Where Were You On 9/11?

 

“Sir, you’re gonna have to tone it down, or I’ll have to call security.” The Bailiff’s face reddened as he warned the loudmouth for the third time.

“Let’s get this show on the road, and I’ll quiet down. I came here for jury duty, not to sit around and wait for Christmas to come with this bunch of bozos.”

Everyone in the courthouse waiting room was fed up with Mr. Bigmouth

“Listen, mister, I’m paying a sitter while I’m here doing nothing, so button your lip. I’m tired of listening to your bull.” The lady in the pretty yellow dress had reached her limit with all his bragging and prejudicial slurs.

I was not too happy either. The jury notice said to be at the courthouse promptly at 8:30 this morning. That was almost an hour ago.

“Well, I have to go to the bathroom, or I’m gonna float,” declared the very pregnant-looking girl in the back row.

“Go out the door and turn right. I’ll let them know if we’re called.” The Bailiff walked toward the door to open it for her as his cell phone rang. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll bring them in.”

In the courtroom, a clerk handed us questionnaires asking our personal views on different things. The attorneys selected six of us and an alternate. Mr. Loudmouth got up to leave, and several faces lit up with smiles.The Bailiff ushered us to the jury room.

An older woman with glasses spoke up. “Let’s go around the table and introduce ourselves. I’m Jeannette Taylor. I hope this doesn’t take long. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow to visit my daughter.”

Suddenly, the Judge entered the room. “You’re all being excused. You can go home.”

Seeing our astonishment, he continued, “A plane has crashed into one of the Twin Towers.”

Halloween in the 1950s

 With Halloween around the corner, I am taken back to the 1950s and trick or treating with my best friend, Patsy. We lived near a very tiny town, Houston, Delaware (that’s Howston not Youston). I attended a Methodist church there, and that is where I met Patsy. Unlike me, Patsy had lots of brothers and sisters and was out-going and friendly to everyone. I was forever looking for someone to play with, but my shy self did not always succeed. Patsy was easy.

Patsy is pretty ornery-looking, huh? She’s got that impish grin.

Do you remember UNICEF? And churches collecting for that organization during Halloween? Our Methodist church always had a big party for the trick or treaters and encouraged all of us to add this “treat” of donation for a worthy cause to our Halloween shenanigans. To me it made Halloween, already such a fun time, seem important and worthwhile.

A large part of Halloween is all about the planning. After all, you get to be someone else for a few hours, an acting part for which a passion is necessary. Like everyone, we wanted to do something different and spent hours writing down ideas. We shared an interest in books and wrote down our favorite characters, but all of them seemed trite and done before. Peter Pan, Cinderella and Snow White held no appeal for us. The three Stooges or the seven dwarfs were a maybe for a while. But we needed a crowd for them, and we were more of a two-man team.

Then, Patsy had a brilliant idea. “What about that guy we saw at the Harrington Fair? You remember, the organ-grinder and the monkey. I’ll be the monkey, and you can play my brother’s toy accordion. We’ll be hilarious and get tons of candy!” How could I argue with that?

We set about pulling together costumes. Old clothes from one of Patsy’s brothers were perfect for me. A bright red shirt that matched the little accordion made me stand out in a crowd and with a blue tie normally saved for church, I looked very professional, especially when I added an old hat and stuck a found bird’s feather in it. Another friend volunteered his dog’s leash and collar for the “monkey.”

Patsy, who never gave up easily, found an actual gorilla costume, not a monkey but close enough. After “borrowing” a tin cup from her mom’s pantry, we were in business. Patsy started practicing her gorilla/monkey sounds immediately, and I got pretty adept on that little accordion. With our tin cup for UNICEF and our decorated paper bags for candy, we were ready for the big night.

The only thing we hadn’t planned on was how quickly it got dark, but with that accordion, you could hear us coming from quite a distance, and 

when we appeared in front of an open door with the porch light on, mouths did form that 0 of surprise. I pushed and pulled on that accordion and Patsy grunted and squeaked and handed out peanuts in the shell like a good little monkey. We had the best time ever and did get loads of treats for us and the church. It was the very best Halloween I ever remember having. Below are Patsy and Nancy, my best friends all through elementary school. Wish I had pictures of the organ-grinder and the monkey, but sadly, photos were not high on our list of priorities.

Critters

 I don’t know about you but since Elsa paid us a visit on July 7th, I have had an over-abundance of wildlife critters in and around my yard and sometimes in my house. The entrance to my subdivision, including three homes, were flooded by Elsa’s heavy torrential rains. I was shanghaied and unable to partake of the “outside” world for four days as I watched the water slowly recede into a super-saturated earth. Thankfully, my home was high enough, farther up the street, and outside the inundation of water.

But back to the critters. My first notice of a slight change in my own little ecosystem involved some herbs I had planted in pots near my back porch, dill to be specific. Each day I puzzled how instead of getting bushier, they were getting thinner so I at last took a closer look and discovered caterpillars on three of the stems, eastern black swallowtails, a friend in the know told me.

After they devoured every last feathery green leaf of the dill, they went on to my parsley but were sated before the plant was stripped. This was on July 10th.

And then, on August 28th, I managed to snap a phone shot of this little guy on my 

penta plant. I think it posed just for me.

As I understand it, most people plant butterfly gardens especially for this process but my butterflies came by chance of Elsa I think.

I also have had sightings of two black racers (snakes). One caught me by surprise as I opened my porch door to step outside. It “raced” under my foot trying to get away from the huge thing coming at it! Now I am careful to rattle the door before opening it. Before I was widowed all these wildlife problems would have been out of my range of responsibility, but now I have had to “brave up” and take care of things myself. Snakes always scared me and I would be lying to say they do not scare me now, but it is a different level of scared and with a little reading and understanding, I realize I need to share this planet whenever possible. My mantra has become “if you don’t bother me, I won’t bother you”.

Wasps also have invaded my space more than usual since Elsa, the paper kind and maybe some yellow jackets. I have tried to dissuade them from coming into my porch by spraying peppermint (a web thing) but they are diligent and keep hanging around. I have decided to wait for cold weather. Again, my mantra.

Yesterday, another critter came to visit. As I made my way to the kitchen to start breakfast, my eyes lit on the intruder sitting below a rocking chair in my family room, not a frog but a toad, and how he got in is a mystery. I got my broom and thought I might herd him out the door but he was too fast and scooted under another chair out of sight. I went to the web and discovered an upside down bucket with a cover slid under it (I used a pan splatter screen) was the solution but it took me almost two hours to catch the little devil. It did work though and he is happily back to roaming the outside world again.

Don’t let anyone tell you days of retirement are uneventful. Each morning brings a new surprise and keeps me on my toes for which I am very thankful. All creatures are here for a reason and have as much right to be here as I do. Taking the life of any creature is a thing I desperately try not to do...except mosquitoes, that is.

How Do You Feel About Trees

 

How do you feel about trees? Love them, hate them, indifferent to them? I have thirteen pines, big ones, in my backyard. Yes, an unlucky number, but I don’t believe in that stuff, although one is giving me some cause for concern.

A few years ago I had three backyard pines cut down which were too close to the house for peace of mind, and one had water inside (found after the fact). All of them were over ninety feet tall and over forty years old. My fence had to be taken down for access and huge equipment invaded my property leaving their marks of intrusion for months to come. For a few days I was as the cliche says, “a nervous wreck.” It was not a happy time and not something I will lightly agree to again.

But back to my problem tree. It also is nearing one hundred feet to its tippy top, curving and twisting its way to the heavens, and that is one of the causes of my concern. Pine trees like mine should not curve. It does have plenty of luxurious healthy-looking pine needles on the heavy branches of its uppermost parts. Woodpeckers, however, have been attracted to it, and a wiggly line of their drilling is marking its lower third. That worries me, too.

But I am a lover of trees and wildlife, and I am wrestling with the first step of calling a tree service because I know what they will say, “Cut it down.” How many living things will that displace? Thousands, maybe millions. Is it really necessary? Will I regret not having it cut down later, later when the frenzy of Hurricane what’s its name is raging all around me and the upper part of the trunk is swaying to and fro in the fierce winds and rain? Probably.

I wouldn’t call myself a tree hugger but I do have a special love and respect for trees, having been known to take photos of leafless winter trees, lonely trees, trees in fall colors and spring greens, trees heavy with pecans, and trees that have fallen in storms whose upended roots reminded me of wild hairdos. So many trees, forests even, have been sacrificed to civilization right here in our own fair town that the thought of cutting down another for my own benefit seems so selfish.

Trees seem so dispensable nowadays. They used to be much more important. I am thinking of the turpentine industry in the very early 1900s. It could be that the seed from which my “problem” pine grew is a relative of one of those early pines, and that story that I wrote years ago about my mom putting turpentine on a lump on my head when I fell down the stairs, well, suppose that turpentine came from a tree that grew right in my backyard. I know, silly, but possible.

And so, I am thinking more than twice about removing my twisting pine. Maybe its destiny is to fall or snap during a storm and do some damage, but how would I know that for certain, and is it my call anyway?

A Visit to Remember

 

This question has been coming up on Facebook lately, too often for me to resist answering. Where is a place you have visited that, if you could go again, you would? It did not take long for me to come up with an answer. On my first visit I did not appreciate everything I should have due to some particular circumstances, but now I would cherish the opportunity of a return visit.

In early 1964 Jim and I planned a trip to Beckley, West Virginia, to visit Jim’s mom. I was pregnant with our first child, but I was anxious to see my mother-in-law again. I knew that when she heard we were coming, there would be homemade chocolate and coconut cream pies waiting for our arrival. Pregnant people have food cravings.

We planned on two days to get there from Delaware, and thought we might do a little sight-seeing on the way as long as snowstorms eluded the forecast. We usually went from Manassas to Culpepper and on south to I-64, at least the part that was finished, but this time we decided to go to Front Royal and down the Appalachian Trail for a more scenic view. Our map told us that Luray Caverns was on the way and after reading about it, we decided we would stop there for the tour.

It did not look like much when we arrived, sort of like a welcome center, but we were in for some spectacular sights. Military personnel got a special discount so that was an additional plus to our adventure. A prominent sign informed us that in the caverns it remained a constant 54 degrees Fahrenheit. That was no problem since the air outside was colder. We were already bundled up in winter coats, hats, and gloves.

As we followed a downward path, eventually we came to Dream Lake, a spring with stalactites reflected in the water appearing to connect to stalagmites making the actual bottom unseeable. It was beautiful, made more so by the electrical lighting illuminating the cave walls. As we walked on we saw many large rooms with crystallized calcium stalactites in all colors of the rainbow, reds from iron, black from manganese, and blues and greens from copper. I had never seen anything so beautiful.

The Great Stalacpipe Organ is one of Luray’s many touted features but because it had some man-made parts, I was not as impressed as I should have been. I thought it would have been better to leave it au naturale since tunes could be played on the actual formation, but instead a custom console had been connected to the stalactites. Granted, the music played from the natural “pipes” was impressive.

The caverns have stalactites (form downward) and stalagmites (form upward), all with majestic names that somehow fall short of their real beauty, Giant’s Hall, Elfin’s Ramble, Saracen’s Tent, Castles on the Rhine and many more. I thought I was in a fairy tale.

The actual hike through the caverns is about 1-½ miles and being pregnant at the time, I did not give it the attention it deserved, and so, yes, I would love to go back. If you are ever nearby, stop. You won’t be disappointed. And if you cannot go in person, click here for a virtual tour. There are other virtual tours online, but I liked this one best and, still, it does not do the formations justice. Be sure to click “full screen”.

First Times Away From Home

Although I can’t remember the exact year, I think it was around 1974 so Eric would have been 9 and Erica almost 8. The church we attended had organized a camping excursion for the boys that was quite a distance away. We lived in Delaware and the camp was in western Pennsylvania. Eric was excited to go and, always the adventurer, he had no qualms about going so far away from home for a week. He had a list of things to take and was packed and ready to go far in advance of the actual date of departure. I snapped a photo of the group of boys standing in front of the bus on the big day, and I think Eric was the only one smiling. (I promise I was not an evil mother!)

Erica, exhibiting some sibling rivalry and possibly some jealousy,  expressed the need for a trip of her own so I suggested we ask my mom  if she would be up for a visit. She was delighted to accommodate and Erica begged to use my adult suitcase which she began filling immediately with everything but the proverbial kitchen sink. The only time she got a little teary was when she had to say goodbye to her cat, who was expecting kittens.

All was well, though, when we got to Grandmom’s. She lived about 40 miles away in the country, a short distance from Middletown, Delaware. We had visited often in the past and everything was familiar to Erica including the chickens and two beagles. And Grandmom had bought a new Barbie as a surprise. Miss Kitty was a faint memory by the time we left to go back home.

Needless to say, Jim and I were delighted as well. A whole week to ourselves! We planned a couple of short trips of our own, and we could see that movie we had been yearning for.

Days one and two came and went without event until the evening of day two when Grandmom called to say Erica was homesick and was begging for us to  come up and get her. I talked to her on the phone and asked if she could stay that night as it was very late, and she agreed, but not ecstatically. I thought it might be just a spur of the moment longing for home that would pass. No, bright and early the next morning, Grandmom put a sniffling Erica on the phone. She wanted to come home. Now, I know my mom and I know she went out of her way to show her love and entertain her granddaughter, but I don’t think homesickness has been aptly defined by Mr. Webster. Erica was out of her comfort zone, and we hit the road.

As we neared Grandmom’s house, I saw this little person standing in the middle of the road, chin down and arms dragging. Grandmom was nearby looking almost as sad. Erica ran toward us as soon as she saw who it was. She didn’t even give us a hug, just jumped in the car and stayed there while we gathered up her things. All of us were clueless as to why. She did ask if I had gotten her new Barbie. At home she hugged on her kitty until I feared suffocation.

Eric, on the other hand, did not communicate for the entire week. We picked him up at the church, and he couldn’t stop talking about what a great time he had. He brought back gifts for us, a duffel bag full of dirty laundry, and a blossoming case of poison ivy. And that’s the difference between boys and girls.

It's What is for Breakfast!

 

Although my mom always worked outside the home, I can’t remember one morning without a hot breakfast, and it usually varied from day-to-day. One morning I might have pancakes (I called them hotcakes) with blackstrap molasses, another morning it might be a fried egg, over easy, and toast, or maybe French toast, but it was always something yummy and many times included half of a grapefruit always cut into sections for easy eating. I took all this for granted and never considered it anything special until I was a mom and realized the work and commitment involved. Then, I gained a whole new appreciation of motherhood.

I had one other item for breakfast, occasionally, of which you may never have heard. Let me tell you all about it. It is regionally specific in the mid-Atlantic States and German in origin, actually Pennsylvania Dutch. It’s called scrapple, derived from the word “scraps” because that is what it is made from, the scraps of pork plus cornmeal and spices. Okay, now you’re saying that does not sound very appetizing but, believe me, it grows on you. You probably remember reading somewhere about how frugal the Pennsylvania Dutch were. Well, that frugalness trickled on down with them to Delaware where I grew up.

Scrapple comes in a raw one-pound loaf, and, jokingly, is said to be made from everything but the oink. My home state is one of the world’s largest scrapple producers. The most well-known is Rapa brand, made since 1926 in Bridgeville, which is a small town about thirty miles south of where I grew up. Now there are many brands and it is even sold in our local Publix here in Gainesville, Florida, although I haven’t looked for it lately. When I was a meat-eater, I bought and prepared it for breakfast many times.

The trick to tasty scrapple is to fry it brown and crispy on the outside but to leave the inside tasting creamy. It’s that crispy crust that makes it delicious, no extra oil or butter necessary as fat is one of those all but the oink ingredients in the raw product.

I read some time ago that a few New York City restaurants had tried to upscale the lowly scrapple by calling it pan-fried country paté. I’m not sure how well that went over. As much as I liked it, I can’t imagine that it would make much traction in the city. Best to leave it to the country-folk.

There is a Facebook page called the Scrapple Trail that has a map with all the places where you can order scrapple, many many of those places in Delaware. In fact, that place where I said I was working as a waitress during the summer I met JIm, well, the owners of the restaurant known as Kirby and Holloway’s owned a scrapple plant in Harrington, my hometown. When I googled it, guess what came up? Yep, it’s available at Walmart, Kirby & Holloway scrapple. Who knew?

And the moral is, don’t mess with a good thing. I guess scrapple is in my DNA.

Summer at the Highway Department

 

The year of my seventeenth summer began with job hunting, much the same as the one before it had. I graduated in a college prep program but had taken typing and shorthand as backup so my job search began in the want ads for secretaries, office assistants and on down the ladder. This was before fast food places, and temporary summer jobs were hard to find in a town of less than 10,000, but then my aunt came through with a real winner.

Aunt Dorothy worked for the Motor Vehicle Department, Drivers License Division. She had some seniority so when an opening came up in the Highway Department, she put in a good word, and I got the job. It seemed perfect. I was a summer temp for secretaries on vacation. By the time one office got boring, I was off to another one more interesting. I guess you could call it a secretarial pool, except I was the only one in the water.

My home base was Clara Warrington’s office. She was secretary to the Director of Operations. At first sight, I was awestruck by her appearance, a tall model-like platinum blond, expensively dressed, completely in-charge individual. When she told me to do something, she didn’t have to say it twice. If no one was on vacation, Mrs. Warrington kept me busy sharing duties with her office staff. I typed letters, filed, made copies, collected and sorted the mail, answered and re-routed phone calls and anything else she told me to do.

Clara sent me to other offices most of the time, some in the same building, but many in locations across town. Mondays were the start of all vacations so on the prior Friday I went to my new place of employment to meet the vacationee and find out what the job required.

The Office of Right of Way was first on my list, one week only and by the following Monday I was more than happy to go back to Clara. Everyone in the R/W department seemed depressed including my boss and most of the typing was statistical with lots of degree signs and more-than or less-than arrows that I never could keep straight. It was an office of all men, and my most important job was keeping coffee in the coffeepot.

The next week I went down the hall and across the back of the building to Human Resources and met Marilyn, my favorite of all those I temped for. She had the best boss, too. He took his vacation at the same time she did, which left me not very busy. I read a lot that week. Clara’s assistant checked in a few times with things for me to do to keep me from getting really bored.

A couple of weeks after that I went to the stinkiest place you can imagine, the blueprint department. It was a huge room, wall to wall with drafting tables and located on the second floor of a strip shopping mall. The ammonia smell was overwhelming, but like everything else after a while you get used to it, and it actually became one of my favorites. Typing, filing, and opening the mail were my duties. The guys went out of their way to be nice, probably hoping I would show up the next day. They even gave me a little present and cake party at the end of the two weeks.

A short time after that I went to a statistical department that I can’t actually remember the exact name of, where all day I did nothing but type legal descriptions. I almost went bananas that week. One entire wall was nothing but girls in front of typewriters. The regulars competed with each other for the number of pages typed per day. I wasn’t interested. The girl I replaced deserved her vacation. I wonder if she came back.

My last assignment was in the soil testing lab. I think this was mainly done for highways and the entire building was full of engineers. All these years later the one thing I remember about that week is the steady pounding on the core samples. It went on all day and in my head even after I left the premises. I have no memory at all of what I did that week.

On reflection, the variety of the places and the people was an education in itself. Although some of the jobs were not pleasant, they certainly were not difficult, and the summer went by quickly. I was sad to leave Clara’s office and hoped I would be lucky enough to come back the following summer, the summer after my freshman year at the University of Delaware. But that was not to be. There were no openings that year, and I ended up waiting tables in a family restaurant called Kirby and Holloways. That’s where I met my husband, Jim, and as they say, the rest is history.

Happy Mom's Day

My first Mother’s Day was celebrated on May 10th, 1964, exactly one week after our son, Eric, was born. Eric’s birth came as a big surprise to both Jim and me as our baby was not due for another month. He arrived at 4 pounds 14 ounces and remained in the hospital (DAFB) until reaching the required 5 pound mark. So that is where we celebrated my first Mother’s Day, sort of unusual but a very joyous one! Like most preemies, one would never guess today that Eric fit into that category.

In 1966 I celebrated being the mother of two, Eric and Erica (don’t ask as I have no idea where those names came from). Erica was a full-term baby, almost, and arrived at 6 pounds 7 ½ ounces. She was born just after Jim’s separation from the Air Force so she was a civilian baby making her first appearance at Dover’s Kent General Hospital. We were in on a Friday evening and out on Sunday afternoon.

Eric & Erica at around 4 & 5 years old.

This year will be my 57th Mother’s Day celebration. That seems very unreal! My Jacksonville daughter always makes a point of visiting that day, my son not so much as he lives in North Dakota, but distance celebratory sharing is not as much of a problem as it used to be. Thanks to Covid-19 we now have Zoom.

During those 57 years I have been given grandchildren and great grandchildren providing many more voices of celebration. 

This is one of my very favorite cards from Erica’s Mandy and Jimmy, two of my grandchildren. The card is about 25 years old.

I have to include my 2 great grandsons who are fairly new additions to the family. I can’t wait to get Mother’s Day cards from them but that will be a while yet. Their mother is Eric’s Connie Elizabeth, my granddaughter who was named after me (the Connie part).

Russell (2+) and Colt (7 mos.)

My own mother passed away in 1975 and I have missed her now for 45 Mother’s Day celebrations, missed but always remembered not just on Mother’s Day but everyday. Below are some keepsakes from my mommy. In the photo I am probably around 3 years old. The picture was taken at the end of my pop-pop’s farmhouse lane in Caroline County, Maryland, near the town of Ridgely. We most likely had walked down to the mailbox. The little bauble is a pin found in “Mom’s” cedar box, one of many, but this one bears that special word Mother.

I remember going to the Holiday Inn restaurant at the corner of Newberry and Tower Road for their Mother’s Day special buffet. Usually, we went after church with other couples. They had every food you could imagine including scrumptious desserts and even a long-stemmed red rose for all the mommies. It was sad to see them close many years ago.

Even those who have no babies can still celebrate Mother’s Day. We all have a mommy, right? So I wish everyone a happy Mother’s Day and may we all stay safe and healthy and be around to celebrate many more.

Missing Penny

 Having been part of a Life History Group for over eight years, I am missing our leader Penny. Her death on February 9th was a shock even though she had recently revealed her health problems. I wish we had been able to meet in person again. I can see her now, in her favorite seat at the library meeting room where, with a twinkle in her eyes, she raised her gavel to call the group to order. Everyone arriving in the parking lot would know Penny was there when they saw her little car with the flower on the antenna.

She loved the town of Waldo working tirelessly for its history and publishing a monthly newspaper, The Waldo Phoenix. I subscribed and received a copy near the end of each month. Sometimes she would include a story written by members of our group even though we were not from Waldo. Penny was a giving and selfless person.

She always let us know about the Waldo Historical Society fund-raising spaghetti dinners held at the Waldo Baptist Church in the fall. I attended a couple of these and was treated like a queen with meatless sauce held back for my vegetarian preference. Penny went out of her way to make me feel welcome and appreciated. Her photos in front of the Waldo red caboose are a testament to her dedication to her town.

I learned a lot about Penny from her Facebook posts. She loved posting puns, and she loved the Facebook games. She posted photos of birthday dinners with friends at Red Lobster with her favorite drink in hand, the Margarita. The celebrations always included her very closest friend, Lucy Cook, who sadly passed away a couple of years ago. She brought Lucy to one of our Life History Meetings and proudly introduced her to us.

Lucy, Penny & Linda

From Penny’s Life History stories we know she grew up in Branford, Connecticut, and later moved with her family to St. Croix in the Virgin Islands. One of the funniest stories I remember her sharing in Life History was about the first house she bought back in the 1960s. From what I could tell it was built by a real novice with the roof line in front and back being so low the windows had to be set lower than normal, bottoms close to the floor. Standing up at the inside edges had to be done carefully depending on how tall you were. Good thing she was short. The house was left completely furnished (an estate sale) and required lots of refurbishing to be livable. After begging and borrowing most of the down payment, she did a lot of the work herself. There was an old stool left in the bathroom, an ugly old stool, wooden with a homemade cushioned top. Trying to salvage everything she could, she decided a paint job and a pretty cushion might make it usable. She ripped off the ugly material and an envelope dropped out with someone’s name on it, a fat envelope. Inside were several crisp hundred dollar bills in numerical sequence. Surprised (very) at first, then she wondered if they might be counterfeit, but, no, they were real. Due to her young age and the time period (1960s), she thought she might be convicted of stealing if anyone found out, so she decided to spend her found money on fix-up expenses a little at a time. And that is what she did, never telling anyone...until us. Her oral version was a whole lot funnier than mine.

In 2007, one of Penny’s brothers passed away, and she fulfilled one of his wishes by publishing his book, posthumously in 2016, See the Man With No Legs Dance by Kit Cawley. You could almost see the love when she told our group about it. It is beautifully done with an exquisite colorful cover to honor Kit’s artistry. I hope Penny’s stories are saved and that someone will honor her with publication although I do not know if that was her wish. At least her stories will remain in our group memories.

Penny was also instrumental in at least two other publications for Waldo, one a 2016 Waldo Historical Society Calendar, dedicated to the Waldo Schools. In June 2015, Waldo saw the final class of graduates at the Waldo Community School. And in February of 2019, Penny along with Linda Hall Vlacos and Kevin McCarthy, co-published Waldo, Florida: An Illustrated History with the famous red caboose on the cover.

I am happy that Penny held our group together during the pandemic with calls for monthly emails for stories. I know now that at times this must have been difficult. In December 2020, she mentioned how much she missed our Christmas celebrations, and in January 2021 her last message to us was about her favorite television shows, Weakest Link, The Good Doctor, Bull, Mom and Who Wants to be a Millionaire. I never responded and now, that makes me sad. We will miss you, Penny, your unique sense of humor, your dedication, but mostly, we will miss you.

Finding My Way

 When we first moved to Gainesville in 1978, I had no idea how to find my way around. There was no GPS on cell phones. Actually, no cell phones. Jim’s relatives were a big help. They introduced me to Publix and the Gainesville Mall, both close to Brookwood Terrace Apartments where we rented while Jim was building our house nearby in Chatworth Court. My daughter and I even walked to both places several times, crossing a little stream to the east called Hogtown Creek.

But I wanted to get to know this place and while reading the local paper, I discovered garage sales, something new to me, unknown in my former hometown in Delaware. I noticed all the garage sale addresses were points on the compass, northwest, southwest, northeast, and southeast so I enquired around and found an interesting formula to use to determine location. Gainesville was divided into four quadrants of the aforementioned compass points and someone told me that if I could remember the word “april”, I would know which direction the thoroughfare names ran. For example, avenues, places, roads, and lanes run east and west. Any thoroughfare names beginning with letters not in “april” run north and south as in streets, terraces, courts, drives, and ways and so forth.

The axis points converged at the intersection of Main Street (north and south) and University Avenue (east and west). All the thoroughfares were numbered and the numbers advanced from that point. House numbers related to thoroughfare numbers. For example, the house at 2700 NW 32nd Street which happened to be where we were building would be located between the 27th and 28th thoroughfares running east and west because Street would be running north and south. Once I determined where the main thoroughfares were such as NW 39th Avenue and NW 34th Street, it was easy to pinpoint a general location. So our future home would be south of 39th Avenue (the 2700) and east of 34th Street (the 32nd). This may seem complicated but once a few addresses are figured out, it becomes easier. And I was grateful that Gainesville had all numbered names...almost.

When the next Saturday (garage sale day) came, I was ready with my pencil list of addresses, sorted to distance from Brookwood Terrace, closest to farthest. I am an organizer so it was natural to make a list this way. When grocery shopping, my list always corresponds to the way I travel through the store. That way I hardly ever forget anything. I see the isles, shelves and products in my head as I make my list.

As I traveled from garage sale to garage sale, I discovered other places of interest and made notes on my list, learning a great deal about Gainesville with little effort and lots of enjoyment. I liked garage sales. As a writer, they gave me insight into people’s lives, and I purchased some great finds (to me at least). It was a wonderful way to spend Saturday mornings.

Vases & a carved elephant I still treasure.

Going garage-saling with friends was even more fun than going alone, especially after I knew my way around. My sister-in-law, who had lived in Gainesville since the late 50s, was amazed at how easily I found places. We would search out some new place to have lunch before heading home to ooh and aah over our special purchases.

As time progressed, garage sales became ho-hum with most of my purchases being books and then along came Kindle to damper even that. With GPS and Amazon, one must be very dedicated to go to garage sales today although once in a while I do get the urge especially when I know I am not supposed to mingle so closely to others due to the pandemic. My daughter visited last weekend and was looking for something in particular and off we went, but sadly it was too late in the day, and she did not find her prize. But the excursion brought back lots of memories and...led me to write this little essay so all was not lost. Hopefully, my way to find places will help if you have any trouble finding your way around Gainesville. Interestingly, I have never had a garage sale of my own, but I am thinking about it.