Dear Friends, Thanks to all for your warm wishes and kind words . They really boosted me and helped shorten my recovery from the sinus infection. I have gained six of the 12 pounds I lost during the weeks of hibernation.
Hope to be in clas may 1.
Hugs All Around.
Wanda B
“If you take good care of these, they’ll last you for a lifetime” were my father’s words as he presented me with a pair of brand new skis one Christmas Eve. I was 8 and in heaven! I was looking at a set of red skis, made from wood, complete with two poles to help move me along. The skis were long; at least 1 ½ the height of my body and were fitted with the latest in bindings – they could be fastened tight to the ski for downhill runs or loosened for cross-country use. The front tip was pointed and turned upwards, ending in a round disk the size of a penny. Did I like my new skis? Every free minute I had, when there was snow on the ground, I could be found outside. There was no lack of hills scattered near our house, from little bumps or steep short runs to long soft hills. It seems those long ago winters were blessed with more snow that stayed on the ground and was refreshed often, blanketing the land with a special stillness. I never tired of the crunching sound of my skis making a new trail or swooshing downhill. Often I found myself alone after dark when the other kids had been called home and the hill was mine alone to climb. Descend, climb, descend, fall down, then climb one more time. I cannot remember ever having felt the cold or the icicles sticking to my woolen mittens, or the lumps of snow collecting inside my boots and melting next to the bare skin. There was simply no room in my heart for discomfort next to so much pleasure. Hours later, when drifting off to sleep I could still smell the white crispness of fresh snow.
Through large glass doors we watch soggy snowflakes rush across our balcony. A salt spitting snowplough is crawling along the street below. In the distance we hear the sirens of an ambulance – winter has arrived to the city. In the glass towers surrounding our building windows are beginning to light up, one by one. Only a few people are braving the wind, hurrying down the sidewalks. Two or three dogs convinced their owners to take them out for a walk. But the more severe the winter weather, the more I treasure the comforts of a warm spot indoors, a fire in the chimney, and a hot cup of tea. My grandmother long ago taught me to add a good slug of rum to an afternoon cup. The rum has to be strong, but mellow to give the tea a velvety taste, A few spicy ginger cookies on the side can make me feel like heaven has arrived. The colder it is outside, the more I enjoy a cozy and calm corner in my home. The German language has a word they say cannot be translated: Gemuetlichkeit.
As always I am grateful for my memories. They help keep me warm on the coldest of winter nights.
Like many small children I dreamed of owning a pet. My favorite kind was a cat, or maybe even a kitten. My father however was strictly against any animal living in our house, claiming that there were plenty of wild things living in our garden.
Across from our place was a farm and there were plenty of kittens to be had. In fact, several of them mysteriously disappeared every year and I was determined to save them. Always, the answer was ‘no’. Once I even gifted a kitten to my mother on Mother’s Day. To no avail, I had to return it to its mother. My father could not even be moved when I denied myself any other wishes for my 6th birthday.
During WWII my father was drafted straight out of university and sent to the Front as a scout. A scout on a motorcycle. His motorcycle was fitted with a sidecar for his only partner: a German shepherd dog. I know this because one time and only one time he showed me a photograph, picturing him sitting on a motorcycle and next to him in the sidecar was proudly posing his very handsome dog. I deeply regret not having asked more questions about where and how long they worked together, or about their relationship in general. My father’s reluctance to talk about wartime experiences was shared by many returning veterans and surely was an important part of healing. I can’t help feeling that his aversion to pets had some connection to the memory of his dog as both of them were badly injured by a landmine.
Then one day a strange thing happened. On that cold winter’s morning my father came across a tiny kitten as he was walking to work. It was a shivering bundle of black fur and bones. He turned around and carried it home to my mother. In the days that followed he took over most of the care for the kitten. Our house had no central heating system and could get quite chilly at night. To keep it warm, he made it a bed of wool rags inside the wood drawer of our cooking stove in the kitchen. He placed a wrapped ticking clock to simulate the heartbeat of its mother to keep it from crying. He even got up during the first night to check on it.
No one in our family lost many words about the whole incident. It had happened in a most natural way. Everyone adored our new pet – he grew into a beautiful black male and lived to the ripe old age of 15 years. And he never let us forget the fact that yes, a tiny kitten is perfectly able to melt even a totally frozen heart.
August 28 fell on a Wednesday in 1968. Summer school classes were wrapping up, completing my freshman year at Wayne State University’s Monteith College. I had the day off from my job at Sanders Allen Park store, where I spent 20 hours a week behind the soda fountain, serving up the confectionary’s famous Hot Fudge Cream Puff, sodas, shakes and sandwiches.
My family experienced change in 1967. My dad remarried and moved the four of us kids from our St. Clair Shores home to Taylor. A baby brother was born. And another baby was due in December of ‘68.
The world around me was changing too, and attending Wayne State opened my eyes to all its issues. The
urban campus itself was surrounded by the burned out remnants of Detroit’s 1967 riot. Handbills urged students to protest racism, poverty, the draft and the war in Viet Nam.
I loved walking on campus among various groups of activists through a vibe that felt electric. I made new friends. We hung out after class and over coffee and cigarettes, passionately discussed or debated art, music, philosophy and politics. We were going to change the world.
Sen. Eugene McCarthy had a large following on Wayne’s campus. He advocated peace. I believed that he’d end the war in Vietnam. I proudly pinned a” McCarthy for President” button on my jean jacket. His platform made sense. I felt confident he’d be the Democratic presidential nominee.
After dinner, I turned on the television and settled down in the living room ready to watch history in the making. Chaos filled the screen. Inside the convention center. reporters like Dan Rather were being pushed around. Delegates fell into fist fights. The scene switched to the protesters gathered in Chicago’s Grant Park. Unarmed protesters were met by hundreds of police, dressed in riot gear and swinging billy clubs.
Bloody violent images beamed into my consciousness leaving me paralyzed—mind, body and soul.
I quietly cried. For the wounded on the screen and for me.
August 28, 1968, was my 19th birthday.
I misplace so many things in my house and I just can’t believe I’m that daffy. It reminds me of my elderly cousin who would misplace an item and swear someone came into her house and took it. When she later came across the item, she would say the person came and placed it back in her house.
I’m beginning to feel the same way, except I think there really is a little old lady that comes in my house and messes with my stuff. She follows me around and picks up objects that I put down and moves them to someplace where they never should be. Then it takes me forever to find them if I can ever find them at all.
Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I think I see her standing there, but when I turn around to look for her she is no where to be seen. She’s a sneaky old broad.
Like the time I wrote a shopping list, very detailed, for items I really needed from the grocery store. I put the list in my purse, in the side pocket where I always put my lists. I know I did! I’m sure of it! When I got to the store, the list was not there. I looked through my purse, in all my pockets, in the car, and no list. So, I shopped and I tried to remember the items on the list but missed a few essentials. I paid for the items with my debit card which I keep in a special pants pocket and went back home sans the forgotten items. Later, at home, while looking for something in my wallet I found the list. That old lady had put the list in my wallet. What is a list doing in a wallet when I always put it in my purse? I was dumbfounded.
I need to be more vigilant with this old lady and her dirty deeds of moving, hiding and taking my stuff, so I decided to keep better track of items that she had a tendency to relocate. I bought a composition book and started to write down my movements. I would make notes, like were I put important documents or bills, or even a knit or crochet project I was working on and put away to be finished later, or a recipe I tried and liked so much that I wanted to try it again. I noted in the book where I put these items just to assure me that they would be easily attainable. Sometimes I would make of note of where I put the TV remote. (Actually, I can’t entirely blame her for misplacing the remote because I’ve been losing the TV remote long before her antics started.)
But this lady got the best of me yet because she not only hid my pens and pencils, but she hid the notebook. What am I going to do…call the police? She is so skilled, I’ll bet she would probably hide from them too.
So, I am being watchful, looking out for this little old lady as I put my belongings in their rightful place. Lately she hasn’t been too bad, because I have become more vocal, sometimes shouting and swearing at her when I can’t find something. I think I’m putting a fear in her so she’s backing off. But I expect her to start up her antics as soon as I stop paying attention.
In Kindergarten through 8th grade at the beginning the school day, the children in each classroom at Willard School stood up, placed their right hand over their heart and recited the pledge of allegiance. In Kindergarten, first and second grades, this is how I recited it.
“I pledge allegiance to the Flag
of the United States of America,
and to the Republic, for “Richard Stance”,
one Nation under God,
indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”,
I always wondered, “who is Richard Stance” and why are we pledging to the republic for him? In third grade I learned it correctly.
On our first day, our third grade greeted us by telling us her name. She said, “My name is Mrs. Stamps, like the postage stamp.” She was clear and precise with an easy explanation and her students knew then that we would never forget her name. Mary Jane Stamps, was emphatic for all of us, the newly promoted students that arrived in her classroom, to learn. From Kindergarten through second grade, we sang an easier patriotic song, “My Country Tis of Thee.” I guess were too young to catch on to, not only the difficult words of the Star-Spangled Banner, but also follow the problematic tune. Mary Jane Stamps taught us to sing the National Anthem. She had a plan and she knew her new third- grade students were ready.
Before we arrived, Mary Jane Stamps, had beautifully and carefully written the words to the national anthem on the blackboard in her lovely, easy to read cursive script that we would appreciate throughout our time in her class room. In addition, she decorated the chalk board with flowers, flags and other art using various colored chalks. This document was presented to us on the chalk board and I think all of the new third-graders were in awe. Not only was it stunning, it was prepared expressly for us.
To back track, the third-grade classrooms, and others classrooms, were in the newer wing of Willard School. This wing was built to make the most efficient use of space. Not only were there blackboards in the front and the back of the classroom, but on the doors of the coat room, or cloak room as some would call it. The coat room was located on one side of the classroom and was separated by three sliding doors that moved up and down on tracks. After everyone hung up their outerwear on the hooks in the coat room, 3 boys were assigned to lower the sliding doors and the blackboards were revealed. Mary Jane Stamps had written lovely scripted word to the National Anthem on one of the coat room doors.
Mary Jane Stamps told the class that we were to learn the words to the National Anthem in three weeks. Every morning we sang the song following the words written on the blackboard. It seemed that so much effort had been put into writing the document and art work that it would be there always and never be erased from the chalk board. had been put into the chalk board.
But sure enough, on the Monday morning of our fourth week in third grade before we stood up to recite the pledge and sing the Star-Spangled Banner, Mary Jane Stamps took an eraser and removed the words and the art work from the coat room door chalk board.
A soft gasp enveloped the room – not necessary because the words would no longer available for the class to see, but because a lovely piece of art was destroyed. We were devastated. But the good thing was, from repeatedly singing the national anthem every day for 3 weeks, everyone knew the words to the song.
Mary Jane Stamps was a no non-sense teacher. She was eager for us to learn and to understand. We aced the time tables up through the twelves. We learned short division preparing for 4th grade long division. She set up the steps to make it easy for us. We learned to spell multi syllable words with many letters so we could pass our spelling tests every Friday.
All the girls practiced their cursive so they could write as elegantly as she. She introduced new topics and methods that made almost everything seem easier to learn.
Mary Jane Stamps was a remarkable teacher. She paid attention her student’s needs and did whatever she could to make learning simpler. And more importantly, she took the mystery out of who was “Richard Stance” and effortlessly taught her new class of third graders the national anthem.
Clare and I were little explorers. When my mom did laundry in the basement of our apartment building. We watched as the only washing machine swish-swished. We observed as she put the clothes through the winger into the rinse water in the industrial sink, through the wringer again, into the second sink. We caught the limp clothes and put them into the laundry basket as she put them through the wringer one last time. We weren’t tall enough to reach the line to hang clothes to dry, but, we’d hand her the damp clothes and wooden clothes pins.
When the coal truck dumped black chunks down our building’s coal chute, we wondered “Where did it end up?”
One day we decided to quench our curiosity. We were gonna check out the entire basement. Never mind the spider webs, the creepy shadows in the semi-lit cellar, or the creaking floorboards above us.
We encouraged each other as we crept, unattended into the massive basement. We headed to the walk-in lockers, floor-to-ceiling padlocked structures, made with plywood slats. “Watch out for splinters” I warned Clare as we peeked between the slats to see what secret stuff was inside. We were disappointed to see old, dusty sheets hiding the treasures. It was too dark there. The boogeyman might be hiding to grab us! “Let’s get out of here” Clare whispered.
The entire basement was dimly lit. Bulbs, hanging from cloth-bound wires were too high for us to reach, to explore the darkened nooks and crannies. We were only 4 years old.
We exited the locker area, headed past the laundry room and entered a gigantic room filled almost to the ceiling with chunks of coal. The walls were powdered with coal dust. Our first instinct was to climb up the gigantic pile, but we knew it would ruin our clothes and make our legs, arms and faces filthy. We’d get in trouble. We resisted.
We were staring in astonishment at the hu-u-u-u-ge mound of coal, when we were startled by a deep, scratchy masculine voice behind us. He roared “WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING DOWN HERE?!” We faced the monster and answered in shaky voices “Nothing.” It was the janitor, a very evil man. He flung the fiery furnace’s door open. Flames shot out. That monster grabbed Clare and me in each of his tight, muscled arms and headed towards the flames. We squealed, shouted, cried, and wiggled, but it didn’t do any good. Threatening to tell our mom, didn’t help, either. Stepping closer to the flames, he growled “I’m gonna throw you two brats in in there” We went limp with fear. My throat was too dry to scream. Suddenly he broke into an insane laugh, and set us down. We sunk to the floor. He threatened us “Don’t you dare tell anyone about this or I WILL throw you into the furnace.”
I never told anyone until I was in my early 40s. My counselor was horrified when I told him about my flaming fear.
“TWA Reservations, Sheila speaking.” “I want to fly from Cincinnati to St. Louis next Saturday. Do you have something leaving around 11AM?” As I checked the OAG, Official Airline Guide, for connections for her, this being pre-computers, she asked where I was located. I let her know that I was in Chicago. She told me it was just on the news that some crazy person in Chicago was going down State Street setting fires to department stores. I joked about being next, because we were in an office above the Montgomery Ward’s Department Store on State Street. I set up her round trip reservations and arranged for the tickets to be mailed to her.
It was soon time for lunch. As I was descending in the elevator, an alarm went off. When I exited at the first floor, the alarms became louder. Ward’s customers started dashing out of the store. Fire engines soon surrounded the building. No one was coming out on the State Street side. I was worried about my co-workers. How were they going to get out safely?! In about 10 minutes, I had my answer. They had exited through the Dearborn side of the building. Phew!
The supervisors told us we were not allowed to go home. We needed to be back in front of the building in one hour. Everyone headed to the lakefront to enjoy the relaxing view. Soon we returned to the building. We were told to wait some more. Finally, the fire was out. The building was soggy and smoky, but we were told we had to go back to work. No one else was allowed back in. We had to show our TWA employee badges to be admitted to the building.
It was dark, no electricity. We had to climb 10 flights of stairs to get to the office. We sat in the smoke, under dripping ceilings, answering calls “TWA Reservations. Due to a SMALL fire in the building, we are without electricity. Our phones are operating on battery power. Please call back in 2 hours.” Many people objected, but soon reluctantly hung up. We were lying. It was a major fire!
The lights went on, later, and I finished my shift. I found out that the fire had started up again in one part of the building. It was so great to safely get out of that soggy smokebox and into fresh air outside.
I was only 21 years old and naïve. I didn’t realize that I had a right to refuse to go back into that dangerous building. They were risking our lives. TWA could have put on a recording that said the same things we 500 agents were stating. It was obviously dangerous since they didn’t allow Ward’s employees back in, or First National Bank’s office employees to return to their 11th floor office.
They eventually caught the pyromaniac. I don’t recall why he targeted department stores.
Whenever alarms go off now, wherever I am, I’m outta there!
The fire alarm clanged frantically, as I was setting up a trip for an Air Canada customer on the phone. Being near the end of the call, I finished quickly. Because of my experience at the TWA fire, I led the way to the fireproof staircase leading from the 11th floor to the exit on the first floor. Co-workers rushed out, behind me.
Air Canada was in the office building of the Marina City complex, which was later renovated to a hotel in 1996.
At first we didn’t encounter any smoke as we scurried down the steps. As we descended further, we smelled a faint aroma until we reached the first floor. Fire engines surrounded the building, but as we emerged, we saw the firefighters retrieving their equipment and exiting.
A fool who lived in the tower residences had dropped a match, or a lit cigarette, down the garbage chute. The greasy chute caught fire, as did the garbage in the industrial sized bin at the bottom. It was quickly put out before any real damage could be done.
After several small blazes like this, over the next months, Air Canada supervisors refused to allow us to leave our desks when an alarm sounded. I refused to stay put. I was not going to endanger my life, like I did at TWA, so I could answer calls. When it was clear there was no danger, I would re-enter the building and return to my desk.
Clang, clang, clang! The alarm sounded. I immediately headed to the stairs. Smoke was coming up the enclosed staircase! I covered my mouth, headed out the door on the 10th floor and crossed the building to a smoke-free staircase. Again, firetrucks surrounded the building. This time they didn’t leave. My co-workers were finally allowed to exit the building. This was a major fire!
The bowling alley located on the second floor was ablaze. A worker had been using a torch to repair a pipe in the storage area. Unfortunately, that was exactly where they kept varnish for the bowling alley’s floors. Somehow, flame met with varnish. Soon, fire encased all the varnish containers. The resulting explosion knocked the man into the intense flames, burning him badly.
An ambulance rushed the worker to the hospital. He had life-threatening burns over the majority of his body. They weren’t sure if he’d make it. Luckily, he survived, but had to be tended to and have therapy for years.
After the fire was extinguished and the building’s manager was advised that it was safe to allow people back in, I joined the others in returning to the office. I declared to the supervisors “This is why I always leave when the alarm goes off. You never know what degree of danger there is.”
I headed back to my desk, put my headset on and answered the phone calmly “Air Canada Reservations, Sheila speaking” as if was just another day on the job.
My rear window was open a bit to allow some air to freshen my condo, but not enough to let rain accumulate on my kitchen floor. A storm was thundering, lighting up Chicago’s lakefront skies.
Sick as wilted flower, I was propped up on the couch, zapped by the flu. Blankets warmed me as I watched Phil Donohue, on channel 7 T.V. , sharing his wisdom. A cup of tea in hand, I was relieved to be at home on this workday.
ZZZZZZZT! What was that loud sound? It was almost like the noise lightning would create when it hit something. Silence. I scrambled off the couch to check out my tiny studio apartment. Everything was fine. Maybe lightning had hit a rain gutter, descending harmlessly into the ground. With relief, I settled back under the blankets.
A few minutes later, an odor wafted up my nose. Smelled like something was burning. As I inspected the bathroom, my makeshift closet bedroom, the living room and the kitchen, I saw nothing. No flames, no smoke. That smell was getting stronger.
I apologetically dialed the fire department, explaining that I smelled smoke, but couldn’t see it, and there was no fire. The person on the other end of the line replied “I’m glad you called. We’ll be right over!” I met them in the lobby, because the buzzer to let them in was out of order. They dragged a hose through the courtyard and up 52 tiring steps. The lobby door was jammed open by shoving a hallway mat under it.
Reaching my unit, they examined it thoroughly, with the same results that I’d had. No smoke, no fire, no obvious damage. It was a mystery. They pulled the fridge away from the wall. No fire, and the outlet was fine. Searching onward, a firefighter shouted “Aha!” He stepped over to my gas stove, and ran his finger over its tiny clock. It was smudged with grey matter. Pulling my stove forward, they could get a look at the rear. The electrical cord was partially eaten up, burning outwards from the center – towards the stove and towards the wall’s outlet.
Lightning had barged through the window, zapped my stove, and set the electrical cord afire. He stated “It’s a good thing that you had a converter for the outlet, instead of just sawing off the 3rd prong. That kept the fire from spreading into your outlet, then flaming out all the wires in the wall in this building. The 1920s building’s wiring had not been updated, forcing me to use a safety plug. He also pointed to a toaster that was plugged in. Told me never to leave a toaster or iron plugged in when not in use. They could combust even when not turned on.
The building’s janitor burst into my home, uninvited, shouting at the firefighters about messing up the lobby and staircase carpeting with their hose. I told him to get out!
Never was I so grateful for being home, sick with the flu.
Beth's Class 