The Little Graveyard on the Ridge

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Perhaps a quarter mile off the road, a small country graveyard sits at the top of a little ridge. When I spotted that old family cemetery not long after we moved here, I decided that, "one of these days," I was going to walk through it. But time flew by, as it does, and so it was five years later, when I finally stopped one day at the house below the cemetery and asked permission to visit.

The silver-haired lady who answered my knock was pleased about my interest in the graveyard. She walked to the pasture gate with me, showed me the least "washed-out" route to take up the hillside, and cautioned my sidekicks, Keely and Isaac, to beware the poison ivy around the graveyard fence.

We bounced up the hill on a trail that was obviously more traveled by cattle than vehicles. As we pulled up to the cemetery, I saw immediately that it was well-maintained and very tidy.  An overgrowth of vines had made the fence into a solid wall of tangled foliage, but the grass inside was neatly cut, and the gate was in good repair. No graves were embarrassed by fallen headstones or weatherbeaten artificial flowers.

Photographs by Melissa Wiesse.

Many of the surnames on the stones were from a half-dozen families. I recognized some names as possible ancestors of families who still lived in Christian County. The dates on the stones spanned nearly two centuries, from a birth in 1778 to a death in l971.  Many of the tombstones stated that the loved one was "Asleep in Jesus." One man was a Confederate soldier. Another was born in County Down, Ireland. In all, there were 50 or 60 graves.

I decided that the cemetery was officially established in the 1860s or 1870s. Perhaps there were already unmarked family graves there when the first graves with tombstones were made. Looking over the cemetery fence from the hillside, I tried to imagine the valley when the blacktop road was a dirt trail, the fences were made of split rail, and the log cabins were marked by plumes of smoke. Surely the cemetery's site was chosen for its fine view in addition to its high-and-dry location.

Photo by Tony Alter.

A majestic old oak grew in one corner. The ground under it was covered with acorns and early-fallen leaves. A half-dozen squirrels were shocked, just shocked, when we interrupted their nut harvest with our presence.

Near the center of the cemetery, a huge stump bore witness to another tree that once grew there. It was a good six feet in diameter at its widest point. This estimate was provided by Keely who stretched out full length across it. At one time, this giant's branches must have shaded most of the little cemetery.

Keely and Isaac were impatient to return to modern life well before I finished reading the stones. When we finally drove back down the hill and closed the gate to the pasture, the little lady came out to talk again. She had been waiting for us. "Did you see anyone you knew up there?" she wanted to know.

I told her that I had recognized some of the family names, and she said that most of the people in the cemetery were from her husband's family. Had I seen this gravestone and that one? One young fellow had commited suicide after World War I. Her husband's mother was the young woman buried with twin babies. Another man and his wife had lived in a big log house that she remembered from childhood. She knew the life story beneath each headstone.

I commented on the huge tree stump, and she told me that it had been another oak tree. It had fallen in the cemetery during a windstorm, but her son had cleaned it up. Then she began to talk about her great fear -- would the cemetery be cared for in future years? Her son, in his late fifties, did all the upkeep. It seemed he was the main person who was interested. Though most of the graves "belonged" to families who still lived in the county, no one else helped with the maintenance. She had buried her husband in town a few years ago because she feared his grave wouldn't be tended up on the hillside.

Photo by Justin A. Wilcox

The thought of brambles and trees taking over the graveyard grieved this lady. I was touched by her desire to honor the graves of her husband's people. Talking to her was a memorable and moving experience. Most of my visits to old graveyards don't include the opportunity to speak with someone who has a personal connection to the people buried there.

When I got home that day, I wrote a short account of my visit to the cemetery on the ridge. A few days ago, I stumbled upon that little story in some old computer files, and I thought that the things I had written still spoke to my heart. I decided to edit it a little and share it. That's the story behind this story.

Related photos on Flickr:
Squirrels in cemeteries
Gravestone details
Historic cemeteries

Messages from our Mennonite Neighbors

Bible verses along the roads

"Remember thy Creator in thy youth."

"Choose this day whom you will serve."

Over the past year or so, several signs with Bible verses have been posted along local roads by our Mennonite neighbors. I don't know whether the signs are a church project or individual efforts. Some of the signs are similar in size and style, so maybe they came from the same supplier.

The signs are written in English so they can be read by most people who pass by.  But actually, the Mennonites usually read the Bible in German.  Their Heilege Schrift (Holy Scriptures) is/are written in "Bible German," a form of High German that's different from the Pennsylvania Dutch they speak at home. Mennonite children learn Bible German along with English, as part of their education.

"Honor thy father and mother."

A young Mennonite neighbor lady once told me that "sometimes we look in the King James Bible" if a passage in the Mennonite Bible is hard to understand. I am not sure if she was speaking for all or just speaking for her own household.  The archaic English of the King James Version is surely as difficult as Bible German, but the Mennonites probably assign extra virtue to the KJV simply because it is old.

But let me get back to the signs around the neighborhood. I respect our neighbors for trying to "be a good light". (A Mennonite neighbor lady, telling me how Mennonites should live, used that phrase.) But I do wish they'd put the signs on posts instead of nailing them to trees. These trees growing wild in the fence rows aren't particularly valuable, and they'll probably survive the nails, but it still bothers me. I hate to see things nailed to living trees, no matter who does the nailing.

"Repent & be converted that your sins may be blotted out."
"God will judge the world in righteousness."

My Revolutionary Ancestors

Passionate about freedom

In preparation for an upcoming get-together with my sister and brother, I've been organizing and printing some family tree information that I think might be particularly interesting to them.

On my father's side of the family, there are several lines that go back to early colonial days in New York, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, and North Carolina.  And on my mom's side of the family, some of her maternal grandmother's people were here during the same time period, in Maryland, Delaware and North Carolina. Almost all of these folks were from England originally, and several of them participated in the American Revolution.

Tonight, I made a list of our Revolutionary ancestors with a brief description of their service. I'm going to include it in the family info I'm assembling for my siblings. It's not a proper genealogical document yet because I didn't list out the sources, but I will improve it in the future.

When I counted the names on my list, I saw that we have at least ten Revolutionary patriots and/or soldiers in our family tree. I am immensely proud to be their descendant, but I am also humbled as I think of their willingness to risk their lives for the cause of freedom and independence.

I've read several of their applications for war pensions, in which they described their service, and I've decided that we have far too little respect for the American colonists who fought for freedom and independence. We say the word "sacrifice" so glibly when we talk about them, and we don't even think about what their sacrifices really were or what hardships they endured. (And that's true for all soldiers in every war, not just for my ancestors.)

I wonder if my Revolutionary ancestors would be as proud of me as I am of them. And what would they think of the nation now? The preservation of hard-won, blood-bought freedom is such an important responsibility -- am I doing my part?

Here are their names:

Four images of Revolutionary War battles
Image source and artist info

Ezra Caswell
Private for 3 years in Capt. Thomas Converse's Connecticut line, discharged at Fishkill, NY.

Smith Mapes and 
Samuel Mapes
Smith Mapes and his father Samuel Mapes were signers of the Revolutionary Pledge and both served in the Second (“South-end”) Regiment, Ulster County, New York Militia, under Colonel James McGlaghry.

Jeremiah Cory
Private in the Morris County Militia (New Jersey). The Indiana DAR* notes that he was taken prisoner during his service.

Isaac Messenger
Isaac served in Capt. Amassa Mill's Company, Connecticut Regiment, 5th Regiment of Light Horse. Seven Messenger brothers served, and all survived the war. Only one was wounded.

Reuben Martin
According to his Revolutionary War pension application, he served in Sussex County, New Jersey, militia in the company of his brother, Captain John Martin, commanded by another brother, Colonel Edmond Martin; was under Colonel Edmond Martin in the battle of the Brandywine, where he was wounded and at Germantown, and was at Middle Brook May 10, 1778, under the same brother.

Nathan Slaughter
02 Mar 1778, Subscribed to the Oath of Allegiance and Fidelity (made his "A" mark) before the Hon. Richard Mason, Caroline County, Maryland. (This doesn't seems quite as illustrious an act of service as some of the others, but signing an oath of allegiance is considered an act of patriotism by the DAR* and SAR**.)

Basil Israel
Maryland Militia. Commissioned as Ensign, August 28, 1777, and served for the duration of the war in various capacities, according to SAR and family records.

John Ferry
Private in New York Continental Line, 1st Regiment, under Col. Goose VanSchaick, (according to "New York in the Revolution, page 32.) His wife, Susannah Munn, served as a nurse for part of the time that he was in service.

Susannah Munn
Field Nurse 1st Regiment, New York Continental Line.

* DAR: Daughters of the American Revolution
**SAR: Sons of the American Revolution;
(Membership in these two organizations is limited to those who can prove that an ancestor served in the American Revolution.)

Old Movies for Me!

How a man I never knew changed my life forever

When I was a little kid, Brent was my dad's best friend. Mom will tell you that Brent was Dad's best friend many years before I came along, and that he is the one who introduced them to each other. Mom will also tell you that I met Brent, but I was too little to remember.

Even though I don't remember meeting him, I know that Brent loved movies -- especially old movies. He was an aficionado. He knew why a movie was unique, or what crazy stuff had happened during shooting. He knew what actors and actresses liked each other and which ones didn't.

Brent knew that Isaac's and my education in the great classic movies was being neglected. When I was about 10, he started sending us movies that he thought we should see, that were appropriate for kids. I remember being so excited to get Brent's boxes. Isaac and I would look up all of the new movies in Dad's movie books to see what they were about. Even though I never watch VHS anymore, I still have all of the movies he sent us, because they bring back such happy memories.

I watched those videos hundreds of times over the next ten years. I can recite huge swaths of several of them. Our favorites were the "Road to..." movies, and the Marx Brothers. I still have to restrain myself from quoting them to people who will have no idea what I'm talking about. I've even gone so far as to infect my husband with my old movie love. He still swears that he doesn't like black and white movies, but he loved Harvey.

Brent is the reason that I sing Marx brothers songs. He's the reason that when all of the other little girls in my class had a crush on a member of Hansen or Leonardo Dicaprio, I had a crush on Errol Flynn. And the reason that I view the new Flight of the Phoenix movie with much skepticism. How can you replace Jimmy Stewart? All of these years later, I still don't like modern horror movies. Give me Vincent Price or Boris Karloff any day over these movies with all of their blood and gore.

Brent passed away when I was in high school. Mom tells me that we're his legacy, because he was the last of his line. He passed on his love of those movies to both me and my brother. He also passed on the knowledge that the truly great stories never get old.

- - - - - - - - - - 
Thank you, Keely. Here's Brent  in about 1979, in the kitchen of the first apartment Dennis and I had after we were married. I can't believe it, but he appears to be washing dishes!

Brent has a starring role in many funny, happy memories of our college and newly-wed years in Warrensburg, Missouri. He had juvenile (Type 1) diabetes, and he died at the young age of 38.  G.L.N.

Good People

I do use this oil.

Willing to help

Yesterday, I filled my car with gas and checked the oil. The dipstick showed that the oil was a little low, so I stopped at Walmart and bought a quart. Back in the parking lot, I raised the hood of my car. It didn't offend my sense of class to add oil then and there, and besides, I was afraid I'd forget if I waited.

During the few moments that I stood in front of my car with the hood up, I was asked three times if I needed help. The first people who approached me were a black couple about my age, who parked their pickup truck nearby. The next person was a white-haired man who came out of the store and got into his little sports car. And the third person was a tall young fellow with a tattoo on his neck.

I thanked them each, and I'm still warmed by their unexpected kindness.

While typing this, I remembered a similar incident. I often clip my purse to the cart with a carabiner when I am shopping. One evening, I was ready to wheel my groceries out to my car, but I was having trouble getting my purse unclipped. I had hooked the carabiner to a small slot in the cart that was awkward to reach.

One of the Kroger employees, a girl who was bringing in a big line of shopping carts from the parking lot, saw me fumbling as I stood by the door. "Are you all right, ma'am? Do you need help?" she asked.

About that time, I finally got the carabiner detached. I felt silly, but I genuinely appreciated her friendly offer to assist, and I thanked her for it.

I think we are blessed with a solid core of kind-hearted, decent people here in Christian County, Kentucky.

I like that explanation much better than the possibility that I look so incompetent that strangers pity me!

The Excellence of the Ordinary

The beauty of the typical

Last winter, I read It's Not the End of the Earth, But You Can See It from Here: Tales of the Great Plains, a book of stories about small town life in central Nebraska. What a good book! I enjoyed it immensely because I grew up in rural Nebraska, because the stories are entertaining, and because they contain truths, wisdoms, and observations about life that resonate with me.

The author is Roger Welsch of Dannebrog, Nebraska, whom you may remember from the series, "Postcards from Nebraska" on the CBS News Sunday Morning television show. He is a native of Nebraska, born, raised, and educated in Lincoln. His primary area of study, teaching and writing is folklore. He's the author of about two dozen books, many of them about rural life in Nebraska. I intend to read more of them.

The following passage from the introduction to It's Not the End of the Earth, But You Can See It from Here: Tales of the Great Plains  has returned to my mind many times since I read it.  I decided to look it up and share it with you.

My academic training and most of my teaching experience was in folklore, so I learned quite early in my intellectual history to appreciate, to appreciate profoundly the importance, the charm, the beauty, and the value of the typical. That's what folklore is. While the university art departments dwell on the exceptional and unique, the history departments focus on the significant and singular, the English departments examine the best, we in folklore are interested in what represents the typical, the ordinary, the everyday.

The ballet is not typical; the small-town wedding dance is. The events of a Harlequin romance or a soap opera are anything but everyday; the gossip and anecdotes told over the breakfast table in the cafe in Centralia are precisely everyday; they are indeed the very definition of "everyday." Is the everyday of less value or attraction than the exceptional? That has most certainly not been my experience. Nor, probably yours. Virtually every homemade quilt you have ever seen, for example, is superior by many times to 90 percent of the art that currently insults the walls of the galleries. We have all at one time or another, perhaps on a regular basis, eaten roast beef, mash potatoes, and gravy in a humble kitchen that put to shame the finest gourmet meal we have ever enjoyed. Medical science still sorts through folk medicine for the truths it may yet have in its pharmacopoeia.

Source: Welsch, Roger. It's Not The End of the Earth, But You Can See It From Here: Tales of the Great Plains. New York: Villard Books, 1990. (See pp. xiv-xv).

Here, Welsch is describing the focus of folklore studies, but that's not what I remembered. What stuck with me was the truth that many great masterpieces never become famous. They're created by ordinary people in the course of their ordinary lives. We should recognize and treasure these common works of art for the precious jewels that they are.

Image by Molly DG. Some Rights Reserved.

And I wish to add that some of the best music is made on the back porches and in the living rooms of very ordinary people -- and in rural and small-town churches, too. I remember with pleasure many examples of fine, homemade music.

The First President I Remember

I liked Ike.

Seen in a flea market in Cave City, KY

Dwight D. Eisenhower is the first U.S. President that I remember. We didn't have television in the 1950s, so I knew him from the radio and from pictures in magazines and newspapers.

President Eisenhower took office when I was one year old and served until I was nine.  I had the deepest respect and greatest awe for him that a little country girl could muster.

I remember telling my brother once that I wished we had television just so I could see the President.

Dwight was five years older than me and more sophisticated. He didn't share my reverence. "What would be so great about that?" he asked. His scorn shocked me!

I don't remember my reply, but I'm sure I didn't explain myself well. Even 50 years later, it's hard to explain the position of high honor that President Eisenhower held in my little heart and mind.

Related: 
I Grew Up In Radio Land

Overheard

For every stereotype, there is someone who fits it all too well. I overheard this amazing conversation in the line at the grocery store:

Lady 1: How's your oldest son doing?

Lady 2: Oh he's doing a lot better now that they have him locked up.

Lady 1: Well, that's good, I guess. And how's Bobby? Where's he at?

Lady 2: Bobby's in Louisville. He's doing all right.

Lady 1: Do you have any grandbabies?

Lady 2: (laughing) Oh, my goodness, yes. Bobby's got ten kids.

Lady 1: TEN kids?!

Lady 2: Ten kids in eight years. He had two girlfriends pregnant, most of the time.

Lady 1: (sputtering)

Lady 2: Oh, he's paying for it now. His child support bill is $800 a month.

- - - - - - - - - -

The words "moral decay" come to mind.

Resistance Is Futile

That machine in front of Kroger

I was visiting with my neighbor Sally a few weeks ago, and I mentioned that Blockbuster Video was having financial problems. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, visibly distressed.

"Yes," I said. "It seems that Blockbuster has been hurt by Redbox and Netflix. It's just not getting enough business to turn a profit."

"If we lose Blockbuster, we won't have a video rental store in Hopkinsville." Sally paused to imagine that situation. "Just what is that Netflix?" she demanded.

I explained Netflix the best I could, from my own second-hand knowledge. People subscribe to Netflix online. They choose movies from a huge list, and Netflix delivers the movies by mail. People find the service convenient and affordable.

"So, you have to own a computer," Sally said with disgust. "Well, I don't have one, and I don't want one! Going to the video store is part of what I really enjoy about renting a movie!"

"...that machine in front of Kroger"

"If Blockbuster closes," she continued, "the only place left to rent a movie will be that machine in front of Kroger. I don't want to rent a movie from a machine on a sidewalk. I want to go to a video store." (The machine in front of Kroger is, in fact, a Redbox, part of the competition that is giving Blockbuster so much trouble.)

So far, Blockbuster in Hopkinsville is still open, and I hope that Sally is renting enough movies to help it stay in business. However, when I won a $5 Blockbuster gift card at work recently, I decided to spend it right away, just in case our store closes. I didn't want the hassle of renting and returning a movie, so I just got $5 of microwave popcorn packets.

The law of supply and demand is at work here. Blockbuster is in financial trouble because many people have decided that lower prices and convenience are more desirable than a shopping experience in a store. The internet has played a part in that change.

I feel a little sad for Sally.  She has set her mind against having a computer. She could easily afford one, but maybe she is afraid she couldn't learn to use it. I don't think she'd have much trouble. She has mastered her DVD/VCR player and her satellite TV. Turning on the computer and getting on the internet is hardly that complicated.

Or maybe Sally has taken her anti-computer stance solely as a protest to unwanted change. Well, she can decide that she won't participate, but that won't stop computers and computerized machines from changing things.

Growing Older

Accepting what you cannot change

An old woman feeding birds in Kazimierz
the old Jewish district in Krakow, Poland.
Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

I clipped this stanza of verse from an old book, because this is how I would prefer to grow old -- with a zest for living.

At sixty-two life is begun;
At seventy-three begin once more.
Fly swifter as you near the sun,
And brighter shine at eighty-four.
At ninety-five
Shouldst thou arrive,
Still wait on God, and work and thrive.

Uncredited poet, quoted by Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher, in All Around the House, or, How to Make Homes Happy. Published in New York, 1881, by D. Appleton and Co.

That's upbeat, don't you think? But apparently, the book's author, Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher, thought it was an inadequate,  shallow vision of old age.

In a long, depressing commentary that follows the poem, Mrs. Beecher says that old age is often not the easy experience envisioned in the poem. She describes how someone can be doing very well as they clip along through life. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, a serious illness can transform robust maturity into helpless dependency.

Mrs. Beecher concludes her lament with this paragraph:

But to be stopped in the midst of usefulness and stricken down helpless — to become a burden where once one was most looked to for help — to meet this mysterious dispensation with patience and courage, and, without a murmur, cheerfully wait God's own good time — is an attainment which none acquire but those who live near to Heaven — whose "life is hid with Christ in God."

Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher, in All Around the House, or, How to Make Homes Happy. Published in New York, 1881, by D. Appleton and Co.

Mrs. Beecher is not wrong, but I'm not sure why she makes this point. Maybe she wants people to better understand the suffering that some endure. Or maybe she thinks people should better appreciate the saintliness of some who endure suffering.

Or is Mrs. Beecher reminding us that such suffering could be in our own futures? If so, this is my comment: God doesn't want His children to obsess and prematurely grieve over the infinity of ills that the future could hold. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus talks about worry and asks, "Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?" and "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." 


Related:
The Lord is My Shepherd

A 1903 Writer's View of America

Beauty, utility, method, and energy

While browsing through an old book, 300 Things a Bright Girl Can Do, I came across an interesting quotation. But before I share it, I'll swing a broad brush and paint a very rough picture of the United States 110 years ago, about the time that the book was written and published.

• America had just concluded the Spanish American War. Teddy Roosevelt and the Roughriders were war heroes. Now Teddy Roosevelt was talking about a canal through the Isthmus of Panama.
• The population of the United States was growing rapidly through immigration, especially from Europe. Ellis Island was one of the main entry points. 
• The Hull House in Chicago was teaching immigrants, organizing children's clubs, and holding free lectures and concerts.
• Homesteaders were still staking their claims on designated public lands in the western states.
• Automobiles had recently been invented, and Wilbur and Orville Wright were working on an airplane. The pneumatic hammer, gas and steam turbines, radio, and the Brownie camera were all brand-new wonders.
• Monopolies in steel, the railroads, and other industries were under attack. The government's weapon was the Sherman Anti-Trust Act.
• Factory and mine workers, expected to perform like machines, were organizing into unions and striking for better wages and working conditions.

Now, here are the sentences that caught my attention. Writer Lilla Elizabeth Kelley is describing changes in turn of the century America (1900 A.D.) to an unseen audience of "bright girls". Kelley connects several diverse conditions, concepts, and changes in American culture -- the labor movement, immigration, American exceptionalism, inventiveness, a recognition of the need for beauty, a respect for craftsmen -- all within a few, high-minded sentences.

A love and desire for the beautiful, like a great wave, is sweeping over the country. The time has come for all workers to unite beauty and utility, and the people of the United States are peculiarly fitted to do this.

From Europe many of the best craftsmen have come, seeking homes and opportunities in the new world. The fusion of European methods and American energy, ambition, and quickness of perception must develop art and originality, taking the sordidness from labor, and making the ideal practical.

Quoted from: 300 Things a Bright Girl Can Do (p.369) by Lilla Elizabeth Kelley, published in Boston by Dana Estes & Company, 1903.

Workers in the H. J. Heinz can factory stamping
out end discs (Wikimedia Commons image)

Picking and Stealing

Collectors compared

Isaac and I visited Hopkinsville's recently re-opened Peddler's Mall this afternoon. It's an indoor flea market, located in part of the old WalMart building. I've shopped there several times in the last couple of months, and I've purchased something each time. I'm trying to help the Peddler's Mall vendors and owners pay their rent.

Today, Isaac found a movie and a cache of Harry Turtledove hardbacks, and I found a little concrete statue for my flowerbed.

Soon I was standing in line behind a talkative, 60-ish woman at the checkout. She mentioned that she was paying $8 for a little glass candelabra that was worth quite a bit more. "What's it worth?" I asked her. "Twenty dollars?"

"More like fifty or sixty," she opined.

I asked if she watches the "American Pickers" show on History Channel. (In this show, Mike and Frank drive across the U.S., visiting people's hordes of old junk and collectible stuff. Whenever they like some object, they try to buy it at a cheap price.)

"Oh, yes!" she cried. "I love that show!"

Then she told me that when she was younger, she guessed she had done some picking. Back then, she said, farmers didn't care if you went into an abandoned house or barn and took what you liked. Nowadays, farmers were likely to shoot you if they caught you.

I was reminded of a yard sale I attended some years ago. Dozens of old wooden and cast iron tools, horseshoes, and other odd pieces were arrayed on the walls of the patio. When I commented on the collection,  the owner told me where it came from. When her kids were little, she drove out to the countryside with them on Sunday afternoons, and they went into old barns. The display on her wall was what they brought home from their raids.

I cringe when the "American Pickers" get great deals from people who don't know the value of their own junk. However, I give Mike and Frank (and their producer) credit for finding the owner, asking permission to look, and then making a cash offer. They are paragons of virtue, compared to the old heifer I met today and her kindred spirit with the cast iron collection. 

There's picking and there's stealing, and it's not hard to tell the difference.

Old Time Entertainments

Homemade amusements

A recent report says that sitting in front of the TV or computer for long stretches of time greatly increases our chances of dying . We'd be healthier if we'd turn off the electronics and move around a little more. Here's a thought: maybe we should cut back on the web-and-channel surfing and return to some of the old-time ways of entertaining ourselves!

Before television and radio made their way into living rooms, folks often invited their friends for an evening of parlor games. Many of the games involved mild physical activity, such as "Blindman's Bluff" and "Charades." Others required mental energy, such as "Twenty Questions" and "Hangman".  Competitions such as checkers, chess, and card games were also popular.

Party books offered plenty of ideas for fun with a theme. For example, a 1903 book of Halloween activities contains complete plans for several spooky parties-- invitations, decorations, refreshments, games, skits, etc.

I wrote a while back about music in the parlor -- inviting guests for an afternoon or evening of homemade music.  Anyone with a bit of musical talent might be asked to perform. People liked to sing and to hear music. Sheet music made the latest hits available to all.

Recitations were another favorite entertainment. When guests came for the evening, someone might volunteer (or be called upon) to "render" a piece of memorized poetry or a passage of funny or dramatic prose.

Books, such as the 1903 Comic Recitations and Readings pictured at right, provided material to memorize.  (Some of the subject matter would be considered unkind today.  Stuttering, regional and ethnic dialects, and the accents of immigrants were often imitated!)

When I was little, the cultural memory of rural Nebraska still recalled entertainments of the sort I've written about here. We played various parlor games at school recess when it was too cold to play outside. My friends and I memorized recitations for school and church programs. I remember dressing in a costume and reciting a humorous monologue at the high school gym for a large audience of extension-club ladies. My mother probably thought it would be a good performance experience for me and volunteered my services.

We've gotten away from these active, participatory sorts of entertainments now. We've parked ourselves in our chairs to absorb our entertainment from a screen, and it's not good for us. I've been sitting here far too long. I think I'd better stand up and do something!

Growing Up Fast

All my children

A few days ago, a young man came through my checkout line at work. As I began ringing up his purchases, I realized I knew him. I hadn't seen Adam (not his real name) for at least five years. He was my daughter's schoolmate, a good student and an athlete.

I visited with him for a few minutes. He was wearing the uniform of a plant in Hopkinsville's industrial park. "You're at -----," I commented. "Yes, and I'm glad to be working!" he exclaimed. The fervor in his voice suggested a personal experience with unemployment.

Adam did not finish high school. He and his girlfriend married when they learned that she was pregnant. Adam dropped out of school and got a job. I used to see him pumping gas at one of the full-service stations in Hopkinsville.

Not long after their baby was born, his wife became pregnant again. I last saw his children when they were chubby toddlers. I'm sure they are in school by now.

Adam is probably 25 years old. His eyes are clear and honest, and he has a smile in his voice as he speaks of his family. I'm proud of him for "manning up" to his responsibilities.

I hope his job stays stable. I hope he's had a chance to get his G.E.D. I hope he can learn some skills on the job that will improve his qualifications. He's had a rough start, but he has ability and potential and many years of life ahead of him.

Thoughts cannot always be spoken. "Have a good Christmas, Adam," I said. "It's great to see you! Take care of yourself."

"I will," he promised.

Dreaded Day Done

Another doctor appointment survived

One thing I'm really neurotic about is going to the doctor. I must have missed the lesson in kindergarten about "The doctor is your friend." I think of him as a stern examiner, not a helpful buddy.

When I need my prescriptions renewed, I wait until I have only a few pills left before I make an appointment to see the doctor. By prolonging the dread as much as possible, I achieve maximum levels of anxiety; I know this, and yet I do it.

Yesterday, with less than a week of meds left, I called the doctor's office and make an appointment. The receptionist said I should come in at 7:30 this morning for lab work and see the doctor at 2:30 this afternoon.

After I got the lab work done this morning, I came home and took a nap. I thought it might help my blood pressure. I'm good at having high blood pressure at the doctor's office. They call it "white coat syndrome." I've learned to bring a couple weeks of blood-pressure readings with me, so the doctor won't think my blood pressure meds have stopped working.

At 2:30, I was back in the doctor's office. I was surprised that the waiting room was not crowded with sick people, but the nurse said all the flu patients had been there this morning. She weighed me and took my temperature (normal), pulse (a little high), and blood pressure (only slightly elevated).

In a few minutes, the doctor came in. He caught a cold last weekend while camping with the Boy Scouts, and his voice was about two octaves deeper than usual. However, he was more jovial than he usually is. He complimented my cholesterol, triglyceride, and blood sugar levels and skipped his usual lecture about exercising faithfully. (Don't worry. My conscience has committed that lecture to memory.)

And then, I escaped! I exited so fast that I didn't realize the doctor had forgotten to print out my prescriptions. The pharmacist had to call the doctor's office for them. While he was waiting on the phone, he told me that his grandmother's name had been Genevieve, and it was a lovely, old-time name. She liked to bake, he said. He has fond memories of her homemade bread.

Later, I ran a few errands around town, and I noticed that the cloud of doom was no longer hovering over me. A glow of happy relief had taken its place.

Blurring of the Seasons

Each holiday in its own time

At one Hopkinsville store this week, autumn and Halloween stick figures were displayed side by side with Christmas decorations. The blurring of the seasons irritates me. Scarecrows, witches, Christmas trees, reindeer, and snowmen do not belong together.

And where's Thanksgiving? Doesn't it deserve its own yard art? I'm vaguely offended.

It's still October, and I am not done with the rituals of autumn. I don't want to jump into Christmas before the jack-o-lanterns have been carved or the pumpkin pies baked. The garden hose and the tomato cages still must be stored away. We need to check the antifreeze in our vehicles. We should stack some firewood on the porch, and the chimney has to be cleaned. I want to put on a sweatshirt and rake some leaves.

The trees are not confused. They are dressed in autumn's proper colors, and they're wearing them with dignity. They are not rushing into the next season before it's time.

I'm going to follow their example and wait for nature to change the season. When the last leaves have fallen, and the days are cold and short, I'll be ready for the glitter and lights of Christmas. And that will happen soon enough.

Dental Ordeal Survived

Anticipation was the worst part

I've been having dental problems. Recently, I managed to split the root of a tooth. My dentist and the oral surgeon agreed that it had to come out. They also agreed that they'd never seen anything like it!

I went to the oral surgeon on Friday and he removed the tooth. I was dreading the extraction terribly, but I can honestly say that it didn't hurt much. The injections burned a little, but they were small discomforts. The numbing agent took effect quickly, and most of the pain I suffered was mental and emotional, not physical.

Recuperating

When I came back to the waiting room, Isaac sprang from his chair and helped me to the car. He drove me home and led me to the sofa. Then he got me an ice pack and a pain pill, tucked an afghan around me, and brought my kitty to snuggle with me. I dozed off quickly.

Dennis came home from work a few hours later, and I woke up enough to hear the guys whispering. "How's she doing?" "She's been lying there ever since we got home." "Just let her sleep!"

Later, Dr. Miller called. He was worried that I might be bleeding. I answered his questions as well as I could, and he asked me to call him if I had any problems whatsoever.

Dennis fixed me a can of potato soup for supper that night. He mashed all the potatoes in it so there weren't any big chunks. During the night, he got me another pain pill, and the next morning he fixed me oatmeal for breakfast.

I appreciated those little acts of kindness. When you're injured -- even with just a sore jaw -- it's heartwarming to know that someone cares and really wants to help. I've been reminded of the healing power of compassion.

Avoiding dry socket

About seven years ago, I had a tooth pulled just a couple of days before leaving for a car trip. I was in agony with the darned thing and had to live on Advil for the entire time I was traveling.

I realized afterwards that I must have had a "dry socket" -- a notoriously painful condition that occurs when a blood clot fails to form or is prematurely dislodged. The physical work of getting ready for the trip, loading the car, etc., probably caused the problem.

I was determined that wasn't going to happen this time. After the extraction, I spent about 48 hours just lying around. I can't remember the last time I've slept that much. (I didn't even have to feel guilty about it!)

Today, I'm feeling fairly well, all things considered. I've done a few things that didn't require much exertion. Tomorrow (Monday), I'm going to resume a mostly-normal life, and Tuesday, I'm going back to work.

13 Things Men Have Written About Women

Thursday Thirteen

Keely picked up a little book of quotations for me at a thrift shop. Its title is Women: Pro and Con, and it was published in 1958 by the Peter Pauper Press, Mount Vernon. No editor is listed.

The foreword suggests that the book presents a balanced view of women because the few quotations that praise women are much more heartfelt than the multitude of sarcastic quotations about women. Well, maybe. At any rate, here are thirteen interesting quotes.

 1. "Never any good came out of female domination. God created Adam master and lord of living creatures, but Eve spoiled all."
-- Martin Luther (1483-1546)

 2. "In the East, women religiously conceal that they have faces; in the West, that they have legs. In both cases they make it evident that they have but little brains."
-- Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

 3. "Women have great talent, but no genius, for they always remain subjective."
-- Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860)

 4."Women are nothing but machines for producing children."
-- Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821)

 5. "Woman's advice has little value, but he who won't take it is a fool."
-- Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616)

 6. "Nature has given women so much power that the law has wisely given her very little."
-- Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)

 7. "If you wish women to love you, be original; I know a man who wore fur boots summer and winter, and women fell in love with him."
-- Anton Chekhov (1860-1904)

 8. "When women love us, they forgive us everything, even our crimes; when they do not love us, they give us credit for nothing, not even our virtues."
-- Honoré de Balzac (1799-1850)

 9. "Take my word for it, the silliest woman can manage a clever man, but it needs a very clever woman to manage a fool."
-- Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

10. "Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade, since it consists principally of dealings with men."
-- Joseph Conrad (1857-1924)

11. "Women, cats and birds are the creatures that waste the most time on their toilets."
--Charles Nodier (1780-1844)

12. "To be beautiful is enough! If a woman can do that well who shall demand more from her? You don't want a rose to sing."
-- William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)

13. "A man is in general better pleased when he has a good dinner than when his wife talks Greek."
-- Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)

Core Values and the Golden Rule

In accord on what's important

Tonight while driving home from work, I heard Jim Bohannon visiting with David Armstrong, president and CEO of Armstrong International and a fifth-generation member of the family that owns the firm. His company specializes in steam, air, and hot water systems and has been doing business for over a century.

Armstrong credits the firm's success and longevity to a corporate culture of honesty, integrity and decency. When they hire an employee, he explained, they consider it more important to find someone who will fit well into their culture than to find someone who has a set of skills that exactly match the job description.

What is the culture of Armstrong International? The company's motto is the Golden Rule: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Every employee must share and live the company's core values; these include honesty, fairness, respect, trust, and faith in God, family, and job. See their website's statement of mission, core values, and guiding principles for more about what they consider important.

I suppose all this traditional morality could get a bit "preachy", but David Armstrong teaches by telling stories, not by lecturing. He believes stories (and their morals) can motivate, strengthen bonds, and convey principles so that a workplace culture is built over time, and its values are internalized and exemplified by every employee.

Armstrong is a motivational speaker, as well as a successful CEO and author. His latest book is Hanging by A Thread : The Erosion of the Golden Rule in America (available at Amazon, Abebooks, and dozens of other places).

The Armstrong International website has a free download (PDF) of a little book of Armstrong company proverbs. You can also read a sampling of David Armstrong's stories at his website and watch video clips from his talks.

For me, it was refreshing to learn about a company whose high standards of conduct have enabled it to persevere and prosper. What a contrast to the sad stories of slipshod, self-centered, reckless business mismanagement that I've heard too often recently.

My Symphony

A life of harmony

To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not, rich; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart; to study hard; to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common -- this is my symphony.

--William Henry Channing (1810-1884)

Today is my 57th birthday. Last night, I came across the words I've quoted above. They seem a good set of principles for my next 57 years (in addition to the Ten Commandments, of course.). The one I'm going to have perpetual trouble with is "hurry never."