by Pat Laster
What’s eating my pansy blooms? I’ve never noticed this happening before. For several days a bumblebee flew between flower beds (separated by a concrete apron and path). It never seemed to land, though later (the first day of spring), it attached itself to the outer, lower blue bloom of the vinca vine. Why wouldn’t it have gone down inside the bloom?
Another question: (but I think I know the answer). An iris bed --with full sun and nearby yucca plants--had exquisite and multiple blooms. However, irises in a bed in the curve of the driveway—for the second year in a row—have not bloomed. I wonder if the pink dogwood is providing too much shade. Also, a small redbud has sprouted and for the second year, is blooming.
After reading in several sites about iris, it seems that this little bit of shade is not the culprit after all. It is recommended that iris be separated every three or four years. How about thirty or forty years since these have been dug up and replanted? Perhaps that’s my next step. I can use more of the 50 pounds of sand I bought!
Another problem is that one year, I bought two burning bush plants and a small holly bush. By planting time, they were still in their nursery containers. One burning bush I put at the west property line, and the other, alas, I dug in next to the concrete porch on the southeast. Ditto with the holly, only at another place in the same bed.
Through the next several years, I failed to move them to a better location and now, they both stand about four feet tall. The holly spread into a lushly-bloomed azalea, forcing me to trim the new growth. To heel in the new cuttings, I dug a bed (or a trench) next to the non-blooming iris bed, amended the dirt with potting soil and sand. On the second day after planting them, the rains came. We shall see.
During spring break, Kid Billy was invited to spend two days at his Aunt Jenn’s home in Conway. She agreed—they texted back and forth—that I could send her rootings of tansy and lamb’s ear. But I added a clump of oxalis and two small gardenias for good measure.
Ferny-foliaged tansy fills bare spots in beds, but becomes invasive. Grey-leaved, velvety lamb’s ear bloom seeds fall out into the yard and take root. Oxalis spreads, too, so I was glad to share some with her. I may have to make new beds here and there; I’ve given plants away, too. They can be transplanted easily. Email me or go to my blog(s) if you want some.
A little history before this next graf: I always wanted a holly tree. So, when I married (the late) Mr. Laster, two of my women friends gave me one as a wedding gift. I planted it at the house we lived in—his late parents’ home. When the marriage didn’t take, he refused my plea that I get the new tree. So, once again, I had no holly tree.
Six years ago, when we moved to Couchwood, KB noticed a holly at a nursery. He “bought” it for me—perhaps it was my birthday. Or Mother’s Day. I planted it at the northeast corner of the house. But I made the common mistake of planting it too close to the foundation. Today, it strong-arms the nearby gardenia and azaleas. Once again to the pruning shears. #
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Plants and names
by Pat Laster
PLANTS: The houseplants are outside on the east-facing porch. Both ferns and the Chinese evergreen have been blown off their moorings at least once. My mother would be aghast; she wouldn’t put hers out until the wind quit blowing. Not me.
The Drunkard’s Dream has yellow blooms, as does the Yellow Rose of Texas, though its blossom is a “rose” shape rather than a tiny trumpet. The “lilac in the dooryard” also blooms and last weekend, I noticed woods violets in the grass. Inside, two red trumpets bloom from two young epesias.
Last week, I actually followed an online suggestion on how to care for the mandevilla that daughter Jennifer gave me last summer. Her mandevilla, she said, “passed away” during the Christmas season when she didn’t take time to care for it.
At Home Depot, I bought some new potting soil and a 50-pound bag of sand. I searched for the 10-20-10 plant food, to no avail. But an older gentleman employee noticed how long I’d stood poring over them, and came to my aid.
He found one with different mixture numbers, but the phosphorus count was the highest. I thanked him and carried it away to the checker. Plus some rooting material, 50-pounds of marbled rocks, three more pots of thrift and a metal trash can—to use as a burn receptacle. Oh, and three broken stepping stones at fifty cents each.
After a day’s work in the yard, this poem surfaced: “too much yard work/ on this mild but windy day/ now, the heating pad”
NAMES: How would you like to have the name David O. Dobbs? I wonder how often he was kidded about it. Or William Bryan Jennings? How about Duff Luffman? That one’s fictional.
Now and then, I notice places that would make good given names. Like Cazenovia and Baraboo (Wisconsin). Speaking of place names, L. Frank Baum noticed one of his filing cabinet drawers marked A–G, a second tagged H–N, and a third labeled O–Z. Hence, the place, Oz.
According to the 1990 census, the most common female names from one to ten were: Mary, Patricia, Linda, Barbara, Elizabeth, Jennifer, Maria, Susan, Margaret and Dorothy.
From the 2010 census they are: Emily, Madison, Emma, Olivia, Hannah, Abigail, Isabella, Samantha, Elizabeth and Ashley. Only one has made both lists.
French businessman Marcel Bich was ready to take his successful, disposable ballpoint pen to the international market. He named the product after himself, but realizing that Americans would incorrectly pronounce the name, he smartly dropped the H and called his pen Bic.
Movie director Wes Craven named Freddy Krueger after a kid who bullied him in school.
When the name Alan Smithee is credited as a film’s director, it means that the real director has disavowed the project and does not want his/her real name used.
When former chicken-plucker-turned-singer Ernest Evans decided to change his name, he chose Chubby Checker to honor his idol, Fats Domino.
I have a hefty collection of given names against a possible book of such information: over 4500 of them gathered from my readings, excluding fiction. Maybe someday, they’ll see the black of print.
c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
PLANTS: The houseplants are outside on the east-facing porch. Both ferns and the Chinese evergreen have been blown off their moorings at least once. My mother would be aghast; she wouldn’t put hers out until the wind quit blowing. Not me.
The Drunkard’s Dream has yellow blooms, as does the Yellow Rose of Texas, though its blossom is a “rose” shape rather than a tiny trumpet. The “lilac in the dooryard” also blooms and last weekend, I noticed woods violets in the grass. Inside, two red trumpets bloom from two young epesias.
Last week, I actually followed an online suggestion on how to care for the mandevilla that daughter Jennifer gave me last summer. Her mandevilla, she said, “passed away” during the Christmas season when she didn’t take time to care for it.
At Home Depot, I bought some new potting soil and a 50-pound bag of sand. I searched for the 10-20-10 plant food, to no avail. But an older gentleman employee noticed how long I’d stood poring over them, and came to my aid.
He found one with different mixture numbers, but the phosphorus count was the highest. I thanked him and carried it away to the checker. Plus some rooting material, 50-pounds of marbled rocks, three more pots of thrift and a metal trash can—to use as a burn receptacle. Oh, and three broken stepping stones at fifty cents each.
After a day’s work in the yard, this poem surfaced: “too much yard work/ on this mild but windy day/ now, the heating pad”
NAMES: How would you like to have the name David O. Dobbs? I wonder how often he was kidded about it. Or William Bryan Jennings? How about Duff Luffman? That one’s fictional.
Now and then, I notice places that would make good given names. Like Cazenovia and Baraboo (Wisconsin). Speaking of place names, L. Frank Baum noticed one of his filing cabinet drawers marked A–G, a second tagged H–N, and a third labeled O–Z. Hence, the place, Oz.
According to the 1990 census, the most common female names from one to ten were: Mary, Patricia, Linda, Barbara, Elizabeth, Jennifer, Maria, Susan, Margaret and Dorothy.
From the 2010 census they are: Emily, Madison, Emma, Olivia, Hannah, Abigail, Isabella, Samantha, Elizabeth and Ashley. Only one has made both lists.
French businessman Marcel Bich was ready to take his successful, disposable ballpoint pen to the international market. He named the product after himself, but realizing that Americans would incorrectly pronounce the name, he smartly dropped the H and called his pen Bic.
Movie director Wes Craven named Freddy Krueger after a kid who bullied him in school.
When the name Alan Smithee is credited as a film’s director, it means that the real director has disavowed the project and does not want his/her real name used.
When former chicken-plucker-turned-singer Ernest Evans decided to change his name, he chose Chubby Checker to honor his idol, Fats Domino.
I have a hefty collection of given names against a possible book of such information: over 4500 of them gathered from my readings, excluding fiction. Maybe someday, they’ll see the black of print.
c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Gifts for the senses and the mind
by Pat Laster
Not 24 hours after I’d zipped off last week’s post, I discovered—on the path to the mail/paper box—what I’d missed seeing this winter: both blue and white Johnny-Jump-Ups, or bluets (whitets?). Also, the last-year’s Wave petunia that never froze showed two orange-y blossoms.
Returning with the papers, I looked around and noticed something white and low to the ground at the lower edge of the yard near the fence that houses the new neighbor’s two Dobermans. It was early morning. Perhaps they were still abed.
I walked through the dew and dry leaves to the spot. A dozen jonquils bloomed from bulbs that somehow had landed there. I plucked the flowers, every one. The fragrance was so strong, so wonderful that I walked toward the house with my nose buried in their perfume. I literally ran into a sprig of redbud blooming on a fractured and hanging limb. Nothing to do but stop and twist it off. And then another. Into a water-filled Fostoria vase they all went. Now, when I sit at the dining table to read or eat, they assail my senses of sight and smell, and I sigh. Contented, thankful.
As if that weren’t blessing enough, Monday morning, out to mail bills and retrieve the morning paper, I glanced to my left: the purple irises were in bud!
When it quit raining, I planted a flat of pink thrift along the border of the old driveway in openings of long-in-place concrete blocks.
Five Lady CAWs (Central Arkansas Writers)––as one has taken to calling us––meet monthly, each an hour away from a centrally-located county where none of us lives—in their library. The riders arrive sometimes bleary-eyed from the early-Saturday trip, but the drivers are alert--stoked on coffee—at the 9:00 opening hour.
Last Saturday, the parking lot was full for some reason. Entering the place, we discovered why: a book sale was in progress. We dodged our ways through the avid customers, who in this town with three college/universities, seemed eager, like diggers who go to Murfreesboro hoping to find diamonds, to , well, find diamonds in books. We had to wait until after our meeting to peruse the many titles.
Four of us are writing novels and the other has her first book at the printers. A stringent critique session—kind but stringent—ensued, where we aired our opinions about words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs that we considered emotionless, puzzling, or unnecessary.
After two hours of tedious but meticulous work, it was time for lunch. On our way out, we stopped by the book sale. One needed some beach reading for an upcoming trip to St. Thomas, New Orleans and Navarre. Two others of us, who claimed to be merely looking, went up and down the rows–– just in case we saw something we had seen reviewed or had read about and didn’t own.
I looked for authors and found a new Gina Wilkin’s title. Gina, a Jacksonville writer, has relatives in my community, and I have four other titles of hers. It somehow glued itself to my hand. Other authors I picked up were O. Henry, D. H. Lawrence, Hermann Hesse, Walker Percy and C. S. Forester. Two others I chose by the titles: Pollyanna and Pollyanna Grows Up by Eleanor Porter.
Why don't I find a reading space where I can place the vase of flowers close by and open one of the diamonds I bought?
c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Check out my first novel, A Journey of Choice, available at major booksellers or by emailing me at plpalaster21@gmail.com. I will snail mail a copy if you wish. Hardback=$25 + $2 postage; Softback=$15+#2 postage.
Not 24 hours after I’d zipped off last week’s post, I discovered—on the path to the mail/paper box—what I’d missed seeing this winter: both blue and white Johnny-Jump-Ups, or bluets (whitets?). Also, the last-year’s Wave petunia that never froze showed two orange-y blossoms.
Returning with the papers, I looked around and noticed something white and low to the ground at the lower edge of the yard near the fence that houses the new neighbor’s two Dobermans. It was early morning. Perhaps they were still abed.
I walked through the dew and dry leaves to the spot. A dozen jonquils bloomed from bulbs that somehow had landed there. I plucked the flowers, every one. The fragrance was so strong, so wonderful that I walked toward the house with my nose buried in their perfume. I literally ran into a sprig of redbud blooming on a fractured and hanging limb. Nothing to do but stop and twist it off. And then another. Into a water-filled Fostoria vase they all went. Now, when I sit at the dining table to read or eat, they assail my senses of sight and smell, and I sigh. Contented, thankful.
As if that weren’t blessing enough, Monday morning, out to mail bills and retrieve the morning paper, I glanced to my left: the purple irises were in bud!
When it quit raining, I planted a flat of pink thrift along the border of the old driveway in openings of long-in-place concrete blocks.
Five Lady CAWs (Central Arkansas Writers)––as one has taken to calling us––meet monthly, each an hour away from a centrally-located county where none of us lives—in their library. The riders arrive sometimes bleary-eyed from the early-Saturday trip, but the drivers are alert--stoked on coffee—at the 9:00 opening hour.
Last Saturday, the parking lot was full for some reason. Entering the place, we discovered why: a book sale was in progress. We dodged our ways through the avid customers, who in this town with three college/universities, seemed eager, like diggers who go to Murfreesboro hoping to find diamonds, to , well, find diamonds in books. We had to wait until after our meeting to peruse the many titles.
Four of us are writing novels and the other has her first book at the printers. A stringent critique session—kind but stringent—ensued, where we aired our opinions about words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs that we considered emotionless, puzzling, or unnecessary.
After two hours of tedious but meticulous work, it was time for lunch. On our way out, we stopped by the book sale. One needed some beach reading for an upcoming trip to St. Thomas, New Orleans and Navarre. Two others of us, who claimed to be merely looking, went up and down the rows–– just in case we saw something we had seen reviewed or had read about and didn’t own.
I looked for authors and found a new Gina Wilkin’s title. Gina, a Jacksonville writer, has relatives in my community, and I have four other titles of hers. It somehow glued itself to my hand. Other authors I picked up were O. Henry, D. H. Lawrence, Hermann Hesse, Walker Percy and C. S. Forester. Two others I chose by the titles: Pollyanna and Pollyanna Grows Up by Eleanor Porter.
Why don't I find a reading space where I can place the vase of flowers close by and open one of the diamonds I bought?
c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Check out my first novel, A Journey of Choice, available at major booksellers or by emailing me at plpalaster21@gmail.com. I will snail mail a copy if you wish. Hardback=$25 + $2 postage; Softback=$15+#2 postage.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Nature at its best and worst
by Pat Laster
This week, I was struck by these beauties in my yard in central Arkansas: japonica (firebush), forsythia (yellowbell), spirea, pansies, deep-red miniature nandinas, buttercups, heirloom double jonquils, blue-blossomed vinca, berried hollies, hyacinths, dianthus and the understated pink blooms of loropetalum.
Yellow coins of dandelions are blooming underfoot, a portent of future infestation. Hen-bit greens up the yard until the grass begins growing. A yellow sheep shire bloom and stars-of-Bethlehem are also visible in the grass and a lone grape hyacinth peeks from down low in the flower bed.
The oxalis foliage is lush and there are several pink blooms in the hanging basket outside the south window. And thrift. How could I overlook the cascading thrift? Also, the redbud (Judas Tree) is turning fuchsia. And if that weren’t enough, the pear tree is blooming!
Inside, an old begonia (close to the south window) shows one lonely bloom, but four African violets—three blue, one pink—are splendid in their florescence.
As warm as it’s been, it’s awfully tempting to begin putting the plants back outdoors. But I know it’s too soon. The wind would whip them to pieces. Except for the mother-in-law’s tongue. It’s tall, heavy leaves would stand stoically as usual through any weather. We know folks like that, don’t we?
Nature can show both its sublimity in the instances of plants and birds, and its destructive violence as experienced in tornadoes and floods.
This time, central Arkansas received only gusty winds. Places in mid-country weren’t so lucky. At one point, according to newspaper wire reports, storms arrived so fast between last Friday and early Saturday that as many as four million folks were within 25 miles of a tornado.
OTHER SUBJECTS: A recent news picture’s caption mentioned a turpentine farm. A new term for me, so I Googled it, discovering that in earlier years, yellow pine trees were cut into, the resin/sap dripped into boxes, which, when full, were taken to larger containers, then even larger ones and shipped to a distillery, thence to buyers. The online source prompted a poem: “on a dark night/ the turpentine farm becomes/ a cemetery” Cuts in the trees leave whitened resinous coatings that reflect eerily at night.
A term found in an obit ended up in my journal: “Quartermaster Striker (Korean War).” Striker was the enigmatic word. In the list of US Navy Enlisted Rates/Ratings, I found the meaning. I think.
“Sailors who go directly to a base, station or ship without specialized school training following recruit training are encouraged to select a career field. Through correspondence courses provided for self-study and on-the-job training (OJT), they may qualify for entry into a rating. This path is called "striking for rate." A seaman working in the deck department of a ship will by work assignment find herself most often in training for the deck rating of Boatswain Mate. Many "strikers" will venture into other departments to become a Yeoman, Damage Controlman or Gunnersmate as openings occur. Many technical rating fields are restricted to formal school graduates and thereby closed to "strikers." Having experienced the width and depth of Navy life, most "strikers" become excellent petty officers.” #
This week, I was struck by these beauties in my yard in central Arkansas: japonica (firebush), forsythia (yellowbell), spirea, pansies, deep-red miniature nandinas, buttercups, heirloom double jonquils, blue-blossomed vinca, berried hollies, hyacinths, dianthus and the understated pink blooms of loropetalum.
Yellow coins of dandelions are blooming underfoot, a portent of future infestation. Hen-bit greens up the yard until the grass begins growing. A yellow sheep shire bloom and stars-of-Bethlehem are also visible in the grass and a lone grape hyacinth peeks from down low in the flower bed.
The oxalis foliage is lush and there are several pink blooms in the hanging basket outside the south window. And thrift. How could I overlook the cascading thrift? Also, the redbud (Judas Tree) is turning fuchsia. And if that weren’t enough, the pear tree is blooming!
Inside, an old begonia (close to the south window) shows one lonely bloom, but four African violets—three blue, one pink—are splendid in their florescence.
As warm as it’s been, it’s awfully tempting to begin putting the plants back outdoors. But I know it’s too soon. The wind would whip them to pieces. Except for the mother-in-law’s tongue. It’s tall, heavy leaves would stand stoically as usual through any weather. We know folks like that, don’t we?
Nature can show both its sublimity in the instances of plants and birds, and its destructive violence as experienced in tornadoes and floods.
This time, central Arkansas received only gusty winds. Places in mid-country weren’t so lucky. At one point, according to newspaper wire reports, storms arrived so fast between last Friday and early Saturday that as many as four million folks were within 25 miles of a tornado.
OTHER SUBJECTS: A recent news picture’s caption mentioned a turpentine farm. A new term for me, so I Googled it, discovering that in earlier years, yellow pine trees were cut into, the resin/sap dripped into boxes, which, when full, were taken to larger containers, then even larger ones and shipped to a distillery, thence to buyers. The online source prompted a poem: “on a dark night/ the turpentine farm becomes/ a cemetery” Cuts in the trees leave whitened resinous coatings that reflect eerily at night.
A term found in an obit ended up in my journal: “Quartermaster Striker (Korean War).” Striker was the enigmatic word. In the list of US Navy Enlisted Rates/Ratings, I found the meaning. I think.
“Sailors who go directly to a base, station or ship without specialized school training following recruit training are encouraged to select a career field. Through correspondence courses provided for self-study and on-the-job training (OJT), they may qualify for entry into a rating. This path is called "striking for rate." A seaman working in the deck department of a ship will by work assignment find herself most often in training for the deck rating of Boatswain Mate. Many "strikers" will venture into other departments to become a Yeoman, Damage Controlman or Gunnersmate as openings occur. Many technical rating fields are restricted to formal school graduates and thereby closed to "strikers." Having experienced the width and depth of Navy life, most "strikers" become excellent petty officers.” #
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Snow stories spawned other snow stories
by Pat Laster
Guess I’m gonna have to quit writing columns, like I’ve quit directing music groups: I can’t seem to get things right. No sooner did my email dissemination of last week’s column hit the recipients’ computers –and my blog--than one of them sent me a note: “FYI: Phil is not from Philly!” Drat, and double drat. Phil is from Punxsutawney, PA. But why is his name Phil? Isn’t Phil short for Philadelphia? My word!
And for punishment, I read every site involving groundhogs, learning way more than anyone except zookeepers would likely want to know. Unless it was a student in the 1980s having to do a paper on the woodchuck/groundhog rather than take a whipping from a teacher.
Last week’s stories of snow (or rain) that shut down cities begot two others from readers. Here is one from Pat in Bismarck.
“We have pictures of the snow of 1979 in Illinois. It was quite an experience. I was teaching when the message came over the intercom that school would be closed, the buses were ready to run.
“Everyone left except a few teachers who felt like it was a holiday. They took their lunches to the lounge, made fresh coffee, and enjoyed a leisurely lunch. By the time they decided to leave, it was too late. They were stuck there until the next morning.
“Cook County had adequate snow removal for most occasions, but this was just too much--and it caused quite a scandal. I was lucky. I got home in about two hours. I was driving a VW Beetle, which I loved, and while I could hardly see the road, I made it.
“Fred was driving a Ford sedan and got to Steger (about 7 miles from his school), but got stuck before he got home and had to walk to the house--he was as strong as a mule. I don't think very many men could have done that.
“The next morning the wind had driven the snow almost to the top of door. We lived across a city park, and there wasn't any shield to slow the snow. I have pictures of that - makes us so happy that we're in the south!”
Dot from Beebe told this story: “In 1967 (I'd have to research to be sure but Steve was about 3rd grade) we lived in Moore, a suburb of Oklahoma City. One day in March the weathermen predicted ‘overnight snow flurries’.
“No Doppler radar back then. About 1:30 in the afternoon it began to snow so hard the schools decided to send the children home. Mine all got home safely, we lived only a block from Steve's school and the girls rode the bus. I think I may have left work early but my trip home, one-mile-straight-shot, was uneventful.
“However, people got stuck downtown, on the freeway, wherever they were. The school buses got all the kids home safely, some of them hours before their parents made it. I had a friend who taught 2nd grade. Her fourth grader in another school went home on the bus, down their unpaved country road.
“By the time she got all her little ones at school taken care of, she could not get home, nor her husband, who worked at the air force base on the other side of the city. So her little boy spent the night alone in the house. She told it in a calm matter-of-fact way, but I wonder how she was when it was happening.
“I would have been a crazy person, probably dying in a snow bank somewhere trying to get home.
It was a big event for us and spawned many jokes about 'snow flurries'. I wondered if it made your almanac.”
No, it didn’t, but it should have. Thanks to Dot and Pat for these shivery stories.
Guess I’m gonna have to quit writing columns, like I’ve quit directing music groups: I can’t seem to get things right. No sooner did my email dissemination of last week’s column hit the recipients’ computers –and my blog--than one of them sent me a note: “FYI: Phil is not from Philly!” Drat, and double drat. Phil is from Punxsutawney, PA. But why is his name Phil? Isn’t Phil short for Philadelphia? My word!
And for punishment, I read every site involving groundhogs, learning way more than anyone except zookeepers would likely want to know. Unless it was a student in the 1980s having to do a paper on the woodchuck/groundhog rather than take a whipping from a teacher.
Last week’s stories of snow (or rain) that shut down cities begot two others from readers. Here is one from Pat in Bismarck.
“We have pictures of the snow of 1979 in Illinois. It was quite an experience. I was teaching when the message came over the intercom that school would be closed, the buses were ready to run.
“Everyone left except a few teachers who felt like it was a holiday. They took their lunches to the lounge, made fresh coffee, and enjoyed a leisurely lunch. By the time they decided to leave, it was too late. They were stuck there until the next morning.
“Cook County had adequate snow removal for most occasions, but this was just too much--and it caused quite a scandal. I was lucky. I got home in about two hours. I was driving a VW Beetle, which I loved, and while I could hardly see the road, I made it.
“Fred was driving a Ford sedan and got to Steger (about 7 miles from his school), but got stuck before he got home and had to walk to the house--he was as strong as a mule. I don't think very many men could have done that.
“The next morning the wind had driven the snow almost to the top of door. We lived across a city park, and there wasn't any shield to slow the snow. I have pictures of that - makes us so happy that we're in the south!”
Dot from Beebe told this story: “In 1967 (I'd have to research to be sure but Steve was about 3rd grade) we lived in Moore, a suburb of Oklahoma City. One day in March the weathermen predicted ‘overnight snow flurries’.
“No Doppler radar back then. About 1:30 in the afternoon it began to snow so hard the schools decided to send the children home. Mine all got home safely, we lived only a block from Steve's school and the girls rode the bus. I think I may have left work early but my trip home, one-mile-straight-shot, was uneventful.
“However, people got stuck downtown, on the freeway, wherever they were. The school buses got all the kids home safely, some of them hours before their parents made it. I had a friend who taught 2nd grade. Her fourth grader in another school went home on the bus, down their unpaved country road.
“By the time she got all her little ones at school taken care of, she could not get home, nor her husband, who worked at the air force base on the other side of the city. So her little boy spent the night alone in the house. She told it in a calm matter-of-fact way, but I wonder how she was when it was happening.
“I would have been a crazy person, probably dying in a snow bank somewhere trying to get home.
It was a big event for us and spawned many jokes about 'snow flurries'. I wondered if it made your almanac.”
No, it didn’t, but it should have. Thanks to Dot and Pat for these shivery stories.
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