Through a glass, darkly

  Today, away from my house, I viewed TV on a huge screen.  Ever since I had cataract surgery several years ago, I have pretty much avoided looking in mirrors and being the subject of picture-taking;  my rejuvenated vision, reveals way too much detail. When I  watched people on TV,  I would imagine  how I would suffer if I had a close-up camera on my face.  I'd shudder at the thought.  Today, with their features displayed larger than life on the screen, I saw the celebrities in a new light---the stars of The View, scary looking, one and all.   And ironically, Helen Mirren was a guest on one show, and of course the requisite clip of whichever show she's now pimping was shown.  I noticed her front lower  teeth looked blackened, and thought it must have been for her to be in character.  But when she was speaking live, I noticed her teeth looked the same, about 2 feet long on the giant screen.  Well, that's too bad I thought, but then, honest to heavens, she referenced a conversation she'd had with her DENTIST.  And not once, but at least three times.  He must have been so pleased.

On Death and Dying

  There are many courses given on suicide prevention, important and worthwhile to be sure.  But unfortunately it is a given that for those bound and determined  to commit suicide, there is no sure way to stop them.  In addition to the suicide assistance hot lines and counseling services, there should be  a course on suicide itself.  The takeaway from that course should be don't take anyone else with you when you end your life. Just kill yourself.  There are many ways to do so.

A Brief Friendship

   I attended Oneonta State College one summer, one of the last steps in earning credit toward my Master's Degree.  It was the summer of 1963, and some things that happened are clear in my mind. While I was there, Ma's pet bluejay named Lucille died, President Kennedy's son Patrick died at birth, and zip codes went into effect.  I'm sure lots of other significant events occurred during that summer, but I have a vivid recall of being in my dorm room and learning these  selected happenings.
   And, living alone for the first time, I made a friend, actually more than one.  My room was in a dorm on a hill;  the campus had lots of hills, steep ones too, and the cafeteria, the only place to eat, was at the bottom of my hill.  After breakfast the first morning, eating alone, I decided to change that. The next morning, in the communal bathroom, I asked a girl if she wanted to go for breakfast and she agreed.  So we went to the cafeteria and the next morning another girl asked if she could join us and of course she did. We must have had an enjoyable time because, later, another girl in one of my  classes said she had been  trying to figure out how to join the group, which she later did.  I have to say that it turned out to be quite a good summer, because it was also the first time in all my years of college that I didn't have to commute spending hours traveling and trying to work at the same time. I took 2 classes, Literature and Statistics, and was so knowledgeable with my new-found study time that I was at the top of the class in both subjects, and others wanted me to come to their study groups so I could share what I knew.  That was a first time event for me.
      But I stray. The first girl I became friends with was Gloria Ryan.  She was a language major with a brilliant background of  distinction in teaching, traveling, scholarships and advanced education.  We had meals together, and traveled around the city a bit, with and without others.  One day, when we were alone, she opened her wallet and showed me several pictures of her father and her brother.  She asked me what I thought.  I answered honestly that I thought they were very handsome; both father and son were indeed absolutely strikingly good-looking, startlingly so, especially since Gloria was quite plain and ordinary appearing.  She agreed, saying they were perfect looking, and talked about them for a while, still looking at their picture.   Abruptly, she stopped, and said they were both dead now.  They had gone out to get pizza to bring home, and were in a car crash that killed both father and son. 
      Several days later, I came home from class to find a note from Gloria;  she told me she was dropping class and leaving school.  She wished me luck. 

Harbinger

Beside my front door, a crocus, a yellow one, about 2 in. high, tentatively unfurled.  But it lives...

Pudding and Pie

If you're ever tempted to treat lemon pie and pudding mix the same as the other flavors so labeled, don't do it. 

This Old House, or Fix me.

   Along the same line as bringing in the Subaru for a no-cost application of sealant ,and finding that it needed new brakes and new tires,  our fuel provider told us there would be no cost for a tune-up to the furnace and water-heater in our basement. The tech arrived today, and descended  into the basement only to knock at the kitchen door seconds later to tell us there was a problem with the water heater.  "Flames are shooting out," he told us, "and the material is melting."  He wouldn't service it, of course, and recommended replacing it.  He wasn't making that up; it is definitely deteriorating, but who would have noticed.  It had been cleaned  a year and a half ago, by our fuel company, and must have been okay then.   "It's old, said the tech, That company, Ford, doesn't even make them any more."  Now the issue with me is that if I remember replacing any of those things in the basement, they should be newer, not old.  The water heater that came with the house was white and we replaced it with the present one that is blue.  And that blue paint is scorched and peeling off what looks like corroded metal underneath.  It is old.
    "How much is it for a new one?"   That depends, we are told, on what type of heater.  Those we have had were and are oil-fired.  To replace with the same type would be $3,000-$4,000.  But he would recommend an electric heater at $1395, which would include installation.  So we're quote shopping right now.
    I think we just outlived the fixtures of this house, obviously not by too many years.  Must have been the clean living.  Last summer we replaced our oil tank, which was original with the house, and this fall we needed a new water pump, which necessitated pulling up the old well pipe and burying the pump in the well.  That's how it's done now we were told, and who are we to argue. 
     We put in a call to a local plumber, but he hasn't returned our call, so maybe it's off to Home Depot.  Maybe we just shouldn't use any hot water....

Editing Education

   School is not as it used to be.  Not to us dinosaurs anyway. I gave my grandson a card on his 13th birthday.  He is an honor student, in 7th grade, but could not read the simple message I'd written in the card because it was in cursive.  Who could have seen that turn of events coming?
    Interested, because I'd taught 7th grade, I asked him what he was reading in English (or Language Arts) class.  I was surprised, not to say a little appalled, to learn he'd never heard of O.Henry.  Harking back to my teaching roots, I briefly recounted the story of "The Gift of the Magi." Since Della had secretly sold her glorious hair to buy Jim a fob for his treasured pocket watch as a Christmas gift, and Jim had likewise sold his watch to buy Della fancy combs for her crowning glory, what is the gift, I asked.  Instantly, the littlest  brother points his finger, and, in his best preacher's voice,  declares, "Love!"  
  So, during those years when I was purportedly teaching the story, did the students know all along that which  they really  needed to know, and the class instruction and discussion an exercise in redundancy. 
    That may be so, but consider that this occurred at a family dinner, St. Patrick's Day, so the timing  was  propitious for those who love an audience.  When the oldest diner asked what's for dessert, the youngest gleefully answered, "Conversation is the dessert."   So cute.  Isn't it?

Best and Worst of eBay

  The worst thing that can happen on eBay is to have  a crazy person bid on your stuff.  The best thing is  to have somebody bid on a thousand crayons. 

Doppelganger

  
Egads!   Jeffrey Tambour has transitioned into Melissa Etheridge.  Or so it seems to me.

Now Read This

    He has become a reader, a sea change in his young life. He is 7 years and almost 6 months of age, and has found reading a challenge up to now.  This is the 5th year of his education, 2 years of pre-school, Kindergarten, and this second year of primary school. 
   An older relative, let's call him Uncle Joe, began his educational journey into first grade when he was 7 years and 5 months old, just about the same age as the young student cited above is now, at the completion of  almost 5 years of formal education.  There was no kindergarten available to Uncle Joe and no school bus either, so he was unable to attend school until the age when he moved into the Village.  During the years before he attended school, there were no books in the household except for an old family Bible which was rarely if ever taken from the shelf, and an old dictionary, and no educational materials or toys either. Only a few pencils and some random pieces of paper which his mother may well have used to teach him letters.  Once he started school, he went to the head of his class, and stayed there, graduating as class valedictorian. 
     The question arises that with all the emphasis on early education, how effective is it really?  Is it more  a matter of  the brain's readiness to grow and develop, or is all that information that is crammed into the mind of  a very young child a wasted exercise, subject to  the child's innate readiness to learn. The question remains unanswerable because few parents would be willing to take a chance on skipping all the readiness programs to prove that point.  And because children aggressively exposed to learning programs can become  very advanced in their array of knowledge. But bear in mind, precociousness does  not equate with intelligence;  almost everyone will learn the alphabet eventually, and whether at 6 months or 6 years may well not matter at all. Read on...

Math Problem For Sure

You, the student, are given a set of numbers, 6 2 4 5 9 3
          Using each digit only once, arrange them in the following subtraction exercise so that they show the least amount of difference and the greatest amount of difference.

         Two subtraction examples are set up, with the same 3 digits on top, say 876.
         You are to plug 3 digits from those you've been given  into the second line, so that the answers will show those least and greatest amounts of difference. 
          Actually, I've clarified the instructions, at least to my mind, because I had to read the problem 3 times to understand what it was asking.  I think I understood, but I'm not sure........
           If this is second grade work, I'm looking forward to next year's.

March's Misbegotten Metaphor

How so many elite athletes and brilliant sports announcers consistently refer to a team's progressing  to the finals as "going to the dance,"  and embrace that metaphor as if it were an actual term is beyond me.  Every time I hear it or read it, it makes me cringe.  The dance.  Really?

Two Guys

     I'm sitting in the waiting room with 2 men. One, on the youngish side, is wearing a neck brace and recounting the procedure of surgery near his brain.  He is there for a re-check MRI,  but tells the attendant he didn't bring any paperwork.  The other man, considerably older, says he is there for a CAT Scan,  but didn't bring his cat.   Laughter ensued.......

Billy and Caroline

HTG.  If a certain person doesn't stop speculating on the saga  of Billy and Caroline, I'm going to kill myself, or him.  I mean, I'm over the little ditty about Jack and Diane. Hurry up, Springtime!

Best Repair Visit Ever

   He walked in, about 8 minutes early. He asked what the problem was, that they hadn't told him anything.  This despite the fact I'd spent about 40 minutes on the phone with a Time Warner tech the day before.  What did I want?  Well, to be able to turn the TV on; all we could get was "Channel not available."  He took a look at the set and said , "What a mess.  Whoever hooked this up didn't know what they were doing.  The amount of wires is ridiculous."  I asked what was wrong, and his answer was, "What we have here is a redundancy. This is horrible." He reached in  and disconnected a 6 foot wire, and handed it to me. Evidently the TV was connected to the box in a way that didn't need to be, or something like that.  I feigned knowledge of his explanation.   He pressed a button on the remote and the TV came on.  "Now it's on, we have to make it look good," he said. Pressing a few  more buttons, his next words were, "This remote is stupid. I'll give you a new one."
   "To turn the TV on, press only "System", and if that doesn't work at any time, press the "Video Source" button and go to HDMH1 setting. And I fixed it so now you have high definition."  (I didn't know it was available, and/or we didn't have it. )
" Now," he says, "when you turn the TV on, you'll be on the channel that was on when you turned the set off, instead of reverting to Channel 1.  That is annoying."  I said I didn't mind doing that, as long as the set turned on, that we'd lowered our expectations that way.
   'No, don't do that. Make them do what should work best. Make them give you stuff."  I'm working on that, I told him.  He said good, shook my hand, and left. He said he liked starting out the day with an easy call, and leaving before he was ssheduled to start.   He was here less than 15 minutes.  All seems good.

Dichotomy

    I am so conflicted.   Current resume protocol deems placing two spaces after a period as indicative of your being aged, yet my computer program lights up as an error if I only leave one space.  The United States Post Office  recommendation is to omit punctuation in addresses, but if I don't put a comma between city and state, not only does it violate everything I was brought up to grammatically believe in, I'm afraid others will think I'm stupid if I do so.  I just don't know what to do anymore. 

Seasons in the Sun

   When I was a child, probably about 8 or 9 years old, I read a story about a dog.  The dog was a collie, my favorite kind of dog at the time (and later.)  His name was Sunny and his master recounted all the times they had together, going on long walks, playing, and, best of all, to my mind, "roaming the fields." Those were the years when I used to spend lots of time in the fields behind and way into the yonder  behind  our house, and of course, with our dogs.  That was in the romantic period of my childhood so  I felt closely related to the theme of dog as best friend.
    During the course of the story, the author recounted how his dog grew old and no longer wanted to accompany him on their much loved walks. All the dog wanted to do now was lie in the sun.  No more roaming.  So sad to accept.
    Today I sit in the chair in my living room, in front of the large picture window.  The sun is streaming in, and I don't want to leave my position to do any of the things that should be done. I only want to feel the warmth.  So sad.

Chemical Kids

   Oh, so tiresome already. It should come as no surprise that D&G are a couple of elitist snobs who have made a fortune pandering to people's desire to feel better than everyone else, yet when they issue a narrow-minded opinion about today's culture everyone is horrified.
   And the television media latches on faster than a hungry puppy.  Celebrities, always thirsty for more audience, join in.  "Look at my adorable  IVF baby!  Is he not as healthy and beautiful as one conceived in the common way?  Should we label him?  Stamp the IVF initials on his forehead where the world can single him out as the product of a chemical procedure?  Of course not!  Let me just proclaim how his little egg came to be fertilized, and hold him up to the camera for all the world to see.  How dare those designers!  I'm not going to buy their stuff any more, and I don't think you or anyone else should either.  Never mind, then, that their business would be plunged into bankruptcy, and that many workers would be out of a job.  They most likely couldn't have afforded the procedure anyway.  Anybody who dares to express an opinion contrary to mine, regardless of its vagueness and  intent, should be castigated.  And is not my child beautiful.  Shame on them. Shut 'em down.

Long (Ago) Hot Summer

     "Mrs. Madigan, do you have an old pocketbook we can borrow?"  The question was from one of the older boys in the neighborhood, well, older than me anyway, who was with his friends on a long hot boring day during one of those endless summers we used to have back so many decades ago.  Back in the time when it was unheard of for there to be any out of school activities for children of any age.  Parents were not involved in the social lives of their children.  They were too busy, and there was no desire on the part of the young to interact with anyone else but other kids anyway.  Fathers worked all day and came home tired, to eat supper, read the papers and rest. Mothers mostly stayed at home all day, and managing the household was a work intensive and time consuming labor with no modern conveniences for laundry, cooking or cleaning.
     My mother had no trouble obliging with their request for an old pocketbook; everything she owned had some age to it, and one didn't, in those days, discard objects lightly.  She handed the boys one of her old purses. It was brown, rectangular with one of the straps broken, not good enough to be of use, and hope no longer held out for any repair.
   And that was, for my sister and myself, our introduction to the activity known as "playing pocketbook."   The boys tied a piece of clothesline to the intact strap of the pocketbook, a good long piece of rope. They then headed to the one place that cried out for such doings---------Rock Cut. 
    They laid the pocketbook just on the edge of the road,  climbed up to the top of the rock cut, hunkered down in the brush along the top, and waited.  As we younger kids did too from our front porch.  They waited, and we waited.  It was afternoon, and not much traffic back then, but several cars passed the forlorn purse, and  then some more cars. All passenger cars in those days.  Nobody stopped. The fake purse drop was a known entity at that time period, it seems, and drivers well aware of what bored kids did during the summer doldrums when time stood still. 
     The word was, though, that later on, a car did stop and when the rope started to pull the pocketbook away, the driver got out and chased the boys.  They were scared and retreated back into the fields behind their lookout point.  They abandoned the pocketbook. 
      We observers never got to see any of the action, but we listened to the story, a brief respite from the boredom of the drawn-out days of summer.

Pi Day Musings

   Since today is Pi day, I made a pie, lemon meringue.  That's the second pie I've baked this year.  I like pie, but ordinarily eat it only at Thanksgiving. I don't think I've ever ordered pie for dessert in a restaurant, except maybe something like chocolate éclair cream pie to share with a fellow diner. 
   I think of pies as something that should be homemade.  They're easy to make, even though I only do so once or twice a year.  Lemon is my favorite, Dorothy's chocolate a close second.  Every Thanksgiving I also bake a mincemeat pie and a pumpkin pie.  Most in my family don't care much for either, so I fell into the habit of eating the mince and the pumpkin for breakfast. 
   Last T'day, I made 4 pies and transported them to Schaghticoke for the family feast.  After dinner, I retrieved the leftover mince and brought it home, but somehow missed out on the pumpkin altogether.  Pumpkin pie is far from my favorite, but ever since the holiday, the fleeting thought  that I hadn't had any pumpkin pie the whole year would go through my mind.  I felt somehow diminished. 
     So one day last week, I stepped out of my lifelong routine and baked a pumpkin pie, a full-sized one.  I served it for dessert that night, and on the morning of the third day, with only one slice sacrificed to another, I ate the last piece. 

AI-iiiii!

    The new season of  American Idol has begun, and, as usual, I watched.  The field had been narrowed to the final 12, and one had to go.  None of the finalists appealed to me, but I am lightyears removed from their target audience.  I suspect complicity though, and I project that the winner will be a young African-American woman whose name ends in a vowel.  For some reason, most of the non-minorities who'd been previously selected for the final 12 seem a pretty talentless group.  The judges seemed mostly united in which contestants to criticize (gently), and on which to laud praise, and place in a distinctive category---a fair representation of "eccentric" performers, or crazies---selected for their entertainment value over their vocal ability.  But then, one of the judges has hit it big time with a song called, "Luh ya, Papi."

Tire(d)s

   Some time last summer, it was evidently time for new tires on the Subaru, so he took it in to  Tire Warehouse and they installed 2 new tires.  A few months later, the car encountered a major pothole in the construction of the Schaghticoke bridge, and one of the new tires blew out.  Back to Tire Warehouse, where the unfortunate news was that their tires have no warranty, partial or otherwise, unless a warranty was purchased, which was not the case.  So, another new tire.
     A recall had been issued for the undercoating on the Subaru, the second notice since the first attempt was deemed insufficient, so back to the Subaru dealer, where, after the undercoating was applied, gratis of course, because mandated, he was told the car's brakes were low, and should be replaced.   He declined to do so right then, and instead took the car to the local shop on Route 40, for that all -important second opinion.   There he was told that indeed new brakes were needed, but was also advised that a tire had a serious bulge, and should be replaced.  So the brakes were replaced, and a new tire installed. End of story, for a while?  Nay.
    A few days ago, as he was driving to Tech Park for an appointment,  he failed to see a major pothole as he was merging into traffic and another 2 tires bit the dust.  Again, the rubber hits the road.

March 9 Birthday

    Today's March 9th  weather was the nicest I can recall.  I always connected my mother's birthday with the word "harsh."   Of course Ma went outside every day of her life, and for considerable lengths of time too, caring for all the animals and whatever outside chores there were:  wood, stove ashes, lugging kerosene oil, water intake and disposal,  hanging laundry on clothesline, shoveling, etc.  Early March was typically blustery and cold, and it seems she used to contract laryngitis every year at this time.  The hard "r" in the words March, and laryngitis always seemed threatening, and just plain harsh.  I wish peace and comfort for her, but she was never content to remain inside, no matter the weather. 

So, Sew?

   Just wondering, looking at one of my nightgowns:   it has 3 small decorative mother-of-pearl  buttons at the front of the neckline.  A spare button is sewn into the tag, a replacement button, in case one of the original buttons is lost.  Who in the world would ever replace  a non-functional button on a nightgown?

Match the quote with the kid...

In reply to my email that I was asked to provide a landlord response:
           A. Don't respond; don't waste another minute on him
           B. Some balls--drunken balls
           C. Free stamp!

SSN Alert!

    I have in my possession a list of  valid Social Security Numbers, 29 of them including my own.  I did not steal them or come by them in any nefarious way.  On the contrary, they were mailed to me from the Supt's Office of the school where I was once employed, advising the 29 employees of retirement benefit calculations.  Granted, the list of social security numbers was sent back on April 2, 1996, but security should have been an issue even back then, or so it would seem.  It did to me anyway, because I wrote a letter to the school office:

    "Regarding the 1996 Targeted Retirement Incentive Communication   I recently received, I was disconcerted to receive the retirement membership and social security number of each of  28 other people, assuming that each person on the list was similarly informed.  I had believed that such information was of a confidential nature, since some accounts can be accessed or altered by entering such data.  I personally do not feel that the security of my account is threatened by anyone on the list, but I would have preferred that such identifying numbers remain in confidence."

     One might think that such a heads up would be acknowledged as the need to correct the  distribution of confidential information, but instead I received a letter, dated May 1, 1996,  from Dr. James A. Seeley, Superintendent of Schools:
      "I am writing in response to your memo regarding the above information which was provided to the 29 district employees who are eligible to participate in the incentive.  The information you received was also, specifically, requested by the President of the Teachers Association and was posted or circulated in the faculty room.  You are the only person to raise  a concern with this information being provided, and I would like to respond to your concern and state that the employees of this district are of the highest character and, therefore, you need not worry that your account will EVER be accessed or altered in any fashion.  I do, however, respect your concern and in the future any information related to you, personally, will be deleted in all mailings to staff members."

     Was I that much ahead of my time that confidentiality was not of any importance only 20 years ago?  Was it a mere 20 years ago that a school superintendent could respond in such an arrogant and yes, ignorant, manner?  Were the other employees so cowed that they hesitated to comment on the violation of their privacy, or were they just capitulating to the choices made for them? 
     Reading the list of names, I know of only 2 of them who are now deceased.  The others, I'm certain, would rest comfortably knowing that I have their social security and retirement numbers.  After all, a list of valid SSN's has no value, does it?
     
      
   

Mute Testament

     I'm relating to the "Less Than Zero" theme.  I spent most of 2 days working on our Federal Income Tax Return, more than that counting time spent collecting all the data and downloading the forms, etc.   The net result was 0.  We don't owe anything nor do we get a refund.  It's the first year, 2014,  that neither of us has any earned income, the first for me since 1960.  There are a few iffy issues and I may have erred somewhere, but I went with it anyway.  I had no desire to seek out a tax professional, as I did a few years ago.  After plugging all the numbers into his workplace computer, he kindly suggested I go with my own computations.  He said if it turned out I owed more than I figured I had to pay, the penalty wouldn't be very much anyway.  I offered to pay the fee, but he refused, said he'd enjoyed the conversation.  I can't go through that again.  Talk about cipher.

A Novel Annoyance

  Tonight, giving up on my clutter-clearing fail, I decided to go to bed and watch TV.  I turned it on as usual, but the never before seen, nor even heard of, message popped up on the screen:  "Please run the channel scan."   I had no idea what this meant, or how to carry that task out, so I did what comes naturally----pressing every button on the remote.  Finally the menu read Channels, and I clicked away until it eventually read scan.  I clicked and the message read it would take about 20 minutes.
      So I returned to my file box of dusty memories, read some, and entered a few  here.  Some I'll never be able to deal with in my lifetime.  They'll have to self-destruct, I guess.  Saddest of all, though, is that they are reminders of past connections and interactions with parents, children, relatives, co-workers, friends, neighbors, acquaintances.  Mostly positive, but even the negative were the stuff of which life was made.  Now it's just a long wait....

After she tried to kill me...

a letter dated March 9, 1969, Schaghticoke, N.Y    Postmarked from Albany, Ny
      
       Dear Mr. & Mrs. Shroader,
            Just a few lines to say, "Hello,"  and to hope all is well and doing just fine.  Please do me a favor, as I have been here, sick in the hospital with the flue but feel much better now and my sister is taking care of my apartment until I come home soon, As also my daughter Betty is being cared for by Dot, my sister, please try to keep the neighbors OUT of my apartment.  PS.  God will bless you for this, ALSO.  And also keep them from bothering my OIL,  Thank you again.  I will do some good favor for you when I do come back, soon.  May God bless you ALL.  For this is good Neighbors week (OK.)   Dot has permission from me, to come to my apartment, Also with Betty & my neice (sic) Connie & Charles (too).  O.K.   So I will appreciate your kindness.  O.K.
                                           Thanks again, I remain Mrs. Bertie Webb, Warren

Yet Again. July 12, 1967

   The following is a promise between the party of the first part, hereby known as Mary Ellen Madigan who resides at  River Road in the Village of Valley Falls in the Town of Pittstown, in the state of New York and  the party of  the second part, hereby known as David Thomas Schroder who resides in the city of Albany, at 12 Massachusetts Avenue, in the State of New York.
   The promise as agreed to by the participating promissor and the promisee is that the party of the second part will do all within  his power and time availability to assist, in whatever way the party of the first part sees fittin and justifiable in the completion of the research paper that the party of the first part has to complete for the *Summer Course of ED. 353 in and for the State University of New York, located at Albany, New York.
    The Details of the promise as stated by the party of the first part, and agreed to by the party of the second part, is that the party of the second part will to the best of his ability lend his time and effort without any hesitation on his part whatsoever, to do the library dog work of the party of the first part, hereby known as the lazy fink.  The party of the second part, hereby known as the stupid idiot for agreeing to such time consuming exercise of futility, will avail himself at the appointed time and place as directed by the party of the first part for such work as necessary to the effective completion of this monumental work.   
                     Signed and duly sworn this day, July 12, 1967, AD
                       in the presence of the God above and the Devil below.

*I checked my Graduate Record Transcript for ED 353, Advanced Educational Psychological Learning.  The grade was a B, good for 9 Quality Points toward 3 Credit Hours.  (It was easy to find my grade because the transcript was in the same box as the letter.  I would do myself a favor by tossing that away, at least the undergrad section.)
   

Stymied Yet Again

     Notes from home, beginning  February 9, 1977     ( In Samaritan  waiting for third baby who was born 4 days later, and 3 weeks early. Kids couldn't visit then.  He was 6 years old and she 7 going on 8.)
        "Mom
           Sweet as a rose, Sweet as can be
          but most of all I love you because you
          Make us wanted and lots of other reasons
          so I love you.    Love, D.
                                      Mom when are you coming home

Mom I hope the baby is strong and healthy but I hope you are to  and please don't forget me.  Love, D

How do you feel Mom
    I went to school and tell Dad his baby Oh I mean his dog is in and hes slepping inside.  Love, D.

Mom  how did you sleep last night.  Mom I hope you did and Mom I missed you last night.  win are you coming home.  Love, D. "

and from the other,
     "I hope you get better.**  I love you Mom!   Love, M." 

  I threw out a bunch of old papers because I know they're of interest  only to me, but some things are  too hard to do, and I just shove everything back in the box, or cabinet, or drawer....
        
**Exactly the same wording written to me by this author's eldest child in 2013 when I was in hospital for TKR.  They both hoped I'd get better.  So far, so good.