Seasons of Reflection

this year's zinnias

I love art shows, but I’ve never exhibited in one. Since I visit local art galleries, I sometimes receive invitations to exhibit, and I received one of these invitations the other day. Art exhibitions  always have a theme, a theme you are supposed to work into the art piece you submit. The one I received recently was titled Seasons of Reflection.

The word seasons made me think of seasons of the year, spring, summer, autumn and winter. I quickly related these to seasons of my life and thought, childhood, college, marriage, family and widowhood. Oops, that’s five seasons. At first I thought, laughingly, that maybe I should add hurricane season. We have that here in Florida, always the end of summer and the beginning of fall. I realized it actually fit my life. Children can be little hurricanes and illness almost always comes before widowhood, illness is a hurricane of sorts.

Then, I tried to think of outstanding memories of each of these seasons of my life. Although I grew up as an only child, I wouldn’t say I was lonely. I had many friends, I was always a reader, and I was interested in almost everything and everyone I encountered. If a friend tapdanced, I wanted to do that, too. If another friend played the piano, it was “Please, Mommy, can I have a piano?” And so on until I finally got over myself! But it did keep me busy. I was a good student mainly because I did not want to be embarrassed in class by not having done my homework. And my best friend was practically a genius! Competition was in my genes.

Preparing for college was a given, and when the day finally came, my expectations were enormous only to be deflated quickly. My genius friend who had skipped 12th grade was like a stranger when I finally arrived. She had moved on…my first disappointment. Classes were very different from high school. Nobody cared (especially the prof) whether I did my assignment or not. The classes were huge, and I was one tiny blip in the audience. Listen, don’t listen, turn your assignments in…or not…up to you. My motivation had disappeared and my good grades along with it. But Friday night dances were the bomb and late night trips to the student center for chocolate fudge sundaes kept me happy as a cat in a dairy barn.

I got the shock of my life when my first transcript arrived. It had a D on it in Physical Science, obviously something I needed to study. So I changed my ways and got down to business, but it took me an entire semester to realize I couldn’t skim by on my looks…just kidding. And the season of summer quickly transitioned into autumn, marriage and children.

Autumn starts out hot but eventually cools down. That’s how marriage usually goes. Everything is bright and new to begin with, lots to learn, lots of new experiences with the bright blooms of summer making everything colorful and glorious. But blooms must turn to seed to ensure the next generation, and seeds need care and attention, and the new season has a life of its own. New seeds bloom and the dried petals of the old flowers float along to a new resting place, and eventually their purpose is spent. Along comes winter.

Some plants are annuals, and that’s the way with humans. One year of seasons is all we get, and although each of us is an annual, seeds have guaranteed our longevity, millions of years already.

Four very different seasons for reflection but all tied together by unique human beings. Each season could be many different paintings.

And so, I have an idea for a painting, an empty flowerpot, a seedling, a full bloom, a spent bloom, a year’s worth of a seasons of reflection.

How I Learned to Dance

It was 1956 and I was in the 6th grade.

The cafeteria at my school probably looked a lot like yours, a big rectangular room with many folding tables and chairs. Two open archways permitted entry into the food serving area, a sort of hallway with a large steamy kitchen in the back. Two tray-sliding lines converged at the middle where two cash registers rang up the tally. One line of students snaked in from the classroom hallway while the other actually formed inside the seating area. Huge windows looked out onto a parking lot with a drive-through/waiting area for the buses. The entire cafeteria was probably a metal building attached to the main school at some later period in time because if I looked up, I could see the steel beams supporting the roof. The actual school was one of those old two-story red brick monstrosities with names like Woodrow Wilson or Booker T. Washington although mine was named after the town, Harrington.

The food servers, who may have been preparers as well, always had red, sweaty faces, black hairnets, and names like Hazel. To me they were scary, trying to shove food at me and telling me what I should eat. I don't remember a lot of the cuisine, but I could always count on fish on Fridays. I don't ever remember eating it.

Just like at your school certain groups always sat together. This particular day while eating lunch someone in my group had a eureka moment.

"This would be a great place to dance if the tables were shoved back." My friend, Nancy, looked around for approval.

"I've got a portable record player I could bring in," someone else said.

Then, several of us chimed in with names of 45's we could bring. It was the beginning of the Elvis era and rock 'n roll. Hound Dog, Heartbreak Hotel, Blueberry Hill, and Long Tall Sally were making history.

All that was left to do was get permission. Somehow, I was unanimously elected for the job. I went straight to the top, Principal Feagin.

Now, Principal Feagin was not that fond of any of us, and he had a good reason. I had heard through the grapevine some practical joker in my class recently had called a funeral home in the middle of the night with the news that Mr. Feagin had died and would they please send a hearse to pick up the body. The next day someone, whose name shall remain anonymous, wished they were dead, and it wasn' t Principal Feagin.

Before the bell rang ending our lunch period, I went to the office to speak to Mrs. Burgess, Mr. Feagin's secretary. I figured I would need an appointment for something so important.

She looked up as I opened the door. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to make an appointment to see Principal Feagin," The words stumbled out rapidly as I was beginning to lose my nerve.

"And what do you need to see the Principal about?" She seemed to stare right through me as her dimples deepened and her eyes twinkled.

"Some friends and I would like to play some music in the cafeteria during the last half of our lunch period." And then I had my own eureka moment. "You know music is supposed to aid digestion." I'm not sure where that came from, but I thought it would be hard to argue against. We could sneak the dancing in on our own.

"Well, it just so happens the Principal is free right now. Come on, we'll go ask."

I gulped and followed her through to an office I, luckily, had never seen before. Mr. Feagin looked up as Mrs. Burgess opened the door. I had seen our principal throughout the school lots of times, but had never spoken directly to him. In the hallways he was this tall, thin, bald man with glasses who always wore a suit. And over the loud speaker in the morning, he never sounded like he had gotten up on the right side of the bed. This day was no different except he was sitting behind his desk and looked a little shorter. His left eyebrow raised when my tongue decided not to work. I couldn't tell whether it was a scowl or his natural demeanor.

Somehow I must have gotten the words out but for the life of me I cannot remember one syllable of that conversation. The next thing I knew Mrs. Burgess was ushering me out and congratulating me on my fine speech.

To everyone's surprise, Principal Feagin did give us his permission, and the very next day at lunch time, with each others' help, we all learned to dance to Elvis's "Blue Suede Shoes" and "You Ain't Nothin' But a Hounddog".

And now, almost 63 years later, here I am, reminiscing about the jitterbug, the twist, the stroll, the cha-cha-cha, and even old Principal Feagin.

Christmases Past

Christmas has always been a happy time for me, and now, without Jim, I have many memories of happiness for comfort. I remember three Christmases in particular as I think about the holidays of the past.

One is an image of teens, boys in white shirts and dark trousers, and girls in white blouses and dark skirts. The year was 1960 and I was among this group as we progressed, two-by-two, up the center aisle of my high school auditorium. Each of us held a lighted candle in our right hand with little paper drip pans pushed up through the bottoms. All the girls wore corsages of sprigs of holly tied with a red bow, which we had helped to pin on each other as we waited in the library. We sang the words to “O Come All Ye Faithful” as we slowly walked to the front of the auditorium, and we glowed in the admiration of the onlookers, our parents and friends filling every seat. 

We filed into the rows of our designated seating and blew out our candles, wisps of white smoke floating upward. We heard the special music of soloists, one I remember in particular.. She was a tiny little girl with long black curly hair, but her voice was anything but tiny. I don’t remember her name. She was younger and in a lower grade than I was, but when she began to sing “Oh Holy Night”, I got goose bumps all over. She was magnificent and captured the complete attention of the entire audience. I’m thankful for this special Christmas memory of my junior year in the glee club.

Another Christmas I remember well was my first with Jim as his wife. He was an Airman Second Class at Dover Air Force Base, and, of course, we were poor. I think his monthly allotment was something like $125. Credit cards were still in the future and our rented living quarters were tiny. We managed to get a small tree and a few decorations and lights from my Mom. I can see myself sitting on the sofa in the dark, watching them blink on and off as I waited for Jim to come home on Christmas Eve.

The only presents under the little tree were from our relatives, and we agreed presents were not important between the two of us. We were happy just to be together. But when Jim came home, he was carrying a huge heavy gift-wrapped box. I couldn’t imagine what it could be, and I knew whatever it was, we had no money for it.

He wanted me to unwrap it right away and I was eager enough. There would be time for questions later. It turned out to be a portable stereo record player and in another package there was an album of our favorite songs by Peter, Paul, and Mary. We played that album until we knew the words of every song and the order in which they would come up. Jim’s favorite, Old Stewball and mine, Blowin in the Wind, were played over and over that night and for many weeks afterwards. Nothing could have made me happier

Even later when I found out the way the present came into being, my enthusiasm remained high. It seems Sears and Roebuck had discovered a way for everyone to spend money in their store for Christmas. It was called a revolving charge account. I won’t tell how much that stereo ended up costing. But it was worth every penny.

The third Christmas I think of is a sad one, but has ended up being a wonderfully happy memory for many people. In the summer of 1986, Jack, Jim’s older brother, was diagnosed with colon cancer. Surgery revealed the cancer had already spread, and he was given less than a year to live. As Christmas neared, his family decided to make it a very special one since it might be his last. All Jack’s friends and relatives were invited to a huge Christmas party in his honor. People brought every food imaginable, games were played, the kids, and even some grownups, put on hilarious skits and went out of their comfort zones for laughter and memories.

One of Jack’s daughters took rolls of pictures and had copies made for all the relatives. I still have my set and always pull it out near Christmas time each year. Everyone looks so happy, doing their very best to make Jack’s Christmas special. I always get a warm feeling as I see the faces of love in those pictures.

I have many other happy Christmas memories, but these three are way up there at the top of the list, and it makes me feel good just by sharing them.

Another Corner

Standing in the corner was a frequent punishment in grade school when I grew up in the 1950s. Hardly anyone escaped it. This particular day it all started on our return trip from the library when I was in the fourth grade. Mrs. Quillen, my homeroom teacher, never smiled, and she wouldn’t have known what to do with a joke if it had crawled up and sat down beside her. She dressed fashionably, yet conservative would have described her tailored clothes. Her hair, though short, fell in soft waves and framed her black cat eye glasses. She asserted her authority in the classroom and expected everyone to follow her rules without exception. Our class library excursions happened once or twice a month. Everyone lined up single file to make our way to my favorite place in the entire school. Once there, we were turned loose with admonishments of “no talking” and “conduct yourselves like ladies and gentlemen”. Of course, I never had a problem with that. I searched for books with such intensity that the passage of one hour seemed like a few minutes. When we were called to line up again to check out our books and return to our classroom, I invariably ducked in near the end of the line. Sometimes I needed a special invitation, if you know what I mean. Now, I don’t remember liking boys in the fourth grade. At the very least, I didn’t pay much attention to them, but apparently, I had a secret admirer, an admirer who wanted to make me aware of his presence in that snaking line back to our classroom. Harold Cain (will I ever forget that name) was behind me, and as we walked back through the long hallway, he was intent on getting my attention. At first, he quietly kept saying my name, but I gritted my teeth, counted to ten, and did not encourage him by turning around. I ignored him because I knew I would be in trouble with Mrs. Quillen if I so much as uttered one syllable. With no results from name whispering, he resorted to using the only thing he had at hand. He kept tapping me on the back of my head with his library book. Tap…tap…every few steps. At first I managed to remain calm and continue walking, thinking he would soon give up and quit, but he had the persistence of J. K. Rowling. I turned and gave him my most menacing stare. I can see him now, tall and skinny with spiked short blond hair and sporting a smug grin. High water pants, a less than white t-shirt, and a pair of grimy tennis shoes highlighted his wardrobe. He was quiet, saying nothing, but as soon as I turned around toward the front, he began again, tapping me on the back of my head with every few steps I took until I could no longer stand it. I twisted around, swung my outstretched hand that grasped my library book, and I let him have it smack on the side of his face. Wow that felt good…for a few seconds. I heard the thunderous shout, “What’s going on back there?” Mrs. Quillen marched back in plenty of time to see a huge bright red lump appearing on Harold’s cheek. Harold, who now appeared shy, meek, quiet, and a little surprised, became the perfect victim as I sputtered angry abusive epithets to anyone who would listen. After my outburst, Mrs. Quillen neither wanted nor allowed any explanation from me. I was to stop shouting this instant. She clearly saw the injured party and reached her own conclusion. She grabbed my arm, marched me back to the classroom amid snickers and positioned me in the far corner by the blackboard “for as long as it takes to calm down and apologize to Harold”. I don’t remember how long it took me. It seemed like hours, maybe days, but finally, I said “sorry”, grudgingly, and Mrs. Quillen warned me never to strike another person in her class ever again, or I would be more than sorry. Harold never said anymore about it. I think he was scared of me after that, and of course, over sixty years later, being a Scorpio, I still remember his name.

The Dress From Hell

When my daughter was little, first grade size, I decided in order to be a good mom I should try my hand at sewing her some cute dresses. After all, I had taken home economics in high school and made myself a stylish, well-put-together jumper with the help of my teacher and a Simplicity pattern. After that success, my mom promptly bought me a portable Singer for my next birthday with only a little whining from yours truly. But then, with a few attempts at more intricate patterns, my interest waned, and the Singer was lugged from home to college to married life with very little use.

But now I had a daughter, a real live guinea pig, um, model, on which to try my brilliant sewing ability. You should know that I am not a patient person. I am also endowed with more confidence than real know-how, but no matter. When I decide something, I am ready to do it. I did not have any little-girl patterns, but I had plenty of little-girl dresses. Why not use one of them for a pattern? And material? Well, how about those pretty yellow print curtains that would not work on any of the windows where we lived now? Why take the time to shop for patterns and material when I could improvise and get started right away?

I have to say that little dress I made looked divine, on and off my daughter. No one could have done a better sewing job. It hung perfectly, I hemmed it to match the same length as its real dress pattern, and when my daughter tried it on, the fit could not have been better. I was so proud I could hardly wait for her to wear it to school the next day.

I made her stay in her jammies until after breakfast so there would be no chance of a food catastrophe at the last minute. Then I slipped my beautiful creation over her head and tied some pretty yellow ribbons in her hair. I helped with her coat so as not to muss anything, and we were on our way to Allen Frear Elementary. It was so cold but the school was close, and the car heater barely had time to warm up before we were there. At the doors, my beautifully dressed daughter hopped out and mumbled something about an itch around her neck, and I thought, oh no, not those horrible hives again. But we hadn’t had strawberries since last summer.

“It’s probably just some chapping from the cold weather, honey. Go ahead in and show everybody your new dress. Love you, Sweetie. See you in a while.”

And I drove home, glowing in my proudness. Remember that saying, from the Bible I think, about pride coming before a fall?

Hardly an hour had passed when my phone rang.

This was my end of the conversation.

“Yes, this is her mom.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What problem?”

“I’ll be there right away.”

It seems my poor daughter was one red mass of itching from her neck to her legs. When she told her teacher I had made her a new dress from curtains, Mrs. Bickling suspected fiberglass to be the cause of the problem.

I hurried back to the school and picked up a sad-looking little girl who now had a coat on with no dress underneath. My masterful creation was stuffed in a paper bag never to be worn again.

My poor itchy daughter spent the balance of the day in a cool baking soda bath until she looked like the proverbial prune, but at least she wasn’t bright red anymore and the itching had eased. Our doctor prescribed some cream and antihistamine and by the next day, she was her normal pale blond self and back in school with a hilarious show and tell story.

I wondered why I hadn’t itched when I was making the dress, and I posed this question to our doctor. Apparently, some people are not allergic to fiberglass, and I was one of them. The only negative effect on me was damage to my pride and a quick end to my renewed interest in sewing.