tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32783029077672348172024-03-06T00:32:44.263-05:00The Other Side of the MountainH. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.comBlogger454125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-55806090404685931362015-08-26T17:28:00.002-04:002015-08-27T17:35:51.797-04:00An Ordinary Walk: 1980<div class="MsoNormal">
Seven years later finds {<a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/2015/06/another-visit-with-daddys-letters-1973.html">see previous blog</a>} the McDaniel clan onward and upward
with their lives and many aspects of the weekly letter stayed the same. I like
that –the sameness -- the steady nature of my Daddy’s reporting of their [and our] lives.</div>
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By 1980, Mother and Daddy had move to Roswell, a suburb
north of Atlanta. After living in the very-convenient to all things Atlanta on
Oana, in a lot of ways, the drive to Roswell seemed long. The trek included
lengthy interstate and then exiting to only go many miles north on secondary
roads. When they settled there, Roswell seemed a sleepy hamlet, but this suburb
of Atlanta boomed big in the coming years.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My college roommate Catherine and I lived off I-285 in Cobb
County. After graduating from college in 1976, we both had teaching jobs –
Catherine was in Clayton County, and I had taken a job at Douglas County High
School. With four years of teaching under our belts and not close to having
perspective husbands, we felt seasoned as teachers and restless as single women
– and to change jobs and move out of Atlanta seemed desirable. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEW863cwWoNUwnBkdxwjob3PXEdtXxNw9VjZ0Nrl1_kbmTwhV_pscRxcbFeC647qZHKOhcA8o_A6MhyphenhyphenxsagS-Fi4OpthIbW2yfhmtqx7Eussvr6YSecdwH2AA2-3wehsLmdICjWPa0QjP9/s1600/IMG_20150826_0008_NEW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEW863cwWoNUwnBkdxwjob3PXEdtXxNw9VjZ0Nrl1_kbmTwhV_pscRxcbFeC647qZHKOhcA8o_A6MhyphenhyphenxsagS-Fi4OpthIbW2yfhmtqx7Eussvr6YSecdwH2AA2-3wehsLmdICjWPa0QjP9/s320/IMG_20150826_0008_NEW.jpg" width="233" /></a></div>
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<i style="text-align: center;"> with Catherine, winter 1980</i></div>
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Catherine and I visited Mother and Daddy at their house in
Roswell for Wednesday supper or Sunday lunch – not only did we get a meal but
we also enjoyed getting the use of their laundry. Added to these perks was the
undivided attention both of my parents gave us – we discussed with them our
itchiness to change what we were doing and perhaps move. One of the gifts both
of my parents had was listening to others with interest and intent, and they
always seem to be on my side. They gave selflessly to me in that regard. I will
always miss that security. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Daddy wrote: “Harriett says she is definitely not going back
to Douglas County – don’t know what she plans. It is hard to get a teaching
position in her field in another system. We try not to think too much about it.
I can’t see giving up one job until you have another one. I like to eat too
well for that. But she will have to make her own decision and we will have to
be content with it.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Spoiler Alert: I was at Douglas County High School for
another five years. So needless to say,
I seemed to be blowing some smoke and believing my own fantasies. Actually, I
don’t know what got into me.</div>
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Hunter had married in 1978; he and his wife Janet lived
outside of Washington DC. They both worked jobs associated with computer
technology – a new field but becoming more popular as well as lucrative. Janet,
known for writing lovely and informative letters, had Daddy commenting in the
first letter of the year about how one of their friends told Mother that a
thank you from her was “the nicest she had ever received.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwD7PmsjwevXxgP1qCN59cnUdMo-eNd6Blt70rJPxx8T3VGE88Y_k4A4bSOQm4CuKEi2cKVPtUPbonI4ejOvDMaXt8EDXsq2u8_KGqBZsLCpF1ZBjcBsp3MqfNHeqHkJeGSzvRxz_zXYi/s1600/IMG_20150826_0007_NEW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwD7PmsjwevXxgP1qCN59cnUdMo-eNd6Blt70rJPxx8T3VGE88Y_k4A4bSOQm4CuKEi2cKVPtUPbonI4ejOvDMaXt8EDXsq2u8_KGqBZsLCpF1ZBjcBsp3MqfNHeqHkJeGSzvRxz_zXYi/s320/IMG_20150826_0007_NEW.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i> Hunter and Janet</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1MWoNs_Va4r8MqqiK_m-1hnk-Ovlyr6ouc9pMUoIJa0RGBuSaWxxUNyzA9VQlE2UCDO5p9b50AePPr00nWef3K0Fkyp48t8CE2LJpPfWcx2mfVNot2Ismdu6LtN219tmigFPofmcyi9K/s1600/IMG_20150826_0005_NEW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1MWoNs_Va4r8MqqiK_m-1hnk-Ovlyr6ouc9pMUoIJa0RGBuSaWxxUNyzA9VQlE2UCDO5p9b50AePPr00nWef3K0Fkyp48t8CE2LJpPfWcx2mfVNot2Ismdu6LtN219tmigFPofmcyi9K/s320/IMG_20150826_0005_NEW.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Margaret, Hunter, and Janet at Aunt Harriett's house in Falls Church, Virginia</i></div>
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Margaret worked in Physical Therapy at Dekalb Medical
Hospital. After house hunting, she bought a house on Larry Lane in Dekalb
County, near work and off Lawrenceville Highway.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The day to day of Mother and Daddy’s lives seemed pretty
status quo. In January, both Daddy and Kenneth shopped for cars, and Daddy
bought a VW Rabbit, and, as I recall, a real scoot around car compared to the
Beetle. After looking at many cars, Kenneth eventually ordered a Honda Civic,
which would be back-ordered for six months. </div>
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Margaret had a fungus in her attic; I complained about
having to purchase new contact lenses which “were expensive.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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Weather plummeted to the steady 30s in February. Daddy and
Kenneth did their income tax together, and I, as sponsor of the newspaper staff
at Douglas County, spent two weeks in rehearsals after school and into the
evenings for a Student Teacher Talent show that the staff put together for a
fund raiser. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Aside: Those talent shows became an annual event at DCHS. We
had a live band, and I, believe or not, performed “live” on stage with that
band: one year as Jeannie C. Riley – “Harper Valley PTA,” – another as Janis
Joplin – “Me and Bobby McGee” – another as Pat Benatar – “Hit Me with Your Best
Shot,” and the last one as Gladys Knight – “Heard it Through the Grapevine.”
The guys who made up the band consisted of two English teachers and two of my
students. As the program evolved, two local professional musicians would donate
their time to the cause. This was all kinds of fun and made me all kinds of
nervous – like throw up nervous, but the shows ran three nights, and made over
a thousand dollars. That sure beats selling donuts on street corners or pushing
gift wrap on strangers. As I look back
on that, I think: Dang. That was a nutty time; I was young and, frankly,
crazy.”</div>
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Because the rehearsals were exhausting in their length and,
of course, repetitive in having to run through the program over and over, and
like I said, my newspaper sponsored it, some days I taught all day and ended up
not leaving Douglas County to 11 PM. The commute back to Cobb was twenty-five
miles; Daddy wrote, “I hate to think about her driving all the way home from
Douglasville late at night but there is not much I can do about it.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIE7uZ8ujxg7xAUzUOHhRNrKAxA9HllHVHwmUBxc1_BUcaYxNPb24aGCMzLxCzYpN4K-ENczhuZGsXiknizpfJ8sfI4wgZcX5NvKgzw7ORbE67OXrOaBA0ForMEGA0G39N6TzylCZkMRQu/s1600/IMG_20150826_0001_NEW_NEW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIE7uZ8ujxg7xAUzUOHhRNrKAxA9HllHVHwmUBxc1_BUcaYxNPb24aGCMzLxCzYpN4K-ENczhuZGsXiknizpfJ8sfI4wgZcX5NvKgzw7ORbE67OXrOaBA0ForMEGA0G39N6TzylCZkMRQu/s320/IMG_20150826_0001_NEW_NEW.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i> article in <u>Douglas County Sentinel,</u> 1982</i></div>
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As we made our way into March and April, Daddy had little to
report: they played bridge with their good friends, the Watts. Mother joined
the Roswell Garden Club, Daddy went to the doctor where he was told that he
“was in really good shape” but had difficulty sleeping at night and thus,
staying awake in the afternoons. He “would just have to live with it.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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He joined the board at Roswell Methodist, a friend of
Margaret’s got Kenneth a job at Western Electric, and we all had the flu. Daddy
wrote that I was “put out with myself for being out three days from school.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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Kenneth had his adenoids removed. Daddy bought a new bulb
for the door chimes that cost “1.79, and he couldn’t believe it.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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As the year continued, so did the ordinary-ness of our lives. We
worked, we stayed busy, and his letters read like I was the one who came over
the most – well, I already told why, but he did make this comment: : “Kenneth
and Margaret do not get over as much as Harriett does. We would really miss
Harriett if she should leave Atlanta.”</div>
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Sigh.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Kenneth’s new job as an Engineer Associate made him “quite
thrilled and [we] are thrilled for him.” They took him out to eat to celebrate
at S&W Seafood where “he has such a good outlook with this new job.”
Kenneth had been working at Graybar, where he was undervalued and underpaid,
JMHO. <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
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Catherine and I looked unsuccessfully for a job in Hilton
Head [what kind of job there – hotel maid, beach ball inflator, golfer?],
Margaret visited the aunts in Virginia, and the aunts visited Mother and Daddy
later that month. Margaret and I helped Mother pick out new lamps for the
living room, and knowing my mother, never quick on decisions like this, it must
have taken many weeks since Daddy included that on-going process in concurrent
letters in late spring. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSgK_6GYWPfgx-JSLuyK5RZ3k_wDlqySRZo6fp6HzqfwM6RkOJVl2WByCOacNud6YrWa5-21EgIwRYk-Qtks-8AZ8PjmGEyg5FUjNfttmYolsCGi_RzeCSrriAhIkLz8EooQrIJVk7NQK/s1600/IMG_20150826_0012_NEW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhSgK_6GYWPfgx-JSLuyK5RZ3k_wDlqySRZo6fp6HzqfwM6RkOJVl2WByCOacNud6YrWa5-21EgIwRYk-Qtks-8AZ8PjmGEyg5FUjNfttmYolsCGi_RzeCSrriAhIkLz8EooQrIJVk7NQK/s320/IMG_20150826_0012_NEW.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i> Aunt Ava and Margaret</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Note: Those lamps now reside in my sister’s mountain house in Brasstown, North Carolina. FTR.
That was a time investment. so when we die, somebody else needs to take those
puppies.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Even though I signed my contract in June to go back to Douglas
County, Catherine and I left in June for a job search in Florida. We drove my
white Beetle VW with no air-conditioning, and I remember that as being one
awful ride. In one of his letters, Daddy insinuated that it was Catherine who
was unhappy, and that she “wished for me to go with her wherever she went.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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Note: I remember all of this job searching – pretty
fruitless, obviously, but I don’t remember how much my parents worried about
it. We must have seem so reckless and flighty to them to want to walk away from
solid jobs when the job market was so hard. </div>
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<br /></div>
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At the new house in Roswell, Daddy had taken it upon himself
to make the yard look presentable. In retrospect and reading about this, it’s
quite a change from the father I grew up with – who hated all things yard
work. According to his letters, he
planted flowers, threw out lime, raked, put out pine straw, and cleaned the
beds. So. Not. Daddy. At one point,
Mother and Daddy drove back to the Oana house to get a gardenia cutting that
had come from my maternal grandmother. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Note: Unfortunately, that cutting would die. Later, Daddy
bought Mother a gardenia for the back yard, and when they passed away in 1995,
and their house sold, David dug up the bush to move to our house, but it didn’t
survive that winter. David bought me a gardenia on Mother’s Day in 1996, a year
after my mother died, and it still flourishes twenty years later. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Daddy’s motivation for yard work shows how much they ended
up loving living in Roswell. They would make new friends, get involved in a new
church, and eventually go on fabulous trips when they retired. The move from
south Atlanta became rejuvenating for them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As summer approach, Mother and Daddy made travel plans for a
trip to Minnesota and Wisconsin, we celebrated Mother’s day at Margaret’s new
house, and then later Father’s Day. Hunter and Janet came to visit, and Hunter
spent time “at Margaret’s house doing her fix-it list,” and then they left for
a vacation to Charleston and the Outer Banks.
</div>
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Daddy’s Rabbit became the car to borrow – both Margaret and
Kenneth borrowed it for various trips --- Margaret to Florida, and Kenneth to a
wedding in Albany. I’m not sure why we borrowed it except that Kenneth didn’t
get his new car till late summer, and Margaret and I were still driving VW
Beetles, which had the acceleration of a lawnmower. Maybe the car was just
faster. Ha. Newer? Daddy filled it up with gas?</div>
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<br /></div>
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At her new home, Margaret planted a huge garden that
Kenneth, who lived close, would come over after work and help her. For all his
time and effort, she “allowed him to use her laundry.” LOL. Daddy’s words, not
mine. She shared her bounty with Mother and Daddy, and he said “we got a lot of
vegetables.” Daddy apparently had planted a small garden himself, but he had
little luck with it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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1980 proved to be a hot summer. Daddy made references to it
almost every week. Margaret’s garden, by August, began “yielding little.” He
and Mother stuffed mailboxes for the Republican party, Kenneth finally got his
new Honda, gray, red interior, radio, but no ac [what were you thinking, brother?]; Margaret fretted over turnover in her department at work, and I
looked forward, not, to a new school year. I had gotten into a car pool, “which
I loved,” but I still moaned about going back to teaching.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwzopaUbpXiR5L4AOWbZPT5Mjpv4zPShkBFjNITjVkzhb3an52Gwyx5WfBuJZUNT2W083vFz8J8bb14p9zgM9O8t9nfud9sm0q_VtyII_0t1d00YKk6bPveuL4N2yIfXYv9TYRgIHBQED/s1600/IMG_20150826_0006_NEW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmwzopaUbpXiR5L4AOWbZPT5Mjpv4zPShkBFjNITjVkzhb3an52Gwyx5WfBuJZUNT2W083vFz8J8bb14p9zgM9O8t9nfud9sm0q_VtyII_0t1d00YKk6bPveuL4N2yIfXYv9TYRgIHBQED/s320/IMG_20150826_0006_NEW.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Kenneth, Mother and Daddy, and I -- [Daddy had gotten a bad haircut by going to a local cosmetology school. They ended up having to shave his head. So chic!]</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Kenneth moved into an apartment in Doraville, Mother sat
with a friend at the hospital into the wee hours, and they replaced all the
lamp shades in the house [I love this detail] – and still “there was no rain.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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By September, my car gave me trouble and Daddy found a great
mechanic in Douglasville to work on it. They took a trip to see the new Atlanta
airport terminal, Margaret and her boyfriend Phil visited the aunts in
Washington and Lynchburg, and I had an engine overhaul that cost 250 dollars
and took two weeks. I also dropped a class for my Masters, and Daddy concluded,
“she’ll never get it done.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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LOL. He was so right. I worked on that darn Masters for five
years. Ugh. So much monkey business. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daddy bought a new stereo that Margaret and Kenneth helped
assemble, but it took all day and then the turntable only “played out of one
speaker.” This stereo came with a fancy, glass cabinet with glass shelves for
each component. My daddy loved music. I see this little hiccup with the
assembly just an indicator for all our future technology woes. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It finally rained, and Daddy named it “the best rain since
June.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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In October, they helped set up an annual arts festival at
Bulloch Hall as part of the Historical Society fund raising. Mother had been sick off and on with what
they thought was a virus, but she found out that she was anemic, but apparently
her other health problems, not disclosed as to what in the letters, remained
“without answers.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Margaret went on a church retreat in Ridgecrest, South
Carolina, while I had headed up to a football game in Virginia. with my friend
Marilyn. Daddy noted, “Both of my girls are out of town,” and this comment, I
find, so endearing. </div>
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<br /></div>
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As the year begins to close, Daddy tells of how he can’t
fathom “where the time has gone.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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I came to see them less and less as I told them “I had much
to do.” Catherine and I had split the cost of a washer and dryer, and I guess,
had less reasons to make the trek to Roswell to see them. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Daddy’s work was full of tension as the
interpersonal relationships under the new superintendent [the fifth one he had
worked for] were a “mess.” They stayed up and watched the election results on
television and “were shocked at the size of the Reagan victory and … couldn’t
believe that Mattingly beat Talmudge.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanksgiving was aunt-less and Hunter and Janet-less but
included Margaret, Phil, Kenneth, Catherine and her brother Art, my friend
Peggy, and me. I have pictures but no memories of this one.</div>
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<br /></div>
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We still sent Christmas lists to the aunts, probably not any
more timely than when were twelve, and mother spent the day after Thanksgiving
“baking for Christmas.” Daddy said that “I put up the tree all by myself and
would get to the other decorations later.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Note: My mother made dozens of cookies for Christmas that
she stored in huge Tupperware containers and kept on the freezer in the utility
room off the carport. After each evening meal during the company filled
Christmas season, I have distinct memories of her lovingly arranging those
cookies for dessert on festive plates.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thirty-five years ago – and look at the tidbits of life I
have to remember because of Daddy’s letters. We aren’t a drama filled bunch,
except for me, and it’s delicious to visit this year again. Thank you, Daddy.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TevVmqFcTurdPnUNXIz4go2AgjzkFM6OkShiKdqOzBX3oEQVL8nyP2DB76tKm88VQhfNVkob_oJa8TIy5vHB-v7JNttL5lmQQnvNrvA0AtPL82w87OdK_uV-s3_k3tAnJdqUovvcCM2j/s1600/1978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TevVmqFcTurdPnUNXIz4go2AgjzkFM6OkShiKdqOzBX3oEQVL8nyP2DB76tKm88VQhfNVkob_oJa8TIy5vHB-v7JNttL5lmQQnvNrvA0AtPL82w87OdK_uV-s3_k3tAnJdqUovvcCM2j/s320/1978.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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<o:p><i> Daddy and Mother, 1978, at Hunter and Janet's wedding in Connecticut </i></o:p><br />
<o:p><i><br /></i></o:p>
<o:p>ETA: Kenneth told me that his Honda Civic cost 5,000 dollars and to add air conditioning would have been an additional 800 . He's, apparently, the son of our parents -- frugal, but hot. :-)</o:p></div>
H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-43840083105434630902015-06-01T17:30:00.001-04:002015-06-06T11:32:59.114-04:00Another Visit with Daddy’s Letters: 1973<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Note: In an effort to
preserve some family history in writing, I have been reading the weekly letters
that my daddy wrote each Sunday from the early 1960s until the 1990s and will begin posting them on my blog. I plan on summarizing all of them – well, eventually. Eh. Maybe. I hope. If I live... long enough. </i></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_a4oQjOF4bEtMFM2xC1HpMksUosVxZ6Tb8zXnHuIAtAuci1VEbrmFupmr2-04J2AsaCTw1MgEGmXQAjMkZABloGzLNeNYwq14jGOQUjhWbhkkK3I6702fxQy4FAacESibADTSCb9CsCrn/s1600/That+70%2527s+Show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_a4oQjOF4bEtMFM2xC1HpMksUosVxZ6Tb8zXnHuIAtAuci1VEbrmFupmr2-04J2AsaCTw1MgEGmXQAjMkZABloGzLNeNYwq14jGOQUjhWbhkkK3I6702fxQy4FAacESibADTSCb9CsCrn/s320/That+70%2527s+Show.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kenneth, M&D, and I, looking like That 70s Show...</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p> </o:p>Also see: <a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/2015/03/what-life-1965.html">What a Life! 1965</a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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New Year’s Day dates the first letter of 1973, and all of us
are home for the holidays: Hunter from the University of North Carolina grad school,
Margaret from Mercer, where she is in her last semester, Kenneth’s from Mercer
as well, but in his sophomore year, and I from LaGrange, where I am about to
enter the second semester of my freshman year.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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How did my parents manage? All four children in college?
They saved, set goals, and made thrifty choices in how they spent money. Sigh.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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What a crowded, full house was that for the previous
Christmas holiday break! We were six, fully-grown humans sharing a three
bedroom, one bath house. Egads. For a
three day period during the Christmas holidays, my mother’s four sisters joined
us in that small house. I only have good memories – so with each bedroom full
and two sleeper sofas in use – we celebrated the cozy Christmas of ’72.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6xXtwRq-39nz8Q8Uw8-K9LlBeS5i5LsLQu-dkDVTVeGKuDHwyKeoq2_BEMt7ztj1gkHcuyGPJOyb6o9pMLmJr5REFoRLA6hjaz3YfhpW_SL-KQccvo03y1q3w9-ONb-B3GXUuFbJnVR5H/s1600/Christmas+tree+aluminum.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6xXtwRq-39nz8Q8Uw8-K9LlBeS5i5LsLQu-dkDVTVeGKuDHwyKeoq2_BEMt7ztj1gkHcuyGPJOyb6o9pMLmJr5REFoRLA6hjaz3YfhpW_SL-KQccvo03y1q3w9-ONb-B3GXUuFbJnVR5H/s320/Christmas+tree+aluminum.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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According to Daddy’s letter, we had all gone to our
respective New Year Eve events the evening before. As he wrote, “Hunter and
Margaret went out to a party with some friends of Margaret’s. Kenneth went out
with some friends from Mercer, and Harriett and Vaughn went to a party.” There
is no reason to speculate on what any of that entailed, and trust me, I don’t
remember New Year’s Eve of 1972. If it
hadn’t been for the chronicle of our lives provided by my dad’s weekly letter,
I wouldn’t’ remember 1973 either. I do remember Vaughn though, my high school
boyfriend and first love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Never mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Daddy’s words for this week’s narration included thankfulness.
He received several notable Christmas gifts from my mother’s sisters: he “ha[d]
been enjoying his new pjs … and “the electric broiler – [that he] used… to make
cheese toast.” The gratitude for those gifts, seemingly frugal and practical
from the perspective of this day and age, resonates in the words from this
letter. My Aunt Lois had given him
paper, carbon, and stamps which he concluded would “come in handy.” Also
evident in this last few sentences of this note was a slightly elevated sense
of anxiety: “Tomorrow is a new superintendent and the dawn of a new era.” He closes with “write and thanks for
everything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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As our lives clipped along, Daddy recorded the basics of each week, and
occasionally, my mother scribbled some little tid-bit on the side of the paper
in her signature, illegible cursive: “I saw Susan Cowan at church,” or when she
gave a speech at a dietetic convention, she scrawled “I wore my new black shoes
and a red dress,” a purchase she and I had made at Rich’s for her on a pre-holiday
trip to Greenbriar Mall. Occasionally
included in the letter were newspaper clippings, news of my high school
friends, or Daddy’s informing me that he had “deposited 50 dollars in [my]
account.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The January 14<sup>th</sup> letter described an ice storm
that struck Atlanta. When Daddy awoke early
that week in the wee hours to the loss of power, he stumbled in search of
matches in the dark, struck one, located a travel clock, and set its alarm to
guarantee they wouldn’t oversleep. Even though the schools were closed and the
power flickered on and off all morning, he and mother both set out for work. He
wrote of how the storm impacted almost every day that week including Sunday
where there was “no heat in the church’s building except in the sanctuary.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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As February moved into March, they repaired the television,
Daddy published an article in a journal, and mother consulted on a film strip,
yes, I wrote “film strip,” for a New York company distributing information on
the new, low-cholesterol diet. Daddy
wrote “they will pay $50 for a couple of phone calls to their home office.”
Daddy spoke at the Metropolitan Council for the International Reading
Association, received an engagement to serve on the program at the national IRA
convention in Houston, and taught workshops at a classroom teachers’ conference
at Georgia State University. He noted “I have a pretty, busy spring.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Daddy also taught a night class, and he and mother both
dashed off to conventions in their respective fields – St. Louis, Denver,
Dallas, and Louisville, Kentucky. At one point, Mother had to create a “video”
for work that “she worried circles around.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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One concern of his that showed up occasionally in these
weekly letters of 1973 is the turnover and “white flight” from the south side
of Atlanta. Like all major inner cities across the United States, the 1970s saw
rapid changes in the demographics in inner city neighborhoods and public
schools. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mother and Daddy liked where they lived and wished to stay
in their house with its affordable mortgage. They sensed the unrest that was
occurring and knew they faced the inevitable. Daddy wrote, “There are ten houses for
sale on Brewer [a neighboring street- see <a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/2011/07/we-had-to-take-brewer.html">We Had To Take Brewer</a>] and four on
Oana” [our home street]. “It is just a
matter of time,” he concluded. They spent one Sunday afternoon that spring shopping
for houses in Druid Hills, a northern suburb, but found the trip “discouraging”
as getting a house the equivalent size of the one they were in now in south
Atlanta would be “double the price” and “not as convenient.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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They really liked that Oana house, their church, surrounding
area, and the location perfect for their lifestyle. They had resolved to stay
so as Daddy summarized in one letter that spring: “that is that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Note: They would be one of the last of their friends and
neighbors to move. Five more years they would stay there, and they only left
when there were several personal assaults and burglaries in the neighborhood.
Mother rode the bus to work, and it became unsafe for her to walk the short
distance to and from the bus stop. Story for another time … maybe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwbgEpJFD8XKSHiD9IfgMnvrzuWw_kecV_H80z9d6l4hRhKKPeaqT7m_ImL5P-5s2Xgh1a1MeufEk1u9pOJ-T3VP6-jeV0e2DjwneuTRDiE8MnuRc5EbsELsfCOk1nzXOP1hbgsB6vI-S-/s1600/Hunter+UNC.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwbgEpJFD8XKSHiD9IfgMnvrzuWw_kecV_H80z9d6l4hRhKKPeaqT7m_ImL5P-5s2Xgh1a1MeufEk1u9pOJ-T3VP6-jeV0e2DjwneuTRDiE8MnuRc5EbsELsfCOk1nzXOP1hbgsB6vI-S-/s320/Hunter+UNC.png" width="306" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hunter at UNC [I'm betting he didn't read those books.]</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Margaret, Kenneth, and I traveled home, when we could get
rides, from college many times that spring. Hunter, being away at school in North Carolina,
rarely made the trip. We had various reasons for doing so: “we got a ride,”
weddings, bringing friends to Atlanta to shop, eat a good meal, or do laundry,
concerts, and doctor appointments. In the letters where he recounts our visits,
there is an underlying sense of joy and excitement as they got “to catch up
with the kid’s news.” Daddy wrote that
he had taken me back to LaGrange one Sunday after I spent the weekend at home,
and proudly told of how “[I] was looking
great.” My sweet Daddy – no one else loved me like that.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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One funny little detail of a Sunday letter is the search for
Hunter’s catcher’s mitt. Did “any one of
us know its whereabouts?” I love the simple-ness of this problem. Where is
Hunter’s catcher’s mitt? Oh, if life were only that … where is my mitt? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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By the way, Kenneth had his mitt, and after the exchanging
of letters of which I am not privy to but read about the conclusion of in
another weekly letter, Hunter and mitt were reunited. I assume it was a happy
reunion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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At spring break, Margaret went to North Carolina to check
out Duke for graduate school, Kenneth went to Disney World, and I went to
Jacksonville to spend the break with a friend. Daddy wrote forlornly, “there
won’t be anyone home.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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One thing that made me kind of laugh was Daddy’s enthusiasm
for shopping at the big, new phenomenon of discount stores --- Treasure Island,
and proudly announced that he “found a good pair of shoes and paid half as
much” at a outlet for shoes in East Point. They also had started going to the
Forest Park Farmer’s Market for fruits and vegetables as the grocery store
prices had gotten “outrageous.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Note: Our neighborhood vegetable man Woody, who use to drive
his pick-up truck full of vegetables he picked up at the farmer’s market and then
sold to housewives in the neighborhood, had “disappeared.” [Not in the sense of
kidnapped but like just one day quit frequenting our street – he came twice
weekly when I was in elementary school, kind of like the ice cream man but not
as desirable.]<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daddy longed for doing something other than the daily grind:
all they seem to do was “work, come home, and get ready to go back to work the
next day. We keep hoping that we might get to do something on weekends but that
has never worked out for some reason or another. But perhaps with summer coming
on, that will change.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In April, Margaret began student teaching [even though she
didn’t become a teacher], I had a tooth pulled and my stereo repaired [hard to
believe this made the letter but it did], and Daddy won a free pass to Six
Flags after attending a convention in Atlanta for educators. He wrote “so
perhaps now I will go.” This is amusing to me – because I can’t imagine my
daddy at Six Flags ever. That just doesn’t compute.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In May, Mother and Daddy visited me at LaGrange and came to
the annual May Day festivities. They also drove a file of information that
Margaret needed for a scholarship down to Macon [where Mercer is located], but
didn’t inform Margaret that they left an hour later than intended. Margaret, a
worrier by nature, called the Georgia State Patrol twice to check about their
being in a possible accident on the interstate.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My Daddy worried himself sick sometimes, so I guess, she inherited
that trait. Lucky her. She and I both seemed to have taken that from him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefw63ntgAKu8O0EakhdISaynO3nVNUPARPx5YbDBZH6t2vD-DSDmWbfmPchPJWHUEjjudfXZXpbZpaj9nitWjkfZRiEPXmR78PCIweQ_xuIxYBoyLiwIp0sPYdu6vuk2SLSJM0LUNOoSz/s1600/Margaret+Mercer+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefw63ntgAKu8O0EakhdISaynO3nVNUPARPx5YbDBZH6t2vD-DSDmWbfmPchPJWHUEjjudfXZXpbZpaj9nitWjkfZRiEPXmR78PCIweQ_xuIxYBoyLiwIp0sPYdu6vuk2SLSJM0LUNOoSz/s320/Margaret+Mercer+2.png" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Margaret at Mercer's commencement, with rescued mortarboard</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After graduating from Mercer and “misplacing her mortarboard
right before the ceremony,” Margaret stayed in Macon to work at Red Lobster,
but Kenneth headed home to look for a job, and found one at Pioneer Heddle and Reed<b>.</b> At one point that summer,
he dropped a fifty pound bale of wire on his foot – and even though he didn’t
break it, he did do a number on his big
toe. He stayed out of work a week to recuperate – and I will just interject
here that he must have been badly hurt because we McDaniels, we were raised to
fulfill our commitments whether work, school, church, or promises to do
something with others. Yea. We didn’t “sick out”; it wasn’t in our DNA.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I thought that I had a job at my old haunt, C&S [see <a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/2014/11/commuting-in-green-goot.html">Commuting in the Green Goot</a>], but the facility closed. I too had to look for a job – and
as a backup if I couldn’t’ find a job in Atlanta, I would go to Macon and work
with Margaret at Red Lobster. So. Glad. That. Didn’t. Work. Out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I found a job at the Atlanta Cabana Motor Lodge restaurant
as a hostess, a job that I complained about quite a bit. Because the job began
at a ridiculous time in the am, Daddy got up every morning and drove me to it
since he didn’t want me catching a bus in the dark. I did “get” to ride the bus
home in the afternoons. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFn0QhLyJE47U44HJbIqiXgRemDMnx3AeqkGeX1slOuhLoAvIfZrbM8yOxuhJBeqPehDDTls1IVJGqxvk7KiEir7UPJ0Z7Nfg7V8ovI5pe1kzrLx-6U_qa9yYVGjGiBwaJBv11QOF6gdxA/s1600/Cabana_Motel_1967_LBSCB17-068a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFn0QhLyJE47U44HJbIqiXgRemDMnx3AeqkGeX1slOuhLoAvIfZrbM8yOxuhJBeqPehDDTls1IVJGqxvk7KiEir7UPJ0Z7Nfg7V8ovI5pe1kzrLx-6U_qa9yYVGjGiBwaJBv11QOF6gdxA/s320/Cabana_Motel_1967_LBSCB17-068a.jpg" width="296" /></a></div>
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There are many tales I could tell about this illustrious
summer work, one involving Shriners and another gentleman callers, but … no,
I’ll just tell you that it was hard work, early hours and long ones, and that I
learned a lot about the “business.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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FTR: Even though this was not written about in the weekly
letter, since we were all home to enjoy it – Mother and Daddy celebrated their
25<sup>th</sup> wedding anniversary at The Flame Restaurant at Greenbriar Mall
on June 26<sup>th</sup>. In the letter of July 1, he opens with “it doesn’t
seem like just a week ago that you were all here for the anniversary party – it
surely was a nice affair and we appreciated so much all you did for us in
addition to coming all that distance for such a short time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4aIXIqGhBiSkalzv2JzSAsq8LIvkoUoE87OSLRfjP2AMnlmK0mS7c9MUswwQwinBKs8hjb8j0PzPdBnJLnE2vgAM9a4gbXi7DxzomAXlY15LcxnUxI-dYEAjosAA4VwmaIDmjXIdxFG_5/s1600/anniversary+party+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4aIXIqGhBiSkalzv2JzSAsq8LIvkoUoE87OSLRfjP2AMnlmK0mS7c9MUswwQwinBKs8hjb8j0PzPdBnJLnE2vgAM9a4gbXi7DxzomAXlY15LcxnUxI-dYEAjosAA4VwmaIDmjXIdxFG_5/s320/anniversary+party+2.png" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>All dressed up for 25th celebration, at Oana</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkP_nYCT-oU5dR5GvgYnWwCMkT33s54Dg78-wjYInms4zLp6N0iViG-Vz5ghi0Rli-FJzSaKO-MYGK4CUEoWblyuQ-uj5BEbIoOd-kbeNMJCTEuQXloc0Ylkg1E-fi_7v_3pY84MA8D22-/s1600/anniversary+party.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkP_nYCT-oU5dR5GvgYnWwCMkT33s54Dg78-wjYInms4zLp6N0iViG-Vz5ghi0Rli-FJzSaKO-MYGK4CUEoWblyuQ-uj5BEbIoOd-kbeNMJCTEuQXloc0Ylkg1E-fi_7v_3pY84MA8D22-/s320/anniversary+party.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Aunt Harriett, Margaret, Mother, and Aunt Ava at restaurant</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PItXlPWkodG48ZCyRGejIezyhqIlGHzhcqjyDyiyRTJ5zy1H-7fB-X9RklWx_g7iOwtIxFxNrc_mNByDw6BVXyjSYslmKc2Wpe6eWSuCiBzUWzARza6BiTNdrJ9yINzcrV_wAsJmsy_F/s1600/anniversary+whole+party.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PItXlPWkodG48ZCyRGejIezyhqIlGHzhcqjyDyiyRTJ5zy1H-7fB-X9RklWx_g7iOwtIxFxNrc_mNByDw6BVXyjSYslmKc2Wpe6eWSuCiBzUWzARza6BiTNdrJ9yINzcrV_wAsJmsy_F/s320/anniversary+whole+party.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Aunt Ava, Lois, Harriett, Hunter, Mother, Daddy, Miss Congenality, Aunt Eleanor, and Kenneth</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kenneth and I saw <i>Jesus
Christ Superstar</i>, went out with our high school friends, and spent the
summer saving money for college. At one point Daddy wrote, “Kenneth and
Harriett went with a group across town to hear some rock group – I can’t
remember who if I ever knew.” My guess, in retrospect, is that had my father
known anything about this band or what a concert was like, well, we wouldn’t
have been going. There is a pretty, good Chicago, the band, story that occurred
at Lake Spivey that turned into a disaster, but that is for another blog for
another time.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daddy was busy with his teaching, conventions, and summer
time work – and the summer ticked by with its usual day to day. He also noted
the hot weather that even my mother, known for always being cold, called
“suffering hot.” We did not have
air-conditioning – just window fan units that lulled us to sleep in those
sticky, humid, hot summer nights.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On July 3<sup>rd</sup>, I celebrated my 19<sup>th</sup> birthday with
two cakes, one baked by my mother and the other given to me by my co-workers.
Daddy noted it was “quite a feast.” Daddy loved cake.''<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieT6wQkY-MquBEFyaQmA2ByzHeTG9P8h3aOBO3_efZKlc3Ym4OJG58yWbMq40KVEQ7XxPS8vQ7Mvtqr3PIUaYlI0me_laqqNCmlMUnnZfTL5a8tgPtkgrE9ZUAFfio1M0mge0CnS1YGC6p/s1600/1975-+K%2526+H+trip008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieT6wQkY-MquBEFyaQmA2ByzHeTG9P8h3aOBO3_efZKlc3Ym4OJG58yWbMq40KVEQ7XxPS8vQ7Mvtqr3PIUaYlI0me_laqqNCmlMUnnZfTL5a8tgPtkgrE9ZUAFfio1M0mge0CnS1YGC6p/s320/1975-+K%2526+H+trip008.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The blogger, circa 1973, at Oana</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my girlfriends gave me a kitten for my birthday that
I named Toke, in what I thought was a clever, but lame and dumb, inside joke. I have no idea why my parents would accept a
kitten into that household, knowing that I would return to college in a month leaving
the kitten for them. My daddy was a softie for cats, especially kittens --- my
mother not so much --- .</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The kitten turned out to be hilarious – as Daddy narrates one
of our first experiences with him not long after I got him. Assuming he had
gotten out of the house and lost, Mother and Daddy, Kenneth, and I roamed the
neighborhood searching high [no pun intended] and low for him, only to discover
the whole time he was on the roof of the house.
Apparently, Toke enjoyed watching us, from his perch on the roof, look
everywhere we could think of for him – bushes, trees, inside the car engine,
the backyard, and neighbors’ yards on both sides. Giving him up for ghost at
dusk, we crossed our front yard, approached the porch, and then heard a hearty
meow. Looking up, the cat curiously peered over the edge of the front porch
roof at us as if “are you looking for me?” and then climbed down to us by the
evergreen that grew at the end of the porch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We weren’t fooled again by Toke. If he went missing, the
first place we looked was up – and most of the time that was where he was. Daddy renamed him “Roofie." We so enjoyed coming home in the afternoons to see that cat sitting on the roof like a mountain goat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
FTR: I don’t know what happened to Toke/Roofie. Indoor-outdoor
cats in those days did not have nine lives, so to speak. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another story recorded in the weekly letter of the summer of
1973 was about the family's involvement in bringing
home Margaret’s in-need-of- repairs VW from Macon, a car that had stranded
Margaret on the side of the road on occasion. He noted, “We had to take the
back roads since we weren’t equipped to drive on the expressway. I drove
Margaret’s friend’s car with Kenneth behind in her VW and then the two of them
behind him in my VW with the flasher lights on. It took us three hours for the
80 miles, and we were in a frazzle when we got to the VW dealer in East Point.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I loved reading about this as I remember how he would fret
about cars, car troubles, and car repairs – and when it involved one of his
daughters or wife, he just took charge to assure that we were in a “safe” car.
Who doesn’t love that about her Daddy? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the end of July, my parents took a vacation and left
Kenneth and me by ourselves for ten days [they were way too trusting] and traveled to visit Daddy’s side of the family in Arkansas and to view some
historical sites in Illinois, Missouri, and Iowa. Fun times, I’m guessing.
Meanwhile Kenneth and I threw some parties but didn’t have police involvement. Victories all around…they, of course, returned
to an immaculate house with no sign of … well, you know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the summer neared its end, we prepared to go back to
academia. Hunter, who helped Margaret
move into her room at Duke told Mother and Daddy that “Margaret’s room was real
small” and Daddy wrote, “I don’t know what she’ll do with all her stuff.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLiQA4xbXqaJaAzez7uzyORiuMzi73UbUifwdI3CpHjAgFNfXRJHKC_vIv5OYt_eD4GoilUbYhIIaJr4ZeGy3mRdTkbiUyCIICsL9VWSe7iOhbZNPOMxmgerpzZQMkGqC99eKMX6f3gCH/s1600/Duke+photo+of+Margaret.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLiQA4xbXqaJaAzez7uzyORiuMzi73UbUifwdI3CpHjAgFNfXRJHKC_vIv5OYt_eD4GoilUbYhIIaJr4ZeGy3mRdTkbiUyCIICsL9VWSe7iOhbZNPOMxmgerpzZQMkGqC99eKMX6f3gCH/s320/Duke+photo+of+Margaret.png" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Margaret's Duke photo</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last weeks before I returned to college, informal and
spontaneous gatherings of my high school friends occurred nightly. Daddy told
of how “there has been a crowd over every night and they stay out in the yard
and talk.” [See <a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/2011/11/on-leaving-front-yard.html">On Leaving the Front Yard</a>]</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the middle of September came, they were back to their empty
nest, working, and worrying about the neighborhood. At the end of the month, intruders
broke into our home and in Daddy’s words -- they took “a book of stamps and a handkerchief from the
boys’ room that had quarters in it. Every drawer in the house had been
ransacked and the contents dumped on the floor. It took us hours to put it
back. Luckily there was no real money in the house.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This disturbance upended them – they felt so violated, but
they had determined that it was better for them financially to stay and wait it
out. They had children in college – they had to get through that before they
could think about a bigger mortgage. Plus, Daddy felt better after the police
told them that it “was probably teenagers.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Atlanta elected its first black mayor that fall – Maynard
Jackson. Daddy, in his typical journalistic style, wrote lightly of the
politics of the time; he mostly focused on the broken furnace and dryer, the
kitchen faucet repair for the dishwasher [one of those non-installed models that
we rolled over from the opposite side of the kitchen and hooked up to the kitchen sink faucet],
a new storm door, a broken television “that will disappoint the children,” the
pressures of his and Mother’s work, and the concern over the failing health of
two of mother’s cousins. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In November, Mother and Daddy visited Cumberland Mall for
the first time and declared it “fabulous.” I was on Homecoming Court at
LaGrange and named Miss Congeniality, which is so much better than queen. <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the middle of the month, Mother’s cousin Ethel died, and
they drove to Lynchburg, Virginia, after working all day on a Friday, and
arrived at 1 in the morning. The next day they attended the funeral, and it was
a “grand affair” as all “parts of the family was represented except Uncle
John’s. [The funeral gathered] quite an
array of first cousins and they all came from a distance – we traveled the
farthest. We were so glad we went since it was our only chance to see some of
them.” They returned to Atlanta on Sunday – a quick turnaround trip. Life [and
death in this case] events involving family mattered to them, and they would
have made every effort to be there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4yHj8BUSuU9Mg_XlXoymWkIJbGFj51w6w2sxr9c8ZNIuPple24ZLKs_c_bp51PgYN-HtJwo_tjt-S8XCfNk7xqqrbTf16TzR8gsam2Qb-mI1irGLlOJ40yHDU0WFhtOLXEl967pdbAoN/s1600/margaret+and+michael.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4yHj8BUSuU9Mg_XlXoymWkIJbGFj51w6w2sxr9c8ZNIuPple24ZLKs_c_bp51PgYN-HtJwo_tjt-S8XCfNk7xqqrbTf16TzR8gsam2Qb-mI1irGLlOJ40yHDU0WFhtOLXEl967pdbAoN/s320/margaret+and+michael.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Michael and Margaret, all chummy and looking rather collegiate</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all arrived home for Thanksgiving, bringing our fullness
and noise back to the house. My sister brought her boyfriend, Michael, and
Daddy took him “for a tour of Atlanta.” Margaret took him to “the lighting of
the tree at Rich’s,” at the time a big Atlanta tradition, and then he and she
attended the rehearsal dinner and wedding for Margaret’s high school friend
Terry. Daddy declared Margaret “lovely” as a bridesmaid, and then all except
me, who was off till January, went back to college. Daddy signed this letter
of November 25 with “Happy Thanksgiving.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next letter, dated December 30<sup>th</sup>, tells of a Christmas
that has come and gone. Kenneth and I have been attending “parties” with our
high school friends, and Margaret and Hunter have returned to grad school. This
letter ends the year the same way that Daddy began it with gratitude for his
Christmas gifts of a“new shirt and tie,” and for a “very lovely Christmas.” He also added that he was grateful for Kenneth’s
“raking both the front and back yards.” I love that – his appreciation for some yard
work – but mostly that to him, this gift mattered enough to be mentioned in the
letter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscUoZhHke87cKbelu4CTGYFS6bpcl8jvLNg42YrSVNmSHK_v0eiNjNO58EWubRnRqbJJQLSLs9lZVAN0cP8vbxLdRyhyphenhyphenhAwNQq4-Ac7b9dxeqXSLkfGEDL9w1gJIGM90bHlQhobOLAqA_/s1600/Kenneth+with+pine+straw+pile.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscUoZhHke87cKbelu4CTGYFS6bpcl8jvLNg42YrSVNmSHK_v0eiNjNO58EWubRnRqbJJQLSLs9lZVAN0cP8vbxLdRyhyphenhyphenhAwNQq4-Ac7b9dxeqXSLkfGEDL9w1gJIGM90bHlQhobOLAqA_/s320/Kenneth+with+pine+straw+pile.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Daddy's gift, Kenneth's yard raking</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>As I went through this year of letters, what stands out the
most is the simplicity of our lives in 1973, even though they were busy, full
of obstacles and setbacks – they appear so ordinary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recorded and reported by my father, who even though he
suggested the weighty issues of the time, the letters make it clear that my
parents loved us, appreciated the home they had, and worked hard for a living
to pay bills, maintain a household, and put us through college. In spite of what was a full life, he never
complained, even though he worried, there is no doubt about that. No matter
what happened, from the large, societal changes in the city of Atlanta to the
silliness of an adopted kitten, Daddy typed the weekly letter and recounted
what was on his heart and mind and what mattered the most – us. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
ETA: Margaret made mother's dress for that 25th wedding anniversary because she "wanted her to have something new and pretty," and Kenneth told me that Dr. Reynolds {I can write a whole entry just on him} drained his toe twice and was "extremely painful." </div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-20436006636141161562015-03-17T19:26:00.001-04:002015-03-17T19:26:11.059-04:00Sunrise in Lakemont: March 15 and 16<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-40125815200162679762015-03-12T20:46:00.002-04:002015-03-13T12:25:20.964-04:00What a life! 1965<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkkto2eUSG6LPrKfdYhXa_tyE7PxJHWaXglSEenpeJEBUMfxTDgxC_VvpDXbDx49JxRFt8J5P4R5W9nOTtw_Hb_62Il7KwbUcPNkzKxI2NgHd0PMVGlazMIwc75VBoo-3mcABaNwYvDO7d/s1600/1965+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkkto2eUSG6LPrKfdYhXa_tyE7PxJHWaXglSEenpeJEBUMfxTDgxC_VvpDXbDx49JxRFt8J5P4R5W9nOTtw_Hb_62Il7KwbUcPNkzKxI2NgHd0PMVGlazMIwc75VBoo-3mcABaNwYvDO7d/s1600/1965+13.jpg" height="320" width="243" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3uX1_5WvWUmE_VwPoHh-dZC-5A0tkxyaKULlpNoi5xi-NxGcR4QGc7CnosNLckQC6u2l5s79I0gbguLib3arT2BPdgXDKU-5S0NvPwvaR6j9FJotF-hQIn8Ss25XOgIKxsPUijBRdLpU/s1600/IMG_20150312_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3uX1_5WvWUmE_VwPoHh-dZC-5A0tkxyaKULlpNoi5xi-NxGcR4QGc7CnosNLckQC6u2l5s79I0gbguLib3arT2BPdgXDKU-5S0NvPwvaR6j9FJotF-hQIn8Ss25XOgIKxsPUijBRdLpU/s1600/IMG_20150312_0005.jpg" height="320" width="206" /></a></div>
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<i>The family and an excerpt from one of Daddy's letters, January, 1965</i></div>
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For those of you who read my blog, you are aware of the fact
that my mother kept a type of journal [<a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/2014/06/notes-my-mother-made.html">Notes My Mother Made</a>} and my dad wrote weekly letters
to my mother’s family in Virginia. I
have just spent some of the last hours reading through the combination of his
letters and her notes, dated 1965.</div>
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I was ten years old and in the fifth grade – my older
brother Hunter a high school sophomore, my sister Margaret an eighth grader,
and my brother Kenneth in the sixth grade.</div>
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My parents both worked, my dad two jobs: he was a seventh
grade teacher at Mt. Carmel Elementary in Douglasville, Georgia, and worked
nights and weekends at the local library; Grady Hospital in downtown Atlanta
employed my mother as a dietitian in the cafeteria, a job that required some
weekend hours.</div>
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In the notes and letters, my parents concluded that we were frantically
busy, and at the end of her journaling dated, May 16, 1965, after having celebrated
Hunter’s sixteenth birthday, my mother signed off with the salutation of “what a life.”</div>
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My father loved teaching seventh grade, but since he was a
gifted speaker and had extraordinary interpersonal skills, the administration tapped him for leadership and recommended that
he get more training so that he could “move up.” Thus began his “going back to
school.” {He would eventually get two additional degrees and move rapidly into
the central office staff in Douglas County.]</div>
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Since the school where he taught was twenty-five miles west
of Atlanta, he had arranged a car pool with three other teachers who lived,
relatively speaking, nearby. Saving the extra money they gave him for gas, my
father’s dependability and responsibility to those other riders is evident in
one of the letters written in February of 1965.</div>
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He was violently ill with a stomach flu, that ran through
the whole family, no pun intended, but he knew that those other teachers
counted on him for a ride. He picked them up, and under physical duress,
delivered them to school. He wrote in
his weekly letter that “it was raining so hard and I felt so bad myself that I
wondered how I managed at all.” He had already gotten up early to walk my
mother to the bus stop at 5:45 am as he “didn’t wish for her to be standing on
a corner by herself in the dark.”</div>
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My mother’s hours at Grady were irregular, and it seems that
in 1965, her boss “sicked out” frequently and the weight of the job fell on her
shoulders, in spite of the fact that she wasn't in charge. She fretted about
the household chores getting done, and even though my parents had hired two
different maids, Pearl for the ironing, and Nora Lee for the heavier work,
keeping house to her standards just didn’t happen. She writes about staying up
till three in the morning to wax floors or while “the children were at choir
practice, I cleaned the bathroom floor.” </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogxUh_Kp0SFT5NNXOaWn4qjbBmHETSrUS-O-vHY5tuffW_iWsIIT67hNCX81gQh60bJz74WEQmswwYuGr8Tf1-v5aDMVK0Q6ThirmuIvrZlTrIp0eqB1LM-Np5t252YEC-T7ku_DDHHB6/s1600/1965+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogxUh_Kp0SFT5NNXOaWn4qjbBmHETSrUS-O-vHY5tuffW_iWsIIT67hNCX81gQh60bJz74WEQmswwYuGr8Tf1-v5aDMVK0Q6ThirmuIvrZlTrIp0eqB1LM-Np5t252YEC-T7ku_DDHHB6/s1600/1965+3.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></div>
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<i>Hunter with one of his speech trophies</i></div>
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Hunter, the brainiac of the family, seemed to be getting
honors left and right --- what a bore. He had won second place in an Atlanta
Optimist Speech contest, been chosen for All-State Chorus, and gotten chosen
for the Governor’s Honors Summer Program. Everywhere he landed, people seem to
laud his “vocabulary,” his bringing recognition to Sylvan, our high school, and
teachers recognized his all around brilliant self. My mother recorded his willingness
to finally take an interest in the way he looked. According to her, he enjoyed
the clothes, snappy jackets and ties, needed to compete in some of the contests
of which he was enrolled. That must have
been just a momentary lapse in his fashion sense, because we have photos of him
from this same year in black socks with sandals and mismatched plaids. Just
cause you’re smart doesn't mean you’re a good dresser.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsTLYb_3gT14YVB5fV4KPsp5smBiFtLdwYtnWRUmZX8_uzQMpu5h5PJPryphW8jevdVcdZoKHN1c_SQ0PLVHRKXUBlXKSUu95Z6YChfmpFP2EBrPk7aBkjHUYAqTS0D8SmV0D3DzDOGgm2/s1600/1965+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsTLYb_3gT14YVB5fV4KPsp5smBiFtLdwYtnWRUmZX8_uzQMpu5h5PJPryphW8jevdVcdZoKHN1c_SQ0PLVHRKXUBlXKSUu95Z6YChfmpFP2EBrPk7aBkjHUYAqTS0D8SmV0D3DzDOGgm2/s1600/1965+12.jpg" height="320" width="299" /></a></div>
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<i>Roommate with a duck-tail and Hunter at GHP, both are styling</i></div>
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He and my brother Kenneth had paper routes of ninety or so
houses [<a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/2010/08/skip-one-throw-one.html">See Skip One Throw One]</a>, and were constantly fixing flats on their
bikes and collecting money. Daddy wrote of how Hunter saved up “$35 to buy a
bike from Western Auto.” Kenneth threw
the route by himself many times while Hunter scurried off to be honored
somewhere. </div>
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Margaret, not much for studying, had tried hard to not do
well in French, but took beautifully to dance lessons at the YMCA and cooking
the nightly meals. My mother bragged quite a bit about her ability to cook full
meals including desserts, even though she had to be told repeatedly to “take
off her school clothes before she prepared dinner.” In her rebellion, Margaret improvised
this request by mother one afternoon apparently by donning three or four aprons
to cover her school clothes. Mother recalled this get up with humor and wished
that the camera had film cause “you just had to see her.” <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipBZ1VmFBjenrZ5DfrRw13CSpyYBbe-lQohYb3bvWHlbOyHBn6OczeyXzgebWSRlcYSHYUoP07UVwB4vTEuQWu_SKAxsRLCa-KpPKJubtC0C8gzp1wDYPdZZi79FivBE7M8fNWHQA-Dipx/s1600/1965+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipBZ1VmFBjenrZ5DfrRw13CSpyYBbe-lQohYb3bvWHlbOyHBn6OczeyXzgebWSRlcYSHYUoP07UVwB4vTEuQWu_SKAxsRLCa-KpPKJubtC0C8gzp1wDYPdZZi79FivBE7M8fNWHQA-Dipx/s1600/1965+10.jpg" height="320" width="256" /></a></div>
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<i>on family vacation</i></div>
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In demand as a baby-sitter, my neighbors with small children
called on Margaret to babysit – some nights she made a cool 1.50. She also sang in choir at both church and
school, ran around with her girlfriends, and needed rides to school for one
project or another. She and Hunter attended Friday night football games when
they could “get rides with friends.”</div>
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An avid sports lover, Kenneth wanted to play ball of all
sorts – baseball, he played on Gray Y and little league, and when he got
birthday money, he bought a basketball that he “dribbled every where he went.”
He loved school, especially the new math, and volunteered readily to go to
summer school to take “whatever.” A kind sort, Kenneth wrote Hunter a note to
tell him that he had found in "their collecting money" a “1919 penny” and saved it for Hunter’s coin
collection. For an eleven year old, Kenneth seemed amazingly diligent and
determined. The responsibility of the paper route fell on him.</div>
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<i>Kenneth</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpK4026dJnjytHJ6wuz1MKA9KcmPFYIGP_GlHugIoPESgfkhgJekjRg_9bamegweYDXnJyeXFjYnzkzMdq4xbPJhh1EYp5dL5MBuQnGb4E_8WpwGh4LL9RKCm__6Wz6Qt8SUPCiMewC4gu/s1600/IMG_20150312_0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpK4026dJnjytHJ6wuz1MKA9KcmPFYIGP_GlHugIoPESgfkhgJekjRg_9bamegweYDXnJyeXFjYnzkzMdq4xbPJhh1EYp5dL5MBuQnGb4E_8WpwGh4LL9RKCm__6Wz6Qt8SUPCiMewC4gu/s1600/IMG_20150312_0004.jpg" height="320" width="227" /></a></div>
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Note: I asked Hunter if he still had that penny and he said “No.
My coin collection was stolen along with my 1965 VW Beetle while I was living
in the dorms at UNC [in 1972]. Why did I think it was a good idea to keep that
in the car? My only answer is that I was 24.”</div>
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In the winter of 1965, I became a real challenge and worry
for my parents. I developed an anxiety disorder about attending school, or so
that’s how I diagnose it now. Each morning before school, I woke up complaining
of stomach aches – no fever, no other
symptoms, but I would whine that I just “didn't feel well” as Daddy wrote. If
they insisted that I go on to school, the symptoms seem to worsen -- I became
an emotional mess, and no amount of their encouraging or coercing persuaded me
that I would be fine once I got there. </div>
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On many occasions, they wrote of how “Harriett Sue stayed
home from school today, and Hunter stayed with her.” Both of them noted how if
I was allowed to stay home, the aches passed and I was returned to “good
spirits.” What a huge problem this was for two working parents. They would not
leave me alone at home, and as the letters told one of my siblings stayed home with
me. This problem didn't occur every day, but its frequency made an impression
in the weekly letters. </div>
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One day in March, I pretended to go to school. Got dressed,
went up the street, but instead of crossing the street to the school, I ducked
down and hid in bushes in a neighbor’s yard. When I thought enough time had
passed, I ran back down the street, into my house and back to sleep. After seeing me dash down the street, a concerned
neighbor alerted the school that “a young girl had been seen running.” The
school, noting I was missing, called my father at his job, and he phoned home
to check. I lied to him and told him I had been sent home by my teacher, but
Daddy called my elementary school and talked to the teacher who said “she never
came into the classroom.” I remember little tidbits of this, but not the
repercussions of my deception. I promise you it wasn't pretty.<br />
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Daddy, wishing to solve my problems, convinced himself that
I wasn’t getting enough sleep while Mother worried it was something” deeper” as
it seemed to revolve around “[their]” leaving for work. What a mess I was – and
it seems that after several months of this, whatever malaise it was righted itself
or at least the events quit making the notes and letters. </div>
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In addition to my school attendance problem, our cat Pete
disappeared in April, and I was convinced it was dead. As mother wrote,
“Harriett Sue read a book about a lost cat and convinced herself of Pete’s
demise. She blamed us because we put him out on a cold night, and he hadn’t
been seen since. I sent the other children to look for him this afternoon to no
avail. She’s cried most of the afternoon
and wore us out. I think the only way to placate her is to get her a kitten.
Once we told her that, she perked up.” </div>
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Another way I added to the family drama was in my wearing or
should I write not wearing my prescription glasses. According to my dad’s April letters, I was
always losing them – many times they were found, after much searching, in the
yard or once I dropped them outside a nearby apartment complex. My dad wrote,
“we have told her she has to put them on or in her glasses’ case on her
dresser.” I guess I didn’t learn that lesson since he wrote another time about
my calling him at work in a panic because I couldn’t “find my glasses.” He shared pretty honestly how “she hasn’t
learned to wear them.” I thought I just had trouble learning math – what a
doofus! I couldn’t even figure out how
to wear glasses. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUTdUV-AqolTOolL-kx1TGe9lDuimcRqjhcnOtsetT6FiesvfJs1fXAuePaAshDuuvIlUa-LhPTMRg9CoAgtrCbG6Ce0k-ai0aGutYP2ehyphenhyphenuTQaW79FSPkqrJ7xnMEjObu5ZYSKwgzHuS/s1600/1965+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglUTdUV-AqolTOolL-kx1TGe9lDuimcRqjhcnOtsetT6FiesvfJs1fXAuePaAshDuuvIlUa-LhPTMRg9CoAgtrCbG6Ce0k-ai0aGutYP2ehyphenhyphenuTQaW79FSPkqrJ7xnMEjObu5ZYSKwgzHuS/s1600/1965+4.jpg" height="320" width="226" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>the stomach-achy one in "good spirits" [and note -- no glasses]</i></div>
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I’m sure I had lots of other, fine qualities, not discussed
in these epistles, but I can read from the tone of both the letters and
Mother’s “notes” that I had them quite concerned. <br />
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It’s hard to look back on this time and think about the
anguish I must have caused them even though they wrote fairly
straight-forwardly about it. In reading between the lines, I can sense their
worry. Sigh.</div>
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My dad began most of his letters with a type of weather
report: “It is a beautiful Sunday afternoon” or “balmy and expecting rain” or
“we had a day of night of solid rain that came down in sheets” or my favorite
“we woke up his morning to a hot 14 degrees.” </div>
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From the weather he moved on to each of us – himself
included – and wrote details of their
daily obstacles: “I got my license and
the car inspected – cost me $25 dollars to get the front end aligned,
headlights adjusted, and new tie rods for the front wheels. It was a pretty
expensive day.” Or – “ They came for the
icebox on Monday and then called me on Thursday to say that it would cost $85
to have it fixed. So that was a nice unpleasant amount we hadn’t planned on.”
From his writing, money concerns seem an underlying theme that he faced with
dignity and fortitude.</div>
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He wrote of mother’s woes at work as she had to “work an
extra shift since Mrs. Rutledge, [mother’s boss] was sick” or called mother in
to do it. He wrote of Hazel’s “having to stay up to iron since Pearl [our maid]
didn’t show up.” My mother’s more fragmented notes at this time suggested many
personnel and management type conflicts that she dealt with.</div>
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Note: I remember Mother and Daddy sitting at the dinner
table late into the evenings sometimes and discussing the many and varied
problems of my mother’s employment.</div>
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We were a one car family, and my parents manage schedules to
get Hunter to this practice or that, Margaret over to the high school for this,
or Kenneth to the ball park. I had to be babysat, so they put me in the car
with them to move from place to place or I was sent to the library with Daddy,
all the time juggling their own work schedules around what we needed or wanted
to do. If I pitched a fit as I was wont
to do, my parents allowed me to play and stay with my best friend and next door
neighbor Marcie, but they limited that time since at Marcie’s, the children had
“unsupervised television viewing.”</div>
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The letters and journals recorded the ordinariness of our
lives, and as I look back on it, at my ripe old age of sixty, I see how we were
raised in such normalcy – they wrote of the cedar bush dying at the corner, of
the beautiful, blooming roses, of the loss of a close friend, of painting the
cabinet doors, of mother’s visits to the beauty parlor, of my brother Kenneth’s
pitching a Little League game for the first time, of how Hunter read the <i>Oxford History of the American<u> </u>People</i>
for entertainment, of going to dinner at G&M cafeteria, of washing clothes,
of Margaret’s sewing lessons at Singer Sewing Machine Company, of spraying the
bushes in the yard, of car batteries dying, of Margaret’s election as Secretary
of her Sunday school class, of looking forward to their summer vacation to
Virginia, and of Sunday meals, and of going to church and school.</div>
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What a life.<br />
<br />
Seems like a good one. Thank you, Mother and Daddy... :-)</div>
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FTR: My dad typed the weekly letters on an Underwood that sat on a small side table in our den – some of the copies we
have are on carbon paper. He learned to type early on in his life, and he told
us that it “kept him from the front line” during World War II. He pounded accurately and rapidly on that manual -- his rare mistakes, in his quickness, seem to just be in leaving out a letter in a word. </div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-33706237433890889412015-02-18T17:52:00.004-05:002015-02-18T17:52:49.739-05:00Hunkering Down Moose Style <div style="text-align: center;">
Hard to beat this level of cute. It just makes me grin. </div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Newest Grand 'Phew, born January 3.</div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-18826225191009324352015-01-24T22:42:00.000-05:002015-01-25T08:08:03.716-05:00Oh Friend! My Friend! -- A Tribute to Margaret Wingate<div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="https://us-mg204.mail.yahoo.com/ya/download?mid=2%5f0%5f0%5f1%5f284619%5fAC13w0MAAA7cVMRaiQRVYKUnM9c&m=YaDownload&pid=2.2&fid=Inbox&inline=1&appid=yahoomail" /></div>
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The first time I
met Margaret was in the fall of 1972, at Lagrange College. She was the upper
classman assigned to our dorm to be a mentor and support to the freshmen
girls. Her room, located four doors
down, became a Mecca. With her long blonde hair, bright, sparkling eyes, and a
gorgeous smile, Margaret welcomed us like life long friends.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We all loved
her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought she
was beautiful and admired the way she dressed.
Wearing her signature denim, bell-bottoms and sporting some kind of
colorful top, she seemed the essence of a 70s college student. We sought her to solve our problems, to
soothe our wounded vanities, and to calm us down with the fears and stress of
college courses. Hosting hall parties in
her dorm room, we drank bottled Cokes and ate Jiffy popcorn popped on her hot
plate. Always making time for us, she
shepherded us into the wild world of independence on a college campus. Early
on, Margaret’s destiny was set – forever to be an influence on the young.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Margaret
graduated and moved on and out of my life. It wasn’t till the early 1990s, when
half way through my own teaching career, that she returned to my orbit even if
on the peripheral. A student in my 10<sup>th</sup> grade class at Harrison High
School, said to me: “You should meet this teacher I had at Pine Mountain. I
think you would like each other.” I later discovered that the teacher was none
other than Margaret Wilder, now Wingate, my former college dorm resident
assistant.<o:p></o:p></div>
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From then on, I
listened closely to the students who touted her teaching and influence. The stories included details about the Target
classes she taught at Pine Mountain that were exciting, fun, as well as
interesting and her classroom that became a haven for them, a classroom that
they said “you just have to see.” According to their testimonies, she was the"best teacher ever"...And her bean bags,
lava lamps, mod posters, rock music, and unorthodox teaching style --- legendary, almost mythic. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Margaret Wingate
made a difference in the lives of those students. They bragged on her teaching,
told stories of her creative, field trips , and said how much she challenged
them to think, ask questions, and be proud of who they were. She even took them
white water rafting, and later told me how she was horrified to discover after
the trip that one of them couldn’t swim. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the fall of
2000, I moved to Kennesaw Mountain to open its doors, and while moving in, ran
into Margaret, who had also been hired.
We embraced, screamed, and laughed
as we thought about the opportunity to work in the same school. She taught
history and gifted on the first floor and above her I taught English. We would
share the same students. We would truly be colleagues. How great to have our lives come full circle
--- to end up finishing our teaching careers at Kennesaw Mountain together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I remember her
questioning her move to the high school level – wondering if she would be
effective or if she had just given up a job she had loved. Pshaw! *rolling
eyes* Whatever! Effective? You? Really? What cha’ smokin’? <o:p></o:p></div>
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At first our
contact was at a minimum. Once, before
Margaret and I began to team teach together, I brought up her name in my
classroom, perhaps to share some college tale. To make a connection, I asked my
students: “Do any of you know Mrs.
Wingate?” Instead of the “yes or no” answers I expected, they shouted out: “I love Mrs. Wingate.” “She’s my favorite
teacher.” “She’s da bomb.” “She’s got the coolest classroom.” As usual, the mention of her name always
elicited a type of pep rally.<o:p></o:p></div>
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How did she draw
such devotion? Because all her students recognized that she loved teaching, she
loved them, and she wanted what’s best for them. What was not to love about her?<o:p></o:p></div>
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For the first
two years, Margaret and I saw each other at faculty meetings and visited each
other in our classrooms, but it wasn’t until the magnet program decided to
create a course for their students that would combine US History and American
Literature that she and I would become true colleagues and great friends.
Margaret, the perfect choice to teach the history part, was a no-brainer, but I
lucked out when another English teacher who was picked to instruct the
literature bowed out, and I stepped forward and declared, “I’d love to do it.”
The true story is that I begged to do it. Whined. Cried. Threw a fit. I wanted
to teach with Margaret. I knew it would be awesome. To get to work with a
teacher whom the students admired so just seemed like a God send. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And it was.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My teaching
experience changed as I worked side by side with Margaret. Immediately, I saw
the high expectations she had for her students and herself and the goals she
wanted for the course. I knew that this
would be the course and highlight of my career. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We were
different animals in the classroom – Margaret, open-minded and spontaneous, who
dressed in bright colors, and wore wild earrings, colorful Crocs, and fun reading glasses was paired with me
--- a no-nonsense, following a tight schedule, conservative, draped in some
element of black clothing everyday task master.
We were opposites --- but it worked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Margaret brought
out the best in it all -- the course, in those students, and in me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For the next six
years, Margaret and I team taught – with two years sharing the same
classroom. It was in her classroom that
I saw firsthand why she was so celebrated. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I observed
her teaching, I saw she was a natural but skilled craftsman. As a master
storyteller, she wove history into a delightful and adventuresome journey where
she made the men, women, and events of America’s past come alive. I listened to
her mesmerize students with the depth of her knowledge as she never stopped
reading and studying about history. She brought something new, fresh, original
to it – but it was her passion for history that won them over. Won us all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A big part of
Margaret life was that she gave selflessly to her teaching and her students.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She inspired
them and accepted them for who they were. Always ready to listen to their woes
and ails, she gave them time, all they needed, and time is a precious commodity
for a busy teacher. If I opened the door to room 202 at Kennesaw Mountain HS,
the room was never empty. Someone, a student, a former student, a colleague,
was always there in search of her. We gravitated toward her – we desired her.
Like moths to a flame, she possessed spectacular warmth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With her
undivided attention, Margaret made us feel that what we said and had to say was
important. Our troubles the biggest. Our joys the best. She had a gift for
relationship – and she gave it unconditionally, as she listened without
judging. She smiled with us, cried with us, and laughed at our jokes, funny or
not. For the record, most of mine were funny. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She gave this
same thing to her teaching. She bought students candy, fixed them “collards and
hard tack,” squirted them with a spray bottle, sang to them on their birthday,
and hugged them with a full and sincere heart. On her 50<sup>th</sup> birthday
that we celebrated in her classroom, a student brought her guitar and returned
the favor to Wingate with a song she had written solely for her. Margaret wept
over that student’s thoughtfulness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She designed
teaching units with creativity – and was always looking at a way to help the
students “get it.” Students remembered fondly what they learned in her
classroom: they lovingly recalled her
unit on Vietnam, the Holocaust, or WW1 – that they would never forget the way
she approached history. She taught with
panache, with imagination, and complemented it with passion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If a student sat
in her classroom, they loved history because she made you wanna. It was her
way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not only was
Margaret a teacher, but she was a confidant, a cheerleader, and a best
friend. She loved viewing nature, and I
adored the way she would declare something she’d seen as “magnificent.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t have the
words to express how heart sore I am over the loss of her. I will miss her love, her devotion, her
contagious laugh, and big smile. I can’t
even begin to talk about our friendship – and the loss of it – the grief is too
big. How can that vibrant, crazy, lousy
driving, lover of life, sweet friend of mine be gone? I have chosen to keep her
spirit present and to believe it cannot be extinguished. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Margaret had
gusto. Whatever she did, she did with joy. She loved to read, to travel, to
laugh and drink a little wine. She loved music. Hot boiled peanuts. Riding
around. Writing notes to friends. Funny stories. She loved her pets – Dylan, Bombay, and
Blondie. She loved the 60s. The 70s. She loved to discuss. To listen. To
celebrate. She loved going. Doing. Learning. Laughing. Observing. Reminiscing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She embraced it
all. She sat on ready. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In one of my
last conversations with her after her hip surgery, we talked about our next
trip “to the mountains.” We had been making an annual trip to a house I own in
Rabun County, Georgia. Up there, as we
sat on the screened porch, we talked for hours entertaining a variety of subjects, but our conversations
always circled back to talk of and wonder about our former students – Margaret
loved the students whom she had “the pleasure” of teaching, and to her, their
being in her classroom was to her delight. She was the one who was blessed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know
differently. Margaret blessed us all. In those thousands of students that
Margaret taught, she lives on – they are her legacy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thank God for
the way she brightened my life and willed me joy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She painted life
with such gorgeous color.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Good night,
Sweet Margaret. I’ll see you later.<o:p></o:p></div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-51631156043242487912014-12-14T11:24:00.001-05:002015-01-27T13:14:01.911-05:00 Anything Else You Want to Give Me<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbH7AdMeNuxD9ORKVrv7dEd9rMg6SopH8ijJPj1PuuKAAR-sQ8g4vR6YICEbkcUnEiW5CisSiULs0oVT5GOH-R2nbqSiFakFaK8DrJulbv7D_sWYFZu1ZBnxjNmeyoGEi4xU6CMFxjbkQ7/s1600/securedownload+(5).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbH7AdMeNuxD9ORKVrv7dEd9rMg6SopH8ijJPj1PuuKAAR-sQ8g4vR6YICEbkcUnEiW5CisSiULs0oVT5GOH-R2nbqSiFakFaK8DrJulbv7D_sWYFZu1ZBnxjNmeyoGEi4xU6CMFxjbkQ7/s1600/securedownload+(5).jpg" height="320" width="310" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">My family and I have always made Christmas wish lists or now as we
call it, Gift Suggestions. Several years ago, my niece Nora generated</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> a shared Google Document that we all put our wishes on, and some of us even link it to the gift online. Brave new world! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">When we
were children, and encouraged by letters from my generous aunts who lived in
Lynchburg, Virginia, and Washington, DC., my siblings and I sat down around Thanksgiving and created lists with “wants” to send them. This task, with obvious benefits, my siblings and I dragged our feet on and turned into a ridiculously arduous and drawn out assignment for no other reason than we were obviously ungrateful wretches.:-)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Celebrating a number of Christmases with my aunts Ava, Eleanor, Lois, and Harriett in Virginia made a lasting impression on all of my family. The aunts always provided a festive atmosphere and even though these occasions have faded and blended together over time, my siblings and I always smile when we think of those years "up" in Virginia. Until 1964, my grandparents shared in our annual visit, but already older [in
their 70s] when I was born, their shadowy figures play elusively at the edges of my
memory.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Regardless,
my amiable aunts took the lead and blessed my childhood with fond
moments, a lot of them surrounding Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">With a family of four to raise and cautions savers, my parents had little in the budget for Christmas presents, and my aunts
stepped in with generosity and kindness to give to us. I’m not suggesting
that it was not what they wished to do, but I know that their unselfishness was
a great help to my parents. They gave to us with such largess; they made and purchased
gifts and provided us with clothing, especially what they handmade for my sister and me. {<a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/2014/07/in-gratitude-for-eleanor.html">In Gratitude for Eleanor}</a><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5RjUs0-uFApy4q00nAmgdCM-MRa6IcUG9SrFv5LYeRKZdZVlwZHiCWzVfKWeo9l_DXVIy_NiXjNkMGNtW1kq13z0CmkeZpB_wBVNJPj7SfZ7AV5Z2N63puMyQPftNA5bbKYeCgrBAQxJj/s1600/securedownload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5RjUs0-uFApy4q00nAmgdCM-MRa6IcUG9SrFv5LYeRKZdZVlwZHiCWzVfKWeo9l_DXVIy_NiXjNkMGNtW1kq13z0CmkeZpB_wBVNJPj7SfZ7AV5Z2N63puMyQPftNA5bbKYeCgrBAQxJj/s1600/securedownload.jpg" height="320" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margaret styling it in her handy clam diggers; I'm showing some slip. Ha. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">A day or two before Christmas, we made the eight-hour road trip to Lynchburg. When we
arrived, after my dad’s focus on “making good
time,” their three story house greeted us with the Christmas spirit. Decorated
with greenery on the hearth and mantle, a twinkling tree in the corner of the
living room with small goodies for us hanging from the branches, stockings on
the chimney [we didn't</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> have a fireplace in Atlanta for Santa], and a wreath on
the door, their home welcomed their sister, her husband, and their four
children, the only nieces and nephews they had.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Even though the house on Westover where they lived seemed huge to me, it still had to absorb fourteen people, and ten of them were adults. My brothers slept in the basement on hard, canvas cots with scratchy, green wool Army blankets, and my sister and I tucked ourselves on a daybed, covered in Grandma's quilt, under the eaves in Aunt Eleanor's attic bedroom. Mother and Daddy rested on the sofa bed in the living room [that must have been fun]. The house had two bathrooms -- I don't remember anything about the morning shuffles associated with those parameters. Thankfully for all, our Christmas visits lasted just a few days. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">The real gift of Christmas for us was the love and adoration my mother's sisters gave to us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Usually on Christmas Eve, we dressed for
services at Fort Hill Methodist, a church within walking distance of their
house. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">After that service, we four performed for my aunts and grandparents– Christmas
carols [all of my siblings sing well – I’m the weak link], or we read passages
from the Bible of the Christmas story. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Not sure what my mother’s motivation was
– could have been anything, but when I asked my brother Hunter, he said, “her fantasy.” My guess is it was a way of sharing her children with my childless aunts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">We grudgingly
put on these performances since mother always made us practice until she was
satisfied, and she was an exacting maestro. In all, we were probably pretty
lame in our execution of this tradition, but our aunts applauded
enthusiastically and bragged on us like we were talented. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Another Christmas Eve
tradition, mostly my mother’s, was the admiration of the wrapped presents
themselves – the paper, the ribbon, the size. Mother loved sitting near the
tree and extracting wrapped presents and exclaiming over their beauty: "Isn't this exquisite?" she'd ask us. We totally didn't get it and rolled our eyes with a lack of understanding of the care and thoughtfulness that went into wrapping gifts. I miss
the way she used to show such appreciation and enthusiasm for a beautifully wrapped gift. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">*sigh*<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">On
Christmas morning, we immediately ran to our stockings and unloaded them [my
aunt Lois used to put these huge nuts in them, probably a king nut, confusing my little “what was
Santa thinking?” mind] and then we waited patiently [except not really] to open
presents. For what seemed like hours, mother and daddy and the aunts sat
leisurely around the breakfast table sipping their oyster stew. Ewwww. This tradition I could do without, and I was
totally grossed out by the concoction anyway. I did, however, have a fancy for
those salty oyster crackers that accompanied this dish, and for some reason,
mother only allowed me a limited amount. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCWslO-4eyCPl8hEJU8dLbT8gaEp9PZUsFxvIesgOnc33O2EmnQWnRJDpu5drSnq7g9o4ATQt5XAIcaa-X_LyKrxIXVC6X2eoUaws6BHADgBTImftWFKHC_7jILpiHXwDtrv4BY1bUoQuz/s1600/securedownload+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCWslO-4eyCPl8hEJU8dLbT8gaEp9PZUsFxvIesgOnc33O2EmnQWnRJDpu5drSnq7g9o4ATQt5XAIcaa-X_LyKrxIXVC6X2eoUaws6BHADgBTImftWFKHC_7jILpiHXwDtrv4BY1bUoQuz/s1600/securedownload+10.jpg" height="320" width="315" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">When we
finally did gather in the living room for the opening of presents, we oohed and
ahhed over the number of presents [amazing amount as my aunts wrapped every
little thing to make it seem like more; for example, if they were giving us
two pair of socks, each was wrapped lovingly and separately]. We gleefully enjoyed the opening of the presents as much as the present itself, well we might have enjoyed the present more. :-)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXHCQXU6EaLQEOd8YR7vW_tDfImcSo0oRTf_I3PtRRKTOZCqsDAM5eF4DrsllK2_L5LDj6sa0Gf-WMbAXYtuFu9fw9RQax0eFwHMNxomQ_17LyMWgKgzXFJkptd_nmy_TNx3tk-4Gvb5w3/s1600/securedownload+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXHCQXU6EaLQEOd8YR7vW_tDfImcSo0oRTf_I3PtRRKTOZCqsDAM5eF4DrsllK2_L5LDj6sa0Gf-WMbAXYtuFu9fw9RQax0eFwHMNxomQ_17LyMWgKgzXFJkptd_nmy_TNx3tk-4Gvb5w3/s1600/securedownload+8.jpg" height="320" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's I with my back to the camera -- I look a little grabby.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Note: My
Aunt Eleanor always received the most gifts, some of them store gift wrapped;
as a beautician, she had loyal clients who purchased slips, nightgowns, scarves, and
gloves from Miller and Rhoades or gave her boxes of Russell Stover candy, which she graciously shared with us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">As the
presents were handed out, we each waited [again, not patiently] to see what
each had received, and the paper from the package and the bows and ribbons surrounded us. Afterwards, my
aunts folded and saved the salvaged paper as well as gift boxes for the next year. A singular piece of wrapping paper could appear consecutively for years, and they got just as much mileage, if not more, out of those stick on bows, Frugal they were and what a great example to
us.{We still save boxes, bows, and gift bags.}<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Before all of this, our trip, our performance, the decorations, and the gift giving, my aunts
wrote letters to us in Atlanta and asked us to make gift suggestions. Some of
the gifts were a no-brainer – clothes!!! - but they did like to get us a couple of
things that were “store bought.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Now here’s
the rub --- as much as we desired the gifts, loved what they bought, and
appreciated what they did for us, mother had to force us to make our lists.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">What?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">This
ritual of sending “the aunts” our “wish list” had to only been done under
duress. Why? What ws that deal?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Mother
nagged and nagged us to get our lists done, and from time to time, a letter
dated from the first of December would arrive from Lynchburg, and my sweet Aunt
Eleanor would write, “We really need the children’s lists as we have lots to do
to get ready.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">What was
wrong with us?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">We were
children and had no concept of the trouble and expense and time that the adults
put into making our Christmas memories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">They did
make them – wonderful ones. I hope they knew. I pray they knew. They were the best.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">We miss all of them so.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">These two
lists of mine, saved by Aunt Eleanor and resplendent in their preposterous-ness,
we found among the memorabilia that my sister and I continue to sift through. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">1965
Wish List<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Sweaters – white<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Clothes – hip huggers,
Poor Boys – different colors – such as blue black red white pink, pants such as
with big belts, dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes – lafers {I assume I mean
loafers} brown size 7AA, kneesocks, white, etc. coat, any color you think would
be good<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">I got a charm bracelet
for my birthday – I need silver ones.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Records – Elvis Presley,
Paul Revere and the Raiders, Herman’s Hermits,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Watch, television,
radio<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Jewelry box [I
crossed out jewelry three times before I spelled it correctly]<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Money such as 5
dollar bills, 10 dollar bills, 20 dollar bills<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Gold necklace with my
name spelled out<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Anything else you
want to give me.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">1971
Wish List <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Any kind of clothes<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Pants, size 9<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Body shirts, watch,
crochet vest, underwear<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Posters any type<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Albums – The Carpenters,
Carole King, The Who, Rod Stewart, Chicago, Cat Stevens<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Bracelets, plan [I
mean plain] gold or silver<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Chokers, gold or
silver<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Silver chain belt<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Film<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Money – any size<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Hairbrush<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Anything will be
acceptable [did I think I sounded mature? Bwha]<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I didn't want much, did I? Hey now, they were suggestions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Merry
Christmas.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp2Nk7cpkjJeKTxSn4Z73u3URoQ4ZBShHPaHgrX8XAPwn1RyQChsXkau_f1A0yyiQSK_yvkQUKbkZDLC9ZN_tbp_1CsFN72bnKWVmVm-HwT9dKFJVSKAHzMEvade2q5hAUY1fjOhhp2a8f/s1600/securedownload+11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp2Nk7cpkjJeKTxSn4Z73u3URoQ4ZBShHPaHgrX8XAPwn1RyQChsXkau_f1A0yyiQSK_yvkQUKbkZDLC9ZN_tbp_1CsFN72bnKWVmVm-HwT9dKFJVSKAHzMEvade2q5hAUY1fjOhhp2a8f/s1600/securedownload+11.jpg" height="317" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always the cutest, I pose with one of my many packages. </td></tr>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-70500516495775659352014-11-15T17:02:00.002-05:002014-11-17T15:26:59.728-05:00Commuting in the Green Goot<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2038" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2037" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">As I watched the Saturday morning news, a young boy pressed the detonator and down fell the many stories of the former, Executive Park Motel off Druid Hills Road. With its demolition, the motel and office park adjacent to it will make way for a Children’s Healthcare facility.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HB3kSCAKvNevbO_rbdd0YQ8O04m3pSgnoFtSQfJJI2sMbtcHXmbksEFPgK9Z-Pps6lPQClJ3mRLI4-kQyQ-R5sWhdV1T1syJ3SDU_yPbnoEh7DyPUVNtitrBSt5CtUIEx0R9VAvSEZma/s1600/Exectuve+Park+hotel.png" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HB3kSCAKvNevbO_rbdd0YQ8O04m3pSgnoFtSQfJJI2sMbtcHXmbksEFPgK9Z-Pps6lPQClJ3mRLI4-kQyQ-R5sWhdV1T1syJ3SDU_yPbnoEh7DyPUVNtitrBSt5CtUIEx0R9VAvSEZma/s1600/Exectuve+Park+hotel.png" height="400" width="380" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Found this on a website, somewhere....</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Feeling nostalgic and sad, I watched as another part of my past closes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2045" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2044" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">In the winter of 1972, my friend Gloria and I joined a relatively new program at Sylvan Hills High School -- work study. In the last quarter of our senior year and most of the required classes for a high school diploma completed, we enrolled in the work program.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2403" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Leaving school at noon, we took a part time job, found for us by Gloria’s mother’s cousin, and began a new phase of our life – separation from high school and the possibilities of the future.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2406" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2405" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Hired as proof-readers at C&S Optimation, an ancillary of a local bank, we embarked on the world of office work, responsibility, and freedom. We felt very sophisticated – but we were ingénues, and very, silly ones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">In my senior year of high school, I had a bad case of “done.” May of 1971 saw the graduation of my closest friends, whom I shared with my brother Kenneth{who is only 18 months older}, as well as Vaughn, my “high school” boyfriend; I felt rather “over” the idea of high school and ready to move on – to whatever was next.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGq9gT-GBC6m-ZL4qxNN3EG-Rl4DQwvDZ1HRzTBpjxJG5ikoJ7YXeAVoz_QDFFE4kGAcbMTRx_pPsn6wv7_3qCHOpn4cv0ocWFSz8WdktDMpb_x28cqCR5UMqE9kFvqbCoUKEsmbG7OGDC/s1600/thumb_1971+Harriett+Sue+senior+picture+8x10+001_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGq9gT-GBC6m-ZL4qxNN3EG-Rl4DQwvDZ1HRzTBpjxJG5ikoJ7YXeAVoz_QDFFE4kGAcbMTRx_pPsn6wv7_3qCHOpn4cv0ocWFSz8WdktDMpb_x28cqCR5UMqE9kFvqbCoUKEsmbG7OGDC/s1600/thumb_1971+Harriett+Sue+senior+picture+8x10+001_1024.jpg" height="400" width="310" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Senior photo, taken fall of 1971</td></tr>
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<div style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Noticing my restlessness, my parents approved of the work program, even though none of my siblings had done such, and my getting a job. When the opportunity arose through Gloria’s relative, I felt freed and looked to it as a move in the right direction. Yes. This had to be better than yet another PE class, elective, or working in the office of the principal as a student aide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Living on the south side of Atlanta, the job at C&S required transportation, a car, as it was located off north I-85 at Druid Hills Road in an office in the new Executive Park complex. With all of my siblings in college, my parents allowed me the privilege of “driving to school,” a perk that my brother Kenneth and I had enjoyed the year before as well. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not our car -- but this is one like it -- well, it could be the same one, living well in retirement. In Kansas?</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">With him graduated, I had the car all to myself, and needless to say, I did some crazy, random things behind that wheel, but that’s another story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before I took the part time work at C&S, the fall of 1971 had been one of “killing time.” The Green Goot, the so called nick name of the 1969 Chevrolet Bel Air I drove, became the car that my friends and I dove in to go places [before my parents got home from work]. With two bench seats, we could get four in the front and six in the back – if we needed – after all, this was the 70s. No required seat belt laws and obviously before we became the “ample sized” people we are now. </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Pretty sure that the law stated only three people in the front, but we waved that off as being short-sighted and un-economical, and of course, we were not going to get caught for breaking that silly law.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">That fall, I drove a carload of nine to McDonald’s for “off campus” lunch; we enjoyed two cheeseburgers, French fries, Coke, and a hot apple pie for about 1.25. For driving every day to McDonald’s, my friend Jonathan on most days paid for my lunch since my parents’ frugality dictated that I brown bag --- they never would have been frivolous enough to allow me to fast food it. On some days, I happily ate my peanut butter sandwich while my friends shared their fries. I really don’t know how I got away with this little side-trip each day to McDonald’s. Rest-assured there was no permission sign off by my parents – the school offered the opportunity in the new thinking 70s, and we just did it. It was a different world. A trusting one at that.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YoA-jYxzCRAB2nkdvRn4-ON3ex88iHUrvhVEXKOG5inMp6gn9nOlvai0pZep_84ZarxxwZGIDw3h_9gCLSmyXs8tuTW5WeMN9tygaf5CmXj8FmMs35_K7FmDpxVMcjpLO48_sa29UUf8/s1600/scan0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YoA-jYxzCRAB2nkdvRn4-ON3ex88iHUrvhVEXKOG5inMp6gn9nOlvai0pZep_84ZarxxwZGIDw3h_9gCLSmyXs8tuTW5WeMN9tygaf5CmXj8FmMs35_K7FmDpxVMcjpLO48_sa29UUf8/s1600/scan0002.jpg" height="369" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gloria, center, and I, circa 1970</td></tr>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2379" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2378" style="font-size: small;">We also piled in the car after school and rode around, again with friends chipping in quarters to fill up the tank[gas a mere 36 cents a gallon]. We drove the roads of southwest Atlanta and jumped on and off the interstate on a whim to go to downtown Atlanta, Stone Mountain, the airport, or to 14</span><sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup><span style="font-size: small;"> Street to see the hippies. With a short time of freedom between after school and when my parents got home from work, I ran and rode with abandon and without supervision.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;">My father never said much about it even though I’m sure he noticed the mileage on the odometer. He was wise enough to pick his battles – and riding around? Not one of them. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">FTR: Daddy required that I record my mileage, the price of gas, and the number of gallons [not in round numbers – but 8.32 or whatever] in a small notebook stashed in the glove compartment, a notebook that he checked to compute the miles per gallon and such… a habit he kept about his cars until his death.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">With the job at C&S Optimation, the world changed for me. Gloria and I finished our third period class, sprinted to the Green Goot, and high-tailed it to Lakewood Freeway and the fifteen mile commute to the north side and our “big” job.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Swinging onto the exit ramp onto Druid Hills, we turned right and then flipped another right into the Executive Park Office Park and parked in front of C&S Optimation and our job. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioSP9ftxCm4JfPpy3gmd73BsftIZLup67NbeTr2BH3cagReoRVGcH36Bpo7tWX4fOQRDrul1Tu62q9_gCivq5AvucjLMhfI4WrxgOxKvySf4NTi5nWNk4n27uv9HilxyFG9ggrHW8kCuSW/s1600/office+park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioSP9ftxCm4JfPpy3gmd73BsftIZLup67NbeTr2BH3cagReoRVGcH36Bpo7tWX4fOQRDrul1Tu62q9_gCivq5AvucjLMhfI4WrxgOxKvySf4NTi5nWNk4n27uv9HilxyFG9ggrHW8kCuSW/s1600/office+park.jpg" height="272" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Executive Park office building, built in 1967</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gloria, at LaGrange College, 1974</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">As the only high school students employed, we appeared fresh faced and un-tapped. The other employees, being full time, were, of course, adults, most of them much older, but there was a smattering of employees who were in their early to mid-twenties.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2381" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Gloria and I admired the pretty young girls who worked there with their modern fashion of short skirts and polyester pant suits, teased hair, and freedom to smoke in the break room; we ogled and dangerously flirted with the young men who occupied the front offices, their mysterious work unknown to us. What were we thinking – seventeen-year old girls trying to draw the attention of men in their mid-twenties? Thankfully, they rebuffed us and kept us from being beyond stupid.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Our first job was the proof-reading of loans, which had been typed by the women in a room full of IBM Selectric typewriters. I loved those electric typewriters, the first I had used as the typing class I took in high school had us pounding out on manual typewriters at 35 words a minute, our fingers strengthened with the Herculean effort of “the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” that taught us the key stroke of every letter of the alphabet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The distinct sound of the rapid clicking of the electric keyboard could always be heard from anywhere in the office space – never was that room quiet – unless it was five-o-clock. Always amazed at how the typists timed their exits -- purse in hand, green plastic covers neatly pulled down over the Selectrics, and the keys to their VWs, Pintos, and Civics in hand when the big, round clock at the front hit five.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The women who typed the loans were not only fast – but very accurate; however, the loans, mostly for cars, had to be proof-read in case of errors – mostly in number amounts, but occasionally words – like 24oz car instead of 240 Z. Most of the number errors were reversals – from fast typing --- 3999 might come out as 9399. A big difference, eh?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Hard to believe cars were ever that price.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2393" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The best part of the proof reading was the stapler remover placed in the trusty hands of the reader. Not one of the institution issued, pinch-y, brown toothed ones I was used to from high school aide work, but a slender, sleek, chrome designed one that fit easily under the staple for removal. I coveted that office goody, and when I left that job in September, the supervisor gifted one to me --- I kept that staple remover in my classroom for over thirty years, and one of the hard and fast learned rules in my classroom was that it was not to be touched without permission from me. Ha. I still have it – proudly carried home to my own office when I retired from teaching.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2383" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The supervisor over the proof-readers was a no-nonsense, eagle-eyed woman who never missed a hyphen. After I proof-read the loan for mistakes, she signed off on it, and even though I was fairly good at this job [I mean, totally not hard], she amazed me at the things she could see with a cursory glance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Gloria and I shivered under her gaze. She was eerily exact.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2385" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">At some point, Gloria and I were promoted to the typing room – I don’t know how long we worked as proofers, but when we graduated from that, we sighed in relief. We had showed our mettle and had arrived at the big time – the typing pool.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2387" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Equally boring as proof-reading, the typing of car loans got old pretty fast – how interesting could the name, address, and phone number of prospective car buyers be? To relieve the boredom, Gloria and I got into some fits and giggles over names we found humorous, but it never took much of anything to send us into hysterics. Oh yeah, independent working women – not.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2389" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The challenge of the loan typing came with the numbers that had to be typed into relatively, small spaces. A good typist [like we became] mastered the tab with a muscle memory and easily or automatically hit it to put the numbers in the right spaces. At this job, I learned to type not only fast and fairly accurately, but also to type numbers pretty rapidly from the top row of the typewriter. Some of the Selectrics had key-pads, and once I learned that little accessory, well, dang, numbers were easy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">The job though --- yeah, repetitive…and frankly, mind numbing. So, Gloria and I grew to entertain ourselves with looks, giggles, and a silent code that only we could translate.</span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1416086387894_2391" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">At first, Gloria and I sat next to each other at our typewriters. Not smart on our part. Cracking up over nothing, we snorted behind our hands, rolled our eyes at stuff, and alerted the attention of the supervisor. She promptly separated us like the silly, teenagers we were, but we managed somehow to giggle even though we were typewriter rows apart. I don’t know why we wern't fired – maybe as a favor to Gloria’s VIP relative, or maybe we weren't as bad as I thought we were – maybe we were responsible employees – showing up, literate, and effective. As I remember it though, we were quite immature.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Executive Business Park, built in the late 1960s and along the I-85 corridor, considered itself prime real estate. Easy access to the interstate, not far from the new I-285 perimeter, the sleek office park with its air-conditioned spaces, big rooms painted in beige with cushy wall to wall carpeting, and large windows commanded a fair amount of money per square foot. Up and coming businesses rented and bought space in its sprawling acreage – and for the time, it was the place to be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Of course, Gloria and I didn’t care about that – we liked our minimum wage pay-check --- about 48 dollars week, and we secured that job to go full time in the summer before we headed off to college in the fall.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">On the longer commute home in the five-o’clock traffic, Gloria and I dreamed about our futures, gossiped about the older guys at work, superstitiously made wishes as we passed under bridges with trains crossing, changed lanes to follow good-looking boys in cars [we once convinced ourselves that the long-haired man in a Porsche was Pete Maravich, pro-basketball player for the Atlanta Hawks, and chased him], and set ourselves up as career gals as we made our minimum wage and saved our money for college.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">So as I watched the demolition of the Executive Park Hotel, I thought of over forty years ago, that office park with its modern world effects and my excursion into what I saw as the stylish work place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Who was that young girl? She’s gone and so is Executive Park.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Sigh.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR81wwJ0p8QxzFc_Snx0zj7NPKLOHu9T2dEky2F8RMgF0fbHuJdELIlUjE5HNawf9P9VTcNar3yox-TAZpfW80dlL9sySrCluntcFIBH-rggjoNVMhOgX6vt_DObEbyoJzeqgyVH0vAkls/s1600/glo+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR81wwJ0p8QxzFc_Snx0zj7NPKLOHu9T2dEky2F8RMgF0fbHuJdELIlUjE5HNawf9P9VTcNar3yox-TAZpfW80dlL9sySrCluntcFIBH-rggjoNVMhOgX6vt_DObEbyoJzeqgyVH0vAkls/s1600/glo+me.jpg" height="254" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gloria and I -- 2014</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">Note: The taking on of a job while I was in high school totally removed me from the school scene. Missing half a day meant missing the drama; this disconnect from school had its merits. As Gloria and I took on the work program, we didn’t know we sat at the beginning of a trend --- the program for work study only got more popular with high school students.. By the time I was teaching high school in the mid 1990s, the drama of adolescence had moved for a huge proportion of students – from the school room to the work place. Was this a good thing? </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: start;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: start;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-34527733428257482302014-07-18T17:54:00.000-04:002014-07-19T07:50:11.657-04:00In Gratitude for Eleanor<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5kXO1mhYZKY5LTT1WlADYvyVFQ7vgN8OCrnd7cxWkLfweqz5wVSdj-nADxuLFlXBWHx0xYWf3Qse-Kap_vawcefgSPNWobf7fphdm9Yy8dkrnw7S7ZtEkyHTtAdx1By0MaPjVM_9zwwj/s1600/IMG_5356.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5kXO1mhYZKY5LTT1WlADYvyVFQ7vgN8OCrnd7cxWkLfweqz5wVSdj-nADxuLFlXBWHx0xYWf3Qse-Kap_vawcefgSPNWobf7fphdm9Yy8dkrnw7S7ZtEkyHTtAdx1By0MaPjVM_9zwwj/s1600/IMG_5356.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgypwWDBqJ84YcNupZ2RAwgfWOYm6cn3RglCAIp9cWtfoRbXCQ-P5HX_2-vAFW84nN3cNvih8j2xM3kZ_atPD0QxJwMxUd6is7TrAVXmf21TJijAzJ-McxBMURNrJdubGCcqw4V7UfX3yxF/s1600/IMG_5357.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgypwWDBqJ84YcNupZ2RAwgfWOYm6cn3RglCAIp9cWtfoRbXCQ-P5HX_2-vAFW84nN3cNvih8j2xM3kZ_atPD0QxJwMxUd6is7TrAVXmf21TJijAzJ-McxBMURNrJdubGCcqw4V7UfX3yxF/s1600/IMG_5357.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Framed patterns </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last fall, my sister came across boxes of fabric and hundreds
of patterns packed away in her basement from when we closed my aunts’ three
story house in Lynchburg, Virginia, in 1992.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVA0BWSowuPEeLn1NARikaELjedcw-JJEFdcF_LfBLXYXZSU9ZFD0C6LHRsEX83ZolBDbEtoLhLGQiCf5Vk7IGNGLb8mRbvy2_KZ5uSsrnDIEXZepSx2AmYtVM0U_7rO6cFtgEhSI-KrxK/s1600/IMG_5358.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVA0BWSowuPEeLn1NARikaELjedcw-JJEFdcF_LfBLXYXZSU9ZFD0C6LHRsEX83ZolBDbEtoLhLGQiCf5Vk7IGNGLb8mRbvy2_KZ5uSsrnDIEXZepSx2AmYtVM0U_7rO6cFtgEhSI-KrxK/s1600/IMG_5358.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Aunt Ava died in July of 1991, and Aunt Eleanor, who had
shared that house with her for over thirty-four years, delicately declined in
health. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In December of 1991, Eleanor fell and broke her hip, and
while recovering in the hospital, she grew disoriented, frightened, and
confused. My mother recalled a conversation that she had had a year before with
Ava about how Eleanor could no longer remember how “to put a collar together.”
Neighbors also mentioned to mother later that they had noticed that Eleanor,
after Ava’s death, had difficulty with everyday, household chores – like
not remembering how to turn off the stove. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Knowing that Eleanor could no longer live by herself,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my mother and Aunt Harriett found a facility
for her care, moved her, and then they, my siblings and I began the arduous
task of dismantling, parceling out, and estate selling the contents of that
house that had been their home since 1957, and to us it was “back home.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJGpIcibXXh3ZbemMlZ6yu-B5aawfom6aqnZP7wfD8ZP24V67m6WzmeU5Ul-pxGzSfidbXqddK9RsdffExlOaiH-EtYm_RAQf8S-9AItS6NjeTOVFmn5E95rtjguPKMftHMF4fQxQrh-S/s1600/1941-09-21+Eleanor+at+Mt+Vernon+001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJGpIcibXXh3ZbemMlZ6yu-B5aawfom6aqnZP7wfD8ZP24V67m6WzmeU5Ul-pxGzSfidbXqddK9RsdffExlOaiH-EtYm_RAQf8S-9AItS6NjeTOVFmn5E95rtjguPKMftHMF4fQxQrh-S/s1600/1941-09-21+Eleanor+at+Mt+Vernon+001.jpg" height="320" width="208" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBJHY-rPoe_7hPxmrXctJdtEU93WGP8334KbWcZWBph43mIp9EfQb5W4roIERCD1yoGIdWlLj36yMOC__LDc6Q5gAxg3eJv1rAPCgAPWeBj5iIhMyjcSk55-8yHJ9mHPxlKTrt4eGp647r/s1600/1952+Eleanor+Chilton+001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBJHY-rPoe_7hPxmrXctJdtEU93WGP8334KbWcZWBph43mIp9EfQb5W4roIERCD1yoGIdWlLj36yMOC__LDc6Q5gAxg3eJv1rAPCgAPWeBj5iIhMyjcSk55-8yHJ9mHPxlKTrt4eGp647r/s1600/1952+Eleanor+Chilton+001.jpg" height="320" width="259" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Aunt Eleanor, 1947, and circa 1935 </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not only was the house full of the normal stuffing of a
household but also the leftovers that they had moved from their own childhood
home, Poplar Tree Farm in Appomattox, which included family memorabilia dating
back to the mid 1800s. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Traveling to Lynchburg and spending time in that house on
Westover Boulevard for Christmas and summer vacations had been a ritual in my
family. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent time in Virginia in the summers with my maiden aunts
from the late 1950s until 1967. Recollections of that house, its contents, and
the precious giving nature of my mother’s sisters lie at the forefront of my
memories. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My aunts gave liberally to my siblings and me, as we were
their only nephews and nieces, and when we were around them, they doted on us
as if we were extraordinary. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of the most precious gifts was Aunt Eleanor’s talent as
a seamstress, a talent that she generously shared with her sister, my mother,
and her nieces, my sister and me. She also sewed for herself and her four other
sisters – Nancy, Ava, Harriett, and Lois.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmygwi8bKWqUnbRMRINne9-9mfjSfY6LrGNcCcVUZ00zNThJ_2y5JaAkFOeQiGxV-bDGvnmoLQjmOer23qY2TB24V2iIp5rhycfdpMjWxTFa9c5rmY_peq0sfHUKrrN_7xvrJaZm1Awyd/s1600/1961-11+Daughters+of+Will+&+Mimie+Chilton+001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxmygwi8bKWqUnbRMRINne9-9mfjSfY6LrGNcCcVUZ00zNThJ_2y5JaAkFOeQiGxV-bDGvnmoLQjmOer23qY2TB24V2iIp5rhycfdpMjWxTFa9c5rmY_peq0sfHUKrrN_7xvrJaZm1Awyd/s1600/1961-11+Daughters+of+Will+&+Mimie+Chilton+001.jpg" height="230" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Mother, Harriett, Eleanor, Ava, Nancy, and Lois, 1961</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A perfectionist, Eleanor got exact measurements and altered
patterns to fit precisely. My sister Margaret, tall for her age, would have had
some trouble fitting in the sizes of ready-made clothes. Aunt Eleanor custom-made
her dresses, night gowns, shorts, tops, and one time a suit that fit her perfectly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of the time, she matched my clothes to
my sister’s, knowing that anything she made her, she had to make me, or I
might, I don’t know – throw a fit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Xz5BUMxG8tASCT2q2uxkPUWz4wMtH9kZeUi3nawyHRz0bVQNIUsIyzIRo1uYVLS4mF5SKRDyP5W9sfPav8mk0OP8LGHsx7PYakFf7e72Mg1HDg3lkUNkgLvLzGLO2GxKNjk3_M3U8KMN/s1600/1950's+HS%EF%80%A2Mar_neg_006.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Xz5BUMxG8tASCT2q2uxkPUWz4wMtH9kZeUi3nawyHRz0bVQNIUsIyzIRo1uYVLS4mF5SKRDyP5W9sfPav8mk0OP8LGHsx7PYakFf7e72Mg1HDg3lkUNkgLvLzGLO2GxKNjk3_M3U8KMN/s1600/1950's+HS%EF%80%A2Mar_neg_006.jpg" height="320" width="231" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLby5dHuJ_kpkovjTHdkaxhZQMwEVmlIcCXbDPKz_ddLmfvuc9nmV0dDBchmmJB5WSbypqQLiW8ZEa6OjvLyqKCO2_RS01O3LxfOs1ufmOOEfKFU9zpC65DVfV7tj5PfePh2JRHEvO7wVw/s1600/1962+HS%EF%80%A2Mar%EF%80%A2dc+ne_009.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLby5dHuJ_kpkovjTHdkaxhZQMwEVmlIcCXbDPKz_ddLmfvuc9nmV0dDBchmmJB5WSbypqQLiW8ZEa6OjvLyqKCO2_RS01O3LxfOs1ufmOOEfKFU9zpC65DVfV7tj5PfePh2JRHEvO7wVw/s1600/1962+HS%EF%80%A2Mar%EF%80%A2dc+ne_009.jpg" height="320" width="229" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A favorite custom-designed piece, which she made for both
Margaret and me each Christmas, was a flannel nightgown that ended perfectly at
the top of our feet. {I grew tall myself and wore those gowns until my early
30s.} Several years ago, I came across one of those nightgowns, folded in a
bottom drawer, that I had lovingly saved. I touched the well-worn material, my
eyes welling with tears, as I thought of Aunt Eleanor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here in Atlanta, anytime we received a package, wrapped in
brown paper and tied with white string and addressed to “The McDaniels” in
Eleanor’s neat handwriting, we wriggled with excitement at the thought of what
she’d made. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For years Eleanor picked out the patterns, but as my sister
and I aged and cared a little more, she allowed us to pick out the style.
Once we had done that, we wrote a letter and included the maker of the pattern,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Simplicity, McCalls, or Butterick</i>,
[as I recall, she wasn’t much of a fan of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Butterick</i>],
and the number. A couple of weeks later, our customized outfit would arrive in
the mail.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO0XIdOdRdO9mowGckFUdZuoCWdSF_RrktAvJIjXpeqMWLHdEuj0kvN-2BK86BhlAnOcJLoNe8ouzNe0ZP23HKt60xDYqDMKPdV7c_TP7NKc7_q5b197yQHMV4s_YPK3fi_AR4j8S_Gamg/s1600/1959-05+ne_003+-+Copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO0XIdOdRdO9mowGckFUdZuoCWdSF_RrktAvJIjXpeqMWLHdEuj0kvN-2BK86BhlAnOcJLoNe8ouzNe0ZP23HKt60xDYqDMKPdV7c_TP7NKc7_q5b197yQHMV4s_YPK3fi_AR4j8S_Gamg/s1600/1959-05+ne_003+-+Copy.jpg" height="320" width="154" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aunt Eleanor sewed, and she did so beautifully.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I spent time in Lynchburg in the summers, Aunts Eleanor
and Ava would take me to the fabric store at Pittman Plaza, a u-shaped grouping
of stores within walking distance of their house on Westover. There in the
store, I flipped through the oversized books of patterns, trailed my hands
along bolts of polyester and cotton, studied ric-rac, buttons, and lace, and
dreamed of the fashion that Aunt Eleanor created.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrenW5ZYSQ_V3djI_U2lAiNTMKH2JczVcAtzH_m3vfmHTh7c7y2FFORMkrOxkfpG34K523doQzKIz0XrtXfYqsV5bvETuWHp7sUDJVNyXIMKia_5-QY_lhjbodLqjhay8Xq_7lak_9APaY/s1600/1963-08-11+Eleanor+&+Harriet+Sue+001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrenW5ZYSQ_V3djI_U2lAiNTMKH2JczVcAtzH_m3vfmHTh7c7y2FFORMkrOxkfpG34K523doQzKIz0XrtXfYqsV5bvETuWHp7sUDJVNyXIMKia_5-QY_lhjbodLqjhay8Xq_7lak_9APaY/s1600/1963-08-11+Eleanor+&+Harriet+Sue+001.jpg" height="320" width="193" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Aunt Eleanor and the blogger, 1963</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In her upstairs bedroom, Aunt Eleanor laid a cardboard
pattern sewing cutting board across her double bed, placed the tissue pattern
pieces on it, and painstakingly and flawlessly cut the pattern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then with straight pins, she pinned the
pattern piece to the fabric and cut again with precision.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At night with the light of a single bulb of her gold, cast
iron, gooseneck, adjustable desk lamp, she bent over the work at her Singer
cabinet sewing machine and sewed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I slept on a single bed in her bedroom, and I have a
distinct memory of her silhouette, after sending me to bed, humped over her
sewing into the late hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lovingly
and selflessly did this for us after having worked a full day as a beautician.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LxP1v4tKRJ9KLaTQEfwnte3DRjwnT4SbBMIBrD7OvbIp_nYOI9ijqn_UPvnNpmAFzs00LJzifK3W1YD2Tfyjn_8MPYb9twX2-aaogpfNnJ_Q9qySPJTaZoh9cNs2Q7NIZ47QlkITEPft/s1600/Harriett+in+dress.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LxP1v4tKRJ9KLaTQEfwnte3DRjwnT4SbBMIBrD7OvbIp_nYOI9ijqn_UPvnNpmAFzs00LJzifK3W1YD2Tfyjn_8MPYb9twX2-aaogpfNnJ_Q9qySPJTaZoh9cNs2Q7NIZ47QlkITEPft/s1600/Harriett+in+dress.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJxM9Xt_6hYhwfVv1ztrAv6O9H2lKWW0Md_bues6LMF6Rdy5F5DJWUVkP34zFG4epq7l-IaF8R7JoEzZZFvDgq2JGD5ppzrFlXV0lfj56-t5u1_y8X9yJw-mob1T_uKaGfpmA2PaBxm8_-/s1600/1960_+ne_003.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJxM9Xt_6hYhwfVv1ztrAv6O9H2lKWW0Md_bues6LMF6Rdy5F5DJWUVkP34zFG4epq7l-IaF8R7JoEzZZFvDgq2JGD5ppzrFlXV0lfj56-t5u1_y8X9yJw-mob1T_uKaGfpmA2PaBxm8_-/s1600/1960_+ne_003.jpg" height="320" width="181" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the evenings, she sat in her chair in the living room and
stitched or hemmed or crochet or pieced quilts as she and Ava watched <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lawrence Welk</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Perry Mason </i>on their RCA<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>television<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>Her hands never were in the devil’s
workshop… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her buttonholes round, her pockets, seams, zippers, and
darts flat, her hems even, her hook and eye lined up perfectly, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she did gorgeous work – and the clothes fit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One story about Eleanor and her sewing that I heard only as
an adult was about my mother’s wedding dress. My father asked my mother to
marry him in March of 1948 and planned their wedding for June. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother, of course, asked Eleanor to sew her dress. Into
the project, Eleanor determined that it was “too much,” and another seamstress
stepped in to finish what Eleanor had started. In retrospect, I imagine that
Eleanor, who would not settle for anything less than perfect, put herself under
too much pressure. I ache now to think of how hard that must have been for her
to tell my mother that she couldn’t do it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sweet Aunt Eleanor, the second oldest of my mother’s
sisters, quietly and sacrificially gave much to my family. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDvanm3t1vPp2fwQbox8l-E5tyA0CDj-Ur3zw0d9oymOzWxOLgWU_gFConK1DYS-P-_2AgpISRz3aBD9C0wo_E2zBzvNo4cuAUB27N6xCE0x4JgcrDABGSYClGY7GcnpP35nrtGP1ulFmC/s1600/1981_photo_005.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDvanm3t1vPp2fwQbox8l-E5tyA0CDj-Ur3zw0d9oymOzWxOLgWU_gFConK1DYS-P-_2AgpISRz3aBD9C0wo_E2zBzvNo4cuAUB27N6xCE0x4JgcrDABGSYClGY7GcnpP35nrtGP1ulFmC/s1600/1981_photo_005.jpg" height="320" width="203" /></a></div>
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<i>Aunt Eleanor, 1981</i></div>
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</div>
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When my siblings began to have children of their own,
Eleanor made each of her grand nieces and nephews quilts, and had she lived
long enough, she’d made them more.</div>
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5ssA0qtTfSsXmG_iwvvph9A1lQ8-3ysPhdhpR83-KMI_8wj6uhySZmMY10u10IMPtteRiuSy8zcBu_3reCfLH2l75i-SISlBb0dLzWpUSoo2iDiuq0RUe0QWZS7w7EUdf9_EdSqVfQzX/s1600/1959-05+ne_003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5ssA0qtTfSsXmG_iwvvph9A1lQ8-3ysPhdhpR83-KMI_8wj6uhySZmMY10u10IMPtteRiuSy8zcBu_3reCfLH2l75i-SISlBb0dLzWpUSoo2iDiuq0RUe0QWZS7w7EUdf9_EdSqVfQzX/s1600/1959-05+ne_003.jpg" height="320" width="249" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I mean, how cute are we?</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjn72OYshiUnxcY70hi3otJNkjST4uJZPGA40Ibis_4iMR2BvUszmkKXmGf0eKMZ-IRNWjW6UIp4kBHV_Yh4ZaWXQmKQ1-m02ZmLzjm1OlDEec3L0duEKItaQlPcjZF8yNjzET5rmd6ud/s1600/1967_photo_045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjn72OYshiUnxcY70hi3otJNkjST4uJZPGA40Ibis_4iMR2BvUszmkKXmGf0eKMZ-IRNWjW6UIp4kBHV_Yh4ZaWXQmKQ1-m02ZmLzjm1OlDEec3L0duEKItaQlPcjZF8yNjzET5rmd6ud/s1600/1967_photo_045.jpg" height="320" width="236" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>and here we are in our 1967 matching suits -- obviously, I had rebelliously rolled my skirt. </i></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-24403711463099856472014-06-05T16:24:00.000-04:002014-06-05T17:00:03.345-04:00Notes My Mother Made<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Janet, Nora, and Mother in Underground Atlanta, 1989 </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When our parents died sixty days apart in 1995, my siblings
and I were in the middle of our working years and careers [actually both of my
brothers are still working, but you know]. My brothers and sister had children
to raise --- as there were eight grand-children under the age of twelve.<br />
<br />
Closing their house in the spring of 1996, we carted away boxes and boxes of photos and memorabilia that ended up being stored at my sister Margaret's house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Busy teaching high school English, I didn’t make time in the
summers for going through papers accumulated by my parents in their almost
forty-six years of marriage. A huge project to undertake, my sister and I just
kept finding other things to do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Packing away pictures in photo boxes, we stored
the thousands of photos in her upstairs closet, and we filed and dumped
haphazardly memorabilia and other paraphernalia in a five-drawer filing cabinet.
Included with my parents’ papers past were those of my mother’s three unmarried
sisters, one of whom spent her retirement years in research and family history.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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The amount of paper and photos collected by our family seemed overwhelming.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My Aunt Harriett wrote twenty or thirty books on her family’s
genealogy and on Appomattox County, Virginia, her birthplace. Some of the material
that she gathered and bound into periodicals is quite dry with titles like “The
Tax Records of Appomattox County 1856-1890” or the “Attendance at Sunday School
for Salem Methodist Church, 1948.” Not. That. Riveting. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To her, a preserver of the past, the
information mattered.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5j3Na62nVe3u955O21bcgVsnnIzQWpt9n82tD7vbVDghGm6daHzZkSC8e8TByLJJktiS7kcl17MknoIXTDIXYONxeTkYqwY6gOTHbqFBsL6qfJX0ONtUB5rZ0h2PtSDWb0-GpuBLJKca/s1600/Mother+and+Aunt+Harriett+in+her+office,+1987.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5j3Na62nVe3u955O21bcgVsnnIzQWpt9n82tD7vbVDghGm6daHzZkSC8e8TByLJJktiS7kcl17MknoIXTDIXYONxeTkYqwY6gOTHbqFBsL6qfJX0ONtUB5rZ0h2PtSDWb0-GpuBLJKca/s1600/Mother+and+Aunt+Harriett+in+her+office,+1987.jpg" height="276" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Mother and Aunt Harriett [in her office] Falls Church, Virginia, 1987</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbshVeH0GbGpKvzSU9u0sQK7J5U_jcjJhyrgjqFdn2G3FZ8pxyEhs3XMIVX8ekXS0BQhh-Cvy04AoMiJJkg39IkRNOZuR-NwhcwfdDtQZx_hW7O-IY90klISSF8ekgYvzjo45Z8rvyZ5K/s1600/Aunt+Harriett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbshVeH0GbGpKvzSU9u0sQK7J5U_jcjJhyrgjqFdn2G3FZ8pxyEhs3XMIVX8ekXS0BQhh-Cvy04AoMiJJkg39IkRNOZuR-NwhcwfdDtQZx_hW7O-IY90klISSF8ekgYvzjo45Z8rvyZ5K/s1600/Aunt+Harriett.jpg" height="320" width="154" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Aunt Harriett, 1986</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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Her tireless work in family genealogy and history in a time
before common use of the internet and computers is quite impressive. Her
research on her extended family includes a book titled “A Hundred Hunter
Cousins” and “Grandpa Chilton’s Diary,” all meticulously documented and full of
lists and dates and places and people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About ten years ago, my sister and I began to work through
the photographs by sorting them by decades. We also bought hard backed over-sized
scrapbooks in anticipation of putting together information for the next
generation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We embossed the scrapbooks
with “Chilton” for my mother’s family and “McDaniel” for my dad’s. Left empty
on a shelf for this past decade, we had good intentions but never quite got
around “to it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the last two years, with both of us retired, Margaret and
I started plugging away at this family history of photos and paper – and of
course, the technology now available is invaluable. Few people do hands-on scrapbooks anymore
since we embrace so much digitally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Too bad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We already had the scrapbooks, and [stomps foot], we’re
using them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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We’re not all old school, however.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Kenneth, Amy, Mother, Margaret, and Daddy, Mother's Day, 1985</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Margaret spent months scanning photos and negatives, birth
certificates, diplomas, grade reports, tax receipts, World War II souvenirs
[odd word] and other interesting [well, anything we found interesting, that is]
papers into her computer. Then we began to take some of the print photos,
papers, and placed them in the scrapbooks immortalizing three generations of my
mother’s family.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the last two days, we tackled the file folders crammed
into that old five drawer filing cabinet that sits in my sister’s bonus room. Labeled
with each relative’s name, we unloaded them and set out to organize, save, and
toss the detritus gathered there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We came across part of my mother’s journal. Eh. Not exactly
a journal. It’s notes my mother made…. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though they are loosely
dated, her notes are not in journal form as in a leather bound book, lined with porous paper, and inked full of
her thoughts and interesting tidbits about what adorable children we were. What we
found and read were pieces of paper dated from around 1979 to 1993. In three
recycled, blue file folders, she scribbled information about telephone calls
between her and two of her life long friends, Dot and Sarah. Within those
jottings lies little information about her, but then what she did write told much about her caring nature. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In her famous, illegible handwriting, mother recorded explicit
details about her friends’ lives – their children, their husbands, and their
woes and worries. Extensive notes they are, so that the next time they talked
on the telephone, she could review the notes and ask questions specifically. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Mother's notes, 1983</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a type of shorthand known to her, she used initials for
us when she did make a note: as in “H & D said only goldfish” or “K & S new car” or “Hunter’s award” or “M’s garden.” In March of 1988, she devoted a page to my nephew Paul, who as a newborn, spent time in the neo-natal
ICU. In her manic shorthand, she recorded details about his condition. She also
made proud notes about her other grandchildren as well: “A eats well” and “C’s
precocious.”<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYT0U4YilC_k-tgySteHz-48EDe-2fYeOA2uxFTT9NznuMgkCOEB5bZ9uB63RUJQqUZOffy58ONRnrnlju8KlWnSLyoF20UBZxfuXKk5WOFt8dM6q-LxNRRdOb-H7b7TU3SYCnlIELJ1y/s1600/1988-10+Paul+McD+P_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYT0U4YilC_k-tgySteHz-48EDe-2fYeOA2uxFTT9NznuMgkCOEB5bZ9uB63RUJQqUZOffy58ONRnrnlju8KlWnSLyoF20UBZxfuXKk5WOFt8dM6q-LxNRRdOb-H7b7TU3SYCnlIELJ1y/s1600/1988-10+Paul+McD+P_001.jpg" height="320" width="226" /></a></div>
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<i>Paul, 1988</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Writing mainly with a dull pencil, she scribbled on the back of dot-matrix computer paper, old
green and white computer sheets with the names of patients she treated in the
Cardiac Clinic at Grady, on small slips of note pads with different company
logos, on the back and front of sheets of lined notebook paper, and
occasionally on the back of Xerox copies of handouts from my father’s days as
Reading Coordinator for a local school system. Her copious notes also included
particulars about the failing health of her sisters – as she worried about each
of them as they aged. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the notes that I read, now faded with time, her focus lay with her family
and friends. How sweet it was to read how she kept meticulous notes on their
health and needs. Occasionally she would write, “did not tell about H’s angina”
or “forgot to mention M’s scare” or “[my] fender bender.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother loved her family and friends, and as I scanned her
notes, the memory of how much she did came flooding back.<br />
<br />
Now there's a legacy. <br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Sigh. </span></div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-60613282970530003212014-06-02T18:53:00.000-04:002014-06-02T18:53:24.891-04:00Hydrangeas 2014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I dug up seven or eight small oak leaf hydrangeas from my friend Debbie's yard back in 2011. I love saying "back in '11 -- it sounds so history book.</div>
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These plants flourish in the rich, mulched soil on the west side of my house -- a mostly shady area.</div>
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The bloom in the second photo stands twenty inches in height, and the oak leaf plants themselves rise to over eight feet. </div>
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:-)</div>
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The lace capped hydrangeas came from my sister in 2012. My brother-in-law rooted and nourish them to a decent sized plant before they were given to me. They have quadrupled in size.</div>
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It's so awesome.</div>
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Underneath the hydrangeas are hostas, coral bell, daphne, and ferns.</div>
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Gardening is a gift from God,</div>
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and</div>
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when friends share their plants with each other, He smiles.</div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-52844844568050247162014-05-22T15:15:00.000-04:002015-06-02T19:58:45.581-04:00The Bulletin Boys<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn41UswA1w_8vRLcA9qTP2Gm20JT4PHkGnXeVZeAW9Ay1v1GlOKZkvWj3tTmKqo33WSprrTwUZObMtDnGC5U62zGN3UU-S1R50eyuQHaQ3Df8w-VeT7doef2XZshVZTtedvRDPbt25wKgQ/s1600/H+and+K+for+BB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn41UswA1w_8vRLcA9qTP2Gm20JT4PHkGnXeVZeAW9Ay1v1GlOKZkvWj3tTmKqo33WSprrTwUZObMtDnGC5U62zGN3UU-S1R50eyuQHaQ3Df8w-VeT7doef2XZshVZTtedvRDPbt25wKgQ/s1600/H+and+K+for+BB.jpg" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kenneth and Hunter, circa 1959</td></tr>
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When we moved to Atlanta in the late summer of 1954, our
first home, <a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/2013/02/mostly-shots.html">a rental</a>, lay on the west side, a once prominent and affluent
suburban area [not that had any impact on why we settled there]. While Daddy
and Mother shopped for a house they could afford, we lived in “West End” on
Westmont for six months and long enough for Hunter <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to enroll in kindergarten and for my parents
to choose a church. As religious church-goers, no pun intended, my parents took
us to nearby West End Christian Church, a small but growing congregation [when
we joined in the process of building a new sanctuary] of young families and well-heeled
Cascade Heights dwellers. </div>
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I have no memories of “Westmont,” but Mother and Daddy fondly
referred to their first house by its street name when they talked of their time
there, and Hunter and Margaret both retain some vague memories.</div>
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By Christmas of 1954, my parents bought a house about ten
miles south of West End on Oana, but we remained faithful attendees of West End
Christian; each Sunday in rain, snow, sleet, and heat, we rode the roads, crossed
the railroad tracks, and passed other churches to get there.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kenneth's SS class, circa 1956, fourth from right pointing finger; mother stands in the background on left</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_EQ8psrmDii1RPSAO5yt-oQ_vrCWZJC9s3Inc0oikshytuxR1BLmi_k0AkgTIozstA5-VAco7YDY047vt2BSvv521zAxEaCpAzUp50zG3ucM6XRYtOOOzCkvAW_9ST-YJ_76pNN-FbEg5/s1600/1956_photo_025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_EQ8psrmDii1RPSAO5yt-oQ_vrCWZJC9s3Inc0oikshytuxR1BLmi_k0AkgTIozstA5-VAco7YDY047vt2BSvv521zAxEaCpAzUp50zG3ucM6XRYtOOOzCkvAW_9ST-YJ_76pNN-FbEg5/s1600/1956_photo_025.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My SS class, circa 1956, fourth from left [Probably making that boy cry!}</td></tr>
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In the fall of 1962, my parents changed us to a neighborhood
church, Mary Branan Methodist, when Hunter, the oldest, began high school. They
believed at this formative age it would be best for him and all of us to “have
school friends who attended the same church.” Leaving West End Christian, my
parents left behind many friends, most of whom they stayed in touch with as
well as visited for the next thirty years.</div>
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I hold many, lovely memories of West End Christian: its Carrom
game table set up in the basement, the cement pad adjacent to the new sanctuary
where we played “Simon Says,” the gravel parking lot, the huge heating and air turbines
in deep wells, which we climbed among, along the east side of the sanctuary,
its full immersion baptismal fount with the white curtain and loud, wooden
stairs, the weekly passing of a silver, communion cup tray with<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>teeny glasses and wafers, the fashionable hats
and dresses worn by the women, the stained glass windows, the covered
passageway between the old and new sanctuary, and my brothers’ collecting the
bulletins.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlsYEVDWGyjehLdbX_YFFLcvJUO3ccL0be980B6afn0xZ1I3HNsdExRus44Nhz6A6zuHX3uaf9ihhjihy76ovGHmYgEo-wEf3Zt3u94o7ycCaelQydya3iPTYfomOTJYzQZHxFOcbIP4R/s1600/1956_photo_024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlsYEVDWGyjehLdbX_YFFLcvJUO3ccL0be980B6afn0xZ1I3HNsdExRus44Nhz6A6zuHX3uaf9ihhjihy76ovGHmYgEo-wEf3Zt3u94o7ycCaelQydya3iPTYfomOTJYzQZHxFOcbIP4R/s1600/1956_photo_024.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margaret's SS class, back row, third from left, circa 1956</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisK591xk0FPvnovfeyPS1AqvcKv_e5dM7vYIxQH6pIw2lCV_ya_inwQMb1yEC0vfhsszccrxpOJ7GjHjEE9CeClRSDd7CRhuQ4kaDIFrRAT5leeZ039t9nvkwMtrwSvrFodFFOn1a3OyMg/s1600/1956_photo_023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisK591xk0FPvnovfeyPS1AqvcKv_e5dM7vYIxQH6pIw2lCV_ya_inwQMb1yEC0vfhsszccrxpOJ7GjHjEE9CeClRSDd7CRhuQ4kaDIFrRAT5leeZ039t9nvkwMtrwSvrFodFFOn1a3OyMg/s1600/1956_photo_023.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hunter's SS class, second from right, circa 1956</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Highly competitive children, we played to top one another in
anything and everything. Even though no serious blood was shed, my childhood
teemed with arguments. We poked, prodded, pushed, yelled, fought, and made ugly
faces at each other as standard daily fare. As my sister’s childhood friend
Terry once told Margaret: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“All I
remember about ya’ll is the fighting.” What a legacy!! </div>
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With there being four of us, only separated by a five year span, the birth order and rapidness placed my
two brothers three and a half years apart. They slept in the same room where
they issued ultimatums and threw down gauntlets, they later shared a paper
route where they argued about work equality, and at some point in their young
lives when we attended West End Christian Church, they initiated a crazy, made-up,
competition over whom could collect the most bulletins after church.</div>
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What?</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMBDbwUy7dK5RbXXV8wi2K42Pl4hpPtrl1QlM_52y4oCO4B732eCuyathHIMLiYdbahk_HfpSgUBtr2W8G40g8K-QRORALI91F9HMRtgjnqEgxUBXz2WvYLuuwDEnHGTv7GO-v6RQt68y/s1600/methchurch2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMBDbwUy7dK5RbXXV8wi2K42Pl4hpPtrl1QlM_52y4oCO4B732eCuyathHIMLiYdbahk_HfpSgUBtr2W8G40g8K-QRORALI91F9HMRtgjnqEgxUBXz2WvYLuuwDEnHGTv7GO-v6RQt68y/s1600/methchurch2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bulletin sample</td></tr>
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Neither of them remembers exactly how this “collecting of
bulletins” began. I imagine this: after church in the parking lot, my parents
stood with their friends and talked and talked and talked. Sometimes, they hung
around for thirty or forty minutes, maybe longer, catching up on weekly events
--<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sharing stories of work,
child-rearing, and their favorite conversation with other adults <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-- “ain’t it awful?” My parents could do some
talking.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRMjyMe3NOmvZw5GjVALYmIhe0qf3TN4yLYl41MkW2kA1AH4liap8ppCp5OtiYESzOI8_6FZQ_zOlunAbM19T2mSqcz6Atcy27G7uNO4hw0Xb1uXCnkOj-dEHt1TxnZvSCyDC6iQbUlnZ/s1600/Mother+1956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRMjyMe3NOmvZw5GjVALYmIhe0qf3TN4yLYl41MkW2kA1AH4liap8ppCp5OtiYESzOI8_6FZQ_zOlunAbM19T2mSqcz6Atcy27G7uNO4hw0Xb1uXCnkOj-dEHt1TxnZvSCyDC6iQbUlnZ/s1600/Mother+1956.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother on left, gabbing, like she liked to do...:-)</td></tr>
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I, who was always hungry [used to savor the communion wafer!],
perhaps tugged at my mother’s skirt wanting to go home and being shushed for
it. They stood around as long as others were willing, and my siblings and I
would just wait. Patiently? No. But wait? Yes.</div>
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Sometimes, we waited in the car, but those stories?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later. </div>
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My bored brothers sought entertainment, and one of them created
the idea of returning to the sanctuary and picking up bulletins.</div>
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So, it began. </div>
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At first, they waited good-naturedly for most of the
parishioners to leave before they ran up and down the aisles, in between pews,
slipping and sliding on the tile, and picking up the bulletin from the hymnal
slots on the back of the pews where a member had stuck it, diving under pews to
retrieve them from the floor where they had carelessly been dropped, plucking
them from the end of the pew where they had hung on a cushion, and of course, just
simply pilfering them from a neat stack left on a table in the vestibule by the
ushers.<br />
<br />
ETA: Kenneth told me that they took those from a drawer in a table in the vestibule until they were told that the extra bulletins were taken to "shut ins." </div>
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Eventually, that policy of waiting stopped, and they began
their competition as soon as the minister said the “amen” of the benediction. </div>
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With a war whoop and a manic rush, they dashed in between
exiting church members, and vied to up the other by grabbing as many as
possible; this brother versus brother became a weekly ritual.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEnryiF-dHbLubsnDhoTRlLKOjx8EMA0FnljY7TEu7VQPI8e_CW5fDIzHhVqXA-4AmFUEMz8VO2XPMsV5oKWAAkmpGjx7TCIOVyrM-pcU0-EFfNZDB_x8cswTlb_pJm4yfCJFNJRb3VQsR/s1600/1962-12_McD+chil+V++_neg_003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEnryiF-dHbLubsnDhoTRlLKOjx8EMA0FnljY7TEu7VQPI8e_CW5fDIzHhVqXA-4AmFUEMz8VO2XPMsV5oKWAAkmpGjx7TCIOVyrM-pcU0-EFfNZDB_x8cswTlb_pJm4yfCJFNJRb3VQsR/s1600/1962-12_McD+chil+V++_neg_003.jpg" width="143" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kenneth and Hunter, circa 1962</td></tr>
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I have a distinct, comical memory of my brother Kenneth lying
on his stomach, hands and feet splayed, and scooting rapidly and awesomely, I
might add, under the pews grasping at fallen bulletins. </div>
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From time to time, I would help one or the other – probably
Kenneth since he was closest to me in age, and we naturally aligned a type of
defense against the older two –who were smug in their “being older” experience.
</div>
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In addition, my brother Hunter, notorious in the family for
his sound beatings of us in board games and cards, seemed always in need of a
loss. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Kenneth and I were better athletes, so I’m guessing we gave
Hunter some competition at least in the dash part, but Hunter, cunning and cerebral,
probably mathematically figured out how to gather the most “church news” by
dividing the rows of pews by the number of attendees or something; I don’t know
if Margaret ever got in the game or not – she appeared pretty prissy and
probably above it. Separated by age to me by three years, she seemed vastly
removed from me and more like an adult.</div>
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After my parents stopped their chatting with their friends
and we drove from church, my brothers in the back seat of the car counted the
bulletins they collected and tallied their totals at each other with pride: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I got 94” or “Ha! I got 106.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we got home, they filed the bulletins in
the deep drawers of a lady’s old, dressing table used in their room for
storage. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Did they have a score card? A money bet? Did one or the
other have to pick up a chore for the winner? At some point, this competition
turned into a team effort, but when did it change from competition to
collusion? That answer is lost family history.</div>
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Why did they do this? I don’t know, and they don’t either.</div>
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Did my mother eventually make them toss the bulletins when
they cleaned their room?</div>
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I don’t think so because I, being a natural snoop, looked in
those drawers and remember seeing the bulletins so tightly packed that I could
run my fingers across the tops of them as if they were manila files. </div>
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Mother probably thought the collecting of church bulletins
wholesome – better than comic books or baseball cards. And, of course, they
were free!</div>
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Over the years, they must have accumulated thousands.</div>
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Then they stopped. </div>
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When?</div>
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When we changed churches? Sooner that that?</div>
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In my memory, those bulletin boys still run those aisles. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRJkBefvpfGNxscVsbJ4XFknrzQhwHz0GXOg-QBXmklDSmfKZtacnzZTu3Wv0fMaQSfd49o5bpJAROWtfMFFRC904aI3RISVPqyKvV2VONlFG6oAxxgGkRB19QuQMvfiAR2kXRUUV02xQ/s1600/1960_photo_001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRJkBefvpfGNxscVsbJ4XFknrzQhwHz0GXOg-QBXmklDSmfKZtacnzZTu3Wv0fMaQSfd49o5bpJAROWtfMFFRC904aI3RISVPqyKvV2VONlFG6oAxxgGkRB19QuQMvfiAR2kXRUUV02xQ/s1600/1960_photo_001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margaret [on right] in front of West End Christian church entrance, circa 1959</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ESjh9eL8kHYcx2WU6t2IZjzeSEAXAEBxCfCBJBp-nueMOeahAPIeC6tJc3kYdHoLo34Fbj0kirKOPaYVXUKogf1NsSfirStPn4vxV_-BCSCxao7BuR3u3dDE9JQS9InjPw0zCd5y_nu3/s1600/1954+Hazel+&+Harry+McDaniel+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ESjh9eL8kHYcx2WU6t2IZjzeSEAXAEBxCfCBJBp-nueMOeahAPIeC6tJc3kYdHoLo34Fbj0kirKOPaYVXUKogf1NsSfirStPn4vxV_-BCSCxao7BuR3u3dDE9JQS9InjPw0zCd5y_nu3/s1600/1954+Hazel+&+Harry+McDaniel+001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother and Daddy, circa 1954 :-)</td></tr>
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ETA: After reading this, my sister emailed me and told me that "I was not too prissy and slid under those pews for my share of bulletins. I actually think Hunter and I were the first ones to do it."<br />
<br />
Ha. Ha. Ha.</div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-61939842821728406142014-05-15T16:29:00.001-04:002014-05-17T17:00:23.975-04:00Wedding: New Orleans Style<div style="text-align: center;">
<img class="irc_mut" height="355" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcToSEk8os_ni7s_7a1X3hJ6I4glLRPu6ssnp3-Hiw1J5aVVmsr5" style="margin-top: 25px;" width="544" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wedding attired and bucked up for the drive into NOLA for Chapman and Margaret's wedding, we didn't know what to expect. We did seem to be in a little Twilight Zone meets formal wear episode as my family caravan-ed into the crowded, party filled streets of the area of New Orleans known as the French Quarter. Narrow, one way streets, restaurants and bars spilling onto the sidewalks, [a lot of the streets leading to the French Quarter were under construction], we battled our way down, parting teeming and swelling crowds, parked the cars for twenty bucks, and hoofed to Woldenberg Park for the exchange of vows. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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Park nuptials? Second line to the reception? Hankies? Umbrellas? Blisters?</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Well, you haven't been to a wedding until you've been to a New Orleans one.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Chapman and Margaret married at 5 o'clock in the afternoon at Woldenberg Park on the green space of the upper French Quarter on a perfect, spring day with the water of the Mississippi lapping soundly behind and a blazing blue sky for backdrop.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
The invited guests, gathered on the grass, parted for the bride on the arm of her brother, and the Reverend yoked the two in matrimony in front of a hundred or so friends and family and three or four hundred tourists who gaped, watched, and then not only took photos but videos of the whole thing.</div>
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When the minister announced them as husband and wife, the horn attached to some type of party barge sounded long and frog-croaking deep [perhaps prompted by a cell phone call] and the wedding invitees chuckled.</div>
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Perfect timing, I'd say.</div>
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Following the Second Line to the Napoleon House [love this fun tradition -- and before the night was over would observe three more Second Lines following brides and grooms], we dined on plates of shrimp gumbo and other spicy appetizers. </div>
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A DJ spun some tunes, and I laughed out loud at Chapman and his engineer friends singing and dancing to a set of 80's tunes queued up and blasted for dancing.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I dunno why it seemed so funny, but to watch them mouth the words to songs like "Billie Jean," "She Blinded Me with Science," and "She's a Beauty" struck me as hilarious.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Weren't they like toddlers when those songs ran the top ten on the radio? Cuz, I was really young. :-)</div>
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Never mind.</div>
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Photos follow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-6GUeYcvs7Dt0TaEwCE1JtHG1nPaHEeMLunLf40kU7UUkSqdWzCwh64tHofSuUhsMRBrlOkF4qIaJPpHGTJA8-NNfLej8aM3Hb6xUTKdjckkb7A1B2u1ltQv8SQZ1GdlyEgitY43CCv0/s1600/Fab+Four+at+No+Wedding+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-6GUeYcvs7Dt0TaEwCE1JtHG1nPaHEeMLunLf40kU7UUkSqdWzCwh64tHofSuUhsMRBrlOkF4qIaJPpHGTJA8-NNfLej8aM3Hb6xUTKdjckkb7A1B2u1ltQv8SQZ1GdlyEgitY43CCv0/s1600/Fab+Four+at+No+Wedding+2.jpg" height="313" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the fab four</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrE7w91PCZtQagDlnqUvRIr79Fw-QiWlV4K2P95S38S5s8S33yT8YZu9wo_v-P3ktqfTUpPZ8UqJM32n5PJAewAkJkQcIBwJcyJz3k6U6-3u0vfNMDnmSjLDyNFwYrFyypDwLfo0T5IGLC/s1600/IMG_5094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrE7w91PCZtQagDlnqUvRIr79Fw-QiWlV4K2P95S38S5s8S33yT8YZu9wo_v-P3ktqfTUpPZ8UqJM32n5PJAewAkJkQcIBwJcyJz3k6U6-3u0vfNMDnmSjLDyNFwYrFyypDwLfo0T5IGLC/s1600/IMG_5094.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the cousins wait</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-AgZMV8Rzovcp601f4zLsPrjjkrfiwYeu7mQ1PPcD1d-aPgBN5wtK4lMFDmRjGegSVS-_BJaEA8WlHIpPQBhMpemkf9v9mL_sbvODY5jF1ezIsAaDQdg2BBhRlaG3uakTUzDEvDqVz6jJ/s1600/IMG_5096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-AgZMV8Rzovcp601f4zLsPrjjkrfiwYeu7mQ1PPcD1d-aPgBN5wtK4lMFDmRjGegSVS-_BJaEA8WlHIpPQBhMpemkf9v9mL_sbvODY5jF1ezIsAaDQdg2BBhRlaG3uakTUzDEvDqVz6jJ/s1600/IMG_5096.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
David and brother Ken</div>
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Margaret and her family</div>
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the bride</div>
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Sunglasses and hat moment..</div>
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Kenneth and his family [minus Amy who couldn't make the trip] :-(</div>
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the umbrellas aloft [almost] the Second Line to the reception<br />
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Hankies high</div>
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We pause to sing... "the saints go marchin' in"</div>
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No lie. :-)</div>
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the amusing cake topper --- bride and groom hugging and looking at their phones -- bwha</div>
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Chapman's awesome tie<br />
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the newlyweds...</div>
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view from the Napoleon house</div>
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Bryan and Nora</div>
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David and Andrew</div>
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Then it was over.</div>
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:-(</div>
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Now, who's next? James? Glenn? Stephen?</div>
H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-89264090264665343952014-05-15T15:20:00.000-04:002014-05-17T16:58:54.114-04:00The New Orleans Wedding <div style="text-align: center;">
Well, I'm finally gonna post some pictures and make some comments about my number 1 nephew's [sorry, 'phews, remember the Christmas present he got me?] wedding.</div>
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Chapman and Margaret got married at the end of March. </div>
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[I'm late. I know. Embarrassingly late.}</div>
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New Orleans.</div>
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Undiscovered country.</div>
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At least for us. :-)</div>
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We drove to NoLa [a new acronym for me] or is it NOLA? because we could. :-) <img src="http://www.fenderskirtsvintage.com/store/images/LLneworleans.jpg" height="273" id="irc_mi" style="margin-top: 66px;" width="432" /></div>
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We rented a house on Tchoupitoulas Street that apparently was the hospital, truck, and car windows rolled down and thumping music playing route. At first, the location seemed jarring [coming from our cul-de-sac, quiet world], but after a while, we grew used to the noise of city streets. It took us the whole time we were there to learn to pronounce the name of that street even though locals and my nephew Stephen, who said "the GPS lady said it like this," corrected us over and over. How do I know the GPS lady is right?<br />
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BTW: You know why the GPS voice is female? I do.<br />
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Spacious, clean, and inviting, the rental lined up like the row house it was with my siblings' and their family's rentals -- we literally were all in a row and in and out of each other's houses for the three night stay that we had. Rather communal and friendly living like that, we were amazed at the neighbors who said hello and at one point invited us to a pig roast.<br />
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The beautiful Audobon Park was a mile away, and we walked its tree lined, duck and bird filled pathways on more than one occasion. It's quite breath-taking with its huge trees, splashing waterfowl, and impressive, stately, magnificent houses with spectacular gardens and stone work. <br />
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The groom hosted the rehearsal dinner there on Friday afternoon, a crawfish boil, that excited the local guests and made believers out of some of the "visitors." I ate tacos myself, because well, I don't do crawfish. :-) Also on the menu, grilled sausage, corn on the cob, and other sides to complement the fare.<br />
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For dessert -- an ice cream that makes you wanna slap your momma. Famous in NOLA, <a href="http://www.creolecreamery.com/flavors/">the Creole Creamery </a>served up heaping mounds of the delightful dessert in flavors of king cake and sea salt caramel. Totally amazing. Indescribable, it's so good.<br />
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We had a roaring good time as people ate, watched passer-byers, the 'phews played some yard games --- and my feet hurt in my stupid, not for the park, sandals.<br />
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:-)<br />
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Brother Hunter loads up supplies for rehearsal party at the park.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Paul carries the Boom Box, a staple at every party.</span></td></tr>
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A few phews and their pretties head out for the festivities. </div>
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Bocce Ball, anyone? Is that Latin?<br />
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Sister Margaret, I, and Hunter pose, while Hunter holds his gargantuan Creole Creamery dessert.</div>
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Other side of family -- Aunt Donna, Cousin Phyllis, Nora, and the groom, Chapman, holding dessert. Not kidding about the cold "hit" it was...</div>
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Bridget, Angie, and Kayla </div>
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Bride Margaret taste some of the sausage. Unknown wanna-be in photo leans in...<br />
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There they are!</div>
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David curbs his enthusiasm.</div>
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Some kind of technology involving Smart Phones, Instagrams, hash tags, and photos from the party magically appeared on this elaborate television screen set up. </div>
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Cool, but beyond me. Phew Bryan did it along with the groom.</div>
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Speaking of -- Chapman, Nora, and Bryan</div>
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Glenn and Bridget </div>
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Chapman's hilarious t-shirt</div>
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(he's known for his amusing choices of t-shirts ]<br />
His bride, who bought it, called it a "Public Service Announcement." </div>
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Nora and her favorite aunt :-)</div>
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the cousins, bride and groom in center, gather for the much detested photo opportunity </div>
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[note to them: some day, you'll thank us]</div>
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Next up. Wedding Day.</div>
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:-) </div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-81304109706466007552014-04-12T13:18:00.007-04:002014-04-12T13:18:54.476-04:00Unsupervised Men and Other ExcusesTwo months since I posted last, and all I can say is --- I've been busy with ---<br />
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1. Kitchen renovation -- If you watch HGTV about renovations, it's all true except that there are no people involved similar to or as accommodating as the Property Brothers. There is crying, frustration, and men to be supervised, micromanaged, cleaned up after, and waited on -- cuz they are either tardy or don't show up or wait days in between. Meanwhile, you are eating peanut butter sandwiches, Wendy's, or take out. The worst -- cereal in paper bowls -- ugh!!! </div>
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I'll update you on all of that later -- I'm a hair's breath from victory. TYL</div>
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<i>Packing David's lunch during renovation on my handy, dandy Rubbermaid table, full of what I thought I would need. I was wrong.</i></div>
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2. Nephew's wedding in New Orleans -- great fun, but I'm still searching for a decent photo of me. Until I find that, I'm not posting. JK. Sort of -- I'll update that soon as well. </div>
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<i>Jazz Fest, some year, the newlyweds</i></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
3. Family History Project with my Sister --- yes, we've been gathering, she's been scanning photos and documents, and I've been typing text for a scrapbook [yes, I said scrapbook -- we bought them ten years ago in anticipation of this project, and we can't let them go to waste -- the digital generation will have to learn to turn pages physically again. I'm sure there are exercises or You Tube videos. Of course, this just means if they ended up caring. No matter -- my sister and I have had fun].</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXwg46LXuKaTsMjVhcxAfz6Bq0phyEgzpqrFvAhmbn_uIihyphenhyphenYDBojBuVmd5dPdiLTrTQ01M5VFEapC0WVpRUHa6XkSAPtRO6SBEdppRPR-7yj732qw6gvDm2mNsJ0KX8MSquufiGP9229/s1600/Taken+at+the+1940+World%27s+Fair,+Harriett+and+Eleanor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXwg46LXuKaTsMjVhcxAfz6Bq0phyEgzpqrFvAhmbn_uIihyphenhyphenYDBojBuVmd5dPdiLTrTQ01M5VFEapC0WVpRUHa6XkSAPtRO6SBEdppRPR-7yj732qw6gvDm2mNsJ0KX8MSquufiGP9229/s1600/Taken+at+the+1940+World's+Fair,+Harriett+and+Eleanor.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Aunt Harriett and Aunt Eleanor, 1940, photo taken at World's Fair in New York City</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
4. Tallulah -- who had needed extensive discipline and therapy after the renovation. She no likey unsupervised men with tools, noise, things out of place, unsupervised men with paint brushes, trash, doors to the outside open and closed doors to her inside, did I say unsupervised men in general?</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfawZ8aEpgMbWnCi9BB62Hty8LNJpZhZS9HDAHPJAKEnf0BU3F_dhd2tpPj7wWt6I8P0jc5-tvWcMlCz7isBTIcsDfc2r6fO3QJjwmCkrfft-zWBkfhhAmym0P7nOGz_TlfA3qTU29aqdD/s1600/IMG_4498.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfawZ8aEpgMbWnCi9BB62Hty8LNJpZhZS9HDAHPJAKEnf0BU3F_dhd2tpPj7wWt6I8P0jc5-tvWcMlCz7isBTIcsDfc2r6fO3QJjwmCkrfft-zWBkfhhAmym0P7nOGz_TlfA3qTU29aqdD/s1600/IMG_4498.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>after therapy</i></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
5. Spring</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfekSjY0Knazfx3YZBD1XH9B8CNm7WRFfPUz-0Q_YSV6Sk6duDr6lvWp55YV8nXOJcd7b3c0MaTsMRSwy-iFZ9sDCCcKeKJjx7zMxzj9zcSdCnhRVPdCgAQXzyEFsUtBFKze8smVUpraQl/s1600/IMG_2575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfekSjY0Knazfx3YZBD1XH9B8CNm7WRFfPUz-0Q_YSV6Sk6duDr6lvWp55YV8nXOJcd7b3c0MaTsMRSwy-iFZ9sDCCcKeKJjx7zMxzj9zcSdCnhRVPdCgAQXzyEFsUtBFKze8smVUpraQl/s1600/IMG_2575.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'll be back.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A shout out to a fellow, blogging friend who sent me a note to tell me I had been missed - visit her at <a href="http://simplydarlene.com/">Simply Darlene.</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br />
<br />H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-55775994225819200772014-02-12T17:52:00.000-05:002014-02-12T18:09:13.782-05:00"In a tumultuous privacy of [an ice] storm..."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidnO4kj6Cid6gOYyYcFTpStOfzmpB_k6lidc61twuhe5UtWScIQoDil2Zr15zmj4y143ONEdv0d4STe8QQxgR4K5Pj2S-qWJzuzw7IqIFStIWBkGugmfG4Xpnm8lK3yebgtuAGXkreW3LJ/s1600/IMG_4807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidnO4kj6Cid6gOYyYcFTpStOfzmpB_k6lidc61twuhe5UtWScIQoDil2Zr15zmj4y143ONEdv0d4STe8QQxgR4K5Pj2S-qWJzuzw7IqIFStIWBkGugmfG4Xpnm8lK3yebgtuAGXkreW3LJ/s1600/IMG_4807.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Early this morning, the ice dabbed at the dogwood,</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinHXMa1WQl_cDjfgUkpQ30PXwbs-j6Yr1Ma8Mtn_xOepc9spgWbk-6rwIqq1eMa1-IlC-wi5scGLz9ywh27H9kDImGZjf6y40qTX8ybXcEOP8y-DAO09Xwj8H4L-aaQbuWTsWPQw-addS6/s1600/IMG_4821.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinHXMa1WQl_cDjfgUkpQ30PXwbs-j6Yr1Ma8Mtn_xOepc9spgWbk-6rwIqq1eMa1-IlC-wi5scGLz9ywh27H9kDImGZjf6y40qTX8ybXcEOP8y-DAO09Xwj8H4L-aaQbuWTsWPQw-addS6/s1600/IMG_4821.JPG" height="269" width="320" /></a></div>
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and the bird man weathered the icy deck to fill his feeders,</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbq4-sqxJH4_Jbo5eaHDsubPv3fvfItL58gfkD9hMUXhFkMcusGy6cqUr2OB0iC1Jf56qPk743P4rzce1vAZOOr3X8Yeug1cTlqkwUS3WVqGK3-bjAqi0LiNqIsb9SHUONVNXFJ29bpXb/s1600/IMG_4822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbq4-sqxJH4_Jbo5eaHDsubPv3fvfItL58gfkD9hMUXhFkMcusGy6cqUr2OB0iC1Jf56qPk743P4rzce1vAZOOr3X8Yeug1cTlqkwUS3WVqGK3-bjAqi0LiNqIsb9SHUONVNXFJ29bpXb/s1600/IMG_4822.JPG" height="244" width="320" /></a></div>
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and, [yes, he has on shorts], add hot water to the baths.</div>
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"My birds," he said.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiemOU4ESPFGcihSTFvJ6ecI3Ks-VZB-MTBfRxsbN6OfXzZnmqH7q_oYM5TxGdz2ME6hOQHEkvezjQ8_rIEWDEBnGfXN7kEMUUbrTwyK_2cUoLTvMTDqsPuVHwG9JKGggaqX_B0XyzbeIYO/s1600/IMG_4824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiemOU4ESPFGcihSTFvJ6ecI3Ks-VZB-MTBfRxsbN6OfXzZnmqH7q_oYM5TxGdz2ME6hOQHEkvezjQ8_rIEWDEBnGfXN7kEMUUbrTwyK_2cUoLTvMTDqsPuVHwG9JKGggaqX_B0XyzbeIYO/s1600/IMG_4824.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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The ice decorated the red maple</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDu-DQ3_rZfnahwFJt00Y_PypnbZ55w9Fufi6cV3I0raaA2W2Ac6PZY1o9LIyWx3kAdmfhrfNd8Pvj7CmG7VVTVjdb78oqv8EmFvXLEh2PY7UYY7tLwhgRDWPCg6MPY3lvzzijGrVoR-0i/s1600/IMG_4826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDu-DQ3_rZfnahwFJt00Y_PypnbZ55w9Fufi6cV3I0raaA2W2Ac6PZY1o9LIyWx3kAdmfhrfNd8Pvj7CmG7VVTVjdb78oqv8EmFvXLEh2PY7UYY7tLwhgRDWPCg6MPY3lvzzijGrVoR-0i/s1600/IMG_4826.JPG" height="248" width="320" /></a></div>
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and fringed the hook for the hummingbird feeder.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglTHgnLlpEGEXSNE2gZDvJAtJ8lfdmfnm5WsqpC9bixgeIBMl_qt6YI_Yf6o59PhS8Qh2Dop7rnjbGLS0PWS_GK89PxFdMTdx9czgRoyyvXzJEd6p0dDpfjhgIyE_vhQSM2di3suWpQxpz/s1600/IMG_4834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglTHgnLlpEGEXSNE2gZDvJAtJ8lfdmfnm5WsqpC9bixgeIBMl_qt6YI_Yf6o59PhS8Qh2Dop7rnjbGLS0PWS_GK89PxFdMTdx9czgRoyyvXzJEd6p0dDpfjhgIyE_vhQSM2di3suWpQxpz/s1600/IMG_4834.JPG" height="201" width="320" /></a></div>
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The cardinals knew how beautiful they look as they hovered about the deck</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6oLCD0AMAMI_VGps6CQGqgYRByod1ICY3FUAIlMG9MzxdWgZUedvB6KAAYHCEiIbEb51XlJEqmCxkL1gfjAXH3JDi2RWQOkj39zf8PH44GsVw6sh2rL90X6THucvH13rWQOY6cuI2Yx1C/s1600/IMG_4838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6oLCD0AMAMI_VGps6CQGqgYRByod1ICY3FUAIlMG9MzxdWgZUedvB6KAAYHCEiIbEb51XlJEqmCxkL1gfjAXH3JDi2RWQOkj39zf8PH44GsVw6sh2rL90X6THucvH13rWQOY6cuI2Yx1C/s1600/IMG_4838.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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and competed with the artifice of the ice.</div>
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*snickers*</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgkOxVP8LZN32RoR9eWl82vi5ZQ0lslI1NuzGe0-R1150quNxbyZtsegMetm57aBFREgyTGNtH2RhyDxt-AIfkWAF3ZX9HD0ELe6gpJnQTDzBxsBPNdkCt1_UlPsTr-fGVX6gQPuNS188/s1600/IMG_4841.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgkOxVP8LZN32RoR9eWl82vi5ZQ0lslI1NuzGe0-R1150quNxbyZtsegMetm57aBFREgyTGNtH2RhyDxt-AIfkWAF3ZX9HD0ELe6gpJnQTDzBxsBPNdkCt1_UlPsTr-fGVX6gQPuNS188/s1600/IMG_4841.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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The ice clung to the Japanese maple.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3zg1XYBKNzmg10wS2_RXL7tUohcm5Q2hFwx_hgk26F1xETWii4bHC7cgFQH_GT1KTmgEN0gt6jGKWQWt7FyMlJZ-W9p1SAMX_1KYb8HzxW5xkqkgAy8TC78dCXYlzGzgP4sGXXAch6xo/s1600/IMG_4845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3zg1XYBKNzmg10wS2_RXL7tUohcm5Q2hFwx_hgk26F1xETWii4bHC7cgFQH_GT1KTmgEN0gt6jGKWQWt7FyMlJZ-W9p1SAMX_1KYb8HzxW5xkqkgAy8TC78dCXYlzGzgP4sGXXAch6xo/s1600/IMG_4845.JPG" height="260" width="320" /></a></div>
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Tallulah peered at me, the deck watcher.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivdxcVX7A22SrD58lSFp-hA3QR4sfVM4nsF2vEeg-MiHiPLIMw-FcRrnS0nxquYpmEp0iOxKw85Z0lvX7_P8DJfmPeJ56GDovXBnU5TOW3ozfQbzvGy_NkEKsuBLTCqWR_KEQpTSB0ic1N/s1600/IMG_4846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivdxcVX7A22SrD58lSFp-hA3QR4sfVM4nsF2vEeg-MiHiPLIMw-FcRrnS0nxquYpmEp0iOxKw85Z0lvX7_P8DJfmPeJ56GDovXBnU5TOW3ozfQbzvGy_NkEKsuBLTCqWR_KEQpTSB0ic1N/s1600/IMG_4846.JPG" height="300" width="320" /></a></div>
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Then, she came </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Wf4EuoFzOQ6k9hmZ1P_WWp7tp0g-eRopnBMt-hMhSH2HDXyvmnkDvKgU2_0W8sanYD8-_qGHPpL4KD3GTVCvhI-aSBEgezkElHqrznnK_Yz1plkB4pAqGUUhzIWQKxXoM5rzcLYRNSFf/s1600/IMG_4849.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Wf4EuoFzOQ6k9hmZ1P_WWp7tp0g-eRopnBMt-hMhSH2HDXyvmnkDvKgU2_0W8sanYD8-_qGHPpL4KD3GTVCvhI-aSBEgezkElHqrznnK_Yz1plkB4pAqGUUhzIWQKxXoM5rzcLYRNSFf/s1600/IMG_4849.JPG" height="196" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to see this happy fellow at his feast.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The ice storm cometh.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The cat leaveth.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEKKSNeQpIt4UwHRPJE8kVkJ5TDhiAIRUCXjMUrfU725eM3IHtTvBxhE6Jhp3cJeCUAPNmIyI8ZccfWL8Sk4h7fLv1XPJbHmYqeJ7KNV0wUBoJVBZ2D4Di2GX6o3j7dv-v9fZsyL_nbmWx/s1600/IMG_4806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEKKSNeQpIt4UwHRPJE8kVkJ5TDhiAIRUCXjMUrfU725eM3IHtTvBxhE6Jhp3cJeCUAPNmIyI8ZccfWL8Sk4h7fLv1XPJbHmYqeJ7KNV0wUBoJVBZ2D4Di2GX6o3j7dv-v9fZsyL_nbmWx/s1600/IMG_4806.JPG" height="232" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Turn up the heat, will ya? My paws are cold.</i></div>
H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-46043882724463762932014-01-30T16:39:00.000-05:002014-02-01T08:14:01.858-05:00Five Lights From Home<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<img src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTc1RGVOa5aGNy4ZAF-zd1Y3HBLWB81XJW1AqYcxHO0E_MvyCd-" /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On Tuesday my day started as usual
except for the “not walking.” For the last weeks, the weather
here in the South has been cold, and even though I have bundled up
and made some walks, when the temperature falls into the 20s and even
lower with wind chill, I conclude, “Eh, I don't have to. I don't
wanna.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, I don't.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the early stages of a kitchen
renovation, [not time for that story now], I had asked my sister
early Tuesday morning to ride with me to look at two slabs of granite
that David and I had narrowed down as choices for our counter tops.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At 10:00 am, my sister called and said,
“It's snowing. Do you still want to go?” I, a veteran of “burn”
stories on snow predictions from teaching school and wishing for a
snow day, thought, “if it comes,[rolling my eyes a little]<b>, </b>most
weather reports indicated it would be 'this afternoon.'” We're used
to hyped up local weather as news ---- and most of us take it with a
grain of salt. No pun intended.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We headed to Kennesaw, about ten miles
northeast of home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As the snow fell outside Atlanta
Stoneworks, the granite place, my sister and I took our time
evaluating the two pieces of granite. We chatted up the owners, a
family business, and found them charming and hilarious. As we got in
the car around 11:15 to come back, she said, “Are you still meeting
Celia for lunch? I wouldn't. It's getting bad out here.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I called Celia, who was already at the
restaurant, and I said, “I'm game if you are.” We chose to
proceed with our lunch date. We always have trouble finding a time to
get together.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<img src="http://images.citysearch.net/assets/imgdb/guide/2010/1/22/0/CCxOGZZs44.jpeg" /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After all, it couldn't be that bad –
it was coming “this afternoon”; I had plenty of time.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Meanwhile, it continued to snow.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I left for the restaurant, which is
located about nine miles from my house, and had a great lunch and
visit with Celia. We talked books, family, books, friends in common,
Downton Abbey, and books.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At 12:30, David called me on my cell
and said, “I'm leaving work. How much longer for you?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I said, “I'll leave in a few
minutes.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thirty minutes later, I left the
restaurant. I had taken a potty break since, you know, it might take
me a <i>little longer</i> to get home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was snowing.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I cavalierly wished the restaurant
staff a parting “I hope you get home soon” as I confidently
walked to my car, looked at it covered in snow, and then saw the
traffic on the main thoroughfare in front of me already jammed up. I
called David, who was still sitting in traffic near our house [he
works about five miles from home], and said, “I'm heading home.”
He told me to stick to the main roads, and that he would see me soon.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My car windows were covered in snow and
a kind of icy slush, and as I backed out, I couldn't see that well. I
cranked up the max defroster on turbo and pulled from the parking
lot. I took a right on a lightly congested road, but as I headed
south and home, traffic began to thicken.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Snow continued to fall, and as if
someone had yelled “Fire,” cars began to enter the main roads of
my route home. I drove about one mile – and then – the gridlock
became real.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In my car on a side road near Barrett
Parkway, I sat and inched forward, and I waited. Waited. Waited.
Waited. Waited. On the car's digital clock, it turned from 1:45 to
2:15 to 2:45.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Meanwhile, David called. It had taken
him 45 minutes to get home, and he had heard the news and knew that
road conditions and traffic had turned bad quickly.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Where are you?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Me: I'm trying to get on Barrett
Parkway. It's stacked up. I mean like I've never seen it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
David: Just stay the course. Listen to
the radio.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I rarely turn on the radio, but I did –
I turned to our local News station WSB and began to hear the horror
stories of Atlanta's snowy, traffic mess. Their advice “stay where
you are.” I was in my car in front of a car dealership. Didn't seem
like a “stay where you are” kind of place. Holiday Inn. No. Testosterone. More cars. Yes. So, I stayed exactly where I
was. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In my car. On the road.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was still fifteen cars from turning
onto Barrett Parkway, and Barrett Parkway was a parking lot.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Southern courtesy and politeness of
allowing people to pull out from a business in front of you, or with
their blinker flashing in front of you to change lanes, or even leave
space for a person who needed to turn left into the opposite
directions was still intact.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Everyone wanted to get home. We were
all in the same situation.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBOeiuU4D0mfDgVlpjbmZ2MjSBq1DohBF7gRRQ74yhMdmaewI9xJhXw_Xq121rnhF8jpSAlXz89bjc2EbkwCd9h_3mLNCP6hqhS7u8tirRw4e52pINBHeGr-jnhcrNphDxBVq549wkZoi/s1600/IMG_4789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBOeiuU4D0mfDgVlpjbmZ2MjSBq1DohBF7gRRQ74yhMdmaewI9xJhXw_Xq121rnhF8jpSAlXz89bjc2EbkwCd9h_3mLNCP6hqhS7u8tirRw4e52pINBHeGr-jnhcrNphDxBVq549wkZoi/s1600/IMG_4789.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i>My sister reminded me I had my camera -- I took this picture after five o'clock and on my fourth hour.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At 3:00, I made a right onto Barrett
Parkway and began what would be another six and a half hour trip to
get home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Every fifteen minutes, David, worried
and frantic, called me to check on me. He couldn't believe it when I
told him that I hadn't moved since he called last. As the hours
passed and I moved at the rate of a mile an hour, I told him the
landmarks I saw. I'm in front of the Wells Fargo. Carrabba's. Car Max. The church.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I set small goals:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'll be home at 6.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Only fifteen more light changes, and
I'll cross this intersection.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If I can just get to the next light.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Five lights from home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'll be home at 7. 8. 9. Please 9.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The situation was in God's hands. David
and friends of mine prayed for me. I had plenty of gas. My body went
into Survivor Mode – I didn't have to go to the bathroom. I wasn't
hungry. I wasn't scared. No one slid around me. My car was warm. The
time passed. The people in the cars around me were all on good
behavior. David kept telling me that he would walk to meet me.
Enveloped in love and prayer, I felt strong – and knew that
everyone in the cars around me was suffering in the same way. Misery
loves company, and I had it. :-)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2zixXT_1AVWEFWkbKHjV6N2y5oH69M2qT70KdOkNZqXFMTfZu4VJNP5LP_YyvZkb9zf4XF4r-ZXYz02-fruwWeLjArw7JG8llLKGgfO66oQhnA99qRZScQPpn-HAQGXLKP882E17g6hSy/s1600/IMG_4781.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2zixXT_1AVWEFWkbKHjV6N2y5oH69M2qT70KdOkNZqXFMTfZu4VJNP5LP_YyvZkb9zf4XF4r-ZXYz02-fruwWeLjArw7JG8llLKGgfO66oQhnA99qRZScQPpn-HAQGXLKP882E17g6hSy/s1600/IMG_4781.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> This is Barrett Parkway near Old 41. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIavXpzGd0OKiFYo5K6Qr_glSkQ1ErsSYid0oWTUD8Pj7XJMS8-PMMGgk3-qxGDQqEvzc9e4j7Yu6EPNqO8rsvD0OlGwBZUvjNRxB1031nI1gXXEVw7PbYejz9QYdRwEvwICxn3Osw60XQ/s1600/IMG_4784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIavXpzGd0OKiFYo5K6Qr_glSkQ1ErsSYid0oWTUD8Pj7XJMS8-PMMGgk3-qxGDQqEvzc9e4j7Yu6EPNqO8rsvD0OlGwBZUvjNRxB1031nI1gXXEVw7PbYejz9QYdRwEvwICxn3Osw60XQ/s1600/IMG_4784.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Also near 0ld 41- I'm about three miles from home.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZFPHtUx-Xdcwr-J0VKlkFOECNvrt9jrilC3tbj8-4o4MeMpe6TyZxh714jJ9auyZUKxqzd2D3WCub-D88aFYHmRpW2ElhW6mcxyo0PTNW5Un0ED8nZTzGVJuRGEES4QOLK0T0UNChGfOq/s1600/IMG_4790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZFPHtUx-Xdcwr-J0VKlkFOECNvrt9jrilC3tbj8-4o4MeMpe6TyZxh714jJ9auyZUKxqzd2D3WCub-D88aFYHmRpW2ElhW6mcxyo0PTNW5Un0ED8nZTzGVJuRGEES4QOLK0T0UNChGfOq/s1600/IMG_4790.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>At one point, this guy pulled up next to me. </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>I was like, really? Snakes?</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Don't slide into me, Satan.</i></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_IELaxX6LcP0tD_bNogFwfGS-8HQJ-zqco_m_vvA6PksZSMWfKoiHZ38VgH3-aGFT3fdPBaaVWQxNXfePQhfwEyCQl9Zw6pKXKXqAdmHhw3L8Ers3OmrIPtjBHt7Kg216MS29p8aPjnb/s1600/IMG_4788.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_IELaxX6LcP0tD_bNogFwfGS-8HQJ-zqco_m_vvA6PksZSMWfKoiHZ38VgH3-aGFT3fdPBaaVWQxNXfePQhfwEyCQl9Zw6pKXKXqAdmHhw3L8Ers3OmrIPtjBHt7Kg216MS29p8aPjnb/s1600/IMG_4788.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> I should have taken pictures of this early on to show how slowly we moved.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> 5:40 PM, Trip counter 44.9.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4RinWWNgZtbaklKWWC0vMsjOtB5Z0dVFTtczXqh4CiNCzzcgp2XKra-25sqtfkiDhlLoo2YRcSDXHeLxA0gHULMFPkSrxyErnjC0NCC4JoOeHltlmJlHX1RMKVA81Ds3dH6fvu0VmjGf/s1600/IMG_4791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4RinWWNgZtbaklKWWC0vMsjOtB5Z0dVFTtczXqh4CiNCzzcgp2XKra-25sqtfkiDhlLoo2YRcSDXHeLxA0gHULMFPkSrxyErnjC0NCC4JoOeHltlmJlHX1RMKVA81Ds3dH6fvu0VmjGf/s1600/IMG_4791.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> 6:30 PM, Trip counter 45.3.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyn7ukhyNkpZzXLeC1q16lCXTYpO_PdfRa2n3SdKNJVn2nxZpqSJssSIzBF4svh0SA-vxZEy6JtZoAqEH9Tpd6LCf4qBcy6-gX_EsLb3fdoC6z1GcIGGI9baUjLfS5Tm6v2aBe6hv3axk/s1600/IMG_4792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyn7ukhyNkpZzXLeC1q16lCXTYpO_PdfRa2n3SdKNJVn2nxZpqSJssSIzBF4svh0SA-vxZEy6JtZoAqEH9Tpd6LCf4qBcy6-gX_EsLb3fdoC6z1GcIGGI9baUjLfS5Tm6v2aBe6hv3axk/s1600/IMG_4792.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>8:36 PM, 47.6 trip counter</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>After this shot, I was over it. LOL.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We kept inching forward.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I knew that it was a time thing. I
would eventually make it home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At one point, the traffic didn't move
for almost an hour. A tractor trailer had gotten stuck on a small
incline, and a car had stalled in a lane beside it. The mass of cars
in the three lanes eventually figured out how to get around it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We crept on.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I finally turned into my
subdivision at 9:25 PM, my car made it almost to my house. We live on
a hill, and I gassed it to make it, but it didn't. David came out to
meet me, and we moved the car to the bottom of the hill. Others in my
neighborhood who lived near me had left their cars too parked in all
kinds of ways on the incline.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJF-B3yOIFnz_-xtT1VqtOazPBiyFI0kdTQ8iqJJT2-tfSJ8ALRFpd98cFu7x8ZLdSLHQoWZrrDK7frsJgh2gXfc9XtUvfKaDXukXEp1_58NLsW15sMopeYbX3C46IkVlqQWZrHh23XCD/s1600/IMG_4794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJF-B3yOIFnz_-xtT1VqtOazPBiyFI0kdTQ8iqJJT2-tfSJ8ALRFpd98cFu7x8ZLdSLHQoWZrrDK7frsJgh2gXfc9XtUvfKaDXukXEp1_58NLsW15sMopeYbX3C46IkVlqQWZrHh23XCD/s1600/IMG_4794.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I thank God for my
safe return.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today, the neighbors met with shovels
on that hill in our “hood “ and together we scraped away the ice
and snow so that the abandoned cars could be moved to the safety of
garages and driveways. A sense of community and camaraderie reigned.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We each had our travel stories of how
long it took to get home, and even though mine was one of the longest
for some reason, we couldn't top the stories that have been all over
the news of people who spent the night on the side of the road, had
been on the road for 17 hours, or walked miles in flip flops, or
delivered a baby on the side of I-285.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My nephew Andrew, who just took a job
with 911, asked my sister after hearing my story: “What on Earth
was Aunt Harriett doing out in this mess? She's retired.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Good question, Andrew.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And, none of your beeswax. :-)<br />
<br />
ETA: My friend Margaret Kirkland sent me this ... <br />
<img src="http://us.mg203.mail.yahoo.com/ya/download?mid=2_0_0_1_11704_ADrXiGIAAOPRUuuumQA22zR6iZA&pid=2&fid=Inbox&inline=1" height="200" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1391260200372_2970" width="200" /></div>
H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-78027474817186278742014-01-17T16:17:00.001-05:002014-01-17T16:17:27.206-05:00Time Flies, and Fruit Flies Like a Banana<div style="text-align: center;">
Who has time to blog? Not I. I've been busy with it all.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What is it?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I have no clue, but I've been doing stuff.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Christmas came and went. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I took no photos because we all look the same except for Lukas! the grand phew, who is a little past the age of one. He is bi-lingual, crawls like a dervish, and opens any unattended cabinet in a sixty mile radius. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I actually don't know why I didn't take photos -- it's probably because others have better cameras -- Bryan, my brother Hunter, and I was too busy being entertaining. Except not.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We did the usual -- ate, played games, ate some more, worked puzzles, and stared at our, hand- held electronics.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FTR: I don't really have a hand-held electronic. I stared though.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The puzzling level met insanity as they completed five puzzles in
five days. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Manic times!!!!!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We [they] had mad games of Bootlegger, Telephone Pictionary, Quiddler, and Quirkle. We [I?] about busted a gut playing Telephone Pictionary because my brother Kenneth can't draw, and he made the clue of <i>Petticoat Junction</i> look like "when worlds collide." It's also hard if one is "culturally illiterate" as I was with "Furbie." I was like -- what is a Furbie? I still don't know what it is, and I refuse to file it in my very full hard drive of a brain.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I wish I had saved some of those drawings; they were hilarious.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My nephew James drew a mean Iron Curtain btw. :-)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We had our photo made, minus brother-in-law Ralph, and the number of twenty- two seems kind of daunting. Every time we get together, I think of how proud my parents would be to know that we have kept this tradition alive for over sixty years. </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqjSReasWbNiwvB_o3qGNDPQqvLcqJjy0-p642V_yhgGXhor5OJ7muBuX3xqAXaI_FYj-g8LM5aAUnNw8hbyNw39uTOjmzhTPt2p4izpSoPyKhPrDTWHa8pZljVxrKpuTz4n87kD9_ZzT/s1600/Cousins,+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqjSReasWbNiwvB_o3qGNDPQqvLcqJjy0-p642V_yhgGXhor5OJ7muBuX3xqAXaI_FYj-g8LM5aAUnNw8hbyNw39uTOjmzhTPt2p4izpSoPyKhPrDTWHa8pZljVxrKpuTz4n87kD9_ZzT/s1600/Cousins,+2013.jpg" height="200" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> the cousins with the "others"</i></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_TclJaBQvTGMEilIW2-5Vj8EbC3FrTABNZY9FJRa8As_ATFAieLB-ImWuFt6gRp9Cq3mCILkAEK2eyR0RgJLJUarJWMgY0vitQx8CkhTou_za-r1DUDAiKo0QLp50rlhST0gfqd9zDyK/s1600/Whole+Clan,+Christmas+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_TclJaBQvTGMEilIW2-5Vj8EbC3FrTABNZY9FJRa8As_ATFAieLB-ImWuFt6gRp9Cq3mCILkAEK2eyR0RgJLJUarJWMgY0vitQx8CkhTou_za-r1DUDAiKo0QLp50rlhST0gfqd9zDyK/s1600/Whole+Clan,+Christmas+2013.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> the whole clan -- and the Fab Four</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Little 'phew at the bottom</i>... </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
While hanging out during Andrew and Kayla's wedding in September, my nephew Glenn, the Georgia Tech student, almost grad [May 2014], came up with this clever but crazy numbering system for the family .</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We [someone -- Angie and Kayla] came up with the idea of a t-shirt and -- <i>"Welcome to the Family -- please take a number"</i> became the mantra.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
{at least it's polite}</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I'm number four, btw.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Now it's the middle of January.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Egads.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Time flies, and fruit flies like a banana. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
ETA: My sister and I have taken on this huge project. We [she really] are in the process of scanning all of the family photos. The collection belonged mainly to my mother's family, her parents and sisters, but also included those taken by my parents ....</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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We have some cool old ones --</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8o-GhI060hMBhMB_2EVcjAF-kTCQbqrpJXLZ4DUksfg6KzLSSrHLpobt6s26Dtz6BME_IJI-Hd2ysrIHVMvbFlVXJydclhCKGjS-CYwhkE3zI4w7AxpL9qk0R4iiQ0IBSM1xP3Lj1cPtP/s1600/IMG_20131126_0012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8o-GhI060hMBhMB_2EVcjAF-kTCQbqrpJXLZ4DUksfg6KzLSSrHLpobt6s26Dtz6BME_IJI-Hd2ysrIHVMvbFlVXJydclhCKGjS-CYwhkE3zI4w7AxpL9qk0R4iiQ0IBSM1xP3Lj1cPtP/s1600/IMG_20131126_0012.jpg" height="320" width="298" /></a></div>
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<i>My maternal grandparents, Will and Mima [Jemima], back row left;</i></div>
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<i> bottom left -- Aunt Eleanor, Aunt Ava, and unknown suitor.</i></div>
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<i>circa 1938 </i></div>
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<i>Margaret, Mother, Sally, Kenneth, and me, circa 1984.</i></div>
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<i>My sister and I obviously in competition for biggest hair.</i></div>
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<i> I won. Bwha.</i></div>
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<i></i></div>
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Good blogs to come -- I've got picture material.<br />
<br />
Oh, and my nephew Chapman? He had my name for Christmas, and he took my blogs from the last six years that are about my family and made them into a book. It was such a sweet gift, and he spent so much time laying it out and getting it perfectly done. Love him for that!!!! <br />
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That's all I got.<br />
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<br />
<br />H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-6307364275250874462013-12-20T11:37:00.000-05:002013-12-20T11:38:18.181-05:00Looking East 7:38 AM<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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That's all.</div>
<br />H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-23308881654282424892013-12-03T20:16:00.001-05:002013-12-03T20:19:23.016-05:00It's that time of year ..<div style="text-align: center;">
for Tallulah to toss the reindeer from the mantel.</div>
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David and I arranged the decorations for Christmas on Sunday, and Tallulah lurked with her usual suspicious self as she eyed the tree, the mantle, and the wreaths with disdain.</div>
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. </div>
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Then, when the mantle is complete, she hops to it -- because she can,</div>
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finds the loathsome, red reindeer with 1999 on its left antler, and</div>
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then waits.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD1nwst80nOLA7v-J8HcH72e4YBdicKlhCQgDWSUoNiCzcFmc5ItQe7NecM5AboqkiMlq3hoqoIh5beS83JAFi-o5Y_xfaRPNBMWAq9XauiAKcxH3IgxYi0kMeNhedYlL6KSdvVqRUun2V/s1600/IMG_4729+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD1nwst80nOLA7v-J8HcH72e4YBdicKlhCQgDWSUoNiCzcFmc5ItQe7NecM5AboqkiMlq3hoqoIh5beS83JAFi-o5Y_xfaRPNBMWAq9XauiAKcxH3IgxYi0kMeNhedYlL6KSdvVqRUun2V/s320/IMG_4729+(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Monday morning --- 1999 red reindeer lies four hoofs up on the dining room floor.</div>
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Yes, it's officially Christmas.</div>
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:-)</div>
H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-7683191852878862562013-11-23T12:15:00.000-05:002013-11-25T15:44:05.983-05:001963<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Novembers in Georgia always can be
characterized with the color gray. Of course, there are sometimes
bright colorful sunny days, more like October, and then there can be
frigid days more representative of January, but mostly Georgia, November days
are full of gray.
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the fall of 1963, one of my two, distinct
memories of fourth grade was suffering from a type of childhood
anxiety, perhaps brought on by my mother's returning to work – a type
of separation fear. Scared of all kinds of things that I thought could happen without my mother's being there, I'd wake up on school morning with a “tummy ache” and tell
my parents that I did not want to go to school.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The blogger and her sister in Falls Church, Virginia, summer 1963</i></div>
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My parents did not let us stay out of
school with such a flimsy and un-diagnosed malaise, but they were concerned about the
frequency of my complaints and took turns, if they could, of helping by walking me
to school on those days. Other times since they both worked, they
elicited the help of close neighbor Pat Gable, whose daughter Marcie
was my best friend, to help me get over those hurdles as once I got
to school, they both knew I seem to adjust and be fine.</div>
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One morning, I dressed, sick at my stomach, but delayed by my illness, and left late to go to school. I pretended that I had gone, but instead, hid in a neighbor's yard, let some time pass, and returned to Pat's house and told her that
“I had been sent home.” Pat kept me at her house until my parents got home from work. Since it was discovered somehow that I hadn't shown up at school at all, had told a bold face lie, of
course, I was punished accordingly, but they were concerned about this new development in my well-being.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At one point, they considered enrolling
me in the school district where Daddy was employed, and perhaps this
pushed me to work through that anxiety. I just know I suffered a lot
the first months of the fall of 1963, but somehow managed to overcome
that anxiety and that problem did not return for the rest of my elementary school years.</div>
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My fourth grade teacher was <a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/b/post-preview?token=p86nh0IBAAA.92-lT4rVd5XUWfeIdiHOjA.o2xdPqf9W8NiuZZZ9xDpjw&postId=5549300618198061297&type=POST">Mrs.Gibson, </a>a middle-aged dark haired woman who had taught fourth<sup></sup>
grade at Perkerson Elementary for decades. Kind but formidable, she
challenged her students to memorize passages of historical documents,
poems, and state capitals, do long division, study the battles of the Civil War, diagram sentences, and read. We
respectfully loved her and tried not to draw attention to ourselves
with any type of overt misbehavior. We stealthily passed notes, drew
boy's names on our palms with ink, and whispered only when we were
sure of no discovery.
</div>
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Early in the afternoon of November,
22, 1963, we sat in Mrs. Gibson's class waiting for the school day to be over. It
was Friday, Thanksgiving holidays were just around the corner, and we
were itching for the weekend. We stared at the minute hand on the big
black and white clock on the wall and listened as it loudly ticked off the seconds. As we tapped our pencils, fidgeted in our wooden, shellacked top school desks, and
pretended to complete whatever assignment Mrs. Gibson had given, the
door opened and Van Wing, a seventh grader and audio visual aide in
the library, swung opened the classroom door and blurted out,
“President Kennedy has been shot.” I don't know if he was
supposed to deliver something to our classroom, how he knew this information, or what,
but he announced it with confidence to our fourth grade classroom as if he had been sent on this errand. Perhaps, he had -- as this was way before televisions were in school rooms -- all we had were film projectors, record players, and the occasional radio.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Immediately the classroom buzzed, my
friend Jackie, oblivious to the rules of democracy, leaned over and whispered to me, “If he dies, will
Richard Nixon be president now?”, and a shocked Mrs. Gibson shooed
Van back to his job and restored the class to order as best she
could.
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Van,who lived directly behind us on Bader
Avenue, had a reputation for being wild, but even Mrs. Gibson knew
that Van wouldn't be bold enough to make that kind of announcement without it being based on good information.
The rest of that school day, the little time that was left, is a blur to me. It
was 2:00 Atlanta time when President Kennedy died in Dallas ---
we had probably only forty-five more minutes of academics.
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The <i><span style="text-decoration: none;">Atlanta
</span></i><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">Journal and
Constitution</span></i> papers wishing to get out the latest news
delayed its evening printing. <a href="http://harriettgillham.blogspot.com/b/post-preview?token=hnGqh0IBAAA.92-lT4rVd5XUWfeIdiHOjA.YuZQlvJFHKT0BB19bs__dA&postId=7073176269655886215&type=POST">My brothers both had paper routes</a>, and
since they had to wait for the late delivery, arrived home way after
dark, exhausted, but having sold out of all their extra papers, a highly unusual occurrence.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img 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UpUV6j+erKHrq0KEqAkFngXK2xoq5tBGpzqA/dBEgiQSJO8i++xw4+cpiSTAYAz9pbYw1oNvl0tscBmPB/B3FqVSkAKiU1qKSq5lQoGoFuUPB69L4j5n2e8R82oyUoBdoIqoLEns03B2xrX2hCQ34QZ1faG2kLJHUfHHq1VOkgzeLZhyLBemxPf69cBW/Zv4JfJa61cr5zjSFUyEWZN+pJA2sIxeowPyRXWI/Qt98zSLfhNvnvgjgFYG5/KFmLiJCj4giSItPym+CWAnFqBNXUFYnSLgbROxNNhO9tV52wCCi9QYjYU2m8yBAsevxM9cdT5REkgsbeW82INjMjr6bY6nw6Z0KB05gF1Awbjy46dBh8cNa06CJkzB1Ekb8o6D54D1KlKVjzesHm6/rFsNeZQg/tu8kS/bcQbCL9OmFU+FFf8Aw+lyOvbbbp8MdV4Wxi9Pe1r/AA+Q2HTANZhqIVv20AxctPWBHmkrO/59cQbaoXSzDZQyd9l5ZHeD0m84M5HKPTE8rGAIkj43jvJ2wNDco++pRpiTWNyN4Oq1iPr8MB7T4e8iKZUG/wCDlNx0Tp+oj1wteHtb7qFEn8EiR/BibSL7n6NuWPu1aN2JB843iNr7if8AaGFKh0yHpFbbV2vtqv31aR8/qHhyL3HkTK3MU4Y3MG3+DHS+F0coykA5cNfcqhgGNoiOs27YSuVZyQHps14Hmtt0MD5/Dv2NeTU/8T/YH9uAA59iSSFYWN21EwNXZxA9Ph8mHp7/AHYAAB0lTzTG0PE3Mdtp3xP4oiq4JZmkXOgsQAwIgrSYWIsD3xANFdJAMkrPuE/vibUNzpW0X7bYCbRyje8KClW1EgqIMibAvabLt07QcP06Dhh+x6cTDQiDaRq9/sSRYm+BtSmhNibgADyz7puRHknrBF+uJnIDAo0+4MVJMqIn7u34Qe3yjAOU8vUkTl6Un3mFNepIafvJuIPXf5YjZmiYp6tFJuiLpUm45lA1X+e3TEhCp5jRSdRO1Q3BF/2u5v8A4EwjNLyA+UoF5IJUA6h+mBv3jAQfNAgrUkQbykEkXvtO1seZemNTAu5UqDy6JMkEb23GJGWqkuHLImm5LVE5pJ2IU2Nh0+eJdPMObDNU2JBPvpMidgKe3U7xftgIIqUWVoeqeaTHkzMG+0QIP1+j6VKXJHmREr+136n1md/XDpzTgLOapjufMS4MR/q/j26fJx61QH/SEsOroJJvzfd2ESRHbAecLFPzBo19TcppkhZ2vP5YM4H5SqxePOV1vA1LJsIsFG29j1+GCOA7EHPpUMweSObYmBMwvltMjpN/TE7Arja5glPs7BbNqnTHSN7zv6XnpBDynRozJDMBYKaNhJJtyTAv9cIpZSmNJBqQDIXyR0kXinIt89sJ4YMyKgNViUgggslpgqbdgNJ7sSRbBsHAA1y1E6R95cmPuIEmYJPlQCLwfW8zjyplaTBmIq3cE/scTMESAaUkdzBj0xTfal4hzWXzNNKFZqamiGIAFzqYTcHoBimf57cQ/dVT6L/dwG25LLjUzUyysdzUowDtJsEJJtcnviGh5dOqrMET9nrdx677iZ6jtfHD414h+6qn+z/dx7/nrxD91VP9n+7gNmmHMtVKh50ihV6TsZiPlBtbEg0aQt9/uf8AxTsO/bt0J2vjD38bZ+D+yqn0X+7jV+MeLaNKk7rWFRhYBWDX7WPa8SDbAGWSnq/14Jk2FQC2+1vh3tGJOXpK8sDVF9maov0BItjP/DPjmvmT5bGktWeUs7KGHosEsw7ahi10PMB11cyWYfhUBEHyux/lMcAjPZVw7E01EzBSm97yJ0HeQD32wzlslIU1FIgkR5DkEAAbTy95i574Ep4iZ86oWs4peQWILCC2oQ380/8ATErNcXcbV/8AbGAKrkYkhiH/AExQqdAbDmsI9YJjrh9lckEVKgmDelVO0gD3h8++5jGI1PGOek/surv+lhB8Y5/911v53/TAbeFeJFSpA6GlVn1/HJG8fLthOboME162KpIM6lJBIEc0kiJ5pt02xj/BvFudavRVs1VKmqgILbgsoI+mNs4yAAHKElbhtelVuBfmGACVKgZtJeCxAgOOpvutjMWEdccKwJZi/KRqjWsEMdMjlkAMbX6CZ2w+c0nbk3n7QZKhiNU+b6ne1gOmFJnYIsSwYEgV/wBITEGpeQA0bESe+A8L0LEvVNiIlLwNeq3oQfUCce1BSIX7yrcRM0zIA3+g/L6pOdUC4WNMKRmd7i0+ZuAxw4+Y5rL1gff9SJAjzAJ2+oicAQyQpGpKVg7R7odTbYbXgf13nBLAXhObVqkCJ0m3m6jvtAc/WP7MGsB2K74pytKo9JalTQzBgg8stquhuQRAsLWkwZtixYGcUFNnUNTZ2UEgjUNPzHwPWbeuArw4bQpaZrGAfMnym/FDXIMAAXOxv0ti18NpKlGmqzpVFAmZgARM3nA006P/AITmAEuX2AgG+5gRO9hJ2xNHEhIGk7gXBG8326EfngKB7TMhRq5ykKj1Q3kbIikQGcyWZhHbbt3xSqeRyZIGvM3gTpp2nvfF09rOZqU6tPSQFelpbkBPvEiWiY9Ji2HW4ojgBKeXDNEQaWomxMA9flgMuz2X0VGT9FiPpbHlHKM1lUk72BMDvacWniOa1mpNKk3PC8u9Q9b72kxtsOuPOO8NcVRlaKCWKea9gKlSGY3NlReeBYWJwFZbIttqSe2tf1TOJGSBYNBIVRb57gXgSd79Rjs5w9qJ01VZWABsQR9RI29f+jWYpPTUU2Vl1AMQREz7p+Ef4tgI+YqzEE+mJWczNIUaa0vMFRr1iXsYsBAt3I9D1wPKYWlG8Hljof1elsAk1CZk7/n1v3+eGRA6Yn5fINUamiaS1RiqgsBe0TO09O+LA/s+rqoLOgPVRJj52wFQBwqcWGj4XB3qmxg6aTN3B2+GCWW8FIwkVXIMidMXBgiDcQR1wFZ4IP2RQ/jqf++MfQfiB4C7T/ChtxMTy7Tv8sZ1wbwiiVKZXmIdTLehntGNK43OgxJttYg3G6m5O+2AC+YVMKzag1tJQ+9MRIjTO837YkrnKzHSjuTYD9ruLy3u+kdLGwnDAQgqIIUAbUwBubjrsT8574lqKUQBS7NOWa4kRO3Ub7TFhGAc8zNX5XkDb7uG5htedid4274fIqxc15AG3k81569enTDANPUDpp+9q/0Z5kQSZ/S7H9eGwKYM6aWq4JGVe4I2tPqD32wBLLF9fN5safxeXpn+TzT07Ym4EZBV82wp6gIlcuyGwiNRMRAA+AGC+A7Afiajze/IJGlrXtcWJO1rj4YMYB8Xoa6ygIdUDmIfTFzuCACN952wDIURB1epIYQfU9O946+uHaLAlCZ94XggX6Tt029Z63VVyT8xAW5O7Ncbg+/v8v8AqtMkysIAI1z77bAnpqgmI6fXAC/HXAKdcCtUapFJT93TEl77Xt+XfFJymcypaCxUzH7VQp22JLLSldzsdvjGNQ45UAQ6gCCACD1E3/t+WM9GQTN5ZHcjzQo1GIHuqREe6YI25ZmQcA//AJvO9RaimlURU0+8OX3jy2gbiD0nBLM069fKLRNNPO2Zm90gbjVTB0k2HTr8MVHifBaywytVYaYPlsWMHcRZjM9j/VgZ9lzOWOpXelP4pIB7AlZU/AnAT874TzmoEqajEkEK0gCx3NoMm1ojArxRkMxS8n7QIlCq3BMKSSCRueafniw8I8Y10TVmfLdDPMCNYMWlVNwTaYHx6YpfFeKPmHapUNz+EEwuwgAmwsMBFMiJ63wcqZiilFg9JHqiVWqCYb15WE6RHNF5E7HFenC61XUZ+g7DtgHBnHGzsPgxH9eH8hxapTqBi7sAbjWQT8//AJGIOPJwFpyni3QpH3pMsRzJFyTcaZm974mcH8aIkJUpkDUx1gzEkttHrfFJxxwGwcH41Sd1NNtS6gO15GLhxxVlZUzEa4JAm0GBefiMYj4SaGAmPvFIxuPGVHvGppge7c6r/o6gD9DgAbxJGm825XtECJmPS0Xg74VlqOsnTpWQZLB11X3ILXkLH5zaMSGFM8vmOJi8N8Tza/Xfppj8OE+Yhb9tYW/RIHMTf343JHpsOmAdpUSjzNDoZYgkWF/e6WvacOIW2P2bl3AAGkz8TtM3i5xEUUqhtUqelm/CIOz3NpnDjGkDJqsZkkgPBDHpDQLzttbtgJ/DmJqAkULrPJGr473BIP8AgYLYFcOegXHlsxJBiXZgO4uSB/bOCuA7Ani6DUGZhpBU6TTZ7gxaGtM9uk/hwWwB44v3kloBUWDN0PUKCBY79YjAKyaUNGnmOq3uMs+gG/ab9cSAKErvI06ZB7iI+ZxGU02jVUYERIXUBax0xG8TqGFrWpllPmNJK2g79PgD6WvgJ3E8uHUqeoIntimZTL+Qy5donRqBA97Tyn9Y+hxecwcULxpwDM169Ktl3QFBAkwRczuCCDOxwEqurRyjAepx5aL06dSZqLKt0B7HqO0wf68TM3na9Gkvn5Q1ABzvSeWJi7aVWwnoTGAOeq5PNnL+XUIYVlVqdQaX0udMAixgkWBNsB6MmmaNVCiqwRn1Io1HSVJB7nGf1BH9R740bhWaTI50JWdQACpJYWDAMCfXafnio8dylBXqNTr06mtiQFDDQCZi4ja39XYAYHrthTUyN7HsZBH1x6oT8Rbf8IG3xJF/lg3X4tlGy6UjRqalHvjTOrqZm4J6HAArY9AHf6DCC4/x8h/Vjg//AMHrgJCU4hoJB2nChmeyL9MJqZ9mGk6QPQAYm0alOACpJtJ1t+qYwBHww5aoJABLqdvUbY27jmWLKYUGBvrKkHoAAIM7G4N+uMc4ZWoiokIV5lkiD1+uNi43UIEwQAvvhiADPWLQdp3E4AOtUrDKwm+7sQdhEFSC0mT163nE37Y5YrKDdbRNuoBTmPUjoMR8tXKk8wlQwjXO0nUdQsBG947Xw8eIPqA1rqG4JW5k292Y2BIuOxwCcvxBiygvT9dMGP33uCLGO0AHqcEDVSP9Ip7G/Jt+q18RKeYcpq82mpG+oqNM7fg633ws5lpJFajpOrTzrcj+R0nuenfATsu66wBVRiAZUBZPra46Ym4F8OrHXparTY3OlWUnuNlHqfpvgpgOwB40D5w3grHvMsm+0C8GOuD2AfGSpqQdQIUGQzx1gQthtvgGxlrftqe70rt167dSQPnjylSIdT51MLqsPPJm4EXXm6b9T64bSpEMCpITljWbztGqGiT67YkLxMzukBwIA3mTvHpFp+WALZmnOIL0DO2J32ynqKeYmsQCuoSJ2kTInphxyGlJvFwDBAMwbXEwYPocAK8hux+mBue8PUqzBqlEFwQQ4EMCDI5he2+Cy8OVlVqNZ43DGrUqKw6f6wA/W+IlLKqUNRM2Ci7v5rsoIENJ86I6wdsBQ/EXs/zlevUqh6ba2m+pSBsBGkiwtv0xXeI+A87SuaRf+LDP+pcbNU4O5/1zenNV7ReKwn/HW+I+Zy7IYNcAtAGp6g5pU2HmReYi28fEMJbw7m/3Lmf6Cp/dx5/m1nP3Jmf6Cp/dxttX3o+0oDIEGrVJDXEe/wBSTb4bwMO6+bT9oTUWgAVKkhjaPe27DAYafDOc/cmZ/oKn93Hq+GM7+5Mz/Qv/AHcbsuVltC5hfMCSU8xyYaeYp5k9bHpa+0OVeHMgBNbRsstUqRLQo3f3ixt6kDcTgMKXwrnf3JmP6Jv7MSE8MZvrlKw/kkfrxuScKaAGdiLzFWqvbY6iRtha+VTqeWTT82pLBHqlmbcnSGkwPSwjAZHwvw5W1oWpVkAYGSojceoxrvFlDARUhiOVQRDXB6g/LElYJIC0yVPMA1wSJuNNrRiHxQMREQABPMuje2oNH5emAH08vUcAqr3kFtSH4kSOsnvF7A49r5KqSeR7NqEFIbVEi4m3965thAWPeFEk3OvR8o+8nuJM9PXCndRYJlgpaVkJsYJ/1lyCok9bWtgPG4bVYXWoDAEg0/l8gLW7ddyoZSvLHQ0ltUAoQCJIIsLX69Y9cLQqDAp5ckMC0BJ6zbXYgxv364lLlKcyfs3XX92L3J/StbvPXAI4Vk3SqCVbSFsSUiSFna82+EzFowawPyeXUOCPI1QZ0JDXjrqNu+CGA9wE4s/3ogGQoJOtgCL2IFh8Tg1gVxDMxWVZUAi911XmDDDYETY/EdwhNWUXBEarE6j3sbxPQz89sPIGEkLY7RqIiTa9v5Xp2OPKHEE5RqcwCTajeJJB0npBFv8Arj2pxEABTUck/wAVcGIEA7EXt0bADc9wnLHMO5zSoxcPo1CA1PTqYqTGoBlEgCNQmbY8peEaYdAM0+sgMADBdabObQ06R5w9ARTPoV8Y8M5PzTUrVWRqpcwSoDSKZIuvQID8236PZ7hmVrJRmspGXUBdJSCNVL3gBYSig6dNmYWBwE1clSy1StXeqEp1Ai6GICLACiJPXsIFzY4D5bwdTanpTNVGp86wpBVbaCqiSFAi67SLQBGJj8Ly5yaZVq8qL+bKmWBBLamDAGTO83EHENPDGTLEjMsTKuxFRJMO5B1ROol9OqdUACRNwcHhNCzL9qqlxcrquodSgNiCNUEk9W1G2CSv9mRKdn0iNTkgmAu2lT/gDELhHCMpQqLVSvzKvlaSyAEBmF1VRzaj70SY9TMrjjfeKJIkkWaDsm3c+mAIpmgQCabSRNkJ7/vZ+oEzhriFQwhWVlhJi4kqI5kIm/pfA7IL5hnzI6wKhLC9tSx37k4I5sHSvMTDIDtfnS+36u+ABZzguXr5isq5rRVdFFWijKDYUjqZepChIaJAYXiBhvPeE6CQaubqLzM0swFw/mlhOzKAAG3Cz3xI4n4byzM1StWqL5xDRqUKrBKSFgdM3WmoIYkXI64jN4VyLsw+0lmYRGukxgJUWANBOzG+/IvYyCs14cy2XRDVzLpDppdm6qWOkAyLltjIkCBYYn8R4BRzTmuuYqIKlMIxpMAGCCqAZiRHmv8Al2u7TpZU0koLWGmm6VFAZdXI/mARG0rsBMD54EL4a4c+qK8lgTaompTKMWA0zP3d53GoGQcBKp+FMvTq0iKpV9aMo5ZY0xttJGm0GYExG+CPHAJJLgEKOQtAa5BJE3ifXA3hfB8klZKlOuTU1LpUshNlddOnTqFmM7HlFxBwV4yxGv3oCoT7se9sSbifS2AEZWize6oYCxK1HaItbl/fEx8+mFDh9UhQVbrF3tJ/g/G3brhyll+rV1tE/ebAiD+AdI/6YUlAgGa6mCL6/wASkH9D1Nr9MAujQYDnosxi511O3UaYmfn16DEujlk0jVSqA7QGdt7XJgmzdv1YhUqEGfOWIBjXM2AMnTMFo2IsekRiRTemZCmn/SP2j+uLYCbkaCBpVKoO0sWj6E4IYF5B08yFNOYJgMxMG8wbCbf4OCmA9xX+O0W8wsA2nSsEKpggttJ35uojf5H8V3xCg81SBzQLlD67NtO83t85wEZKHOR7gvfRMCbRE3gxMRE/HEk5JAIDzB/QN42vEdxPwwyuSDknTTIJuSugkDsGuog4lNk1ESoJBLSaiyCTB6X2B+owEzix5qcsQBJKhQdcFeW/U7fPAmmx901jDQJajT2HUme5BnpAth6qjudTh7QLLU+RgKJ69OwOGkouB7rQQCYFS1yP0Zm4NoMDAKpVJMCoQrFoBooAuudIJnZZX46RienByAuh0UBAIWisGO3YTBj0GI32KqxDmALm7kEyNiCLf1b9Me0cvVDAFwQpH+tJJiT36zB+W8RgJmX4Y4fU9RGEyR5Kgmx6zO8H5Yh8dUlwBMGQYAI/1ZEz2Im2E08pUgEsd4jz3vESJ1bm59P1M52i5CahrOpySFNQTyReYFsAUyIWCyoUEwLi4H9X52x2cfZZG4JDSdmXaOs4h5DMMrHUHCRpACGAVgGwk/kBc4l51dQRgkyyc2m4GtDt714+UAnbAecUH3dPnKXFwqtfSY96w/tjpOBtSvKiKjK0GX8pPjI5oB2HW5G0nCc2yEy7qxFgYVoABMAxsOoPbpjwKh3dIZp2XcRqHu+snrEHAEcvTDOpSsqyZ8vQhMT7vcCJH1w4OF1QZFf4HykkdN49T9TgRToLUOhStpgaVmP5u2/x74fqZZfxNSg3khJ/DqItHS/xwFhWio2VR8AMDOL5cEsSVACiToLNEn3Yv6bHfEPLZEMOQUmjeFUib2MDqDBw6vCzoKhUJCkQUGrm1e6wI0+veMBDNFC2vzJ0kEj7O+wgdp3F479scuRUidcETBGXYGVIvdb7iO8dYOJS8NrKW0hVtZl5dhAWzSO/bl6b4c+zZnuQY3LSJUECwYWbr639MBCbhqsPfAmY+4YQIUgXGwHQ9/QjBUVEtFSsBFgFMQDMRo7CI3j1vht3CaVqOyEg71xcAzqE79fkMNJm1MgvcGI+0CeYGfoASB6HAT8q66gA9RiF2ZTB6zOkXvG/54m4F8PzKu/K+qJFq4bpYlR3hvocFMB7gBxivFYgkFfLnQajC97wB9SOmo9MHsDOLaAZMKxEBmYaesiDUWbYARVzQBYpoDECAz6gbXHMPhEdumPGcFpMWYgc7TY7EdOu/VYxKeqhiHpwP3w9e1fvjiUn36ekbDUNQ36+dHXtgGaq3qANqBYX0rcmT1YCQBHTfDVOALMSNLgjSkXA/fdWC/TpE49GUQEMHSZOqRTgg2i1QHaQb3nph9MujRrKkRePLHN+kD5h3tIi8YBnK0FBZdRDfpKI7cvI2oEGRa2+9sSvMpEk+TVkb8+8nb3oN5Ha3wx5WoU0pyoYhYg6ktEsBKkQJv8Aqw0H0BR5CnRLc2klSGgwdX+OuAfmlMGlWj+FYxufe3tvuZ9cMV61RUDZai7qNUoWKsSNECxi8sZ7fQu/bFBBSjTvJnSsnSS0yD8DfrOOVS3lNTqJQprVYlBA1i1hBi9yfjgGGzuZOh1y7FCOZC7yDNQb9rIdjvYGcHstRDIrMGVioJXW1iRcb9MV6jw2sG584GQK6hRU0nU4Iu3odt4jvMy+D5eolZnrZpKgC6VQGAtxeJ3kxck3AwEaijktqJSASSSsDVEbAm/Lvt8sBeP5zNCotLKJSq6l1s7sdKSxAG6k+72Mes4MZGleIOoXTlAht5knrA7SMBOO5JlIOkEimfdIG5PMQrQdzIOAX4N8Q16uaqUq4ph6asx0AgNbcSTb/HpgtQpUtK/dZfZhalUAWQsfh93VMkwIjFV8JKDmHddKK1JlQICdWjTrYaYJAJAJHc7xi2UayBVPlXNrVH5u4PJtaymd/XASqGbqqQQtFdR5rVJJmDEqAN+vqe+AftLzlVMhqFQpV1UgzUXZb80gEGYnpODNPyWpghUC296uV0kyOotMb2nFZ9pAUcNbRp0+dT92p5g3Ye9/V0wGXnjebk/svM//AJFT+9h7L+I8ykxmK7yCJetUPzA1WPrhrLcEzNZBUp0HdJKyqzcb7X67/wBmI1XhldTDUaoPY02H9WAs/DvaRm6egNpdFEEEtJ/lSTPrfBTJcXrZ/OrVp12oImgtSNduaLmFEA9vpjPKlIqYYEHsRj2jVKkMphlMqexGxwH0vwjM6y95gL+erBLFR8EcXWvVrhDIWnQPzfzSR9IxbsB7iie1bgdbNUqK0aTVCrsTp02sB+Jh67YvWBXHVpcjVASwDaCGZYmJkqZ7d8BlP+a+ZUuV4dUlnRgxNLkCFeUAE7jWCZEysgxiJnvCedqinqyVRWXWXK6OYvULfpRZTpFhsOm2p03TSOWeaQTVqHSeZZkiV3+YM47LmmFC6GhZAAq1CNJAUgTYwADp2698BmP+bWb8oqOHsr+UaesBDJinDbgzape9nWQYOHcxwLMFwV4YyKFqAgIhJLWW9ogdb3JsRbGmU8uhHKtaATAFatYdLAfC3baccfxE0qhFRW1DVWIBPQKaZCyZvAPW84CoeBOB1cvlaq1aLqWrKdLICSApuACZGLHVy0tqvGoAAUSIAJiJ2ix67iNjghmc0fKACFVVwgDAiVgi+tR03Ak+s4E0gx31XAAaae50kARaIFrfiPyB6lQj3k5SFUxR3AN23J6QR2NhjzyyrKsS0EhNWnVM/hAPS8m9rjskVmsQrTeFU09iZG52BgjrMz0xIyVRhSXnKXbcqDNp2qKIAItFrX6YBIydXmOhzykLJafQnl3ub37DHfYqse48ypB1EHuROm94ue3TbEhTUNvP296NM7/xpi2kXBv8YwuizllLV5UmIUqJO8Cap9OhwEJKsFmJVoYkqNZJGkxedgQAbED0xV/GPh+vm9Ao1qa01lXD1CkkklWYNJiPU+mLAWADgut9I1Co0rNyRyR+ip7TBPd2nmVUkioHOpiR5jD3QOmkiNQJnsB0JXACeH8NrLmzWqPSCJQKKhrc0llckkTE7T/BwZo06lZeVZG+oVJgxBAgXMGYPWMK4fWBEB5IRoOov0bcQLiBbcg4Vlc4XUgVaes3UaKswASZBIvGkxbr8MBIGRApkff+/q2E3G2/u4q3tLo6eHOOf9up+/v+L1NsGzxKVWK9NX0kspp1YuRpN2DCxJ0ncxtBkR7U6qtw5mSSrPSIJnu4636YCH7PuJUqWWo0CT5r6mgCY1MSsxcAiLkATacWY8XolWKuIEybxI3AOxI2gbYqOabTksu9JR5ooKAwBIUBLloHbYx1xC4ZwWiMmGrNUphlBqCdPyIi+wiZPwJwFN8RZtqtTWRY7eg7fLAwYL8Xz1OoVp0qZpoDF7k9JP8AZgjx+jSpUEUKA5JERflIGpusm9jMao6YC3+xH3s58KP/ALuNSxlfsP3zh6fcif6X+3Gpk4BWIPFPMEMi0iqglvMn0gggHpP5YnYHcWyhqFACttRgmCRbblJ+kbjARFzVSVEZYatrte8COT02/wAFX2lxf9jFeYgyRy6gB0NwpUH1jvhP+TnDKdSEk7FgJI32S/XaLDCk4dUHu6LR+LqN55IHUW6YDkzzgNbLowK21mCL7nTboB88evxKqCZOWEWM1CO/73rH5HfDicLVhy1WIIBtpIO8Hb4/HC/8mi6+Y3UXgxMyPpgGeIVlekmuGIYBxTggNB/SItOBeWKgEmiD0g6YEySbNMQNt4BscFs3kQq3cmX1TpEzc2gWJ79MDaOXpjUrI+oAklURQQTaAST2i/TAefaE60KRifdAgi4sSRckEbbC8YWzI1MfcLfzLW0gaRqFnjmIHfrj16FETNOqepYincE79yJ6RNgcJ0UQFIV5V2KzEj3STKqVmQI2J6YBqmOXQMugVwNU3HvBYMPPT/Z6yAVUVHmKzZcT5saolt5JJ1mYJH1NjfHmXFAEaaToZsdMESBYSm/Zdz8xh3h1aipEUSNTIt1kTMgjkvBi/S21sBECSYDMQCQRrW2rln+cbdgO5wnJ1ram5oUjSagCmZIBI3JBIv1A+UtZXVbVzBl5I2v6bG0ncBoN5wvKrIhw5LKRqUKLORINjcFie1zvgG3rQ8U0hoNy7G4lTHMxje8AiMQWz5GorUsolpr1DAJgQSb7i9jfE2qohfKSoGZTvpEwTvA97f0jCTSrCAFeACshgZkmTcTeYnoANsA3TzJ1qGq6QS0hq9QRpm2okbmV27b7YA+0KTw2oS6uTWpksrlxu1pPbt0xZmpVYBCuIllGtTpNzF9wbbz8rnFe9pFApw1gxk+bTMzJ3bf16fLAA+FZmq+VpVF8wqKRQqundDpm4JMgbbX+ojiHiB6dE0nUCqT7vRRvMd7i21pwK4Dx2vS00VqaaTuAZUNp1EAsJ+sbYRxngeYpVSKyksWjVvrP73qZ7DACxUJYETqmR1M4dzjOXbzGLMCVJJnYxv2xYqHBGydE5quNNTahSO4c7O38ESwX0ExtirAYDa/ZTmaBSrToMSEFPVKkGTruZHWOmL2TjKfYf72b+FL/AN3Gq4B3ArjqUzoD0g7Q2gsAwUwNwSN7YK4i5vJiobhCII5k1bxI3FjAt6YCtrAUoKVPTckCjAmOo829h+WHy9NHDCjTDAm+lQVtt7/e0+h7jBdOGKNlpD4Uvgf0vQfTHLwpR+Gl/R/P9LABWo0pUeTSJI30gR3J+8na/wA/jj2qUchjRpmYliBuAOnmTYW2m1sGf8lrEaaUdvLPx/T9Bha8PE6opzMyEM7z+l3k4AfUzZrUjyqx1wBCmJBv7zCR/VtgcoC6eUCQVkUkFvdDGBPcEDcA2vez1MtrjzNDqDIBXr3uSPyxBqcDRhcUzvBNFDEme3qfqcAOoZyoFtqRO2lRpBLAER+GYseb5YS1eQPOXVUDNGqqEsoBJISzdLQbfmTqcFUx+16gSxbyUuTEm+xJEz/Zhf8AkldOkaQJmylbwJjQy2JBJ+OADJnKLAHRYNeMy5ItIYRuYB3iABfs9l+MIGpKKVKGYBCHlugm6ST033VuxwR/yKL3F/4z9fmep/Vh/L5Ep7rL8SGb9dQxgK15Y1kGBzyIplrspvIm8qvbbHiOjFdcAElhNJzp3BF+4CwbbWFsGk4DD6hUPvTHN3n9OPyw0vhsAAeYYAAA5ujauryet974CCr0kuGNQ6WkeU6lgQZMmxF9h1nvZlW0ueazhTtVmJB90tIKnZRfSLCDY2fD1PSACwa/NqYi+/Lqj/BiJOG18OgFYqGFMgHUes3Jfm2HvTgA75kGWh7gFoausMCC0CRIv0FgZ2xC8Z5WpmeHFKCNUYPTAUKwaFLbhuaR1kn4nFlHh6wHmtYyLtuYmZe4MCxkb4J5LIpSBCSAehYn9ZJ+WA+eG8GZ+P8ARK383F9zfCc7Vz9KoFq06dKkpmLMR7yxMEmYJ7DF9zfAabuXllncCIJmZuDf8sI/zfW58x5MCYTYRA92Og+mAzPx5wbO5msgp5aqaaLYgWLNv17AD64rI8E5/wDctX8v7cbmOAINmIN76VkyAO3x+uFDgNOQWOoAAaSqQY2NlkfIjbAUv2S8DzGWOZ8+k1PUKenVF48ydj6j640I4cIjCDgHsdjsdgOx2Ox2A7HY7HYDsdjsdgOx2Ox2A9x2Ox2A7HY7HYDsdjsdgOx2Ox2A7HY7HYDzHY7HYBD4bOOx2A//2Q==" 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" /></div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The weight of what had happened began
to settle in our home. Normally a boisterous bunch, egging each other
on, fighting, and getting on each other's nerves, each of us tried to process the news –
I can only imagine the difference in how we reacted – my oldest brother
Hunter a ninth grader, Margaret a seventh grader, and Kenneth a fifth
grader – we were in such different places of maturity.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My parents, who were strict about
television viewing, allowed the small set in our den to run
constantly with the coverage. We stayed up late, all huddled about
the screen like it gave off heat, and watched President Kennedy's
body returned to Washington by plane and noted the grisly image of
the dark stains on Jackie Kennedy's suit – even in black and white
it frightened me.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Greatly affected by it all, I worried
that assassins ran free and one waited in the bushes outside my house
to kill me or someone I loved. I lay awake that night playing the
day's events over and over in my memory – something I would do for
months to come.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On Saturday morning, I played with my
friends outside --- an overcast but not cold, gray day --- we rode
our bikes, played games, and occasionally referenced the American
tragedy; in our childhood minds, we tried to figure out what it could mean for our lives -- our president being shot and killed.<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On Sunday,
while we attended church, Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald. We heard
the news on the radio on our ride home, and my parents turned to the
television news coverage. That grainy black and white tumultuous and
chaotic filmed scene played over and over until it was pretty much
etched in my mind. That night I worried about who would be killed
next. It was a scary time.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My childhood world had been shattered,
and my parents knowing that the event had historical significance,
called me in from outside to watch any coverage of the events leading
up to his funeral. The scenes of the long lines outside the capitol
as his body lay in state, the cortege and the flag draped wagon
taking his body to the cathedral for the funeral, and then it again
as it carried his body to Arlington Cemetery to be interred – that
rider-less horse leading the way.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the magazines of<i><span style="text-decoration: none;">
Life, Look, and Newsweek</span></i> arrived in the mail in the days
afterward, the color pictures of Jackie Kennedy's blood spattered
pink suit made me queasy, but with my morbid curiosity aroused, I stared
at frozen image after frozen image of those tragic days.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Those were sad, gray days of November,
and the pall of what happened weighed on the upcoming holidays for
that year including Christmas.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1q5HAaFVEgzRiX38tEmtfn6ORA6l8azQ5g1YR_lcQEoNjPM52xfNd0faGsyS1m8CEcow48WJeIPM_oEAuvJJRZXReaam8UinqsEHtspcmklit0Oj5ykFw-1T9OL32LWs9e_YnsZcShwvw/s1600/Kenneth,+Harriett,+Margaret,+Hunter,+Dec.+1963+crop+for+blog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1q5HAaFVEgzRiX38tEmtfn6ORA6l8azQ5g1YR_lcQEoNjPM52xfNd0faGsyS1m8CEcow48WJeIPM_oEAuvJJRZXReaam8UinqsEHtspcmklit0Oj5ykFw-1T9OL32LWs9e_YnsZcShwvw/s1600/Kenneth,+Harriett,+Margaret,+Hunter,+Dec.+1963+crop+for+blog.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Kenneth, Margaret, the blogger, and Hunter, Lynchburg, Virginia, Christmas 1963</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For me, the year 1963 will always
dredge up that time of upheaval in my childhood when I felt like something
firm, something perfect, something safe had slipped away.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thankful when the
calendar date changed to 1964, I quit scribbling the month, numbered day, and 1963, at the top of my school papers, and I knew we would forge ahead
--- somehow leaving those troublesome days and memories behind us. But, we did and we didn't. </div>
<br />H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-39563055685685338332013-11-12T20:04:00.001-05:002013-11-18T15:48:05.974-05:00Just ReadingFor the last six months, as I have
picked books from my long, reading list, an inordinate amount of
them have been about loss: <i>Let's Take the Long Way Home</i> by
Gail Caldwell, <i>Elsewhere</i> by Richard Russo, <i>Blue Nights</i>
by Joan Didion, <i>The Gathering </i>by Anne Enright, and <i>Crossing
to Safety</i> by Wallace Stegner.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And yes, <em>Crossing to Safety</em> is like twenty years old. My list is old -- I'm old. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9wF_LBcLj7XTQvNZdcxkrjR0cJfAA7JIcTbwuxFxkeqEbYnPK0ZgNMPGApub-9csfw_QjzfZ2HIjUg3u-mpKT9-JJ17dVmiRTckLBUlEXfFz7DA6ETfMOOIAdD48UVsd-LaVBQS5YAoH/s1600/41sbniqCjkL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9wF_LBcLj7XTQvNZdcxkrjR0cJfAA7JIcTbwuxFxkeqEbYnPK0ZgNMPGApub-9csfw_QjzfZ2HIjUg3u-mpKT9-JJ17dVmiRTckLBUlEXfFz7DA6ETfMOOIAdD48UVsd-LaVBQS5YAoH/s320/41sbniqCjkL.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i></i> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The Long Good-bye, a Memoir,</i> by
Meghan O'Rourke tells of the author's grief after the death of her
mother from colon cancer. O'Rourke's honesty as she lays out all her
feelings, many of them raw and unattractive, makes this memoir a
harder read. Even though I empathize with O'Rourke, at times she
comes across as petulant and selfish, but the beauty of those emotional
reveals is that it makes O'Rourke's deep grief palpable and moving. I admire her for her brutal presentation of herself as she continues to process her
devastating loss.</div>
<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A winner of the Flannery O'Connor award
for short fiction, Andrew Porter's collection of short stories, <i>the
theory of light and matter</i>, has its own themes of loss as well.
In these ten stories, various narrators flashback to events in their
past where an event changed the outcome of their lives. Whether it's a
childhood friend's deadly fall or a suspicion that one's brother
involved himself in a heinous act, each of these narrators carries a
memory that weighs heavily on him. In the vein of Tobias Wolfe and perhaps John Updike, these
stories' themes and characters' struggles, set in suburbia in the
modern day, never become stale.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKGyIL1G-THT3nr1jOI2iJpSLIc4jWBeEFvPe-WUz9-puyqPeg8BqgFw7yQMfbV5P1f3INdTcLm6jg9o8aEzc9b023vxoE8oOd38JSollKESk3sAyFurZScKjUXjM8BIyhPU8AyhyphenhyphenEw3P/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKGyIL1G-THT3nr1jOI2iJpSLIc4jWBeEFvPe-WUz9-puyqPeg8BqgFw7yQMfbV5P1f3INdTcLm6jg9o8aEzc9b023vxoE8oOd38JSollKESk3sAyFurZScKjUXjM8BIyhPU8AyhyphenhyphenEw3P/s1600/download.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The third book I read, <i>The Art
Forger</i> by B.A. Shapiro, veers off this “loss” theme and into
the world of art history. Claire Roth, a former rising artist, now
uses her artistic skills to make reproductions for a company selling the copies on line.
Her life changes when a former colleague asks her to make a copy of a Degas
copy for an overseas client interested in good reproductions. Part
lesson in painting, part art history, and part thriller, this light
novel kept me interested. I needed it after --- well, after all of
that loss.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Up next: – <i>Birds of a
Lesser Paradise</i> – by Megan Mayhew Bergman – not that I'm gonna blog about it. :-)<br />
<br />
ETA: I finished <em>Birds of a Lesser Paradise</em>, a collection of short stories, and it bears mentioning here that it is a wonderful read. The author, married to a veterinarian and an avid animal lover herself, incorporates a love for nature and animals in each of these stories. Her characters and narrators, realistic in a quirky way, charmed me as well as made me laugh. Worth it to read.... just sayin'.</div>
H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-21442315037128538752013-11-05T20:20:00.000-05:002013-11-05T20:20:17.037-05:00This Tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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makes me happy</div>
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and so does the light behind these....</div>
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ahhh</div>
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</div>
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the last days of autumn...</div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-44933867137994239012013-10-30T21:15:00.000-04:002013-10-31T17:38:07.906-04:00Time, Text, and Dr. Jim. Our friend Dr. Jim comes over about
once a month and has dinner with us. We love Jim. He and David have
been friends since the early 1970s, and when David and I got married
in 1988, he became my friend too. Now, he likes me better. :-)<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As an avid reader, Jim loans me books,
mostly non-fiction, but he also has a mind like a steel trap. His
memories of growing up in College Park, Georgia, in the 1950s come
across as organized narrative, full of humor and detail, and he and I
enjoy reminiscing about old Atlanta. He's a fascinating guy.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The other week when he came over for
dinner he brought a <u>Time</u> magazine dated August 6, 1979, with a
cover story titled<i> Leadership in America: 50 Faces for the Future.
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">He found it in his basement,
apparently he hadn't cleaned it out in a while. Jim's kind of a pack
rat, and he hasn't remodeled the </span><span style="font-style: normal;">interior</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
of his finished basement since the 1970s either – it has shag
carpeting, a Naugahyde covered sofa, and probably a Betamax player.
In fact, I know he still has a Betamax player. </span><br />
<br />
Some of you might have to Google that...
Betamax, not Naugahyde.<br />
<br />
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</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Just a
few of the interesting things in the </span><i>Time</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
magazine, including the fact that at that time, no pun intended, the
magazine editors and writers aimed their text at a reading audience. I was
totally amazed at the amount of text in the magazine. Running full</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> of text, overflowing with text was
the first thing that I noted -- three columns of it and pages – sometimes as many
as ten.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Really?
</span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;"></span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">Yes. Unbelievable.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">One of the
ads showcased Kool Super Lights cigarettes – “a light menthol
blend gives low tar smokers the smooth taste they want. Never harsh
tasting. Now you can make the smooth move to Kool Super Lights.”</span><br />
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</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Even
the ad</span><span style="font-style: normal;">s</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
had text. </span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">Buick
LaSabre. What $6110 buys these days could be a pleasant surprise.”</span><br />
<br />
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</div>
<span style="font-style: normal;">Apparently,
you couldn't buy a Toyato Cressida, a VW Dasher, a Datsun 810, or an
Audi 5000 for that price. Just saying.</span><br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"></span> </div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Datsun?
I feel old.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"><em>Time's</em>
ads mainly were for booze, cigarettes, and cars.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">On
page 10 is an article on Rosalynn Carter, who campaigned
for her husband for his second term. I think he lost.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">Bundy:
Guilty – He faces life – or death” graces page 22 with a two
column article dedicated to the the former law student turned serial
killer who murdered at least thirty-six young women in the 1970s. </span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">BTW: The
state of Florida executed him in 1989.</span><br />
<br />
Don't Google him.<br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">In
the special section, which ran about twenty pages, </span><i>Time</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
covered fifty-up-and-coming men and women who would influence
leadership in this country in the next years. Among them --- Marion
Berry, age 43, William J. Clinton, 32, Gary Hart, 41, and the
Reverend Jesse L. Jackson, 37. </span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-style: normal;">Hmmmm.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
other forty-six --- well, I don't have that kind of time. Sic.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Only
one page featured </span><i>People,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
and they were not </span><span style="font-style: normal;">all
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">celebrities – it included a
bull fighter, a mayor, the world's first test tube baby, and Jane
Seymore and Christopher Reeve who were starring in a movie titled
</span><i>Somewhere in Time</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Heh. Didn't see that movie --- cause Jane seemed to be in mini-series that made me wanna poke my eyes out. Then. Now. Always.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Only one page for celebrities -- </span><i>Show Business</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
featured George Burns.</span><br />
</div>
<span style="font-style: normal;">Other areas of the magazine had sections with the latest news on </span><i>Medicine,
Economy and Business, Living, Education, Sport, Press, Books [</i><span style="font-style: normal;">no
kidding</span><i>], </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and</span><i>
Religion.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Pshaw.
What was all that about?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Hard
to believe, that anyone ever had the time, no pun intended, to read
all that.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Just
sayin'.</span><br />
<br />
Just wanted to note this ad: “<span style="font-style: normal;">Before
you buy a word processor, talk to all three. Here are their telephone
numbers.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
feel old. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYwZ_zD3bPOUV9gLYoq1EIXNt0wARrELfB8V5XjdRO1U2v1yS2gkdnTfRfq312tXol-_2ncw2uCASHK0KaeiMmHiMxpUGTGegNYvOmG3UOHAfHyL17pCOJIO2qD1GTBtNMofwptVwiCFv/s1600/IMG_4703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYwZ_zD3bPOUV9gLYoq1EIXNt0wARrELfB8V5XjdRO1U2v1yS2gkdnTfRfq312tXol-_2ncw2uCASHK0KaeiMmHiMxpUGTGegNYvOmG3UOHAfHyL17pCOJIO2qD1GTBtNMofwptVwiCFv/s320/IMG_4703.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3278302907767234817.post-19991136020400041882013-10-05T15:56:00.000-04:002013-10-05T20:41:54.046-04:00All in: Andrew and Kayla Took the Plunge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFAvdWgWjviB8wdXznMtb2aiz6M1rzkIk_VNnjcl19EmFLPpJQishas0FyZjLRVEJs-YP-0v9-6Kt0eRoIt9rXyv91ib4gOxWLinSyRJoN5kFRvgdiR-Mtfj7U8ejaM7rEd_nMQ3ezTfy2/s1600/IMG_0365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFAvdWgWjviB8wdXznMtb2aiz6M1rzkIk_VNnjcl19EmFLPpJQishas0FyZjLRVEJs-YP-0v9-6Kt0eRoIt9rXyv91ib4gOxWLinSyRJoN5kFRvgdiR-Mtfj7U8ejaM7rEd_nMQ3ezTfy2/s320/IMG_0365.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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The fall day of September 27 brought gorgeous weather for Andrew and Kayla's wedding at Venue 92 in Woodstock. A crowd of 150 gathered at this renovated space and celebrated the couple as they exchange vows and tied the holy knot of matrimony.</div>
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We arrived early for the ceremony and watched as the professional photographs were taken, and as always, the amateur photographers in my family [Hunter and Bryan] did their usual.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_lXKBU-Ev9_N9r-_25WKWaZfOBULf4BKI4zNrXe1GiHC105WhbmoeLsNusxe9pjXRIXHkcjh0b97rGn8gLCazcOKMEv5fmv2YGLQzg6sKlUwl2qygxuUtiYCcNC1goOtjDtAdXmlqfSA/s1600/IMG_3464.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_lXKBU-Ev9_N9r-_25WKWaZfOBULf4BKI4zNrXe1GiHC105WhbmoeLsNusxe9pjXRIXHkcjh0b97rGn8gLCazcOKMEv5fmv2YGLQzg6sKlUwl2qygxuUtiYCcNC1goOtjDtAdXmlqfSA/s320/IMG_3464.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
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<i>Ralph and Margaret watch the waning moments of their son's bachelorhood.</i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih9xgWVlzchZ-U6YKfTkF0iTuoVvRU-9UHgYaEkK3lh_3AcuG4r4fwHzej0Ok11DW8fib9lB1y5COdIqhl3cG5_bdRYzD3m5SXsRDibpH7CyvuifHDuwtEZReQ4eOGTOqce86_G9RqwHwv/s1600/IMG_0276.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih9xgWVlzchZ-U6YKfTkF0iTuoVvRU-9UHgYaEkK3lh_3AcuG4r4fwHzej0Ok11DW8fib9lB1y5COdIqhl3cG5_bdRYzD3m5SXsRDibpH7CyvuifHDuwtEZReQ4eOGTOqce86_G9RqwHwv/s320/IMG_0276.jpg" width="320" /></a> </i></div>
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<i> the green bow ties matched the bride's shoes -- </i></div>
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<i>my sister looked lovely in periwinkle </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnrgIDBlsUrzsntT1JW8S7zKBnGuQB5kfWe95Dh5i_baqZuCvB2A7Tuy0B6Yi0ryPM8CJh1oFiuPYyUDc40_Y_0tqqrKB6t2k9Vo1VGOayLD20E6yUp5sNdjorQ5yL6OVS7ZzSQjFutDv/s1600/IMG_3471.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnrgIDBlsUrzsntT1JW8S7zKBnGuQB5kfWe95Dh5i_baqZuCvB2A7Tuy0B6Yi0ryPM8CJh1oFiuPYyUDc40_Y_0tqqrKB6t2k9Vo1VGOayLD20E6yUp5sNdjorQ5yL6OVS7ZzSQjFutDv/s320/IMG_3471.jpg" width="320" /></a> </i></div>
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<i>Brooks [second from left] "say whut?"</i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOxW3RJ4TDEMv0fCd0Wt5dDBHXVFNX45IhFAm-MMH5VFQm4vIxJgpdE4ua5-XcpS5q0Ygmq5FRT3gB2X5m4mhcRgC4VuOwMXITjPAkkayj1FinvbxYF5gqJChJguVOgvYVEwJTuGHkcYR/s1600/IMG_3473.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOxW3RJ4TDEMv0fCd0Wt5dDBHXVFNX45IhFAm-MMH5VFQm4vIxJgpdE4ua5-XcpS5q0Ygmq5FRT3gB2X5m4mhcRgC4VuOwMXITjPAkkayj1FinvbxYF5gqJChJguVOgvYVEwJTuGHkcYR/s320/IMG_3473.jpg" width="194" /></a> </i></div>
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<i> Stephen and Andrew</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI4eO6-03LvpfKli2zqfe5Ohdr2DQFkYSUVjUT5fAiuSOwht9oKzPHzKTLb_tAtWdNd5n-z3WRq_0hebd_k41lk8u46ubybGSPSrgMW-70TiNkm5l01w0_7sxqFYxXtT2-Js4qKD3yi0jt/s1600/IMG_3479.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI4eO6-03LvpfKli2zqfe5Ohdr2DQFkYSUVjUT5fAiuSOwht9oKzPHzKTLb_tAtWdNd5n-z3WRq_0hebd_k41lk8u46ubybGSPSrgMW-70TiNkm5l01w0_7sxqFYxXtT2-Js4qKD3yi0jt/s320/IMG_3479.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYZXT6ph9U6hoGjzC9Ey1kVq9WsM8PMVF-2KlyvkmAcXYNX-EDsdgySTjpvUsV7h-IAxYhkX5zzKqEGnzrdrfFnOdq3W-u7_7xWCvhSTre9_md4kf2dUwg9cX-LznZKbQ3yQ6oYvllLKkg/s1600/whole+party+vamping.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYZXT6ph9U6hoGjzC9Ey1kVq9WsM8PMVF-2KlyvkmAcXYNX-EDsdgySTjpvUsV7h-IAxYhkX5zzKqEGnzrdrfFnOdq3W-u7_7xWCvhSTre9_md4kf2dUwg9cX-LznZKbQ3yQ6oYvllLKkg/s320/whole+party+vamping.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div>
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<i>I love this photo! </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvcwi2QUCMGzxaQkkEOn9t4hcH7d-GOn0gH1Q5NLcwolB1jJXaa4i4cXF-DQEArxSK0zREKiMhkFaki4Tr-55nZbnwFkg5qdl3SB9tLfKa6NJjqnNkxh6tBhZvd0l3s-J3lTxQR5Hg93T/s1600/Another+shot+of+vamping.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="74" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvcwi2QUCMGzxaQkkEOn9t4hcH7d-GOn0gH1Q5NLcwolB1jJXaa4i4cXF-DQEArxSK0zREKiMhkFaki4Tr-55nZbnwFkg5qdl3SB9tLfKa6NJjqnNkxh6tBhZvd0l3s-J3lTxQR5Hg93T/s320/Another+shot+of+vamping.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div>
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<i>this one too..</i></div>
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<i> </i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_2oQ7P89KgnJKuRyNAN21u_eBqEBiZaLH2t67K4ZdXUwiYOlrrRv_eatggfRr93D63Kj_DC01pWqj55l3v-JfNCF1MnaJcYClE94HURTLIP5AeCW3pvK7OyCT0-oIOnttEj6KNzhdDVJ/s1600/Four+boys+vamping.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_2oQ7P89KgnJKuRyNAN21u_eBqEBiZaLH2t67K4ZdXUwiYOlrrRv_eatggfRr93D63Kj_DC01pWqj55l3v-JfNCF1MnaJcYClE94HURTLIP5AeCW3pvK7OyCT0-oIOnttEj6KNzhdDVJ/s320/Four+boys+vamping.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuh5wiTeimO9Tm4_KOYyULkpoJM1x6AbLsE054QNgMdbJnqE4VsgQiJbCR0KAYQpwiWcXO457tHUA7k3SPJOqv6bwCoxL0YuCzXr2tJApcr1cyu38Jw-aRqUA7CmSoZ5Bqs38DcpDaqBwM/s1600/Bryan,+give+me+the+camera.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuh5wiTeimO9Tm4_KOYyULkpoJM1x6AbLsE054QNgMdbJnqE4VsgQiJbCR0KAYQpwiWcXO457tHUA7k3SPJOqv6bwCoxL0YuCzXr2tJApcr1cyu38Jw-aRqUA7CmSoZ5Bqs38DcpDaqBwM/s320/Bryan,+give+me+the+camera.jpg" width="320" /></a> </i></div>
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<i>I channel my inner teacher: Bryan, give me the camera, now!</i></div>
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<i>[Bryan, my niece's husband, is notorious for his candid shots.] </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5NPkPNUKDYITXu4OIl_3aoOhyphenhyphenPqpDxWEoF_yLT2t_i1sTp9OHj61mfdKd1O43F2-EljLcz_7329zwMvJELzm4nLFLyyAEyAJhl_6wZHUhLVjJmNoifnrkw9bwu5_jN4KemopNkw7W9LnL/s1600/David+at+wedding.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5NPkPNUKDYITXu4OIl_3aoOhyphenhyphenPqpDxWEoF_yLT2t_i1sTp9OHj61mfdKd1O43F2-EljLcz_7329zwMvJELzm4nLFLyyAEyAJhl_6wZHUhLVjJmNoifnrkw9bwu5_jN4KemopNkw7W9LnL/s320/David+at+wedding.jpg" width="320" /></a> </i></div>
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<i>David, looking for an escape plan, checks his phone. </i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4vYh1C_XEhPtymnK7ZnjCfbk-Ennzwv6Fp8jcUHzSCe0-ijGQTwGHVlVmMl5SB1bp6b1afbNxabQT3Q5AfMoA3jAQ4AX3jT9IxvpWojN99_lfltB_W3qBiEipwIO1-2fvsI8NiO6Zk3el/s1600/IMG_0315.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4vYh1C_XEhPtymnK7ZnjCfbk-Ennzwv6Fp8jcUHzSCe0-ijGQTwGHVlVmMl5SB1bp6b1afbNxabQT3Q5AfMoA3jAQ4AX3jT9IxvpWojN99_lfltB_W3qBiEipwIO1-2fvsI8NiO6Zk3el/s320/IMG_0315.jpg" width="320" /></a> </i></div>
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<i>She's "officially and legally" in........</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Lj60ADYatKZXpbipGJr58b2Tyan2oAXngvwePBrPRhGJROtg_9PkWmztjabNrotmfNAdMi4ZnSvdvZ7-ygnB3VU-eZdnXLxbWuFBdUq9TvXj0Sa4_qWmY8kJYkm3bbQ4Xlxy9-eTiS91/s1600/3+extended+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Lj60ADYatKZXpbipGJr58b2Tyan2oAXngvwePBrPRhGJROtg_9PkWmztjabNrotmfNAdMi4ZnSvdvZ7-ygnB3VU-eZdnXLxbWuFBdUq9TvXj0Sa4_qWmY8kJYkm3bbQ4Xlxy9-eTiS91/s320/3+extended+family.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>and gets ALL, yes ALL, these people as bonus!!!</i></div>
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<i> </i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgX_vMCsIZSXguR9OnDN_9gYll80F08BX1HKDddntknHvROjCh7BQzFJoJC5EERjYltQqQ0ZpMlqDoaNavRR0sRxlIQQWvO2g7hSNPIwcaOgDPex65rgvkgREo7J5BcDO3r4NhBMN2VFcB/s1600/Glenn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgX_vMCsIZSXguR9OnDN_9gYll80F08BX1HKDddntknHvROjCh7BQzFJoJC5EERjYltQqQ0ZpMlqDoaNavRR0sRxlIQQWvO2g7hSNPIwcaOgDPex65rgvkgREo7J5BcDO3r4NhBMN2VFcB/s320/Glenn.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMbDdfDkr9VvpCMJCQvT6NzwS-HRg3OPC-P4bHFuKTsINi56TammSPfka9XCgRn6-Odrh0bT0dFKpNdfphRvHbKteXG6ilxrqUyJUK2SFXw38DSmgCsGVdKUgZ_QMmszWjw5WIrNQ5mFOu/s1600/making+moose+faces.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMbDdfDkr9VvpCMJCQvT6NzwS-HRg3OPC-P4bHFuKTsINi56TammSPfka9XCgRn6-Odrh0bT0dFKpNdfphRvHbKteXG6ilxrqUyJUK2SFXw38DSmgCsGVdKUgZ_QMmszWjw5WIrNQ5mFOu/s320/making+moose+faces.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>as we wait for the ceremony to begin</i></div>
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<i> the groom's family entertains themselves -- good luck, Kayla!</i></div>
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<i>{no wonder the rows behind are empty}</i> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgX_vMCsIZSXguR9OnDN_9gYll80F08BX1HKDddntknHvROjCh7BQzFJoJC5EERjYltQqQ0ZpMlqDoaNavRR0sRxlIQQWvO2g7hSNPIwcaOgDPex65rgvkgREo7J5BcDO3r4NhBMN2VFcB/s1600/Glenn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5NPkPNUKDYITXu4OIl_3aoOhyphenhyphenPqpDxWEoF_yLT2t_i1sTp9OHj61mfdKd1O43F2-EljLcz_7329zwMvJELzm4nLFLyyAEyAJhl_6wZHUhLVjJmNoifnrkw9bwu5_jN4KemopNkw7W9LnL/s1600/David+at+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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Since we had all bathed for the occasion, here's the extended family groupings....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUupk0AJhPuOqRF4_yY5FQoR2aBmElQQSjBD8M3jriP_vlEsHI2twP1R47icjBEB0LU0lJCAcwOGHzML9VX4yqTW84IxG4dGnCywI09sCwCp9gSIoGyy9mYcAIH7zwej8lt7khrADbkG4/s1600/IMG_3483.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUupk0AJhPuOqRF4_yY5FQoR2aBmElQQSjBD8M3jriP_vlEsHI2twP1R47icjBEB0LU0lJCAcwOGHzML9VX4yqTW84IxG4dGnCywI09sCwCp9gSIoGyy9mYcAIH7zwej8lt7khrADbkG4/s320/IMG_3483.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>the Woodstock McDaniels</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvuWKfp0QTvtpRcJ9vFWz9UBVX6yP0kuMolTyVA2GU4WmzHmlr5D8f2dEIaPae4soS4W1kIjhD-6xbKj2qohhWJEvM2cK0-De0DpqjEMyUjVm5u3Urpu91ssI1WuPIsHmCwSuQ6LiXntf/s1600/The+Boulder+Mc.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPvuWKfp0QTvtpRcJ9vFWz9UBVX6yP0kuMolTyVA2GU4WmzHmlr5D8f2dEIaPae4soS4W1kIjhD-6xbKj2qohhWJEvM2cK0-De0DpqjEMyUjVm5u3Urpu91ssI1WuPIsHmCwSuQ6LiXntf/s320/The+Boulder+Mc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> the Boulder McDaniels</i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz2eZRwYUFAxH6v5QM-8bxaEH6E2RQ_0ztP1jhBhRa2YClKs-c6DMi3TvPQT3zeyhAC07tGSmm6cZKfNGzvJo-I39Yor15Fm8VTNzsVAmuqF26XOAxYFUnNtmAotz4ebSSznbs2iZZHH8V/s1600/M's+shoes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz2eZRwYUFAxH6v5QM-8bxaEH6E2RQ_0ztP1jhBhRa2YClKs-c6DMi3TvPQT3zeyhAC07tGSmm6cZKfNGzvJo-I39Yor15Fm8VTNzsVAmuqF26XOAxYFUnNtmAotz4ebSSznbs2iZZHH8V/s320/M's+shoes.jpg" width="209" /></a> </i></div>
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<i>Didn't want anyone to miss these shoes! </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xofknHyZGepqNpCNzRwt6cnrgNh5ZaIVFbsQXK0Up5_UMMhwsnyf9938AAtsp8zCkIwvvfyT9Ecl-OvnqZMEaO61LkWvqTwGh5tmJqODqq5dp-jbXXJA9vj1rerSW4RqEjraPL23ALse/s1600/H&D+at+wedding.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xofknHyZGepqNpCNzRwt6cnrgNh5ZaIVFbsQXK0Up5_UMMhwsnyf9938AAtsp8zCkIwvvfyT9Ecl-OvnqZMEaO61LkWvqTwGh5tmJqODqq5dp-jbXXJA9vj1rerSW4RqEjraPL23ALse/s320/H&D+at+wedding.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>us</i></div>
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Married!</div>
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<i> </i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnshiRMNYjorKvRjXmOFteTa2qGmAm4u7czk7NMmVOAtkg8r_JzCBv3N2iKifx6d1z19GPoTQkIDgFJB989MmNPyTc_YwGM_uHgD9e_x45NWAzj4EJTK2bKR_dcZvorMU4fkOgW0-Sx65s/s1600/IMG_3642.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnshiRMNYjorKvRjXmOFteTa2qGmAm4u7czk7NMmVOAtkg8r_JzCBv3N2iKifx6d1z19GPoTQkIDgFJB989MmNPyTc_YwGM_uHgD9e_x45NWAzj4EJTK2bKR_dcZvorMU4fkOgW0-Sx65s/s320/IMG_3642.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCXKOYdm2NPjJG8WwW_ed82cK1sh-Vi-clSIzAQ1AfAYX-RtBYnyXNrTut8VsJdn_NTaEm5-GgRe-9obpXyzmvYdBUw6Q-QfMU0QsOBrGKp8mIVY6JrFPKDmPvpmUbygcBH0HYpk9vvzY/s1600/IMG_3664.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCXKOYdm2NPjJG8WwW_ed82cK1sh-Vi-clSIzAQ1AfAYX-RtBYnyXNrTut8VsJdn_NTaEm5-GgRe-9obpXyzmvYdBUw6Q-QfMU0QsOBrGKp8mIVY6JrFPKDmPvpmUbygcBH0HYpk9vvzY/s320/IMG_3664.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMe6IGbzuPUai8PXlASNdFNhyv3Xgfh9_Eqv7fu60XkJKKWytYdVHj7qcAc0_VK6V7_QPxa99zp79LgFrOWbXf3LZbNA08oaq4lYZe7TukF5xdLgOcxulXPAa6RlXypzpxV-7a9XtymAD/s1600/IMG_3665.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMe6IGbzuPUai8PXlASNdFNhyv3Xgfh9_Eqv7fu60XkJKKWytYdVHj7qcAc0_VK6V7_QPxa99zp79LgFrOWbXf3LZbNA08oaq4lYZe7TukF5xdLgOcxulXPAa6RlXypzpxV-7a9XtymAD/s320/IMG_3665.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5teoDfaQ8lDB5RjOnNW8yFXnB5VwWCH_m9Y5pIai-wG1_swgEpnu2MtmSD-wm3IFRKzdUrPazhwh4E8rlHS5AGdCp2wtzqDjkHVxvm2fE9RSo7dhnR6kyOJNSxbFD0pTR9ZQrWNpk8oL/s1600/On+the+floor.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5teoDfaQ8lDB5RjOnNW8yFXnB5VwWCH_m9Y5pIai-wG1_swgEpnu2MtmSD-wm3IFRKzdUrPazhwh4E8rlHS5AGdCp2wtzqDjkHVxvm2fE9RSo7dhnR6kyOJNSxbFD0pTR9ZQrWNpk8oL/s320/On+the+floor.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Reception Time</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdj8cUA7dD67102-EZ2ntegbaWPSwN1yFG78eO9uP6AwcHkGS30xz5ygjZWXMnmV4aRVnjGnGrCXqhqsEBJk43Tv091ivLPndcv7HF0Jk3sp8ky93FzGgq5FkFD5FCj6Pb_eulw1kAMtJ/s1600/IMG_0399.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdj8cUA7dD67102-EZ2ntegbaWPSwN1yFG78eO9uP6AwcHkGS30xz5ygjZWXMnmV4aRVnjGnGrCXqhqsEBJk43Tv091ivLPndcv7HF0Jk3sp8ky93FzGgq5FkFD5FCj6Pb_eulw1kAMtJ/s320/IMG_0399.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvySceqopG-0TYQulwEnI0-RHWdIdHpVIIAZ5S8_r37E9X2H9pz7oGkU6nAnvxf0FfuV_YzpKfXIlnCQIkHdoVP0FIL0y4YdYH-ZFSyupvVY3vXf8GIyccTnLE4o6dyETMBk38qdanN_XD/s1600/IMG_3689.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvySceqopG-0TYQulwEnI0-RHWdIdHpVIIAZ5S8_r37E9X2H9pz7oGkU6nAnvxf0FfuV_YzpKfXIlnCQIkHdoVP0FIL0y4YdYH-ZFSyupvVY3vXf8GIyccTnLE4o6dyETMBk38qdanN_XD/s320/IMG_3689.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGkApi9XC9vmZVbuRTnVj0ypFJ2AfoKtr4y9QXdZbx3rxwj8d7ausmDcQMdZI5ZXR-zF-GK_m0zgX4AagnQoMAqNQt7tKCqorwl4k43Q6fRosYGFJeh50uz9K01QIsFHgR5wkwC72ExBxJ/s1600/IMG_3727.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGkApi9XC9vmZVbuRTnVj0ypFJ2AfoKtr4y9QXdZbx3rxwj8d7ausmDcQMdZI5ZXR-zF-GK_m0zgX4AagnQoMAqNQt7tKCqorwl4k43Q6fRosYGFJeh50uz9K01QIsFHgR5wkwC72ExBxJ/s320/IMG_3727.jpg" width="214" /></a> </div>
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<i>James, the best man, makes a toast </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsqEOMwE2_f3NB7-WZChIs8n4zzf_TIknxmJAlKAukyyAEwCENvOgfezACCnvArSnSI-VVv-zyWWJIam02PMkei_ElXxCkDfQ5grojZqvDLjIELXR2-0Tt6gxZMhLNz0gPJJmdZNUWFpf/s1600/IMG_3719.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpsqEOMwE2_f3NB7-WZChIs8n4zzf_TIknxmJAlKAukyyAEwCENvOgfezACCnvArSnSI-VVv-zyWWJIam02PMkei_ElXxCkDfQ5grojZqvDLjIELXR2-0Tt6gxZMhLNz0gPJJmdZNUWFpf/s320/IMG_3719.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqPK9ge5FDvH85i4-uxMe5UaiysjXCBoPyRFyIE8w_TXqcpvb3GrJwgPVsZ53ReTpL2joafvnrpVQAepLrVd2IQSmxas3qAB9yjMVcSiwtOQL5CdJb6z_vG42EreZ5xoC-tNedL0rZwM45/s1600/IMG_0428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqPK9ge5FDvH85i4-uxMe5UaiysjXCBoPyRFyIE8w_TXqcpvb3GrJwgPVsZ53ReTpL2joafvnrpVQAepLrVd2IQSmxas3qAB9yjMVcSiwtOQL5CdJb6z_vG42EreZ5xoC-tNedL0rZwM45/s320/IMG_0428.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div>
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<i>the cousins discuss the new numbering system...</i></div>
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<i>Chapman: I'm really number 7?</i></div>
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<i>Kayla: I'm 21?</i></div>
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<i>Margaret: 22? </i></div>
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<i>Glenn: It's complicated but brilliant. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-up6HVskSRraojxkvdMMg3hghAR-ltnfWLUlHEs-eoprhH6kGxXZgJBrBHQRPVj_vsRNxTZFU_2ZBnovPCHbqsjpWlZaPH813tjTB7PoIqJ-pguiFHHWKR6DFrSYg7gib6kbUkg0Tevlq/s1600/IMG_0437.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-up6HVskSRraojxkvdMMg3hghAR-ltnfWLUlHEs-eoprhH6kGxXZgJBrBHQRPVj_vsRNxTZFU_2ZBnovPCHbqsjpWlZaPH813tjTB7PoIqJ-pguiFHHWKR6DFrSYg7gib6kbUkg0Tevlq/s320/IMG_0437.jpg" width="278" /></a></div>
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<i>Glenn and James wait for sparklers and the good byes to the newlyweds</i></div>
<i> </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUjki4Q_seHfIywo7BenaOAXrmz1rEjcS6AkRplnDyXBVfG8PSiqUPc8eB5V782q7Foaynm4FvOoXPyvZhapd_GvTIZBtnSJJMuSVMHdnh1AHkZ7YZ9YxZWlHrF17ru9KS-PNiUOdXE-iN/s1600/IMG_3759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUjki4Q_seHfIywo7BenaOAXrmz1rEjcS6AkRplnDyXBVfG8PSiqUPc8eB5V782q7Foaynm4FvOoXPyvZhapd_GvTIZBtnSJJMuSVMHdnh1AHkZ7YZ9YxZWlHrF17ru9KS-PNiUOdXE-iN/s320/IMG_3759.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMNdyELvRDehPMM2OXWonRk8675Uun-Col132LlQXZq1F9PPT-G2ENWk9wE75rXqbqx8cflGYizS4ljXeTTDbDtDboZ5BySkGHoJHPI6R-QeS9cVc5pg8ZOe7ngComWb-UlWauh6ZQc5cl/s1600/Kaya+and+Andrew+exit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMNdyELvRDehPMM2OXWonRk8675Uun-Col132LlQXZq1F9PPT-G2ENWk9wE75rXqbqx8cflGYizS4ljXeTTDbDtDboZ5BySkGHoJHPI6R-QeS9cVc5pg8ZOe7ngComWb-UlWauh6ZQc5cl/s320/Kaya+and+Andrew+exit.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
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<i>*waves *</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBNtUKcG-EYMD_LXpiy_Q4niIbdLfg0dAAd6fPquoEWk2TspdgoCLbjb5HXN0oUPXLXAn1G0y96E-0FHSREznRoCrcoAJtamn-3A28eIfZV-KplNGnpYggCT5jr7ZtTObe_ow3Ib2-jKw/s1600/IMG_3756.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBNtUKcG-EYMD_LXpiy_Q4niIbdLfg0dAAd6fPquoEWk2TspdgoCLbjb5HXN0oUPXLXAn1G0y96E-0FHSREznRoCrcoAJtamn-3A28eIfZV-KplNGnpYggCT5jr7ZtTObe_ow3Ib2-jKw/s320/IMG_3756.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMbDdfDkr9VvpCMJCQvT6NzwS-HRg3OPC-P4bHFuKTsINi56TammSPfka9XCgRn6-Odrh0bT0dFKpNdfphRvHbKteXG6ilxrqUyJUK2SFXw38DSmgCsGVdKUgZ_QMmszWjw5WIrNQ5mFOu/s1600/making+moose+faces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<i>Blessings, Andrew and Kayla, sweet blessings.....</i></div>
H. Gillhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16866823621648796335noreply@blogger.com1