Summer by Esther

[note: this story was written by my sister Esther]
　
It was summer and school was out and my sister Marion Elizabeth and her daughter Kim came to visit. They made the trip from Mexico City to spend a bit of time with us.

I had four children, three girls and a boy. My closest neighbor had three girls and with Kim we had a yard full of active kids. Which was good as we lived at the end of the lane. It was out side the city limits. We had old oak trees in the front and back yard where it was so nice to just sit and watch the sun rise and sun sets.

Marion Elizabeth , and Mary the next door neighbor and I would sit outside to have our morning coffee, and watch the children play. They would have different games and often they would treat us to a play one of them wrote or to a musical program.

When Marion Elizabeth unpacked her oil paints and set up her canvas the children became her models. I had always admired her ability to take a blank canvas and create a lovely scene. It was a gift. She did paint with a passion. I watched as she worked the canvas and as the scene progressed. I could see how she was able to use the small or thin or larger brushes to add the details she wanted; to show the shadows and to capture the colors she needed by the way she would dab a color and blend it, with several other colors, was interesting. Even the children enjoyed watching her and would pose as she wanted. They never lost interest. As the days went by it became a habit to see how much she had done and wait for her to ask them to come and sit for her.

Marion Elizabeth would keep a conversation going while she worked and also take time out to watch what the children were doing. My favorite was when they would all start to sing the new songs from the radio. Another thing my sister love to do is direct the choir. And the children just loved her. She always liked to teach and she did it well.

One thing the children liked often was the picnic we had. The weather was nice and too pleasant to stay in side with so many running in and out. We put out a large jug of ice water and Kool-Aid, with spigots which made it easy for them to get their own drinks.

One day we loaded up the children and went fishing. No one had any luck, though Marion did fish all day. She is a dedicated fisher woman. A true fisherman will enjoy fishing even though they don’t have a bite or even a nibble. That’s our Marion. About time for Vernon to come to the lake after work and he threw in his line and before he could reel it back in he had one hooked. He turned around to Marion and said “that’s how you have to do it”. That one fish was enough to make a meal for all of us.

Another day we went Dewberry picking at the bluffs above the river. Every time I have went there, I always came home with enough to make a Dew Berry dumpling and serve it with ice cream. Dewberries are like Black Berries only smaller and they have a more tart taste. They are the best ones to make a cobbler or with dumplings.

It was so nice to have my sister visit. And Marion taught the children to play Spite and Malice. A game two or more players could play. The more the better, the less cards the players would have and the game could last for hours.

I don’t know if Marion ever finish the painting of the children playing in the back yard under the old oak tree with a tire swing hanging on one of the heavy limbs. It looked good to me. But the artist is the one who has to work till it is done to her satisfaction. And Marion Elizabeth please know I did enjoy watching you paint and even more so enjoyed your visit.

Thoughts along the Way

When clicking Start to Stop, or
Turning left at the Glorieta
To turn right,
You are not Back Tracking.
It means,
You’ve
Taken the Fork in the Road.

The Line

The line in the sand is long and deep. The question is: Will it be crossed?

Will President Obama get his version of the universal health care program he has vowed to sign into law during his presidency? Or will it be defeated and left to a future president to espouse the virtues of affordable health care for all?

Marcus Popillius Laenas, sent out by the Roman senate to bring the war in Egypt to an end, was met by the Macedonian king, Antiochus, at Eleusis, a suburb of Alexandria. Calling out a verbal greeting from a distance, he stretched out his hand in welcome, but Marcus Popillius, having the senate’s decree in readiness, handed it to Antiochus and ordered him to read it, thereby avoiding the clasping of the kings hand in friendship until it was evident whether he was a friend or foe.

The king, after reading the document, said he would consult with friends on the matter. Upon hearing this, Popillius, in a manner offensive and arrogant in the extreme and having a vinestock at hand, took the stick and drew a circle around Antiochus and directed him to give an answer before stepping out of the circle.

The king, astonished by what had taken place, and awed by the majesty and might of Rome, was in a hopeless quandary. On full consideration, he agreed to immediately break off his war against Ptolemy, where upon Popillius and his colleagues shook hands and greeted the king cordially. Pursuant to these instructions the king withdrew his forces from Egypt, panic-stricken by the superior might of Rome, the more so as he had just had news of the Macedonian collapse.

Indeed, had he not known that this had taken place; never of his own free will would he have heeded the decree.

Reference to A Line in the Sand

In Memoriam

Come: not in watches of the night,

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm,
Come, beauteous in thine after form,

And like a finer light in light.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

In Remembrance of 9-11

Apple Showers

My sister Esther and I, in a recent morning Instant Message chat, talked about receiving letters from various family members from time to time with lovely folded handkerchiefs inside when we were kids. Those little presents were precious and I saved mine in chocolate candy boxes.

In those depression days lovely embroidered handkerchiefs with lace were sold in flat boxes the size of the handkerchief for 25 cents. The boxes were wrapped in cellophane and tied with ribbons so you could see the whole embroidered design. They were not meant to be used, but for show. My sister said that she gave those handkerchiefs boxes to her teachers. I never gave a handkerchief to a teacher but I did give apples.

Only favorite teachers got "apple showers" once during the year, perhaps twice, and always as a surprise. Some teachers never received them and I’m certain they were thankful when the favored teacher related her experience. In remembering and telling about how we gave the apples, I am astounded that we never killed a teacher.

When I was in the third and fourth grade, someone would pass the word around that we would have a surprise "apple shower" that afternoon. I never knew whose idea it was, or how it had been decided, but I helped whisper the word around making certain everyone got the message. At noon, when we all went home for lunch, we got an apple from home, or bought one on the way back to school. Before the bell rang to start afternoon classes, there was lots of whispering and hiding of apples and it was decided that someone would give a signal when it was time to surprise the teacher.

Everyone kept an eye on the wall clock, and as the afternoon dragged on we fidgeted, knowing that any minute we would get the signal. Sometimes the signal was someone calling out “Now!”, but usually it was just someone throwing the first apple. In a fraction of a second, apples began flying thru the air toward the teacher standing in front of the blackboard in front of the room, and all us kids yelling, “Surprise!”

The poor teacher, taken unawares, had to dodge apples as 40 kids sent their apples in her direction, some hitting her desk, some hitting the blackboard and many landing and rolling around on the floor. She tried to get our attention by yelling, “Stop! Stop! Bring the apples to the desk!” After all the apples had been picked up from the floor and stacked on the desk, she would catch her breath, then thank the class for the apples, but suggest walking the apples to her desk would have been better than throwing them.

By the second half of the fourth grade, most of the girls carried their apples to the teacher’s desk, but the boys always forgot and threw them.

THIS IS A TRUE STORY

Babies

Two sons of my dear sister, Adeline, have recently become grandfathers. The photos show adorable babies. One of them has a blog about her daily routines and I enjoy reading the comments her proud parents write.

As I surf the internet, I come across blogs written in languages from every corner of the world and I’m constantly amazed at the number of blogs about babies. One doesn’t have to understand the language because the photos speak for them selves. The photos are a delight and the children capture ones heart with their smiles.

Having grown up as the oldest of 8 children, I have been around babies and small children all my life. My sister Adeline and I helped Mom change a wet diaper on occasion, and we older ones helped look after the younger ones.

While my son was still a baby, I met a woman who had a California state license allowing her to care for new born babies in her home. They were Chinese babies from San Francisco. I had never heard or dreamed of such an arrangement. I was told that the mortality rate of Chinese babies was very high and that many new borns were in foster homes in order to get a healthy start.

Not long after my husband and I moved into Stanford Village, I had applied and received a California state license to care for children and I supplemented our GI bill money by watching children while parents were either in classes at Stanford or at work. I usually had one or two children for only an hour or so and on occasion, a faculty member would ask me to baby sit for an evening. My husband and I discussed the possibility of my taking a new born to care for and we decided that if I got the opportunity, he was agreeable.

I made an appointment with a Chinese Dr. in San Francisco and told her my plans. She was delighted and I signed a paper saying I would not make an attempt to adopt but only give foster care. She told me to go back home to Stanford Village, (on the San Francisco peninsula), and when a new born was available she would phone me. We had no idea how long I would have to wait.

A day and half later, I got a phone call around 2 o’clock in the afternoon to come pick up a baby at the hospital in China Town. I told them I would be there as soon as possible. My husband was in class on campus and he had our car so I was momentarily at a loss, but I ran to the apartment of another Stanford couple and asked if they might help. As luck would have it, the husband had just gotten home from a class and they said they would drive me into San Francisco for the baby. The availability of a new born, so quickly after my visit with the Chinese Dr., was so unexpected I was totally unprepared. Fran, the wife, quickly helped me collect a few things and even gave me a wonderful small crib that was perfect for a new born.

We three went up the hospital elevator to the floor where the nursery was. A nurse met us at the elevator and took us to a small enclosure and said she would be right back. We did not see a viewing glass with babies in view, nor did we see a hallway with doors leading to rooms. We thought we might be taken to someone’s room, but as we were discussing it, a nurse came with a baby wrapped in blankets and handed it to me. It was a baby girl, six days old and her name was Lily. She was beautiful with jet black hair and satin skin. We learned from a neighbor studying Chinese at Stanford that ‘mei mei’ meant ‘little sister’ so we called her Mei Mei. She was with us for a year.

There were two other occasions when I had an opportunity to have a new born to care for. One of them was during an evening in Paris, when my husband, my 3 year old son and I were spending a week in Paris at a favorite small hotel. It must have been between 10 and 11 in the evening because the hotel was quiet and most tenants asleep. Even street traffic had come to a halt and only a taxi now and then passed by. We had spent the day with friends and had just returned to the hotel and were getting ready for bed, when there was a knock on the door. It took a moment to throw on a robe but when my husband opened the door, there wasn’t anyone there. Suddenly we saw a bundle on the floor and realized it was a crying baby. It had a rag for a diaper that was soaking wet. We used my husband’s handkerchief for a diaper and discovered the baby was a boy, probably only 1or 2 days old. I used a towel for a blanket while my husband went to find a concierge. No one could be found and the baby was crying up a storm. We were completely at a loss about what to do. My husband finally found the concierge who refused to take the baby and begged us to not call the police. He said he would take the baby in the morning and he gave us some sugar and milk and a spoon. We were able to quiet the baby and prayed for daylight when we did give the baby to the Concierge. Later that morning, a young man from England came to talk to us. He was the father of the baby but said he did not want to marry the French girl who was the mother. He begged us to keep the baby and raise it. He countered all our refusals and said both he and the girl would sign legal papers giving us the right to take a French born baby to live with us. The prospect for the baby seemed bleak, but we refused. I often wondered at the callous attitude the Englishman had toward his baby and what happened to it.

The other opportunity was during a dinner party at a friend’s house in Los Angeles on one of my many trips home from Mexico. It was a gathering of working women, no two careers alike. One of the women, a social worker, said she had to find a place for a new born baby girl. As she asked each of us if we were interested, I said if the circumstances were different, I would have considered it but at that particular time I would not be able to. She told me that the state would supply funds for raising the child and that being a widow was not a drawback. She begged me to think seriously about it, but I had to refuse.

I’ve often thought about having not one, but two chances to care for a new born.