Category Archives: Me

Back to school

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I did a similar story back to school that ran in the Herald Democrat in 2010.

Recent stories we ran in the paper about the first day of school triggered flashes of my own first day more than 50 years ago.

I went to a parochial school in Toledo, Ohio and my first day was for kindergarten. I remember other kids in the classroom crying and I didn’t understand the why of that. There were mothers out in the hallway peeking through the glass window in the door to get one last glimpse of their little prince or princess, all grown up for kindergarten. I’m not sure if my mom was one of those.

As I recall, I was pretty “matter of fact” about the event. I was excited because I was going to learn to read. I couldn’t wait for back to school.

Up to that time, my dad read to me. It was especially fun on Sunday mornings before church when he read the Sunday comics from the Toledo Blade. I stood behind him to follow along with the pictures in the comic strip. When I saw a frame that looked more interesting than the one he was one, I would point to it and say “Read that one, Daddy,” in the middle of whatever he was trying to read.

If he was reading a book to me, I sat in his lap but whenever he was reading the comics, I stood behind him and sometimes combed his hair. It strikes me as I write these words, my dad was a really patient man when I was little.

For weeks I told my brother and sister, 12 and 13 years my senior, over and over that I was going to school and I would be able to read. I’m sure I gloated to my younger sister by one year, the same brag to let her know I’d have something she wouldn’t have.

I was dressed in a little pleated skirt with matching suspenders, a white blouse, little white socks and black patten shoes, and so was each of the other girls. We wore uniforms. But that never bothered me. That day, everything was right for me because I was going to learn to read.

The disagreeable part of the day for me and my big disappointment, came when I went home from school that first day and I still couldn’t read. My parents hadn’t understood that I expected to be able to read as soon as I went to school until they were trying to reason with a wailing 5 year old to help me understand — it’s a process.

Sledding down memory lane

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Recent photos on Facebook, a popular Internet social network, of several Van Alstyne families sledding on our snow-covered hill, brought back fond memories of when I was little and living in Toledo, Ohio.


My dad, like the three Van Alstyne dads in the picture, took my sister and me, and often as many of our friends who wanted to go, to area hills when the snow was right. We had a long 4-person sled that you could steer. My dad would get us situated on that sled and then give us a rousing push to help us get the most out of our run (because it was a long walk back to the top). There were usually others sledding on the hills so a certain amount of etiquette was needed. Of course, since we were only about 8 or 10, sometimes the other sledders suffered because we weren’t really good about knowing or practicing the necessary etiquette.


I still have a picture in my head of an older teen-age boy who did all he could to get out of our way. We could steer our sled — just weren’t very good at it. The picture I have is that young man resting on his toboggan in front of us and as we went through the place were he had been, he was suddenly in the air above us to avoid us running him over.


My dad took us ice skating during those times, as well, and taught us how to skate. He didn’t ice skate but somehow, he was able to teach us. I always marveled at that. Lake Erie was at the end of our street, so we often walked down the street to go ice skating. Sometimes, the winters were so bad, we could simply put our skates on sitting on the front step of our house and then ice skate down the sidewalks to the lake. It also was pretty common for a neighbor or two to flood their vacant lots so everyone in the neighborhood could go ice skating. It was a Norman-Rockwell-style event, minus the music. 


I remember that we went to school no matter how much snow fell. We didn’t learn about snow days until we moved to Gainesville, Texas. I was 12, and that was a long time ago.


We may all get another shot at playing in the snow this year because snow is predicted for Tuesday. I hope to see all those Van Alstyne youngsters having fun on our hill again. I may join in this time.

Have you ever had a song stuck in your head?

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I attended a church service last week and one of the songs we sang was “Marching to Zion.”


Well, the tune stuck in my head. I was humming it, singing it and hearing it in my head constantly. So much so that by the end of the week, I was ready to catch a new song.

I shared that with the music minister at my church, Ron Ethredge, who assured me there would be a snappy line up of music that Sunday so I might catch on to a different tune. He was true to his word, and when I left church, I was humming a new song. This was great.


On my way home from church, I admired some of the beautiful yard decorations on display in the front yards of homes around Van Alstyne. In one of those I saw a penguin. I think it caught my eye because, the night before, I watched the movie “March of the Penquins” — and, by the way, loved it. If you haven’t seen that movie, you should. The photography is stunning and the story engaging. It gave me a new concept of parental dedication and sacrifice for the sake of offspring.


The story is about thousands of Emperor Penquins in Antarctica that walk 70 miles over ice to their breeding ground every year. One particular detail caught my attention and made me wonder how scientists can believe in the theory of evolution. The penquin father is the only parent present when the chick hatches. He has had no food in months and there is no food available near the breeding ground. The mother has not yet returned from her walk back to the ocean to be able to feed and store up food for the chick before wallking a third time over ice to the breeding grounds. The chick needs to be fed but sometimes the mothers don’t return for a couple of days after the hatching.


The creator in all His wisdom provided for the new chick to be able to get life-sustaining food while waiting for the mother’s return. There is a small compartment in the back of the father’s throat that holds just enough nourishment for the chick to have one feeding that sustains him until the mother returns. I marvel at the details our creator has built into all our lives.


But, back to my original story. After seeing the penguin yard art, the movie title went through my mind.


Once I heard the word “march,” the whole morning of reprogramming my brain for a new song was gone, gone, gone. In an instant, I was again singing “Marching to Zion, beautiful, beautiful Zion. I’m marching onward to Zion…”


I’m delighted to think about seeing the “beautiful city of God,” but I REALLY need a new song. I’m taking a different route home from church this Sunday.

Using shorthand

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Sitting next to a friend in my Wednesday morning Bible Study recently, my friend noticed an element in my note taking that is something she doesn’t often see. I still use Gregg shorthand that I learned in college. In the same session, I took out my iPhone to make some adjustments on upcoming dates as they were announced.

My friend commented on my use of technology as well as my use of shorthand in the same conversation, and it struck me later the dichotomy of the two.

I love to stay up with technology and have the latest to work on, but most times can’t afford it. I did splurge to get an iPhone, though, and now I think I can’t live without it. It’s really a hand-held computer for all the things it does.

On the other end of the technology spectrum, I also use shorthand when I’m taking notes, and I’m thankful I never stopped using it.

To the unfamiliar eye, my scrawling looks much like a foreign language, and in a way, it is. People often look at what I’m writing, and I’m sure they wonder if I know what I’m doing. The use of shorthand has diminished greatly in the business world with the increased use of dictation machines, and later, computers. It seems to be a dying art, and therefore, not as many people are familiar with or know about shorthand as in the 1960s.

I was surprised to see, through a quick look on the Internet, there are still some courses available where someone can learn a shorthand system, but they don’t seem to be very plentiful.

I learned shorthand in 1968 but have never used it in business until the past 10 years working for the Herald Democrat. The system made it easier to take more complete notes in college, but then I couldn’t lend my notes to someone who missed class. That also meant there were fewer people willing to lend me notes when I missed. Everything has a trade off.

I do enjoy the quizzical glances I get as those who aren’t familiar with shorthand try to decipher what must seem like hieroglyphics scratched across my pad.