Rachel S. Roberts's Blog

           In the 1990s, I taught a college course focused on the elements of a good story or book. Naturally, in addition to material read and discussed, some elements had to do with theme, structure, figurative language, and basics such as grammar, punctuation, and spelling. Most of this was taught repeatedly in grades 7-12, if not earlier. Anyway, the course served its purpose for students who needed reminders about the basics of writing for profit or for pleasure.
             One element I had to stress was that when writing fiction, dialogue is important, telling my students that people don’t speak in complete sentences. This always posed a problem for strict grammarians. Now with texting, most elements we focused upon in the 1990s are largely ignored. Texting is convenient, and I like it, but I also delight in reading a sentence that has been beautifully constructed. Generally it is concise, precise, and not wordy. Probably in the future we won’t even text but will communicate by impulses flashed from somewhere in our brains to another person’s brain.  Will there be any need for speech?  Will one person’s brain chip communicate to a large group?  What about church services? Will they be totally quiet?  What about theaters?  How will the actors communicate their lines to an audience? What about songs that need to be sung?  There will always be music but will it be heard in our brains?  Oh the mysteries of one’s imagination?
                I digress. I will stop long enough to let you know I’ve been writing a monthly blog since 2013-- August to be exact.  Prior to that, I wrote a weekly personal opinion column for a 4-county newspaper, and many times, I had feature articles in magazines or op-eds in large newspapers. Now -a -days, the newspaper has become almost obsolete. It gets thinner and thinner, yet I subscribe to them. I don’t even know how many magazines are still published, but I know almost everything is “on line.” I do not know how much longer I will continue this sort of writing, but if I miss a month or so as I did in June and July, be patient. The process of writing is addictive to a writer. I can barely “think” unless I have pencil and paper in hand.   I make lists. I write letters and notes. I can’t think of not putting down words to express my thoughts.
                People adapt.  We get accustomed to new ways of doing things. And we will continue to do so. As my life changes, new ways are demanded.  Many of my dearest friends have left this world.  I miss them.  I remember their quirks, personalities, laughter, accomplishments, recipes, visits, music, and works of art.  I hope to see them again “someday.”  A friend recently commented that her world has become “smaller, narrower,” and I concur.  But, “there is no frigate like a book,” to quote Emily Dickinson.   I am happy to have had opportunities to travel, meet new people, and experience a number of cultures.
           Life is good. Life is difficult. Life is frustrating, especially after a person listens to the news and learns about man’s inhumanity to man.  I tell my family what we see on the news is but a miniscule of all the goodness “out there.”  News and headlines focus on the negative, the bad, the tragic, but ninety-five percent of all population is wholesome, helpful, and peace loving. I’ve been watching a lot of movies lately and I know what a good plot requires—tension and conflict.  But there can be peace, and let us hope soon there will be peace.  Enough of these thoughts.    In a book or story, however, there must be tension and conflict and memorable dialogue.

      I’ve owned them since the early 1960s when my husband’s aunt gave them to me--- two Italian putti cherubs. I didn’t know what to do with them then, and I still don’t know what to do with them now.  They have spent more than fifty years on the top shelf of my linen closet. Recently, a friend who deals with sales over eBay visited, and somehow the subject was broached. Did I have anything I might want to sell?  I gave it some thought, and the two Italian putti cherubs came to mind. They are heavy, probably made of some sort of plaster or bisque.  They are smiling gold angel art objects, which, after I researched the subject, the internet showed pages of other putti cherubs.
       Some were porcelain, others gold, others bronze, some concrete, some made of paper mache; some are sculptured pieces, some designed into elaborate fountains, some were tiny shaped earrings, some are statues, and more.  I often had thought of hanging my putti angels over the some doorway, but I never did.  I couldn’t get high enough to put in picture hooks sturdy enough to hang them, even though each has two rings on the back for hooks.  They are cute, happy-looking gold cherubs, and I never knew they were called “putti.”   I will now share from the internet the following information.
      “Putto (plural, putti) is winged infants who either play the role of angelic spirits in religious works, or act as instruments of profane love. They are often shown as associates of Cupid. In art history, a putto is a chubby, often naked, male child figure, typically with wings, frequently appearing in art, particularly during the Renaissance and Baroque periods. The word ‘putto’ comes from the Latin ‘putus,’ meaning ‘boy.’  Putti can represent a range of concepts, including innocence, love, and divine influence, and they often appear in scenes with mythological figures like Venus and Cupid." Cupids are putti with arrows and mischievous eyes. Cherubs are putti often found flying around the edges of religion scenes, bearing witness to the Virgin Mary.
      Now we know more than I ever knew about the two putti I own. We put the smiling cherubs on eBay, and priced them.  We got no takers. We lowered the price. Still no buyers, although we got some hits.  It seems that not many people today are collecting putti.  But, there are hundreds of people selling their putti.  I believe there will come a time, when a putto will be a sought after item, so I’ll donate my two putti to my daughters or granddaughters.  Surely they will find a place for them, or perhaps put them on the top shelf of their linen closets. In all seriousness, these are quite interesting. Each baby face with wings is smiling, happy-looking, and deserves to be enjoyed.
     These also are lacquered gold or gold plated, and I’ve no idea where my husband’s aunt found them. I guess she probably picked them up in Florence or Rome and hauled them back to America. She was a fashion and hat designer and in the 1920s had her own hat shop on Fifth Avenue in New York. She probably placed them there. Who knows? It was all long ago.  
 

     April is a surreal and surprising time for me. I was married on April Fool's day, and whether or not marriage for me was to be, it now has lasted almost 60 years, -- happy years, I should add.  April is that time of year here in the Midwest when forsythia and tulips bloom and grass and fields begin to green. Cats wander about, coming in from the woods, moaning and mewing, and so do other creatures. I find groundhogs in the yard, and they brazenly look at me as if to say, "What are you going to do about me?" When I shoo or clap my hands, they run, their bushy tails disappearing behind tree stumps or under my deck.
 
     But enough of how surreal April is because we do get sunshine and lots of rain, sometimes snow and sometimes even fog or hail.  Flooding in certain parts of the country make nightly news. It's a mixed up month, or so it seems.  Moreover, April is that time of when people open their checkbooks and the IRS gets its check. Surreal. 

     Here in our town, building permits get approved, and the history and face of the town begin to change. We're a small town about twenty miles from a metropolitan area. Between these two places, farm land mingles with new housing developments, making people worry about preserving their heritage and farms.   Here we worry and care about our neighbors. Barry Lopez, essayist, nature and fiction writer and author of Winter Count writes, "Everything is held together with stories. That is all that is holding us together, stories, and compassion."  I copied that statement down and I read it from time to time. But, I add, as surreal as it may be to some people, Easter is what holds us together. It's a wonderful reality of hope and promise.  happy Easter.  Go give someone a hug. 

     As "The Family Circus" cartoonists Bil and Jeff Keane have it," A Hug relieves tension, improves blood flow, reduces stress, is non-polluting, helps self-esteem,  generates good will... and no batteries are requires, absolutely no cost, non-taxable, silent performance, extremely personal, and fully returnable.  It's recommended for ages 1 to 100 and up!" That advice is not surreal. 

Recently while clearing out some bookshelves, I found a printed verse on a tattered and faded piece of paper tucked in an old book I was going to recycle. The verse seems applicable… and there is no author’s name mentioned. 
​
         HUGS
A Hug can cheer you when you’re blue.
A Hug can say, “I Love You So.”
Or “Gee, I hate to see you go.”
A Hug is, “Welcome back again.”
And “Great to see you! Where’ve you been?”
A Hug can soothe a small child’s pain
And bring a rainbow after rain.
The Hug!   There’s just no doubt about it
We scarcely could survive with out it!
A Hug delights and warms and charms.
It must be why GOD gave us arms.
Hugs are great for fathers and mothers,
Sweet for sisters, swell for brothers.
And chances are your favorite aunts
Love them more than potted plants.
Kittens crave them. Puppies love them.
Heads of state are not above them.
A Hug can break the language barrier
And make your travels so much merrier.
No need to fret about your store of ‘em:
The more you give the more there’s more of ‘em.
So stretch arms without delay
AND GIVE SOME ONE A HUG TODAY!! ​

     In church, our organist played Irish music—“Irish Lullaby,” the “Irish Blessing” and other songs that lend themselves to thoughts and deep longings. The minister spoke of fear vs. faith, and there were some new faces in the sanctuary.  Outside it was a dreary rainy day and most of the county was reeling from storms and tornadoes.  What a strange world.  But then, I also think about Louis Armstrong’s song, “What a Wonderful World.”   It makes things better to think about Armstrong’s lyrics than to think about climate. 
     Some people say the month of March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. What shocked me this year was that during the first week of March, I heard the chatter of wrens. I looked, and sure enough there were two wrens searching for a house.  Generally wrens don’t come to our part of the Midwest until the last of April or early May. Oddly enough, though, I saw robins in February. So, I admit weather has changed our good earth, but then it’s been changing for the last millions of years. 
     When I think about the age of our planet and the fact that scientists recently have discovered the flat rocks on Mars have indications of having been formed by water, I long to think we on earth were graced by the Creator with the moon, stars, and planets to bring beauty to our lives and make us think deep thoughts.  How naïve of me.  Maybe Mars, that cold, dry, red planet, and the moon also, were inhabited long before we came along. The thought makes me know in the large scheme of things, I am nothing but a blade of grass.
      Scripture tells us “we are as the grass of the fields that soon withers and dies,” and surely Walt Whitman, when he wrote Leaves of  Grass, which he self-published in 1855, shocked the literary world with his assessment about an individual’s worth.  His collection of poems was banned. But that’s another story.  Fortunately, I was taught, or maybe I learned without knowing I was being taught, that every person’s life is valuable. We are not abandoned willy-nilly in this crazy world.  But such a thought also leads to a whole different subject,-- that of suicide among young people. How can a young person feel so hopeless that he or she feels abandoned and worthless? It’s a question that really makes a person have deep thoughts.
      A lecture I recently heard had to do with how man (mankind) lives in something of a triangle of conditions, overseen by spirituality..  The talk dealt with how a happy life is a balance between The Physical (excercise and relaxation); The Mental (emotional, values, mores, attitudes); and The Chemical (diet, food, drugs) . Even if these three are balanced, life is not satisfying, unless above them all is the awareness of spirituality, --and that does not refer to “preachiness” or ”religiousity.”  One person at the lecture spoke how youngsters have to be taught from childhood to be resilient, thus to learn that not every bump in the road of life is a tragedy. We can’t wave a wand and make society healthy and resilient, but we can teach young people life is worthwhile.
​      Life is full of shocks, large and small, and it sure makes for an interesting world. Whether we’re nothing but blades of grass, “the fields are alive with the sound of music,” and especially this March, we need music that causes us to have deep thoughts and sweet longings. Happy St. Patrick’s Day. 

      It's time to say farewell to February. It has been a brutal and unpredictably cold and icy month. For days, we seemed trapped by the weather,  and when the sun finally came shining through the clouds, we cheered.  The temperature  rose to above freezing, whereas the week before, we were below zero.   I mention these facts because it leads me to related how in diaries, people enter details about the weather more than any other  bit of news. 

     Years ago,  I gave some talks about diaries based on the fact that my father and my grandfather both kept diaries, I kept one at the time in a haphazard way, and  I was fascinated by Thomas Mallon's book ,  A Book of One's Own People and Their Diaries.  I had access to the diary of a school teacher in Coldwater, Michigan, during the year 1876.  Believe it or not, that poor teacher recorded in just about every entry of his diary that he trudged through snow from his rooming house to school.  I also own the diary kept by Lillie McTighe, a single woman who lived in Auburn, Indiana,  during the early part of the 20th century with her sister and her brother-in-law.  It seems there was some friction between them because Lillie was  infatuated with a certain man who in the eyes of her brother-in-law was unsuitable.   It occurred to me to at the time to continue my research about diaries, but life got in my way.

     Thomas Mallon's book categorizes writers of diaries as one or the other of the following:  Chroniclers, Travelers, Pilgrims, Creators, Apologists, Confessors, and Prisoners.  If you were to think about each,  you would realize Mallon nailed the categories accurately.  It is hard not to keep a record of one's  travels, restaurants and inns visited because one might  want to experience them again or at the very least read about the trip later. Truth to say, most travelers jot down the facts, and when home, forget the notebook entirely.  My mother-in-law's records of her trip to India and China are in a box in the basement.

     Young people often make confessions in their diaries. It's instinctive.  I kept one when I was  a sophomore in high school, jotting down the amazing fact that a certain guy in the eleventh grade who in my opinion at the time was the most handsome person in the world had actually looked at me and said "hi."  

     No one  can deny that much history written  is based on diaries of  explorers, dignitaries, inventors, and celebrities.  Movies and novels also are stories culled from diaries. Certainly the movie  " Doctor Zhivago"  captures the scenery and beauty of a Russian winter, but  Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago tells a totally different winter story.   His eight year imprisonment  and suffered hardships in the labor prisons make a person weep.  (His book is deemed one of the most important of the 20th century.)   In the mid-1660s,Samuel Pepys's diary tells everything, and do mean everything. Mallon writes,  "His diary gurgles like a full stomach and jingles like a full pocket." James Boswell's account of the great Samuel Johnson,  gives readers a view into the 18th century.

     A dairy is a "carrier of the private--the everyday, the intriguing, the sordid, the sublime, the boring--- of everything. "  Whether called a diary or a journal, "both are rooted in the idea of dailiness." So, with this month's daily dose of ice,  snow, and biting wind,  I say farewell to February 2025, hoping for a warm

     Shortly before Christmas a good friend rang our doorbell and handed me an Amaryllis. “I thought you might enjoy watching it grows,” she said.  She knew we weren’t going to have family for Christmas and wanted to make sure we would have something special on that day.  (For the record, family arrived here for festivities the day after Christmas.)  Anyway, I set the Amaryllis on the buffet until I could get it unwrapped. But, as family arrived, the Amaryllis got put aside until after New Years Day.  So, with the house quiet and January hours embracing us, I discovered the Amaryllis.  Finding it, I was delighted and opened it, placed it on our breakfast table and read the directions.
     Once actively growing, I learned I am to water it frequently. I also must turn the plant occasionally to keep it standing tall and not leaning toward the light.  This Amaryllis is gorgeous. Its pinkish-white petals remind me of a spring dawn, and the stems stand erect like stalwart soldiers. 
     The Amaryllis plant has a long history. Back in Greek times, it was termed Amarullis, and the Latin refers to a shepherdess, a lovely thing to consider.  It’s a bulbous plant and native to southern Africa. It has large lily-like reddish or white flowers, and sometimes is called the “belladonna lily.”  My Amaryllis has four stems, and each stem has a flower of five or six lily sections, that remind me of trumpets.  After blooming, the plant can be cultivated as an indoor or outdoor plant and with care, darkness, and time, bloom again. I’ve never been that successful. Generally, I put it in the garden and enjoy it as a green plant. But I digress.  What I am trying to convey is the importance of having a friend who cares, a person who knows what will delight, and who and shares.
     Speaking of sharing, my good nephew and his wife shared with us another Christmas delight—a cranberry cake that featured the taste of citrus.  We enjoyed it so much it lasted two weeks. Each morning during the Christmas season, we ate a sliver with our breakfast coffee. And then there was none, which made me know it was time to tackle making homemade bread, something I haven’t done for quite some time,  mind you not because I didn’t want to, but because the bowl I need for the project was on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet, and I simply couldn’t get to it.
     When my friend visited, I asked how tall she was. She was two inches taller than I, so I asked her to reach up and get the bowl down. Mission accomplished, my task on these next frigid arctic blast days while watching the presidential inauguration, is to warm the yeast, measure out flour, read my mother-in–law’s recipe and begin the process.  I cannot think of a more wonderful way to pass the day because the Amaryllis graces my table, the political intrigue of presidential campaigns has been decided, and the temperature outside is below zero. Horrors. Below zero! 
     How I wish I could change things for those in California who have suffered enormous losses due to wildfires; I wish I could change things in Gaza and Israel, Haiti, Russia,  Ukraine;  and oh how I wish I could change the anger that precipitates hatred between nations. Why can’t disputes be settled with a good football game?  I like to watch a good football game. Fortunately, I have that going for me this weekend as well.  

     Sometimes winter comes with a blast of cold that knocks a person almost breathless. Sometimes autumn turns into winter like melting chocolate, soft and easy. This year, winter came with bitter winds that made driving difficult. I write about winter’s arrival for a reason. While reading and studying some old diaries, I have noted how much space people devote to recording details about the weather of the day. I suppose people today do the same.
     Recently on a windy afternoon, a torn slip of paper blew into the yard and when I picked it up to toss into the trash can, I saw it was part of a list or note written by who knows who, or when, but the words jotted on the paper were:  “cold and dreary-- not a good day for planting.”  I put the paper in the trash and went on my way, only to think about the person who wrote that.
     We each have experienced cold and dreary days and times that were not good for planting. What was it that person was wanting to plant, I wondered—a vegetable or flower garden, perhaps an orchard of trees or a single ornamental bush. Who knows?
        A friend commented one idea of entertainment for him was to “people watch.”  He said he wonders who people are, where they’re going, what sort of lives they live, and what each does for a living.  “My son likes to give them names and even makes up details about each one’s lives,” he said.         His comment brought back a game I used to play with my son when he was a youngster. We’d see a man on the sidewalk or at a station store or beach, and we’d say, “There’s Vernon Batson.”  Vernon Batson was no person, and Vernon Batson was every person.
       Suffice it to say, a person’s imagination is a gift. It allows us to wonder, ponder, wish, and dream.    It reminds me of Emily Dickinson’s lines, “There is no frigate like a book.”  Our imaginations let us get acquainted with ourselves, with the Vernon Batsons of the world, and with  mysteries we often think about on rainy, cold, and  dreary days, --days that are not good for planting.
       I stayed up until midnight watching the George Tech vs. George football game the other night. It went into eight overtimes. Yes, I like a good football game.  I wonder why the nations of the world can’t settle their disputes and wars with a spirited competitive sporting event, football, soccer, basketball, hockey, or whatever. From what I gather from weather reports and the Farmer’s Almanac, there will be many cold dreary days this winter,-- days not good for planting. But I can imagine. And I can watch football and keep track of how my Amaryllis grows.  When I bought it at the hardware store, i saw Vernon Batson buying one too. 

     ​November has brought Americans many changes. Politically, the recent elections lead to a new wave of changes. Locally, in my hometown several old buildings have been or are being demolished, but at the same time new buildings are being built—a bank, a Dairy Queen, two car washing businesses, and several new restaurants.  Several on-going businesses are being revamped. It seems this little corner of Northeast Indiana is experiencing an economic boost. Even so, this is still a place where just outside our city limits there are farms and thriving agricultural enterprises.  I have always said Indiana comes into her own in the autumn of the year. I mean that sincerely, because the land and freshly ploughed fields are awash in the rich colors of harvest—tans, cigarette creams, russets, and browns of every shade.
      One notable change this month seems that Thanksgiving has been overlooked for Christmas commercialism.  Black Friday is near, but I had not expected Christmas in late fall. Sure enough, one day I was in the local drugstore amid Halloween masks and scary spooky gewgaws, and lo, and behold I spied a Christmas tree in the corner.  Sure enough, the next day, Christmas décor was everywhere. The stores downtown were decorated. The Courthouse sported candles in every window. The street department people were busy putting up the Christmas lights, and the local parks were featuring the Christmas displays and exhibits.
        Change is here, and I must be ready for it.  In my circle of friends, there have been several deaths.   It is also jarring to learn that another friend has been placed in hospice.   There is nothing permanent in life except change. Change and God’s grace, mercy, and love.  If Christmas can be seen in November, then this Christmas message can be expressed now as well.  And so, with Thanksgiving here, I am thankful for the changes that make us stronger and more perspective.
        I value my blessings and grieve for those who have no electricity, water, and deal with flooding. I have food to eat, a home that is warm, and a church where I worship.  I am fortunate to have family I hold dear, and so this November, with Christmas around the corner, I am thankful for Thanksgiving.  I wish for each reader of this short blog, a happy, safe, and blessed Thanksgiving. May you have food to eat, football to watch, family to give you hugs, shelter to keep you warm, and some projects to keep you challenged and engaged.  And maybe, just maybe, you still can enjoy a little remnant of Halloween—perhaps a black cat--- or if not a soft cat with a sweet or crazy name that will look you in the face and purr with pure pleasure. And, if you’re like some of my friends and relatives without cats but have  dogs and other pets, enjoy their love and loyalty. Happy Thanksgiving, and if at all possible, embrace change. I am going to try a new recipe. That'll be a change for me.  

     An advertisement from Hallmark Cards showed an elderly woman having to discard her stack of treasured cards.  It was an effective ad, and it resonated with lots of people who treasure and save cards they receive with birthday wishes, thinking of you sentiments, and expressions of sympathy, not to mention Christmas cards, congratulations, and thank you notes.  Recently while going through cards that have been stashed on my bookshelves and in desk drawers, I waxed a bit sentimental.  It wasn’t so much the printed messages that I considered; it was signatures.  Each signature reminded me of someone special.  In my mind’s eye I could see that person, remembered our relationship, and mused over the event that caused that person to purchase a card, address it, stamp it, and mail it – to me!
     My mother’s handwriting was neat and even. I would recognize it anywhere.  My father’s signature was more distinctive and dominant.  He used a special fountain pen engraved with his initials. I inherited the pen.  It is safely secured, but it reminds me that in my desk drawer are a number of Easterbrook fountain pens, along with a bottle of ink. I don’t use any of them, but maybe I should.  It might be fun to see those pens still work. But I digress.  The cards from my siblings have their signatures, which I would recognize anywhere. Each one had a distinctive style.
     A signature reveals a great deal about a person’s personality, attitude, and outlook about self and life. Handwriting specialists can identify traits such as ambition, laziness, optimism, depression, and even tendencies toward criminality or integrity. I had a friend who was a certified handwriting specialist, and she was a consultant to a number of large companies that used her expertise in their hiring processes.  She and I had “a field day” discussing the signatures of a number of notables and celebrities.  A few years before she died, she did a fun analysis of my then young children’s signatures.  She also found that I had a peculiar loop dealing with the letter “I,” as in “Indiana” that she said she “had never seen before.”   She asked me to practice the letter “I,” and yes, I did diligently work to improve my wayward way.
     While going through some books, I came across the signature of one of my favorite teachers. She was an English teacher and I also would recognize her signature anywhere. It had a funny little loop to it, which probably would have given my handwriting specialist friend a fit.  Anyway, my teacher’s name was Meta. In her neat but loopy handwriting she punished my lack of understanding about her assignments, especially diagramming sentences (something we had to do back then).   
     Several years after I graduated, I visited her. She was retired but sharp.  I told her I was sorry I didn’t measure up to her standards relative to diagramming sentences.  She sighed, took in a deep breath, then said, “I thought you just had a different point of view about those sentences.”  She made me happy when she told me she enjoyed having me as a student. She was busy decluttering her library and  handed me a book from her shelf.  The other day, I came across that book with her name in it.  I took time to leaf through it. Oh my, it was The Anatomy of Literature. I’ve never read the book, but I keep it because of her signature. That’s the way it is:  cards, letters, and now a textbook? I have got to get a grip. 

     September brings memories and experiences dealing with school.  September and the start of a new school year brought out in me and my friends a sense of being able to finally do well.  No matter how the previous year went, the new start made us feel certain the next would be better.
     School today is a different experience. The lessons I prepared then would now be viewed as obsolete, old –fashioned, or naïve. I have had some good times in the classroom, but some memories do dwell on awkward or uncomfortable times. One I recall is that when I was going into the ninth grade, which was the first year in the high school building in our town, I worried about what to wear. My mother, a talented seamstress, made a blouse for me to wear on the first day.  The fabric was yellow like a sunflower, and she had embroidered a design using dark brown thread along the edge of the sleeves.  It was lovely, but I worried about wearing it.  After all, how was I to know what the “town girls” would be wearing?
     My homeroom teacher, Ms. Owens, was a long-time and well- respected teacher. She supported rules!  She demanded excellence! She had no sense of humor! Students entered the classroom and timidly sat at attention while she instructed us on the rules.  She talked about taking up lunch money. She introduced us to the behavior she expected now that we were in high school.  Then, she showed us the textbooks we were to use. Back then we “rented” our textbooks. Okay, as she picked up one after another, she said, and “This book with the yellow cover,”  then horror of horrors, she pointed to me, “the color of her blouse, is the one we’ll be using the most.”  With that comment, I nearly died.
     Throughout the years, I have been cognizant of students’ anxieties. Whether or not a person fits in means a great deal. Commerce depends on these emotions, and thus “going back to school sales” focus on what’s going to be “in” in fashion, backpacks, electronics, and the like.  “Keeping up with the Jones” starts earlier in grade school, but it blossoms mightily in high school. Fortunately, social media and the internet have made it easier for students to be individualistic. Unfortunately, social media and the internet and phones have made it more difficult for students to be sociable.
     But Ms. Owens turned out to be the first teacher who saw my interest in writing. She was a member of a local garden club, and the six garden clubs in the area together sponsored a scholarship to a conservation camp. Goodness knows why but she asked me to  write a short essay as to why I might like to go to camp. I had never been to any camp. I didn’t know what people did at camp, much less a conservation  camp. There were many applications, but I won the scholarship.  I went to camp. I loved camp. I even loved conservation camp.  I became a regular. I went back as a counselor many years thereafter. One thing I was required to do that first year was to give a talk to the district meeting of garden clubs. That experience in the ninth grade led to many successes thereafter, especially in the areas of scriptwriting, speaking, teaching, and writing professionally. That September was one I don’t forget.