Bill Horner

The past two days have been Spring-like.  Looking at the tree in my front yard gives me hope that warm and sunny weather is on the way.  You see, the buds are forming on my pear tree.  When it explodes into blossoms, Spring will have finally sprung.  That's my semi-scientific theory about the change of seasons.  I ought to know, as this tree was a gift from my favorite science teacher, Bill Horner.

Bill was a science teacher at my middle school.  Correction, he was more than a science teacher, he was a legend.  And rightly so.  Walking into Bill's classroom was always an adventure. Students never knew what was going to happen.  It could be an actual rainstorm, thunder and all.  Maybe it would be an experiment using sulphur and turning the hallway into one long stink bomb.  Whatever happened, it was guaranteed to be fun.  Kids moved in science class.  Learning was hands on.  Kids laughed.  The teacher laughed. And everybody learned... a lot.

I always felt sorry for the science teacher who shared the other half of the team with Bill because very, very few kids wanted to be in that class.  Parents intervened and used all of their influence to make sure their kids had the Horner experience.  One year, the last of the Miller kids was assigned to the other teacher.  Bill had taught all the Millers (and there were a lot of them) and he was very fond of the family.  So, he approached the principal and asked to switch classes with the other teacher in order to teach the last Miller.  The other teacher, a newbie to our school, was indignant when his request was granted.  In fact, she cried and whined to anyone who would listen about how unfair it was.  I tried to explain the unspoken politics of a small close-knit school so she'd know not to take it personally, but to no avail.  She pouted the next few years, until she got a transfer.

Bill was a legend in the classroom, and he was the life of the party outside of it. The best parties were held at Bill's, and you were only invited if he wanted you. It took me a while to break into the circle, and I felt like I'd won a prize when I got my first invite.  His Christmas parties were the best.  Great food. Lots of booze. Enough people to pack his tiny house to the brim.   He was the leader of the faculty fraternity.  I'm not sure what all those guys did when they got together, but every now and then, a story would leak.  One year, I knew the guys were going over to his house for a guy thing on one of the last days of school.  I decided it was time to desegregate that party, so a few of us brave women also stopped by for a beer.  He laughed when we showed up at the door, but he handed out the cold ones and we stayed for a few.

Bill was my friend.  I used to tell him all the time that I wanted to marry him for his money.  The kids thought we made a good couple. In fact, one of the mothers of a student we had in common invited us both to dinner one time just to try to get a spark going between us.  I loved that man.  He used to tell anybody who would listen that I was the best English teacher in that school.  I wasn't, and I know that.  But, I just beamed when someone would tell me what he said.  He used to type encouraging letters to everybody.  I treasure those he sent me.  As I said, I loved that man.

When he finally reached his last day of teaching, it was a day during which the whole school honored him. Everybody wore neckties because Mr. Professional Teacher always wore a tie. My kids wrote a play portraying him as getting a college education during the dinosaur years.  They sang "The Wind Beneath My Wings" to him, and everybody teared up. He was one of a kind.  I was honored to teach with him and blessed to know him.

If you are reading this, and smiling to yourself with your own Bill Horner memories, please leave your stories in the comments section for all to see.  I never want to forget him.

Winter Blahs

This has been a rough winter.  Icy. Gray. COLD. Expensive.  At times, my SAD was crippling. I was musing about the things I've done to perk myself up, and I wonder how many of you did some of these things, too.

I frequently visited the travel pages on the internet.  Never has a trip to the Caribbean looked so welcoming. Honestly, I think I warm up about ten degrees just looking at a picturesque beach.  I even took a cruise this February.  I plan to take a vacation next February, too.  Those warm days in Nassau seem so far away.

I curled up in a blanket in front of the space heater and read a lot of books.  Sandra Dallas is my new favorite author.  Her pioneer women survived winters that made mine look like a vacation in comparison.  It is not too late to add to your reading list.  Pick out something by Sandra, sit back, and enjoy.

I cooked some yummy meals. Food Lion sells stuffed scallops.  I'd buy a package of them, each deliciously stuffed on the half-shell, and warm them in a 400 degree oven for thirty minutes.  During that cook time, I sauteed asparagus in olive oil and Marsala wine.  Oh yummy.  Unfortunately, I baked.  I grazed.  I gained.

Some of my closets were cleared of excess junk.  I often read posts from minimalist friends on Facebook. My goal is a place for every thing I own.  Hopefully, those things without niches will find new places: on the yard sale tables, with friends, at the consignment shop, in the trash.

I discovered new television addictions.  Just what I needed, right?  Thank you Adrian O. for hooking me up with Shemar and Criminal Minds.  Do you know how many times a day one can catch an episode of that crime show?  Enough times that I can start figuring out who the unsubs are and why they do what they do. TCM,  Turner Classic Movies, shows great stuff and it's commercial free.  Has anyone here ever seen Autumn Leaves?  What a movie!  Marty, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Boy With the Green Hair, Where the Boys Are, How to Marry a Millionaire, Sleepless in Seattle, and the list goes on and on.  Did I mention no commercials?  Check it out.

I bought stylish winter hats.  Two of them, in fact. Both seem inspired by Downton Abbey (see above TV reference).  I enjoy wearing them and people frequently compliment my chapeaus.  A kind word always brings a warm smile on a cold winter day.

Tomorrow marks the first day of Spring.  The crocuses are poking through the hard soil. The trees are starting to bud. The grass, when you can see it, is turning green.

The weather people are calling for another snow storm next week. Sigh.......

Belle Knox Does Duke

I was watching The View this morning.  One of their guests was an eighteen year old Duke University student who is financing her way through college by doing porn.  She is proud of her night job and feels "empowered" by it.

Empowered?  Doesn't she realize that women with absolutely no choices have turned to selling their bodies since the beginning of time?  I'm not sure what is empowering about it.  When your own body becomes a commercial commodity, where is the power?  This young girl is sick of the way women have been poorly treated in the porn industry, so she "is taking a stand against it."  How? By joining the ranks?

She was throwing out statistics concerning her position like a learned scholar.  "Ninety-nine percent of families can't afford sixty thousand dollars a year."   Really?  How in the world does Duke fill its classes? There are no alternatives for families?  How about a few years in junior college cheaply earning those universal beginning credits?  How about attending a school one can afford?  Law degrees are available at many colleges, why pick sixty-thousand-dollars-a-year Duke?

Her next mind-blowing statement had my eyes rolling in their sockets.  "I, like most other people, have been watching porn since I was twelve."  Most other people?  Since twelve?  Show of hands here - who is reading this and nodding their heads in agreement?  Barbara Walters cracked me up when she asked if this kid watched porn alone or with her parents.  They are so supportive of her career after all.  She watched alone everybody.  Her parents may be supportive, but they didn't knowingly contribute to the delinquency of a minor.

I watched today in disbelief.  Women have historically used their bodies to earn money.  Where is the empowerment?  Does it come into being when one thumbs her nose at society in order to do what she wants?  Does it happen when one signs autographs and poses with fans at a convention for the porn industry?  Does it happen when one feels strong enough to rise above the ostracizing by her college peers of her sexual Joan of Arc act?  Or does it happen because one has money, and in our country, no matter how you get it, money means power?

I'm not sure how much longer this young woman will feel empowered.  Young people have been denied jobs because their Facebook pages show them partying and drinking alcohol.  No matter what degree is issued from what college, if her resume lists porn star in her employment history, where does she think her resume will go?  To the top of the pile or the circular file?  If she chooses not to include porn movies in her work history, will any company consider her as lying by omission when they eventually discover her history in the industry?  How empowered will she feel when she is fired?  Dishonesty will get her fired, not her history with porn.  However, her history with porn will most likely prevent her from being hired in the first place.  The whole job hunting experience will actually be out of her control.  Where is the empowerment in that?

Money

Money makes the world go round, the world go round, the world go round......  Did you simply read that or did you visualize Joel Grey, Cabaret, and find yourself humming along?

Few of us have enough of it.  Judging from media stories of exorbitance, some of us have too much of it. I have yet to meet the person that has just the right amount.

Do you ever fantasize about what you'd do if a huge amount of cash just plopped down into your lap? I have.  I'd donate a ton of it directly to teachers for their classrooms.  I've dreamed of setting up a Make a Wish Foundation type organization for them.  I'd read through the applications like I used to grade my papers.  Good writing skills? Clear sentences? Excellent spelling?  Those A+ requests would go to the head of the line.  Of course, I would donate to my church.  Now that we have a real rector, I'd enjoy using my money to help the memberships and missions expand.  I'd gladly put to rest the money worries that drain people close to me of some of their joy of life.  I'd continue doing random acts of kindness, but on a grand scale.  What fun that would be! I'd get my house repainted, recarpeted, and refloored.  Yep, I'd even spring for a new bathroom and a walk-in closet.  Because I'd have money, I'd probably also need a security system.  I don't have a desire to move, but a condo on a beach would be nice to visit.

Too much money would destroy one of the activities I really enjoy.  I love bargains and bargain shopping. The thrill is in the hunt and the find at the yard sale, at a Boscov's markdown, or on Kohl's mystery discount days. Who wants to shop if you can afford anything you want?  Who would even know what they want?  I'd want everything I saw... for a while anyhow.

I have never been able to make a budget and stick strictly to it.  A few years ago, I recorded all of my expenses so I could see exactly where my money was going.  It was mind-boggling how those miscellaneous expenses added up.  I'm doing it again this year and comparing it to that first year I recorded my expenses.  Although I make the same number of entries per month, I am spending so much more on gas and groceries.  I wish my income was growing in such leaps and bounds. While I don't budget, this book helps me keep an eye on what I spend and where I need to curtail my expenses.  It helps a lot in managing my money.  If you've never done this, I recommend giving it a try.  It's eye-opening to see where it all goes.

But there's the rub.  And the reason money worries me.  It always goes.  I can't see where I can cut the expenses by a whole lot.  Though I live frugally as it is, it seems like anytime I get ahead, something happens that causes me to hit the savings account.  Occasionally,  I can't sleep at night thinking about the what-ifs should financial disaster strike. I've been in this house for twenty plus years; you homeowners know what that probably means.

Sometimes I get angry.  I get angry at the Kanyes and Kims of the world who flaunt their greed and prosperity.  I get annoyed at the influence such displays of extravagance have on impressionable people who think they can only be happy if living like that.  I get angry at puffy politicians who have theirs and continually deny others who need help. There's a fundraising group for wounded warriors? Our government isn't there for them? That's shameful. Movie stars, overpaid athletes, puffy politicians -- give back a little.  It would help a lot.

My mother would be turning over in her grave if she knew I was writing about money.  That is the one thing she thought no one should ever discuss with acquaintances, let alone strangers.  She's probably right, but I didn't give away too many personal details.  Did I?  I muse about many things, money only being one of them.  Forgive me, Mom.

                                                               ********

"Let us all be happy and live within our means, even if we have to borrow the money to do it with."

  --  Charles Farrar Browne

Ode to Buddy Boy

Today my sister and her daughters had the sad task of helping their beagle, Buddy, travel across  the Rainbow Bridge.  I wasn't sure how to comfort her except to acknowledge how much he was loved and the good life she and her kids gave him.  We always called him the Lucky Dog because he managed to get adopted.  When Buddy was given up for adoption, he was not a cuddly Snoopy-like puppy.  Think Walter the Farting Dog, and you have him. 

Helen originally went to the SPCA to see about the basset hound up for adoption.  When she met Abby, there was this sad-faced beagle hanging with her.  They called him her brother, and if I remember correctly, Helen was given the option to take only the basset.  But, if you know my sister, there was no leaving Buddy behind.

And it is a good thing she took him, because not only was he devoted to Abby, Abby the Diva Dog expected Buddy to attend to her.  He was very good at warming a spot on the couch for Abby to sleep on when she was ready to roost.  He attended to her hygiene, frequently cleaning her long basset ears.  He was her punching bag when the grumpy girl wanted someone to snap at.  He was always at her beck-and-call;  poor Abby is going to be lost without him.

Buddy had one expression, old man serious.  He looked the same way when he was happy as he did when he was hungry, sad, or lonely.  He wasn't a snugly dog, but once he learned that pats on the head felt good, he'd nudge your hand and look at you with those sad eyes until you petted him.  He backed away if Trixie or Abby pushed forward, but he'd wait and return later for more.

Buddy loved to eat.  Anything.  And I mean anything.  I won't go into detail about how he supplemented his daily two bowls of diet food, but it was disgusting. One of my funniest memories of Buddy involves his voracious appetite. One night Helen made a roast for dinner.  As we were cleaning up the kitchen and chatting away, our backs were to the table.  We heard the telltale thump; Buddy had gotten on the table and he had the roast in his mouth.  Well, it was an expensive hunk of meat, and Helen wasn't about to let him make off with it, so she grabbed the other end and a tug-of-war broke out.  Helen was yelling at Buddy to drop it, he was hanging on tight, and Trixie snuck up and under the roast eating as much of it as she could grab.  I guess Helen eventually won as he dropped the roast, but there were no  midnight roast beef sandwiches for any of us.

I often thought of Buddy as Billie's dog.  She'll tell you her guinea pig hates her and her bird ignores her, but Buddy was always there for her.  She liked to take him for walks, in and out of the house.  She'd snuggle with him on the couch when they watched television. He'd listen to her play the violin, and he'd let her dress him up like a girly dog.  But, she drew the line at allowing him to sleep in her room because Buddy had a bad habit of lifting his leg.  (Helen has gone through a lot of carpet cleaner.)

Buddy snored like an elephant's trumpet.  If a dog could have sleep apnea, I would guess Buddy had it.  He was so loud we'd have to turn up the television to hear above him. He could rattle the windows. I would never let him sleep in my room because the sound drove me nuts.  So, each night he slept in my sister's room.  I guess his snoring didn't bother her because they snored in tandem. 

He's sleeping peacefully now.  Helen gave the girls the option of being with him when he was put to sleep, and they went there to say their goodbyes.  I'm proud of them for being so brave.  I'm glad they were able to love him to the end. Now,  he's scampering around the Rainbow Bridge with Lucy, White Dog, Abner, Daisy, Cleo, Mr. Dobbs, and Tramp.  Goodbye little Buddy.  We'll miss you.

Age?

Age, and not looking one's age, is a hot topic in American culture.  Magazines abound with cosmetic tricks to fool the mirror.  Young is good; old is bad.  I have been told I look younger than my age, good for my age, or just plain tired.  Which is it?

When I was a young woman, I looked like a kid.  I remember a parent coming in for a conference during my first year of teaching.  Her eyes widened and she asked me, "Jeez, just how old are you?" I was always carded at bars and liquor stores.  Eventually, I stopped getting carded, and I realized I was getting old and looking old. 

When  I was somewhere around forty, I went out for a night on the town with three younger people.  Anthony and Jimmy were somewhere in their late twenties.  I had no idea how old Denise was, but I assumed she was close to my age.  I guess I assumed wrong, because the bouncer at the bar just glanced at her ID.  When I showed him mine, his eyes opened wide and he appeared startled.  Not sure how to take it, I guessed he was surprised by how much older I was than the others.  I was somewhat insulted at the time, but I look back on that night and realize I should have been flattered that at first glance, he took me to be their contemporary. 

At church this Sunday, we sang to celebrate Margaret's birthday.  You could have knocked me over with a feather when she said she was eighty.  Eighty!  Holy cow - my mother died at eighty.  This woman didn't look a day over seventy.  She's slender, has thick beautiful silver hair in a pageboy style, wears little makeup, and is spry and bouncy in her movements.  Maybe it is genetics that keep her young; maybe it is a healthy lifestyle.  Whatever it is, no cosmetics made her look as good as she does.

My hair is grey.  I dye it, but if you look closely, I have a stripe right now that is demanding I color it. I often ponder letting it grey, after all, I am sixty.  My teeth are dull.  I was blinded by the teeth on the newscaster last night.  However, unlike hers, my teeth have survived twenty years of smoking, forty years of coffee, and ten years (at least) of anxiety grinding and peppermint chewing.  Could any cosmetic treatment even make them white and shiny? Would they appear bizarre like that newscaster, or would I look younger with pearly whites?  Does it matter?

Madison Avenue surely thinks it matters; the advertising industry banks on our insecurities.  Since being housebound by the recent snowstorms, I've been inundated with commercials and magazine ads aimed at making me look as young as possible for a lot of money.  I'm not sure I have enough money to spend to make this old woman look young again.  But, the ads are beginning to get to me, even though deep in my heart, I know most models are airbrushed.  Airbrushed or not,  Annie Potts is sixty and so is Marylou Henner.  Now that's what I want my sixty to look like.  Sadly, my sixty looks more like Aunt Bea. No, I'm not turning off the television, but I will be trolling the cosmetic counters at the malls.

I'll be looking for that miracle in a jar that has the power to turn Aunt Bea into Marylou Henner.   When I find it, I'll let you know.

 

 

 

 

Valentine's Day?

Not being much of a holiday fanatic, Valentine's Day barely registers with me.  I understand the rest of America doesn't feel that way.  Television commercials put a lot of pressure on folks to measure their love by the price of their gift.  One commercial even went so far as to pooh-pooh chocolates and flowers as passé.  Shameful!

I remember when I was a kid that my dad would bring home heart-shaped boxes of candy for all of us, small ones for the kids and a pretty big one for Mom.  Yum!  All of that chocolate put us in happy and loving moods.  We exchanged Valentine cards at school.  Those were the days before we were required by school law to give a card to everybody. I probably didn't get as many Valentines as some, but it was fun to see who did consider me a friend and important to file away for later, those who did not.  I remember when Lynn S. got the big store bought card from Jeffery Z.  All of us girls were jealous.  She just stuck her nose up in the air and accepted it like a Kardashian, like she was due such adoration.  I'm glad I no longer check my mailbox for Valentines.  Like Charlie Brown, I'd have more luck getting a rock.

When I was in college, Valentine's Day was a big deal.  I was an RA so I had the job of receiving the flowers and calling the recipients to come down to the office and make a BFD out of a bunch of carnations.  One VD, my friend Smitty was the security guard for our dorm.  He was a tall thin guy who was always hungry.  I had baked him a cake, which I presented after closing the office.  He laid a kiss on me, surprising me off my feet.  I think that was my first and last Valentine's Day kiss, but it shed some light on why many people love this holiday.

I do remember one special Valentine card, and I still have it.  I was sorta seeing two guys at the same time; one lived in Maryland and one I'd met through friends at home.  I really, really liked the guy at home, but I was shy and not quite sure what to do about it.  Even after he sent me a Valentine and signed it, "Love, Dan."  While there aren't too many times in my life I'd like a do-over, that time is definitely one of them.  Dan, wherever you are, I am so sorry!!  What a mistake I made.

Sigh.

In '81 or '82, we got out of school early due to an afternoon snow on Valentine's Day.  I agreed to meet a few teachers at the bar of the local Chinese Restaurant for a few drinks before following the snow plow home.   At the door of the restaurant a young woman and I were cleaning off our shoes and chatting about the horrible weather.  Her husband was meeting her there for dinner.  She insisted that I looked familiar; she was sure she knew me.  I told her she must have me confused with another one of the many short, chubby, brown-haired women who populate the Earth, and then I bounced off to the bar for a Singapore Sling.  When nature called, I bounced off to the bathroom and stopped dead in my tracks.  Eating dinner with my friend from the doorway was the other true love of my life, G.B.  Now I knew why I looked so familiar to her.  G. and I both had cameras and we considered ourselves budding professional photographers.  We had taken many pictures of each other.  I guess G didn't destroy my pictures when he got married. So that's how she knew me though I had never seen her before.  Awkward.  Painful.  And a light bulb moment for the three of us.  I do remember a few more Singapore Slings.  I don't remember how I got home that night. 

That's it.  Those are the only Valentine Day memories I've accumulated over sixty years of life.  As I said, the holiday barely registers with me.  If it's important to you, I hope you have a good one.