"OLD ROCKIN' CHAIR'S GOT ME....!"

One fine day soon, I will unwrap my new solar calculator and figure out the exact number of days I have been "on board" this globe-shaped "Wonderful World!" from my 1925's cradle to my newly-upholstered rockin' chair. A fair amount by anyone's counting!

The second thought that pops into mind, as I sit in my Office Depot ergonomic computer chair, is.."it's not about the days that are important, it's THOSE UNFORGETTABLE PEOPLE who have crawled into, strode or walked beside (or over! - like in "intimidated"), lovingly cajoled or praised, shared a hearty laugh (yes, this has happened) or a Kleenex at a grave site, who have made indelible impressions upon this Soul my big brother, Dutch, dubbed "Betts" in his censored letters from Germany during World War II at the time of the Battle of the Bulge.

Contrary to the above convoluted statement, it was I who "was conceived, birthed and crawled" into the lives and times of the Cranston Family when Dutch was all of ten years of age. Now, I have heard enough family stories to know that raising three rambunctious boys in those ten years was enough to "feel blessed" to have a baby girl arrive at 210 Birch in 1925. Girls are so much easier to raise, right? Not! Watching three brothers "tangle" (and I have pictures to prove that they did) only served as inspiration to become a "tomboy" of the first order (and I did!). It became a matter of survival at times to keep up with, or out of the way of, the other kids in the neighborhood. But,I digress...this is about Dutch.

Dutch was the brother who first noticed my ineptitude for dancing (this was before our acquaintance with two of the world-famous Seven Spies Sisters) and made it his business that I should learn how to do The Two Step or The Fox Trot on the worn linoleum floor of the family kitchen. My recollection today is that I was "tippy-toed" on Dutch's shoes, being twirled around at a dizzying pace to the Polka tunes of Lawrence Welk and His Orchestra, broadcasting directly from Yankton, South Dakota. Did I become an accomplished dancer because of my brother's endeavors? Noooo! But I did become his "slave" and learned to do a great job in ironing his white shirts on "date" nights! (An early example of my excellent "bartering" skills!)

Dutch was the one who noticed early on that I was a hopeless nail-biter and took action one Christmas morn to gift me with a beauty of a nail-care set from his meager earnings as a teenage wage-earner. His psychology worked!

Dutch was the brother who entered Military Service before Pearl Harbor Day in 1941, and it was he with whom I walked east on Third Street on his way to Fort Des Moines to begin his years of service. We parted company on Main Street when I headed for High School and my Sophomore year, proud and broken-hearted at the same time. Not known then, of course, but Dutch was bound for several battlefronts including the Battle of the Bulge with his Ambulance Maintenance Division, picking up several medals for heroism on his way back to 210 Birch.

In Atlantic during those early years, a loud, almost mournful sound that came from not a bell or a whistle but some other machination located near the center of town, alerted towns-people of the imminent danger of a tornado passing close by or to summon the volunteer firemen and others to fight a house fire or the Court House fire of 1932, for example. It was a sound like no other and, literally, stopped people in their tracks until telephone calls were made to City Hall to find out what was going on.

It was Summertime, 1931, school was out and there was much to do in our small town of 5,000 plus inhabitants. The Grant School was located just across the alley from my home, and we were encouraged to "stay out of trouble" by using all the great playground equipment available to us during Recess when school was in session...swings, teeter-totters, monkey bars, shooting baskets, jump ropes and then, there was the usual fishing and swimming in the murky waters of a nearby pond to the north of our neighborhood. To escape the heat of a humid and unbearable summer day, the boys would head for the pond for a day of playing Tarzan (no Jane's allowed), grabbing an extended branch of a nearby tree and dropping unceremoniously into the waters in the most dare-devilish ways. (I was fully occupied with dressing and undressing my Shirley Temple paper cut-outs and whipping all my little girl friends in serious games of Jax.)

Across the street from our house lived the Clanton Family: Mom and Dad and four (maybe five) young boys. Jimmy was my playmate and classmate in the Kindergarten year we had just finished. Our lives were intertwined from daybreak to dusk and he was often the "target" of my tomboyish ways. His unkempt blond hair, sometimes ragtag shirt and trousers, impish grin brings to mind "urchin" but only in the most adorable sense of the word. Buddies...as only six-year-old kids can be!

It was about 11:30 a.m. on another hot summer day when that most mournful of all sound hushed all household activity. Running up the alley at the edge of our property were three boys screaming loudly that "One of the Cranston boys had drowned!"  Not true, as Dutch, Perle and Kenny were seated at the kitchen table and Ben was due to come home with Dad for the noon meal.

Instead, it was little Jimmy Clanton who had perished. It was unbelievably true...

When I am rockin' away these days and contemplating some of the "whys" of all those yesterdays, the "target" of my childhood affection yet with that same "urchin" appeal, hair that still needs combing, face that is adorned with Grant School playground dirt and an impish grin, visits my thoughts and joins me in a make-believe game of Hide and Seek, Run Sheep Run, messing with fireflies that shouldn't be flying that low and I brush away a tear for my pure and lovely friend...little Jimmy Clanton.

"COME RAIN...OR COME SHINE!"

Top Picture:  Peggy, Betty, Ellie, Lena, Lyn, Teresa, Shirley
Middle Picture:  Joe, Eddie, Betty, Carl
Bottom Picture:  Earl, Carl, John, Bill, Betty, Jerry and Sandie


As a slightly gullible and innocent wee lass growing up in the corn belt state of Iowa during the Depression Years, I heard often a phrase from adult lips that held admonishment and fervor of a quality that grabbed my short adolescent attention span, mostly because the words bespoke of a "forbidden fruit" existence that would, one day, entice post-puberty persons and that was..."Nice people do NOT frequent pool halls, beer joints, gambling houses (plus something softly muttered about a house of 'ill-repute') and, lastly, bowling alleys!"

And so it wasn't until I was a community-property owner of "5529" that I took up one of the four (okay...five!) named above, bowling, and discovered that "some of my best friends are bowlers!" 60 years later (and I am still counting) bowling with some 120 Seniors every Tuesday and Thursday at Action Lanes in El Monte, California, is a full-blown adventure the minute I hit the front door of this Alley within-driving distance of my 'umble 'ome. Truly, at my current great age when aromas are less fragrant and Jill-be-Nimble fingers aren't, I am gleefully delighted when the key to my locker works on the first try and the smell of freshly-brewed coffee permeates the designated area which has become my comfort zone two days a week. Perfection would be served if "home style buttermilk donuts" frames replaced the traditional "beer" frames, but that ain't gonna happen anytime soon, now is it?

Seniors who have traveled every journeyed path prior to retirement congregate on a daily basis at bowling alleys across the nation; and there is no doubt that the dedicated bowler in Atlantic, Iowa suffers the same confliction as the bowler who obsesses on properly-knotted shoestrings on properly-powdered bowling shoes some two thousand miles away in my sunny Southern California "sanctuary." It is not the so-called "misery" that loves company as we have been led to believe for lo, these many years. It is the bowler who knows deep down that the next game will be the all-important 300 game and craves the presence of a League of Bowlers to witness this highest of achievements in bowling circles. This expectation is not to be underestimated...and when it does happen, there is a celebratory atmosphere worthy of any Scratch League performance. Most days, the final scores of these Seniors who come for exercise, fellowship, constructive criticism and kudos, of which there are plenty to go around, reflect a slightly-smug attitude of "nothing to it!" Scoring 300 pins in "No Tap" Play can be child's play for some of the more experienced bowlers while neophytes are lauded and appreciated for their handsome and most welcomed handicaps. "It's the pin action" as the most modest of keglers will say after the applause and back-slapping have ceased. (It's a "virtue" I want!)

Senior bowling has enhanced the lives and health of these "young at heart" who ignore, for the most part, the aches and pains that are alleviated by an early-morning, full-body-rub-down with Aspercreme or Blue Emu. Magnetic wraps are good, too, but have been known to wipe out credit cards which could prove to be embarrassing when treating the gang at the nearest Krispy Kreme hangout. Revered, along with the day's high game and prize money, is the socializing that goes on amongst the citizenry. Latest remedies, including the highly popular VicksVapoRub treatment for most every condition except labor pains and the newest, Castiva, made out of castor oil and other by-products purchased at better drugstores everywhere, are discretely discussed. Occasionally, tender friendships are developed that help to reduce the heartaches that come into the lives of these truly Golden Seniors, a prescription that the local pharmacist cannot fill, even with Medicare.

Still experiencing a deeply-ingrained sense of post-adolescent curiosity, I recently conducted a spontaneous survey pertaining to the "earning quarters" years of my fellow guys-and-dolls bowlers. Small talk is permitted when bowling, of course, but "What did you do before you retired?" hooked the interest of some who eagerly responded. Impressive, outstanding, you're kidding, and you didn't!..all descriptive of vocations held during those pre-Social Security years by some of my "new best friends." I knew not, until I asked, that two bowlers celebrated their 90th birthdays and seem to be improving with age, which gives me great hope. One of these two is a former Big Band-type orchestra leader and a former member of the Los Angeles symphony orchestra in his salad days. (Only today, Joe lifted his experienced baton arm and I got the nicest hug you can ever imagine!) The widow of "Pickles" Gerken, a major league baseball player out of Chicago who played against the likes of Babe Ruth and Joe DiMaggio, as center fielder for the Cleveland Indians and the Milwaukee Brewers in the early 1930's, loves to take a spin around the ballroom still and was my teammate for several years.

Even President Dwight Eisenhower did not know that his cousin, two times removed, personally installed the hand-sewn carpet in Ike's personal cabin space on Air Force One; and as his cousin was telling me.."When one looked at the carpet at floor level, it appeared that the carpet 'actually swayed'". Still taking pride in his craftmanship, my bowling buddy spoke the names of Gene Kelly, Dorothy Dandridge, Anne Francis, Dolly Parton and "The Rifleman" (Chuck Conners) as carpet clients and has promised unpublished stories of sometimes "contrary" celebrities as league season continues. Can hardly wait! This Blog will "scoop" the National Enquirer, and you will have read it here first!

Smiles broadened as tidbits were shared around the anchored tables. Past achievements were met with "oohs" and "ahhhs"; like when the willowy grandmother told of her employment as a matron/guard at the famous Taycheedah, Wisconsin Women's State Prison from which the infamous "Bambi" escaped some years ago..but not on her watch! The Explorer was sent into orbit via JPL and the General Dynamics' Red Eye Project completed under the watchful eye of yet another of our "senior doll" playmates, a research engineer. The Industrial Arts school teacher and a former cosmetologist, each now an owner of a local restaurant, the secretary to a concert pianist, the L.A. Registrar of Voters, the used car dealer (honest as can be as a score keeper!) the World War II veterans, the gateman at Santa Anita Race Track, CEO's of our communities' financial institutions are but a few of the many who comprise competitive groups of three or four, determined to cross off any day's little annoyances but not over the foul line on any of the 32 lanes at Action Lane.

Culled from those designing and installing carpets to exploring outer space, from those driving big rigs, Greyhounds and school buses to typing church bulletins, from those milking cows to composing advertising to sell that milk, from those heading up port security to professional boxing, from those pioneering in the computer/geek category to medical technicians, from those shepherding actors and actresses during performances at the local community theaters to rounding up bowlers for the semi-annual jaunts to Las Vegas, from those in the news media to beer brewers, this most-senior population at Action Lanes has regenerated a zest and enthusiasm for this once-dwindling participatory sport.  Again, unforgettable guys and dolls!

The unparalleled joy of seeing a string of strikes on the animated electronic scoreboard lives on long after the dinner dishes are done, the garbage can lids resettled (and tied because of the recent bear-in-the-backyard explosion) and the porch lights turned off at the end of one fine day. That same unrelenting joy remains strong harboring the unspoken thought that the next time the 7-10 split pops up....well, anything's possible. As we are pointedly admonished to do so by that young whippersnapper, 60-ish Dennis Hopper in a recent television commercial, this truly-experienced generation does take unbridled delight in pursuing our dreams in these years of retirement, the possibility of picking up that improbable split is what gets us out of bed and to the Alley on time for a few practice balls...in the lyrical words of another "Golden Oldie"..."come rain or come shine!"

(This story is written in loving tribute to my sister, Trudy, one of the better bowlers ever to grace the state and national league play. I am still in awe of this woman who played well into her years of macular degeneration in Des Moines league play. Way to go, Sis!)

Pictured are just a handful of those with whom I bowl on Tuesday morning and Thursday afternoon. My "new best friends" are witty, great cookie-bakers, can be grouchy/lovable, dependable, and "forgiving" ... that last one is really important! :) They make my day/s!

"SECULAR...OR SPIRITUAL?"

(In this picture, taken ca December, 1930-33, Mom is the shortest dark-haired person in the top row. "Tootie" and "Tiny" of the Swimming Pool Incident are sitting on the ground in front of 210 Birch. I was probably in the kitchen licking the frosting off her cake! Festivities were enjoyed by Mayme's sisters and neighborhood cronies!)

On November 17, 2009, at 7:39 a.m., I experienced what might be called a "secular" Epiphany. Webster says an "Epiphany" is a "spiritual event in which the essence of a given object of manifestation appears to the subject, as in a sudden flash of recognition." I'll let you be the judge if my "experience" should be upgraded...

November 17 was a Tuesday, usually reserved for bowling at nearby Action Lanes; however, a plea to drive my bowling partner and her husband to the doctor's office for a blood transfusion/check up for Jim was my first priority. In order to do this "act of kindness" (leaving out Oprah's favorite word "random") I, first, had to get my own body into gear and that meant putting on a fresh face, using a magnifying mirror to hit the high and low spots. A magnifying mirror is a wonderful asset for applying eyeliner, but it is one of the scariest bathroom accessories known to womankind everywhere! It is downright painful to notice a new "line of distinction" (formerly called a wrinkle) cropping up where there used to be "taut" and unblemished skin not that long ago. I admire Dame Elizabeth Taylor for her love for dogs and for her adamant proclamation that she is "one broad" proud of every one of her wrinkles as she earned them the "hard way"...by aging naturally! Not every woman I know will admit that, even to herself. (My big blunder came when I ordered the 12X powered mirror instead of a 3x powered mirror from QVC!) (And, one day I am going to explore why I continue to quote Dame Taylor when our core values are not that close, but that is another story, right?)

As I studied those lines and had pondered enough to realize I had reached an age that my Mom had reached in 1967, my mind was awashed in that "sudden flash of recognition." And this begins the "point" of my story today.

Long ago and far away (like 75 years ago and 2,000 miles away) I was an innocent and unpretentious kid who was pretty much into wood burning sets, building snow forts in the back yard and tying and untying Mom's apron strings when she was cooking in the kitchen...stuff like homemade dumplings, noodles, donuts, ice cream, pies and the most delicious dark brown/almost black chocolate cake topped with warm apricot sauce and whipped cream.

She and Dad were top-notch parents in every department, except they were so....OLD!

My Mom was 42 and Dad was 53 when I was delivered into their well-ordered lives (at the time) but you already know that. My classmates, from the first day of Kindergarten to when I started having these covetous thoughts, had YOUNG parents. To top it off, my parents had two grandsons older than I...I promise you this is not going to turn into a "pity party," simply background noise, and I will say upfront that everyone should have had a childhood like I did in those simpler times when the livin' was easy! Well, there could have been more presents under the tree at Christmas Time but there was a Depression going on. At least the cupboard at 210 Birch was not bare and our tummies were full...dumplings, noodles, donuts...you know!

Flash forward...and OLDER still, but by High School age, I had come to realize that what my "aged" parents lacked in youth, they were more than blessed with the patience, the time and the pride that comes from watching their kid/s do well in school under difficult circumstances...good students, better-than-good athletes, all-around great kids, those Cranston Kids. (This from the mouth of Miss Alma Beckwith, my homeroom teacher...I loved that woman!) My Mom was 60 years old and My Dad was 71 years of age when I was graduated with the Class of 1943...I credit them with any success that I may have had in the educational system. During this time, they carried the extra burden of knowing their four sons in the service during World War II faced the possibility of not coming home from the farflung battlefields. My Dad passed away from a long bout with cancer in 1945 and my Mom in a car accident in 1980 at the age of 97. Yes, the four sons (Ben, Dutch, Perle and Kenny) returned and produced another generation.

There really are two points to this story: here's the other one, and it carries a special kind of humorous twist that will tickle my kind of reader/person...

Dana, you know of her from Facebook, Hockey, Soccer, PTA, USC fame, and our youngest daughter, was born when I was 43 years of age. (Can't you just hear George and Mayme chortling from Somewhere on High?) The tables had been turned on Moi... beautifully and to my complete wonderment! From her Kindergarten Days to High School, Dana had "old" parents in comparison to her classmates but, as far as I know, she has never once mentioned she wished she had "younger" parents. As we did with her older brother and sister, Dennis and Mary, we did our best to help her with homework (though the new math system and vocabulary was "beyond" beyond) had the wisdom of the "aged" to give her enough rope to swing, but not hang, and had the courage to say "No" when the circumstances dictated that we should. With the help of a very special person in our lives...Ms. Sandra Ragusa of Arroyo High School band fame...Dana managed to overcome her basic shyness to be "centerstage," putting on a rather skimpy Flashranker uniform to prance down the main streets of a number of cities in sunny Southern California to compete in Band Festivals and State Tournaments and at football games. When she, as Head Flashranker, and Drum Major Mike Boore (also of Facebook fame and, now, a CHP Motorcycle Office of some repute) paced that top-ranked Band down the streets, as Band Chaperones, Vicki Boore and I just looked at one another and grinned! (I more out of breath than Mike's Mom.)

When Dana was graduated in 1987, I was 62, her Dad 63, and no one noticed or cared one whit. That's the way it should be. If I had a personal creed, it would be that: One should never consider oneself, or allow oneself to be considered, "too aged" whether it be the workplace, on Facebook, or at home raising another "greatest" generation. Before one starts thinking it's time to climb aboard that "cake of ice" which the Eskimos considered a final resting place for their loved ones before shoving them on their way, even if ever so gently, perhaps it's time to start contemplating what Wendell Berry once penned: "It may be, when we no longer know what it is we have to do, that our greatest and most important work has just begun." This is especially important when that daunting Golden Age is upon us!

And I will say...Simply taking up space on this Planet Earth is not my idea of making a contribution. Not important is how many calendars we have tossed away on a yearly basis (I must admit that I did keep my Cowboy Calendar given to me by a good friend in Texas, who nattily wears a cowboy hat most of the time) but how we fill those blank daily spaces on a monthly basis in whatever capacity/blessings we have been given. But, do yourself a big favor, count your blessings before tossing/recycling your 2009 calendar this December 31st. Count them one by one!

If it takes a good long look into your magnifying mirror to get on with the Rest (Best?) of Your Life, then peer with all your might! I would also say: "Elizabeth Taylor, it would seem that you, in this Season of your life and from what I have read on your Twitter page, have managed to get the most important part of your "act" together. I salute you,in the broadest, most melodious and affectionate sense of the word... there is nothing like a Dame!"

"NOW THAT WE'RE EIGHTY!"

These light-hearted words were written by "your very own unpublished writer" a few years back to celebrate the 62nd Reunion of Atlantic High School's Class of 1943 held in 2005.

The Theme/Menu/Music was "Keep It Simple But Keep It Country!" but, officially, it was "Now That We're Eighty!" It's downright remarkable how much fun a bunch of "old fogeys" can have when throwing off the "shackles" of decorum, good taste, and don't ever let the kids find out! So, here are the words and if you can come up with some toe-tapping melody to make these words worthy of a "label," well, heck, we could retire to a life of hoe-downs and barbecues until we are ready for that "Big Round Up in the Sky!" You all may be not ready for this, but here goes! :)

NOW THAT WE'RE EIGHTY...

Now that we're Eighty, our lives have turned mild
We've finally grown up, and better not riled.
We'll answer to no one, the oldsters all smiled
Except to one call...the "Call of the Wild!"

Chorus:
Let's "Yippee-Ky-Aye" and boot scoot just right
To the lure of the Country and songs of the night.
Lasso your Partner but, please, hold on tight
Remember, we're Eighty with two "left feet" not so light.

Now that we're Eighty, with the "zip" running out
Let's embrace this Season, 'cause it's time to shout
For the good times, the bad times, what Life's all about
And celebrate Friends, Love, "Stuff" not to doubt.

Chorus:
So "Yippee-Ky-Aye" and boot scoot just right
To the lure of the Country and songs of the night.
Lasso your Partner, but, please, hold on tight
Remember, we're Eighty with two "left feet" not so light.


P.S. I can picture in my mind's eye, someone like Western Singers Gary Allen, Tim and Faith McGraw, Garth Brooks, Alan Jackson or mebbe even Vince Gill, plunking away on their own guitars, "tweeking" these words I so struggled with putting down on paper some four years ago....this ain't easy, you know, turning my "baby" over to complete strangers the ilk of those named above! Then, again, there is that "youngun" by the name of Swift....

And Happy Trails to you...until we meet again!

"Do SOMETHING Sublimely Silly Every Day...!"

A picture is worth 1,000 words...or so the pundits keep telling us, and I have found that to be generally true in most cases. But, I have this deep-down feeling, I HAD BETTER FIND 1,000 WORDS TO EXPLAIN THIS PICTURE TO MY THREE KIDS!

You have read of my fascination for cowboy boots from previous "Blogs." One of my "silliest" moments happened during one of my years in High School when I wore my precious brown, serviceable boots at the "try-outs" for Cheerleader. If anything tied me to the ground in executing a "leap" for the judges, it was those doggone boots...those and Gravity! Others with more vocal and busty talents were chosen, and I retreated to the gymnasium for more basketball-shooting practice, hitting the books and writing the Humor Column for The Needle.

Ardie Anderson Hanson, a childhood friend and great Cheerleader, said at the last Reunion that she remembered me mostly for my love for "boots" and Milk Duds during all of our friendship. I remembered her as "vivacious and loquacious"...requisites for being one of the cutest Cheerleaders AHS ever had! (Ardie never responds to e-mails, but I am going to make durn sure she hears about this "Blog!"...one way or the other!)

Anywaaaay...about this picture! The Gold Coast Senior Bowling League of which there are 80-plus strong, including Moi, was spending three days in Vegas completing the Season with a Tournament of sorts. (Earlier, I won $10.00 in doubles with Mike Diaz, a heavy winner.) Jack and Jan, in small talk over the TGIF dinner I told you about a minute ago, and I joked about my having a picture taken with any cowboys we could round up without too much glaring attention from the assembled gamblers or house security so as to not get hauled away to some hidden-away room for trouble-makers.

My luck was still holding out as we ambled out of the dining facilities and what do you suppose we found? Yup, you got it! One REALLY TALL cowboy and two REGULAR TALL cowboys, toothpicks in hand, just standing there and minding their own business. Now, I had a real dilemma on my hands: Mind MY own business and walk out of there to the nearest slot OR...use the same words on these three cowboys that once worked on Pete Carroll, remember? "Would you mind doing me a favor?" "Have your picture taken with me for my Blog?" It worked, again! I swear, no one can refuse a fervent plea from the little-old-great-grandmother type it would seem...I gotta pursue this theory more often!

So, in the picture are three Texas cowboys who live about 40 miles from Mineral Wells, Texas, and who were going to participate in the 2009 Rodeo Finals being held that week-end in Vegas...all winners, as far as I am concerned! If I can get another picture "up," I will show you their wives who patiently waited while their menfolk helped me cross off one "must-do" item on my personal "To Do List!" This List has been growing for about six years, all the times I have been to Vegas with the Seniors without results.

Spontaneous, sublimely silly? Oh, yes, But, what if Jan and Jack hadn't been sweet enough to take these pictures, what if my usual sensible and serious side had "taken over" and I had missed this moment in time? Probably nothing to write home about, but today, it is raining outside here in sunny Southern California:I am resisting the urge to "round up" stray dust bunnies, and I only hope that those three Cowboys in Texas are recalling this Little Old Woman in the same frame of mind I find myself enjoying...one of SERENDIPITY!

"Put out my hand and touched the Face of God."

Those words that have become the title of this "remembrance" make up the last sentence of a poem written by John Gillespie Magee, who was killed at the age of 19 while serving with the Royal Canadian Air Force during World War II. Only a few days before his death, he wrote this poem which he mailed to his Mom before his last flight.

As one who has flown as the lone passenger in the smallest of Cessna's or with as many passengers as a 747 can hold flying from the Ontario Airport to Des Moines, Iowa, there have been many occasions when I have placed my fingers to the misty window and have felt as close to God as I have ever felt in the pew of a church. At the oh-so-young age of 19, John wrote words that have stirred hearts of every age for lo, these many years.

And for me, they also stirred memories of a young classmate, Emil E. Kluever, Jr., a country lad of considerable intelligence and looks, spontaneous and energetic enough to be a Yell Leader but quiet enough to be a model student in Study Hall, the Teacher's dream come true! Truth be said, I did not know Jack all that well in school so he would probably tell you a different story...but again, this is MY blog, right? (Over those years of Junior High and High School, I did my usual amount of "inspection," of course, and my instincts are pretty much "right on" so you can pretty much believe what I am going to tell you...)

For a country lad, let me tell you, Jack has come a long way! What one learns at the Class Reunions!

Dale Anderson and I, as Class Officers, (Dick Pagel, recently deceased, always there in spirit) were responsible for entertainment for the 2005 Class Reunion; Dale had cleared it with Jack, living in Las Vegas, to be the featured speaker at the Saturday morning breakfast meeting, sharing some of his experiences as an officer with the U.S.Army. Little did the most of us know just what those "experiences" would be!

A little background information on Jack during the World War II time period in his own words:

"Before graduating, several of us..Dick Pagel, Charlie Smith, myself and others...went to Omaha to enlist in the U.S. Army Air Corps, a branch of the Army/Military. Several were accepted, but I was not...couldn't pass the eye test. After eating many carrots and learning the eye chart, I passed. I was really determined. I had been successful in having my Birth Certificate date changed so that I was 18." Blogger's Note: Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do!

Jack wrote in our AHS's 2003 Memoirs titled, "The Way We Are..." that "as long as I could remember, I always wanted to be a pilot like my older brother, Arnold, who received his wings in 1937. (After Basic Training in late 1944, Jack was accepted into the Aviation Cadet Program.) So, when I graduated from Flight Training in Enid, Oklahoma, my brother flew in and pinned on my wings on 27 June 1945."

"Mary Ellen Ehlers (a classmate and now deceased) and I were married in July 1945 and lived in Atlantic until 1949 when we left so that I could attend Auburn University majoring in Electrical Engineering. I was called up to serve in the Korean Police Action in 1951." So continued a career that spanned thirty years and brought fame and distinction to the County Seat of Cass County, Iowa!

Here is where I sat up and took notice during the Reunion:

"In 1963 NASA requested my Test Pilot services to participate in a Research Program for the Lunar Lander. It was a "fly by wire" free flight vehicle that simulated the last 1500 feet of the landing approach to the moon's surface. (Are you sitting up and taking notice, too?) The Lunar Lander Research Vehicle was powered by one jet engine mounted vertically in a double set of gimbals and 24 rocket motors for attitude control and to provide two lunar G's maneuverability. Our test requirement was to develop a flight envelope, size attitude rockets for minimum fuel burn and to come up with the instruments required for control systems to make successful landings and take-offs on the moon's surface. The program was completed without an incident or accident as a first "fly by wire control system." The LLRV's were used to train the astronauts at NASA Houston. (A far cry from AHS's Wood Shop Class!)

"When Neil Armstrong made the first landing on the moon and chose to do it under manual control versus the automated "hands off" landing, his first words after he landed on the moon were, "Well, I have done this before!" referring to the effectiveness of the simulation of the actual landing on the moon. You heard it here first...not the words so often quoted: "That's one small step for (a) man; one giant leap for mankind." (Personally, I will take Jack's word and not some press release! The man was involved, for goodness sake!)

Jack, as an Engineer and Research Test Pilot, trained and flew with Gus Grissom, Chuck Yeager, Tom Stafford, Fred Hayes. Jack's statement that all fixed-wing pilots needed to have helicopter experience in order to fly successfully the Lunar Lander was challenged by Joe Walker who later conceded that point and went to Florida for training. Thereafter, the astronaut training included learning to fly a helicopter.

Jack's last command was at Tooele Army Depot southeast of Great Salt Lake in Utah. It was the Army's largest depot specializing in maintenance overhaul and ammo supply storage and had over 5,000 civilian employees and over 100 military officers and enlisted men. He retired as a Colonel from the U.S. Army in April 1976 having served 30 years.

Jack and his lovely wife of 13 years, Jan, and I met up again over dinner at TGIF in Las Vegas in early December. As we reminisced over our steaks, sweet potato fries, cole slaw, baked beans, baked potato but no dessert, it seemed like only yesterday that Jack and I were scrambling through the halls towards our next class, not knowing in what direction Life would take us, or through. The metropolis that is now Las Vegas was, then, a dry spot in the desert; Jack's storied military career can be found on the Internet by simply typing in his name on your search engine; and here I sit, 66 years later recreating events that have changed forever how we look at the shimmering harvest moon that hangs over the ripening corn fields near Atlantic, Iowa.

Jack has often said, "God was my Co-Pilot on every flight I flew." So, fittingly, we end my version of his story with these humbling words by John Gillespie Magee:

"HIGH FLIGHT"

"Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed and joined the trembling mirth of sun-split clouds
And done 100 things you have not dreamed of
Wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence.

Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept hills with easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.

And, while with silent, lifting mind, I trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the Face of God."

Thank you, Jack, for your service to your Country, to God and
for being my Friend. (And, yes, dinner is your treat next time!)

"Catching up with the Past!"

It started out to be a normal early-spring morning that March in 1932, which soon turned into one that transformed local citizens into volunteer firemen, Dad being one of those who broke out into a fast run towards the billows of dark smoke arising above the trees in the middle of our small county-seat town of Atlantic. The Court House was afire!

The five of us kids under the age of eight (that would be nieces and nephews...Bus, Peggy, Glee and Wayne with me in temporary charge) were to follow Dad's hurried instructions to "Stay put!" at 210 Birch and help Mom if things got even more serious. Now, Atlantic back then, was not that spread out. We lived on the western edge of the town of 5,000 population and could walk the distance to the Court House in less than ten minutes.

It wasn't until we saw hot ashes landing on the roofs of the homes and in the streets in our neighborhood that we realized we all could be in for some serious trouble. Those of the townspeople who could were helping the volunteer Fire Department and the Court House employees try to save the building and the all-important county records.

Our childlike fascination with all the excitement soon turned to frightened wonder as we watched the twisting and twirling charred bits of paper and embers landing around us. Whatever measures the neighbors who had stayed home took to save our homes worked for the homes were untouched.

The Court House was lost to be rebuilt later, and most of the records were saved by the fast and furious efforts of the citizens. Dad came home with a slightly-scorched pendulum wall clock that hung in our living room (as opposed to the William McKinley portrait holding court in The Woodshed) for years after that great fire. One of the clerks pushed the clock into Dad's hands and said, "It's yours, George...a memento!" That clock faithfully regulated the lives and times of three generations living within the family home at various times until well after I left Atlantic in 1948, as a young bride for our new home in California, and was a constant reminder of our Dad who turned "hero" in our eyes, at least, one normal early spring morning in March of 1932...

As long as you are here reading this Blog, let me tell you about the Atlantic Theatre! You have already read about Talty's Pasture where we kids played softball during the spring and summer and where the Traveling Medicine Shows held court, right? Now, Atlantic, even with being a tad small in those days of the Twenties and Thirties, had more than a few "fun for family" activities like playing Billiards and Poker at the local Pool hall, fishing the waters of the Nishnabotna River for catfish, Sunday potlucks with always a Horseshoe Tournament, the yearly Circus coming to town and the County Fair that awarded prized ribbons for outstanding boars and bulls, sows and cows, pies and pickles, and Boy and Girl 4-H'r, the new bowling alley with live pinsetters. The Sunnyside Park Swimming Pool was a draw for the burgeoning crowd as were the semi-professional baseball and softball games held at the various diamonds.

As great as all the aforementioned were, none could compare to the Atlantic Theatre...for some of us with wild imaginations: "How to Escape Without Leaving Town!"

The aisle seat, right side and ten rows down at the Atlantic was all mine, the next seat over being piled with books from the Carnegie Library, just across the street. For one thin dime, attending the latest Hollywood production was pure escapism from the Depression Day Blues, harsh wintery and insufferably humid summer days...plus a right smart way to "inspect" unsuspecting farm lads in town with parents for a day of stocking up on non-farm commodities. (Much like the days when I am bowling at Action Lanes in El Monte, "inspect and suspect.") :)

On the silver screen unfolded wondrous fables of forbidden romance, comedies featuring The little Rascals, Laurel and Hardy, Keystone Cops, mysterious intrigue, song-and-dance extravaganzas, western sagas and weekly serials that foretold of events to come during a space age when men would fly with rockets on their backsides and in rockets to the moon. Who would have thought the "man on the moon" would someday have a name: Neal Armstrong!

(This you should know right now and you will soon read about: A member of the Class of 1943 is most directly responsible for Neal's success in landing on the moon back in the late 1960's...Lt. Col. (Retired) Emil E. (Jack) Kluever, now of Las Vegas.)

Probably the biggest attraction ever to sell tickets at the Theatre was Sally Rand and Her Fabulous Fans, direct by bus from Hollywood. For those with 20/20 vision, it was easy enough to detect the flesh-colored body suit, but for those who were a bit myopic and couldn't discern, it appeared slightly scandalous through my squinty eyes. However, I must give the "aging" Sally credit for being beyond graceful and concede that I might have been just a tad envious of her obviously feminine charms. This lovely 30-year-old (or plus) movie star was well worth the 25 cents the Theatre charged for her appearance that day, and the male population was eagerly looking forward to a repeat performance that evening! I have only to close my now-corrected eyes to see Miss Sally Rand and Her Fabulous Fans flit across the stage of the Atlantic Theatre once again...and just saved myself 25 cents!

When Shirley Temple was at her zenith (like all of seven years of age) every Mom became a stage mom and entered her dimpled darling in the Shirley Temple Look-Alike Contest held in every movie theatre across these United States. Shirley was every little girl's best friend in those days, we longed to be in her shoes as she tapped up and down those stairs with her leading men (yes, I am trying to remember their names...give me a minute!) and took delight in punching out the clothes (with the tabs, remember?) to attach to her cute little plump figure. I know what you are thinking...did I enter a contest? No...I was too attached to my cowgirl boots and, besides, the cost of a Shirley Temple frock was more than what Mom and Dad spent on a Sunday dinner with all the kids around the table. And, besides even that, 56 or more pin curls to match Shirley's popular hairdo...I don't think so! But, someday, I told myself, YOU will go to Hollywood and I did! One of the very first "must do" things that Del and I did upon reaching sunny Southern California in January 1948 was to visit Hollywood for the touristy Walk of Stars, not so expansive then as it is today. (Oh, yes, I expect to "zenith" any day now!) :)

Indelibly etched in my memory are the Seven Spies Sisters who had appeared on many other theatre stages across Iowa and nearby states and on the Major Bowes Amateur Hour Show. Combining individual beauty with precision tap dancing and acrobatic showmanship, these young gals from nearby Massena, Iowa, were what every little gal who had ever attended Saturday morning dance class aspired to be. Hollywood really "blew" it big time when the moguls failed to sign these seven cuties to contract. Eventually the Seven Spies Sisters retired from show business, married local lads, raised their families in Atlantic and nearby communities and took their kids to Sunnyside Park. The youngest sister, Betty, and I became friends when my brother, Dutch, dated Cleone for a time. We played Jacks on my bedroom floor, fame put aside for the time being. I think I missed the boat when I did not ask the girls to show me how to "shuffle off to Buffalo." You think? You may be able to find their story on the Internet as I once did some years ago.

There is no doubt in my mind that the Atlantic Theatre was the center of entertainment for 99.44% of the entirety of our small Midwestern town. We were educated in every sense of the word by what we witnessed on the silver screen...we learned, by example, proper dining etiquette (from Gabby Hayes scooping up beans from a tin plate to Greer Garson lifting her right pinky when consuming high tea and scones); we learned the rules of courting (not all cowboys and cowgirls walked off into the sunset with just their saddled beasts of burden) better still, looking up into the balcony of the theatre where the young swains of Atlantic were hesitantly sliding their right arm across the back of their young ladies' seat (those farm lads were quick studies!) we learned there is quiet dignity in being poor, being willing to toil under adverse conditions (Henry Fonda in "Grapes of Wrath"..remember?) and we learned of the ravages of World War II via the Lowell Thomas Newsreels and saw the torn lands where some of our Atlantic-born heroes gave up their lives.

But, most of all, I learned that in "escaping for a few hours via the movies," my yellow-brick road ("The Wizard of Oz) would lead me back to 210 Birch and memories I would never be able to leave home without....

1 CHIHUAHUA = 101 DALMATIANS....

That "old saw"...you can't teach an "old dog new tricks"... may be true, and then again, mebbe not! I have another slant on that maxim, and you be the judge.

Sadie, my five-pound, six-years-old female Chihuahua, is teaching me, or at the very least, letting me know she understands me even when we are not talking the same lingo. Let me explain: One of the most favored of pastimes for the two of us can happen at any time of the day or evening. It begins by my asking in my native tongue, "Do you wanna rock?" ..referring to our favorite rocking chair where we snuggle up and watch dog food commercials, Subway commercials, Johnny Johnson/Jeff Gordon of NASCAR fame, The View and MSNBC and stuff of that ilk...

Anyway, Sadie is very short-legged tho' nimble and unable to springboard herself into my lap or the chair, when I am not available. This rocking habit has been going on now for nigh unto six years, ever since we became a couple when she weighed just eleven ounces. So, of course, I would reach down to pick up Sadie, never really noticing (all these years!) the gentle squirming of her small body as we settled down for an hour or two of contemplating the world's events. ""Settling down" meant my throwing (in the most ladylike of manner, of course!) my right leg over the right arm of the chair and she in the small space/nest formed between the upper portion of my "shapely thigh" and the chair's arm. This is the most comfortable arrangement for the both of us, and it has been going on for all these years, without a hitch, hesitation or hiatus. Except for the gentle squirming that Sadie exhibited, this was proving to be a most satisfying and emotional time of togetherness for the both of us. And, of course, I could brag to my bowling team members that "my" Sadie was on the high end of any dog Intelligent Quotient test, bar none. She understood my every word and responded in like manner. Well, she does fail the "Use the paper!" test, but I hear tell so do the pets who live in Dame E. Taylor's 'umble 'ome so am trying to be more lenient here...

Having said all the above, a couple of days ago I was shocked to find out how so very misunderstood I have been these past few years. Keep in mind that the routine would be: I would ask Sadie if she wanted to rock, then proceed to pick her up, she would squiggle (squirm with wiggle) I would do my leg-throwing-over-the-arm-chair bit and she would nestle into that small space for a quiet time of bonding...pure bliss, I am thinking. And, then again...mebbe not!

I must add here, to add to her/my confusion, that when it was time for a visit to the Vet for shots, a week's stay while I was in Las Vegas or longer when I would visit Atlantic, I would ask Sadie...do you wanna go "bye-bye?"...pick her up and stuff her into her high-fashioned doggie carrier (again with that same hesitation) and out the door we would go. The fact that she played the "hurt feelings" bit upon my return did not register with my Intelligent Quotient at all, that was my first mistake in understanding my beloved pet. Dogs are much like our kids, they don't say much, squirm when uncomfortable and, sure as heck, taking mental notes to parlay "something" ambiguously later in one form or another.

How this all came about I simply don't recall but quite by accident and, frankly, I was up to teasing her a bit at that moment and sitting comfortably in our rocking chair, I kiddingly asked Sadie if she wanted to go "Bye, Bye" with absolutely no intention of doing that. Sadie practically ran up the side of the chair in her eagerness to rock...hmmm, that struck me as being a bit "odd" for this dog who was perfect in all departments (excluding the paper bit) but, ok...let's try that again and see what happens. For the next few minutes, and it has now been several days and the routine never changes, Sadie responded with vim and vinegar the same way to my question..."do you wanna go Bye, Bye?" when she knows I still haven't put on my face for the day. I was perplexed, yet delighted in her delight to join me in our favorite rocking chair without benefit of bribes of chicken tenders and Doritos. Now that is "unconditional love!"

Which leads me to this profound questioning of my teaching/listening/understanding abilities of the "dog world." Having been around puppies and dogs all my life, I felt I had a good handle on understanding that the pets had a good understanding of the basics...fetch, sit, heel, down and stop that darn barking. What I learned in the past few days is that Sadie and I have been talking two different languages and still understood one another enough to compromise, entertain, relax, enjoy, and share a togetherness so very special in my senior years, all the while Sadie in her added role as "protector" when the noise of a leaf falling on our front porch alerts her every sense. The noise level is raised when the mailman leaves his loot and departs onto the next home; I can hear him chort as he knows she is all bark and no bite for they have met and Sadie "loves" Pete.

So...this is what I have to figure out: I have come to understand that "Bye Bye" means, to Sadie, that we are in for a spell of rocking, which leaves me, without a clue, as to what "Do you wanna rock?" means. Right now it means "Whatever!" but I am sure she will let me know, in an unexpected and meaningful way, what those words mean to her. This I know...as long as we are side-by-side in our rocking chair we are two happy campers watching movies with dogs as the featured players, Cesars' dogfood commercials, and a fair amount of licking my fingers which are laced with KFC chicken or barbecued ribs.

An afterthought...if this "misunderstanding of words" between mature adults should occur (and it does happen to the most and the best of us) how great it would be if we all would make a "comfortable nesting place" for those we love; and even if we never fully understand what each is saying, that warm, fuzzy feeling will linger and cover us for any bumpy days and roads ahead.

If it works for Sadie and me, it will work for you!

"UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH PETE CARROLL ..'n FRIEND!

From where I am sitting, which is in front of my Computer, it is agreed I may write whatever suits my fancy, right? And share innermost thoughts and secrets, right? Confessions? Bet you are sitting back right now and thinking to yourselves, "Oh, boy, Betty is coming clean after all these years!" As much as it pains me to think it, let alone share with the maddening crowd (?) of readers , I feel there is something I must "fes up to!" I might have the makings of a "Stalker" with a capital "S"...let me explain:

In November, 2007, I awoke one particular morning...the one I am going to tell you about in full detail (of course!) and living color...resolved to call my youngest child, Dana, to tell her to go on to the Campus of USC without me after peering out the window and seeing Drizzle! here in sunny Southern California where it never rains in the summertime, but it does come down a bit in November, December and January, if the weather gods smile down upon us and Fritz, the Channel Four Weather Man, reads his script correctly. Shoot! This kind of weather brings out the IPOD Looney Toones who did not learn to drive on Iowa's rutty country roads, do not remember that oil and water mix not, especially on fast freeways. On top of that, my hair frizzles when it is dampish outside, and a "bad hair day" is punishment for all my past sins as far as I am concerned.

But, Dana is a convincing persuader. Casey and Cole, the grandkids, and their other grandmother, Laurie, were all up for this journey into proper Los Angeles so I dug deep down into my Duke's mixture heritage to get the wherewith all to "brave the storm," so to speak. Dana and the gang arrived promptly at 9 a.m. and into her SUV I hoisted myself onto the reserved-for-grandma seat and off we went, sightseeing the urbane world on both sides of Freeway No. 10. Dana is an excellent freeway driver so I left my immediate worries behind at 5529, contemplating, with appropriate sighing, instead how many USC buildings we would scan and enter, what would I order for lunch and how long would we have to stay before heading home. (On most occasions I am a worry-free passenger, please know, and give me another 40 years, I will come to ignore those drivers who tailgate on the freeway and those who lift their hand in that cute and friendly little salute of goodwill!)

Soon we were headed into the parking lot of the Campus where Dana found parking on top of the roof (it was still drizzling a bit); we headed off to the Book Store where Christmas Gifts were to be purchased for the die-hard USC fans in our family. It had to be about a mile to the middle of the Campus where the Book Store, eating establishments, bathrooms, and the learning centers were situated. Dodging students on bicycles, garbage containers, campus cops, faculty members, lovers entwined as if vines, we arrived breathlessly at our point of destination and purchases were made. I bought a USC coffee cup which has its place of honor on my coffee table when the football team plays, at home or away.

Lunch time came and went but not until we had generous portions of what the college kids eat on a regular basis. While chewing away, I remember thinking I would have greatly enjoyed the "college experience" after high school, but that was not an option for me. I know I would have relished learning all about creative writing at the University of Iowa School of Journalism; but, in reality, it was what I absorbed during the two years I had in Journalism Class at the Atlantic High School, and working on 1943's "The Needle" as humor columnist and submitter of human interest stories that have proved to be the springboard for other writings and this Betty L. Blog.

Anywaaaay...someone in our group happened to remember that we did want to visit the Heisman Trophies in Heritage Hall...oh, no! (Not going home anytime soon, you caught that, didn't you?) Heritage Hall is just "down the road apiece" from where we were resting and picture taking. Tommy Trojan looked down at us and seemed to say to me..."Where is that USC Spirit?" And did he dare transmit the worst of all descriptive words: "Wimp?" Gathering up my shoes and all the inner strength I could muster, I joined that pack of four and off we went...straight into several moments of time that will enthrall me for the rest of my years. (For your information...Tommy Trojan is a statue, but his ability to stir the spirit is legendary!)

Walking up the steps of the Heritage Hall is a lot like entering the sanctuary of a church. One can be almost in awe of the beauty of the building, the pictures of the football teams of yesteryears and other sports figures that have plaques displayed in their honor. Heisman Trophies are encased in glass and are truly memorable to see. The Hall reeks of history!

While I lagged a bit behind, searching for a chair upon which to hoist my body once again, Casey, Cole, Dana and Laurie (herself a USC graduate) being naturally curious and not about to miss anything, oohed and aahed and then (while I was ogling some athletes who were passing by) slipped upstairs in search of more good stuff to eyeball. I found a choice spot and plumped myself down on a nearby chair, promising to stand watch over the recently-purchased packages. The Hall had, just that lunch time, been the place where the football team had partaken of a meal that is part of a Pep Rally just for them led by Coach Pete Carroll and others of his coaching squad. Some of the players were milling about as was a well-stacked slightly older man who strolled by my chair on his way to the men's bathroom...I know that because I watched him. Anyway, as he passed by, I smiled...he smiled...and just to make small talk, I asked him if he was a coach. He smiled...I smiled...and he said, "Yes." Now for someone who has interviewed people for newspaper articles and my now-defunct column, this could have been a banner occasion, but what did I do....nothing! Turns out the coach was Lane Kiffen, now head coach at Tennesee, and I blew it! But, then I remembered...I am retired and I don't do interviews.

Once my new acquaintance left my presence, time again began to drag. Evidently the pack of four had completely lost all track of time and had probably forgotten all about me...Nope, they did remember and sent Laurie down the stairs to tell me that THEY HAD TALKED TO MATT LEINERT AND DID I WANT TO MEET HIM? Grabbing all the packages, up the stairs I scrambled and walked into the outer office of Pete Carroll, hoping that my frizzled hair had calmed down and wishing the same for my erratically-beating heart. The receptionist said that Pete was not available (he was in a Meeting talking about a salary increase we learned later) but that Matt Leinert was still in the next room with some of the football team members. He had been so sweet and gentlemanly about Dana taking some pictures of her boys and Matt, that we dared to ask him if he would consent to having his picture taken with their Grandma. Those pictures show Matt in a sweaty T-shirt (what is it with these college boys and their beguiling T-shirts?) with Moi literally tucked under his left wing, my frizzled hair barely reaching his armpit, and I have to ask you, how many of you can say you were smeared with Matt Leinert's sweat? Well, not many of the older generation.... (And, yes, all you doubters, I do have pictures and they are for publication once I learn those ropes!) (And the next day's newspapers carried the story that yes, Pete Carroll got a nice pay raise but, again, all you doubters, that smile was genuine and just for us!) (And let me tell you now, guys and dolls, television does not do justice to his eyes, hair and skin tone and that was just from a quick observation...)

One of the neat things about going into Pete's office is that we were able to spot two pictures of the football team of which Tom Mallory, Laurie's father, was a member. He was a part of the 1929-1930's Thundering Herd football team, quite a hero one year when they won the Rose Bowl game. Tom has since passed away, but what an all-around athlete he was while attending USC. Poppa Tom was Jackie Robinson's baseball coach at Pasadena City College, and his bronze bust is situated between those of Jackie and his brother on the PCC campus.

As we were about to stroll out of the receptionist's office, I looked up and spotted Pete coming out of his office. Calling upon that Duke's mixture determination once more, I called out to Pete, "Oh, Pete, would you do me a favor?" (I know, I know, don't even think it! So pedestrian, right?) He smiled and said, "Depends on what the favor is?" (Now that is flirting if I know flirting!)

Timidly, I asked if he would be so kind as to have his picture taken with me. With no hesitation whatsoever, he came over, shook hands and made some small talk like we were good friends meeting once again. You know the drill...I gushed inane words some more, and looked faint evidently, as Casey said to me while he was snapping away with the camera, "Grandma, you are shaking!" I truly was. I think it was then that I won Pete Carroll's heart because he asked if I would like to have my picture taken with the entire football team! I can't be sure but I think I said, "Only if you know how to give CPR!" Anywaaay, I didn't faint as there was no Kodak moment, and, once more, began to amble out of the office..."float" would be a more apt description. As we reached the door, we heard Pete extend an invitation to watch the team practice that followed immediately. Now, how many die-hard USC fans in their right minds would turn down this kind of an invitation? We were among the few. We, graciously, replied that we did have to be on our way but would like to accept another time, of course. And left.... Once back in the SUV, we all commiserated that that was a most stupid thing to do...turn down an invitation of that magnitude, from Pete Carroll, himself.

There is a moral to this story, of course, as you well know there would be. The moral is this: No matter what kind of a day it looks like it is going to be, rain or shine, take a deep breath and hoist yourself up mentally, physically and emotionally 'cause you could have a day like the one I had when I met Pete Carroll and Matt Leinert and the greater part of the USC football team, year 2007! Entirely unexpected, the events that transpired live on as vividly as they were experienced on that fateful day a couple of years ago. We've not been back to accept Pete's invitation but we have "stalked" his television nterviews, his blogs, his Twittering, one or two of his Quarterback lunches held after each game, and, upon occasion, I am the one with the high-powered binoculars in the top section of the Coliseum furtherest from the scoreboards. GO TROJANS!

'BILLIE BAILEY...WON'T YOU PLEASE COME HOME?"

For purposes of this story, forget everything about this popular song of the 30's...except for the title....you will know why I make this unusual request when you have read Billie's poignant story.

Billie Bailey was 14 years old and a beautiful dark-haired teenager during the late 1930's. She and her widowed Mom lived about two blocks from 210 Birch on Cedar Street; and we happily shared the good life of a small town community. She had a "crush" on my brother, Ken, and I was the beneficiary of that "crush" being the younger sister of a really cute neighbor boy. Together, we joined others in listening to the Music of the Era played during the Band Concerts in the city park, splashed in the refreshing waters of the Sunnyside Park swimming pool, ate table-loads of food at the neighborhood picnics, childishly searched for that proverbial pot-of-gold at the end of the rainbow that occasionally followed a summer's shower of rain, played our hearts out during the pick-up softball games in Talty's Pasture and, the most fun of all, playing with the boys and girls who lived in Buck Town (loose term for our section of town where money was scarcer than hen's teeth!) after supper and before it got too dark to scamper around safely when we played Run-Sheep-Run, Red Light/Green Light and the countless other childhood games that brought good pals together until the Moms on the block, as one voice, called us to "get in here (meaning house) and I mean NOW!" Reluctantly, off we scattered, one calling to one another, "See ya tomorrow!"

Billie was an important part of those Buck Town Buddies. I will never forget the day that her status changed to "Angel." Alone and while preparing breakfast for herself one summer morning, the sleeve of her cotton robe caught fire. The burns my young friend suffered were extensive; and it was at the hospital that my Mom and I spent afternoons at her bedside while her body tried to heal itself...and failed. Billie's love for Jesus was the talk of the hospital wards and the hospital staff. Though weak, her sweet voice was lifted in songs of praise and adoration even as she lay dying. At the age of eleven, my feeble and selfish prayer was for my childhood buddy to get well so we could get on with the good times, grow up and be promised friends forever. At the age of 14, Billie was healed in the Presence of Jesus, Her dearest Friend and Comforter.

Childish thoughts of pots of gold now put aside, when I see a rainbow today, my thoughts turn to Billie and I smile, because I am assured The Rainbow that follows The Storm is God's Promise...nothing less. Billie Bailey has come Home...

MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS....

The Irish-Catholic family across the street from 210 Birch included Tootie, Tiny, twins Jack and Marty, older sisters, Bonnie and Sister Veronica and Pop and Mom, Shanty and Mary Maher.

Tiny (Eileen) was five years older than I and Tootie (Margarite) was ten years older, the twins about twelve years older...all were extremely talented writers from an early age. The Maher home was my shelter and refuge when I knew there was no winning a "childhood skirmish" at 210, being outnumbered by in-residence nieces and nephews, Bus and Peggy Prall and Glee and Wayne Knight, except for Bus, the others being from one to four years younger.

It did not take long for any of the Maher Four to realize how bashful and gullible I was and fed on those particular characteristics of mine. I had only to walk out the back door of our humble home to hear--"Here comes the Peanut!"

Jack and Marty were college students at the University of Iowa, and their favorite pastime, when spotting me skipping across the street, was to "set me up!" No sooner would I open their back screen door then they would peel off their T-shirts. The blush that swept over the whole four feet of me only served as inspiration for repeat performances of that ritual. Over a span of time, I thought I had, successfully, learned to ignore this most uncollegiate-like behavior, until the day they added the visiting two handsome Hildabrand brothers(John and Byron) from Iowa City to their modified impromtu-chorus-line-strip-tease routine. The truth?? Yes, I peeked, Duh....My heart still grows warm when I think of their "beguiling" antics, a memory stored away in a very special place.

The two young men, whom I most adored next to my brothers, went on to become, to no one's great surprise, editors-owners of two outstanding newspapers in the state of Iowa, in West Branch and Carroll, and served their communities well. Sadly, I missed the final deadline of letting them know the "real scoop"...I loved their teasing! Somehow, deep inside, I know that Jack and Marty know what a blessing they were in my younger days. We Irish folk don't always have to put "stuff" into words; a good honest-to-goodness blush says it all!

Tootie awoke one fine summer morn determined that I should learn to swim at the Sunnyside Pool. She, Tiny and I jumped into Shorty's (a family friend) one-seater jalopy and off we went, they ready to teach and I ready to learn how to tread water, if nothing else. I learned, when I was all of nine years of age, that I could speak a Second Language, fluently, as did the pool full of swimmers. This is how that afternoon unfolded: By pre-arrangement, it was decided that Tiny would stand in the middle of the pool. Tootie would swing me out to where Tiny would wait patiently, to teach and/or catch, as the case may be. After a couple of warm-up swings to build up the necessary momentum, Tootie finally decided to let go...only, Tiny's attention was elsewhere (I learned later she was looking at Don, her newest conquest and future husband). With eyes wide shut, and literally flying through the air, I surmized Tooties' aim to be perfect in that I did land on target, in the water with a-flailing skinny arms and legs, but no Tiny was a-waiting my tiny missile of a body. Down...down...down I went, thinking, okay, now what do I do? Don't know how to swim, can't tread water 'cause I am really, really submerged. Tiny is agog over Don, and I am in big trouble! Fortunately, for me, it was the one time I chose to keep my lips tightly closed. After what seemed several hours (don't mock me here until you have tried it!), I decided I should cautiously open my eyes and look around to assess the situation. Lo, all I saw were strange bodies, strange legs and nothing, at all, looking the slightest bit like anyone I recognized. And, what is Plan B?

Somewhere from far, far away, I could hear an exasperated Tootie yelling at Tiny and Don. I feel in my "gut" to this day, that Tootie was howling when she finally jumped in to rescue her charge-to-keep...Mayme's youngest child. I never asked what prompted Tootie to finally become my personal lifeguard, but it may have had something to do with "answering to Mom!"

That was the moment Tootie and Tiny and half the swimmers in Atlantic discovered I could speak a Second Language, known far and wide today as "expletively speaking!" It must be noted that it wasn't that I was that well versed in expletives, it was my abililty to be repetitive with the two or three (or four) words that was rather remarkable. To save themselves and my family future disbarment from the municiple swimming pool facilities, Tootie and Tiny shuffled me out of the immediate area, skipping the showers and changing stalls and with great haste, into Shorty's coupe for the long ride home. Instinct told me they just were not taking this swimming episode seriously at all 'cause sitting on Tootie's lap on the ride home, I could feel the giggles coming up from the depths of Tootie's tummy; and as I bounced right along with Tootie, it came to mind that this was a story I would tell my grandkids one day...well, not really, but I sure wasn't going to tell my Mom anytime soon. And, you know my Mom by now...it would not have been pretty as much as she loved those two Maher girls! After Tootie got up enough nerve, like much later, she told Mom of the pool episode and that I had great potential, but I don't think it was for swimming.

This wonderful family captivated my wee heart from the moment I could cross the street all by myself. I was so childishly proud that Mary and Shanty trusted me to walk to the Railroad Depot where Shanty was employed to pick up his weekly paycheck, cash it at the Whitney Bank and walk home with the money that helped send Jack and Marty across the State of Iowa to the University of Iowa...Tootie and Tiny filled my summer days with picnics, hikes on Highway No. 6 to visit friends on their nearby farm, fashioning little girls out of hollyhocks and, oh, yes, more swimming lessons. Jack and Marty checked my Jackson School English essays for content and composition when I finally got over my "in-bred" hesitancy to approach them on an academic level. I learned a bit about Catechism during the summers, there is such a thing as making "beer in the bathtub," and when those two handsome Hildabrand Boys visted the Maher Family on the Fourth of July, replete with boxes of illegal fireworks, there was no better place to be than on the corner of Third and Birch in Atlantic, Iowa. And, to this day, when I see fireworks, I feel "Love!"

"ROLL THE PRESSES...!"

On a really personal note and it leaves me blushing to do so, but I must share with you, right now, an e-mail that I just received from another Iowa native (a native of Peru, Iowa) and whom I have only known through a Chat Room we both have enjoyed for several years. She feels as I do, if you are from Ioway, you are "sisters" from the git-go, and we are. Joy, who now lives in New Mexico, writes: "Well!!! I have read EVERYTHING you put on your Blog and I can't wait for the next installment!!! What fond memories I have of growing up on a farm in the 30's, and because of you, I am remembering small things that I have not thought of in years."

Well, dear friend, thank you for those kind words...but if these Blogs turn out to be a "fine kettle of fish" or "a peck of trouble," or even "a can or worms!" ... guess who is coming to New Mexico lookin' for you? Joy, you do my heart good 'n this is for you!

The clouds had opened up over Arcadia where Sadie and I live, the house was relatively neat and quiet...an ideal time to take to our favorite rocking chair and ponder a bit. First thought that came to mind was this: If the Wish Foundation asked me, a Senior Citizen, for just One Wish, what would that Wish be?

Not a Wish that the "normal" person would ask for but here is mine: I would love to spend a week or two in The Morgue of the Atlantic News Telegraph, looking up "facts, just the facts, Ma'am!" about stories that have been told once, retold, exaggerated, even forgotten. Probably, today, stories would be on microfilm rather than reading the actual newspaper; but either way, what pure bliss to leaf through the yellowed pages of this venerable newspaper that has been in existence since 1871.

Without a doubt, those pages would flesh out the mysteries, the truths and the untruths, the myriad of events that caused our townspeople to rush out to greet the news carriers, rain or shine. (I did, but you should have seen how cute our paper carrier was!) What fun to shake out the folds and wrinkles, grab a cup of something to drink, start on page one and proceed with focused intensity to the last page, the pleasure about equal to consuming that first bite of corn-on-the-cob fresh from a nearby farm.

FOR INSTANCE...read again: How many times did Wilno, The Great miss the net during his travels across the country in the 1930's? Wilno, the Great showed up in Atlantic as the main attraction for some now forgotten-about town celebration a couple of years running, and hit the net every time. Concede with me that being ejected head first from a red-white-and-blue cannon (would he have side burns?) landing some fifty feet away on a very skimpy net and to great applause is no small feat...and I think he tossed in a couple of somersaults the night the town beauty joined the burgeoning crowd. I have often wondered if I could find Wilno, The Great on the Internet. Fame is fleeting, but the thrill I felt in seeing Wilno slowly "streak" over our heads at 9 p.m. on a warm, balmy evening yet remains...

FOR INSTANCE...read again: Was that extraordinary (their words, not mine) elixir sold at the Medicine Shows that hit Talty's Pasture (one block from 210 Birch) every summer really 20% proof as bandied about by some of the audience members? Is that why the bootleggers/moonshiners suffered slow weeks of business when the Shows paid a visit and were only too happy to see the Final Performance of that group? Elixir sold legally or illegally, we kids cared not a bit and patiently tolerated the so-called commercials and endorsements from two or three really happy campers in the crowd. We were there to see the heavy dramas, the rollicking comedies, the six-piece band. Plus, you know, they did say that one of those boxes of Cracker Jax contained an honest-to-goodness diamond ring. Unbelievable? You betcha! But it was a great way to spend a warm summer evening under the stars on a blanket, in a pasture that was home to our Betsy, the Cow during the day. However, you can believe this: ACCORDING TO MY FANTASY WORLD...all the actors went on to the next town, to Hollywood and to Broadway, and we now more-or-less-cultured small-town people could say, "We knew them when! Who else can put on their Resumes they had Talty's Pasture as their first "Off-Broadway Show?" Jes' sayin'

FOR INSTANCE...read again: Remember "The Human Fly?" Forget Terminator 1,2,3 or Superman/Woman, The Road Runner...this "Fly" was awesome in the eyes of every kid under the age of ten and had yet to reach the age of "reasoning." With the spotlight on his every move up the side of the Whitney Hotel, we prayerfully questioned in our hearts (not our minds) what held him flat to the wall as he inch-by-inch crawled up to the top and over the edge of the roof? Velcro had yet to be invented, no helping hands were seen hanging out the windows to hasten "The Human Fly" on his way upward and over the roof. This mystery remains unsolved to this day...and if you are reading this and you know the answer, please DO NOT write, call, or e-mail me the answer. Just let me have this one delightful mystery to ponder upon in these Senior/Golden Years!

FOR INSTANCE...read again: Headline banner stating ...Ringling Brothers/Barnum and Bailey Circus Coming to Town! Every kid in town beat the alarm clock in waking up the morning The Circus came to town, via the Rock Island Railroad. In the company of Tootie and Tiny Maher (responsible teen-age daughters of our neighbors) we wee awestruck Cranston Clan members joined the other kids at 5 a.m., all nicely lined up across the street from the train cars that contained The Circus animals, clowns, barkers, tents. What a sight to behold, the majestic elephants were unloaded and began their parading, joined trunk to tail (just like in the movies!) to the Fair Grounds about a mile or so away. On top of the elephants were performers in flowing costumes, clowns were happily shaking hands with the "gaggle" of saucer-eyed kids. The grown-ups in the crowd ogled the acrobats and tightrope walkers in their flashy sequined costumes. We trembled, as one, when the fierce caged lions and tigers growled as if on cue and just for us. We laughed at The Circus roustabouts as they passed by carrying large scoops (by order of the City Council) and were completely dazzled by the Calliope blasting out that old familiar Circus tune. It was all too breathtaking; and if Tootie and Tiny (I will tell you their given names in another story) had not such a tight grip on my hand, I would have joined The Circus right then and there. Marching, at a safe distance, along side the procession which began at the depot unloading zone and slowly weaved its way through the north end of town to the County Fair Grounds on the east side of town, we all arrived in time to see the red-and-white Circus tents begin to take shape. The ballyhoo began, and a week of pure magic captured, forever, the hearts of every kid in town and some of those simply young at heart. The Ken Maynard and Tom Mix Cowboy Shows that followed later that summer paled in comparison....

FOR INSTANCE...read again: Whatever happened to the members of the Crooked Creek Gang that, in the years following the Civil War (when Atlantic was being settled by residents of Ohio, Indiana and Illinois) put new meaning into the phrase "Holy Terrors"? They have been referred to, in actual newspaper print, as "dangerous when under the influence of whiskey, their first love; they delighted in fighting, destroying property and terrorizing citizens by shooting up villages and the countryside. From drunken brawls, the Gang set its sights on thievery, arson, and other crimes against society, and the neighbors took to carrying guns for the protection of their lives and property." Well, shoot, by today's standards, just your normal hormonal young lad before he met the "right girl!" Some local Genealogy reports have got to be very interesting reading. "Hey, kids, guess what Gramps did one night?" I have a list of names of the five or six young scamps and not a Cranston family member among them, so relax! To their credit...nary a single computer hacker among the Crooked Creek Gang, so they can't have been all bad!

FOR INSTANCE...and this is the last, I promise! ...read again: Now, this is funny! You should know that the Atlantic Fire Department was/is a volunteer one and caused our fair city to be highly praised throughout the USA as the nation's Fire Prevention City for several years running. In the early 1900's, the annual Fireman's Ball was THE social event of the season. It was so exclusive that a Committee passed upon all those who were invited. The story is told that a certain lady had her heart set on going to The Ball but she was "black-balled." By some means she learned who had cast the ballot against her and went hunting for him with a buggy whip! She caught up with the young whippersnapper at the corner of Third and Chestnut (made famous years later when "The Human Fly" would scale the great (four stories) heights of the Whitney Hotel). Before the young whippersnapper could escape, our heroine gave him several sharp lashes with her whip before "sashaying off full skirts aflying around her trim and shapely ankles" (I am making some of this up, you do know that, don't you?). We may never know who that indomitable young lady was, but I just have to end this thoroughly enjoyable story (to me!) with a raucous, "You go, girl!" and exit laughing!
-30-

Yes...that is what I would wish for...

"DAD"...GEORGE CLINTON CRANSTON, SR.

George Clinton was probably as typical a farmer/small town sort of guy one could find in the whole state of Iowa. On the family farm he toiled alongside his brother, Ben, and his widowed mother, Rhoda Jane. It was no easy task eking out a living in the late 1890's, and the task was doubly hard when Rhoda D. Flint Cranston, his wife and mother of his three young sons (Earl, Jesse and Archibald), died shortly after the birth of Archibald McKinley. With the help of Grandma, Uncle Ben, Uncle John (another brother) and his young wife, Ella, the three young boys were lovingly cared for, and life continued on for the bereaved young family.

Dad met Mary Elizabeth (and I know naught the details) except I firmly believe Mom had competition from another young lass (who later was my Arithmetic teacher in the Seventh Grade). Being blessed Irish and a little "fey" I could read all the signs and the signs over Miss Wissler's head read "Boing!" Absolutely no favoritism was shown during the two years she was my teacher, but a day or two following my graduation from high school, Miss Wissler and I met on Main Street in Atlantic. Her face lit up and she said..."I am so very proud of you!" In the silly romantic way some girls have at looking at life without knowing all the details, I knew then that a "torch had been carried" some where back in our history, and it certainly wasn't for any Olympic event.

Back to Dad...he plied his trades as blacksmith and painter (of homes, not oil) and wallpaper hanger. Better known as "Smiley," his reputation was lauded throughout southwest Iowa as one of the best, if not the best, at each of these jobs. As the four sons of his subsequent marriage to Mom came along, he introduced them and his Thirteenth Child (I sometimes went along to help scrape paper off the walls while Mom was busy with PTA, the GAR/the American Legion/VFW Auxiliaries and Bingo!) to the family occupation. Years later, we figured some Cranston family member had painted or papered perhaps 50-75% of the homes in or near our hometown of Atlantic.

George and Mayme moved to 210 Birch, on the west edge of town, a few years into their marriage in 1903, and that address soon became headquarters for all ages of kids and grownups. It was a happening kind of home. It anything of importance was about to happen, you can bet it was first conceived on the wrap-around front porch!

This soft-spoken, almost spitting-image of Will Rogers was an avid fisherman, hunter of pheasants, quail and wild gooseberries, a lover of animals, big and small. Next to his Haven of Peace, the now infamous Woodshed, stood a larger building that housed the Ford Model T, the fancy Bantam chickens and the egg-layer variety, a feisty duck, always a litter of pups, Betsy the Cow, rabbits raised to sell to the local Elks organization for their Annual Rabbit Feed, and an imposing 20x30 glass-covered wood-framed studio picture of President William McKinley (family history says that he was a relative to the Flint family). Picture this if you will: the President of these United States of America looking so authoritatively regal, presiding over that menagerie in The Barn, one of those incongruous situations where you have to ask...why not in a place of honor in the living room?

Dad's integrity...he once found a paper sack filled with money in the street while he was on his way to the market and delivered it to the local sheriff's office to be returned to the rightful owner. Who the owner was or what happened to the money after that has been the subject of several around-the-kitchen-table discussions. From that incident, it was confirmed once more that our Dad was made of the "right stuff!" His faithfulness and loyalty to his wife and kids through seasons of despair during the Depression Years, his sacrifices of putting himself second to family members so that their daily household and personal needs would be met, his work ethics of showing up for every job undertaken and leaving late if it was important to get a job done...those were virtues he instilled in his kids by action and very few words.

Not so very long ago, Cranston Reunions were held on a semi-regular basis and were not complete without the retelling of "Remember when Dad (and Mom) did/said...?" kind of stories. Sadly, today, this Thirteenth Child is the only "remnant" left of the Cranston Family tapestry; and it is the precious moments of those long-ago days that I feel led to share with the younger generations of our family on the Internet, and of course, with you!

When Dad passed away at the age of 72 in 1945 after a long bout with cancer, the editor (Pulitzer Prize recipient E.P.Chase and a long-time friend of Dad's) of the Atlantic News Telegraph mourned the passing of George Clinton Cranston, Sr. in his editorial, as an outstanding and honorable longtime member of the community. That would have embarrassed Dad no end. The Cranston Kids mourned their Dad as, indeed, an uncommon common man.

* * * * * *

Do you remember the excitement you felt when you heard the Circus was coming to town, and that the unloading of the animals would begin at 4 a.m. at the nearby depot? Probably not unless you were raised in a small town ca. 1930 and the Ringling Brothers Circus was playing for a week in Atlantic, Iowa! Lookin' forward to sharing some of this stuff 'n such with you...."Til the next time!"