Where did “back in the day” come from? Our expression was “in the good old days,” which is still useful. Often, they are from movies or popular books and people just pounce on them.
So long, Don
Don Church has died not long after his wife, Betty Jean. When I took post-graduate work at the high school for my nursing diploma, Don was my chemistry partner. If it hadn’t been for him, I probably would never have passed the course because he did most of the work. We also were partners on the centennial program for Seaside. Don was the last one to go in his family and though he was not the same guy we used to know, his friends will miss him. Rest in peace, Don.
Weather a mixed bag
Thursday, March 27 was a gorgeous day with the temperature hovering around 70 degrees. I guess all the spring break kids thought it might continue. On Friday, everyone was at the beach but the weather became a day from “H-E-double hockey sticks.” People in cloth hoodies were braving the elements — rain, rain, rain and more rain! There were people with 9- or 10-month-old babies riding on their shoulders in clothes suitable for sunny days — no sweaters, no hats, just this deluge running off their hair. What our town needs is a foul weather shop, selling boots, umbrellas, real raincoats and Sou’Wester hats. Remember the oilskins of the old days? They were long and waxed with galoshes-type fasteners, while the fisherman’s hats went down the back a ways. Where are they now? Also, on the once-were list, were yellow, rubberized coats, hoods and even pants. One of my kids thinks fondly of those he wore to deliver papers when boys did such things. He was fully protected.
Sounds of spring
I feel sorry for the astronaut twin who is going into space for a year. He took off on March 28. He says besides his family, he’ll miss the sounds of life — bird songs and the like. I understand. Out one window I watch two collared doves, sparrows, juncos and chickadees at the bird feeder. Another window shows a wild currant bush where humming birds hang out. A third one, at the kitchen sink, reveals a birdhouse with nesting sparrows and all those feathered friends. Sing out, it’s cool.
I think it’s too bad when the library tosses out a book from a talented Oregon author, although their loss is my gain. I had never heard of Wm. Corbin so I had Gary “Google” him and found that his name is really William Corbin McGraw. He and his wife both did a lot of writing. William began as a newspaperman. I forgot her work. He also served in the Navy for a couple of years in the 40s. Then they bought a filbert farm in Oregon and retired to write and raise their two children. The McGraws (Eloise Jarvis Corbin) both died in the 90s. I was hoping he was still alive. When I like anyone’s work, I usually write to tell him or her so. The book I found was “Smoke,” a kids story about a German Shepherd dog who escaped from his master and was lost in the woods for a long while, starving some as he lived there, eating whatever was available. (More next time.)
Here’s a tasteful joke from my sister, Blanche.
Two old sisters, Cora and Dora, feeling the pinch of poverty as they were widowed, threw their lot in together and shared everything — even a set of dentures. Cora, returning from an afternoon tea, put the teeth in their usual resting place.
In a few minutes, Dora, on her way to a party, took the dentures for herself, after which she opened her eyes widely and exclaimed in a satisfied voice, “M-m-m-m! Macaroons!”