Two Room School at Toto

Most rural schools were very similar; well-built box styles, divided into two rooms by a  folding partition. There was a front door opening into a cloak room provided with a wall of hooks for outer wear and a shelf for lunch pails and other bulky items. The back door may have been located by an indoor coal or wood storage room or have been near an outdoor shed. The two sides of the building were lined with large windows; remember there was no electricity so open windows were vital for air circulation and for light. The windows were far enough from the floor to discourage a lot of outside gazing at any distracting activities, but many kids did a lot of day dreaming while gazing at the clouds and tree tops on a drowsy spring day.

We moved from the Moss district at mid-term when I was in the fourth grade, and Toto was my school until the end of the eight grade when most of the two room schools were consolidated with larger schools in the district. That meant busing for the kids who had been tramping a mile of more along roads that were often muddy and sometimes rough with frozen ruts made by some passing vehicle.

Generally the walk to and from school was not too bad. It was a little over a mile for me but being a newcomer, with no protecting brothers or sisters, was being the target of all the teasing and devilment that ten or twelve year old boys can devise when they have access to rocks and acorns, old shingles and switches, and puddles of water along the roadside.

The years went by and we became grown-up friends and before that, friendly enough by high school to make my boyfriend husband-to-be a tad upset when I accepted their offer of a horseback ride one morning when walking the seven miles to school (you read it right). It seems that he'd have been a much happier young fellow had I walked the remaining three miles to school. He sulked all day! The problems of growing up! This was all in the future, four years later, when transportation, although a challenge, was usually available.

Toto school was much the same as Moss. Classes were arranged in rows. Our teacher, Miss Jewel Frazier, was a nice patient woman who never displayed any of the temper red hair is so often associated wit--but she did keep discipline and sent many wiggly, giggling little kids to face the corner.  She was dating a young man in a nearby community and they were married the next year. when she became Mrs. Buddy Ellis, she could no longer teach school because at that time, married women were not allowed to teach.

When I became a member of the "big" room, our games expanded to include softball and volley ball. Another favorite was something called Dare Base, that had two teams spaced far apart, the object being for players to leave their base and dare the other team to tag them and place them in the inevitable mush pot.  It was a Yah,yah, yah sort of game and we loved it, especially on cold, misty days. When the bell rang for classes to resume, we all rushed for the water pump and gulped down our drinks, either from cupped hands of the one cup that hung by the pump. Water splattered our feet and legs but we hardly noticed as we raced inside before the second bell.

We played with jacks with all the versions that we knew, each one going from the onesies through the tensies: eggs in a basket, chickens in a coup, horses in the stall, around the world, and many more.  The game of jacks is ageless, as is that of marbles, and when the weather was hot, we played marbles in the cool shade on the north side of the building.  We girls were allowed to outline playhouses out of stove wood and bring dolls to school. Of course, we couldn't leave them there so that was an extra load to tote home.

James Harper was over the upper grades and he encouraged us to compete in the Interscholastic programs of the time: art recognition, spelling, speaking and scores more, plus all the racing events. He'd load us into his old jalopy (all cars of that time and place were jalopies) and bring us into Weatherford. The sports events were held where the 9th grade center is now--on South Main--and once the location of Weatherford's second high school.  At that time this was a baseball field surrounded by a tall board fence. The scholastic events were held in the high school of that time, where the city hall sits today.  It was an exciting event for kids in those depression days and we were very keen on competition.

Each year there were school pictures but I have none. Other things were needed more than pictures; things like groceries and shoes---or more likely, new shoe soles.  When shoe soles wore around the edges, wearing out the stitching, Dad would get out his shoe lass and little tacks and fit the shoe over the metal lass and tack the shoe sole back in place, the metal of the shoe lass bradding the point of the tack so it wouldn't have a sharp point to stick one's foot---usually, but not always! When the old shoe sole had a hole worn through, there were half soles to apply to get some more wear. Duke and Ayres and other dime stores always had a hardware section toward the back and always stocked these half soles and glue to stick 'em on with; stuff with a very potent smell that I'm sure denoted some substance that would be illegal today!

When these patched together shoe soles once more separated while we kids were walking home form school, there was a special step that we soon learned to keep the loose sole from becoming totally ruined.
People of my age remember it; step with the foot wearing an undamaged shoe, kick with the foot with the floppy sole before putting it on the ground, and repeat all the way home. The kick made the loose sole lay straight on the shoe instead of hanging loose and getting doubled under as you walked. We did it so often that we hardly noticed our peculiar gait.

When the Toto school was established, the school house was built on an acre of land in one corner of property owned by the Robeson family. It was generally understood that the land had been donated to the school for their use and would revert to the family.  After the school closed it sat deserted for years until it was finally purchased  from the school district and occupied for years. Neither the Robeson family nor the purchaser's heirs were able to lay claim to the property as a result of muddled deeds or handwritten agreements. The building is gone, its foundation sits alone among a few scattered trees, all that remain of the ones we played under.

School Days in the Two Room School House.

Moss school in about 1934;
Miss Geraldine Goulson, teacher. 

My first school was Moss, a two-room school located on what is now the Springtown highway. Then it was a gravel road leading to Springtown. There were about six school children in a small no-name community several miles east of Moss and we walked the distance in a scattered group in the mornings - a closer group in the afternoons.

No- it was not five miles in the snow and uphill both ways! It only seemed that way. It was probably less than two miles along a county road that had one section that had become impassable other than by foot or horseback, and travel by either of those means was questionable. By today's standards the entire road was impassable but this part crossed Willow Creek, a rather awesome waterway back in the days before government dams caught much of the rainwater before it gathered into a powerful run-off.

When the road had been maintained as an active roadway, the creek had a sturdy bridge with iron rails, but it was never sturdy enough to hold its own against the water that roared down Willow Creek after a heavy rain.  The rushing water filled the creek and overflowed in a brown foaming lake of water extending far beyond the creek's banks, and rearranged everything in its path. The old bridge was always left angled precariously and its repairs were usually done by man power and four-legged horse power. Until then, once it had been determined that the bridge was not going to completely collapse, our group of school children found the spot where the bridge still touched the creek bank and walked across the caterwauled structure.

Each year at the end of August, the men of the community would take teams and plows and go to the impassable section and plow a path through the tall Bermuda grass and weeds to enable us to walk without getting soaked from the morning dews and to be relatively safe from whatever might be lurking in the weedy growth. As "bottom land" land enriched by years of overflow, the Bermuda grass grew almost knee high and Johnson grass and Blood weeds were head high.

Foreseeing that there would be a time when a heavy rain during the school day might make the creek rise to a dangerous level, my mother made arrangements for me to spend the night safely with a family near the school. It did happen, and I was put to bed wearing my classmate's long-johns. How we kids had perfect attendance records is a puzzle, but unless you were ill, you went to school, rain or shine. In all those years I remember only a sprinkling of snow!

There were no fancy backpacks in those days; those were Depression years and we were fortunate to have shoes much less anything as fancy as a purchased carrier for books. Instead, there were homemade book satchels, usually made of canvas and having a wide shoulder strap to ease the burden of a load of books.

I suppose the school building had wide folding doors dividing the "little",  room from the "big"  room, (little referring to the first four grades and big to the next four). School buildings were used for both school activities and those of the community. School plays and monthly community singing, plus Sunday School and church services were part of the buildings double life.

There was one teacher for each room of children. Each class was arranged in rows across the room and the teacher moved from row to row, teaching each class their reading, writing or arithmetic-and spelling. Spelling was livened by spelling bees and winning made the student the proud owner of some dime store
doodad. Pretty things such as a barrette or tiny doll or a ball could be bought for a nickel or dime and the teachers of those days were the same as those of today - they dug into their own pockets for special treats for the kids. Until recently, I still had a small china elephant pin cushion that I once won.

I remember the Bob and Nancy readers and being an avid reader even at six years, I rushed through the entire book, making the reading class boring. We had flash cards for numbers, Big Chief writing tablets and a long wall of blackboards. My mother tried to teach me to write the way she was taught...by what was known as the Palmer Method. In that system, the writer rolled their writing arm on its underside, swinging the writing hand to form the letters. No cramped hand movement was allowed. One's letters were supposed to match those on a transparent writing chart. I failed all her efforts, hated handwriting in school and still do.

As the diphtheria vaccine was successfully reducing the illness, there was a special campaign to vaccinate all school children before school started in my first year of school. I expect that was a public health service throughout the nation, as in the '20s thousands of children were dying of this disease.

As a child, recesses and the noon lunch time seemed much longer than those in later years. We had time to choose sides and play team games or to swing or play on the see saws. All games were very active ones, often sending us home with badly skinned knees that scabbed and got hurt again and again. Looking back, scabbed knees appear to have been constant companions the same as those of missing teeth.

The games we played are mainly unheard of today and although we generally escaped serious injury, I'm sure many would be considered too dangerous for todays youngsters. There was Wolf Over the River, a game that involved a player attempting to break through a line of hand holding kids; there was Pop the Whip, a game of a line of running youngsters attempt to "pop" off the end of the line player, usually making that person fall, (another skinned knee). We played Hide and Seek and another hiding game called Sheep Board Down that involved knocking down "IT's" leaning board with getting caught and having to stand in the "mush pot." Please don't expect me to explain these names! Their meanings and/or pronunciation were probably corrupted by several generations of children before I even heard the words.
A few tamer ones were also popular. Drop the Handkerchief and Flying Dutchman and a blindfolded name guessing one were a few.  I doubt if the cold ever slowed us much but a heavy rain surely confined us inside with marbles, and jacks and that very best part of school--drawing paper and crayons!

In one of the running and hiding games, I remember fondly being "adopted" by one of the larger boys in the "big" room and carried on his shoulders as we raced around the building. It may have been the tall fellow in this photograph, a fellow who years later became a neighbor, or it may have been a boy I remember as being Robert Moore or maybe Maughon--- that was many years ago. I remember the Woodle boy who also swooped me up during running games. In later years one of his daughters was in my first Scout troop and I was saddened by his accidental death.

The school rooms seemed large then, even larger in cold weather when the huge cast iron stove could not produce enough heat to reach the rooms far corners. I'm sure the stove was at least five feet in height and probably had a diameter of three or four feet -- maybe more at it's pot-bellied widest spot. Each of the three schools I attended was heated by this type although heated is an exaggeration of the  rooms winter temperatures.

The old Moss school building still stands a short distance outside the city limits. Many years ago the property was sold by the school district and the building converted into a residence. Our old school obstacle course of a road is now paved and a modern bridge crosses the once mighty Willow Creek.
The little creek that had a bridge with no rails, permitting one of the older girls to swing me out over the edge in devilment, is hardly noticeable and the hour-long (kid time) walk home takes only minutes by automobile.

Politics, Voting and the Fear Factor

    Do you have a feeling of utter confusion as you are bombarded with "facts" about this senator or that. about our president, or about the Tea Party, the Coffee Party, the shortage of oil, the tremendous supply of oil,  or a pending bill or proposition?  At this point I have serious doubts that future historians, with access to all that's been written, will be able to give an account of the true state of affairs in our country.

So what do we do? No thoughtful person will deny that voting is important. Neither can it be ignored that the existence of of politics is vital. Politics consist of a force that makes decisions, politics direct what is is to happen in the work place, what our children learn, the amount of taxes we pay and, in fact, the majority of things that affect our lives.

Think about this:
     Those who are adept at fear mongering exert a tremendous amount of influence.
     Those who are equally adept at spoofing at such influence create their own followers.
     Each are promoting their own beliefs, or fears, or very often, their own hatreds.
     It is impossible that each of us can be well informed on every issue, whether Islam or oil reserves.
It creates a problem doesn't it?

Recently I came across an article that appeared to be promoting the idea that Americans were a fearful people.  My early impression was that the author felt that our citizens were rather foolishly seeing bogeymen all around; that we were running from our own shadows, that we were behaving like silly, giddy people, jumping at the slightest noise. Irritated, I did not finish the article. I should have and then formed an accurate opinion of the authors point of view. The part that I did read, however, set some thoughts in motion.

My first thought concerned the use of the word, "fear." My feeling is that there is a lot of fear...justified fear...in this country right now. The certainty of saving enough money to provide for our old age has evaporated. Those who believed they had adequate savings are no longer sure. The Social Security Fund is almost depleted. Workers who have built their lives and future on their workplace have seen the entire national job market change to the degree that their ability and willingness to work is no longer an issue, because the worker is not needed. Mechanical or electronic systems may have eliminated the worker's position or worse, the job may now exist in another country. All this results in a very justified fear concerning the lack of security.

Then I thought of our early ancestors who surely had fear as they left their homes, probably because of some type of fear concerning their livelihood and faced what had to be a fearful situation in traveling to a strange land and surviving there by only what they could provide with their own hands. Others who have come here in later years, often came because of fear: fear of starvation, of imprisonment, or fear of death for themselves or their families.  It would appear that experiences such as those would create a renewal of fear whenever their new lifestyles began to feel unstable. Having at one time lived in fear, fear of similar conditions developing is certain to exist. These people were fearful but they were not cowards. They were braver than many of use have ever been.

So fear exists and it is neither cowardly or shameful. It is a natural reaction to the unknown and to possible danger. Wouldn't we be foolish to have so little fear that we never took precautions for our safety? If we are considered a fearful people, perhaps our fear will keep us safe. Don't hold up our fears in ridicule!

Back to politics: Is fear a factor in our elections?  Considering the above thoughts  concerning financial security and the terrors of some of the conditions many immigrants have left behind and what many see as dangerous changes in our own government, and  the answer must be  a resounding "YES"!

We need people who govern this country to understand that people can and should do for themselves if given the opportunity. We need people who understand the consequences of debt and waste, and who realize that it is not necessary to satisfy all their wants (and ours) at one time. We need people who speak straight from their knowledge and experience about what is possible and what is necessary, instead of making glib speeches that are only words meant to influence voters into giving this person a job.

How do we determine who these people are? I wish I knew a sure-fire method! We absolutely must start doing our homework of reading opinions, editorials, listening to interviews and even studying body language! Perhaps there will be enough information to point us in the best direction.  Before the day we cast our vote we may have found enough solid dependable information to guide us. Otherwise, to state it very inelegantly, we will need to depend upon our "gut" feeling....and that feeling, that intuitive reaction, may be a good way to go if you've listened to the candidate, seen pictures and watched that body language!

Money---just kiss it good-by. There's a good sale somewhere.

What makes the world go round ?  Maybe you’ve heard that it’s love? Absolutely wrong. It’s money: or rather the art of getting  your money.

Yesterday I received my first sales catalog of the week. Only one, after all, it was only Monday. This one  is a Fall Fashion Sale, picking a new approach from those of the past few weeks: the tax free week-end sale of August 21,22, 23, a variety of back-to-school catalogs, Labor Day sales, end of summer sales and finally,  if after the past four weeks of spending opportunities, there is any small change left in your pocketbook,  this Fall Sale event gives you another chance to rush out and exchange your money for small appliances or a final clearance of fine jewelry, or even on a specially discounted line of new fall fashions.

Now the latest fall fashions open the door to another world: one that I am firmly closing that door on before something escapes.  I know it’s another world because it’s peopled with nothing but youth, and all pencil thin youth, besides.  There are short skirts and plunging necklines  (no the two do not meet!)  there are lacy semi-sheer tops and skirts.  There are bold prints on flowing garments,  form fitting knit tops and equally form fitting jeans. 

Those who love ruffles will find that the fashion world has not yet retired them to the basement disposal box but have probably added a bit of this and a bit of that to the dye lots to lure you back for just one more ruffled top in this marvelous new color!

Now,  I’m an old hand at bargain buying. My overstuffed closet can attest to that. I’m not about to be tempted by this Fall Sale. After all, the biggies of all time will soon be here: Halloween, and after Halloween,  Pre-Thanksgiving,  Thanksgiving,  Christmas and the sale of sales,  the after Christmas sale. Then….. well,  the sales will continue, for how can these wonderful stores exist without our money, and there will be bargains…and fresh new colors…and discounted linens with beautiful colors that you’ve not yet tried!

It ain’t easy living with daily bargain notices filling your mailbox but if you’re tough it can be done. I’m sitting here with my coffee (which is getting cold) looking at ads and proud of my self discipline.

Oh Oh, I just remembered something. Aren’t $2 bills still legal tender?  There’s one  on the table right over here. That, and the loose change in the top drawer will get me that sale-priced pair of earrings.

Bye, now. Ya’ll have a good day!

Memories of our nation's attacks; 9/11 and 12/7/41

Today, the memories of 9/11 are strong and as we recall the disbelief and horror of that unforgettable scene, there have been many of these expressed eloquently on many sites.

My son called me the moment he heard the news. I expect that all long-haul truckers  had been placed on an immediate alert by their companies.  I also made some phone calls and watched in horror and disbelief   as the scene was shown continuously on the TV screen. That such a thing was actually happening was beyond belief. The crash of the planes into the buildings, the towering smoke and the images of the tiny figures tumbling into space should have been scenes from a movie but they were terrifyingly real.

In the following hours, other thoughts crowded in: those of the hundreds of firefighters making their desperate attempts to save the trapped occupants of the buildings, a jolt of realization of the dedication they had to their duties and the dangers they were facing, and the memories of another time when our nation had been surprised by another attack: that of December, 7, 1941.

On that Sunday, so many years ago, there were no scenes to watch; only a voice on the radio, which in our household was a powered by its battery. Regardless, the news was sobering and the next day's school assembly to hear our president speak was equally so. I  remember very little of President Roosevelt's  speech except the words "We are at war" spoken in that unforgettable voice.

The serious demeanor of the principal and other teachers was impressive. We
were only naive kids; they were aware of what was before us, but we were soon to learn. We were seniors and before many months boys in our class were  taken into some branch of military  service. Rationing went into place, young men teachers were drafted, the labor force was depleted and women went to work in fields they had never before considered.

In fact, these fields had never before had a need for more workers, but as the nation found themselves pitifully unprepared for war there were shortages on all fronts. The need for airplanes, all types of ships, clothing and food, and various forms of transportation, became acute. We never knew how desperate our situation was until years later, because along with rationing, we also had censoring of everything that might provide helpful information to the enemy.

Two terrible attacks on our nation: similar in destruction and loss of lives, yet different in so many other ways. In the Pearl Harbor attack there was no doubt concerning the identity of the attacker and our response was immediate. In the 9/11 attack there was doubt and confusion. After  Pearl Harbor the nation united as one; an ant bed of activity, ready to sting anyone who dared venture close. How different 9/11 has been. The nation was ready to lash out but there was no place to land a blow. There was uncertainty and confusion. Our citizens had divided opinions concerning how and where to retaliate.
We became frustrated---and still are.

Like  Pearl Harbor, the memories of the 9/11 attack remain but with the 9/11 memories, anger and the frustration still exist as shown in the ongoing controversy concerning the plans of a Muslim group to build a mosque near Ground Zero. Our graphic memories are not fading and this controversy is not going away. I expect that  even after the affair is settled it will remain as a contentious matter. Today, however, it occurred to me that there is one point of view that I have not seen discussed: that of the reactions of patriotic citizens.

Surely, the members of this group are U.S. citizens and as such shouldn’t they share our outrage over the attack on our nation? As citizens, don’t they understand that the attack was meant to be a slap in the face to the United States and all that it represents. It was meant to show disrespect: it was an act of hate and a disregard for life. As citizens, shouldn't they have felt outraged at the attack.  And however unfortunate or unfair it may be that their name is connected to the attackers, that will not change. It was a confusing situation. 

 In the minds of many, rightly or wrongly,  it is that association that is making the building of the mosque so near ground zero an act that insults the memories of lost lives and reflects the the attackers' hate and disrespect of our nation. As  citizens, natural born or naturalized, how can this group disregard the insult and injury our country suffered? How can they not feel the pain of the loss of life? Why do they not realize that their planned building appears to be another slap in the face?

I would hope that those who choose to live in our country and enjoy its freedoms and benefits, would also share our injuries and losses. If they accept this nation as theirs, how can it be otherwise?

There must be other sites; ones that have no disquieting memories, ones that reflect peace and calm instead of discord. How else can this controversy end without continuing conflict?

Never a Dull Moment

Patches 

Cats...

The cats still claim my hill, my front porch, and the porch swing. I feed the skinny things but are they interested? No! They follow me down the sidewalk as I go for the paper. They wind in and out around my feet. They meow, telling me their troubles but don’t like the answers I give. Patches got too close and got her tail trounced on and I don’t know who moved the fastest, the cat, or me but she definitely yowled the loudest.                                     Patches >

Noises at midnight...

All is quiet and peaceful…until there is a crash near the back door! The house is secure the doors are locked, the alarm is set…so-o once the goose bumps       subside, a tentative search begins. The cause is found: nothing more than a canister finally giving in to gravity and falling from its unbalanced perch and knocking over several other containers on its path to the floor.

Another peaceful night and Facebook is holding my attention until stealthy rustlings come from the back porch. More goose bumps!  Do I dare turn on the porch light? Well of course I do. I’m no scardy-cat!  What do I see? All seems normal until I see a ‘possum ambling across the patio leaving the obstacle course that my porch has become.

…And then there are the bugs attracted to the lighted windows. Tap, tap, tap! Surely that is a bug. 

....Ice cubes drop, the freezer starts with a loud click, the dishwasher has its series of clicks and gurgles.

What happened to peace and quiet?

Whistles and gurgles and sirens

the latest installation

There have been times, when groggier than normal, I have opened a door without first turning off the alarm: in fact, the answering folks are becoming amused at my varied excuses.  How ever nice they may be; I have become very sensitized to any noise that sounds, even remotely, like an alarm siren. The first ding of the microwave or dryer as their job is completed; the hiss or whistle of the hot water heater, the song of a happy cicada…all bring me to an alert. Imagine, then, my reaction the evening I was returning home and dutifully turning off the alarm before reaching the front door AND immediately heard the blast of a siren!  What could possibly have happened? I had not even reached the door. The remote should not have caused all the commotion but it must have, so the off button is punched again, and again.  Then the puzzle was solved as the emergency vehicle screamed it’s way down the street.

An eerie feeling...

Numerous tales have been told about the silent appearance of departed loved ones, so you can imagine the direction my thoughts took upon experiencing this:  I was resting with my eyes closed when there was a sudden strong whoosh of air immediately above me. My eyes flew open: there was no sound, no other movement anywhere, but I knew it had been a real and strong air movement.  Almost afraid of what would happen next, I began a reluctant look around the room.  A sound from the dining room drew me there and the mystery was solved. A large chimney swift was fluttering against the blinds. I grabbed a cup towel, gathered the bird into its folds and released it outside. Problem taken care of very efficiently, or so I thought.

Then another bird flew by, back and forth, from window to window as it frantically hunted a way outside.  The back door was only a foot from the path of the swooping bird, so I opened it to help it along its way.  All that accomplished was to send the poor bird into another room…a room with breakables that I feared would be knocked to the floor. Again I grabbed my cup towel, hoping to catch this second bird before there was a disaster.  The bird had disappeared but then I spotted it, exhaustedly resting by the drapes. Another outside trip to deliver the poor thing into it natural habitat and settled myself for a bit of meditation about the events of the last hour.

 That was not to be: another bird appeared. Three birds in one hour called for son-in-law help!  He also caught his bird and then began a hunt for the point of entry.  A fireplace damper had not been closed properly and the chimney swifts, that had appeared so small as they swooped around in the sky, had entered through the opening and appeared in the house with their 12  inch wing spread making them a very large bird to be careening through-out the rooms.

Again, the problem was solved: the bird was outside, the damper was closed, and all is peaceful once more: until I hear a scratching sound from the window behind my chair. I recognized that sound. It could be nothing other than another bird so with cup towel in hand, I find it huddled on the window sill and assist this fourth bird on its way outside.

The damper is closed securely; the birds are free in the outdoors. But the eerie  experience of feeling that strong, silent air  movement remains.  

Love of color

When gardening, I have one gift you won't find in any manuals.
I know it's strange, but I can change perennials to annuals.
- Dick Emmons

My dad often told me "You love people, not things." I believe today's usage of love has left him far behind. I do love color!

Driving here and there through town the colorful crepe myrtles have been in every block, almost in every yard. They appear in bright rose, light

pink, lavender and white. Recently a red is beginning to show up in a few plantings. What a boon to the July and August landscape these shrubs are!

Is there anyone who does not respond to color? Is it possible?

Think seriously about this! The blue sky, the first green tints of spring; the wonderful colors of fall, even the week-long dreary grey sky that we sometimes have; surely everyone responds in some manner to these.

We know and expect artists in all fields to be drawn in to the field of color. It is the food for their spirit; they hunger for it whether it is in the form of paints, yarn, and fabrics or in the flash of semi-precious stones. They are not alone in this. We all react to color whether consciously or not.

In general, we have been thoroughly studied and evaluated in regard to our reaction to color. The colors used in waiting rooms are usually considered to be soothing ones (a necessity if one is waiting for their ten o’clock appointment and the clock shows eleven), colors in a children’s department are bright and exciting ones. What is the color décor in your favorite restaurant; a restful one in earthy colors or exciting reds or oranges? This photo of the wall behind the Range Restruant in Albuquerque, NM was taken by Sherri Woodard Coffey and shows an eye catchingly display of child's toy ranges . The photo above, left, also taken by Coffey, shows only a small portion of woven wall hangings at a Taos gallery.

Although what are considered to be our basic reactions to colors have been scientifically studied, there are definite color trends. That too, has probably been analyzed to help manufactures decide what the public is ready for this year or the next. Remember the Harvest Gold appliances of the ‘60s? Or the sandalwood walls?

Personally, I react strongly to color. There have been occasional shopping disasters which I have tried to ignore and salvage. I always get pecular looks when I speak of this, but there are some shades of blue that I cannot wear. I cannot tolerate wearing these garments more than an hour or so. How these shades of blue ever appeared in my closet is a puzzle but being a little on the thrifty side, I attempt to “get my money’s worth” and force myself to wear this blue thing! It is a fact, that after a short time in this shade of blue, my hair begins to feel stringy, my nails have become rough and I am as edgy as a cat watching a nearby dog.

There is no hope for a compromise. The garment must go. Now!

I have sewed for many, many years, starting on my mother’s treadle machine. As a young married, with no machine, I even made a few garments by hand. Where does sewing enter in to a discussion of color? A look into my closets will answer that question…shelves full of colorful fabrics which spoke to me from their store racks. So now yards of material are on the shelves, waiting for me to return to a size 12 which was my favorite pattern size. How long does it take for fabrics to rot? Their future is not bright.

The real purpose of this blog is to show some pictures my son took of flowers he had grown one summer. Each time I find them in our stack of photos, I am impressed by their bright colors. I call them happy ones.

In these 100º days these lilies and irises could not survive. Daily watering is all that keeps even the most heat tolerant plants in bloom. Even sunflowers are hanging their heads. The little succulents are happy with lots of sun and their plump leaves help them survive. They don't wilt; they begin to shrink and wither when their supply of water is depleted.

Less than 2 week until September! For me, September is Fall. I ignore the calendar. School buses are at the DPS office, their drivers being tested. Buses are reviewing their routes. Texas tax free weekend benifiting those purchasing school needs has filled the stores.

Fall also means a fresh look at the flower beds. They can be as colorful as those of spring. Think about this:Fall flowers can be as prolific as those of any other season and some of them can be of the easy care variety.Our hillside had a sprinkling of golden rod and I decided to transplant one of the plants. It actually took root in an unlikely spot on the north side of the house where it was shady. Since that first attempt, I have moved a few more plants. What I need to do is to get serious about having a clump of gold and group at least five or six plants to make a showy display. Mine will never come near to being the golden carpets we passed one October while driving through Ohio. Field after field solid with golden rods in full bloom, make a memorable sight.

One of my favorites on my old home place was a row of purple asters that grew along the fence row. Their small lavender flowers bloomed profusely and attracted so many bees that I dared not get close. For that reason alone, it would be worthwhile to start a clump of these hardy plants. There are many varieties of asters and these may need more care than the old fashioned ones that remember growing unattended. They were not fertilized nor did they get special watering. The survived on whatever nature provided and made a colorful low hedge.

We mustn’t forget the chrysanthemums! Although many varieties are spoken of as “summer mums”, somehow the image of those large shaggy mums that were only a fall blooming plant lingers on. Today’s mums are as colorful as the ones that I remember, but the size of the blossoms are a fraction of those of the large ones I once grew. The pungent scent of the disturbed plant remains the same. Some dislike that scent very much, but to me, it signals the coming of cool weather, school starting, a few new fall clothes and other things associated with the changing season. My problem with mums is their root system which is near the surface of the flower bed and are very easy to disturb when raking the leaves that collect in the sprawling growth. The low-growing plant’s branches are also easy to break away. Incidentally, these branches spread out and take root, making cultivation difficult. Doesn’t matter here on the hill where cultivation is not a frequent occurrence Fallen leaves settling among the limbs are the biggest problem.

I’ve always been surprised that the Tyler Rose Festival is a fall event, having grown up with a yard sporting clumps of old-fashioned roses which were spring blooming. In later years my “monthly” roses protested their environment by limiting their floral production to only spring and fall. If you love roses (and who doesn’t) follow all the planting and care suggestions in a gardening book and they will repay you with a beautiful crop of roses…but probably not on a monthly schedule!

HERE IS ANOTHER VIEW OF FALL:

I love the fall. I love it because of the smells that you speak of; and also 
because things are dying, things that you don't have to take care of 
anymore, and the grass stops growing.
- Mark Van Doren

Enjoy!

Dannie

When the Formicidia and Blattaris families move in.........

Disregard the unpronounceable names above---in ordinary conversation, these are familiar pests: the common cockroach and the various types of ants that share our space. Although scientific studies have disclosed many interesting facts about these apparently indestructible bugs, the thing most people are interested in is how to rid their homes of their presence.

The tiny sugar ant is known by several common names and is also know as a grease ant because of it’s attraction to a spot of grease or anything containing grease or oil. The tiniest speck of meat on a counter top will soon be covered with ants.

Not content with whatever crumbs the kitchen may offer; these tiny, almost invisible creatures circulate throughout the house. They crawl around a splash of water in the bathroom; they can be found crawling upon clothing hanging in the closet, or even on the bedding. They insist upon sharing the sofa: they invade the computer, the oven controls and even hunt a way to get into the refrigerator. Once I unwrapped a fresh roll of paper towels and quickly tossed it aside. It’s roller was filled with a thriving nest of ants.

My mother began keeping her hose in a sealed glass jar in order to keep these tiny pests from eating holes in her silk or nylon stockings resulting in an unwelcome “runner.” She also placed the feet of the old iron bed in a dish of water allowing a night’s rest without the occasional sting of a prowling ant.

Boric acid mixtures are reportedly successful in riding the premises of these pests. I have bought a box but don’t remember where I put it. Pest control folks can give several months relief but they usually make no promises for long-lasting control. I have read that the main nest/den must be destroyed if any lasting respite is to be achieved. As this nest is generally secluded in a wall or attic the main source of ants remains safe and the householder has to be satisfied with short term solutions.

I dislike chemical sprays but when I have reached a certain point of intolerance for ants on my cabinet, I sometimes spray around the perimeter to get relief. The floor around the sofa will soon get the same treatment.

Although the stings of these little grease ants are annoying, they don’t begin to compare to those of the fire ants. These imported pests appear to be here to stay. A bed can be treated with various controlling measures and may appear successful but the ants will reappear, either from a neighbor’s yard or an overlooked anthill.

One year we tried an unusual procedure. Our son had a new recipe for Mustang Grape wine. He had placed his jars far back in the cabinet and they were forgotten. Finally remembering his project, he set the jars out and carefully opened one. One whiff was enough to tell the story but we did venture a tiny taste. That stuff would blow the top of your head away! Now what? We looked at each other and had the same thought---a fire ant bed! He poured the entire jar into and on the mound and there were no more ants. Ever! They may have stung each other to death in a drunken frenzy or the fumes may have killed them instantly but as a permanent remedy it’s too complicated to consider!

Ants are pests. Cockroaches are repulsive. The study of ants is interesting : that of roaches makes me shudder. Last night as I walked up the hall, I spotted one of those big fellows that we sometimes call a “water bug.” Co-existing with these giant sized varmints of the roach family is not in my plans; picking up this wiggly thing to toss outside was unthinkable so the best plan seemed to be to slip off my shoe and solve the problem with a quick swat.

I never knew about roaches and water bugs until my marriage and subsequent change in climate from N. Texas to that of Corpus Christi. All the kitchens in the large housing complex in which we lived, had small, removable cabinet base units and the residents periodically removed their utensils and took these units outside for a hard, water spraying which we hoped would remove all bug eggs. This was in 1943 and almost our only protection against the common roach taking over our apartments. There were no spray cans of roach killers in those days.

It wasn’t until I spent a night with a friend that I discovered water bugs. Our husbands were navy guys and had the same duty nights so we wives often stayed together while they were on night duty.

After an evening of girl chatter we donned our nighties and went to bed. For some reason the light was turned on again and we discovered that her apartment had been invaded by dozens of scurrying water bugs from the joining apartment whose tenants had just moved out. Disturbed, the bugs were hunting a new home. We felt like doing the same, but there was nowhere to go so we went to battle with a broom and a Flit hand sprayer. We were badly outnumbered and occasionally had to take refuge on chairs and the bed.

This picture sticks in my mind---two squealing, giggling, teenage girls standing on the bed, trying to get enough nerve to sweep out the darn bugs; both of us more than “kinda” pregnant, our little tummies stretching our nighties. We were alone so we had to tend to the bugs. The navy would not have been pleased with an emergency call to our husbands for help; so we sprayed and swept, and finally we slept.

I do not like water bugs!

Wyoming Trek

In our troop's junior year we learned about an opportunity for a Wyoming camping experience that was being offered to all girl scouts. Our council had decided to participate and sponsor three patrols. Did we want to be a part of this Wyoming Trek to be held near Ten Sleep, WY? Does the sun rise in the East? Excitement reigned. Not every girl scout loves camping, especially for two weeks but we soon had a patrol of seven of the most adventurous ones and the training began.

Before long, Council suggested we add a girl from another troop so we agreed rather reluctantly, and before long it again was suggested that a visiting scout from Germany also be allowed to join our patrol, making it a group of nine.

Another leader and I trained with the girls and competed for the chance to be patrol leader for the Trek and I won that honor. To this day I do not understand why we did not somehow scrape together enough money to pay the expenses for the two of us but we got negative vibes all around. Even from the girls who I expect felt they would appear as overly protected. True enough, I suppose,. No other troop had two leaders.

Nevertheless, I have never, before or after, felt so inadequate for carrying out my responsibilities.Camping skills were okay. There had been plenty of training and after all, I was a country girl, and wasn’t entirely ignorant of primitive living. It was the unexpected, the unpredictable, that convinced me that my coping abilities were far from adequate. From the first hundred miles, to the last, the entire three weeks was an activity that can only be described as an Experience! I am glad that I went.

No more than 100 miles down the road,, an infected cut (the rule that no preexisting medical problems were allowed, was ignored by this scout) needed treatment. Where was the first aid kit? Packed away in the bus’s storage compartment, of course, so a stop had to be made at a service station/food store to get medication. Blow number one to this leader’s confidence that she was prepared.

Soon, cars full of boys were playing tag with the bus, honking and yelling at the girls, who were delighted at the attention they were attracting. Our overnight stopover in Fort. Collins, CO was dreaded because of a car full of followers. One leader wisely made the police aware of our position and requested an occasional drive-by. This was long before cell phones were in every pocket, always available. I was thankful for a resourceful leader.

Next came the midnight rattling and banging of the doors of the gym-like building in which we were spending the night. The noise echoed and bounced from wall to wall as noises do in an empty gym. The girls slept on as did the leader of one other patrol. Only I and the leader who had asked for an occasionally police patrol were awake and wondering what would come next. We were a bit nervous; those doors sounded very loose!

All became quiet and we finally slept...as well as adults can sleep in a sleeping bag on a hard floor. And again I wondered about my ability to cope with the unexpected, the untrained for occasions.

The following day the terrain began to change. Mountains caused the bus to strain with it's load and finally it's overheated brakes brought us to a stop. Although we were sure we were going uphill at the time, naturally it wasn't true. That well known optical illusion had us fooled and we had been on a long desent. It was a welcome stop beside a cool stream with banks of ferns and huge mushrooms, The girls played in the cold water fell in and had a wonderful time. We would have enjoyed camping there!

A few more steep climbs and a few more descents and the Girl Scout Center was in sight...but sadly out of reach.

The bus stalled. It had had enough and would go no farther. Perhaps the driver had a CB or perhaps the personnel at the Center could see us miles away. Regardless, rescue vehicles were sent out to transfer the gear of the three patrols of twenty-three girls and their leaders, for the remainder of the trip.

It was not an impressive arrival.

Campsite for our patrol was near the edge of a deep canyon and it’beckoning depths had the girls quickly setting up camp and ready to embark on the trail leading down into the unknown.Having had no instructions about the proper way to accompany nine girls downward into a canyon, I placed myself about midway in the group and away we went, a group of happy chattering girls. Somewhere along the way, I turned and asked some of the following girls where my daughter and two others were. “Oh, they decided to go down the canyon wall.” Was the heart-stopping answer.

“They did WHAT?” was the brave leader’s response. What to do? To go after them was out of the question; the remaining girls couldn't’t be left without their leader. To send for help didn't seem plausible, as by the time someone reached the top of the trail and hiked to the headquarters. The renegade threesome would hopefully reached the bottom or be stranded and then we would send for help.

We proceeded to the bottom of the canyon. I called for the climbers. We whistled. We worried. And we followed a extremely noisy stream along the floor of the canyon, hoping to intersect the approximate arrival location of the descending group. That location was yet to be determined; the echo of the canyon walls and the noise of the wind and the rushing stream, smothered any answers we may have had to my frantic calls. I could visualize the evening news: Girl Scout members under the leadership of…… lost, stranded or injured…..My imagination ran wild.

Finally there was an answer! What relief! Then there was a shout and the sound of something tumbling. A reassuring call that the noise was only a camera. Finally, they appeared, stepped down onto the canyon floor and joined their buddies and a very irate leader who immediately issued instructions to sit on a nearby log and listen closely what you are about to hear. They sat and they listened and I believe my point of view was quite clear.

Returning to the campsite and level ground, all went as it should. Our meal

was prepared, Clean-up was efficient, bedrolls were unrolled and the procession to the showers began. These were board enclosed areas with a full view of the night time stars if one waited politely for the others to finish. Waiting also assured the last person in line to have unheated water. Of course, as a primitive campsite, there were no water heaters, but only water piped from across the canyon into the shower area. As this was quite a distance, wonderfully warm water, heated by the sun as it flowed through the pipe, was the luxury the early arrivals enjoyed. The last person discovered what melted snow felt like. I was last and I learned.

There were organized activities exploring the rugged area and one hike was in an archaeologically interesting area that was being mapped according to the types of Indian artifacts found in the area. A detailed record of what was found to assist in identifying the tribes that had either lived or passed through the area was being developed. Many flint chips littered the path and my antenna went on alert, for my dad was an avid hunter of these artifacts and I was familiar with the signs. While the girls took a rest break I was prowling near-by when my attention was caught by a unusual object under a low juniper bush. Looking closer, I was elated to see that it was a perfect corner-tanged knife in an unusual tortoiseshell appearing flint. I yelled, I was so excited. Oh, how I wanted to keep that piece but the rule was that every thing had to be turned in to be cataloged. After the cataloging process, it was to be placed in the Ten Sleep museum under my name. I'll never know.

Each night there was a campfire program and ceremony and of course, the daily flag raising and lowering, with each troop taking turns being responsible. Council's early instructions had informed us that each patrol must have a name and uniform and plan to be responsible for one night program while attending the Trek. The girls gave all this careful thought and then announced that they had chosen their name: The Purple Pansies! We leaders were a bit startled at the choice but we only looked at one another with raised eyebrows. We never asked what thought process brought this about. We did not want to know!

Most of our troop had participated in forming a Girl Scout Chorus the year before, again managing to be the first one in the nation. Singing was their strength so naturally they planned to sing for their campfire entertainment; their choice of a song was Folson Prison Blues. They spent many afternoons listening to Johnny Cash's rendition until they were satisfied with their version.

The flag ceremonies were formal ones and the Purple Pansies had to leave those jeans and hats in their duffel's and attend in their official uniforms. The lived through it okay and then donned their short shorts and hiking boots and met the day head-on, ready for adventure.

The girls made the most of the

opportunities to get a great tan. Here, in the camp's large refrigerator the conditions were not ideal! On the day we broke camp, a cool front had moved through and while we waited on the hill top for our bus to arrive, we found that the refrigerator was the warmest place around.

They kept a neat campsite, but this picture of their leave taking looks rather chaotic. Even with the cold wind blowing, they didn't give up their favorite attire...short shorts and a great tan! We arrived home August 16, thirty-nine years ago. It was a memorable trip for all, and some of the "girls", now career women of fifty plus, have stated that it was much more than sightseeing and camping skills; it achieved what camping is all about: discovering your inner resources and weaknesses.

In June of 2009, the troop had their first reunion and it was a great get-together. Unfortunately the entire troop could not attend but these are now planned on a yearly basis. Although they are now teachers, nurses, business owners and much more, they generally are also involved in various forms of community service. Some have been scout leaders; one is active in animal rescue and boarding. They are busy women with grown children of their own...they are even grandmothers! How can a leader adjust to her girls being grandmothers!