On a Friday in May, I had a visit from my niece Judy Wharton (Betty’s daughter) and her husband Mike up from Cottonwood, California to take advantage of the clam tides during their regular vacation time. I went with them for lunch to the Circle Creek Trailer Camp south of town where they are during their stay. Arriving later was Bob Nystrom, Judy’s cousin and Jimmy and Sandi Ober, her brother and sister-in-law from Rio Dell, California. We enjoyed their company in the sunshine outside their mobile home.
When my friend Judy Parish brought me home from shopping last week, she ran her hand through low hanging camellia leaves and unearthed a copy of The Daily Astorian that had been thrown into the bush. It was dated Feb. 17. Nothing new there really, but the situation is better now. They put my paper on the front porch where I can more easily reach it. The positive result of this discovery is that I had an extra crossword puzzle. Yay!
The picture in the last Signal of people on the beach on a warm day is a modified scene of my growing up. It showed about 20 to 25 people and of course that was just a small part. In my beach going days, the sand was crowded with blankets and there were hundreds of sun worshipers trying to get a tan. When we were kids, we always thought that if you stayed in the water long enough, it would warm up (ha!) or one would become acclimated and endure. Somehow that never happened. We’d get wet for a few minutes and then go back to the sand to warm up. Wading was not so traumatic — sometimes I wonder that al the kids were allowed to go, unsupervised. As an adult, I took my kids to the beach but we didn’t go in the water.
I was truly heartened one day when in watching “The Five” I saw a baseball audience (was it Cleveland?) where everyone sang the National Anthem. The soloist had pitched it low and people joined in happily, a past common occurrence, which I have always advocated. It was wonderful! The America I grew up in.
The memorial ad in The Daily Astorian for the June 21, 1942, shelling of Ft. Stevens brought back many memories. I was in my third month of bed rest for rheumatic fever at my sister Blanche’s house on 5th and Jackson streets. My fiancé, who later became my husband, was on duty in the radio shack when the shells began coming in — 17 of them. I heard the sound but didn’t realize what it was. I’ve forgotten the time, although it seems like it was evening. The paper said Saturday and Sunday, the 18th and 19th, there would be a Pacific Rim Peace Memorial from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. at Battery Russell. When my friend Judy and I arrived about 2 p.m. on Sunday, they were packing up to decamp.
A little boy asked his mother, “How was I born?” And she answered, “The stork brought you.” Then he asked, “How were you born?” She told him, “The stork brought me.”
Finally he asked his grandmother, “Gramma, how were you born?” And she answered, “The stork brought me.”
Evidently the questions were a show and tell assignment for school because next day the teacher asked him how his family came to be and he said, “There hasn’t been a natural birth in my family for three generations!”
Q: Why do some people not like Sunday school teachers?
A: They tend to be Babylon.