Category Archives: Memories

Take that, Mrs Tidwell

Memories, ,

Mrs Tidwell managed to humiliate me in several ways during my year in her 4th grade class at Highland School. She refused to write my name on my Thanksgiving Turkey name tag because she said I colored it in poorly. She wouldn’t let me sing Beautiful Dreamer for our class play (a minsteral show, complete with classmates in blackface of all things) because I couldn’t hit the high notes — Janice something or the other got to sing it instead. She let me play a violin duet of Shortnin’ Bread with my friend Rhonda instead. We weren’t very good.

Mrs Tidwell also liked to throw candy out to her class and watch us scramble on the floor. I refused to scramble. Perhaps that’s why she was unkind to me.

She loved opera and let her students know she would much rather be on stage singing Italian arias instead of teaching us our multiplication facts. The fact that she was shaped like an opera singer only made me wish she had chosen that career path even more, especially when she decided to have her class perform Carmen for the entire school.

We probably didn’t perform the entire opera, but I remember one scene. Of course I didn’t get to be a Carmen (she broke the class into 4 or 5 groups and we performed in different areas of our gymnasium, so there were 4 or 5 Carmens). Instead, I got to be a bullfighter, crawling on my knees and holding my hands out to my beloved Carmen along with several other crawling bullfighters. At least I wasn’t the bull.

Anyway, my daughter is filming that scene from Carmen right now with a few classmates from her Spanish class. I just peeked out the window. Guess who’s playing Carmen?

You guessed it — Clare. And she’s directing it too. So, Mrs Tidwell, where ever you are, someone with my genes gets to be Carmen.

We won’t be putting on any mistral shows though, that’s a promise.

White-crowned Sparrow

Birds, Memories, ,

Back in 1983 or so, Dean and I spent the summer in Southern California. Dean had a summer job at Rand and we got to stay in various homes in the area — house sitting for other employees of Rand. I’d just begun to “bird” in earnest and California held a wealth of birds I’d not seen before. I especially remember seeing my first California towhee and California thrasher. I also saw dozens of Anna’s hummingbirds and several Bullock’s orioles. I don’t have my California list in front of me, but it goes on and on.

One place we stayed was near the Topanga Canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains. The house overlooked the city of Los Angeles, had a courtyard and was full of Real Art. The couple who lived there were high up in the Rand administration and somewhat wealthy. They had a woman who came in and cleaned their house — daily. This woman and I talked a lot — she loved cats (as did I) and she was an avid birder. She invited me to accompany her on an overnight trip to see some of the few remaining California condors in the wild, but I declined for a reason I don’t recall, but could kick myself now.

Her favorite bird was the white-crowned sparrow. In fact her license plate read wht crwn or something like that. She said it meant white-crowned sparrow. I’ve wanted to see one ever since, but never did. Until yesterday morning.

I’d just slipped a half a bagel into the toaster and was waiting for it to pop up so I took a look out the kitchen window. There, hopping among some spilled seed was a large sparrow with black and white stripes on its head. And no yellow spot between its eyes nor white at its throat. My first thought was white-crown! I ran to get the camera and of course it was gone when I got back. I thought I might be seeing one soon since one had been spotted a few streets away according to the Maryland birding email list to which I belong.

I sort of feel like my long ago connection with the birdwatching housekeeper in the Santa Monica Mountains was rekindled for a while when I finally saw the bird she cared enough about to pay extra for vanity tags.

Memories of Mod Podge

Memories, , ,

My mom made me this poster for my 17th birthday. I don’t remember her making it nor actually receiving it, but I do remember my mom’s decoupage phase. She made posters for everyone — they were good too. She’d tailor them perfectly to the person. She was always saving magazines and clipping out the bits that she thought would be good on a poster for someone. We always had a jar of Mod Podge handy at home, in case we needed to decoupage something quickly.

Happy Birthday Dona Poster

Anyway, my poster. It had a pocket watch with the time I was born depicted in both the position of the hands and in writing along the bottom edge. Elgin, where I was born, was known for their watches, so perhaps the pocket watch also symbolized that.

clock
Newborn Dona
room

The poster also had a copy of my first photograph — all 3 pounds, 9 ounces of me — with my astrological description pasted below. My daughter likes this photograph of me because of my pointy ear. She says it proves I am of either fairy or Elven blood. My dad’s name is Elvin, so perhaps she’s right.

Mom also included an image of my astrological sign on the poster. One of us, I guess, was into astrology at the time. I suspect it was her, but perhaps I was too.

Finally, the poster has a drawing of two women at the doorway of a room. One is older, heavy with glasses, and the other young and slender. A black cat rubs against the leg of the younger woman. The younger woman holds a floor lamp, frying pan and a goldfish bowl. She stands near a suitcase.

I think this depicted me moving into my new room. The drawing probably came from a magazine showing someone getting let into her first apartment, but my mom saw it and thought it could represent me moving to my new room. Either that or it was a not-so-subtle hint that it was nearly time for me to move out.

The cat is Cinder. I didn’t have a lamp like that and didn’t own a goldfish, but otherwise, she got it right!

The writing on the poster says:

Dona
17 Years Later

Happy Birthday

Love From Mom
1973

It’s cool that I found this a few months before my own daughter turns 17. I think I know what my mother felt, having a firstborn daughter so close to adulthood. Pride. Disbelief. Sadness. Hope.

I guess it’s time to go buy a jar of Mod Podge.