Elsie's Notes from New England - THEMission edition

I Don't Want to Play in Your Yard Written by Philip Wingate (1894)   Music by: H.W. Petrie  Recording by Peggy Lee (1957) is of the chorus only, and much slower than Mom sang it. This song was always accompanied by "Playmates," which follows.  Mom sang about "two little girls" with their "hair up in curls," and she only sang the first and fourth stanza along with the chorus.  The additional lyrics are in italics.  Then she would start right in with her version of "Playmates"  It wasn't until I moved to New England that I understood what it meant to slide down the cellar door (bulkhead). Once there lived side by side Two little maids Used to dress just alike, Hair down in braids, Blue gingham pinafores, Stockings of red, Little blue bonnets  Tied on each pretty head. When school was over, Secrets they'd tell, Whispering to themselves, Down by the well. One day a quarrel came,  Hot tears were shed: ...

Speaking of being sick, I had a little epiphany tonight that I thought I'd share. Two weeks ago, I got really sick, out of nowhere.  So sick, they had to give me a shot of rocephin in my tush.  That's like injecting peanutbutter into your flank -- so painful!  I had forgotten how much those shots hurt.  When I was little, I used to get strep throat and tonsillitis all the time, and several times each year I would get a shot of penicillin in my backside.  I hated it. What I hated even more, though, was having those sore throats.  I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink, I couldn't swallow.  Even breathing in and out hurt.  It was awful.  In the very worst moments, I would try to soothe myself by remembering what it felt like when my throat didn't hurt.  I tried.  I couldn't do it.  I recall the frustration of knowing that there existed a condition in which my throat was not raw and shredded and swollen and miserable, but I couldn't...

This is an old post I never got around to actually posting.  It's from late March/early April.  Nothing earth shattering; just my life.  It was a wonderful spring break.  We visited with John's sister Carolyn and her husband Dave.  We spent time with good friends, and the last four days we spent with John and Sheena and the girls.  It was bliss.  We had originally planned to go to Ithaca first and see Dave and Carolyn afterwards, but Sheena was sick last weekend, so we delayed our visit until she was better.  Part of our reasoning was to avoid the flu.  We've been lucky this year have not had to deal with the flu, even though neither of us got a flu shot this year. While in Ithaca, I was telling Sheena about how we've dodged the flu bullet this year.  We've been careful about things like handwashing, we've used essential oils regularly, and we've tried to stay well-rested and well-hydrated.  It seems like it's been working....

When I was a little girl, my mom used to get her hair done every Friday.  She would get it washed and dried and styled and teased and sprayed and set.   All week long, she'd sleep on a satin pillow case to keep her hairstyle intact, and she'd just pick through it to freshen the 'do every morning.  Then, the next Friday, she'd do it all over again.  I loved her hairdressers - Jerry and Larry. They were funny and quirky and kind of outrageous, at least to a five-year-old girl in a mid-sized mid-western town.  Maybe that's where I learned my affection for quirky hairdressers. My current stylist is right up there with the best of them in the quirky department, but in a very different way from Jerry and Larry.  He decided to become a hair stylist while he was serving in the military during the 70s.  He saw the movie "Shampoo," and was inspired by Warren Beatty's flair with women and hair.  So, my stylist is ex-military and straight.  There's som...

I stole someone's parking spot today.  I mean, not technically; the spots are first-come, first-served, but I know that I did and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Parking on campus is complicated.  I think parking is always complicated, sometimes even in my own driveway.  If I can get to work by 7:45 a.m., I can always park in Snively Lot.  That's not its actual name, but it's what we call it because it's the lot next to the old Snively Ice Arena.  Now that that's been converted to the student fitness center, most of the younger folk on campus don't even know the name Snively, but it's still what John and I call the lot.  It's small, so it fills up fast, and it's always been the closest lot I knew of to our buildings. If I miss the 7:45 a.m. cutoff, I have to go to the Alumni Center to park.  It's about a block further out, and a larger lot, so there's always parking there until 9 o'clock or so, unless there's an event going ...

It's taken about thirty years for me to get to tell the end of this story.  Hopefully you've read the beginning already. This is Scarlett.  She is two.  She brought her parents to visit us for Thanksgiving this year. Helping Grandpa decorate the tree. When the turkey was all tucked away in its Tupperware and the pies were half-eaten, we had some time on our hands, so I pulled out a batch of cookie dough I had made and she and I cut out some Christmas cookies.  We put on our aprons and washed our hands and pulled up a sturdy stool for Scarlett to stand on so that she and I were almost the same height, and we began to roll out the dough.  On the counter stood the large plastic container I use to store flour.  It holds about ten pounds when it's full.  In it I keep a 1-cup measure and a scoop.  As I dusted the cutting board with flour and she and I took turns rolling the dough flat, a thought occurred to me.  It was a memory, actuall...

How do oldest kids survive?  Being the youngest of seven, I had it easy.  My parents were broken in; broken down, whatever.  They had learned long before I arrived which battles were worth fighting and when to let stuff slide.  Mellow is a good word for them by the time I came along.  They were tough, but there was a lot of wisdom floating around me, besides the fact that they were just too exhausted after raising the other six to fret about every little thing I did, which worked well for me.  On the other hand, I was not a relaxed parent . . . not at the beginning, anyway.  I was only twenty-two when our first was born, so maturity wasn’t my thing yet. I understood the theory of child rearing, but I hadn’t really internalized that what kids need most is loving and hugging and listening and talking and patience and repetition and stability. Kids don’t really care if the bathroom smells Saturday morning fresh all week long.  They don’t car...