Memories - From 1940 - 1941, small town Arkansas (or anywhere)

A similar group in 2013, posing= PL.

 

               [ An addition to last week’s list of family member veterans: a cousin, DOUGLAS P. SCOTT, Lieutenant JG in the US Navy. And the late Eugene Boener, WW II.] 

                On Memorial Day Sunday, I took my wire cutters and 4 stems of silk flowers to the nearby Cameron Cemetery to freshen those already in the urns. That wasn’t enough, but using some of the unfaded ones from earlier, I accomplished my goal. Nine family members rest there, fairly close together, two who served during World War II.

                New bedroom/hall carpets were to be laid on Tuesday after Memorial Day. To prepare, I had to take out all the small stuff from each room and clear off the tops of the heavy pieces, which the installers would move.

                This is where I found what follows. I opened the top drawer of a bureau to deposit those decorations thereon inside. In a back corner, I saw what resembled an old photo folder. I felt like an archeologist/ historian.  Bordered pictures—with their same-size negatives—fell out on the sofa where I could see them.

                Luckily for me, several yellowed, fragile clippings from the BENTON COURIER had been folded into the envelope.

                The date of the large clipping that showed the masthead was May 8, 1941. I was four years old and supposedly among the children mentioned in the second write-up of the Salem Home Arts Club.

                Here is the first one. It had no date. 

               “The Home Arts Club held its December meeting at the home of Mrs. Frank Davis ( Dora Maude nee Bragg). The house was very tastefully decorated with a beautiful Christmas tree.

                “It was an all-day meeting and after a delicious pot-luck luncheon the business session was called and old and new business was discussed, after which a social hour was held with Mrs. Raymond Pelton (my aunt Doris nee Couch) and Mrs. Harold Bragg ( Golden nee Crow) winning the prizes. The gifts were then exchanged and everyone received something lovely—most of the gifts being pyrex ware.

              “The meeting adjourned to meet in January with Mrs. Bill Kreigbaum (Gladys nee Lee).—Reporter.”

               The next clipping also had no date, but it was April, so it was 1941.
 

              “Mrs. Hubert Couch (my mother, Anna Pearl nee Scott) was hostess to the Home Arts Club on Thursday April 4. Her home was lovely with purple lilacs and dogwood. All members were present except one, and we were glad to welcome back an old member, Mrs. Vera Scott.

              “The morning was spent sewing and chatting. At noon a delicious pot-luck dinner was served, with the children having a lovely picnic in the yard.

             “In the afternoon the hostess was given a shower of many beautiful gifts. Then a short business meeting was held. The ones who went to Collegeville and gave the play made a good report. It was decided to have a ‘Radio variety program’ at the club house, Saturday night, April 20, and plans were made for it.

          “Pictures were made of all the group, the children and the officers. After this the door prize was awarded to Mrs. Woodrow Shelby (Lois nee Kane).”

            My sis and I concluded that Mom—as hostess—had given birth to her third child in mid-January. The belated “shower” must have been for that occasion. Perhaps the group didn't meet during the winter. We still lived in “the little house” until November of 1942. That would also explain the lilacs and dogwood.
 

           What a great way to temper the toil of cleaning for the carpet men—by finding vestiges of the past.



 



Memories around Memorial Day

(Google Image)

                Usually, I forget when a holiday is imminent, but this week I didn’t. Memorial Day.

Already church music folks have figured in absences, planning anthems with fewer voices. Head ushers are calling around finding substitutes for the regulars who’ve said they’d be elsewhere.

Ministers eschew asking the youth directors to do the children’s sermon, not knowing if any children will be in the service.

Schools are always out on that Monday. Campgrounds have been reserved for months. Maybe even a year or two. Cemetery boards meet, Decoration Day’s planned, flags are flown. Memorial Day.

Online sites are plentiful enough for anyone who wants to know the history of the federal holiday. Some bemoan the fact that the 3-day weekend distracts from the original meaning. Others lament that it has become a day to honor all dead instead of those “who died in service to our country.”

It is those which I wish to honor today. The following folks who died during this past year gave their all in some sort of service to their country. From my journals, these names:

ROYCE LYNN MCSPADDEN – a college colleague, United Methodist minister, builder of dulcimers. Dulcimers which will keep the rural heritage of our country alive by present-day musicians. I, too, have one of Lynn’s dulcimers, which I used in units on Folk Music.

ARTHUR RALPH HELMICH – A neighbor in the Salem community of Benton. He had many siblings, but to a young teen, he and his twin brother, AUGUST, were the handsomest two fellows I’d ever seen. His obit says, “He was a gentle soul, a giving, inventive, industrious man….” and he was a veteran.

EMMA JEAN HUTSON – the sister of a Clinton writer friend. I visited once at her home in Choctaw. She fits into the traditional remembrance of Memorial Day because she served doughnuts to the soldiers before they shipped out from their Army Base in California.

JACK “Jackie” DAVIS – another neighbor whose family also had many children (like the Couches and the Helmiches), and whose home place is now the Pine Forest subdivision on Congo Road. Jack served as a UAF student body president, and later, on the board of Camp Aldersgate in Little Rock. “Jack’s service… will always be remembered by his kind heart and warm smile. His passion will live on through the service of those who knew him.” (from a memorial, Arkansas Democrat-Gazette)

MELVIN WILKINS – a Bryant man who epitomizes the life of a serviceman. First, as a soldier in the European Theater of Operations, then as an employee of Reynolds Metals Company in the instrument department. After retirement, he served his community helping folks through the SCJOHN organization.

IRVIN BROWN—a brother to long-time Salem neighbor Noel Brown. Irvin told me once that my mother taught him in the Avilla school. Avilla was also his birthplace and is still an active community.

JEANETTA TINER—the mother of one of my daughters-in-law, Lisa. In her funeral sermon, she was highly extolled as a servant of her family, her community and her church.

Folks in my extended family who DID serve in the military and who have died are WATHENA SCOTT BARD, J. A. BARD, GERALD “Bud” SCOTT, ROLLA SCOTT, DAVID PELTON, JAMES “Jimmy” PELTON, RAYMOND PELTON, JOHNPELTON, SR., HOLMES AND STEVE ASTON, and PAUL L. SCOTT (FBI).

Others who served, who are still among us are JOE PELTON, JOHN PELTON, JERRY PELTON, SCOTT PELTON, THURMAN COUCH, and NORVAL ZIEGLER.

I might have forgotten a cousin or two, but I’ll add them next week. WW II veterans are dying by the dozens—daily.

Remember those who served this Memorial Day.

IN MEMORIAM: JEANIE CARTER, HOT SPRINGS (AR) POET AND FRIEND

  In memoriam: Jeanie Dolan Carter, 1931-2014

 

                I was stunned to see Jeanie’s obituary in the paper before I knew she had died. I was a close friend, I thought; sent her and Roger weekly columns from my computer. We’d exchange emails occasionally—until lately. And then this!!
                 Caruth-Hale and the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record ran the same glowing summary of her life as the state paper. You can read it for yourself.
                I want to remember her with poetry she wrote. The earliest examples I own are from “Spendrift Words,” Spring, 1977, the Garland County Community College literary journal. Whether she was a student or merely a submitter to the journal, I don’t know, but I found the publication in the Garland County Library’s book room for a measly quarter.
 The first of Jeanie’s two poems herein is a long one—40 lines—but it tells a story I didn’t know.
The second poem can be found at pittypatter.blogspot.com, my poetry blog.

  TRAIL OF THE HAWKS.

East of Checotah to west of Wetumka,
facing on both sides the highway,
like embodied spirits of red men
from the five civilized tribes,
red-tailed hawks sit poised on fence
posts and in dormant scrub oaks.

A cold front pushes swollen white puffs
edged in charcoal, back and forth across
a shocking blue February sky, while pink-
tipped willows celebrate their greening.

Old chiefs, grief-soaked, stare stonily
at glass and chrome rubber-shod metal
transgressing where once only Indian
ponies carried man. Young braves, restless,
now and then lift up on silent wings
and swoop across the yellow-striped lanes.

Cold increases. Raw wind whips the sand-
colored Oklahoma grass. The charcoal
chews away at white puffs and blue sky;
the pink-tipped willows pale and shiver.

Uneasy, the old chiefs turn against
the wind, short-spined feathers ruffling
over their heads. In growing darkness
white breast-feathers gleam with brown
war-paint flecks. The tempo of young
braves’ wing-beat intensifies.

 Charcoal completely devours white
and blue. Furiously, wind flails
grass and bends willows down until
they wheeze and swish in pain.

Behind the shield of glass, drivers
flinch in apprehension and accelerate.
Rapid door locking echo like thunderclaps
in the heavy, thick dark
and windshield wipers race
to brush away relentless feathers.

The territory is quickened
with warriors, long suppressed,
sanctioned now by their forebears
to reclaim their own.

ON MILLENNIALS

Google image

           All of a sudden, Millennials are swarming out of the woodwork like termites. Or perhaps I’m just now seeing what’s been there all along.  Last Thursday, The Saline Courier (Benton AR) launched a ‘new page for ‘millennials,’ that demographic aged 18 to 33, or those born between 1988 and 2001. Sources vary, but that’s close enough. The Courier uses ages 16 – 30. I prefer 18-33.

                Two women reporters, aged 22 and 23, opened the feature with answers to this statement: “17 things I wish I had known when I was 17.” One of them admitted to being a ‘big girl’ now; the other, in a ‘big girl’ job.

                One admits to not yet being an adult—a pleasant surprise (to me). The other sometimes wishes she could go back to when she didn’t have to worry about bills or housework (she’s married).

                I have three grandchildren who are Millennials. They are ages 26, 24 and 21. The oldest one, identified in high school as Gifted-Talented, and who served as a volunteer firefighter, worked at a relative’s U-Haul franchise until he had the opportunity to eventually attend Police School. After a 12-week course in Camden, he’s now a patrolman with his own cruiser (and his own sidearm).

The 24-year-old has been at a state university for a spell and must complete one more year for a degree in early-childhood education. He is taking a year off to save enough money to return.

The 21-year-old graduated last week from a university in Tampa after a 3-year stint. She will immediately begin her Master’s program. Her aim is to be an accountant.

 A nephew from ‘up east’ also graduated this month from Northeastern University in Boston after 5 years. His love has been journalism and sports broadcasting.

                Two of the latest music directors at a church where I play hand bells are both in their early 30s. One is a graduate from HSU after spending several years as a flight attendant. He now has a plum position in the music department at a large Little Rock church. The other is a professor at HSU!              

Blake Smith, one year out of HSU as a music major and a first-year teacher, gave me permission to use his Facebook post of May 2, 2014. A millennial speaking to his high-school students:

“If you want to show the world that you're a young adult, then take care of your business, study what your teachers ask you to study, and come into an educational setting with more than the mentality of  ‘this class doesn't really count, so why should I bother.’ If I give enough of a crap to give information, then you should give enough of a crap to know that it's important to me that you learn it.”

Back to the young reporters at the Courier. One says, “You don’t have to know what you want to do for the rest of your life right now.” The other advises, “Find a hobby. I wish I had a hobby now beside everyday type things.”

Wikipedia has a well-researched entry on Millennials if you are interested in knowing more.

Another week of spring in the Ozarks

 

               APRIL 21- Easter Monday, – Prepping to leave for a week at Eureka Springs – Lucidity Poetry retreat (for two days and three evenings) but living at the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow. On the road at 9:30 and drove four hours straight only to find the doors all locked at 1:30. Luckily, the other resident was on “his” porch and while he went down for some lunch, I found the keys to my room and came back up for a nap. I unpacked the car then and parked.
             After that, I went outside and wrote.

FROM THE COLONY DECK

Dogwood
as far as I
can see in these mountains.
Settling in to write this Easter
Monday.

The sun
merely a bright
spot behind a cloud bank.
On Easter Monday, the weather’s
still cool.
        
           At dusk, I hear an owl from somewhere down Dairy Hollow Road.

again this year
heartburn follows
Jana’s great dinner.

APRIL 22 – Tuesday. The annual (for 21 years) Lucidity Poets Retreat doesn’t begin till tonight. So I tackle the myriad submissions to CALLIOPE’s poetry file. This is a gratis job (a non-profit writers’ publication), but –despite the general editor’s wishes (“You went there to write!”)—I spread all of them out on the kitchen table and sort them by dates received—some as far back as December. Though a newbie at editing poetry for a lit mag, I try to respond (via email) as soon and as personally as possible.
The opening session of the Retreat brought old friends together (of all the hugging you ever saw: in someone’s coat collar or lapel might be one of my earrings) and a few new folks who quickly became friends.

          APRIL 23 – Wednesday. The honor of leading one of four workshops starting at 8:30 meant my leaving here at 8.  Three Texans, an Illini, and four Mizzou poets had been assigned to the group.  In two long sessions, we critiqued each others’ poems sent in earlier. Lunch at Sparky’s Bistro with Missouri and Mountain Home friends lasted until 1:30, and the next session began at 2. I eschewed that one for a nap. The evening lectures added more information and inspiration. Afterward, we participated in a read-around. I lasted one round, but some of them stayed for two. When the leader called for a 3^rd round, I heard that several called out, “Enough!” By then it was ‘way after 10 pm.

 

            APRIL 24 – Thursday. Another workshop session, another lecture, a group picture, then the afternoon was free. It threatened rain, and I came down with a fresh cold. Sure enough, we had to wear raincoats over our dressy clothes for the final activity.

            The Awards banquet began at 5:30. Dr. John Crawford provided the pre-and-post banquet piano music. Though I was sure my poem would win at least an honorable mention, alas, it didn’t. With a runny nose and sneezing spells, I didn’t feel like attending the usual ritual of goodbyes at the local pub. My sleep was noisy and fitful. Rest was out in the woods somewhere, or in the fields. It certainly was NOT in MY bed.

 

            APRIL 25 – Friday.  After two days of arising by alarm for early workshops, I slept in till rested, arising at 8:05. This day was all mine. Coffee and journal on the back deck, and time to write. And write I did—for two hours. After breakfast, I continued toward my goal of organizing all the Calliope poetry submitted thus far, and trying to get them all a schedule for publication. Turned out to be a complicated procedure that meant emails to most of the poets before I could call myself done. 

          After a sumptuous dinner (provided at the Colony each week night) of salmon “cakes” (I call them” patties”), mashed potatoes, steamed, uncut asparagus, salad and lemon meringue pie, I drove across town to the only local store, Dollar General. I needed more antihistamine, some throat lozenges, batteries for my camera, toothpaste and the most important thing, ice cream. I continued working on the poems submitted until bedtime. The Haagen-Dazs strawberry provided a cooling, sweet midnight delight.

 

            APRIL 26 – Saturday. Another whole day alone—except for the loud folks motorcycling, walking, yelling, playing their car radios loudly—I finally finished the CALLIOPE task with each poem tucked away in folders labeled “Summer ‘14”, “Fall ’14,” “Winter ‘14/’15,” “Spring ‘15” and a couple as far out as “Summer ’15.”

 

           APRIL 27 – Sunday. Sunday. Here it is 9 p.m. and I’ve just now wasted four hours of typing into my website 62 "found" poems. SIXTY-TWO. I could tell the machine or the text editor was getting tired. First, it skipped two spaces instead of one, then three spaces. Once, the screen went completely away, but came back presently. When the 62^nd poem—the end of the ones beginning with F—was typed in and a note as to the date, I looked around for a SAVE CHANGES. Couldn’t find it, so started searching. And, for want of a SAVE, the lot was lost.

         But—after fuming, whining, crabbing, grousing—I decided that this was nothing compared to the destruction and deaths caused by today’s tornadoes.

         Forgive me, Lord, for magnifying the insignificant things instead of the important ones that really matter.