The season for school supplies

 

As a child, I delighted in getting the school supplies. Back in the day they were simple, some pencils, a set of watercolor paints, crayons, scissors, glue or paste, a package of manilla paper, a binder (mine were pressed cardboard with three rings) and paper. We didn’t get the list until the first day of school, which always was the day after Labor Day in September.

The lists of items that my kids needed for school were much longer and had many more items. Now that they’re grown and only Patrick is in a classroom (at Crowder College earning his Automotive Tech degree), there’s no need to rush out to buy bagsfuls of supplies. And, this year, with the pandemic and all, the Neosho School District will be purchasing all supplies for all students – a big help to parents.

It’s the season, though, when the supplies are cheap. I always stock up on a few pens, pencils, notebooks and the like for myself, all things I do use in writing.

This year – today actually – I bought supplies for my class at church. I’m teaching 7/8 grade students again as they prepare for Confirmation. We’ll be using the new version of the Baltimore Catechism this year – my choice but to help in the classroom I bought folders for each of the kids, pencils and pens and colored pencils, and a few other things. We’ll see how it goes but I plan to be organized better than ever.

The writing goes well – got royalties for my Evernight titles and my Clean Reads works. I signed a new contract – I also have two submissions now at EN, one at The Wild Rose Press. And in the works, many more.

Bottom line, though, is I need to make more money and soon.

Or get a job but trust me, I’ve been trying. Out of about 30 jobs applied for, I have one interview scheduled for next week. It seems that employers, no matter how short-handed and desperate, aren’t too interested in a woman who turns sixty this October.

Go figure.

Oh, well, I manage to stay busy, I’ve got new shiny school supplies, and although it’s too hot for my taste, life goes.

 

 

Remembering Granny's birthday

July 18 marks the date my Granny was born.  During her long life we always celebrated and after we moved to Neosho, she always came to visit for several weeks around her birthday.   It doesn’t have to be her birthday to remember my Granny – more than forty years after she passed away, there isn’t a day I don’t think about her.

 

                                                       Granny in the 1920's

                Long before I put any of my stories down on paper my imagination transported me to places I’d never been and back in time.  So, each July 18, I always imagined the small house in south St. Joseph, Missouri where my grandmother was born at home, as most children were in the 1890’s.  As I grew older and matured, learned a lot more about the world and how it works, I thought more about my great-grandmother, a woman named Annie Hayward.  And yes, the ‘Ann’ portion of my name pays homage to her.  Annie’s life was anything but easy but she hung in and survived.  Half of the children she gave birth to died as infants or young children, again the common statistic for the period.  Even after three generations, we remember her, especially a group of her female descendants, all cousins of one degree or another. 

                Although I had the privilege and joy of knowing two of my other great-grandmothers for a brief time and although I loved both, Annie stands out.  Maybe it’s because her daughter born on a hot July day kept her memory alive and sketched her to me with words until I felt I knew her.  Or maybe she was just such a strong, dynamic personality her legend lives onward.  It may also be my grandmother’s skill with words.

                                                          Annie and her husband Ben Hayward, great-grandparents
 

Annie seated

 

                I’ve written about the event before, even had an essay about it in one of the popular Chicken Soup For the Soul books but it’s a pivotal moment for me as a granddaughter, as a woman and as a writer.  On a hot summer’s day when I was in my mid-teens, my grandmother opened her cedar chest.  The chest then rested at the foot of the bed in my father and uncle’s old bedroom and although I viewed it as a treasure trove of artifacts, we didn’t open it often.  Some of the items within included the long braid cut and saved when Granny cut her knee-length hair in the 1920’s and a handmade baby shawl used to wrap her as an infant.  That day, however, I learned about something else – a manuscript.  Written in now faded black ink with a fancy penmanship absent today, the yellowed sheaf of papers was my grandmother’s “Class Prophecy”.  It was fashionable in 1912 to write such a missive and Granny was chosen to write it.  I read it – and still do on occasion – with wonder because it was very well written.

                I asked my grandmother why she didn’t pursue a writing career.  With any luck at all she might’ve been a contemporary of Edna Ferber, Marjorie Rawlings, maybe even Zelda Fitzgerald.  She shook her head with a smile. “I couldn’t,” she said and the simple words spoke volumes.  They encompassed two world wars, two husbands dead and buried, a daughter who died at birth, the Great Depression, hard times, bad luck, and a spirit which, like her mother’s, would never accept defeat or anything but happiness.  Then she added the words which provided me with the determination to press onward. “But you should.”

                I never forgot her words so I have.

                Happy birthday, Granny!

 

                                                      Granny and Pop

New York, New York

 When I first visited New York, it was surreal in many ways but you know, I liked many aspect of the city. During the time I spent there seven years ago, I was able to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, a heady event for me since I've learned that my great-grandfather, a stonemason, arrived, turned right and ended up working on it during the last years of construction.

 

I rode the subway almost every day - it was the best way to get around the city - and had a Metro Card pass. I learned how to rush into the cars, grab a strap and hang on tight during morning and afternoon rush periods. I learned what stations were easy to navigate and which ones (like Fulton Street) were confusing. I still think after wandering through the corridors I popped out onto a street in a time warp and past decade.  I learned when to stand to get ready to exit as the train rolled into the station. During that time, one of the old 1906 era stations was in use at the South Ferry station because the new one had been all but destroyed by Hurricane Sandy. Although the steps to street level were steep, I was glad I was able to see it and use it because it's a bit of history.

On my first night, I went up to the rooftop and looked out over midtown Manhattan and was overwhelmed when I realized there were more people in all the surrounding buildings than in the town where I lived. I felt very small and insignificant. But, the rooftop soon became a favorite place to go especially early in the morning or at night. I could see the Hudson River and the views were amazing.

 

I also rode the Staten Island Ferry (like Edna St. Vincent Millay - see the poem below) often. I enjoyed the views of Lady Liberty and the NYC skyline. I also was struck by the realization that my dad had passed through those same waters on a troop ship on his way to Germany during his Army service, shipping out from Fort Dix.

 

Recuerdo

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

We were very tired, we were very merry—

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—

But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,

We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;

And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;

And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,

From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;

And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,

And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,

And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;

And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,

And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

 

I liked walking in the crowds, crossing at corners despite the traffic as taxis blew their horns at pedestrians. I got to know the neighborhood within a few blocks in Midtown well enough to navigate my way. Some of my favorite stops were the Church of The Holy Innocents and the FDNY Engine 26 - The Batcave - the fire station that lost more members than any other on 9/11.

I visited the Grand City Hall of New York (the one Tommy Makem sang about in "The Irish Rover" and wished I'd arrived while he still had his Irish Pavilion. I would have gone, often.

I visited Grand Central Station, Penn Station (where I took a train to Washington DC and back in addition to falling halfway down the escalator (which I hate and no longer even attempt to ride), Ground Zero, Trinity Church, and of course, both Brooklyn and Coney Island. I like Nathan's hot dogs but trust me, they're best in the original location with the sound of the ocean and the salt air in your nose.

I saw one show on Broadway - Newsies - which was fantastic. I still listen to the soundtrack. It was a marvelous experience even if I was in the cheap balcony seats with the seats in front of me pressed against my shins so much that it hurt and left a huge welt on my leg.

New York is an experience everyone should have, at least once. I thought I would return, maybe to live, but so far I haven't and NYC has changed in the years since I was there.\

Will I go back? I hope so - if nothing more than to fly out from JFK again on adventures farther afield.

Someday - New York, New York.