Things just keep happening as a result of the book I wrote and self-published. It has been three years since Jessie: the story of a genteel lady in frontier Alaska came off the press, and I am still finding adventure as a result of Jessie's story. However, the latest turn of events came about because I volunteered to type my friend, Jeanne Stinson’s, memoirs. In May 2008, she entrusted with me her 285 (handwritten) pages. The typing was completed by Christmas, then came the “work.”
She and I met almost every week for 2 hours to read the manuscript watching for errors and clarity. It was my intention to read a few paragraphs and then trade off, but Jeanne read every word out loud to me. I WISH there had been at least a tape recorder or video camera to share those precious hours with others.
When it came time to print I Dream of Jeanne: A Memoir by Jeanne Stinson, she had decided to not purchase an IBSN (every book with this set of numbers supposedly can be found in Books in Print). This way she could control who read her story. However, after her initial 25 copies went like hotcakes, she decided to get an ISBN. As soon as her number was published, she ordered another 25 books.
When that order came, there were three boxes. When opened, the first two boxes contained her books. However, the third box had 16 copies of a book titled Water in My Veins: The Pauper Who Helped Save A President by LCDR Ted Robinson, USNR. I immediately notified the printer of the mistake. They issued me a case number while they researched how to handle my complaint. As a matter of fact, before the saga ended, they would issue me four numbers.
Meanwhile, I decided there must be a way to reach the author. So with a minute amount of research, I found what city and state the author resides in and also four phone numbers for that region. There was no answer for the first three numbers, but a lady answered the phone for the fourth. I inquired if she knew of anyone with that name who authored a book.
Silence.
Long story; short. Somehow, I had managed to reach the wife of the book’s author. Since Jeanne was the keeper of the surplus books, I gave Mrs. Robinson Jeanne’s phone number. The next morning, Ted Robinson called me briefly and then called Jeanne. After several days of waiting for instructions from the printer, Ted arranged for Fed Ex to pick up the erred books. Soon, Jeanne and I had exchanged our books for his.
And, before I knew it, I was reading a 455-page book about growing up in the days of the Depression and World War II. Meanwhile, Jeanne and I have finished reading this fascinating story. Finding they had much in common, she has talked to him several times on the phone. John just finished reading my autographed copy and found the story to be enthralling. It could use some grammatical cleanup; other than that, it is a great read.
Just a quick PS – the printer folks finally got around to reading my plight and wrote to tell me to destroy the books. Too little…too late…the books were long gone.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Precious Memories...
Precious Memories how they linger...
Today was the day...finally. In three years, I have donated four separate "Evenings with Jessie" for an auction raising funds for Columbia Christian Schools. Sadly, two of the four never took place because of the busy lives we live. Trying to find time for eight adults to gather is nigh unto impossible. Actually, last November's successful bidders gave their space to others for that very reason.
After months of negotiating, a date and time was decided on, and the chosen meal was a brunch. The co-owner of Jessie's trunk, Joanne Roberts, prepared deviled eggs and a lovely breakfast crab casserole. John exercised his sourdough starter and fixed pancakes with ancient batter. Other things on the menu were rice pudding, fruit salad, moose meatballs with cranberry sauce, shrimp and asparagus salad, and salmon ball with crackers. One would think this was a memory-making occasion, and indeed it was. However, it was amazing how many memories of years, even beyond my lifespan, this day evoked.
First of all, the "Time with Jessie." goes back to the 19th century as we opened the trunk and viewed things a total stranger had felt worth keeping until her death. One of the guests learned that we once lived in Juneau and asked if we knew the Long family. "Of course. The sourdough starter came to us from Nello. The mention of the starter brought to mind Lucille Weir and her Mother Bertha Goetz...the original owners of the starter." Seems our guest had hosted one of Nello's girls for about a year when his family lived in Sacramento. The cranberry sauce was prepared by a lady at a book club I spoke with; she used a recipe directly from Jessie's book.
The salmon was provided for the occasion by the host of our Wednesday p.m. Bible study group; the moose meat by hunters from church. The rice pudding came from my recipe box. the explanation of its origin is in my mother's handwriting -- "This recipe tastes like my mother made when I was a child." The memories brought out with each item removed from our trunk were priceless.
As Joanne removed each item, I shared stories of Jessie's life and loves and family; also names and faces of so many folks I have met because of her trunk -- special Eagle Village and Eagle residents of then and now, folks who have bought the book, people I've never seen who own a piece of Jessie's puzzle, etc.
Our walk through Memory's Trunk was sadly incomplete because Ron (co-owner's hubby) was sick abed. He was sorely missed. For me, the highlight of "Brunch with Jessie" was precious time with my very dear friend Joanne and another reminder of what a terrific man I married. Not only did he, unquestioningly, set and prepare the pancakes, he also hand washed my special dishes.
How they ever flood my soul!
Today was the day...finally. In three years, I have donated four separate "Evenings with Jessie" for an auction raising funds for Columbia Christian Schools. Sadly, two of the four never took place because of the busy lives we live. Trying to find time for eight adults to gather is nigh unto impossible. Actually, last November's successful bidders gave their space to others for that very reason.
After months of negotiating, a date and time was decided on, and the chosen meal was a brunch. The co-owner of Jessie's trunk, Joanne Roberts, prepared deviled eggs and a lovely breakfast crab casserole. John exercised his sourdough starter and fixed pancakes with ancient batter. Other things on the menu were rice pudding, fruit salad, moose meatballs with cranberry sauce, shrimp and asparagus salad, and salmon ball with crackers. One would think this was a memory-making occasion, and indeed it was. However, it was amazing how many memories of years, even beyond my lifespan, this day evoked.
First of all, the "Time with Jessie." goes back to the 19th century as we opened the trunk and viewed things a total stranger had felt worth keeping until her death. One of the guests learned that we once lived in Juneau and asked if we knew the Long family. "Of course. The sourdough starter came to us from Nello. The mention of the starter brought to mind Lucille Weir and her Mother Bertha Goetz...the original owners of the starter." Seems our guest had hosted one of Nello's girls for about a year when his family lived in Sacramento. The cranberry sauce was prepared by a lady at a book club I spoke with; she used a recipe directly from Jessie's book.
The salmon was provided for the occasion by the host of our Wednesday p.m. Bible study group; the moose meat by hunters from church. The rice pudding came from my recipe box. the explanation of its origin is in my mother's handwriting -- "This recipe tastes like my mother made when I was a child." The memories brought out with each item removed from our trunk were priceless.
As Joanne removed each item, I shared stories of Jessie's life and loves and family; also names and faces of so many folks I have met because of her trunk -- special Eagle Village and Eagle residents of then and now, folks who have bought the book, people I've never seen who own a piece of Jessie's puzzle, etc.
Our walk through Memory's Trunk was sadly incomplete because Ron (co-owner's hubby) was sick abed. He was sorely missed. For me, the highlight of "Brunch with Jessie" was precious time with my very dear friend Joanne and another reminder of what a terrific man I married. Not only did he, unquestioningly, set and prepare the pancakes, he also hand washed my special dishes.
How they ever flood my soul!
Friday, August 14, 2009
Afternoon Delight
It has been a long time since I have laughed out loud at a movie. I actually even found myself screaming once from hilarity along with the onscreen actress and some of the audience. When Patty called to see if we'd like to hit a matinee, we both jumped at the opportunity. I had already determined to rent "Julie & Julia" (or vice verse) when it came out on DVD. Over and over again, during the viewing, I kept thinking of what few things I could recall reading about Julia Child or seeing her on TV. Even at that, I have a story to share.
When our youngest was in pre-school, we purchased a color TV set, which led to getting cable hookup. One day, he and I were watching Julia Child at work in her kitchen. I don't recall what she was preparing, but I do recall it required a lot of flour. So, I am guessing it may have been bread. Anyway, she looked down at her well-floured work area and, with her bare hand, wiped a substantial amount of flour directly onto the floor. Geoffrey looked up at me and said, "Can you do that?" I told him she probably had people who would clean up after her.
It was about that time in his life that he asked Granny Ruth to make him an apron and a chef's hat. When he donned this wardrobe, he announced "When I have this on, you can call me Cheffrey!"
When our youngest was in pre-school, we purchased a color TV set, which led to getting cable hookup. One day, he and I were watching Julia Child at work in her kitchen. I don't recall what she was preparing, but I do recall it required a lot of flour. So, I am guessing it may have been bread. Anyway, she looked down at her well-floured work area and, with her bare hand, wiped a substantial amount of flour directly onto the floor. Geoffrey looked up at me and said, "Can you do that?" I told him she probably had people who would clean up after her.
It was about that time in his life that he asked Granny Ruth to make him an apron and a chef's hat. When he donned this wardrobe, he announced "When I have this on, you can call me Cheffrey!"
Friday, July 10, 2009
T.T.Tuc...S.S..Son
The year was 1956 when our family of four moved to Tucson from Frankel City, Texas (population 9). Sammy was not happy about the move because, this being his senior year, he would not be graduating with his close friends. When we walked into the Mabel and Santa Rita church building that first Sunday morning, several girls came and asked me to sit on the second row with them.
Before that Sunday ended, we had learned it was necessary to register for school. “Register” would be the first of many three-syllable words added to our vocabulary. None of the others at church would be attending Tucson High that year, but everyone agreed we should start at the bookstore to register. The only clue we had about required classes was another three-syllable word – Algebra.
Monday morning, Sammy drove me to the high school, and we hunted for the bookstore. Already, anyone we met had hung the moniker “Tex” on Sammy’s drawl. He was my big brother and my protector...or so we thought. Finding the tiny entryway labeled “bookstore,” we went in the door to the left. A big “no no.” Entrances and Up stairways were always on the right; we were sent out to correct our first (of many) assumptions.
“Yes, Ma’am. No Ma’m,” Sam answered any and all inquiries. “We were told we have to buy our books for school.”
“What books do you need?”
“Well, Ma’am; for sure, we need Algebra.
Both ladies searched through every file cabinet in the tiny space, and one of them even went through the (righthand) door behind her in search of any hint of our name. Returning through the (lefthand) door, they were both mystified.
“Do you have your printed schedule with you?” Note that schedule would be a three-syllable word to a Texan.
“No, Ma’am. What does a sked-dew-all look like?”
“Who is your counselor?”
“What is a counselor? And where do I find one?”
“You go across the street to the Main Building. Go up the stairs and, after you have passed the columns, go through any of the doors. Walk straight ahead until you come to a wall of windows; you will see counselors sitting at their desks. They will help you get your schedule.”
Following those directions, we found the counselors’ office. The lady at the front desk said we could not just walk in and expect to be registered. I was assigned to Counselor Miss Smith; she would stick with me for 4 whole years. A man was to counsel Sam. We had to make an appointment (three syllables) to meet with our counselors to work out our schedule.
As it turned out, Tucson High School was the largest school in the Nation that year. We were on triple shifts, from dawn to dusk. Our shift was early morning, and we were out before noon. Before the school year ended, 3,000 students would move into the brand spanking new Pueblo High School, and 2,000 more exited THS’s halls to become Catalina High School.
Academic classes were held in the Main Building; imagine how hot those third-floor classes were without even a fan much less air conditioners. The Vocational Building housed classed fpr training for life’s careers: Home Ec, secretarial classes, auto shop, machinery, and (who knows why?) Algebra. The Annex held the cafeteria, boys PE and girls PE and gyms, band and choir, and the bookstore.
Some quickly learned rules -- Stairways were marked for “Up and Down," and woe unto you if you erred from that rule. Hall monitors sat in every hallway, and one did not dare peek out of the assigned classroom during class hours without a hall pass. Hundreds of students filled the cafeteria for study hall. The wrestling coach was assigned my table to make certain there was no talking; he wasn’t very much help with Algebra.
Before that Sunday ended, we had learned it was necessary to register for school. “Register” would be the first of many three-syllable words added to our vocabulary. None of the others at church would be attending Tucson High that year, but everyone agreed we should start at the bookstore to register. The only clue we had about required classes was another three-syllable word – Algebra.
Monday morning, Sammy drove me to the high school, and we hunted for the bookstore. Already, anyone we met had hung the moniker “Tex” on Sammy’s drawl. He was my big brother and my protector...or so we thought. Finding the tiny entryway labeled “bookstore,” we went in the door to the left. A big “no no.” Entrances and Up stairways were always on the right; we were sent out to correct our first (of many) assumptions.
“Yes, Ma’am. No Ma’m,” Sam answered any and all inquiries. “We were told we have to buy our books for school.”
“What books do you need?”
“Well, Ma’am; for sure, we need Algebra.
Both ladies searched through every file cabinet in the tiny space, and one of them even went through the (righthand) door behind her in search of any hint of our name. Returning through the (lefthand) door, they were both mystified.
“Do you have your printed schedule with you?” Note that schedule would be a three-syllable word to a Texan.
“No, Ma’am. What does a sked-dew-all look like?”
“Who is your counselor?”
“What is a counselor? And where do I find one?”
“You go across the street to the Main Building. Go up the stairs and, after you have passed the columns, go through any of the doors. Walk straight ahead until you come to a wall of windows; you will see counselors sitting at their desks. They will help you get your schedule.”
Following those directions, we found the counselors’ office. The lady at the front desk said we could not just walk in and expect to be registered. I was assigned to Counselor Miss Smith; she would stick with me for 4 whole years. A man was to counsel Sam. We had to make an appointment (three syllables) to meet with our counselors to work out our schedule.
As it turned out, Tucson High School was the largest school in the Nation that year. We were on triple shifts, from dawn to dusk. Our shift was early morning, and we were out before noon. Before the school year ended, 3,000 students would move into the brand spanking new Pueblo High School, and 2,000 more exited THS’s halls to become Catalina High School.
Academic classes were held in the Main Building; imagine how hot those third-floor classes were without even a fan much less air conditioners. The Vocational Building housed classed fpr training for life’s careers: Home Ec, secretarial classes, auto shop, machinery, and (who knows why?) Algebra. The Annex held the cafeteria, boys PE and girls PE and gyms, band and choir, and the bookstore.
Some quickly learned rules -- Stairways were marked for “Up and Down," and woe unto you if you erred from that rule. Hall monitors sat in every hallway, and one did not dare peek out of the assigned classroom during class hours without a hall pass. Hundreds of students filled the cafeteria for study hall. The wrestling coach was assigned my table to make certain there was no talking; he wasn’t very much help with Algebra.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Princess Lines in West Texas?
OH DEAR! I've done it this time. What started as a simple notice of my upcoming class reunion took an unexpected turn. Sorry!
Our family moved to Tucson during the summer before Sam’s senior year; I would begin my freshman year at Tucson High School. Sam was not happy about the move because he would not get to graduate with his good friends.
We moved to the big city from Frankel City, Texas. Frankel City was located 14 miles west of Andrews. For the 2 years we lived there, Sam and I rode the bus to school in Andrews. Entering Frankel City (also known as Franklin and Fullerton), the posted population read “9.” Within the “city limits” was a grocery store, a café, and two church buildings, one Baptist and one Church of Christ, and a garage.
What would sustain such a town? It would not take a visitor any time at all to ascertain who made up the tiny congregation of believers. Oil derricks and pumps dotted the landscape; housing was provided for the workers in the field. When our family would have guests, we would take them on a drive of the area; pointing out sagebrush, desert creatures, small sand dunes, oil derricks…a flat, parched land. Daddy would always try to time the tour so that, right at dusk, he would stop and point out the lights of “the desert ship.” Guests were always taken aback at how such an enormous vessel could possibly exist in such a barren land. Then Daddy would drive up closer so one could see clearly that the ship was not a sea-going vessel at all. It was an oil refinery.
Our house and church building sat next to the grocery store, right on highway 181. Folks who were familiar with the area knew that this was a shortcut to the big town of Seminole; otherwise, anyone else on the road was just plain lost. Daddy marked the road every quarter mile for a mile, and Sam and I ran. We got to be pretty good runners. On Sunday afternoons, Sam would go hunting for rattlesnakes with other boys his age. Daddy occasionally went dove hunting. They were both hugely successful hunters for their chosen prey. Jackrabbits were also plentiful, but only at night when spooked out of hiding by car lights.
When leaving the house, we learned rather quickly to jump off of the concrete stoop. This was an important lesson because the rattlesnakes would hunker in the shade right where we would normally step. Otherwise, we made our own entertainment. On my 13th birthday, Sam taught me the game of Mumblypeg. His knife punctured the top of my left foot. To see a movie (or doctor) meant a trip into Andrews.
My grandfather had paid for and had shipped to us a tower for attaching a TV antenna, but it would be several years before anyone purchased the television set to accompany it. We moved it three times and never made use of it.
Check back here in the future for the story of two teens from population 9 town trying to enter the largest high school in the Nation.
Our family moved to Tucson during the summer before Sam’s senior year; I would begin my freshman year at Tucson High School. Sam was not happy about the move because he would not get to graduate with his good friends.
We moved to the big city from Frankel City, Texas. Frankel City was located 14 miles west of Andrews. For the 2 years we lived there, Sam and I rode the bus to school in Andrews. Entering Frankel City (also known as Franklin and Fullerton), the posted population read “9.” Within the “city limits” was a grocery store, a café, and two church buildings, one Baptist and one Church of Christ, and a garage.
What would sustain such a town? It would not take a visitor any time at all to ascertain who made up the tiny congregation of believers. Oil derricks and pumps dotted the landscape; housing was provided for the workers in the field. When our family would have guests, we would take them on a drive of the area; pointing out sagebrush, desert creatures, small sand dunes, oil derricks…a flat, parched land. Daddy would always try to time the tour so that, right at dusk, he would stop and point out the lights of “the desert ship.” Guests were always taken aback at how such an enormous vessel could possibly exist in such a barren land. Then Daddy would drive up closer so one could see clearly that the ship was not a sea-going vessel at all. It was an oil refinery.
Our house and church building sat next to the grocery store, right on highway 181. Folks who were familiar with the area knew that this was a shortcut to the big town of Seminole; otherwise, anyone else on the road was just plain lost. Daddy marked the road every quarter mile for a mile, and Sam and I ran. We got to be pretty good runners. On Sunday afternoons, Sam would go hunting for rattlesnakes with other boys his age. Daddy occasionally went dove hunting. They were both hugely successful hunters for their chosen prey. Jackrabbits were also plentiful, but only at night when spooked out of hiding by car lights.
When leaving the house, we learned rather quickly to jump off of the concrete stoop. This was an important lesson because the rattlesnakes would hunker in the shade right where we would normally step. Otherwise, we made our own entertainment. On my 13th birthday, Sam taught me the game of Mumblypeg. His knife punctured the top of my left foot. To see a movie (or doctor) meant a trip into Andrews.
My grandfather had paid for and had shipped to us a tower for attaching a TV antenna, but it would be several years before anyone purchased the television set to accompany it. We moved it three times and never made use of it.
Check back here in the future for the story of two teens from population 9 town trying to enter the largest high school in the Nation.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Anybody home?
I stood in the enormous room and shouted, "Anybody home?" ....anybody home?
It isn't just any room; it is a room of my own making. ....own making
I cut the trees and hewed each one to stack in a Lincoln Blog fashion. ...log fashion
I laid a tin roof for shelter. ....shelter
The ceiling is high enough for a basketball hoop. ...hoop
Someone must be here, but all I hear is an echo. ....echo
Oh! there is someone outside...calling my name. ...betty riot?
But I don't see anyone anywhere in this blog cabin. ...bin
What's that? They've all moved to facebook. ....book
Or Twitter. ...ter
I guess I'd better go look for them. ....em
It isn't just any room; it is a room of my own making. ....own making
I cut the trees and hewed each one to stack in a Lincoln Blog fashion. ...log fashion
I laid a tin roof for shelter. ....shelter
The ceiling is high enough for a basketball hoop. ...hoop
Someone must be here, but all I hear is an echo. ....echo
Oh! there is someone outside...calling my name. ...betty riot?
But I don't see anyone anywhere in this blog cabin. ...bin
What's that? They've all moved to facebook. ....book
Or Twitter. ...ter
I guess I'd better go look for them. ....em
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