Prom One 1938

Ethel Mitchel @2012

My one and only prom took place in Baker, Oregon in my junior year at Baker High, the exact date I can't recall. The excitement started building as soon as I told my Mother and we knew we had to start looking for an evening gown with accessories to match.

The gown had to be blue and decorous! I wanted some sex appeal added but that was not allowed. I settled for accenting the positive. Money was also a contributing factor so had to utilize Montgomery Ward but my thrill was so great I would have taken a hand me down if there was one to be had! We found a blue dress that satisfied both me and my Mother. We added a small silver clutch purse for my lipstick and key with silver heels. The outfit sent out signals loud and clear first date. Who cares I was going to a prom.

Neil (a friend) was driving as we had thirty miles to go to meet our dates in Baker at the High school. The trio consisted of Neil, Neva and myself in Neil's Dad's car. Hey we were lucky the Dad stayed home.

Orville, my dates name met us at the door of the gym and pinned my corsage which was romantic in my thoughts then I got the giggles and told him be careful, I would have to chastise him if he stuck me with that pin, that broke the strain and the night proceeded!

I awoke the morning of the big day with a sore throat! I did not mention this to anyone but went about my day as if all was well. Staying away from Mother, fixing my hair as we did our own styling at this time period. Did I do my nails? I don't think so that was not in my agenda. I think I was ready to go an hour before we were to leave.

The dance in retrospect was anticlimactic! My date danced each dance with me and was attentive but the ambiance just wasn't there when I felt sick. Going home I had to sit in front between Neil nd Neva to keep them warm as by now my fever was raging. The good thing about my sore throat was it kept my mind from dwelling on the fiasco of my one and only prom dance!

James Madison High School and Prom

Edith Smart @2012

High school may not have been fun for everyone, but it was for me. Probably the best years of my life! Because I fell in love. Roy was a big shot in the little high school annex we attended. He was tall for his age. He had been elected president of that little place. I was biology librarian. But that was only the beginning.

The drama society put on a play at the end of our first term. In the second term there wasn’t a teacher available to take over, so I was given the rare opportunity to do it. Boy was I in heaven! Acting was my first love, but directing was my dream. WOW! At 14 and a half my dream was coming true.

Other things were happening also. Roy and I started dating. By now at 15 we were in the main building of our James Madison High School. There were dances in the gym at the end of each basketball game Friday after Friday. One really big date was going to see “Hell’s a Poppin” on Broadway. It was a birthday celebration for a friend of Roy’s from camp.

In spring we would take the trolley to Coney Island and ride the roller coaster and eat hot dogs and Cracker Jacks.My first kiss came one evening in the vestibule of my house. He said he loved me, and I said the same. The years were filled with classes in school, and we both got good grades but I needed help in math. Roy was good in everything.

Senior Prom was the main event in June 1940. We had both doubled up on our classes to graduate in 3 and ½ years. I shopped for a formal at Altman’s in the City. It was white floral printed taffeta, off the shoulders and full length. We shared a cab with another couple because the event was at the hotel Pierre on Park Avenue. All the girls wore evening gowns, and the boys wore tux’s. I am not sure if it was Benny Goodman or Tommy Dorsey who provided the music. Food was light there. And to top off the evening we went to the Cotton Club in Harlem for a late dinner. Cab Callaway was there. Nothing else in my young life, or maybe ever, can compare with that wonderful June evening in 1940.

Why Why Why

@ 2012  Ethel Mitchell

A sewing basket comes to mind for this question, " Why do we keep things". The basket is not one of my Mothers, not my Grandmothers, it is an antique of the early 1900's but no family ties to it. But, it did remind me of one Mother owned with her mending in it and sometimes she kept her embroidery thread there also.

I would take the skeins of colored thread out and make rainbows on the rug and I was careful to keep the thread in a bundle so it would not tangle cause if it did it would be a long time before I could play again with it. I would use the paper bands that were around each skein for rings and each finger was bedecked with a ring.

The basket set on the sewing machine. not a Singer but a White. The machine had a knee press instead of a peddle which was a lot easier in my opinion. I learned to operate it in later years as we had that machine until Mother's demise.

Mother sewed night gowns for my daughters and I embroidered them. She had purchased a bolt of flannel she had found, as all this happened during the war years when many things were scarce and we used it freely. Even made dish towels, crib sheets. doll nighties. I was trying to remember if we had used all of the bolt but that answer evades my memory.

Grandma Emily's sewing basket was similar, round with beads on top but filled with letters and her darning gizmo (sorry I have forgotten the proper name for the article.) You put it inside when you are mending the sock and it gives you a solid surface to work against. I used a light bulb when I darned but gave up as it made blisters from rubbing. Her yarn was more like knitting yarn because socks were mostly wool back then. Her letters were from Sweden and in Swedish, I pretended I could read them. My imagination knew no boundaries when I was young!

I purchased a sewing basket during my antiquing era but alas it does not grace a sewing machine but sets on my dresser with sundry items resting inside but I still look at it and see it sitting in the front room on top of the sewing machine! Memories!

This answered one of my whys but not all. Later!

Doughnut Season @Zollinger

Leaves changing colors and air becoming cool and brisk welcome the sounds of autumn in southern Utah. Rustling leaves, scurrying footsteps, trying to find warm socks and shoes or perhaps boots. Soft rumbling thuds as coats, gloves and hats are rummaged through. Excitement in the air as preparations are made for the family to go deer hunting. Dad sounds the deer call and we gather in the living room. Family prayer is said then the noise resumes.

“I can’t find any gloves..”

“Get in the truck.”

“Kevin, load the guns in the back of the truck.”

“Has anyone seen my glasses?”

“Kirk, are you wearing my boots?”

“Dad, where are we going this year?”

“Find Jeff and get him in the truck. Let’s go.”

We hear Jeff singing in the bathroom. The toilet flushes. Running water. Out he comes. Kids run through the living room and out the front door. The door slams shut. Dad kisses Mom goodbye. Truck doors open. Kids scramble inside arguing over who sits where.

Dad gets in and turns the key. The engine sputters a moment then roars to life. “Everyone here?” As he backs out of the driveway, we wave to Mom who is standing on the porch by the front door. The chattering continues until we reach the mountain.

Dad stops the truck. “Now you kids be quiet and we might see some deer. We’re going to walk over to that rim there with that big rock. Stay together and be quiet.”

Some whispering happens but mostly we hear the leaves fluttering as the wind blows through the aspen trees. Pine needles crunch under our feet and once in a while a larger stick cracks or a rock tumbles down a hill. We reach the spot Dad pointed out. He gets out his gun and loads the ammunition. We take turns looking through binoculars for a big buck. Mostly we just sit quietly watching the birds, the trees and the squirrels, while looking for deer.

“There’s a buck on the other side of that meadow standing back in the trees.” Bart had been looking through the binoculars. We all squint to see between the trees. Dad raises his gun and looks through the scope. We all stay quiet.

“Boom!” The gunshot echoes through the mountain but the target is hit straight on. The deer didn’t fall though. Dad says it would probably wander 30-40 feet before it fell. “Monica, take the girls and two little boys back to the truck. You older boys come with me. We’re gonna have to carry that buck about a mile and a half back to the truck.”

About 4:00 in the afternoon we return home. As soon as we walk in the house we smell the doughnuts Mom has made while we were gone. “Mmmm. Yum!”

“Go get your boots off and hats and gloves put away first.” Mom’s guarding the doughnuts. “Then wash your hands!”

We’re soon back for the doughnuts, eating and telling Mom of the days adventure. Dad’s still out taking care of the deer. “I work all day cooking these doughnuts and they’re practically gone in ten minutes.” Mom looks tired but is not angry.

“That’s what you get for having so many kids.” Bart grabs another doughnut.

Dad comes in. “Well, we finally got one today. A four-pointer. It’s hanging up in the backyard. We’ll have to get up early tomorrow morning to get it all taken care of.” He washes his hands and gives Mom another kiss. Then, he too, eats a doughnut and asks, “What’s for dinner?”

Written by Monica Zollinger, 1/16/12

A River

© 2012

Pamela Wilkie

In my next life I’m going to be a river; free to wander across the countryside and witness vistas most humans never see. An unhurried river, softly flowing toward its ultimate home, the open arms of the sea, and making room for the new waters yet to come from the ice and snow high above.

I begin as a tiny trickle high on a snow covered mountain and as the spring sun slowly warms the ground, melting the snow, I gather speed and strength as I run quickly down to the valley below. Obstacles in front of me pose no threat as I can gently rise up and slide over them with ease, waving a white-capped goodbye on my way past. My greater power is barely hidden below my shining, sparkling face and it whispers a warning of great danger if threatened from without or within. I am strong and in control of my destiny. I carve out new places to live where I choose; I cross impossible lands just to see what they offer as the sky mirrors itself along my back. I am alive with life of all kinds and provide life’s very nectar to all who seek it. I feel wonderful, free of constraints, invincible.

Once in the valley, I live peacefully, gently traveling on my journey, making friends as I go. Animals and trees, rocks and mud become my clothing, but I’m never bored because they change quickly and often, as do the scenes in front of me. And what astonishing things I see! Prairies so green and vast that it almost hurts to look at them, their colors vibrant, varied, and bright; mighty mountains ascending gradually into the sky, giving birth to my cousins on the way up; acres and acres of undisturbed flowers, and dark forests of all manner of trees. Thousands, maybe millions of kinds of animals show me their tricks; their colors; their offspring. Some even come to live with me, handily building their homes with the resources nearby, chattering at each other and slapping their tails to make a point. Fish, highly prized by humans, are my finest friends. They too are calm and quiet, silently cruising through the water – some so brave and strong they swim upstream against my current for hundreds of miles, propelled by an instinct to live and yet will die when they reach their goal, some catching a free ride downstream, snapping up a bug or two for a snack, and some, in one of the greatest displays of unwavering trust, bring forth their young to live in my waters.

There are other things too, made by the hands of humans. Cities, buildings, houses, vehicles, trash, pollution. I try to be friends with them, but they hurt me. They say they love me, but they hurl their unwanted into my waters, clogging me and slowing me down. I must beware of humans, but I won’t shy away from them. Many times I find they just want to play so I become playful. I allow this until they become stupid or disrespectful and ignore my warnings and sometimes they get hurt and I am sad.

My name is River. I am the arteries of Mother Nature. I carry the life blood of our world to all those who need it to survive. I sustain life, for without me, all life would die and the world would be barren and dry. I am courageous and I am determined to complete my journey. Will you come along with me? I’ll show you treasures you won’t believe. It’ll be fun, I promise.

I Am a Bed Named Jenney @Beth Yount

Some folks call me a “spool bed”

I may look like a series of sewing spools

From a gigantic textile mill

But I am much more

I want to be called a “Jenny Lind” bed

I am named after a beautiful Swedish Singer

Who came to America

The “It Girl” of the 1850’s

It is said she slept in a bed

Just like me

In my long life I have been many places

I believe that

My very first home was probably

Ottumwa, Iowa

Circumstances changed

I moved north in 1926 with my family

to Menomonie, Wisconsin

For the past fifty years

I have happily stayed

In the same special place

On Atlantic Avenue in Highland, California

I have stories to share

About where I have been

And who has loved me

I began to be, sometime in the 1920’s

Plain sticks of cherry wood were chosen

By a man named George, a teacher and coach

He found new joy and skill in woodworking

In the vacant high school shop

He transformed the rough sawn pieces

of fine cherry wood

Into perfect concentric spools

Evening after evening, month after month

He carefully turned pieces of wood on a lathe

Glued the pieces together

Carefully sanded and varnished

I became a handsome Jenny Lind bed

For his little daughter,

Named Mary Katherine

For over 20 years I resided in the rear bedroom

In our family home in Oakwood Heights

But I would be moving again, this time, west

I am not a twin bed I am not a double bed

I am a bit shorter and a bit narrower

Than beds are today

I am not “standard size”

I know I am just one of a kind

Not substandard, just unique

Beth makes custom sheets to fit me

I still have old, squeaky, coiled springs

An ancient, made to order striped ticking mattress

I know I sadly sag in my middle

That happens with age

I have frequently heard it said

Even though I am almost one hundred

“ Perhaps we should have a new mattress made”

I have heard many times

For eighteen, happy years Lisa Beth loved me

She didn’t mind if I made noise

Whenever she turned over

Rolled into the comfortable

Chasm in my middle

I think she felt content, protected

Held warmly. securely cuddled

Even before I became Lisa’s bed

There were several years

When I was the only bed

That John and Beth owned

I certainly was not designed for two

They were young. poor and in love

Didn’t ever seem to mind

Cuddling tightly like spoons in a drawer

In my short narrow, space

Even today

I am happy when one of my family

Returns home for a brief visit

When asked “which bedroom?”

They say without any thought

“I’ll sleep in the soft, old

Jenny Lind bed”

I know I am old, but I am still needed

I am attractive, if you like antiques

I am useful If you don’t mind my squeaks and lumps

I believe I have aged well