could become Mr. Smith’s secretary. For two years I typed, mailed correspondence from Mr. Smith to teachers in the school system, helped conduct planetarium programs, built lockers, made dolls and other props to put behind the dome for special showings, answered the phone, made reservations, and greeted school groups, among other things.

But there was a bonus. I was a secretary – with benefits.

Those benefits included hiking, backpacking, rappelling, learning proper rappelling rigging and knot tying, camping, caving, fossil hunting, good food, use of a Nikon camera, darkroom access to process black and white film and develop my own photos, alternative education for part of the school year, pine needle tea and other survival tips, learning to operate the Goto projector, watching meteor showers and comets, bonfires, field trips to unique places, mine exploring, and much more. My job also provided funds for the summer trip my sister and I took across the country, and for my very first pair of real jeans.

  • Along a hiking trail

I’m very thankful for the kindness that was extended to me, the new kid on the block. It has been a lasting friendship with the fondest of memories and continuing education of which I am still reaping the benefits.

So, to Mr. and Mrs. Smith – kudos to you!

  • Star Gazing

Note: If you are in the Northwest Georgia area, consider a trip to the
James A. Smith Planetarium.
You can also find them on facebook.

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Don’t Mess with Redheads

One day, I decided a girls’ day trip was in order and I knew just the place to go. I set the date and time, told the girls what to wear and when to be ready. 

When I give them specifics for clothing or type of shoes, they get a bit nervous. Red and the Judge have learned to just go with it, but Spike said, “Where are we going?” My reply was the same as always, “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret!” 

Red and Spike are redheaded cousins. Judge is their cousin, too. The limbs of their family tree go every which way with a few twisted, very twisted, branches. The song, “I’m My Own Grandpa,” might give you some idea of what their tree looks like. Those three gals were my companions for the day.

We loaded up and headed north. Our first stop was one of the best burger joints around. The burgers are yummy, scrumptious, and the menu has almost every kind of burger you can imagine. We had just enough time for our relaxing meal and some laughter before heading to our new adventure.

We parked downtown and walked up the street. I opened the door that read, “Civil Axe Throwing,” walked up the stairs and looked back. The girls came through the door and looked mean at me. They threw virtual axes at me and their eyes said, “We’re doing what?”

After getting our instructions, we tried our hand at axe throwing. Now, I’ll just tell you, I’m not great at throwing axes. The Judge is pretty good at it, even though that’s not her weapon of choice. 

Now the redheaded girls? You’d better stay out of their way. Don’t mess with redheads! They can turn on a dime and slash you with super speed daggers with just one flash of their eyes. Before you know it, you can be brought down with secret ninja moves that appear from nowhere. When redheaded girls are perturbed (a nice word for mad), keep a wide berth. 

It was no time at all before those gals were hitting the bullseye. By the time our scores were tallied, I admit that I was not in the running for the top three positions. To my defense, I do plan the BEST adventures! 

BTW – I did get a couple of bullseyes. (However, if I would have had a two-headed axe, I would have had twice as many chances.)

A couple of things you might need to know about redheads:
1) redheaded bear bait can run faster than you think
2) don’t bet against a redheaded gal at an axe throwing contest

  • Finish if off with ICE CREAM!
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You’re Driving Your Mother Crazy

  • road trip

My mother loved to hear us girls sing together. We did not always oblige, but when we did, she would beam with pride – well – most of the time.

For some reason, she didn’t like allof our vocal selections, especially when we were on a road trip. We tuned up our voices and started the first verse in unison, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.”

After the first verse, the game was on! No two verses were alike, but Mama was not impressed with our skills of creating ninety-nine variations. We could switch parts mid-stream without a glitch. While one took the lead, “Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall…”, the other added background vocals in harmony, “Ninety-eight bottles, ninety-eight bottles, ninety-eight bottles…” And so on and so forth!

By the time we got to “Eighty-nine bottles of beer on the wall,” Mama was already tired of our performance. She voiced her objection, “Buck, will you make the girls quit singing that song?” I thought she liked to hear us sing!

After prompting Daddy several times to do something, he finally said, “You’re driving your mother crazy!”

Well, you can’t fault us for not trying.

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What Language Do You Speak?

The soldier stood guard over a detail of German prisoners as they repaired a drain field. It was getting close to lunch time when the German liaison officer hurried across the field calling to his fellow soldiers. Smiles broke out on their faces. Caps flew into the air and cheers erupted like fireworks. They didn’t cheer because it was time for lunch, they celebrated because the war was over! Soldiers on every side would go home to their families.

For years after, the soldier had flashbacks of his time in the war, especially on December 2nd, the anniversary of the day he was hit with shrapnel that he carried for the rest of his life. He returned from war, married and had a family. 

One day we talked, and I asked if he had any bitterness toward those against whom he fought. He confessed that he discovered some prejudices he didn’t realize he harbored. One way he helped face those feelings was to study the language and the culture. He kept German books and his German bible close at hand. 

He recounted the story of an event that made a great impact in his life. After he went into the ministry, he was called upon to serve as hospital chaplain. One day he got a call requesting him to visit a German lady in the hospital.  Others had gone to see her, but they could not get past the language barrier. When he saw her and heard her German accent with her broken English, a wave of emotion and prejudice rose up in him.  He stepped into the room and spoke to her in her own language. Immediately she was calmed and smiled as she heard words of hope in a language she understood. 

In the process of ministering to her, he was the one who was healed of his prejudices. Had he not been through those experiences of war, he would not have been able to minister to the German woman. Had he not been in the position to minister to her he may not have come face to face with that which imprisoned him. 

What language do you speak?

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Hats

While looking at old photos, I asked, “Daddy, who is this in the picture?”

“That’s my Father.”

“I can’t even see his face.”

“I recognize him by his hat.”

His hat was felt and sometimes had a band around it. Hats identify people. Pipes do too.

  • My English Grandfather & Uncle Ed
  • English Grandfather

My other Granddad had two cowboy hats – a felt hat and a straw hat. Cowboys often had an everyday hat and a dress hat. They wore the dress hat on Sundays or special occasions. On that day, their face was washed, a clean shirt put on with shiny pearl snaps, clean jeans, hair combed back to reveal the tan line on their face, and their Sunday-go-meeting hat sitting neatly on their head. You can still go down to the church on Sundays and meet some of those cowboys.

  • My Granddad ‘s straw hat kept him cooler in the summer

Uncle Ed’s hat didn’t have a wide brim and it sat right on top of his head. Uncle Sid’s hat usually sat cockeyed on his head. Cousin George wears a cowboy hat made of felt and it droops all the way around the brim and rains sawdust on his shirt.

Some hats were neatly creased. Some hats were punched out to make the hat higher. Some had brims turned downward and some with brims turned up and curled. Some had brims straight out. Each one identified the wearer.

My mother wore lots of hats, some not visible to the eye. She wore a chef’s hat, a teacher’s hat, a hard hat, a floppy garden hat, a scarf, a fireman’s hat, a doctor’s scrub hat, a seamstress hat, a referee hat, a cleaning cap, and an artist’s hat. There were some other hats put away in her closet that she wore occasionally. On Sundays, she sometimes wore a pill box hat with netting that hung over the sides. That was her preacher’s wife hat that was held in place with bobby pins.

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A Row of Russian Olives

Though the day was hot, a cool breeze blew across the open prairie taking the sting out of the sun’s rays and scattering tumbling weeds in search of a place to rest. The dirt road stretched for miles connecting the prairie to the mountains. Occasional dusty lanes appeared out of nowhere, like long fingers beckoning us to follow. Rippling fields of wheat sent flashes of green and gold glittering in the light. 

Miles of new fencing lined the road that dissected an endless sea of summer wildflowers, prickly pear and prairie grasses. The road quickly turned into a trail of ruts and jagged shale jutting from the dirt that clung stubbornly to hold the stone in place. A line of dust still lingered in the air. An antelope doe and two calves turned and ran as we got near, their white rumps disappearing in the distance. 

Over the hill, a row of Russian Olive trees planted as a windbreak years ago lined the grassy drive of the old homeplace. Remnants of the old corral and cattle chute barely stood with most of the fence in ruins. The old yellow house that defied time for so long finally succumbed and fell into a pile of rubble. A lump rose in my throat at the emotion of the moment. Another era seemed to disappear before my eyes. 

As the road led up the long slow hill, I dared look back. Remains of the fence and corral threatened to join the other weathered pieces of wood that lay half buried in the tall grass. The scraggly row of Russian Olives dug their roots deeper and stood determined and immovable. Through misty eyes, I saw the house stood tall and strong once again – if only in my memories.  

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A Sign of Things to Come

My Guest Author today is my Daddy as he shares memories of
his wedding day seventy-four years ago.

Nineteen forty-six was in the aftermath of War. Like lots of reunited lovers, we planned for marriages but not weddings. We asked my sister, Barbara, and Jean’s sister, Betty, to be our wedding party. Then we told Jean’s folks and my folks about the wedding date. Jean’s mother decided she’d cook us a wedding supper.

On the appointed day I dressed in the brown Sears wool suit I’d worn for high school graduation. On the way to town I stopped and bought Cousin Jim’s ‘35 Chevrolet for $300. The transmission had tore out of it, and Jim had abandoned it near the Olsen Field beaver ponds. I hired Chub Fisher to repair the automobile. Then Barbara and I drove up Tin Can Hill to pick up Jean. Betty was going to Normal School in Billings. Jean’s cousin Ralph would pick her up. We’d meet them in Big Timber to get a marriage license and find the Lutheran minister.

Jean and Barbara had ordered three Talisman Rose corsages earlier. When we picked them up there were six instead of three. Betty brought up a gardenia corsage. The bride wore it, and we had flowers to share with the mothers and Jean’s grandma. Ralph was with us to see that the wedding knot was tied right. 

And then we ran into a problem. All the ministers had left town. The nearest clergyman was in Livingston.  

At that time a marriage license was only valid for the county in which it was issued. We returned to the Sweet Grass County courthouse and I got our money back on the first marriage license I had ever bought. We got another license in Park County fifteen minutes before the courthouse closed. Then we went to the Livingston Lutheran Church.

The regular preacher was on vacation – but he had a substitute from Wisconsin. A telephone call indicated he could legally marry us. We trooped into the Lutheran Church and stood before the altar. “Altar” is a good word, there are few things that can “alter” a person more.

The pastor lined us up. Although Ralph, Barbara, and Betty promised to object, we repeated our vows. The three members of our wedding party failed to keep their promise, and the knot was securely tied.

A balcony was behind us. When we looked around, the balcony was lined with the minister’s red headed children. Six of them. Did they offer the bride and groom a challenge? Perhaps they were a sign of things to come.

* the wedding couple would indeed have six children
but none of them were redheaded

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Riding Bikes

My brothers knew how to ride bicycles. The oldest brother took me for a ride one time on Ernie’s bicycle. I crawled up in the basket over the front tire and got off involuntarily when my brother rode through a ditch and dumped me out breaking my collar bone. My middle brother went for a ride one day and got dumped off by the railroad tracks all by himself and broke his collar bone. My youngest brother, still older than me, was the only one I remember having a bicycle all his own. He broke his arm once and when the doctor took of his cast for the last time it was stuffed full of pencils and other things he stuck in there to scratch his arm.

My sister and I had a bicycle without tires or a handlebar. It was one of those big spools that at one time had telephone line or cable wrapped around it. That spool was much bigger than us. We flipped it on its side and somehow managed to get on it and move our feet to make it roll up or down the driveway. It’s a wonder we didn’t fall and break something. I don’t know how we managed to keep our balance long enough to stay on the thing. It may not have moved very fast, but I seem to remember having to run on that rolling spindle just to stay on top.

I often went visiting with Daddy. There was a family in Dewey Rose who had a little girl about my age. She was rich! She had her very own new bicycle. I was envious. Whenever Daddy went to visit her family, I liked to go along. One day she asked if I’d like to ride her bicycle. Would I? You bet! That’s when I learned to ride. I was probably six or seven years old and thought I was grown because I could ride a bicycle.

The Duncan kids had bicycles. They even had extra bicycles. Sometimes they asked my sister and me to go bike riding with them on those back-country roads. They also had chicken houses. We’d go in the chicken houses, especially when they were full of little chicks. I was usually always barefooted. You know, it can be quite messy to go in a chicken house barefooted. That’s not something I’d recommend. It was hard to dodge those little squishy chicken bombs even though most of them were covered with wood shavings.

I never did get my own bicycle, but I was glad I had friends willing to share their riches. Sometimes the simplest of things others might take for granted bring the greatest joy to someone else.

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Mt. Bethel

My grandmother was a churchgoer. She was a faithful member of Mt. Bethel Methodist Church. When we stayed with her, we went to church, too. My granddad only went on special occasions, but he did attend the daily devotion every morning in his living room right after breakfast. My grandmother read the devotion out of the Upper Room – the scripture, the story that went along with it, and the prayer. To my knowledge, she never missed a day – and neither did my granddad – nor did he complain about it.

The little church was organized in 1833 and served the farming community known as Ola. In those early years, the main crop was cotton. When my grandparents moved south in the early 1950’s, they soon became an asset to the community and to the church. They were good neighbors and always willing to lend a helping hand. It didn’t take long for the church family to find out that my grandmother had some mad baking skills. When the church had fundraisers for various ministries, a pan of her cinnamon rolls was auctioned off at a hefty price.

A church isn’t a building, it’s the people that come together to worship, fellowship and care for one another’s needs. Within the church was Mr. and Mrs. Wilkinson. When I was born, Mr. Wilkinson made a highchair for me. It has survived all these years and three generations have used it. Leroy and his family were part of the congregation as well. You may have read about him in a previous story. Another person in the congregation was a lady who was a dwarf. She was as short as me, maybe even shorter, and I was just a kid. Her short arms hung unnaturally by her side and her disproportioned body caused her to waddle when she walked. She was always so kind. I think she liked me because we were both short. These country people were a community of people who came together to support one another in good times and bad.

Some Sundays after church, we had lunch on the grounds. There were some good cooks in that little country church. However, there were some things I didn’t care for such as okra, turnip greens, collards and southern cornbread. There were also plenty of salads. My grandmother would take carrot salad, pineapple salad or some other kind of odd salad. I bypassed those but the ladies of the church sure liked them.

Someone always made a “chocolate cake” that was not a chocolate cake. Daddy laughed about that. When he got a slice of chocolate cake, more often than not, it was white cake with chocolate icing. A chocolate cake should be just that, chocolate.

Whether my granddad entered the door of the church or not, he lived an exemplary life of Christianity. He walked his faith. He was genuinely kind and complimentary. No matter what he was doing, he would set that aside to help a neighbor or a stranger. He didn’t show love by empty pious words but rather by his actions. If we walked such a path, our world would be a much greater place.

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Dirty Laundry

Daddy had a few clothes that needed to go to Goodwill. My daughter- in- law volunteered to take care of that project. She instructed my grandson to get the clothes off Daddy Buck’s bed. He obeyed her command.

When I got to daddy’s the next morning, he was laughing. 

He said, “my dirty clothes are gone.” 

Daddy had not clarified which bed held the Goodwill donation. They were still on the bed in the guest room and his dirty laundry was on its way to Goodwill. That was one way to take care of dirty laundry! I sure hope his holey t-shirts were in that stack!