Season to Season

         Those of us who grew up in the 50s knew what the recess bell was.   It was a bell—an actual giant red bell—that rang at the beginning of recess in elementary schools all across America.   When it rang, kids lined up to go outside to play—disorganized, loud, dirty play.   When the bell rang again, kids lined up to go back inside. We had morning recess, lunchtime recess, and afternoon recess. In between recesses we had class.           One day in 1962, the afternoon recess bell rang at W.C. Daughtery Elementary.   My friends and I lined up to go outside and play; once outside we scattered like frantic ants on the first warm spring day and headed in all different directions.   Some ran to the slides; others toward the merry-go-round, the swing set, the monkey bars, or the seesaws. But others, like me, didn’t gravitate toward the playground equipment.   We had something else entirely different on our minds.           “Sticker weed battle!” yelled my friend, Tommy,

Granddad, Burt Stainbrook In the two days since my arrival, Granddad and I exchanged only a few predictable, cursory words. “Here’s your cereal; no milk, right?” “Right, Granddad. Thanks.” “You sleep okay?” Although his silent house had kept me awake, I respectfully replied, “Yes sir. I did,” followed by, “How ‘bout you?”   “I’m old: I never sleep well,” he grumbled.  “Just too many memories and ghosts.” The house became still as we struggled with what to say to one another. So we ate breakfast in silence; a silence so thick I could feel it drape around me like an old shawl. I pulled it against me as I plopped down into my grandmother’s chair suddenly aware of something else in the house, something different; a faint rustling, a soft presence of some sort. I didn’t know what it was.           Perhaps it was the lilt of Granny’s lavender perfume that lingered in the rich tapestry fabric, stirring memories of when I sat in her lap reading a book or shari

          December extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and pouring rain; January arrived, cold as frozen iron with hard frosts and icy winds that stung my cheeks and bit at my ungloved hands.    Winter’s sunless days, brutally cold temperatures, and constant dreariness had broken my spirit.   Then one clear January evening, I opened my garage door; stood on my driveway; and watched my breath mingle with the crisp, frigid air.   I glanced up; stars filled the vast dark sky above me like pale corn sewn into freshly-turned   The lyrics of “Starry, Starry Night” played softly in my head. As the lights twinkled and the unheard music played, I pondered.   Stars.   What are they?   Guardians of the galaxy? Blinking fairy lights in the night sky?   Fireflies burning brightly against flowing black satin behind veiled layers of serene clouds above my head? Or are they keepers of light and heat?  soil. I zipped up my jacket; tucked my numb fingers and hands into armpits

After Granny died, Mother requested only one item from her mother’s possessions. “All I really want,” Mother told my uncle, “are her old recipe cards and antique file box.” Mother’s request puzzled me, for I knew Mother didn’t need the recipe cards and file box for any practical reason. She’d known for decades how to make Granny’s pumpernickel bread, sauerkraut, and her breakfast specialty—streusel kuchen.   But when the file box arrived a few days later, Mother stopped what she was doing and sat down at her kitchen table where she gingerly opened the box. Mother sniffed its contents.   “It smells just like my mother’s kitchen!”   She handed me the box.   “Take a whiff. Don’t you agree?”  I held the box next to my nose and took a long sniff.   “Yes! And I think I smell her beef Rouladen,” I said smacking my lips.   “She did make the most delicious beef Rouladen, didn’t she?”   A smile lit up her face.   “It was so tender and juicy that it just melted in my mouth. M

      “Hilda’s in labor!” yelled Mr. Davis.   I leapt off the porch, ran next door, and watched Hilda strain as five milk-chocolate-colored Dachshunds slowly wriggled their way from her belly. The first was a runt who immediately captured my heart.   I giggled, watching it and the other four bundles of energy squirming beneath Hilda’s tummy, all begging for lunch at the same time. But the magical moment ended when Hilda nudged her runt puppy away. The runt inched his way back, but she shoved him away, pouncing on his tiny back and breaking his tail.  “She’s hurting him!” I screeched.   “Make her stop!” Mr. Davis scooped up the injured pup and placed him in my hands. “Run, kiddo. Get a shoebox and put that pup in it!” I darted inside, gingerly holding the wounded pup in my hands; found a shoebox; placed the runt in it, and watched it stretch its tiny body ever so slightly.   “Hilda’s mean, Mr. Davis! Why would a mama dog hurt her own puppy?” “Kiddo, Hilda’s

        I’ve thought a lot about the old movie, The Trouble With Angels , a 1966 comedy set at St. Francis, a fictional all-girls Catholic boarding school.   The movie boasted of an all-female   cast that included Rosaline Russell playing the role of Mother Superior who’s constantly at odds with Mary Clancy (Hayley Mills) and Rachel Devery (June Harding). Even the director, Ida Lapino, was female—a rare feat for women in the mid-1960s. The episodic story line followed the two disgruntled teenagers through their sophomore, junior, and senior high-school years.   Mary was the rebellious, prankish instigator who always said to Rachel, “I’ve got the most scathingly brilliant idea!”    Throughout the movie, they pulled pranks on the sisters, repeatedly getting into trouble and turning the convent school upside down.   Mary also resented Mother Superior’s authority and often puzzled over why any woman would choose the life of a nun.   Over time, the sister’s examples of ded

     My students often asked me some of the craziest, unanswerable questions.   How many hours are there in a mile?   Is red square or round?   Do fish get thirsty? Can you cry underwater? How do you write zeroes in Roman numerals? Why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?   My young students were both baffled and intrigued by the unanswerable questions they posed me.     Likewise, we adults pose some pretty baffling, unanswerable questions:   ·         Why are there exceptions to every rule? Exceptions make no sense to us even though nothing comes with 100% predictability. ·         Is the universe finite or infinite?   If we traveled to the outer edges of the universe, would we run smack dab into another universe?   How could we tell? Would the other universe be a different color, operate with a different set of rules, or smell like almonds?   How would we know? ·         Why does anything exist? Before there was something, there was nothing.