Dear Dawn Ann . . .

I have been scanning, labeling, and organizing some old photos that I inherited from my parents. It's a very tedious process, as I am trying to be as detailed and accurate as possible -- for posterity, of course. It has been at once gratifying and heart-wrenching. I have so many questions, and so many times I have wished I could ask Mom or Dad about a person, location, or event in a photo -- especially when information seems to conflict. But I can't ask them. So I have to use my best judgment. It's difficult being the oldest living member of my family. I'm not ready for this. I didn't pay close enough attention to what was going on around me when I was young. I don't remember enough.
Anyway, during the course of my preservation efforts, I came across this photo of a little girl -- one month shy of her third birthday -- sitting on a sofa with her baby brother. The little girl is me, and I had seen this picture many times before. But this time was different. This time I saw simply an innocent little girl with soft cheeks, shiny dark hair, and big brown eyes. She could have been one of my own daughters at that age -- or one of my granddaughters. I wished I could stroke her hair, kiss her little cheek, or give her a hug. I wanted to cuddle her, comfort her, protect her. I couldn't stop looking at her eyes -- what was she thinking? She seemed to be a million miles away. She had no idea of what lay ahead of her along life's journey. I knew. I knew where she was going to falter, stumble, and fall. I knew the crooked side paths she would wander down before she found her way back to the trail. I knew the joy and the sorrow that awaited her. I wished I could go back in time and warn her of things that were coming, prepare her, advise her, comfort her. Of course, she's only 3, so she wouldn't understand or remember what I would say, so I would need to write it down in a letter to be saved until she was about 10. What would I say?
Dear Dawn Ann,
---You don't know me, but I know you. You are such a cute little girl, and your mommy and daddy tell me that you are smart, too. Someday you will be all grown-up and have little girls of your own. I know exactly what you will have to go through before that day, though, so I would like to give you some words of advice to help you through the next 20 or 30 years. Keep this letter in a safe place and read it often. It will help you avoid some mistakes and help you make the most of your experiences. Here goes. . .
*** Your mommy may not cuddle you or kiss you as much as you would like her to, and you may be a grown-up before she tells you she loves you. But that doesn't mean she doesn't love you. Your mommy grew up in a very different kind of family. She didn't have much fun as a kid, and her own mommy and daddy didn't hug and kiss her very often. It is very hard for her to express her feelings, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have them. You need to help her learn how to do this. Cuddle with her, hug her, kiss her, tell her you love her. Maybe that will make it easier for her to be affectionate with you.
*** You are going to move several times during your childhood. It will be hard to make new friends every time you move. This is why you need to be close to your family. You have a baby brother right now, but someday you will have two sisters, too. Make sure that you love all of them and have fun with them and enjoy them. Make your brother and your sisters your best friends. That way, no matter where you move, you will be able to take your friends with you.
*** Don't worry about what the other kids at school think, or do, or say. Remember that you are special, and you are important, and you are good -- all by yourself. You don't need to prove anything to them just so that they will be your friends. Be nice to everyone, but don't worry if you don't get invited to sleepovers or birthday parties. Those things are not important at all.
*** Never swing another kid around by her feet.
*** When your older cousin asks you to go into the cornfield with him, just say "no."
*** Your mommy has always spent a lot of time helping her mommy and daddy. As your grandparents get older and more sick, she will need to spend even more time with them. She will need your help even more at home. Try to make her job easier. Clean the house for her or cook dinner for her when she is gone for hours helping your grandma and grandpa. She will be very tired sometimes, and she will need your help.
*** Pay attention to your family. You will enjoy spending time alone -- to read or write poetry or listen to your records -- but don't shut yourself off from your family too much. You are an important part of your family, and they need you. Don't get angry when your parents want you to play a board game or go for a ride in the country. Enjoy your family. Talk to them. Ask them questions. Be a good big sister.
*** Never sneak out with your friends in the middle of the night.
*** Never lie to your parents.
*** Keep a journal (that's like a diary). Write down the things you did during the day, dreams you had, places you went, games you played. Someday these little things will be incredibly important to you.
*** Do not leave nurse's training to get married. Any man who asks you to give up your education for him is a loser and not good enough for you.
*** When you get to be a teenager, spend lots of time with your grandparents. They will live right down the street from you, and you will be able to visit as often as you want. They will love having you there, so take advantage of it. Ask them LOTS of questions, and write down what they say. If your grandpa doesn't want to talk about his past, keep asking him until he tells you just to shut you up. When your grandma wants you to sit down on the bed beside her and look at antique post cards people have sent her over the years, just do it. Sit there as long as she wants you to sit there. Let her talk. Let her remember. Ask her questions. Forget about the dress you want to finish sewing at home or the date you need to get ready for. Those things will always be there -- she won't.
*** When you are about 13, you will take some classes to prepare you for baptism in the church your parents have been taking you to. When the minister gets frustrated because you keep asking questions that he can't answer, don't give up. Keep asking questions. If he can't answer them, find someone who can. By this time you will have "tried out" several religions and churches. Keep looking -- the right one is out there.
*** It is not necessary to always have a boyfriend.
*** It is not necessary to eat all the food on your plate just because it is on your plate.
*** Be happy with yourself the way you are. Don't worry about always trying to be like someone else. Just be yourself -- but be your best self.
*** Well, I hope this helps you, honey. I'm sure there is more I could say, but after all, you do need to make some mistakes on your own. Just stay close to your family. They are the most important people in your life -- in the world, actually. They will always be there for you -- be there for them, too. Now go grow up -- and find the joy in life. There is so much of it out there.

Where I've been all this time. . .

The strangest thing happened to me tonight. That is, yesterday. . . wait a minute, let me check. . . yes, Friday, July 18th, 2008. I had returned from a Mary Kay party at my daughter-in-law's house where I had ordered several items of make-up. I didn't need them, of course -- using make-up on my face is like doodling on the Mona Lisa. But I wanted to help out A's sister, who is just getting started with her business. I'll probably give the products to someone less fortunate.
At any rate, I had returned home and sat down at my computer to once again begin working on my remaining lesson assignments when there was a knock at my front door. I opened the door to see a man dressed in a blue tunic and a scarlet cloak, nervously clutching some kind of scroll in his hand. He called me Miss Dawn, handed me the scroll (through the barely open door), and told me that it was time to fulfill my destiny. The scroll was filled with squiggles and symbols I'd never seen before, but as I studied it the squiggles began to move and join together and form themselves into words. It said that the time had come for me to do what I was born to do, and that Hector (the messenger) would escort me to the land of Paladia at once -- and it was signed, King Grimwald. For the first time, I notice the large Hummer-type vehicle parked in the alley behind Hector. I tried to tell him that this really wasn't a good time, that I had lessons to write, a deadline to meet, etc., but he told me I would be back in plenty of time to finish my work. I wanted a moment to tell the rest of the household that I was leaving and to lock the door behind me, but he promised that I would be back before they even knew I was gone. So I figured, what harm could it do, and I followed him into the Hummer and fastened my seatbelt. Surprisingly, the vehicle took off straight up into the air, then soared along silently for what seemed like hours, across cities, farms, oceans, and mountains.
At last we came to a beautiful land full of sunshine, rolling hills, sparkling rivers, and fields of flowers. Strangely, the grass was blue and the sky was green, but it was still beautiful. On the top of the tallest hill was a beautiful pink castle, and Hector brought the Hummer down to rest in the castle courtyard. In spite of the long journey, I felt invigorated and alive. I was taken in to meet the king, a stately man with silver hair and a golden beard. After welcoming me to Paladia, I was taken to my quarters to refresh myself. As I glanced in the long dressing mirror, I was startled to see that I had changed! Not only was I young, but I was thin! My complexion glowed, my eyes sparkled, and my long dark hair glistened. Baffled at the transformation, I turned to Lydia, the young woman who had brought me to my room. This is the effect that Paladia has on people, she explained. Time seems to slow down and youth is restored. Well, that was fine with me, so I chose a beautiful gown from the closet, changed my clothes, and was taken to the dining hall. Over dinner, the king and Hector -- who turned out to be the prince -- explained why they had brought me there.
It seemed the king had been interested in setting up a distance learning school for all the children in the kingdom. He had been watching me for years (through his Window of Worlds), and he had seen how hard I worked for my students. He knew that his Prime Teacher would need to have the same creativity, talent, and senseless devotion. He also knew that teaching over ether waves would not be so very different from teaching over the Internet. After consulting with the wise men and wiser women, he concluded that I was the only one who had the skills and the experience for the job -- that and the fact that he had been turned down by Maria Montessori and John Holt. Maria didn't like the uniforms, and John Holt didn't like the dental plan. Well, to make a long story short, they made me an offer I couldn't refuse, and I took the job. Of course, I first had to learn their language (only the royals could speak English) and all about their country's history and geography. This took about five years (by our time). During that time I traveled their country, learned their customs, and taught them how to crochet.
I was given a classroom in the castle to decorate any way I saw fit. Since I was the Prime Teacher, I decided what was to be taught and when. After all, with time slowed down, there was no hurry. Each year, I had a class of 15 students who came to my castle classroom. All other students in the kingdom attended school in their own homes through their Learning Wall. They could see and hear both me and the students in my classroom, and participated with us virtually. Each year, a different set of students would get to be in my castle classroom, and since time moved so slowly there, eventually all 750 children got to attend my class at least once. Since all the children in the kingdom were gifted, there were no discipline or academic problems.
At last the day came when I realized that I had accomplished what I had come there to do, and it was time for me to turn my Teachership over to someone else and return home. Lydia had been my faithful teacher's aide this entire time, so I passed the golden ruler to her. I knew that returning home would mean returning to my heavy, aging, and aching body. I knew it would mean returning to a neverending, thankless, rewardless job. But the memories of my former life had begun to fade, and I needed to get them back. On the day I left, nearly everyone in the kingdom turned out to bid me a fond and tearful farewell. I climbed into the Hummer with Hector and traveled for hours and hours, across mountains, oceans, farms, and cities, landing gently on the alley in front of my office door -- which was still unlocked.
And now here I am, back where I was when I heard that knock on my door. I was told that my memories of Paladia will fade quickly and that my memories of this life will grow stronger and stronger until they completely overpower my memories of Paladia and they seem like nothing more than a dream or a fantasy. And I know it is true. I can feel them melting away even now. But for a while, the two sets of memories may become intermingled and overlapped. So, if it seems that I am sometimes hesitating and searching for a word or a date or a face, remember that I have some jumbled memories that I'm trying to sort out, and be patient with me.

Old 1950s Educational Movie

School days, school days. . ."

June, 1957 - Age 8 - Last day of school at the end of 3rd grade. Clarendon School playground

I don't have anything particularly interesting or significant or profound to write about today. But, I haven't written in a few days, and I'm fairly alert right now (having just guzzled an energy drink), so I'll sit here and "free-write" a little before I get back to work. I've been glued to my desk this week, trying to get finished before the July 22nd deadline we "summer work" teachers were given. With only four full days left, I still have 12 lessons to either write or proofread and edit -- hence, the energy drink. I could sit here and complain about my job, but I'm grateful to have it. Of course, I'd rather be 100 lbs thinner, teaching in a rural, country school environment instead of staring at a computer and teaching cyber-kids. I wonder how many of my students will even read these lessons that I'm spending hours researching and writing for them?
On the whole, I really enjoyed my own public school experience. Sure, high school was stressful, and I wish I now had the knowledge that I let slip through my fingers then. But I don't remember hating school or feeling anxiety about going. I anticipated the first day of school like I looked forward to Christmas morning. Even now, when I hear the locusts start buzzing in the trees, and the crickets chirping on summer evenings, I feel this urge to go out and buy notebook paper and pencils. School supplies were so much simpler when I was a child. I only remember ever having one bookbag -- some brownish, atache-type of thing with a handle. I probably inherited it from a cousin. Kids just didn't carry bookbags, and backpacks didn't exist. We carried our books in our arms. Clear through high school, in fact, I carried my books in my arms -- unless I had a boyfriend who would carry them for me.
There was such an air of excitement about the first day of school -- at least for me. I'm sure many students were not as enthusiastic as I was. Walking into the new classroom, learning where everything was, meeting your new teacher -- who always had her name written in large letters on the blackboard. (And we did have real blackboards, made out of real slate.) The desks were always in neat rows -- there were no "pods" or "clusters" or "circles" in our classes. In fact, in at least one school I attended, the desks were bolted to the floor. They were the old wooden kind, with the seat that folded up and the hole on the top for an inkwell. The classrooms were heated by steam radiators that hissed and whistled in the wintertime. Often, we copied our work from the board, or answered questions the teacher had written on the board. But when it was necessary to make copies of something for the students, they were made on the old mimeograph machines and the print came out in purple ink. As they were passed down the rows, the first thing you did when you got your copy was to hold it up to your nose and smell it.
It was a different time, then. There was not the fear of letting your child walk home from school alone. In fact, I don't remember ever having a parent walk me home from school -- even in kindergarten. A neighbor girl walked me home. We had a 1 1/2-hour lunch break, because everyone went home for lunch. After all, hardly any moms worked, so they were there to fix us lunch. We would go home at 11:30 and resume school at 1:00 and get out at 3:15. During the summer before my fourth grade year I broke my leg, so I began school with a cast and crutches. At that time, we lived about eight blocks away from the school, so I was given permission to eat lunch at the school during that period. I got to bring a sack lunch and eat in the classroom with the teacher (there was no lunchroom, of course). What a privilege!
I wish my children could have experienced school the way I experienced it. I wish my grandchildren could attend the kind of simple, back-to-basics schools that I attended. Even without the computers, the smart boards, the classroom TVs, and all the other high-tech gadgets that don't seem to have improved the quality of public education at all, anyway. We were allowed to pray and read the Bible and pledge to the flag. We had Christmas programs that were actually Christmas programs -- not "holiday" programs -- with traditional carols and a nativity. We learned American folk songs and Negro spirituals. We had pictures of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln in every classroom -- and we knew who they were. Homeschoolers can still experience that kind of education, but I'm afraid it is forever lost from the public schools. I am so very grateful that it was still there for me.

Summer Visitors

Every spring we are invaded by uninvited visitors. Usually they are the tiny, reddish variety that show up early in the spring and leave a few weeks later. But this year their cousins from the 'hood showed up and decided to stay. At first we were shocked and disgusted and quickly dispatched every one we saw -- until we realized that it wasn't making a difference. I think word got out that our kitchen was Ant Nirvana, and every faithful black ant on the block was required to make the pilgrimage to our countertop. Not that I blame them. Most of the time the scraps are readily available and there is plenty of clutter to hide behind and underneath. And, to be honest, we've become accustomed to them. We no longer gasp when we see them crawl out from under a jar or a bowl. We merely brush them out of the way, rather than squishing them. The other day I was standing at the kitchen sink drinking a glass of water while resting my hand on the counter, and one boldly began crawling up my hand. I calmly considered it, then simply blew it off my finger into the sink. I didn't even turn on the water and rinse it down the drain. Why bother? More will just come to replace it. It's like trying to pull out every gray hair you find. When they first arrived, Onias (my 4-year-old grandson) was terrified of them, shrieking and crying when he saw one. Now he actually likes them and calls them his friends. And really, they don't eat much, and they don't bite. I thought about naming them -- like Vinnie or Mac or Frankie. But I knew that wouldn't work, because they all look the same to me, and I knew they wouldn't come when I called them, anyway.

Yesterday S. made some type of pumpkin-pudding pie, and I had set the pie pan on the counter in order to scoop some of the contents onto a plate. When I lifted the plate I saw this strange little formation of ants -- they were in a type of circle, about six or seven of them, heads inward, surrounding this small piece of watermelon on the counter. Now, I know that ants can carry many times their own weight, but they weren't making any effort to carry this. Maybe they couldn't agree on who would carry it home, so they just decided to stay there and eat it. After all, they'd been working hard all day long -- they deserved a break. And Vinnie would never need to know. Once I lifted the plate and exposed them to the light, they scattered in all directions -- some into the silverware drawer, some under the dishes draining on the counter, some into the sink. It reminded me of a huddle of basketball players right before the game. Someone yells, "Let's go!" and they scatter in all directions. I didn't even try to catch them. Why bother? Besides, none of them scattered to my bowl of pie, so it was OK.

Then, when I lifted the pie pan to put it back in the fridge, I saw him. The one that got left behind. He was frantically trying to crawl and find the rest of his unit, but it seemed that only his front legs were working. His antennae were going crazy trying to pick up the signals from his buddies, and his front legs were struggling to go somewhere, but he wasn't making much progress. He didn't look smashed, but his four back legs were just dragging, like a little ant quadraplegic. I must have set the pie pan down on top of him and injured him. He soon found his way to safety under the fold of a towel on the counter. I thought about lifting it up to see how he was doing, but I decided to allow him at least a little dignity. He was gone today, so his friends must have come back and rescued him -- or eaten him. And I was a little annoyed that an ant -- an uninvited visitor in my kitchen, a scavenger, a pest -- had elicited such feelings of guilt in me. After all, it wasn't my fault he was in the path of my pie pan. It's my counter, and I shouldn't have to watch for rogue ants before setting a plate down. I shouldn't be haunted with the memory of a paralyzed ant trying to drag itself to safety. I am not the enemy here!

So I hired a hit man. He guarantees the entire colony will be eliminated -- for only $3.42. It's nothing personal, Frankie. It never would have worked out between us.

I'm Dying . . .

So are you, actually. We all are. I guess you could say that from the minute we take our first breath we begin the process that leads to our last breath. I'm not trying to sound morbid or anything, just realistic. Some of us are further along the path than others, but we're all traveling down the same path, heading in the same direction, toward the same destination. Well, sort of. Some of us will have a final destination (hopefully) that is more pleasant than others, but we all have to go through the same process to get there. Of course, the closer you get to that final terminal, the more keenly aware you become of its nearness and of all the things you probably forgot to pack.

My daughter has asked me several times to write about the humorous side of growing old, and I would really, really love to do that. I just can't find that side. It's like this heavy iron ball -- there are no sides to it. It's just there. And it only gets heavier. I keep turning it over expecting to see some cryptic message float up from somewhere inside, saying something like, "Outlook not so good." And now, at this point of my life when my strength seems to be diminishing, the ball is getting heavier. That's not to say that there is nothing good about growing older -- there is. Plenty. Good -- but not funny.

I guess what made me think of this was something my 4-year-old grandson said at the supper table. His mom was trying to convince him to eat some of his food to help his body grow strong. He wanted to know if marshmallows would make his body strong, and we had to explain that while marshmallows tasted good, they weren't really good for your body. He pondered that for a moment, and I know he was thinking, "Then why do you feed them to me?" He suddenly switched gears, as 4-year-olds do, and asked, "What are brains for?" which we tried to explain in preschool terminology. He wanted to know what happened if we didn't have a brain, and of course we told him that we would die. "Why?" he asked. "Because our brains make everything in our bodies work." We talked about our bodies coming back to life again when Jesus comes, etc. Then he asked his mom, "Is Grandma dying?" We exchanged glances and smiles, and his mom said, "She will someday."

Now, I didn't think a whole lot about this until I told my daughter about it and she put things into perspective. Does Onias think my body is dying because my brain isn't working very well? Dang. Is it that obvious?

Just another day. . .

Well, I think I'm ready to begin posting again, after a 4-month hiatus, thanks to the encouragement of family members. I'm not exactly sure why I stopped in the first place -- overwork, fatigue, testing, depression, inability to find anything humorous or entertaining in my life to write about. I think maybe I just couldn't take the pressure. See, I had imagined that I was writing to some ethereal cyber-audience, so I felt I had to be consistently witty, pithy, and entertaining, because who knew when some talent scout from Random House or Doubleday would happen upon my blog and think, "Eureka! This is the most original and brilliant literary talent of the century!" and post a comment offering me an immediate book deal, which I would, of course, accept and for which I would win the Pulitzer Prize and become an overnight multi-millionaire. The pressure to perform under that kind of scrutiny was too much, and I'm afraid I caved under the stress. I realize that I must write to a different audience if I am to be consistent -- family, friends, and other sympathetic bloggers. To all my faithful cyber-readers who relied on my wit, wisdom, and insight to give meaning to their humdrum lives -- I'm sorry I let you down, but -- you need to get a life. To all you literary scouts -- you'll have to look elsewhere. You'll find no Hemingway or Austen here. . . So, that said, I was complaining to my granddaughter about having nothing interesting to write about, and she said that if she were writing a blog, she would "make up stuff" to write about. I thought that sounded like fun, but not really appropriate for someone of my sophistication and maturity -- and not really fair to my faithful readers who expect something profound from my posts. So, I decided to simply tell you about my day, which was just a typical Sabbath Day in my life. . .

The alarm went off at 5:00 AM, and I arose from my bed, rested, refreshed, and eager to begin my day. I felt no pain whatsoever in my knees or ankles and no pressure at all from my weak bladder, so I immediately dropped to my knees for my morning prayer. Half an hour later, I arose and made my way to my sparkling, spacious bathroom where I showered, brushed, and "made up" my face. Back downstairs, I put a roast and vegetables in the crockpot and a dessert in the fridge. Usually, I cook my family a hot Sunday breakfast, but since it was Fast Sunday I just retired to my office for an hour of reading and pondering the scriptures. Gathering my supplies, I left for Church, arriving an hour early -- plenty of time to see to my Ward Librarian duties and gather supplies for the Primary class I was substitute-teaching. After setting up my classroom, I entered the chapel, where my loving family awaited me. They had even saved me a seat in my favorite pew! The testimonies were inspiring -- especially my own, which left hardly a dry eye in the congregation. My Primary class was reverent, attentive, and engaged, and all the children begged me to teach them every Sunday from now on. At the end of the meetings, I "closed up shop" in the library and headed to my car, still bright-eyed and invigorated. I drove home in my air-conditioned car that smelled like honeysuckle and pulled into my drive, pausing to gaze at my lush, manicured lawn and my thriving flower garden. I glanced at my neighbor's yard, which was full of garden hoses, riding toys, clotheslines, and dog piles, and said a silent prayer of gratitude.

Inside, I entered my gleaming, air-conditioned kitchen, where the aroma of pot roast and carrots made my mouth water. The grandchildren read books and colored in the playroom while I set a beautiful table, including an arrangement of daisies and lilies from my own garden. During dinner, which was cooked to perfection, we discussed what we had learned in our lessons that day, and the children ate everything on their plates. After clearing the dinner table, I sat down to write personal, inspiring letters to all the sisters on my Visiting Teaching list. I had no sooner finished when Christine and her family stopped by for a visit. The men sat in the living room, discussing the Mysteries of the Kingdom, while we women visited outside on our wrap-around porch and the children played house in our large gazebo.

After a while, we strolled down the garden path to our private pond, where the children fed bread to the ducks and swans that live there. When the fireflies appeared, we strolled back to the house, where we all gathered in our spacious family room to sing hymns and bear testimonies to one another. After kneeling in family prayer, Christine and her family bid us a fond good-bye and left for home. The grandchildren went to bed, and I returned to my office, where I completed two pages - 40 names - on the Family Search Indexing website. Then I decided to write a post telling about my wonderful -- but completely typical -- day. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

There. Wasn't that a lot more interesting than some make-believe story?