Boy, Was My Face Red!

Man is the only animal that blushes – or needs to.

-Mark Twain

I grew up attending Oakton Methodist Church, situated on Chain Bridge Road in the heart of Oakton, Virginia. Each Sunday during the preaching service the velvet lined brass plates were passed pew by pew to collect tithes and offerings. Some people threw in a little anonymous cash while others contributed their carefully prepared donation envelopes with a pre-determined pledged amount. My mother annually received a new box of envelopes and to this day contributes her offerings in that manner.

When there was a need to raise funds for a particular cause or project, the minister would plea for additional money from the pulpit. Perhaps there was need to refurbish some Sunday school classrooms or support a missionary in country far, far away. On one such occasion, I must have gotten annoyed at the repeated requests for money. The preacher was just doing his job the best way he knew how, but as a young teen I had heard enough. I removed one of the offering envelopes from its little holder on the back of the pew, inserted a nickel, and penciled on the front, “Here. This is all I have. Please take it.” When the plate was passed, I threw it in. As my Nanny would have said, “I had my way!”

But, no, no. That wasn’t the end of it. During the sermon the next week, the dear preacher commented to the congregation how wonderful it was that some dear soul who had but little had generously given all he or she had. Remember the story of the widow’s mite, found in the Bible in the gospel according to St. Mark? I’m sure our minister referred to that story about how the widow’s contribution of two mites was more than the rich folks who gave to the treasury in abundance, for she gave “…even all her living.”

I was mortified, prayed for death, and wished the floor beneath me would open up and let me slide in. I’m sure my face flamed bright red, like I was having a heat stroke. My little, innocent joke was taken seriously. Did I apologize? Hopefully I did, but time has dimmed that portion of the memory. To this day that embarrassing story provides my mother and me with a good chuckle, but I can feel the blush creep up my neck when I think back to that childish prank.

A Scentsitive Subject

A woman’s perfume tells more about her than her handwriting.

~Christian Dior

Have you ever stepped into a crowded elevator and suddenly been assaulted by someone’s cologne, aftershave or perfume? Have you ever hugged someone who has been a bit over zealous with their scent application? I’ve done that several times only to step away and find their unwanted scent clinging to my clothes. For sure one of my pet peeves involves those who wear too much perfume and leave an aromatic wake wherever they go.

I try to be careful and sure hope I haven’t offended anyone else who might be as scensitive as I am. I prefer light colognes over heavy perfumes any day and love a fresh, clean scent more than anything. Perhaps I should recount my personal history with scent to set the record straight.

I love the fresh scent of Johnson’s Baby Powder. Moms in the 1950’s used this after each diaper change but now the use of baby talcum is a no no. Oh, it’s okay for adults, but not for babies. I don’t think my 11 month old grandbaby has ever had her behind powdered. But I’d like to thank my mother for using it on me because I still love it. Let’s call that my first introduction to smelling good.

Other first memories of scent include bath soaps such as Ivory, Cameo, Sweetheart and Dove. My mother was a talcum powder user herself and always kept powder and a puff on hand to use after she bathed. I don’t recall the name of the scent, but it was light and flowery. When I was a youngster she also sold Avon products for a while and had lots of samples of cologne and perfume which were always fun to try out. One of my grandmothers, Mom Mom, used Evening in Paris perfume and I was always fascinated with the little cobalt blue vial it came in. One time she even gave me an empty bottle and that was a treasure to a young girl like me

When I was a freshman in high school a couple of kids in my study hall used to primp instead of study. They always intrigued me when they produced their bottles of Canoe or English Leather and gave each other a spritz. Since these two were the “popular” kids it seemed appropriate that they use two of the popular colognes at the time.

When I was a teenager someone gave me a bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume for a gift. I tried to like it but it just wasn’t for me. The lovely bottle looked nice sitting on my dresser scarf, but I’m sure I finally threw it out. Another gift was a bottle a spray cologne bottle of Estee Lauder. That was nice, tolerable, but a bit strong so a little dab went a long way. I used that off and on for a few years. When I was in college a roommate introduced me to the light fresh scent of Love’s Lemon cologne. I used a couple bottles of that before I came to the conclusion that I didn’t like smelling like lemons. I’m still not fond of fruity or spicey colognes. I don’t want to smell like vanilla either.

At some point I stumbled upon a cologne made by Coty called Musk. There are many variations of musk available, but the one by Coty is the best for me and my own body chemistry. That one has remained a favorite for a long time and I have used several bottles of that. I try to buy it when the Christmas gift sets go on sale at the end of the season, even though the regular retail price is not very expensive.

Another favorite I like to use especially in the winter months is the signature perfume from Tiffany’s. In 1992 I first set foot in a Tiffany’s store in New York City and came away with a sample fragrance card of that scent. For Christmas that year my husband gifted me the first of several bottles. Today I’m longing for fall and cooler weather so I can bring out my Tiffany’s. It does cost many cents, but my sensational husband knows it makes a scentsational gift for his scensitive wife!

Secret Ambition

Sometimes creativity is a compulsion, not an ambition.

-- Ed Norton

About a year ago I was waiting for my appointment in a nail salon and happened to pick up the January issue of the brand new Hallmark magazine that had just come out on the newsstands. As I skimmed through it I found a lovely article written about the joy of a perfect snow day – everyone at home, safe and warm, a fire crackling in the fireplace, lots of soft, cuddly blankets for snuggling, a book to read in a comfy chair overlooking a window to the outside world of white, and last but not least, an abundance of everyone’s favorite snack foods lining the pantry shelves. The article got me thinking about snow days I’ve experienced, and that prompted me to ask two of my children how they would define such a day. One thing led to another and before I knew it Todd and I were brainstorming about how we should write the Perfect Book Series of children’s books.

We reminisced at length about his childhood and days gone by and these memories surfaced.

Jay and Ann were two of Todd’s favorite neighbors who lived a couple doors down the row of our townhouse complex when he was little. They were a kind and loving older couple who handed out small bags of goodies to trick-or-treaters on Halloween and loved it when little children would stop over to visit their pets Muffin, Gypsy and Smokey. Always ready to lend a hand with some minor home repair project, Jay would stop over with just the right tool. Back in the blizzard of 1982 the snow was deep with huge wind swept drifts and Todd vividly recalls his dad telling him and his sister to be careful while playing outside because there were snow piles higher than their heads. Just about every Christmas season our family made the 5 hour car trip to see Ernie’s family down in SW Virginia. That holiday scene was filled with many cousins, aunts and uncles as well as mounds of gifts and food galore ---ham, casseroles, biscuits and peanut butter balls. The Christmas Eve tradition of getting together with my parents in northern Virginia continues today and we all eagerly anticipate the goodies in the Christmas stockings my mother gave us 35 years ago. The childhood memories go on and on!

We came to the conclusion that even though every child has unique experiences, most have memories of a special, perfect neighbor, snow day, or holiday they’ve experienced. Circumstances may vary, but childhood memories last forever. So, based on our collective memories here is a list of people or events that could each be the basis for an individual perfect children’s story: Halloween, Christmas, Easter, neighbor, teacher, friend, big sister/brother, grandpa/grandma, vacation, snow day or last but not least, pet.

Our ambition is to write these books. We’re not sure how we’ll accomplish the task, but the seed of desire is firmly planted in our minds and I hope that one we can make it grow.

Books

A room without books is like a body without a soul. -- Cicero

“Look, Dick! See Jane!”

“See Jane run! Run, Jane, run!”

. . .and so my introduction to reading began in Miss Lorraine Russell’s first grade class. We were students of phonics back in the 1950’s and learned to sound out words. This system of reading instruction catapulted me into a lifetime of reading and loving books. When I was in a second/third grade combination class, Mrs. Ruby Buser, our teacher, would read aloud to her pupils after lunch. To this day I vividly remember the book, Boxcar Children by Gertrude Chandler, the story of Henry, Jessie, Violet and Benny Alden who lived in a train boxcar and all their wonderful adventures. I feel like this was the first book I really loved. As I look back I wish I had held on to my collection of Nancy Drew Mystery books that provided me with endless hours of entertainment during my youth.

In the fall of every year my elementary school’s book fair would be held in the library. Each class would take a turn browsing at all the books on display and jotting the prices and titles to take home so we would know which books to ask our parents to buy. Every few weeks we received an order form for Scholastic Books which was a wonderful way of purchasing inexpensive paperback books. All during my elementary years each student subscribed to The Weekly Reader, a type of forerunner to the Washington Post Kid’s Page that children have today. At the beginning of each school year our parents paid a nominal fee so that we could receive this publication once a week all year long.

Many children of my era also subscribed to Highlights, a fun magazine full of stories, puzzles, brain teasers and word finds. That magazine is still published and I admit to looking at a copy when I wait in the lobby of a doctor’s office! I even used those as a resource when I had my first teaching job and had a subscription for my own children for a time.

In my teenage years I began reading and collecting all the gothic romance mysteries written by Victoria Holt, like House of a Thousand Lanterns or Shivering Sands. I have kept all 29 of these paperbacks and wherever I’ve moved, they’ve come right along. I also have a small collection of old books which include an English textbook that belonged to my father, my very first copy of the Bible given to me in 1959, a children’s book from the school book fair when I was in first or second grade, and a volume entitled Personal Beauty and Charm from a set of books my mother had called the Homemaker’s Encyclopedia, published in 1950. Several years ago I began collecting Christmas books and Santa manages to bring me a new volume to add to it just about every year. When my children were little I found a book at the library which they dearly loved entitled Nicholas and Pamela. It was a charming, sweet story about a wee mouse family that lived in a mailbox and their many mousey adventures. I have searched and searched to find a copy of this but to no avail.

I love reading all types of books, both fiction and non-fiction. I took a serious look at my bookshelves so I could find some of my all-time favorites. Among the fiction books are Follow the River by James Alex Thorn, Pocahontas by Susan Donnell, Two from Galilee by Marjorie Holmes and Christie by Catherine Marshall. In the non-fiction category are Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, Fun Facts about the Bible You Never Knew, God’s Little Devotional Book for Women, and 838 Ways to Amuse a Child. There is always some book on my bedside table and my current favorite read is by a new LDS author, Stephenie Meyer, entitled Twilight. It is book one in a series of three about a modern day vampire named Edward Cullen and his human girlfriend. What a suspenseful page turner this is! As soon as my daughter Shellie finishes book two, New Moon, I will have my nose buried in it.

I could wax on and on about my love of books and memorable ones I’ve read through the years. My mother, daughters and I trade books back and forth quite often. We give books as gifts and love a good chat about what we are currently reading. What a blessing to be able to read and to love it! I will borrow my daughter’s philosophy that books are our friends, and thanks to me, our family book shelves are crammed full of dear ones with whom I cannot bear to part.

Our Cape Cod House

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

~Traditional

     The 1950’s was still in the era where neighbors knew neighbors and kids roamed the neighborhood for hours on end whether playing Tag, Mother May I, Red Light, Green Light in someone’s yard, or riding bikes and sleigh riding on the quiet streets. Such was my life as a child when my family moved to Gray’s Subdivision in Oakton VA in 1955. This was even before zip codes came into existence. When we first moved there we had a two-party phone line and our number was DU 5-8932. (DU for Dunkirk)

     The white clapboard house was small with only two bedrooms and one bath for the four of us. The house had been built in 1941 and the original owners paid $4,200. The price then to my parents 14 years later was $12,500 which included a construction fee for raising the roof, adding dormer windows and a stairway. That new space upstairs was to be used to build out bedrooms for my brother and me at a later date. And later it was! By the time I was 12 I finally had my own bedroom in that upstairs area. Somehow my brother and I had survived many years sharing one of the small bedrooms on the main level. Clearly, he had his side and I had mine! Today I can’t imagine two children sharing the tiny closet we had, but we made it work.

      My new bedroom was painted sky blue and my parents bought me a bed, night stand and dresser from Sears, Roebuck & Co. that were finished in white. My bedspread was one that Nanny crocheted. The pattern was white squares with blue roses and green leaves in the middle. A blue sheet underneath always looked very pretty. My Uncle Jimmy was a skilled carpenter and not only helped my dad build the bedroom, but also constructed a study desk for me that was also painted white. I loooved my room and was so happy to have my own space. To this day I can still recollect learning how tape, spackle and sand drywall when the carpenters let me “help”.

     The house was basic in design. To look at the house, it was pretty symmetrical with a yellow front door in the middle and a window on either side. The small kitchen was on the left end of the house and over the years managed to get re-done twice. My mom was happy when the day finally arrived and she got a portable dishwasher. The floors were hardwood except for the kitchen but for most of those years there was wall to wall carpet in the living room and dining room. The first round of carpet was gray wool with green flecks. Sometime in the 1960’s my parents bought new Danish modern furniture for the living room and decided that medium blue sculptured carpet would compliment the décor.

     When the house was first built it had oil heat that was eventually converted to natural gas. There were radiators in each room and they were fun to snuggle up against on chilly nights. Our dog Skipper enjoyed lying beside the one in the living room to take the chill off his old bones.

The basement was unfinished and housed an assortment of junk—lots and lots of junk—like old boards, spare tires, car parts, cleansers, solvents, paints and canning jars. My dad had a workbench at the far end with all his tools and accessories and he spent many hours down there putzing around, fixing or repairing this and that. The small laundry room as at the opposite end and housed the washer and dryer. When it rained really hard, water usually leaked into a corner and we would scoop up the puddle with a dustpan and dump it in an old galvanized bucket. In the summertime my dad ran a dehumidifier and we had to be vigilant about emptying that.

     As kids my brother and I enjoyed playing on the metal swing set. The backyard had a chain link fence which kept Skipper from running off. A beautiful, fragrant climbing red rose adorned a front portion of that fence in the summer. There were several trees in our yard—pine, maple, dogwood, oak, hickory and some messy wild cherry trees that the birds loved to feast off of in the summer. In the front yard there were two bright pink azalea bushes that were gorgeous in the spring. They grew to be quite large and became a distinctive landmark on our corner half acre lot.

     My mother never was particularly fond of their house on the corner of Hibbard Street and Chain Bridge Road. Much to her delight they moved to a larger, newer house in Fairfax in 1990. After living in that house for 35 years, they sold it for approx. $150,000. It is interesting to note that the 2006 Fairfax County tax assessment on that property was $487,610. Wow!

     I recently had the chance to reminisce with both my parents about the old neighborhood. We could easily name all the neighbors we had in “those days” when we knew everyone up and down Hibbard Street, Palmer Drive, Pine Street and Gray Street.

     My childhood was a happy one in that house. I cherish the fond memories I have of holiday gatherings, a game of badminton on a summer night, walking in drifts of snow in the blizzard of ’58 or listening to the radio up in my bedroom. And it was in the dining room of that house over a spaghetti dinner that my boyfriend Ernie nervously announced the news that we wanted to get married.

What Might Have Been

I try not to think about what might have been,

'Cause that was then and we have taken different roads.

We can’t go back again, there’s no use giving in.

And there’s no way to know, what might have been.

- Popular song lyrics

     I’m proud that I am a Virginia Native. Even though my birthplace was Columbia Hospital for Women in Washington, DC my parents lived in an apartment in Arlington VA. Not long after my birth they moved to a single family house, still in Arlington, where my brother attempted to enter this world. When I was four years old, my parents bought a small cape cod farther out in the suburbs in rural Oakton. There I resided until my marriage in 1973 at age 22. Even now when I’m out and about, I sometimes drive through the streets of the old neighborhood where I spent my formative years. There were countless hours circling the block of Hibbard Street, Palmer Drive, Gray Street and Pine Street on my blue bicycle. On dark summer nights the neighborhood kids would play a game or two of flashlight tag. It was always fun to rustle up some spare change and walk to Zook’s Market to buy penny candy. This was long before the days of slurpees! We used to cut across an old, wooded path where Chester, the harmless local “bum” as we called him, used to sit on a fallen log and down a beer or two. By the age of 12 I was a seasoned babysitter for many neighbors’ children for the lofty sum of fifty cents per hour.

     I consider myself fortunate to have attended Fairfax County Schools: Oakton Elementary, Thoreau Intermediate, and both James Madison and Oakton High Schools. It was such a thrill to be a senior in the class of ’69, the very first graduating class of Oakton High School. From there I opted to stay in Virginia and attended Longwood College in Farmville. There I earned a Bachelor of Science degree in elementary education in 1973. And, you might have guessed, my first teaching job was in Annandale.

     What fond memories I have of living in close proximity to an aunt, uncle, cousins and both sets of grandparents. It’s fun to look back at those old black and white photos of family gathered around the Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner table at one house or the other. Major holidays and birthdays were always a cause for some sort of celebration. I fondly recollect spending the night with my cousin Faith who was my same age. We’d lie in her double bed at night, holding hands because I was scared of a freaky clown doll that stood in one corner of her bedroom. We’d play with our Ginny dolls in the fabulous doll house my Uncle Jimmy had built for her. Spending the night with Nanny in her tiny house in Alexandria was fun, too, because we’d catch a bus to Woolworth’s five and dime and grab a bite to eat at the lunch counter.

     Many Sunday afternoons were spent in Winchester at Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop’s house. Their big , white, stucco house was old and intriguing with a wonderful glider in the side yard. Pop-Pop often took my brother Steve and I for rides in the back of his old Ford pick up truck across their hilly pasture land. What a cook Mom-Mom was! Thoughts of her homemade bread and butter pickles, fresh peaches over ice cream or creamed peas still make my mouth water. She could stick her hands in the hottest dishwater and would always hang her damp dish towels out to dry on the back porch clothesline.

     I met my future husband on the steps of the Oakton Methodist Church. It is through knowing him that I found out about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, took the missionary discussions and was baptized into it. All 33 of our married years have been in northern VA, very close to where I grew up. All three of our children have partaken of their mother’s legacy and attended school in Fairfax County, even graduating from Oakton High School.

     At the ripe old age of 55, I think about how my life has been thus far. And I can’t help but consider one pivotal moment when the course of my life might have taken an entirely different path.My father worked as an aircraft mechanic for Capital Airlines at National Airport. When that company merged with United Airlines in the early 1960’s there was a lot of talk about having to transfer to San Francisco where the aircraft mechanics were based. My mother says that I was very adamant about NOT moving across the county—they could go but I would certainly find a way to stay in Virginia! Fortunately for me, my dad became certified as a grounds equipment mechanic and could remain based at National Airport. I can’t help but think what my life would have been like if we had moved to California, away from family. I know that many people move lots of times while they are children, but I feel like I have been really blessed to put down such deep roots in my native Virginia!

First Grade: I Can't Wait, But Please Don't Make Me Go!

Me, first grade

Education would be so much more effective if its purpose were to ensure that by the time they leave school every boy and girl should know how much they don't know, and be imbued with a lifelong desire to know it.

 - Sir William Haley

     Kindergarten was not part of the Fairfax County school system in the 1950’s. Some children were sent to private kindergarten but these were few and far between and definitely not in the budget for my parents. Having no pre-school experience and little time away from my mother, it’s no wonder my separation anxiety was flying high when first grade began in the fall of 1957.

    I wanted to go! I was ready to go! But during the first six weeks of first grade in Oakton Elementary School I just cried and cried. My mother would send me to the bus stop right by our house at the corner of Hibbard Street and Chain Bridge Road. Off I’d go with all the neighborhood kids—Susan, Buddy, Barbara, Gary, Lorna--but soon after stepping off that big yellow bus my anxiety would have me heaving my breakfast in Miss Loraine Russell’s classroom. The office would summon my mother to come pick me up and take me back home. All my crying had my mother crying, too. I was the first child to go off to school and she was a mere 26. She sought the advice of our older and wiser neighbor, Dorothy Totman, who lived across the street. “Where did I go wrong? What on earth can I do?” Mom pleaded. Wisely, Mrs. Totman told her not to worry. The phase would pass.

     My mother tried a little tough love and told me that if I was indeed sick, I needed to go rest in bed. She comforted me with the gentle reminder that God was always with me and would watch over me. Time after time, after an hour or two of “resting” I assured her I was much better and could return to school. Good thing we lived just a hop, skip and a jump away! After a few weeks of this barfing anxiety, I confessed that something that was bothering me. It seems my teacher had whacked a classmate on the behind with a wooden paddle back in the cloakroom one day and I feared she would come after me. There’s no way I would even dream of getting out of line! Even though unfounded, the fear stayed with me for a time. As I gradually got into the daily school routine, my fear subsided. Miss Russell wasn’t a mean ogre but only expected order and respect from her class.

     I look back now at my yellowed report card from that year and see that there were 180 days on roll. My absences added up to 22. Those had little to do with my self-induced illness but rather chicken pox, mumps and measles. I smile as I read the positive remarks Miss Russell typed for each of the six grading periods. “Bonnie is attentive and follows directions well. She has so much fun attacking new words phonetically.” (See Dick and Jane run. Run, Dick and Jane!) Or finally, “Bonnie is promoted to second grade. She is well prepared for next year’s work.” She never ever wrote one disparaging remark about my adjustment during those first six weeks. I guess she, too, knew the phase would pass.