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!"

"MOM"...aka MARY ELIZABETH (Mayme) HOFFMAN CRANSTON

Why this God-fearing, sometimes obstinate, always level-headed, seldom wrong, Canasta-and-Bingo playing addict (there is that word again!) chose to keep "The Secret" for as long as she did has puzzled her family from 1925 until the day she passed away in 1981, at the rather remarkable age of 97 years, her reasoning still to be guessed.

What ulterior motive was behind her thinking...her secretiveness? Only Heaven knows. There was no apparent change in Mayme's daily schedule in late 1924 and early 1925. She ran her household of 11 kids (some on and some off the premises), she ran the Grant School PTA, the GAR, the American Legion and VFW Auxiliaries, she ran the Neighborhood Potlucks (winter and summer)...my sister, Trudy (one of those married and off the premises) years later agreed with me she could very well have coined the phrase: "Get out of my way or there will be "h - - l" to pay!" (I must mention here that she was also somewhat outspoken...but with a smile...when a project put in her trust was marked by someone's lack of ability or incompetence.)

Now, about her "Secret." Not even her closest confidants suspected, the neighborhood wives twenty-strong, nor did her kids, nor the Grant/Jackson/High School Teachers and Principals, UNTIL...the day that Trudy was about to present Mayme and George, husband and father, with their second grandchild. Usually expectant mothers are surrounded by family and friends, anxiously awaiting the results, collecting bets and offering congratulations to the new parents. Not Mom! George prodded and cajoled Mayme to go (next door!) to boil water, if necessary, and did not readily understand her reticence about playing a more active midwife role, assisting Dr. Greenleaf, family doctor and frequent caller at 210 Birch Street prior to this current call. All of the Cranston children had been born at home and so the birthing of this new babe was not, at all, of an unusual nature. What could possibly be more important than personally greeting this babe?

Well, 42-year-old Mayme gave 53-year-old George an answer that will stand with the years and be told over and over to future generations...much like I am doing now! "I am having a baby of our own in a couple of weeks!" I hear tell that little piece of news set George back on his heels in no time flat, and he promptly withdrew to his Haven of Peace, the Woodshed erected on the far side of the family home. I, also, hear tell that when he finally emerged from The Woodshed, he told a fellow fisherman, "Oh, heck, Vern, what is one more mouth to feed, and No. 13 has always been a good number for the Cranston family!" (These are tidbits one picks up in researching family genealogy.) (How true, I know naught!)

So, when the day of April 21st finally arrived, and Mayme's "Secret" became known to the townspeople of Atlantic, Iowa, via the Atlantic News Telegraph, everyone cheered for it was a good thing! BUT, be it known far and wide, there were NO MORE "Secrets" in our household from that day forward. Family folklore has it that George chopped kindling wood all the while Mayme was laboring, and there was enough stacked wood to last the following winter!

Oh, yes, Trudy and her hubby had their firstborn, a son named Edmund LeRoy (Bus) who was my nephew before I was born. I had as my Mom and Dad two of the most wonderful, giving and caring parents who doted but did not spoil, who loved but did not smother, and who gave me principles to live by for lo these many years. Soon you will meet George (Dad) ... a young man who buried the mother of his first three sons following the birth of their infant son, an "uncommon common" man. Something that makes me laugh, just a little bit: Mom kept my imminent birth a secret for the required gestation period. And, now, here I sit, ready and willing and happy, to share more about my family and me than you will care to know...but that is what "addiction" is all about, right? Recognizing the problem and doing something about it! 'Til the next time...

IN THE BEGINNING....!

Quite frankly, I have never considered myself an "addictive" personality...honest! Setting aside such indulgences as milk chocolate-covered cherries, Diet Coke, Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, KFC dinner menu complete with biscuits and ear corn, MSNBC and The View, I am FREE of what is often considered to be something no person "in his or her right mind" would embrace, entertain, enjoy, envy, exhibit or exhort....SO WHY AM I so caught up in this "Blogging" thing to the point I ignore the refrigerator and all the good stuff listed above...well, not MSNBC or The View, of course?

I, kiddingly, tell myself it is to keep "out of jail and off the streets" but that doesn't come close to explaining the "inner joy" of sharing stories of my simple childhood in Atlantic, Iowa, the friends of my childhood, of being raised in a family of twelve siblings, and the blessing of being the Thirteenth Child of a Mom and Dad who experienced, if ever there was one, a midlife "crisis" when I was conceived and born. So...here we go again! A friend told me about this new Blog spot a day or two ago, and here I am, already, about to "spill the beans" on my childhood chums, our neighbors of yesteryear and the citizens in general who just happened to make my growing up years in Iowa so colorful and unforgettable. That would describe the "CountryGal" part of the title of my Blog....for a "teaser," just let me say that you will soon read about two of the most important people in my life...Mom and Dad. In the meantime, look forward with me to sharing a bit of "this and that" ... postings will probably not be on a regular basis, as I am still learning how to adjust to all the good stuff on this website as a "newbie." Fighting this "addiction," I fear, is going to be a losing battle... someone once said it is almost impossible for me to confine my "writings" to 400 words or less! 'Tis true, I trust! 'Til the next time...