Jesse Stuart revisited

     Tomorrow is April, still another one, and my thoughts remain on Jesse Stuart, not on him exactly but his writings.  In addition to the poignant "Another April," another of his short stories which I presented to my classes of seventh and eighth graders dealt again with family matters:
      The story centers on the family of a narrator in the persona of a young boy who lives with his parents and his mother's aging father.  As was usual in those days, the father worked hard and wanted suppertime to be peaceful and the conversation, if there was such, to be on his terms.  The family all sat at the supper  table every evening, as was the custom in those days, including in this case the grandfather, here the father's in-law.  The older man, his working days over, yet still yearning for conversation, would recount the happenings of his younger days, the most significant of which was his participation in the great American movement known as "Westering."   All the events and adventures of crossing the plains and opening the west up to settlement were music to the ears of the little boy, but to his father they were anathema.  "We've all heard that story countless times.  You're repeating yourself.  Yes, we know."  These comments the father delivered through clenched teeth, his patience utterly exhausted.  The mother would feel guilty that her father was such an irritant to her husband, but was powerless to remedy the situation.  (The time before nursing homes.)  The boy understands that his father is angry, and his mother upset, by the grandfather's stories, but he is too young to comprehend why---he loves hearing the stories repeated.
      My students liked Stuart's writings, and their comprehension of the literature was more than adequate, as indicated by whatever test measures were in effect at the time.   They undoubtedly sympathized with  the character of the young boy, being themselves only several years older than he.  And I most likely did also, being in my early twenties, with no experience as parent or aged grandparent, and with memories of my childhood still fresh in my mind.  Thus is a  present memory of my past teaching days and of a particular story.  Some of the facts may be clouded by time but past memories remain a quixotic thing;  it is almost as if, though relating most closely to the youngest of the generations involved,  I was storing up sympathies with the older characters:  Act I, Act II, and finally Act III.
    

Spring

 In bloom in front of my house is a very small yellow crocus, maybe not the earliest, but definitely the most intrepid.

Cars and Taxes

  I was at the Mechanicville's McDonald's last week when I spotted, in the notoriously unassuming little strip mall across from the parking lot, two storefronts whose services  I could use:  Advance Auto and H & R Block.  The rear bumper of my car is missing paint where it was evidently "kissed" either by some vehicle  using our driveway to turn around in, or else by some delivery truck.  I walked into Advance Auto, and the clerk told me to bring in the Color Code and they would most likely have the touchup paint for late model cars.  Then I walked next door into H&R Block to ask for help in straightening out my tax return which has me stymied trying to compute  the required distribution on a retirement account.  I knew I'd made some errors which I'd subsequently corrected but I didn't want to keep messing things up any further.  The receptionist at the desk referred me to a Senior Tax Consultant, a very congenial man who tried to give me some advice on the spot, before saying I could make an appointment and return with my paperwork if I wished.
   I did return this week, to both establishments.   I diligently brought my Color Code into Advance Auto, where the clerk checked their inventory only to find they did not stock that color.  Surprising since the car is a 2012 Honda and the color is WHITE.  While there may be many shades of gray, there are only 2 shades of white for that year, and they have the other, Taffeta White, but  not Orchid Pearl White.  So be it.  I'll go to the dealer, as he suggested.
    Next I went right next door, to H&R Block, having made an appointment with the specialist I'd previously spoken with. I'd arranged my files as best I could, and was prepared to spend a few hundred dollars to get this thing settled, and back on the right track.  I was ushered into a cubicle, with  computer of course, and we started to go over my records, with me explaining what I'd done or tried to do, and what I'd failed to do.  For the next hour and fifteen minutes, we talked taxes and other things, with his verifying data on the computer, and explaining some of the ins and outs of our federal tax code.  Finally, he said that he could file for me, but that he thought I was in a position to do the same myself.  So I agreed, kind of exhausted, and went to the desk to pay for services rendered.  He told me there was no fee, that he'd enjoyed talking to me, and wished me good luck.
      Mechanicville is a nice little city or town which seemingly has a lot to offer, but is sorely lacking in  productivity.  I have come to feel much the same about myself: I have every intention of accomplishing something, but am unable to make things happen.  Can't even buy paint or pay taxes......

"Another April"

   When I was a young junior high English teacher, one of the contemporary authors we studied was Jesse Stuart, a renowned writer of the time.  One of his short stories was called "Another April."  A young boy describes how his mother carefully bundles his grandfather up on an April day before the old man leaves the house on his first walk of the year around the family's  farm.  The grandfather is old now, and has been confined to the house all winter; as he gets ready to go outside, his daughter dresses him warmly, tying a scarf around his neck, although the weather is warm.  The young boy doesn't understand why his mother is so concerned about her father: he's too young to know of his mother's awareness that her father's run of Aprils will soon come to an end.  The child is aware that his grandfather's walks used to take him across the fields and out of sight, and that the walks have become shorter; this year his grandfather stays close to the house.  The boy is still young enough not to realize that things can not remain the same forever. 
     I taught this story to twelve-year-olds when I was in my early twenties.  Whatever they extrapolated from the story was never fully certain, though they seemed interested in it.  I believed at the time that I fully understood the theme, that the cycle of life is ongoing, yet also involves dying and death.  But that understanding was 2 generations ago, and an awful lot of Aprils have passed by since then.  In just 2 days from now----another April.

Troy to Pinellas and Back Again

     If I hear one more report on the pursuit of the alleged pedophile, I'm going to either throw my TV out the window, or just throw up.  For sure, he is a depraved sicko if guilty as charged, but  parents should be able to protect their very young children from such horrifying abuse.  How does a person like the accused gain access to little kids without anyone's knowing, or at least suspecting, that something is terribly wrong. As far as we know, he didn't kidnap those kids.  So it probably wasn't a major threat to society when he was on the loose for a brief time.   It would seem likely that an accomplice was involved, or someone who granted him access to the little kids.  Egad.

I hate myself...

when, out of utter boredom, I open a site with a story such as the mutant rat which terrorized a family.  From utter boredom to sheer disgust.......

Cheapskate

   I donate to charities on a regular basis, and I have the receipts to prove it, so I resent it when I feel like a cheapskate by not accepting a plea for a donation; there are some requests that I just don't feel comfortable complying with:
    1) I believe it should be illegal for anyone, worthy cause or not, to block highway traffic and ask you to deposit money in a canister.  It seems dangerous to all concerned.  I've even seen young children crossing back and forth in the roadway asking for contributions so their dance group can attend a function somewhere.  They should seek other avenues for fundraising. Or maybe it would be more constructive to teach the kids the work ethic as an alternative to begging.
  2)  Any solicitation by telephone is suspect.  At best, only a small percentage of the funds collected is received by the charity.  Those calls for the benefit of law enforcement are especially reprehensible because there is the implicit threat of increased criminal activity if money is not raised.  And in the tragic event of the death or disability of police officers, are there not generous insurance policies in effect to offset losses.  There should be. 
3) Requests for contributions by clerks in grocery or department stores seem to be on the rise.   You've clipped grocery coupons, sought out bargain prices, and purchased generic brands to save a few dollars, only to be  asked if you want to contribute to some good cause or other. It's awkward for both the asker and the asked.  Stop the practice; people go to the grocery store to buy groceries, not to give to charity. 
4)  This one is a little different; it concerns raffles, with more recent impact.  You attend a function, say at a school, sometimes by paid admission and sometimes free.  Raffle tickets are being sold, usually for a dollar apiece or ten for five dollars or so, on the 50:50 basis, with half the proceeds going to the cause and the other half to the lucky winner.  Past practice I've observed has the winner donating the prize money back to the charity.  And usually with a public acknowledgment.  I understand that's what is expected, though not mandated. How many different forms of intimidation exist?  I would rather pay a set admission price than go through the travesty of the pseudo-raffle where you gamble, you win, renounce your win, and then accept your due by bathing  in the glow of self righteousness.  It's either a win-win situation or a lose-lose situation; you figure it out.

Judge this...

  No doubt that American Idol is a mess this season.  But in addition to watching performances by a selection of  humdrum singers, viewers are subject to the judges promoting their own releases.  Jennifer Lopez, positioned in the show as one to recognize talent, delivered a performance of her new recording release, which I would call one of the worst songs of all time:  "I Luh Ya Papi."  Moreover, she recruited some young former AI contestants as vocal backups to this trainwreck, further reinforcing the theme that American Idol talent has descended to a new low.
     In other news, I just saw a clip of Shakira performing her new  release; I thought it was a comedic parody.  Message to female contestants----You better be beautiful, and you better be willing to take off most of your clothes.

New 4-Letter Vocabulary Word

   I learned a new word today, one of the four letter sort.  The word is "lede."  It's an alteration of "lead," a word used in the newspaper business to entice the reader to read a story.  It seems the intent is to distinguish its meaning  as an introduction to a newspaper column.  Otherwise potential readers or, I suppose, column writers, if they're told to write the opening to a story, might be confused and think they're being  told  to lead a band or parade, or load their guns.  There is a solution to every problem, even if that solution is an ugly word. 

March Madness Cringe Factor

I tend to feel a little embarrassed every time I hear  or read about  the dance analogy applied to basketball.  Is it just a media thing or do basketball players ever really say they're "going dancing."  I know, I know, the Cinderella thing and all that, but still:  as my old college speech instructor might have said, the metaphor is just too "precious."

.......but I won't do that.

 Time after time, with the plethora of cooking shows on TV these days, I see the cook or chef place vegetables in a roasting pan, set the raw chicken atop them, and then put in the oven to cook. Never, in all my years of cooking have I done that, and I never will.  Just the thought of raw chicken juice soaking into raw vegetables makes me feel sick. 

Little Girl Lost

  About seventeen years ago, we cared for a young girl and her sister when her father was called out of town.  She was a pretty little sprite, bright and self-possessed, and working on a project for her fifth grade class.  Now, some years later she is a lost girl; whether dead or alive is unknown, out of contact with her family for months and months.  I can only imagine the horror. 

Child's Play

   In light of the highly covered news story (of which he was blissfully unaware), I proposed the following scenario to the six-year-old, one known for not being shy about voicing his opinion:
      One day the school bus you are on unexpectedly takes you to a different school.  What do you do; do you say something to somebody  or go into the school, and to whatever room you're told to go, and sit in the seat you're told to.
        "I wouldn't say anything, just go to where I was told to go."
   "What if you were told to write another name on your papers that day, would you?"
         "Yes, if I knew how to spell it."
  

Shades of Milton

  A Schenectady kindergartener was temporarily lost the other day.  Her mother had put her on the schoolbus, but at the end of the day the child didn't get off.  The mom called the school, and she was told her daughter had not been in school that day and she should call the police. Some time later the child arrived safely home.  She had been at the wrong school.  Today the school superintendent explained how it had happened:   something about substitute bus drivers not familiar with each child, something about how the busses all line up in the same spot but go to different schools, something about how it's necessary for parents to know which bus their child should take, and so on.  The explanation as to how the girl wasn't detected at the other school:  the teacher was expecting a new student, and this child "assumed the identity" of that one, even writing that child's name on her papers throughout the day.  Wait a minute-----the girl must be a genius to be able to write a name she'd just heard, though I don't know what that name is, maybe very simple, but still, a kindergarten student?   Moreover, what about the new student who didn't show up as expected?  Didn't anyone from the school check to find out why?  She could have been "lost" and it wouldn't have been discovered until the end of the school day.  There is so much I don't understand.
     Probably most parents have temporarily lost a child or two a time or two, and it's always a very unsettling experience.  When my youngest child started kindergarten,  the routine was for him to get off the schoolbus at his Nana's house, because I substituted many days and could not reliably count on getting home before the bus arrived to deposit him.  One fine September day, I was at my mother's house waiting for him to get off the bus. We were sitting in the back yard with a clear view of the area where the bus stopped.  The bus pulled up, waited a brief time, and then took off.  No Danny had emerged.  I ran to my car and drove home, thinking maybe the bus would stop there.  But it didn't! Back down to the house. No news.  I drove over to the school, found his classroom teacher, who said he'd gotten on the bus as usual.  There were 3 kindergarten buses at the time, and it was the time before mobile phones.  The principal checked; the other 2 buses, with shorter routes, had returned, so he hadn't gotten on the wrong bus.  Mr. McC, the principal, tried to reassure me by saying they'd never lost a student yet, but at that point I wasn't caring at all about what had happened in the past.   We were in the school parking lot getting ready to get into the principal's car, to search along the route, I guess, when someone from the office called out, saying Danny had been found, at the end of his bus's route.  The bus driver had to drive him back to his stop, and wasn't happy about it.  I remember finally being reunited, with Danny, big-eyed, saying the driver had sworn at him:  "Why the Hell didn't you get off when I called your name?"   Turns out he hadn't because a classmate, Milton, held him by his shirt and told him not to get off. And of course they were too small for the driver to see  them.  But all's well that ends well.  ( N.B. If by chance one of the players in the above drama should read this, there would most likely be a  disclaimer of some sort, but this is a reliable and vetted account as to what happened back in 1982. )

Phooey

I hadn't really watched a scripted TV show since "Seinfeld," finally found one that I enjoyed through several installments, and now read that it won't be picked up.  So much for "Rake."

Pencilcases and Pocketbooks

  It didn't seem strange or unusual, at the time, but we went all through high school with only pencilcases to hold our possessions, items both school-related and personal.  There was no reason why we girls didn't have purses; I'm sure they were available at the time.  We just didn't. Pocketbooks were carried by our mothers, though as teens we did use a pocketbook when we went to church.     Pencilcases were for school.  Why would we have needed cumbersome pocketbooks to hold our stuff when a small pencilcase could hold a pen, pencils, possibly a compass, and our personal items of pocket comb and lipstick, and some change for lunch or the vending machine in the girls' lavatory.  What else did we need?  When we were sophomores several new students transferred into our school, from Nortonville.  I think their school had closed or consolidated or something.  The girls were nice and friendly, and fit right in.  The only anomaly was that all the girls, about 4 I think, carried purses.  They seemed to us like ladies; we mere schoolgirls. 
   I know when we commuted to college, we had pocketbooks.  But even more memorable than our pencilcase days, we carried our books in our arms.  It seems everybody did, though I have no way now of checking that fact. I know I never saw a backpack; they were only for camping. We girls carried our books, a considerable load of them, not only to our classes, which were spread out during the day through several buildings, but also, as commuters, back and forth to our homes.  Via trains, cars and busses.  And we carried them in our outstretched arms in front of our bodies, with our purse, if we had one, dangling below, which made it awkward for us to buy and deposit our bus fare, as well as climbing the steps, running to board on time, and the various other contortions associated with transferring onto crowded busses, and squeezing into the  back seats of  cars. etc.  We were in hell and didn't realize it, not fully anyway.

Shopping 1976

  The year was 1976, and our Class Reunion was coming up, and I needed something to wear.  That was the time when I worked almost every day, and I had 2 young kids, so I would try to combine my shopping trips with whatever other errands or appointments I had. On this day, before I would shop for my dress, I had scheduled an appointment with an orthopedist, probably the first specialist I'd ever gone to except for my obstetrician.  And I think he was the only doctor I'd seen since good old Dr. Sproat.  My knee had swollen up and I didn't know why.  True, I had injured it a few times, once in an auto accident (I wasn't driving) and another time, and more painfully, while ice skating. I went to Dr. P. not knowing what to expect, and that's how I came to receive my first cortisone shot.  I was not much bothered by knee pain when I went into the office, but that was to change, suddenly and severely.  The doctor evidently didn't believe in any numbing medications prior to inserting a very long needle, and my thought was that he had nailed my leg right into the table.  The pain abated though and I left the office to start my shopping.  I went to the stores in Troy: Peerless, Denby's, theTowne Shop, the Up To Date Store, and whatever other stores were spread out through the city, but couldn't find what I wanted.  I drove across the river to Cohoes Mills, an old barnlike warehouse of a  building that had clothing hanging against the walls on 2 different levels.  Up and down the stairs, trying on dozens of dresses and finally settling on a rather risky new style, a black jumpsuit, which fit exactly right and looked quite fashionable, if I do say so myself.  The legs were bell bottoms, the sleeves short and flaring a little, the neckline a modest vee topped by a little bolero jacket effect.  The material, polyester of course, was sleek and smooth fitting. 
    Fortunately, the class reunion was still several weeks away because when I got home, my knee was throbbing with pain I'd never felt before. I looked at the slip of paper the doctor's office had given me, and it said that after the injection I was to stay off my feet for 24 hours at least.  Too late, I'd already walked all over the city of Troy as well as Cohoes' factory store.  But I healed anyway.
   The day of the Reunion when I was getting dressed in what I expected to be my form fitting jumpsuit, I noticed that it did not fit quite as well as I'd thought, especially around the waist area.  I had not gained any weight in the few weeks so I couldn't understand why the material didn't lay as flat as I'd remembered, but didn't really mind that much.  (This all happened 35+ years and almost that many pounds ago.)  I did go to the Reunion, which was at the American Legion and we all had a good time.  We were doing the Bunny Hop when I suddenly felt dizzy and lay down on one of the benches or whatever piece of furniture that was in the room.  I remember one of my classmates snapping my picture, thinking I was drunk.  It was at the end of the evening, and we were all still young, relatively speaking.
     Not long after that, I came to know that the reason for my dizziness was a  common cause during those years.  My third child was born 8 months later.  I never wore the jumpsuit again, though I must say it served its purpose well: a fashionable yet slightly edgy look.  I recall this scenario because the next time the jumpsuit is worn will be in Australia.  G'day.

So much is unknown....

     I don't know why I don't know more about my mother.  We have no pictures of her in her childhood, though she used to say Helen had a family picture, and my mother wished we could have seen what she looked like as a child.  That picture never appeared.  She was born in Troy: I used to know the street, but I've forgotten.  She was the 5th child born to Ellen and her young husband, who was most likely sick with terminal tuberculosis when my mother was born, as he died before she was a year old.  The only memory of him handed down to her was her mother's telling her that he, bedridden with his sickness, expressed amazement that his baby daughter could walk around the room at the age of 9 months.  Life must have been vey difficult.  I don't know how they survived before the eldest son, Timothy, was able to work at jobs around the city when some business owner needed extra help.
      I think my mother must have been a beautiful child, though that would have been in the days when compliments were mostly withheld as a contributor to  vanity.  Years later, a man who'd gone to school with her told me he could still picture her running across the fields from her home in Pittstown to the store in what is now Speigletown.  He said her long red hair caught the sun's rays as she ran, creating a kind of  glow. He called her hair red, but my mother would not have said she had red hair; it was probably more an auburn brown, wavy and thick.  She was, at 11 years old, as tall as her adult height, about 5 feet and 8 inches, unusually tall for a girl, or woman, back in those days.  She would describe, on the few  occasions when she spoke of her young self, how she could stand on one foot, grasp the toes of her other foot in her hand, and spin around in a circle.  One other thing I know is that she loved to ride their old plow horse, and that she loved horses and ponies for the rest of her life.......

Birthdays Past and Passed

  Mary Agnes Donovan Madigan         March 9
            For the last 31 years we have not celebrated your birthday here with us.  The space you left is still empty, after all these years. 

American Idol

So I'm committed to watching a  group of contestants who may sing okay, but why, out of the thousands and thousands who auditioned, couldn't they have picked at least  a few who are interesting to look at?  Especially the boys: some are overweight, a few look unwashed, one is hunched over and wears rolled up jeans, another seems to have had unsuccessful orthodontics.  Even the girls are no match, in voice or looks, for the contestants on "The Voice."  All good things, as well as bad things, have to come to an end, but AI seems destined to go out with a whimper. 

Mea Culpa (Maximus Version)

I may be guilty of many things, but I've never stolen a rosary from a dead person's hands.  But at least he didn't confess it to Oprah. 

Begone, Ralph Waldo Emerson

    So sorry, RWE, but the Sage of Concord has been relegated into even further obscurity, now that students taking the PSAT won't have to deal with "difficult, obscure" vocabulary words such as sagacious.   Why bother with etymology and derivation when most of the language spoken is in words no longer than 4 or 5 letters.  Such a change should come as no surprise, following on the heels of the phasing out of cursive writing. The core of education has become so common that the Newspeak of Orwell's "1984"  is closer than ever.

Guns, God and GD Politicians

Today I received in the mail a large postcard size mailing from Grace Baptist Church, a "Give Back Program"  with the slogan FREE GUN ZONE.  I am invited to attend a meeting this March 23 where "QUALIFIED ATTENDEE WILL RECEIVE A NY LEGALLY-MODIFIED AR-15.  All giveaways are absolutely free to enter (attendance required."  I can win a free AR-27; a picture of the weapon is prominently displayed, just above a quote from the Bible, John 14:27.  The speaker will be N.Y. Assemblyman Steve McLaughlin.  The sponsor, in smaller print, is Oakwood Trading Post, a private gun store, I believe.  Nothing new about a politician for sale, but such a blatant use of religion to further one's own goals should be disturbing, regardless of one's leanings. 

Start-Up Business

     If I possessed business acumen, I would launch an education-related venture.  All that would be needed is a sense of entrepreneurship and a facility for instruction.  I would fill  what I consider  a glaring omission in our elementary schools and, by extension, in secondary education.  Students are unable to read cursive writing.  It has not been taught for several years, so there is an up and coming generation of kids who are totally unfamiliar with it.  I would think parents, perhaps even students themselves, would be interested in establishing a forum where cursive could be taught and learned before it dies out completely.  Handwritten historical documents, authors' first drafts of their writings, even old love letters found in an attic will be unable to be decoded.  Translators will be needed, just as for an unlearned foreign language.  After all, cursive is one of the original 3 r's, the basis for public schooling.  Just because it's not stressed in Common Core does not lessen its importance.  Shame on our public schools!
    I know this is true.  I wrote  a few sentences, in old fogey cursive, on a card for my grandson's 12th birthday.  He is in 6th grade, a top honors student, and was unable to read the card because he's had no exposure to cursive writing.  Holy smokes!