Little Blue Suitcase

Sentimental me enjoys the occasional walk down memory lane stored away in this cabinet. Read about how we refurbished it here.

my Grandma Elizabeth's cabinet

And as a new calendar year begins, I moved my parents’ funeral memorabilia into the little blue suitcase. How many trips to Kansas from South Dakota did that thing make over the years?

inside it: sympathy cards & funeral info

It flew on an airplane to Detroit for a wedding when I was four. Traveled to Omaha in various Oldsmobiles throughout my childhood to visit cousins at my Aunt Mary and Uncle Jr.'s. It housed shampoo, Dad's cologne, Mom's hairnets, and our toothbrushes. In its later years, most of its trips were only two hours away to sister Priscilla's with Dad's supplements inside. 

Siblings probably thought I was crazy when I took it from the house near rural Hitchcock. What do you want with that? And husband: where are you going to put it?

the little blue suitcase

I have lots of items from home since Dad’s death in February of 2021. And tomorrow on January 2, it will be 18 years since Mom’s passing in 2005. Read more about my mom here and here. That was the year of the Kansas ice storm that shutdown the state for about a week. Now that’s a set of memories for another time.

Until then, reflect, appreciate, and move forward into 2023 with some good habits.

Where do you keep your memories of treasured pictures and newspaper clippings or programs from ball games and concerts? What are you memories of a suitcase from your childhood days?

30 Years Ago Today: I saw the Little Town in the Valley for the 1st Time

I wasn't in the best mood when I came back from northeast Kansas with a note on my dorm room door that read, "Call Don Wells, sup't. at Cheney."

I had just completed another interview. It was the spring of 1989, and I had driven all over the state from South Haven to LeRoy to Winfield to Scott City to Jetmore to Ness City, and Horton to name a few.

The view driving from Horton back to Tabor College in Hillsboro, Kansas, was incredible. The hills, the landscape. But I was tired and prayed aloud if I'd ever get a job in an area that wasn't so far away from a larger city.

So, I traipsed down the flight of stairs in the dorm to the payphone and set up the interview. Yes, a payphone. Back when we had to use a calling card and everyone around us could hear the conversation.

I was drained. Missing too many classes and filling up the Olds Calais on a daily basis. But I needed a job, for I was graduating with an English education degree.

I'm not sure what made me apply at Cheney. Was it the visit to the district's booth at the Fort Hays job fair when Russ Busenitz and I drove out there from Tabor College one spring day? No one else went, and there were other potential teachers graduating that spring. Why were we the only two to go?

where it all began

Or did I see Cheney's opening on a paper print-out in the career development office in the TC Library? Spent a lot of time there looking at the teacher openings. Spent a lot of money on stamps too sending out application letters and transcripts. So different from today. I also received by mail, the South Dakota teacher openings bulletin and even had an interview lined up at Miller in my home state once college was out.

But I went ahead and called USD 268 to set-up the interview. It was for Friday, May 5, 1989. I don't remember seeing any students or athletes around, so the interview must have been later in the day. Maybe I requested that time, so I wouldn't miss anymore classes.

My interview began with the 7-12 principal, Dick Wells. No relation to the school's superintendent, Don Wells. This was back when principals and superintendents interviewed the teachers, not a team of potential colleagues (although the Winfield interview was done in that manner due to the team-teaching nature of the position).

what a jewel, this note from Jim Gillett on day one

The Cheney opening was for a 7th and 8th grade literature teacher. Literature. Not really my thing. I preferred writing, grammar, punctuation. And my student teaching experience included 9-12 at Halstead High. Would I want to teach jr. high students? I did have coaching experience with them at Hillsboro Middle School during my college years. So, maybe.

The current literature teacher, Theo Voth, was going to be the 7-12 librarian, so that's why there was an opening. I was reassured she'd be able to guide me if I needed help. Theo also taught public speaking, which the district called oral communications due to certification issues. Since she would be taking over the yearbook, they wanted me to have the public speaking duties. I never got to meet Theo during the interview, but I did get introduced to co-workers, Paula Voth and Jack Goss.

school year #1: 1989-90

Next I had my interview with the superintendent. He was conversational and pleased with my interest in basketball. Seems they'd been wanting a woman on the coaching staff for the high school. And for years that was the norm. Always had to have a female on the bench. You can read more about my coaching and teaching life at Cheney by clicking here on my school website.

Sup't. Don Wells also wanted me to get certified to teach speech, something that would require more college classes. This was almost a deal breaker for me. It had already taken me five years to get the degree I had because I'd changed my major my sophomore year.

But I liked the small school atmosphere of Cheney, the proximity of the classrooms, the size of the town, and its closeness to Wichita where my sister Brenda lived. I agreed, that if offered the position, I would do my best to get as many hours as I could towards that speech certification.

Mr. Wells wrapped up the interview by assigning me an essay. I do not remember the topic. He handed me his pen and told me to sit in his chair behind his desk. We said our goodbyes, and I was to leave when done.

No other interviewer had asked me to do that. It didn't phase me a bit. I had been editor of our college newspaper for two years, so I welcomed the chance show him one of my strengths. I sure would like a copy of what I wrote. Maybe it's in my personnel file.

I had not worn my typical interview outfit that day. Was I tired of it? Was it even clean? Instead, I wore a crisp white oxford type shirt and a black and white skirt. It wasn't new. And after I landed this job, my sentimental nature kept me from giving it to charity until many years later.

That interview outfit: me on the right.
I'm with college pals Julie & Teresa in 1983.
The only picture I've taken with Santa.

Afterwards, I drove around the town to check out the homes and the environment. I chuckled wondering if I could ever live here with all the dips at the intersections. You see, my car had a hook installed in the front of my car in case I ever needed to be pulled out of a ditch. Dad's South Dakota thinking.

I called my sister from the payphone in the southwest corner of the Jim's Foodliner parking lot. I love telling students there used to be a payphone there.

We met on the west side. I remember telling Brenda that I liked Cheney, but there was one teacher I met, a long black-haired lady, and she was quite the whipper-snapper.

Yes, that was my first impression of Paula Voth. Don't worry, I told Paula this story when she retired.

I began fantasizing about having an apartment in west Wichita and driving to work in Cheney. I'd be all grown-up and on my own. Making my own money. Dad would not be telling me what to do.

And that could have happened because Cheney did offer me the job. And I did accept it. And I did go back to take some classes that summer at Wichita State University. Interpersonal communications and introduction to radio and television. Spending more money to make money. Isn't that the saying? But once my Cheney job started, I did not live in Wichita. Cheney became my home.

in the dorm signing the teaching contract

In fact, I didn't even get to pick out my first apartment. Dad, Mom, and Brenda did that. They drove to Cheney during the weekend of my graduation, found me a one-bedroom apartment, and put down a deposit. They saw Wilma Brandes walking among the Jefferson Condos on 2nd Street. I learned later that she was Theo's aunt. Wilma got them in touch with Stan and Darlene Woolf who owned the unit. The rest is history.

When my family came to Hillsboro on graduation day and told me this, can you imagine me being okay with that? I can't either, but I guess I was. One less thing to worry about.

That's how it all began.

Whenever I'm returning to Cheney from Wichita and arrive at the top of St. Joe Road, there's rarely a time I don't recall that day. The day I first drove over that hill. Thirty years ago today.

It's a beautiful scene.

The little town in the valley.

My home.

3 Time Management Tips

What we do the night before prepares us for the day ahead. Sounds like common sense, right, but some of us get frazzled because we're not morning people. Or, we've got people other than ourselves to get ready.

Here are a few time management tips. Thanks to my mom, some of these are childhood habits. Others, I've learned the hard way.

One

Plan your meals. Make your lunch. Pack it. Get it ready. Do the same for your evening meal. Know what it's going to be. Everyone has a diet. Plan yours like budget. I try to plan our meals for the week.

When I first married, I never did that. I'd come home and then wonder what was for supper. I made a calendar and prepared menus like lesson plans. I knew on busier days that I might not want to come home and cook. Or sometimes, depending on what type of busy, cooking with the cutting and stirring, helped me slow down, relax, and be mindful of what I was doing. It was almost therapeutic.

Once you get a calendar going, you'll know what foods to cook after each other because you'll finish off the fresh ingredients you spent the money to buy. You won't be running to the store every night either and probably spend less.

Two

Prepare your clothing. Mom would set out my clothes the night before, and even thought I don't actually do that, I do have an idea of what I'm wearing each day.

Make it appropriate for the weather and the day's tasks. If getting a haircut, don't wear a black turtleneck. Spending time in unfamiliar territory? Then wear layers to avoid problems with the temperature. If you still iron clothes like I do (I don't use the dryer for dress clothes. I have a thing about shrinkage), then iron everything at once. Put on your favorite TV show or music and get it done.

Why is this so important? Because everything in the closet is ready to go. Wear things more than once if they're not soiled. Saves time and money.

Three

Go to bed. This is the most important thing of all. Why? So you can get up in the morning. I've learned this from my husband. It's never too early to go to bed if you're tired.

Get up early enough so you have built-in margin. But be careful not to piddle and use up all the extra time. That's my current problem—I'm using it and getting out the door later than I want to.

I wrote a draft of this post during a 15-minute free-write time on January 11 in the morning before work. I really liked moving my writing time to the morning, but last week it didn't work because I had duties at school in the morning and needed to get a move on.

Keep in mind that what works one week, might not work the next, but that doesn't mean you can't go back to it when the schedule changes. I'm no expert on time management, but I try to be efficient so I can relax and actually waste time and not feel guilty about it.

What tips do you have to manage time? Do you find you've gotten better the older you get or have you gotten worse?

The Legacy Mom Left

I found a note today that I'd written on the back of a program. Seemed fitting to find it today, the anniversary of my mother's death in 2005. It's been eleven years. The year of the ice storm. What follows is a transcript of the note I wrote in 2008. 
   

As I sit here at the women's conference after the singing and worship portion, I'm so thankful that all the adult women in my family are born-again Christians. Our lifestyles are different. Professionals, moms, retired ladies, missionary-types,  single, married, and step-moms.

Mom, as a teenager babysitter

Oh, how precious it is for me to rest in the fact that Jesus is your Savior. My prayer is for all the little souls who will come after us, my great nieces and nephews, that they will have the faith we do and pass it on.

I think often of Yos, my great-great-grandpa on my mom's side. He'd be proud of us! He'd traveled here from Russia, left the colony to live the American life of freedom. I'm so glad he did.

May whatever you're doing today as you get my hand-scribbled note [it seems I'd planned to copy this and mail it but never did], may you remember that the choices we make affect future generations, just like Yos' did.

Just like Stella's did when she went forward to accept Christ as a young woman all those years ago. And Dad followed. Maybe you don't know that story [most do now since it was shared at a reunion this summer], but it's an awesome example of how one little, yet very important, decision changed the course of lives.

That's what it said. That note. Full of gratitude and yearning.

I must have come home from the retreat and stored it away. It was well into the morning today when I realized this was the day Mom had passed on. Then in mid-afternoon, I found the pink note. Seems Mom was giving me something to blog about at the start of this new year.

She wouldn't like today's world. We have strife. Seems worse than ever, she'd say.


Economical. Racial. Political. Religious. Even within our Christian faiths, Catholic and Protestant alike, we disagree on many so things. Mom would say, "Devil's havin' fun amongst us."

But one thing never changes: Christ's love for us. The gift of eternal life through His son.

I'll close with another one of Mom's favorite sayings when she didn't know what to say when people's behavior seemed to disappoint our human thinking, "I'm sure glad I'm not the judge."

I'm certain the judge on the throne found her faithful.

My Worst Christmas Gift Ever

I asked my seventh grade students about the worst present they've ever received at Christmas time. The discussion came up while reading my favorite tear-jerker holiday story, "A Christmas Memory" by Truman Capote.

Responses: a phone book, a sack of dog poop, a gift card with $1 on it. Not the greatest of Christmas gifts.

After hearing those, my worst-present-ever story isn't so bad, but I'm going to tell it anyway. Not out of ingratitude, out of humor.

I'd asked for typewriter one year because I loved to type. I had the "every good man must come to the aid of his country" phrase down. Piano playing from age eight came in handy when typing. After counting my errors on an exercise one day, I had typed 90-some words a minute in Mrs. Zieman's business class at HHS. 

So, I wanted a typewriter. Bad. Begged for one. Really begged. I knew that's what was in the rectangular heavy box under the tree when I was a young high school student.

To my dismay, that's not what was in it. No modern Smith Corona for me.

It was an electronic foot soaker. My dad's idea.

Grandma Katie, my mom's mom who'd lived with us when I was younger, frequently soaked her feet in a tub of sudsy hot water. I would do it too. Read more about Grandma Katie here. Long after Grandma was out of the house, I still soaked my feet. In fact, I still do it today. It's especially relaxing with a cup of hot tea, a dog or two, and a good book or the remote tuned to the Lifetime Movie Channel.

With the foot soaker gift, my observant father believed he was giving me, his teenage daughter, a present she'd appreciate, but the snotty only used it once. Mom was scared I'd electrocute myself.

So that was my worst Christmas present ever.

I did end up getting a typewriter—maybe for my birthday that summer—and in typical Dad-fashion, it was the Cadillac of typewriters. He tends to go overboard on things. Gets the deluxe version when the typical will do. I married a man just like him. I'm lucky, but I admit, the unappreciative girl comes out in me sometimes.

My best Christmas present? If we're taking about material things, I'm not sure I have one. But the best present was Jesus Christ whose birth is celebrated by Christians around the world. I call Him Savior. He is the one still shaping this girl into the woman He wants her to be.

And with that I say, Merry Christmas!


How about you? Want to reveal your least favorite Christmas present? Who was it from? Why did they give it to you? Or, maybe you want to share the worse gift you've ever given. 

Thankful to be a Child of the 70s: Round 2

The 1970s don't get enough credit, so I'm here again this Thanksgiving to point out some of my childhood favorites. To read last year's piece, click here.

My Room Decor

graphic from http://mama-ilse.typepad.com

When Grandma Katie was put in the nursing home, Mom redecorated the downstairs bedroom for me. Dad purchased a single bed from an auction at neighbor Pauly Walter's. Read about him here and read about Grandma Katie here.

Mom bought a Holly Hobbie bedspread and matching window shades. This was the first bedroom that I remember calling mine. Prior to that, I slept in the living room. A crib was in there, and when I got older, I slept on the pull-out love seat because I was too chicken to sleep alone upstairs.

It was in this decorated room that I developed my fear of lightning storms and Big Foot. Long story.

My First Record Album

picture from http://www.denverpost.com

I bought a 45 of the Carpenter's "Top of the World" hit at the Ben Franklin store in Huron one Saturday morning. Mom had given me two bucks spending money while she got her hair done.

A few years ago, I bought a Carpenter's greatest hits album and loaded it on my iPod. When I played the song in preparation for this post, I remembered almost every word.

If someone had told me to write down the lyrics, I'm not sure I could have. But the memories flooded back upon hearing the music. Funny how the brain works. Click here to hear the lyrics. 

For those that don't know, the brother-sister duo of Richard and Karen Carpenter were known for the harmonic tunes. Karen Carpenter died in 1983 with complications due to anorexia. Read more about that here and here. It was during the 80s, my high school years, when eating disorders became a topic of public concern. The Denver Post ran a book review piece about the Karen Carpenter story. Click here to read it.

A Candy My Family Liked

picture from https://s-media

The combination of chocolate and caramel was found in a Rothchild's nugget. The tasty tidbit is similar to a Rolo.

The company's marketing campaign including a silly saying performed in a British accent. Click here and here for a couple of those commercials. I know, corny, but catchy.

My dad and brother Elliott would often repeat the famous line, "Not now, I'm right in the middle of a Rothchild's" to anyone they talked to. They even answered the phone that way sometimes. Read more about my brother's antics here.

The Rothchild's saying lightened anyone's mood. I wish this candy was still around. Don't know what happened to it. Or the Marathon Bar. Or Freshen-Up gum. Or Melody Pops, the sucker with a whistle.

A Favorite Saturday Morning Show

picture from http://www.sheknows.com

The time travel show, "The Land of the Lost," started in the 70s, not the early 90s when Hollywood attempted a re-make. I never watched it; maybe I should have. Watch a trailer of the 1970s version here.

The graphics? My goodness. So fake. But back then I didn't care. I liked the story line, or should I say, the older brother.

The music? Too upbeat for what happened to this family.

My husband Chris says the Sleestak creatures still give him the creeps. You can see the critters here in the entire first episode.



What memories do you have of these 70s icons? For my younger readers, feel free to critique my child-of-the-70s favorites.

Take the Long Way Home

It's Halloween. Time to admit what scares me: nighttime driving on the gravel road directly south of my dad's farm. Here's the reason.

I was in the backseat dozing after a Sunday evening in town with Mom and Dad. We'd often go in to visit relatives or to hear my sister Priscilla sing in "The Power and Light," a Christian singing group from the Huron Mission Church that performed in the Lewis Drug parking lot. 

I heard footsteps on gravel and Dad asking someone if he needed help. The voice grunted a reply.

Dad returned to the car with a report. "He's lost, but he said to leave him alone. Doesn't want any help."

Our car lights shined on a lug wrench in the middle of the road and an open trunk as Dad drove on the shoulder to get by the vehicle. It was dark already, so I didn't see the man.

But I sure did that night in my dreams and every time I woke up because I had heard Dad say the fella's name and that the guy was drunk.

This man lived a few miles from our place, and he was obviously confused, so my pre-teen brain imagined him getting passed our dog and mistaking our house for his and yelling his daughter's name up the stairway to me. And when I wouldn't come, he'd drag me down thinking I was his disobedient daughter and beat me up.

I never dreamed or imagined my parents intervening, or our dog taking care of him. A child's imagination and fears are not rational to adults.

But this adult still refuses to drive down that road at night. I go the long way around.


What incident stands out as a scary memory that impacts your behavior now? Do your child's fears change your routine?

9 years with my match.com man

To recognize nine years of marriage this past October 21, I reflect on what's made my first-married-at-forty marriage work.

One 

Do simple things together. Take a walk. Share a hobby. Go shopping. Eat meals together. We pick a series on Netflix or on television and watch it faithfully. It's a free date if you're at home and your hubby likes your cooking, but don't talk too much during the show. I tend to do that. Chris figures stuff out and gives it away. He's got bruises on his arm from his daughter Brittany for doing that.

Two 

Make desserts for no reason. My mom only made cakes for special events, so I don't know how I figured out this one. My husband and I both have a sweet tooth.

Three 

Let him have his money and you have yours. I know, very non-Dave Ramsey. But when two people get married at 40, this is one thing you don't want to argue about.

Early in our marriage, I got Chris to agree that if we spent more than $200 on anything other than food or clothing, that the other person should be consulted first. This came about after he walked out of Best Buy and told me that my birthday present to him would be to pay for half of a camera that he just bought. I did it, but that didn't go over too well with me, thus came the rule.

Four 
Each spouse needs and deserves a hobby that doesn't involve the other person. You can support each other and agree to help finance it, but let the person enjoy it. Making one feel guilty about it will only lead to resentment.

I learned this the hard way when I accused Chris of loving landscaping more than spending time with me. I'm so over that. And now I have a nice backyard to enjoy. A hobby makes life better and makes work time more enjoyable because you've gotten to do something fun during the off-hours.

I enjoy going with Chris on his photo shoots once in awhile, but I don't like to go every time. In return, he's hauled me to a writing event in Kansas City and will do so again soon. View the hobby as that person's outlet—not as a way to be away from you.

Five 
Have a sense of humor. This is why I fell in love with Chris to begin with. He made me laugh. He can usually get me out of a funk when I'm a grump.

Six 

Keep short accounts. Say I'm sorry but more importantly, ask for forgiveness. And say it again. Even if you think the other person never says it. I know, it's hard not to keep track.

Seven 

Ask first when doing something out of the ordinary regarding your hobby. Sometimes your spouse can point out a concern you don't see. It's not to hurt you. It's to protect you.

Eight 

Attend each others' family events. Know that the time together won't be like the time at your family's. At my brother Elliott's place, we always play table games and get competitive. At my mother-in-law's, we visit, eat, read, watch television, and play on our devices. That's just the way it is, and it doesn't bother a soul. The point is that we are with Mom. It took me a couple Thanksgivings to understand this is how the Harris clan operates.

Nine 

Greet with a kiss and leave with a kiss. A little peck will do just fine. When departing, always say I love you. Let your children see and hear this. I saw my parents kiss only a couple of times in my life. Different generation, I guess. It warms my heart when I hear and see my step-daughter Brittany do this with her husband Nathaniel.

Closing Thoughts
I know my friends thought I was nuts to get engaged to a guy I only knew for two weeks—let alone a guy I met on the Internet, and I wouldn't advise it for younger people. Ironically, my family never questioned me once—at least not to my face. But I think everyone that knows Chris would agree that I done good. 

Took me long enough, but I done good.

What makes your relationships or friendships last? How do you manage the give and take? Anything you've learned the hard way?

Sentimental Shirts Reveal Relationships

I was destined to be a Tabor College Bluejay. This picture of me from the '70s proves it. That shirt ended up in the rag drawer after I wore it out. It cleaned glass and mirrors.

Another favorite childhood top was one of those "happiness is" t-shirts that bore my dog's name. I was already in high school when Hitchcock Boy became my puppy, but Mom and Dad ordered a toddler sized shirt, so I never got to wear it. I know, Hitchcock Boy is a long name for a dog.

My sister and her husband Rick lived near Bridgewater—some two hours away. Their dog, Rambunctious—yes, another long name, had puppies.

Pris picked a puppy out of the litter for me and dubbed him Hitchcock Boy since that's where he'd be living. I was a Hitchcock Bluejay, living on the family farm 12 miles east of the town. Hmm, I see a pattern here with bluejays. And I don't even like birds! Read about that fear here, here, and here.

I do own another bluejay shirt. The coveted Tabor College Intramural Champ T-shirt. Earning one of these in the '80s was a big deal. Maybe this post will find its way to a current TC student and I'll find out if that's still the case.

I couldn't have earned one of these my freshman year because I played, or should I say warmed the bench, on the women's team, so I wasn't eligible to play intramural basketball. But one of the following years, my team won. I remember Maura Janzen and maybe Darcie Wilkins being on my team.

Back in those days, Maurice's was my clothing store of choice, and I still fit into a loose top from there. I think Mom paid $15 for the sleeveless, two-pocket, curvy collared shirt. It's super short on me now and shows my belly button, but it sure is comfy.

I use an old Florida sailboat T-shirt in the same way. Got that from my sister Brenda after one of her trips there with her first husband John. She knew I had a thing for sailboats. I collected figurines and enjoyed pictures of them. A strange interest for a landlocked girl who's never been on a sailboat.

The last shirt of value to me is now my painting shirt. It was a graduation present from my high school friend Bruce Pageler. It's of Garfield saying, "I'm not just another pretty face." Bruce, two years my senior, was the first guy who ever referred to me as pretty. That shirt will never end up in the rag drawer.



Any sentimental clothing in your drawers? What made you keep it? Can you fit in it? Do you own a t-shirt quilt displaying all the teams you've been a member of?

I Missed the Charlie Brown Special

Scars. I have a couple. One came from stitches. Here's the story.

For a farm family, it was rare to be invited to a neighbor's on a week night, but that's just what happened in the Fall of 1970 when Pauly G. Walter and his wife Becky invited us to their place for the evening. They lived a mile or so north.

Mom put supper dishes away. Dad cleaned up and got dressed. And I sat on the kitchen floor watching a Charlie Brown special off our little black and white TV, the only television in the house. It sat upon the dryer, also in the kitchen. I don't know why I was sitting on the floor instead of the wooden chair directly behind me.

That choice changed the course of the evening.

scene of the incident, a year later  ~ chair was like this, but had a ragged edge

I liked going to PG's, for he made me laugh, but I doubted they'd let me watch the show, and there was no way Mom would have the nerve to ask because we'd be in their living room visiting. That's were their TV was.

My little girl mind believed that only the rich had a TV in the living room.
And an attached garage.
And a fireplace.
And more than one door to the house.

PG and Becky met two of my criteria, so they were only kind of rich.

I was whining around about missing the rest of the show and Mom said, "I know, honey. It's too bad this couldn't be on a different night."

I turned around to respond and my head hit the corner—the rough, ragged corner of that old wooden chair behind me. It cut deep into my skin right above my left eye.

I screamed, and Dad, no doubt, came running. They loaded me up into the car and drove to Huron, some 22 miles away.

me with my stitches 1970

I laid in the back seat with something pressed against my cut. Mom must have been back there with me, for I remember overhearing her conversation with Dad about stitches.

I thought that if I fell asleep, they wouldn't do anything. They couldn't give me stitches if I wasn't awake. So, I faked sleep. Funny how a child's mind works.

My plan failed. I got stitches. Maybe seven. I'm not sure. I don't know how I got through it because I don't remember being sedated.


Any traumatic injuries in your past? Any stitches to show for it? How about a time of disappointment for missing a television show?


Writer's Note: Thanks to Canadian mystery author Mahrie G. Reid for the inspiration for this post when she wrote about her scars. Click here for the story on her blog.

The Scariest Place in an Old Farmhouse

Our farm house cellar was a place of dread for me. Damp, dark, pungent. Cracks in the foundation floor. I didn’t dread it for those reasons though. I feared the salamanders under the wooden stairs.

Mom would tell me to get a jar of pickles, canned pears or peaches, or sometimes a few more eggs. I’d whine that I was scared of the salamanders. They might run up my leg, bite my toes, or hiss at me, I thought.

Mom would hear none of that. “Those buggers are more scared of you than you are of them. Just go real fast and they’ll run away.”

And they would. Every time.

But I still didn’t like doing it. 

Funny how the daddy longlegs that lived among the pots and pans and the store-bought canned goods in the stairway on the way down never bothered me.

That cellar, stench and all, still exists. The hot water heater is down there, and my dad put a water distiller in there years ago. One time he had jugs of extra water all over the place.

The room carries a wet-earth odor. A small screened window to the east lets in light along with a single light bulb. Maybe Mom had a board she’d put up there in a big rain storm to keep it from flooding, but I don't remember. In the South Dakota winters, Dad would pile straw bails in front of it.

The cellar houses a couple old wooden chairs and some makeshift wooden shelves for all the home canned goods. In the middle of the room are a couple poles with a table top. It is taller than counter height. Mom kept her canning supplies on it with the cleaned out jars.

I remember only one time taking cover in that basement, ah, I mean cellar, during a storm.

I was already teaching in Kansas, but was home for the summer. My sister Priscilla and her daughter Angela were up for a visit when Dad came in yelling, “You guys take cover. Get in the basement.” Then he headed back outside.

After Mom questioned where he was going, he hollered, “I’m going driving. Gotta see what’s coming around the trees.”

Typical.

We grabbed our purses, a couple of blankets, and Grandma Katie’s old transistor radio and headed to the cellar. I wasn’t concerned about any salamanders then.

We hadn’t been down there very long when a loud bang startled us.

“That’s the front door,” Mom said. “Wind must have blown it open. It’s banging back and forth now.”

Angela mentioned our family dog, Jupiter, our black and white cocker spaniel who showed up one July day in 1994 after a comet hit the planet, thus the name.

“She’s in with the boars,” Mom assured Angela.

The door kept banging, so I said I’d go up and shut it and come right back. Neither Mom nor Priscilla protested, and I don’t remember being scared to do it. After all, my dad was out in this. It was just a terrible wind, right?

I think this was the storm that my brother Elliott, his wife Doris, and daughter Suzanne stood by one of their kitchen windows and watched an old hog barn (which as little kids, we’d dubbed the Laura Ingalls Wilder playhouse), roll back and forth towards the house. If it wasn’t this storm, then it must have been another one. That building never did hit their house or vehicle, but it rolled itself out of existence and ended up as a pile of boards.

Back at our place, I was able to close the outside door and return to the cellar unharmed. When it was all over, I don’t recall any major damage to our farm.

A few years ago, the family was talking about Dad's cellar, and Angela, now a full-grown adult with a family of her own, remembered the evening we took cover. She said she was so scared. Not of the storm. Not of any salamanders. Not of the creepiness of the place, but of losing me.

She said that she thought she’d never see me again when I went up those stairs to close that door. She described her feelings so vividly. She'd never told me that.
 
Salamanders or storms, I’ve never spent much time in that cellar.

But my Grandma Elizabeth did when my two older sisters were little—just enough time for Priscilla to cut Brenda’s hair while Grandma was down there sorting eggs.
 
Oh, if those cellar walls could talk.


Do you remember a room from your childhood home that gave you the heebie-jeebies? What about now? Is there a place that gives you the willies?

Kindergarten Registration: Fearful Memory

It's been 44 years since a kindergartner lived on my dad's farm. Now his great-grandson does, my great-nephew, Kaden.

Kaden lives a couple stone throws away from the house I grew up in, and this is his first year of school. He attends James Valley Christian School in Huron. Family friends serve as his bus driver.

Kaden with me in 2014

Seeing a picture of Kaden all dressed up with his backpack, coat, and rain boots reminded me of when Mom took me into Hitchcock Public Schools to register for kindergarten. 

Mom didn't take any pictures of that or my first day on the bus. Probably a good thing. I was scared to death.

My teeth chattered like they would in cold weather. I shivered in fear too.

On the drive there, Mom reassured me that I would be fine, but I knew I wouldn't know anyone. Kids my age from church, like Carissa and Karleen (whom I wrote about here) attended Doland. And a boy a year older, Greg Gross, wouldn't even be nearby. Grades one through eight were in a different part of the building.

The room was located outside the superintendent's office in the high school right near the large set of stairs. We didn't have a bathroom in our kindergarten room, but the girls used one located under the other narrower staircase across from the superintendent's office.

kindergarten room located here in my childhood school (picture by Frank Podraza)

Years later I learned from Dad that this kindergarten room was a dorm room when he attended HHS—back in the 1940s when country kids stayed in town during the week and weren't bussed. For more about my dad's high school years, read this.

What about me and the school bus? Wasn't I worried about that too?

Mom had already arranged with our neighbors, Lydia and Gearhard Hofer, that I would sit with their daughter Ranae, a freshman, for the first few days. Imagine that. A high school girl putting up with her little neighbor girl for the start of her high school experience.

But I was still scared. And this was just for registration, a time to meet the teacher, see the classroom, and get acquainted with my school.

How was I ever going to make it coming on a big yellow bus all by myself? And worse yet, going home on the mini-bus all by myself because we had half-day kindergarten. I wouldn't be eating lunch at school like my classmates because I lived the furthest away, 12 miles, and the bus needed to get back to take them home after lunch.

But not having to encounter the lunch room was probably a blessing at this point.

When we pulled up on the east side of the building, a man was walking on the sidewalk. He wore a suit and tie and carried a book under his arm. It looked like a maroon colored Bible—it probably wasn't a Bible, but who knows.

Mom said, "Look, there's Mr. Schneider, the superintendent, and it looks like he's carrying a Bible." I guess that made me feel better.

Safe.

Funny what my mind remembers.

He stopped and Mom introduced me, and after that, I calmed down. No more shaking. No more teeth chattering. No more whining about being scared.

Dale Schneider (picture courtesy yearbook)

Mr. Schneider made me less scared.

Anyone who ever attended Hitchcock had a healthy respect of Dale Schneider and his steel blue eyes. The man ran a tight ship.

Imagine me, a five-year-old, not scared after talking to him. I don't know what he said, but I sure wish I could remember.

Mom said, "You're going to be fine. He runs the school. And see how nice and friendly he was to you? There is nothing to fear here."

I don't remember anything else about that day except him walking away towards his house across the street.

I did have other moments of fear that year. The mini-bus ride home with Red Hawkison sometimes scared me. He'd tease me that he was going to throw me in Foster Creek south of our house.

Since really didn't know him, it scared me—especially the times he took out a cigarette and starting smoking. Remember, this was the 70s.

I'd go home and complain, and Mom would say, "He's just teasing. He's not going to throw you in the creek."

She would not dream of chewing him out for scaring me. She reminded me of my Uncle Jean who smoked, and that I didn't need to be scared of a man with a cigarette.

Every once in awhile at the end of the week, Red would give me a long piece of bubble gum. That put me at ease. I knew he liked me, and that was his way of making me know that. Maybe Mom really did talk to him, but I doubt it. Parents just didn't do that sort of thing back then.

Like Mr. Schneider, Red ran a tight ship. Kids on his regular big bus route said they had assigned seats. Wendel Danielson was my morning big bus driver, and he let us sit where we wanted.

For country kids like my great-nephew Kaden and me, attending school for the first time is a big deal. Especially if we're only used to being around our church friends. Read more about that here. 

I'm thankful for the couple of adults and older kids who made me feel safe attending my pubic school miles away from home.

A few days into the school year, a girl two years older on my morning bus became my best friend. She recalls how I plopped down by her one morning and said, "Hi, I'm Mel."

That girl was Gail Piper. I wrote about her here.

 
Do you remember your first day of school or your first encounter there? What about your bus ride or form of transportation?