#339–Rhodies especially glorious this year . . .

The rhododendrons were spectacular this year. Both the wild ones in the forest and the hybrids decorating yards and businesses simply outdid themselves.

The wild pink rhodies were sometimes just a plant or two peaking out . .. .

. . . .or sometimes whole stretches of road bordered by pink blossoms.

As if programmed, they peaked right in time for the Rhododendron Festival the third week in May. And I was here to enjoy them all during April and May. Now into June, they are still gorgeous. And all the rain we had in March and April didn’t seem to hurt them.

‘Jean Marie de Montague’ was spectacular, but the storm did a number on the blossoms. Every day, I pick up those that fall in the driveway. There were hundreds after the storm.

There are three ‘Jean Marie de Montague’ plants approximately 40 years old that have grown together. Here the sun is shining through the early morning mists. This photo was taken a few days before the storm.

However, the Memorial Day Storm on Saturday, May 28, was hard on blossoms. The fierce winds really whipped the trees around and blew off all blossoms that were starting to disconnect. And the rain was torrential at times. It was a genuine winter storm—except it’s almost summer??? What can I say? On the coast, the weather is hard to predict!

‘Mrs. Furnivall’ has tough blossoms. They survived the storm in great shape.
‘Mrs. Furnivall’ up close.

Even so, most rhody blossoms survived the storm. All the photos in this post, except one, were taken after the storm. And they are all from my yard except the wild ones. I’ve added some of my favorites that are still looking good.

‘Creole Belle’ is 37 years old and is just starting to peak. It lost some blossoms in the storm.
‘Creole Belle’ up close.
‘Anah Kruschke’ quit blooming a few years ago. I had the trees pruned up in summer of 2020, and this year I have wonderful bloom for the first time in ages.
‘Anah Kruschke’ up close
‘Naselle’ has a lovely blossom that also just started blooming this year with more light.

‘Lee’s Dark Purple’ is one that I brought from the Santa Cruz Mountains in California 37 years ago. It only bloomed the first few years. With the pruning of 2020, these are the most blossoms it has ever had. I love it!
‘Pink Walloper’ up close is just now starting to bloom.
‘Leo’ is another late bloomer.

‘Blue Ensign’ still has some lovely blossoms. When cut with a stem, a bouquet of these last and last in a vase inside.

Rhodies, glorious rhodies!

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#338–Rhody Saturday at the Gallery . . .

For those not from the Florence area, the Rhododendron Festival is the one really big festival that Florence hosts. It has occurred nearly every year since 1908. The only times it was cancelled were during World Wars I and II and during Covid. This year was the 115th and brought in thousands of visitors. We usually double our population, which is just under 10,000 for the town and a couple more thousand including the surrounding area. A few decades ago, bikers started coming and taking over Bay Street, the heart of Old Town, and they’ve been a part of Rhody Days ever since.

A Carnival is set up on Thursday with art, car, and rhododendron shows Friday through Sunday. There’s a Rhody Run, Rhody Mosey, and a children’s parade on Saturday and a much larger parade on Sunday. Florence’s Grand Floral Parade is the second largest in the state after the much larger Rose Parade in Portland. In the Grand Floral Parade, most floats are decorated with the wild and hybrid rhodies that are at their peak in May.

These are some of the wild rhodies throughout the wooded areas within and surrounding Florence––a beautiful time of year.

The following is a report to the Backstreet Gallery membership after I was on duty as a clerk last Saturday during Rhody Days. It is expanded in a few places for the benefit of folks not from the area:

First of all, I survived Rhody Saturday and so did the Gallery, in spite of the fact that the noisiest place in Old Town was right out front on our little stretch of Bay Street. It seemed like nearly everyone had a motorcycle, and they tried to outdo each other in how noisy they could rev up their engines again and again. At times, you could not hear yourself think, let alone speak. But I kept the door open because a steady stream of people kept coming in. I didn’t sit during my entire shift.

Notice all the bikes in Old Town during this shot of Rhody Days a few years ago on Bay Street.

I did say more than once, “I wish I had a sign that says, ‘Get a muffler!'” And people would laugh and make their own comment. That way, I acknowledged the noise and how I had no control over it. But one gal retorted, “At least you can hear us coming. It’s a safety feature.” I muffled my snort of disbelief and had a good laugh after she left. (I found out later that in California, where lane splitting by motorcycles is allowed, the new quiet bikes make their riders even more at risk because they can’t be heard. So, she was correct. I know motorcycles are noisy, my late husband had three. However, my concern was the extreme loudness of the noise here where bikers were not the only folks around.)  

The Gallery has paintings in oil, acrylic, and watercolor as well as photography, pottery, fused glass, jewelry, prints, tote bags, cards, books, and wood work by four different artists––all men, It has been voted for the upteenth time as the best Gallery in Florence and one of the best on the entire Oregon coast.

In spite of all the noise from the bikers, sales were good. One man, who looked positively Gothic ethereal and spoke in almost a whisper, was very impressed with our art and artists, especially Mark Anderson’s black-and-white photography and Pattie Brooks Anderson’s pen-and-watercolor paintings. Those two just happen to be the current Featured Artists and their art was also in the display windows. He bought $480 worth of art, including Mark’s framed “Thor’s Well,” in one window and Pattie’s large print that was in the other window. And he bought a bunch of other stuff. In spite of being a bit spooky, he turned out to be my favorite customer of the day.

Along with the bikes, we also had some noisy cars, as well as some beautiful ones, here for the car show. Backstreet Gallery now has a BSG category and under it, is a new item called “parking gratuity.” A car with one of those engines that emerges through the hood––like a car that endured a partial explosion––pulled into one of our two parking spots. This muscle car––with the supercharger––was, according to its two occupants, overheating and they didn’t want to go any farther and didn’t know where else to park it. (Sure! Wonder how long it took to come up with that excuse?)

This is similar to the car with the supercharger that parked in our parking space.

When negotiating, the pause is essential. The cowboy and “good ole boy” car occupants literally begged to park in one of our spaces. I paused and each pulled out a huge wad of bills and started peeling off 20s. So, I said, “I suppose so.” They each gave me a twenty and were on their way before I could say, “And be sure to check out the Gallery before you leave . . .”

We, the Gallery and I, survived the first part of Rhody weekend! And it was enjoyable and profitable, in spite of all the noise. However, I absolutely gloried in the silence when I got home. 

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#337–Unforgettable students, the good, the bad & the funny . . .

This is my second post concerning teaching this May, which is appropriate since May is Teacher Appreciation Month. The first article had to do with my 22 years at Blossom Hill School––five years teaching second grade and 17 years teaching first grade. This second post covers memorable students during those years that stuck in my memory—some for good reasons and some not-so-good. Most of my teaching career, I was known as Mrs. Clark.

Alan is right next to me, holding my hand, and Gino, who looked like a future football player, is not hard to spot in my 1964-65 class of second graders, during my second year of teaching.

Alan was my student during my second year of teaching when I was teaching second grade. He often brought me flowers, which I finally realized he was picking from other people’s yards. He often took things from the desks of other children in the class, which I didn’t realize until his kindergarten-age sister would return them. At that point, I talked to him about it and to his parents. At Christmas time, he helped me after school, and I mentioned that I was going to get some spray-on snow for the windows. He left, but soon returned with a can of spray-on snow. Later, I realized that he went to Thrifty’s only a couple blocks away and shoplifted what he wanted. He enjoyed helping me decorate the windows. Everything came to a head right after Christmas when he tried to burn down his house. When the fire truck was there putting out the fire, he was caught stealing stuff off of it. The next day, the fire chief and police chief met with me after school and told me I was the only adult he was connecting with and that his mom was mentally disturbed and there would be major changes taking place with this family. The father and children moved away soon after. I’ve often wondered how Alan turned out. I don’t think he was bad, he just needed someone to love him. I think I was the only one who paid any attention to him.

John is the tallest boy in the back row of my second grade class of 1965-66 in my third year of teaching.

John was a smart, good-looking second grader, who was a natural leader. He did everything not just good or correct but above and beyond. He was simply excellent in everything. I keep waiting to hear his name running for President.

Gino looked like a miniature football player in second grade. But not too miniature; he weighed more than I did. Most second-graders weigh 45 to 50 pounds, Gino weighed about 130 pounds. And he was a bully. One day some of the boys on the playground had him down on the ground behind the backstop and were pounding him, and I was on yard duty. I blew my whistle, but not too loudly. I headed in their direction, but not too fast. This time, justice was walking slowly. Gino was in tears and complained mightily when I got there. I comforted him but also told him that now he knows how the kids he picks on feel. Those kids taught him better than I ever could.

Doug was a fabulous artist at the age of six in first grade. He would draw the most beautiful and bizarre creatures and landscapes. And create unique stories to go with them. He would go into his own little world and slip off his chair and sit on the floor and use his chair as his work space. He simply marched to a different drummer. I did not make him sit on his chair, and I let him use his imagination as much as he wanted as long as he got his required work done. I told his mom that he would never make it in the public schools, that he would need something like Montessori or a place that had individualized teaching programs. She was one of my mother helpers, and she agreed with my assessment.

Bobby is the mischievous-looking blond boy in the front row third from the end, and Tommy is the serious boy with very dark hair next to the top row third from the other end. This was my 1973-74 class of first graders in my 10th year of teaching.

Tommy was a sociopath at the age of five, and I did not want him in my first-grade class. But at that time, I was the most experienced first-grade teacher and got him. He could mesmerize other students and talk them into doing things that would get them into trouble or hurt them, while he got away. I saw him in action when he was still in Kindergarten. He was riding his bike on the playground after class while I was in my classroom preparing for the next day. I saw him stop and talk to a little kid who had climbed up high on some climbing equipment and Tommy told him he could let go with both hands and be okay. The kid did and he fell and got hurt. Tommy rode off smiling––right out of a Steven King story. I ran out but too late to stop it and helped the little boy. That’s when I realized just what Tommy was capable of. During the year he was in my class, I figured out right away that he was smart and could do his work with minimal help and did not like being called on. So, I stopped calling on him and treated him with kid gloves. If I did anything he didn’t like, he would get even. He was one scary kid. His parents didn’t quite know what to do with him.

Bobby loved attention and he would get it one way or another. I finally figured out how to deal with him. He loved showing off how great he could do the computer voice on Star Trek. And he had it down perfectly. So, every day, I would have him use his computer voice to give clean up directions before lunch, recess, and time to go home. He thrived on the attention, and it kept him out of trouble. He also had a great imagination and was naturally funny. During an art lesson where I asked the children to draw something that happened during the summer, he just sat and drew nothing except his name on the back. But he was first to want to share. Curious, I called on him. He had a great story about how the white paper he was holding up was exactly what he saw when the airplane flew through a cloud and then the adventures they had when they landed and on and on . . .

Gretchen and her aide as part of my 1978-79 class of first-graders, during my 15th year of teaching. The boy who was Gretchen’s special helper is two rows up from her on the end.

Gretchen developed a terrible disease when she was about two that left her very skinny and weak. She was bright, but did everything in slow motion when it came to talking, walking, or using her hands. She had an aide that was with her until after lunch recess. I put all the children who needed the most help at Gretchen’s table. Her aide was the only paid aide I ever had. One very helpful little boy became Gretchen’s protector and was always at her side. There was no aide in the afternoons, so his help was very much appreciated. He was a sweetheart! When Gretchen needed to move anywhere, she had a walker, but it was faster for me to just pick her up and move her, like during a fire drill.

Katie was a classic “Valley Girl,” even though she was only six. She had all the mannerisms and expressions. You could tell she had older sisters. One day, I had a new haircut, and from across the playground, she shouted, “What did you do to your hair?” and ran right towards me. Of course, everyone stared in my direction. Every time I had new shoes, dress, earrings, whatever, she would notice and want to know where I got them and everything about them. Every Friday when she left, she would say, “Tata for now!” or “Thank God, it’s Friday!.” And when I led the class in exercises at recess on rainy days, she would come up and whisper in my ear that I jiggled. She really was a hoot!

I loved teaching. It was a very important part of my life. And the children made me laugh every day and cry some days. They were such a big part of my life. At the end of each year, I was never quite ready to give them up.  Well, most of them! There were some I was glad to see move on to another teacher and others I wanted to take home. Both were unforgettable.

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#336–My previous life––as a teacher . . .

When you live in a town where most people are retired and moved here from somewhere else, nearly everyone has a “previous life.”

I taught at Blossom Hill School for 22 years.

My previous life was as an elementary school teacher. I taught at Blossom Hill School, located in an upper middle-class neighborhood in Los Gatos, California. Most of my teaching career, it was a pretty basic school. We had a principal, secretary, and teachers. And we had a district nurse, speech therapist, and psychologist, who were there once a week or as needed.

But in 1963, when I began teaching, we had special teachers for music and art that visited the five elementary school classrooms as well as a resource teacher in the library, but that ended in 1968 when we had major budget cuts. We lost our buses. I started paying 100% of the cost for the reading materials I felt I needed for teaching reading in first grade. These materials were not the state mandated texts but ones that actually worked. And the custodians and maintenance folks were almost all eliminated, which meant that the students had to help me clean the classroom each day before they left.

I think I forgot to say smile! I took no photos in the classroom, but occasionally a parent did or someone from the district office.This was in 1971.

I was the only teacher that paid for the reading materials I used in the classroom, and I did it for 16 years. I also was the only teacher that let between 10 and 14 parent helpers (one at a time) in the classroom starting my second year. My first year had a steep learning curve, where I just tried to make it through each day. After that year, I decided that if I was going to continue in teaching, I would do it my way––and I usually got away with it.  

First year teaching

The week before I started teaching, I got married in a double wedding with my sister where we had lived for several years in the Kern River Valley north of Bakersfield, California, and the whole community had been invited. And I hadn’t seen my husband to be for six months, since he returned from military duty the day before the wedding. So, after the wedding, we were becoming reacquainted as we moved to our new home in Los Gatos where I had been hired to teach. These are all milestones of life, first adult job, getting married, and moving to a new home in a new community. And I did it all in one week. Too much all at once. I wouldn’t recommend it even to my worst enemy.

Preparation for teaching any elementary grade in any year of teaching, takes weeks. The teacher puts up bulletin boards, gets to know the students through their records on file, and most time-consuming of all, preparing to teach. There is the over-all teaching plan to create and break down into yearly segments and then the first week and first day. The district had goals, but in those days, the teachers created their own plan. Then preparing all the materials needed for those first few days. I tried to cram all of that into three days, of which one was filled with meetings—district wide and at the school level. All while moving into a new home and getting to know my new husband.

The first year was the most difficult. After that, teaching became easier. In 1980, I developed a motor skills program for the school with one empty classroom filled with equipment and new playground games that reviewed skills in a fun way.

I did not have a car. I didn’t even drive. The first day, my husband drove me, but that put me there at 5:30 a.m. The second day another teacher was going to pick me up, but she forgot. When I realized she wasn’t coming, I called a taxi and that was an expense, we couldn’t afford. I got there just as the bell was ringing. From then on, I either got their really early with my husband taking me or I took a bus that required me to walk 20 blocks to catch it, and get off a few blocks before the school and arrive 15 minutes before class started. Every day, after school, my husband picked me up.

I really struggled those first few weeks and when the district supervisor of new teachers arrived to observe me, I had just realized that the keys were in the classroom, locking me and my students out. So, I sent the supervisor to get a key and pleaded with the students to be on their best behavior while she was there. For the most part, they were. Nevertheless, when I met with her afterwards, she started by saying, “Well, since things can’t get any worse,” which of course they did. Within a few weeks, I got laryngitis and had a weak, scratchy voice for the rest of the year.  

We had no help-the-new-teacher programs then, but I made it through. In those days, a lot of teachers quit after their first year, since it was a sink or swim experience in many districts. I was definitely more prepared the next year and recruited parent helpers within the first weeks.

Teaching took place in the classroom, on the playground, and here in the park adjacent to the school. This was 1985.

I had always looked young for my age, and when I started teaching at 21, I still looked like a teenager. Meeting parents for the first time, they often asked where the teacher was. The first few years, I felt like an imposter, like I was pretending to be a teacher.

Teaching First Grade

After my fifth year of teaching second grade, I moved to the first grade at the principal’s request. A first-grade teacher was leaving and the principal needed an experienced teacher to fill that post, since the district had a policy of not putting new teacher’s in first grade. Since he needed me, I had some leverage. I knew about a reading program used in special ed classes that I wanted if I was going to teach first grade. It was an expensive, individualized program. The first year, the district paid for it, after that, I did because of the major budget cuts. It worked well. I loved it, and because it worked so well, the students and parents liked it. That’s when I realized that I didn’t feel like I was pretending any more. I began to feel like a real teacher.

But I had much to learn teaching first grade, even though I had consulted with two long-time first grade teachers whom I greatly admired. Here’s a good example. The first day, I walked the two rows of children up to the cafeteria and had them all lined up to go inside. When I turned to go back to the classroom, it only took a couple heartbeats to realize the whole class was following me back. They didn’t know anything about a cafeteria. So, we made a U-turn and headed back to the cafeteria. I stayed with them explaining everything and went through with them guiding and directing all the way to the tables where they would sit.  From then on, each year on the first day, we would take a field trip to the restrooms, the playground, and the cafeteria before the first recess. I learned that lesson the hard way.

I often worked with small groups, while the others were involved with other activities or a mother helper. This particular time, was during a reception for me my last week of teaching. Most of my students were there as were their parents.

First grade sets the foundation, so every day something new is suddenly comprehended by someone. That is an “aha moment” and the light of understanding shows in the student’s eyes. I did’t see it every time, of course, but enough to realize that that was one of the greatest rewards of teaching.

The students come so far in first grade. At the beginning of the year, the class attention span is about five minutes. So, there are many, many short lessons in the course of a day, and the teacher has to be prepared for the whole day before the children enter in the morning. And to mix sit-down with stand-up-and-move lessons because the students aren’t used to sitting for long periods. By the end of the year, they have a much longer attention span and can do so much.

After working so hard to get them to that point, I never was ready to let them go. And each year, when the new batch arrived, there was a “why me” moment! Then those lights of understanding begin clicking on, and I was hooked once again.

Another plus is that first-graders (usually) love their first-grade teacher and hang on every word. I had many parents who would say to me “Mrs. Fleagle says” followed by whatever I had said. I even had one parent bring her daughter to me after school one day and say, “Would you PLEASE tell her to XXX because she won’t listen to me. But she’ll do ANYTHING YOU say!” During their first-grade year, I was the most important person in the world to many of my students. Heady stuff!

Show and Tell

Once a week, we had what I called “Sharing.” For something unusual, like a pet or another person, they were to forewarn me. We had every conceivable kind of pet from gold fish to snakes to ferrets and many dogs and cats. One girl, brought her brother who had just returned home from Vietnam and was very impressive in full-dress uniform.

My first 15 years or so, I had Mr. Allen for a principal. He lived in the neighborhood and walked to school with the students. Then the last five years or so, one of my fellow teachers, Sue Russ, became the principal.

I had no idea what would come out of their mouths. One girl, showing off her newly acquired reading skills, read a year’s worth of telephone bills and the class hung on every word. One boy told how his father had fallen off the back steps and broke his leg. When I asked his mother how the father was doing, she had a blank look. The boy had made it up. One that was not made up resulted in a visit from the police. One of my students told of an intruder in their home where the police had been called. No one knew who it was—or so they thought. My student had gotten up to use the bathroom and saw him but told no one. She was saving it for Sharing. She told the whole class all about it, including who it was. Children recognize adults from more than just their faces. I had her go tell the school secretary, who told the principal, who called her mother, who called the police!

Scary and Unforeseen Situations

Good thing I knew that one of my students was diabetic and her mother had given me a tube of glucose just in case. On her very first day, she came up to tell me she was feeling faint and needed to eat something. She was waiting her turn in line when I saw her eyes roll back and she dropped to the floor. Not something you ever want to see. So, I grabbed the tube of glucose and squirted some in her mouth, hoping that she was indeed the diabetic child. Her eyes opened instantly, and she was up and getting food out of her lunch.

During one hot April day, a girl at the front of the line passed out from the heat and landed against the back door to the classroom, blocking me from opening it and getting to her or letting the class in. So, I ran through a neighboring classroom with my key in my hand, and was able to open the door, get her inside and put wet paper towels on her face, as the class all streamed in right past us. She was up and about feeling fine before I was. That really shook me.

Another time that shook me was when a boy swallowed a tootsie pop drop and it got stuck in his throat one rainy day when the class was in the classroom instead of the playground after lunch. I noticed him, when he slumped to the floor. He couldn’t breathe and his lips were turning blue. I used the Heimlich Maneuver on him and the tootsie pop drop shot about 20 feet across the classroom. Within minutes, he was back to playing. Again, the student recovered before I did.

One of my effective means of punishment, was to remove the child from the classroom for a few minutes. They would have to sit on the bench outside of the classroom. Well, I asked one boy who was acting up to sit outside until I came to get him. That day, it was only about a half hour before class was to be dismissed. So, he sat for a few minutes, then got up and went home. I was frantic when I couldn’t find him. As soon as the class was dismissed, I called his home and was very relieved to find that he was there.

Here you see the benches outside the classrooms. On this day during my last week of teaching, the school had a surprise assembly for me. I was overwhelmed as well as happy and sad at the same time. I had been at the same school for 22 years.

First graders often don’t know what “acceptable” behavior is in certain situations. I had a student, Shavon, who had older brothers and was very good at using cuss words in her every day language. So, when she made a mistake one day and loudly exclaimed, “Damn!” I had to let her know that this was not acceptable and would get her in trouble every time in the classroom. I suggested, “Darn!” For a few months, I would hear, “Damn! Darn!” as she corrected herself. Other students, would help her out by saying, “Darn, Shavon, not damn!” You are never supposed to laugh at the students, but every day, they made me chuckle.

I thoroughly enjoyed my 22 years at Blossom Hill School––all except for that first one. But that was the year I actually learned to become a teacher. And I learned to love it.

So, that’s the story of my “previous life.”

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#335–Thoughts on my Mom . . .

With Mother’s Day approaching, I was thinking about my Mom, who was a complex woman. She had very little common sense but was shrewd, had secrets and considered herself a survivor, and grew more and more negative as she got older.  Since her passing in 2017 at the age of 105, I’ve been trying to figure out why she was the way she was. One thing I do know is that she had a fear of being left on her own. Throughout her life, there was always someone to take care of her.

Childhood

In 1914, at the age of two, her father died in a logging accident. She, along with her mother and eight-year-old sister, were taken in by relatives for a few years.

They eventually ended up in Seattle where Mom’s mother ran a boarding house. Mom mentioned that she had to sleep in the kitchen some of the time and didn’t like all the strangers living in the same house. It must have been a hard life for Mom and a very hard life for her mother, who did all the cleaning, cooking, etc.

She had no father growing up and a mother who had little time for her. From what she said, school was not easy. I think she had little self-confidence and developed an inferiority complex that stayed with her the rest of her life. After high school, she had a few jobs as nanny and waitress.

Wife and Mother

Her mother died when Mom was 21. She moved in with a married friend who lived in Oakland, CA, and got a job as a waitress at a diner at the airport. After some time, her friend needed the room Mom was staying in for her baby that was due soon. Mom had to move out. So, she convinced a fellow she worked with in the diner to marry her. She knew he was sweet on her. The marriage lasted five years and there were no children. When he decided he wanted to attend classes to become a pilot rather than stay a cook forever, my Mom told me she “simply couldn’t have that” and left him and moved in with her sister in Long Beach, CA. That’s where she met Dad.

My Dad, was a sailor in the Navy just before World War II.

Their courtship was in Southern California, but he was in the Navy and his ship, the USS Oklahoma, was sent to Hawaii. Her sister’s husband was also in the Navy and his ship was also going to Hawaii. So, the two sisters traveled to Hawaii together aboard the SS Lurline ocean liner.

My parents got married in Hawaii, and after some time, Mom became pregnant. In September of 1941, my Dad’s tour of duty was up, and he chose to be discharged in Seattle. After he left, life became exciting. I was born in November, Pearl Harbor was bombed in December, and a few months later, Mom and I traveled via troop transport surrounded by destroyers to the states. My Mom and I eventually met up with Dad in Seattle.

Mom and Dad in the 1950s.

The years in Seattle saw my sister and brother born in rapid succession. Then Dad reenlisted during the last year of the war. Mom was terribly unhappy with three children all under four years old to manage and her husband away. She never forgave Dad for that.

The years living in their own homes in Vancouver, WA, Portland, OR, and in the Kern River Valley north of Bakersfield, CA, was a time when she was a committed wife and mother. Mondays were for laundry, Tuesdays for ironing, etc. She had a routine for all the household chores and every day after breakfast read the newspaper. She cooked all our meals and did a wonderful job on pies. She and Dad loved to dance and would often go out dancing, and I was usually the babysitter.

She was a room mother at school more than once, and I remember a few birthday parties where we invited friends. Dad bought her a sewing machine, and she learned to sew. I remember a coat she made me when I was in the middle grades. And in high school, I had several lovely dresses to wear to dances that she made. I loved that coat and those dresses.

Years in Southern California

After 24 years living in the Kern River Valley, all three children had gone onto college and married. Mom was very proud of her children but didn’t much care for their spouses. Mom and Dad moved to Southern California, when Dad was transferred to a power plant near Redondo Beach. That’s when Mom started showing some independence. She rode buses to go shopping and made friends.

Mom and Dad enjoying their cruise to Hawaii.

Then they moved farther south to San Marcos when Dad transferred again to the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant in the late 1970s. It didn’t take Mom long to become a volunteer at Scripps Clinic in La Jolla. She took buses to get there and spent about 15 years there, making some long-lasting friendships.

Then Dad retired and they started taking vacations on cruise ships. Her years living in San Marcos were among her happiest and most satisfying. She was highly valued by the doctors and nurses at the clinic and thrived. When visiting her during those years, it seemed like she was talking about her full-time job, instead of a once-a-week volunteer situation. She loved it, and it was good for her. And she loved all the trips that she and Dad made.

Health Problems & Move to Bakersfield

In the late 1990s, they both began having health problems that required my brother or sister, who both lived in Bakersfield, to make numerous trips to San Marcos. My brother and sister both had full-time careers and it wasn’t easy to keep requesting time off. I was working full-time also and lived in Oregon and had a husband who was not well, but came down twice a year for a couple of weeks each time.

In 2002, Mom and Dad finally moved to Bakersfield. It was good timing because Dad was beginning to show symptoms of Alzheimer’s. Mom did not want to move to Bakersfield. So, she let everyone know how unhappy she was. She did not make friends or join any groups. And she called on my brother and sister for everything all the time. I came down three times a year and stayed a couple of weeks each time to help out. She stayed unhappy about the move for as long as she lived.

After Dad died in 2010, she became even more difficult to be around. Nearly all her comments were negative and anything you told her she remembered and would use against you, if it suited her purposes. And she belittled her children’s advice, but would believe whatever anybody else said. Whenever I was around her, it was like walking on eggshells and you had to think through everything you were going to say. She could turn from pleasant to mean in a heartbeat.

Mom celebrating her 100th birthday in 2012.

We thought about having her move into assisted living, but she absolutely refused to even consider it. She had become very self-centered and liked being treated like a queen bee. So, we hired a caregiver for four hours each morning with my sister and brother alternated meals each evening and my brother continued to handle finances and my sister the yard work. After a few years, we added help to come a few hours each evening, relieving my brother and sister of the evening visits.

As to her secrets, we didn’t know her true age until Dad discovered that instead of 72 as we all thought, she was actually 77. I think that’s why she never learned to drive. She didn’t want to have to carry a license with her actual age on it.

After Dad died in 2010, the attorney asked us whether there were any children from Mom’s first marriage. My sister told him that he must be talking about someone else, because none of us knew about a previous marriage. But he had the papers in front of him. When Mom was confronted with this, she said it wasn’t any of our business. And she never talked about it until she was 104 with me just months before she died. I think the five years difference in her age was her way of deleting the five years of her first marriage.

Like I said, she was a complex woman. Learning how to deal with her, prepared me for dealing with almost anybody throughout my life!

I wish all mothers reading this, a very happy Mother’s Day.

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#334–A tale of tails . . .

I had a dream the other night about pets I’ve had and their tails. Who knows why!  I have no idea, but I got up and started writing. I’ve put the dates of when each pet was mine.  I’ve written just as I remembered them but from each pet’s point of view. I know, it’s quirky and just for fun! So, enjoy!

Pepper in a rare moment of rest. He spent most of his time running for that was what he enjoyed most. –Painting by Karen D. Nichols

Pepper, 1969–‘79 (a 40-pound English Setter given to a family in a suburb when he was two years old, where they kept him tied in the yard where he barked and barked and was miserable, and after the neighbors complained, that is when they gave him to me during a time I lived in a cabin in the woods)––“My tail wags to show how happy I am to be running free and not tied up. It wags when I’m running on the beach, running through the woods, actually running anywhere. I also wag my long, white tail with its feathering inside the cabin while lying on the rug, so the cats can play with it. They don’t think I know what they’re up to. And when I’m in trouble, it seems to wag on its own, while I look away and hope the lady won’t notice me or my tail.”

Eric was a 90-pound, beautiful Irish Setter that loved attention and ran off whenever he was outside and not on a leash.

Eric, 1971–‘73 (an adorable Irish Setter puppy from a line of national champions that turned into a gorgeous but spoiled, 90-pound adult that we finally ended up giving to a family with many children)––“I have such beautiful feathering from the top of my head to the tip of my tail. Such a beautiful tail! I wag it, so everyone will notice me. I love attention. I enjoy sitting on the couch, which is very comfy, but I’m not supposed to. If I keep my tail still, maybe they won’t notice. If the lady sits down, she’ll let me sit next to her. Maybe I can sit on her lap. If I do it slowly and keep my tail still, she might not notice. Last time I tried it, my tail tickled her chin because I couldn’t keep it still, and she made me get down. Here she comes.”

Whenever he was doing almost anything, his tail would be wagging.

Asa, 1992–2002 (a hyperactive, 65-pound Standard Poodle rejected by a dozen families before we took him)––“Wagging my fluffy, round pouf of a tail shows everyone how happy I am to be here where these people kept me and didn’t take me back to the animal shelter. I am sooooo happy! I wag to show it––going for a walk, welcoming home my wonderful people, being petted, eating food, rooting through waste baskets, dragging toilet paper down the hall, and barking at anyone who comes to the door. I just keep wagging. Life is good!”

Jetson was only 10 pounds, but one tough dude.

Jetson, 1989-1994 (neighbor’s cat that visited nearly every day) 1995–2008 (became my cat when I rescued him after being injured after family moved and he came back cross country; wasn’t long before he returned to being alpha cat of neighborhood)––“My tail let’s people know my mood. Fast moving means don’t mess with me. If I’m focused on any other critter trespassing on my territory and my tail is moving slowly and deliberately, keep your distance. If I’m stalking a mouse, I don’t move it. I keep it as still as the rest of me. In the house, I enjoy chasing my tail, but only if no one is watching!”

Sir Groucho went from scruffy, malnourished stray to a lovable, beautiful pet

Sir Groucho, 2009–‘22 (a rescued stray that had been abused in an earlier life and became a contented indoor cat)––“My tail flips up and down, up and down to show how much I enjoy being petted—sort of keeping time with my purring. When I’m sitting on the narrow deck railing outside, my tail helps keep me from falling off. On the king-sized bed, I stretch out my tail to make sure I get my half. If I’m walking between breakables on top of the hutch, I try not to knock anything off with my tail––­unless I want to.”

Actually, I have no idea how my pets felt about their tails. I’m just letting my imagination run wild. But everything I wrote was based on how I knew them, and I knew each pet very well. I miss them all—especially Sir Groucho who was my companion the past 12 years and just passed away in January.

This was great fun to write––a real trip down memory lane.

Maybe it reminded you of one of your pets or triggered memories of one you’ve had. At any rate, I hope you enjoyed it.

Note: If you wanted to read more about any or all of these pets, check out my book Devil Cat and Other Colorful Animals I Have Known.

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#333–Let’s hear it for Central Lincoln . . .

There’s no free give-aways!

No free lunch!

There’s always a catch!

These are the common-sense arguments that pop into your head whenever you hear about a free give-away. But this appears to really be a free give-away that may lower your water usage, cut your electricity costs, and cut your cost of new lightbulbs for quite a while.

I’m talking about the package of free goodies that came in the mail the other day from Central Lincoln, the community-owned electric utility that provides electricity for the Central Coast. It’s part of an Energy Efficiency Program, where Central Lincoln has partnered with the Bonneville Power Administration.

Here are the 14 lightbulbs of various sizes.

In the package are 14 LED lightbulbs of various sizes, including a couple of large flood lights. LEDs should last 15 to 25 times as long as standard incandescent lightbulbs. So, I’m really pleased about getting these. There’s a showerhead and two faucet aerators that are designed to reduce water flow but not reduce performance. So, less water usage and less water heating costs, should save a little money. And there’s a power strip. What’s special about the power strip is that it’s load-sensing. Using this where you plug in your computer or TV helps save energy by powering down other connected devices when they’re not being used. I plan to use it to replace the strip I have in the kitchen, where several plugs share one strip. Not sure if my other strips are this type. I doubt it, since I’ve had them for a long time.

Here is the showerhead and two faucet aerators of different sizes.

I found out about this “give-away” by noticing the insert in the bill in March. I think it was March. I put it aside to read later and almost waited too long. I finally did and realized that that very day was the deadline. As it turned out, I filled out the form and sent it in on the last day possible. I think, it was all done online. Since the insert suggested getting requests in early because there were limited give-away packages, I really didn’t expect to receive anything. I figured they would run out long before getting to me.

And here is the load-sensing, power-saving surge-protecting power strip.

In spite of getting my request in last-minute, I received my package with everything included. And the lightbulbs were even more of a variety that I expected. The insert said the Energy Efficiency package would arrive about May 1, and it came mid-April. Because it surpassed my expectations and arrived earlier than I thought, I’m a happy camper.

Let’s hear it for Central Lincoln!! Way to go!!

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#332–Big Blue, a rare ’62 Chevy Impala 409 . . .

In 1977 when I first met Walt Fleagle, who was to become my second husband, I only saw him drive a Toyota flatbed truck. After a few months, he brought Big Blue over for a proper introduction. Big Blue was Nassau blue, totally beautiful, and in tip-top shape outside, inside, and under the hood. Not being a car person, I didn’t realize it was one of the legendary, ’62 Chevy Impala, Super Sport, 409s. I had no idea it was so special. It had a 409 V-8 engine with dual quads, as well as being the 409 model of car. So, it was a 409-409, somewhat of a rarity. And it had a 4-speed with 3:36 Positraction, whatever that is. To me, it was special because It was beautiful, made Walt happy, and had a song named after it––“409” by the Beach Boys that came out in 1962. “My 409, she’s so fine!” If you’re old enough, it may ring a bell.

Big Blue when I was first introduced to it in 1977 in San Jose, California.

To Walt, this car was his dream come true––a fast and beautiful car. He loved fast cars and fast motorcycles. He ordered the car through a dealership in San Jose, California, exactly the way he wanted it. And he kept it as original as possible for the rest of his life—39 years. Photos of it in 1977 look the same as photos in the ‘90s or 2001 and even in 2012.

After we were married, we’d take it on trips. It was so roomy, I could cross my legs, while sitting in the passenger seat. And it was soooo smooth (even while purring at 80 mph). I could write reports on my first-grade students’ weekly folders, while driving to Lake Tahoe or the Wine Country for the weekend.

We were once pulled over in California on I-5 just so the CHP officer could look under the hood. He even took photos of the car and the engine.

We went to Oregon more than once on vacation and decided to move to Florence in 1980 and even bought some property. Building a house became a problem, so in 1984 we got serious and started looking for a house that was already built. After some searching, we found one that I liked that also had enough space beside it so Walt could add on another garage for Big Blue. And, yes, the garage was built before we moved up in 1985, which also meant replacing and relocating the septic tank.

Walt also loved his flatbed Toyota truck, his street bike, and his dirt bike. He is seen here with friends off somewhere on a dirt bike-riding adventure.

When we actually made the move, Walt drove his Toyota flatbed with side rails up, providing a safe space for his two motorcycles—a Kawasaki street bike and a Rickman dirt bike. He loved those bikes almost as much as Big Blue. I drove my car, a white Plymouth Valiant that I got for very little because it was a credit union repo that had been in an accident and they wanted to get rid of it. It was very basic, nothing fancy. But it had a slant-six engine that, according to Walt, would run forever.  

We had the furniture and everything else come up in a large moving van. And that included Big Blue. Yes, that big car was in there with the furniture. You pay by weight and Big Blue weighed 4,000+ pounds. I didn’t think it was such a hot idea and was against it, but Walt usually got his way when it came to Big Blue. So Big Blue traveled via moving van.

After the move, the Oregon license for Big Blue was 409-409, which I thought was very cool.

While I wallpapered and painted in the house and worked in the yard, Walt finished the garage. He put in insulation and paneling, used a special epoxy paint on the concrete floor, and built his own workbench and cabinets. He even put in speakers so he could play his vast collection of eight tracks. Remember those?

Walt always kept the engine spotless. When he took it all apart, he was very pleased that he had no pieces left over.

Then he took off the hood of Big Blue and had it suspended above the car from a big beam he had put into the design of the garage, while he took apart the engine. He totally rebuilt it, replacing parts as needed. He was totally in his element—his new garage with his special car. And there was room for both bikes too.

Walt loved working on engines–whether it was his car, truck, or motorcycles––all the while with his favorite music playing. He spent a lot of time in his new garage.

After all his work on Big Blue, we entered it in a car show in Florence and rode in the Rhody Parade during Rhody Days. Walt found that he enjoyed showing it off. So, between 1989 and 1996, we entered car shows throughout Oregon—Springfield, Roseburg, Waldport, Sheridan, and other places. Big Blue usually won awards and always attracted a crowd because it was often the only 409.

The car was beginning to become known, especially after an article came out about it in the May 1992 edition of Late Great Chevys magazine with eight photos. I wrote it and sent it in with photos a year or so before it was actually printed. Shortly after that, on our way to one of the car shows in Roseburg, we stopped along the way for gas. A car going by, slammed on its brakes, backed up, and turned into the station. The driver got out of his car, came up to ours, and asked Walt if it was Big Blue! We were both stunned. We saw him again at the car show.

Big Blue in the early 1990s during the years we were entering car shows throughout western Oregon.

Walt took excellent care of Big Blue, doing all the work on it himself. He enjoyed that car the entire time he had it. Even during his last years, when he became too weak to drive it. He had a friend who loved to drive it. So, they would go for long drives in it.

After Walt passed away in 2001, I had Tony of Tony’s Garage here in Florence, check it over. He replaced the battery, put air in the tires, and did anything else it needed. Then, I got it ready to put on eBay to sell. I also had done my research as to what it was worth. But before I actually listed it, a fellow car-show friend of ours, who had shown an interest in buying Big Blue ever since 1989, showed up.

After an article appeared in Late Great Chevys magazine in 1992 when the car turned 30, it became well-known among car-show aficionados.

After some dickering over price, I sold it to him in 2002, when the car turned 40, after seeing the special garage he would have for it. I knew he would give it a good home, and he did. He continued showing it in car shows, too. Walt would have been pleased. And from time to time he and his wife and Big Blue would come to visit.

A few years ago, he sold it to a fellow who lived in Santa Monica, California. That was where Walt had been born and grew up! Somehow that seemed fitting. The new owner called me and told me how thrilled he was with the car, and I sent him a detailed history of it.

Most 409s were raced to death, but Big Blue led a good life. I was looking at a photo of it the other day and realized that it turns 60 this year. As far as I know, it’s still going strong. It’s one of a kind!

These photos were taken by the new owner in 2012, when Big Blue turned 50.
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#331–Of bear claws, pink boxes, and maple bars . . .

Everybody has favorite foods, that which makes you happy, that which makes your mouth water. For me, it’s bear claws. Just ask any member of my family. On my two or three times a year trips to Bakersfield, California, to see family, I’d stay at my mom’s for a couple weeks each time and often be in charge of dinner where the family would gather most nights. On every trip, at least once, we’d have bear claws for dessert—to nobody’s surprise. And Mom and I would have them for breakfast more than once.

Smith’s Bakery on Union in Bakersfield has very good bear claws.

In Bakersfield, there are two places I know of where they sell very good bear claws—Smith’s Bakery just a few blocks from my sister’s house, which I remember from way back during my college days in Bakersfield. Smith’s Bakeries have been a part of Bakersfield since 1945. The other one is the bakery at Albertson’s where my sister and I would shop for groceries for Mom. I ‘m very picky about bear claws and both Smith’s and Albertson’s rate right near the top.

At the very top are the bear claws at Sweet Life Patisserie in Eugene.  A bear claw with a cup of cappuccino at Sweet Life is absolutely to die for. And a “bear paw” at Bread and Roses in Yachats with a cup of coffee was an every-Sunday treat when I participated in the Yachats Farmers Market. They are a little smaller, but very good—near the top also.

There is a bakery down the coast that has a globby frosting on top of their bear claws—yuck! I’ve had giant ones at a couple of places, both in Oregon and California, and they just don’t measure up.

What could be better, a plate filled with bear claws! Yum!!

Most people are familiar with bear claws but in case you’re not: “A bear claw is a sweet, yeast-raised pastry, a type of Danish (pastry), originating in the United States during the mid-1920s. In Denmark, a bear claw is referred to as kamme,” according to Wikipedia.  

Most Danish pastries include the same basic ingredients––eggs, yeast, flour, milk, sugar, and butter. But a bear claw has a unique shape. It’s usually shaped in a semicircle with slices along the curved edge. As the dough rises, the sections separate, resembling the shape of a bear‘s toes or claws. Most often, it’s filled with almond paste (any other filling just doesn’t do it for me) and topped with slivered almonds. A glaze is often drizzled over the top. (My mouth is watering just writing this.) 

Sometimes you could see through the top and other pink boxes are solid.

Almost as good are maple bars. The reason I’m partial to maple bars goes back to when I was little. Mom and Dad would go grocery shopping and come home with a large pink box filled with maple bars. My brother, sister, and I could hardly wait until the box was opened. It’s a fond memory. I saw a large pink box on some Facebook post the other day. Wham! Nostalgia hit! I instantly became a kid again. Some bakeries still use them.

I can get good maple bars at the bakery at Freddies here in Florence, but they don’t have bear claws. I just discovered that Safeway’s bakery has bear claws, so I called in an order. I wanted four; that way, I would freeze two. But the baker said they were already packaged for six. I told her fine; I could handle that. I’ll freeze three. I asked about pink boxes. No, she said, they don’t use them. But she did tie the package of six with a pink ribbon. What a sweetie!

Happiness is a bear claw and a cup of tea or coffee.

I had one Sunday after I picked them up, and another yesterday afternoon with a cup of tea. They are very good, almost as good as the one’s at Sweet Life. All this writing about bear claws is getting to me. I’m going to have to stop and eat that last one. For me, happiness is a break in the afternoon with a bear claw and a cup of tea! Ahh, sheer bliss!! . . . (And there are three more in the freezer!)

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#330–When changing the bed isn’t just changing the bed . . .

Note: Update on wound. When I went to the Wound Care Clinic on Monday March 28, Jeannine found my wound to be much improved! Yay!! I was very pleased. The debridement seemed to be more painful than before, but knowing that it’s working, made it worth it. Because of the improvement, my appointments are only once a week through April.

From the beginning of treatment for my wound, Jeannine has been telling me that what I do at home determines how quickly healing takes place. Her advice: eat more protein because it helps promote healing, put my legs up often during the day and even at night because there is still some edema, which does not help healing, wash with anti-bacterial soap whenever changing the dressing, and change the dressing every other or, even better, every day. And she gave me even more supplies that I will need.

Since Sir Groucho liked to take his half out of the middle, a king-sized bed worked best for the two of us.

To help make it easier for me to sleep at night with legs elevated, I decided that I could insert pillows under the bottom sheet as Jeannine suggested. That would hold the pillows in place and I could keep my legs up all night. The only problem is I’m a side-sleeper. I don’t like sleeping on my back. But I thought I’d give it a try

Also, I’ve got a king-sized bed. Actually, it’s two twin beds put together. Since Groucho, my long-time companion, has been gone since January 4, I’ve thought about putting it back to two twins. Groucho liked to take his half out of the middle, so the king worked best for us. Since I don’t have to do that anymore, I had decided to make the change. Also, it works better when I have house guests. I usually give up my bedroom and sleep on my futon couch in my office.

Here is the bedspread in its new packaging, two blankets and the mattress cover in zippered bags, and the twin-sized sheets and pillowcase. It took awhile but I found it all.

After I stripped the bed and divided it into two, I started looking for the twin bedding. It’s been a couple years since I’d last seen it. And, even worse, I reorganized nearly everything in the house during the Covid lockdown in 2020. So, I kept looking in the wrong places. It took awhile, but I finally found everything and put each item as I found it on each bed.

And I had a pile of king-sized bedding to be laundered before packing away. Besides the sheets, there were the blankets, mattress pad, and throw to be washed. And I needed to shake out and air fluff the bedspread in the dryer before packing away. After awhile, everywhere I looked was a giant mess. Changing the bed had turned into a major project.

Everything was topsy-turvy––so disrupted. What a major project it had turned into. And all the stuff in the foreground is on top of the chest that goes at the end of the bed. All that stuff will be returned to where it had been––under the beds.

I had planned to do laundry that day, anyway. So, I got my usual four loads sorted. With all the added bedding, I now had a total of seven loads. Wow!

All of these needed to be laundered before storing away.

And when I started pulling everything out from under the bed(s), I discovered dust bunnies––lots of dust bunnies. Before going any farther, I got out broom and dustpan and cleaned under the beds and then the floor of the whole bedroom. Again and again throughout the day, I cleaned dust and dust bunnies off of everything that had been under the beds.  

I rediscovered the new bedspreads I had bought for the twin beds that were still in their original packaging. So nice and new but full of wrinkles, which will eventually disappear. And I had to find two standard-sized pillows to put into the new shams, which were part of each bedspread set. Fitting pillows into sham covers is such fun. I swear, they make them one size smaller than what is needed just to make it difficult––always a battle. But I managed it without ripping any seams.

Following Jeannine’s advice, when I made up the twin that I would be sleeping in, I put my leg-elevating pillows under the bottom sheet, so I could elevate legs easily anytime, including at night. Nothing fits quite right when you have a giant bump in the middle of a small bed. But I kept working at it and it’s okay. Strange but okay!

That night, I discovered that when you have covers that fit snugly over the feet on top of the pillows, it scrunches the toes––totally uncomfortable. Besides, I don’t like sleeping on my back. I tolerated it for about 20 minutes. Then the pillows were forcefully removed. It just didn’t work for me.

The final result! And the Koala bear I’ve had since I was a baby born in Hawaii.

Now, I’m back to having the pillows on the top of the bed during the day with a throw to put over me, which is exactly what I’ve been doing since starting treatment of my wound. So, I really didn’t need to divide into two beds because of my wound. But it gave me an excuse to change the beds, which I had wanted to do anyway.

I’m glad it’s done. But what a chore. It took a good chunk of the day. Once again, I discovered that changing the bed can be so much more than just changing the bed. Whew!

This seems such a huge bump on the bed during the day, but the pillows scrunch to about half the height when elevated legs compress them.
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