A Note to Ted's Kindergarten Teacher . . .
May, 1975
Dear Mrs. Hultquist,
Yesterday morning my son ate an enormous breakfast and subsequently threw it all up. I was faced with the thorny dilemma of deciding whether or not to send the little dear to school - knowing full well that whatever I decided to do would probably be wrong and suspecting strongly that if I sent him to school he would throw up at least three more times all over his books, schoolmates and the carpeting, which would forever endear me to you and Wildewood school.
I elected instead to keep my dear at home -- the upshot of this action being that he started to eat at 9:15 and didn't quit until a quarter to four. 85 cents worth of oranges, $1.05 in cookies, assorted soups and snackies. He tells me this morning that his stomach is not feeling too well. I've decided you can have him today -- I can't afford him.
Disneyland
January, 1994
As a volunteer for my Sorority, I'm occasionally required to travel. Last week, I went to our International Headquarters in Denver for a meeting.
Sunday came, our meeting was over, so we packed our bags and headed for the airport and home. It was snowing. Not much, just enough to delay our flights by half an hour or so. With time to kill, we sought out a friendly site and availed ourselves of the hospitality.
At 12:15, my friend Pat said casually, "Sharon, don't you think you should check your flight time? While your at it, would you check mine, too?" It seemed like a good idea, so I headed off to find the departure board. To my absolute horror, the monitor said that the flight was on time, departing at 12:26. Being a good friend, I took a second to check Pat's departure time, then raced back to grab my baggage, tell Pat she was leaving at 1:20 and say "good bye". I ran as fast as age, baggage and traffic would allow -- noting as I passed, a clock, that said the time was 12:23. I knew I'd never make it, but I could see the waiting plane, so I kept running. Arriving at the gate, I found no ticket agent. Nor was there a destination or departure time listed. I raced down the jet way and encountered the flight attendants standing at the door. One of them was on the phone, trying to get updated departure information. Another glanced up at me and said, "Just have a seat anywhere". I went to my assigned seat and stowed my gear. Seconds after I sat down, the door closed and the plane started to pull away from the terminal. I'd made it! Relief settled in, and my heart rate began to return to normal.
We'd been in the air for 45 minutes or so when the captain came on to give the usual mid-flight information. The sound systems are so poor on planes, the noise so loud and they talk so fast that I can rarely understand anything that's said. However, one bit of information did come through quite clearly. He said the temperature on landing would be 64 degrees. I thought to myself, this guy is some joker. The temperature at home had not -- and was not -- going to crack zero for days. Deciding to check it out, I made my way forward to question the stewardess. One thing led to another and I heard myself asking, "Where, exactly is this plane going?" She replied: "Ontario, California"! I started to giggle. How could I, a consummately responsible person, have made so stupid a mistake? Still giggling, I returned to my seat to ponder this question while the stewardess went forward to contact the people necessary to straighten it out and GET ME HOME. I searched my purse for my ticket and found the boarding envelope. It said "Gate 17". How could this be? I'd gotten on the plane at Gate 17! The stewardess returned, interrupted yet another giggling fit and pointed out that the envelope I was holding was the one from Omaha to Denver, NOT Denver to Omaha. In my haste, I'd read the wrong envelope for gate information. It was either that, or the fact that Omaha and Ontario are right next to each other on the departure screen or my friend Pat's departure time caused information overload, that accounted for the error -- I'll never know which. She said that the plane would do a turn around and fly back to Denver almost immediately. No problem. I'd be home that night -- just later than planned. I contented myself with that and the giggles abated.
We landed and everyone -- except me -- got off. Searching the stewardess' face to detect her mood, I said, in my best Oliver Twist voice, "Please ma'am, can I get off the plane and call my husband to tell him what's happened?" She said nothing, just glared at me. I pressed my case, "he'll be worried" -- still nothing -- and I grew bolder, "I'll only be a minute, I really do have to let him know." Sensing that I was determined to prevail, she reluctantly agree and said, "but be right back, because we're leaving in a few minutes."
I scampered off the plane, asked directions to the nearest pay phone and hurried off, only to find a woman using it. Her conversation went on and on as I stood, first on one foot, then the other -- all the while never taking my eyes off the plane. At last, she hung up and I called my husband, affectionately known in our family as The Big Guy. The giggles returned as I explained my situation. I assured him that I would be leaving shortly and would call him from Denver. I returned to the gate, only to find it closed and locked, with nary a soul in sight. Certain that the plane would be pulling away from the gate momentarily, I grabbed an officious look passerby and explained my dilemma. "Too bad", he replied. "Ever been to Disneyland?" After the shock of his question faded, I replied, "No, why?" He answered, "It's just a half an hour or so down the road. You should ask the airline to put you up overnight for your inconvenience and go for a visit." I looked him in the eye and said, "I like the way you think."
The giggles had returned. As I think about it now, I was acting a lot like Herbert Lom in the "Return of the Pink Panther" just before he shot off the end of his nose with a gun he thought was a cigarette lighter.
I made my way to the ticket counter and, between giggles, pled my case. The ticket agent listened, then asked dully, "When do you want to return?" Like a shot, I fired back, "Tuesday morning!"
Quicker than you can say "Jet Lag", I was standing in front of the car rental lady, telling my story and asking where she would suggest visiting in the time that remained of the day. "Newport Beach", she answered. Sounded good to me. To the beach!!
I stopped briefly at the hotel to check in, toss my stuff in the room and call The Big Guy. He sounded worried and I can understand why. I was all but hysterical. I couldn't complete a sentence without giggling. I promised him I'd call when I got back that night -- and set off.
Directions were good, freeway traffic wasn't too bad and I quickly found myself driving like a native -- doing about 80. The fact that, at regular intervals, cops had people pulled over, didn't seem to slow traffic one iota. I decided that it's a "sardine" mentality -- most are going to escape the piranha, so no one sweats it.
Newport Beach was wonderful. The buildings are charming, the path along the beach perfect for an afternoon stroll and the sight of a two masted wooden sailing ship coming into port at sunset unforgettable. I found a picturesque restaurant and had a delectable salmon dinner. I lingered as long as I though prudent, then headed back. And got lost. It was the "To Los Angeles" or "To Riverside" fork in the road that screwed me up -- the signs gave no highway number. But the weather was perfect and I'd found a great "oldies" station, so I just kind of worked my way around, coming in the back way. I reported in to The Big Guy and collapsed into bed.
At 4:33 a.m., I was roused by the shaking of the bed. I'm not a person who can come to instant wakefulness. In my stupor, I sat on the edge of the bed, and, as it shook, tried to decide whether to behave like a Nebraskan and go look out the window, or a Californian and go stand under a door frame. They say it lasted for 10 seconds, but don't you believe it. I sat up, had the befogged debate with myself and finally thought "I really do want it to quit now", before it finally did -- at least 45 seconds worth of activity. Afterward, I couldn't think of anything else to do, so I tried to go back to sleep (I didn't want to be tired at Disneyland), but the regular aftershocks made that all but impossible. The Big Guy called at 7 and asked frantically, "Are you O.K.?" I replied, "There was an earthquake!"
The trip to and from Anaheim was uneventful, although I held my breath as I went over and under bridges -- and I will admit to driving through a long tunnel at a very high rate of speed, saying "Hail, Marys" all the way -- and I'm not Catholic.
The aftereffects of earthquakes are not all negative. Disneyland's gate was down by half on Monday, I heard an official explain to a man as I was leaving at the end of a day that has a special place in my "Book of Memories". The weather was perfect -- 75 degrees, sunny and cloudless. There were no lines, no waiting for any rides. I got to see Mickey and the sight of Goofy being hugged by so many little rug rats that he looked like a sucker covered with ants was worth the price of admission.
Before retiring, I set the clock in my room, placed a wake up call, set the alarm on my watch and asked The Big Guy to call me. I made it to the airport with time to spare and enjoyed an uneventful flight home. I giggled only 3 or 4 times.
As I write this, I'm reminded of the times I've tried to convince women to become involved in the Sorority, by explaining that there are benefits to be gained that they can't even imagine. Little did I know that one of them could be Disneyland.
Carpe Diem!
Mom
July 22, 1996
Norma Lee Patten and her twin brother, Harold Lee were born on October 19, 1915 in Franklin County, Kansas. They were the first children of Clinton and Mary Anna Patten.
The babies contracted the measles in February, 1916. In a display of grit and determination that was to characterize her life, Norma Lee survived the illness that claimed the life of her brother on March 5, 1916. It's been said that a special bond exists between twins. Norma Lee displayed it often, referring to him as "my little twin". It is fitting that she has returned to this place to be finally and eternally reunited with him.
Her sister, Lillian Belle and brother, Frank Elmer, were also born in this area. In early 1922, the family moved to Atwood, in western Kansas. For many years, their father operated the bakery there.
Norma Lee married Fred Theodore Witt in the living room of the Patten home on June 6, 1937. Three children were born of this union: Sharon Lee, George Clinton and Fred Theodore, Jr.
Norma Lee was a loving and tolerant mother. She encouraged imagination and allowed the children the freedom to explore their worlds. She gave them the opportunity to become responsible adults. She had total faith in her kids and, although her relationship with George suffered a hiccup when he was forced to deprive her of her car keys, she generally believed that they could do no wrong.
She endured the depression and dust storms that plagued western Kansas in the thirties. Surviving the privations of the period seemed to imbue in her a special appreciation for the good life.
That she was a thinker was demonstrated by her keen sense of priority:
She loved: her family, red clothing, high heeled shoes, all babies, good company, anything that sparkled, Santa Claus, her grandma's chicken and noodles, the daily newspaper, Big Red Football, and nickel slot machines.
She hated: rules, balancing checkbooks, water, flat heeled shoes, physical therapy, ugly reality and anything that smacked of weakness.
She cooked some things better than anyone who ever lived: roast beef, brown potatoes, carrots and gravy, vegetable soup, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, rice pudding, imaginary cheese sandwiches, chocolate cupcakes with prunes, oatmeal chocolate chip cookies seasoned with nutmeg (only Norma Lee would think to add prunes to cupcakes or nutmeg to chocolate chips). She made double batches of oatmeal cookies which were so enticing that more often than not, the dough didn't make it to the oven. The cookies always included raisins even when she knew that they would be picked out, one by one and fed to the dog.
She tolerated: large dogs who ate her fried chicken, children's projects, and fish being fried in the house.
She accumulated umbrellas, shoes, raincoats, and used envelopes.
She never complained.
She always voted.
Norma Lee was easily the most unforgettable person we have ever known. God had a special place in his heart for her. We comfort ourselves with the knowledge that she is happy to be at peace at home at last with God, the Father who loved and understood her.
We thank God for her life and rejoice in her memory.
Our prayer is for her eternal rest.
A Letter to Mike Royko
June 15, 1994
Dear Mike Royko,
The Morsbach case moved me to write. Not about this situation, but another. I've wanted to for a long time but haven't, the excuse being that I didn't have your address. By publishing it at the end of the recent editorial on Mr. Morsbach's plight, you removed my reason for not taking care of an article of unfinished business.
For fifteen years I was a substitute teacher. A largely thankless job, but because it suited the demands of my life, I stayed at it. I went into teaching originally because I had an urge to make a difference. As a substitute those opportunities presented rarely, but I tried to remain alert and capitalized when they did.
One day I was filling in for a Consumer Skills teacher. The students, all high school juniors, were in a rare communicative mood. One asked, "We've noticed that you always have a newspaper. What do you read?" Seizing the moment, I reviewed the divisions of a paper, ending with the editorial page. I asked if they had ever read an editorial. None of them had. I said, "Do you mean to tell me that you've never read Mike Royko?" All shook their heads "No". As luck would have it, I was scheduled to be with them the next day. That night, I found my copy of "SEZ WHO? SEZ ME!", and selected several of your better (in my humble opinion) efforts. I could hardly wait for class. I told them a little bit about you, then started to read. Believe me, it was not easy. Gripped by fits of laughter, with tears streaming down my face, I struggled through two or three stories. I came up for air to find a sea of stony faces staring back at me. They didn't think you were funny. (It couldn't have been my presentation.) I sighed, put the book away, gave them their assignment and returned to reading my paper, feeling once again that I had "fired and fallen back".
A year or so later, one of the girls from that class came up and asked me if she could borrow part of my paper. I asked what part (silly question, the answer was always the sports page). To my complete amazement, she asked for the section that had the editorials. When I regained the power of speech, I said, "You read the editorial page?" She answered, "Since you subbed in that class last year, a group of us always read Mike Royko".
Maybe I did make a difference. So do you, Mike Royko. You make us laugh and keep us honest. Please take very good care of yourself. We want you to be at it for a long, long time.
Christmas, 1993
The highlight of the year was rooted in the snowstorm which took place on April 21, 1992. After the storm, the city maintenance crew came around and scooped the snow into a giant pile in the middle of our circle. We decided to make the best of a bad situation by wagering on the date of the pile's demise. The neighbors got together, pitched in quarters and "bought" days, elected pile judges and established ground rules (driving over the pile to hasten it's departure was forbidden, etc.) We had a great time watching it shrink as the weather warmed. The three official judges performed their jobs diligently and, flashlights in hand, all agreed that it was in fact "officially gone" at about five minutes to midnight one fine evening in May.
Last winter, we actually look forward to snow. Nature obliged, and we had a large pile by mid-January. Neighbors, hangers-on and other pigeons willing to put-their-money-where-there-mouth-is met, angled for the "best" days, elected "Official Pile Judges" (bribing voters was declared permissible) and sat back to await spring. Because the pile came into being early and we were optimistic (to say nothing of greedy), the earliest "Gone" date was March 1 and the last, June 1 - truly a pot worth winning! It continued to snow -- and the pile continued to grow. Larger and larger, as storm after storm increased its height and widened its base. By late February, excitement was at a fever pitch as the beginning date of the countdown approached.
And then the City of Ralston did something totally unexpected. On the first of March, crews roared into the circle with a front end loader and a dump truck and took the pile away!
Christmas, 1999
. . . In honor of the occasion, I’ve decided to “dress” our Christmas table. I got the idea from watching one of those home channels. The guy told me I could do it – and I believed him. His tables were gorgeous. How hard could it be?
These projects always begin with a trip to the nearest Hobby Lobby store. Once there, you stand shoulder to shoulder with other hard-eyed ladies staring at banks of “silk” (I use the term loosely) flowers, leaves, garlands and assorted ribbons, plastic nuts, berries, and seasonal items. If you stand there long enough and concentrate hard enough (the real reason that ladies enroll in yoga classes), inspiration will strike and good stuff will end up in your shopping cart. If you don’t drink too much coffee before you go and refuse to think while you’re there, it’s a fairly painless process. The greatest risk is the “glitter factor”. It’s virtually impossible to emerge from Hobby Lobby without being dusted – touch anything and you’ve got gold glitter on your clothing, face, hair – you name it. When your teeth sparkle, you’ve been there too long.
I ended up with two huge sacks, which I brought home and dumped on the table. I pinned back my bangs, rolled up my sleeves and went at it. Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to know how many combinations I tried. Who knew that bogus greenery could be so entertaining? In the end, I hauled out my old candlesticks, and arranged them on what looks to be a highly flammable piece of gold gauze. Not to worry – I have it covered. There will be glasses of water on the table, which will be protected by plastic. It should be a wonderful meal.
Christmas, 2003
I love to receive photos in Christmas Cards. Last Christmas, we received several that were simply gorgeous. As I stared at them, the belief in me grew -- this was something I could do! Moreover, with just a little organization, I could have the whole project wrapped up by the end of August, leaving the month of December free from the usual what-am-I-going-to-do-about-the-Christmas-cards angst. A picture of Tad and me and the kids . . . what a plan!
Since we gather for my birthday in July, it seemed the perfect time to set up the camera and get it done. I announced that the dishing of the ice cream would begin as soon as the picture was taken. I fluffed my hair, checked my basic black for baby urp and took my place next to the big guy on the glider on the patio. We sat there alone, waiting for the capture of the little people, who had scattered to the four winds at the mention of the word “picture”. July. Afternoon. Nebraska. Droplets of sweat . . . trickle. Two, then three, quickly followed by four -- caught and positioned. Only Max was still resisting. Dave had him in a headlock, trying to reason with him . . . river. Screaming. Escape. Chase. Bulldogged . . . drenched. With my hair plastered to my head and my natural beauty in puddles, I called a halt to the proceedings.
Plan B. Halloween would be good. All the little hawn-yocks (phonetic spelling of a Czech word, not unlike bohunks. A friend’s grandma used to call them prohufkas. A mouse is mushka, but we don’t have those anymore, so never mind.) attired in their costumes – what could be cuter? Hair fluffed – basic black – everyone in position – not one, but three cameras snapping away – this was too easy. I looked great! Best pictures taken of me in 30 years! But Natalie was hitting Max. Eli had a foot in Tad’s chest, trying to discover what was on the other side of the Grandpa. Thomas, sitting in the middle, dressed in his Ninja costume, looked like a burqa-clad Afghani woman with two little eyes peering out, while Drew was turned, watching it all in wonder.
Plan C. Thanksgiving. They would be loggy from the turkey. Plop them on the steps and get the snap before they woke up. This time, I, cursed by the perm-from-heck, and thus eliminated from any and all photo ops, would be the cameraman. One – two – three – four. They came. They sat. No Max.
It was Tina who put me out of my misery by suggesting that I simply place individual photos of each of them on the front of the card.
But I’m sure I can get it done next year.