Almost two years since my last entry and yet this morning I received word that someone commented on one of my posts.

I really suck at blogging!

However, I'm trying to do better. I've been posting in my official author blog, with the goal of moving all (or at least any semi-worthwhile) posts from this site by re-posting at strategic times.

If you want to read more, go to https://vhartmandisanto.wordpress.com/

G is for Gym class

I think I mentioned gym class in a much earlier entry. If not, then I meant to. How do I know this? I know this because I saved a photo of an ugly blue girl’s gym suit to my blog photo file. Remember this:

Yes, that truly hideous creation was something that we had to wear twice each week from seventh grade on up. Remember, in those days we weren’t allowed to wear slacks, let alone jeans or shorts, to school. It was all about dresses and skirts. So of course, we wouldn’t be allowed to wear anything comfortable for physical education class — the oft-dreaded P.E. or Gym.

In some ways gym class wasn’t bad. We weren’t studying. We could walk around and get some exercise. But in others…

First of all, there was the locker room. We were each assigned a locker and given a combination lock to place on it. Each lock had a serial number inscribed on it, so if we lost the lock — which usually happened in the locker room — the gym teacher knew exactly whose it was. We still had to pay to have it “replaced” but chances are the teacher had the lost lock.

Locks were the least of our worries. In the locker room we had to undress. Yes, down to underwear in order to don that lovely blue uniform. Seriously folks, this was embarrassing. We were brought up in a modest age, well before when tweens and younger posted suggestive photos on Facebook or Instagram. We didn’t have cell phones or computers. Our cameras held film which had to be taken to a drug store to be developed and printed. We certainly weren’t posting photos anywhere.

And to undress in front of someone else? Even another girl? After all, some of them had actually breasts and others didn’t. Those who had them were embarrassed and those who didn’t were embarrassed and it make a bit of sense but everyone was uncomfortable with shedding those outer clothes. So it was done as quickly as possible, trying not to look at each other.

Then off to the gym we went.

Gym classes were segregated — boys and girls each had a half of the gym, usually divided by movable walls. We also had separate fields or areas when we went outside for class. At least, most of the time. More on that later.

Once we arrived at the gym, we milled about until the teacher arrived, blowing her whistle to signal that we had begun. This meant that we had to line up next to each other, usually along a specified line on the gym floor or field. My memory is hazy on this: Did we line up in alphabetical order or any old way? Whichever, following the whistle, we received the command, “Dress right!” At this point, each of us placed right hand on hip and looked to the right and jostled. Yep, jostled. When we finished, all of us needed to be exactly spaced, with right elbow jutting out to touch the arm of the girl to our right.

Just a moment’s digression here. We were all different sizes, so how exact could that spacing created by shoulder-elbow-hip be? And I know that the picture is military but I couldn’t find one of a gym class doing this.

However, properly spaced, I think we went into “sound off” mode, where we started at one end (probably the right, since we were all looking in that direction) and shouted our last name in turn. This was the teacher’s way of taking attendance, though how could they really keep track? Maybe we counted off? Then if we ended up with fewer than should be there, the teacher could figure it out. It’s all kind of fuzzy. Am I blocking out all of the fond memories?

Oh. I think this was also the time when we indicated if we were, “private.” Oh yeah. Is it that time of month? Make sure you let everyone else know by bellowing this out. Why? Again, more on this later.

And what did we do in gym? A little of this, a little of that, much of it disagreeable.

In junior high (what most would now call middle school), what I remember most is gymnastics. Our teacher, Mrs. Weingartner, loved gymnastics. She even started a gym team with lots of different dance and apparatus events and we put on an annual show. So yes, we all got to experience balance beam, parallel bars, and springboard and horse. That part was fun.

Our next gym teacher — 9th and 10th grade — loved field hockey.

For the first several weeks of the school year, we’d take ourselves outdoors, be given “pinnies” to indicate which team we were on, and run back and forth waving sticks. A few of us (not me) were good at this. The rest of us truly were just running back and forth waving sticks.

Spring brought an even more painful outdoor event: running the 500. We started at a designated spot in the school parking lot and had to run or walk 500 yards, while our teacher recorded our time. I think that our grade was based on the time it took us to make this circuit. Guess who always came up short?

Some of the other activities weren’t so bad. Indian clubs, for example.

I really enjoyed learning to swing them in our synchronized activities. Of course, occasionally one would get away from someone — which could be very dangerous. Odd, I can’t find any record of it online but this past week I saw a video on the news of an extreme sport using these wooden clubs. The participants juggle them, while trying to knock into the other competitors and interrupt their juggling. I think I’m glad we didn’t have to do that.

And interpretive dancing. Run-run-leap. Somehow that’s what I remember most of dance. We needed to practice that move and then split into teams and choose a song and create a dance to perform for the rest of the class. It turned out to be quite fun.

And the other dancing we did. Square dancing. I think that we all had a love-hate relationship with square dancing. Do-si-do, allemande left, and promenade.

The moves were kind of fun and led up to the annual Sadie Hawkins Dance, where the girls asked the boys and we all dressed like hillbillies. However. . .this was the one time of the year when we had mixed-gender gym class. That could have been exciting, but remember those gym suits?

Can we say embarrassing?

There were other activities as well: volleyball, basketball, softball, etc.

Time to wrap this up, which means time to discuss the end of the gym class. Remember the embarrassment of taking off our street clothes to put on the gym suit? At the end of the class we had to reverse that process.

Sort of.

At the end of class, we were all sweaty and smelly and it was time to shower. Together.

Yeah, undressing to underwear was bad enough. Now we had to strip and step into the group showers. Yes. The teacher controlled the water, turning it on and then striding through the locker room to assure that all of us were getting unsweaty. Into those group stalls we went.

Unless, of course, we had indicated “private” at the beginning of the class. If it was “that time of month,” we were entitled to a “private shower.” We had to hurry through that and the teacher kept a record of our cycles to be sure that no one was cheating.

And then we had to towel dry and dress quickly — both to keep from looking at each other and to make it to our next class on time. The result was that we were usually still damp and clothes stuck to us.

Maybe it was just me. But I still don’t like the idea of going to the gym.

F is for Forty-two

Lately I’ve been seeing ads for a new movie called 42.

It’s about Jackie Robinson playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers. It’s an important story, outlining the first black man to play baseball with white men and the resistance that he met.

This wasn’t the first movie about this. In fact, in 1950 Jackie Robinson starred in a film that dealt with the same story.

Okay, so to the point of this entry. I think that this is a great topic for a movie. It looks like the movie will be great and I’ll probably see it at some time. The problem is the title. 42.

42 is NOT a good title for a sports movie.

Okay, Jackie Robinson wore number 42. I get that.

But 42 is NOT a good title for a sports movie.

The movie looks like it has some decent talent. I don’t remember seeing any other performances by Chadwick Boseman, but I’m sure I have since his IMDB indicates that he’s been on ER, CSI, Law & Order, etc. I just don’t remember names.

And the movie has Harrison Ford. Ah, another “F-word.” Ford.

I suppose at this point I could digress, talking about Ford’s Model T.

Or telling about the Ford Fairlane that my family had when I was younger.

But I won’t. Instead I’ll go back to Harrison Ford. Who — as everyone knows — played Han Solo.

And Indiana Jones.

And a faux-Amishman in Witness.

And a cowboy in Cowboys vs. Aliens.

Harrison Ford has credibility, even though his character in 42 doesn’t look at all like his usual personae.

And Harrison Ford sort of has ties to what I consider to be the real meaning of 42. After all, he ties in to both cult favorites and sci-fi.

Which brings me to 42. Not the movie which will open this week but the meaning that has been attached since the late 70’s/early 80’s.

Yes, that’s right. 42 is NOT a sports theme but the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything.

Yes, 42 is associated with towels, but not those found in locker rooms. 42 is associated with towels that aid in time travel.

The Jackie Robinson movie should have been made and released. But not under the title “42.”

E is for Early

Early. Not as in arriving early (though I’ve gone through phases where that was my m.o.) but early mornings. That is also no longer part of my routine, but once upon a time it was.

Anyhow, early mornings are something that I associate with my paternal grandfather, Pap. For most of my elementary school years, I spent every Friday night at Gammy & Pap’s house. Pap and I were always the first ones up and about, well before anyone else in the neighborhood. I didn’t spend much time with him during those mornings. He’d usually disappear to the yard or the garage and I’d plant myself in front of the television. What did I watch? I don’t really remember.

However, the early mornings I really remember with Pap were during the summers when we were on vacation. For several years we rented cabins/houses in Dewey Beach. Pap was up before sunrise each day, and usually I was up and about as well. This was prime beach walking time. We’d traipse the block or two to the beach, then walk along the water as the sun rose over the ocean. We’d walk from Dewey to Rehoboth and back again.

These were our treasure hunting times. Yes, we’d come across interesting shells and pieces of driftwood and we’d stop and dig for spider crabs. But our real finds were those items that others had left on the beach. Towels, shirts, toys, even cameras and jewelry. Some days we’d find several items, some days nothing, but we’d take it all back to the cabin and wash or launder what we had found.

One year I Donnie and I took friends with us to the beach. That year I didn’t take any early morning walks with Pap. I remember that he looked very sad.

Pap had some interesting quirks. He was very OCD and somewhat of a hoarder. I guess the hoarding part was a Depression-era carryover. He’d stock up on things that were on sale, he and Gammy. And they’d save things that could be re-used: plastic bags, ice cream buckets, just about anything.

His OCD showed up in his organizational skills. Each December he’d go out and buy birthday cards for the entire year and keep them in a special drawer in the kitchen, getting out a month’s worth at a time. We always knew which card was from Gammy & Pap because on the envelope, just above the stamp, was our birthdate, lettered in Pap’s neat printing. He also put the date on the canned goods that he and Gammy bought and kept a record of what he bought and on what date on the garage wall with a Magic Marker (this was before the days of Sharpies).

I think that the way I remember Pap most is walking around his yard, in shorts and no shirt, shoes with socks, digging or raking or pulling weeds.

Toward the end, he faded in and out of understanding what was going on. He had Alzheimer’s, so he stalled out at 1999, couldn’t remember any date after that. But he still read the newspaper every day and could sit and carry on a current events conversation.

I spent this afternoon looking through photos in a box that apparently came from Gammy and Pap’s house, a box of photos and a few clippings. I scanned about half of the photos. Some of them are interspersed in this entry, from birth to not long before his death. 

D is for Donnie and Dale and . . .

In my blogging notes, I’ve indicated that today is my day to write about my brother, Don. After all, we spent a lot of time together when we were little and if I’m writing about memories, he deserves some wordage. He’s two years eight and a half months younger than I am. I imagine that we fought now and then, but mostly I think we were friends.

That being said, one of my strongest memories of my brother did not leave me feeling very loving toward him. It happened at Easter time, probably when I was in first or second grade. Okay, so for Easter we got colored peeps.

No, not marshmallow peeps. I suppose we could have found some of those in our Easter baskets but that’s not what I remember. We got PEEPS, as in baby chicks. Colored baby chicks.

I suppose that wasn’t healthy for the chicks. In fact, the practice of dying them was later halted because it was dangerous to them.

Not half as dangerous as the kids.

Okay, on with the story. I went off to school and Donnie stayed at home with Mom. And the peeps. They probably had names, but I don’t remember that. I also don’t remember what color mine was or what color his was.

Remember how I said that the real danger was the kids? Well, Donnie was playing with his peep and apparently he was a little too rough (he was only three or four years old) and accidentally killed it. I guess he squeezed it too hard or something. But he was very, very, very upset. So Mom put the dead peep in a box and when I got home from school, we dug a hole in the back yard (a real trick — most of our yard was cement) and had a funeral and buried the dead peep.

I think the funeral helped Donnie get over his grief.

In fact, he really enjoyed the funeral.

The next day while I was at school, Donnie strangled my peep. Yeah. He liked that funeral and wanted to have another one. But Mom said no more funerals and threw this dead peep in the garbage.

Donnie. So innocent looking with that little buzz cut.

Sometime later he got his. I was inside, looking out the kitchen window while Mom was cooking dinner. Outside, Donnie was playing with our neighbor, Vincie, who was a year younger than me, and a little more than a year older than Donnie. I remember saying to Mom, “Vincie and Donnie are playing cowboys and bandits.” Mom may have said yes or made some sort of sound or even asked how I knew that. At any rate, I went on to say, “Vincie’s hanging Donnie.”

I think there was a moment’s pause, just a moment, before my Mom dropped her spoon or whatever she was holding and dashed out the back door. No lasting damage, but Donnie did have a rope burn around his neck for quite a while to come.

Yep, that innocent smile and that buzz cut. When he reached high school, he let his hair grow. Really grow.

Now he’s back to the buzz cut but I’m too lazy to scan a more recent picture to include.

Early this morning the news broke that Margaret Thatcher had died. The Iron Maiden was a force to be reckoned with during a large chunk of time. Such a strong woman and one of the first female political role models. I figured that I could add “Death” as a D-word and talk about that.

A few hours later I heard that Annette Funicello had passed as well. Mickey Mouse club and beach movies — she’s was a big part of my early years. Okay, a different type of role model, but still a part of my life.

This evening I added a third name to that list (because they do always seem to come in threes). I called my Dad to ask him my question and he gave me the news that my Uncle Dale had died. He had a rough time lately — he was in chemo but had to stop because he fell and hit his head and needed surgery for that. He was my Mom’s older brother, and around when I was very young but not so much later, moving out of state.

Of course, in the past few years he and I lived in the same state. Yet we usually only saw each other at family gatherings in Pennsylvania. I did have a business trip to Waldorf a few years ago and called him and he took me out to dinner. I feel sad for the remaining brother and sisters, Jack, Kaye, and Goldie, losing two siblings in such a short time.

C is for Cats and Chips

10:45 and I’m just now getting around to this. That probably means that this will be a very short entry.

C

Of course, C is for Cats.

When I was growing up, I had no pets. My uncle Ron had a rabbit, kept outdoors in a hutch (at least, I think I remember that). My Uncle Jack and Aunt Kaye had cats. But not me. My dad really liked animals but we were never allowed to have pets. My first was during high school, when I somehow talked them into letting me have a hamster. In truth, I already had a hamster but he lived at my friend Kathy’s house. I just brought him home.

My first cat came about when I was in college. Actually, about a week before my graduation. I was living in a dorm and no animals were allowed, but I heard about someone with kittens and claimed one. So I kept it in the dorm that week, hiding it from the authorities (something for which I had developed a real talent, but I’ll tell about that some other time), and presenting it to my parents when they arrived for the ceremonies.

So Ashley went home with me, though my parents — especially Mom — were none too thrilled about it. He was a strange cat. My brother and I liked to take him for rides in the car. My dad, too. He didn’t particularly like the car wash, completely freaked out when we went through it, but we took him there anyhow. Ashley stayed with me when I married. I’d put him outside on a leash when we lived in Highspire and he’d lunge at the chihuahua who lived next door, scaring the crap out of that obese pup. He was with us when we lived in an old schoolhouse in Middletown. And he moved to Juniata County with us, ranging the countryside, stopping by to meow, “Hello” to our neighbor at 4 a.m. and scaring the crap out of him. Sixteen years with him.

Living in the country, we had several cats indoors and bunches outside. Spock was with us for a long while. He earned his name because as a kitten he had ears that we doubted he could ever grow into. He was with us into his teens. We had other indoor cats with him. Savik, Max, Gray Clyde.

Pokey. She came from my in-laws house, complete with a broken leg. She also had her picture in the newspaper when we entered her in a Clinton’s-cat-Socks-look-alike contest. She didn’t win, but we loved her.

Buckwheat. He started out as Anjee’s cat, but ended up moving with me to Mifflinburg. He was around for many years as well.

And when Buckwheat passed away, I found Slink. I mention Slink a lot and have written an entire book about him, so I’ll just include his picture.

So much for cats.

I also want to include another C: Charles Chips. I could have just used “chips” but there’s a reason for this. Last week I stopped by a local thrift shop to look for small items to inspire me for short story writing. I came across this gem.

Ninety-nine cents.

Did I need a tin? No. But I remembered that we had cans like this around when I was growing up. This one is only a one-pound can and we usually had three or five pound cans, but it was very nostalgic. We didn’t buy potato chips in bags, but in tins. So yes, Charles Chips. So far I haven’t decided on a use for this tin, but it makes me smile to have it sitting where I can see it.