Squirrel Stories
Rita Schneider
A book that I loved when I was just beginning to learn to read had a poem that started “Squirrel, squirrel in the park, your tail is like a question mark.” I like watching squirrels hop around swishing their question mark tails.
Squirrels played a part in our life when our three boys were growing up. A squirrel family lived in a tree in the yard and the boys, probably because they didn’t have a dog or a cat, trained one of the squirrels they named Frederick to do tricks. Frederick would climb up the torso of one of the boys and pluck a peanut from a shoulder, or a head. Dave, our youngest son, was especially clever about thinking up new tricks. I thought it was amusing to watch the boys play with their squirrel until one evening at dusk, as I walked out the back door with a bag of garbage, Frederick jumped on my head. I came very close to having a heart attack. Since none of us knew how to “untrain” an animal, someone else was assigned to garbage detail.
Unknown to his parents, Tom, our middle son, who had a hard time getting up in the morning, would sometimes open the window in the upstairs bedroom he shared with Dave, then spread peanuts over his covers before he went to sleep. At first light, Frederick would climb in the window and scamper over Tom’s bed until all the peanuts were collected and Tom was wide awake. This apparently worked well for him until one morning when my mother-in-law, who was visiting from Portland and enjoying her second cup of coffee in the living room, saw a squirrel run down the steps from upstairs. Frederick, instead of climbing out of Tom’s bedroom window, found his way downstairs and was running around the living room in a panic looking for a way outside. We explained to Tom that wild animal were only at home out of doors, and he promised to use an alarm clock.
One summer morning, John, the oldest of the trio, got up early to go fishing with his friend Tim. Someone told him that worms were good bait, so he found a trowel and was prepared to dig in the back yard. Instead, he came running into our bedroom with the trowel still in his hand, calling, “Mom, come see what’s in the yard.” Under a madrone tree that curved out over a grassy spot in the yard lay two furry brown balls, baby squirrels no bigger than a child’s fist. They had apparently fallen out of their nest in the tree and were lying in the grass making newborn baby noises of distress. John was afraid that the cat next door would discover the babies before
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their mother realized they were gone, so I stood guard while he went down to the basement to get an old cage we had used for pet gerbils at one time. He placed the balls of fur into the cage and we went into the kitchen and watched through the window while we had breakfast. Before we finished our cereal, a squirrel that John recognized as Frederick appeared and was running around the cage making noises like a worried mom. John removed the babies from the cage and placed them on the grass. Mother then picked up one of her babies in her teeth, jumped up on the rockery, scampered up the curved trunk of the tree and disappeared into the foliage. She then returned for the second precious fur ball and transported it up the tree in her capable teeth. Frederick’s name was immediately changed to Frederica.
We watched several families of squirrels as they chased each other around the yard during mating season, gather bits of dried grass at new building time, and finally little squirrels growing up. Frederica, as she grew older began to display rather bizarre behavior. Sometimes when I stumbled out to put the coffee on in the morning, I would see her hanging upside down from the molding around the back door looking in the window to watch my breakfast preparation. She would make giant leaps onto a ledge where peanuts were sometimes placed and had a temper tantrum when a blue jay flew off with “her” peanut. I figured she was probably going through menopause. When the boys grew up and left home, husband Tom would sometimes put peanuts on the ledge for the squirrels. Then his doctor told him he shouldn’t eat peanuts, he stopped buying them. The squirrels were put on a diet as well and stopped coming around. I still watch them swishing their question mark tails. I just don’t know them personally anymore.
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Caroline Crabtree
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Lynne Wasson
Climbing Trees Jean Bullard
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I used to love to climb trees and thanks to my brother’s help became very good at it.
When I was about 70, I saw a wonderful oak tree. Nobody was nearby so I climbed it. A while later a little boy came by and said, “Look at that old lady up in the tree.” I looked around, then realized that he meant me. Now, I guess, I am an old lady, but I can still climb a tree.
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Jean Bullard
1974 Travels: Izmir Turkey via Corinth, Greece and the Balkan States to Pirmasens, Germany
Terri Erickson
In July 1974, we had US Army transfer orders from Izmis, Turkey to Pirmasens, Germany. Our 1970 Chevy extra-long station wagon was packed and sported a huge metal cartop carrier loaded with Army duffle bags filled with gear. We piled in our 7 children, ages 13 to 9 months, and headed for the Greek border. We traveled north along the beautiful blue Aegean Sea, west of us; on the other side of the car were carpets of sunflower fields in brilliant yellow, lifting their faces toward the sun as it peeked through wispy white clouds looking like a choir of angels floating above. I reminded the children of their Guardian Angels watching over them who would help them stop playing the game of “I got you last” that was annoying and giving everyone a headache and bruises. I asked the children to smell the beautiful salt air and watch the sparkles of sun on the water as I opened my window, hoping they would be more relaxed. A new game was to tell a story about something you see out the window, starting oldest to youngest.
At the border we met a barrier, signed KAPALI (closed). The guard directed us to take out documents and go into the office. I held the baby and my husband guided the rest of the family inside. The guard counted us, checked out paperwork, and said we had one boy too many and could not leave. It seemed that on a previous trip, there were not enough stamps in the US Military spouse
and children passport and that one of our sons had not returned to Turkey. We were told to go back to our embassy in Ankara to straighten out any problem we felt that we had. Then the guard read our military orders and said, “I am cooking my lunch in the back room. I will be back in 15 minutes.”
When he disappeared, we herded the family back into the car. On settling in, we saw the barrier was raised. My husband turned over the engine, raced through the exit, and speedily drove the mile to the Greek border, where we saw the barrier rise. The Greeks saw our US Military license plates, asked to see passports and Military orders and flagged us through. When we stopped, we discovered that Turkey had declared war on Greece that morning and was planning, once again, to claim Cyprus for Turkey.
As we drove north, with the goal of spending the night in Corinth, we found a small grove of olive trees between the road and the beach on the Mediterranean Sea, a perfect picnic spot. When done, we went for a walk on the beach and let everyone wade in the surf before moving on. We climbed back in the car and travelled north toward Corinth where we planned to spend the night.
Two hours later, we found a private campground not far from the entrance to the ancient city. It had a Taverna connected with it, modern amenities and an open site overlooking the sea. Ancient Corinth and this
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place were at the top of a bluff overlooking the Mediterranean. We unloaded our gear, set up the tent and our cot beds inside, then went to the Taverna for cold drinks and a snack of hummus, olive oil and pita.
We went on to ancient Corinth, entering it on a marble-paved street lined with ancient columns, that had been pieced together in varying heights. On some of the pavers were carvings of the Christian fish symbol. Both sides of the street were under excavation and displayed artifacts which were labelled and placed on the ground inside of shapes of building foundations. At the end of the street, we found what the fish were pointing toward. Carved into the slope of the cliff was a large C-shaped amphitheater. It was about two stories tall with levels made of marble blocks and with a marble stage and long table on sea level. This is where St. Paul preached to the Corinthians he had converted to Christianity, and when he left them, where his letters would have been read to them and where the table had probably held celebrations of the Eucharist. After enjoying the view, we let everyone climb up and down awhile, pretending they were on stage. We began exploring the dig outside the rope barriers and tried to guess what type of buildings were being uncovered. Some seemed to be terraced homes, as there were many pottery shards in them. We noticed the reds and oranges of sunset streaking through the western sky turning the sea as well as on the Amphitheater into a red orange streaky mirror. We decided to return to the campsite before dark. Everyone started asking what was for dinner. Their Dad said “How about Greek food in the Taverna?” Enthusiastically, all of us agreed.
Off we went to the Taverna. The owner met us at the door and introduced his wife, then led us to a long table already set and with a baby chair at one end. Seems we were expected, I thought. He said he made fresh lemonade for the children. He brought out a large pitcher and began to pour. Putting down the gallon size pitcher, he left and rather quickly we had two large plates of fried calamari strips, rings, and tentacles to pass around with a plate of lemon wedges. Even the baby ate squid strips. The food of the day was lamb moussaka and it soon appeared in a family size au gratin pan. A basket of crusty bread slices and plates of olive oil for dipping came along. Our bill was the equivalent of about USD $20 including the glasses of white wine Bill and I drank, and our breakfast purchases of bread, feta, tomatoes and black olives in a dish of oregano-infused olive oil.
We returned to our campsite looking at the very bright stars in the night sky and decided to buy a star chart somewhere. We got everyone showered, dried and into pj’s. They ran to their beds without any fuss.
After family prayers of gratitude for our day, Bill and I set up our lawn chairs and leaned back under the Greek stars listening to the sound of the Mediterranean, watching the moonlight dance on the waves. It had been a remarkable day and we were tired. We took our own showers and dived into bed. Everyone was sound asleep. “Tomorrow, Croatia,” he said excitedly. “Behind the Iron Curtain,” I said, feeling anxious about it. As he put his arm around me, he said “All will be well.”
TO BE CONTINUED
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Terri Erickson
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Kenneth Sund
Old Age Jean Bullard
It seems impossible to believe that I just had my 94th birthday. Others in my family died in their seventies, so I assumed that I would also.
Much history has been made in the last almost 100 years. I can remember people and events. Saddest thing is that most of my friends have died. My walker allows me to get around on my own, but I have to remember not to go fast. The bookmobile is my favorite activity so I can get a variety of new (to me) books to read.
My biggest laugh is when I heard Robert Frost tell a man, “Robert Frost’s house is three miles down the road. His is the third house on the left.”
“You are a liar.”
“Damn right I am. Got rid of him fast,” he laughed.
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The Journey of a Table Deborah Boomer
What do you picture in your mind when you hear the word “table”? Is it a periodic table? Is it a table of contents? Or do you picture something a little closer to home?
What comes to mind for me is the kitchen table where my family ate together from the time I was in the second grade until I graduated high school. Although that was just the timeframe I remember dining there — I left home at the age of 17.
The table was a classic 1950’s style, with metal curved legs that traveled up to the trim around the Formica top. The extendable extra leaf made a circular table more oblong to accommodate six people. There were nine people in my immediate family by 1962, which yes, didn’t add up.
At breakfast this wasn’t an issue because my siblings all started school at different times. During the school week, there was always a pot of steaming hot oatmeal on the stove which my mom woke up to prepare at dawn. I followed soon after escorted by an aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and the thought of a bathroom which no one was using yet. The memory of my dad sitting at the breakfast table every morning with his two eggs over easy reading the morning paper is a fond one. His 12-hour shifts at the bowling alley meant this was the only time my brothers and sister and I saw him throughout the day.
At dinner time, the hectic nature of each of us eating in shifts wasn’t the case. At 6:00 pm every evening, we all sat down to eat dinner together. However, due to the lack of seating, one of us would “get” to sit at the coffee table — which was very appealing to all of my brothers due to the TV and the opportunity to sit on the floor. I rarely volunteered my seat at the table because not only was the floor uncomfortable, it seemed lonely.
I had five brothers and one sister, all younger than me. My brother, Kayle, ate more than anyone else. He would sit down to dinner with our family, and then visit his friends under the pretenses of playing chess. In reality, he was accepting second dinners all around town.
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My brothers often got into heated arguments which inevitably created my mom’s rule of no talking at the table. This was enforced with a swift tap of metal spoon on top of your head if anyone violated the regulation.
Among the silence was my innovative brother Bill. We were not allowed dessert until we finished our plate, but he hated peas (we all hated peas). On one occasion, Bill’s peas and everything else miraculously disappeared off his plate well before the rest of us. Two Oreos in, my mother went to clear his plate from the table and saw a perfectly round circle of green — the peas he had hidden under his plate. He only got away with this once.
How different a dynamic it was sitting at the dining room table with my daughter, Annalee. Now at a wooden farm table I purchased from JC Penney, we sat together each and every night freely talking about each other’s days, lives, dreams and goals. We said grace before each meal and I never cooked peas.
Flash forward to this very moment, where I sit in the home of my daughter and her sweet husband’s new home. Even her dining table has a history. Her coveted mid-century modern wooden table was far out of her financial reach until someone dinged a chunk out of the corner at the local West Elm. At a very discounted price, we were tasked the disassembly, transport and reassembly of the very heavy table which barely fit through the door. It warms my heart that her table now serves as the gathering place for family get togethers.
As I sit here with my daughter’s dog resting his head on my sneaker, awaiting my son-in-law’s BBQed chicken and grilled vegetables, I reflect on the journey of the family table. To me it is a catalyst of love. It is the heart, the soul of so many homes. If only these tables could also share in the conversation, oh the stories they could tell. I bet they wouldn’t care for peas either.
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New York City and the Bronx Robert Christian
I was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. However, when my father was in a tuberculosis sanitarium in Wheat Ridge, Colorado for over six years, I spent long summers on my uncle’s dairy farm in southern Wisconsin where I learned the meaning of physical labor and developed positive values in life.
My Uncle Paul and I loved to go fishing, and some afternoons he would say to six-year-old me, “Bobby, should we go fishing tonight?”
I’d quickly respond with a big “Yes” and he’d say “Ok, you dig the worms, clean the barn and then we’ll go.” Those evening fishing trips, traveling in his green Oakland car, with the red and black stripes and long bamboo fishing poles tied to the side of the car, were fun evenings. I would fish with a wormbaited hook on the line of my pole, hoping to catch enough bullheads we would skin and clean for our morning breakfast.
Then I was on the campus of Concordia Teachers College in River Forest, Illinois for prep school and college, where everyone was preparing to be a teacher in Lutheran schools. In the spring of 1949, in my senior year at Concordia, all of the seniors gathered in the school chapel, and after prayer, the place where we would be to teach was read for each one of us. Imagine my feelings that I would be going almost 1,000 east to Our Savior Lutheran Church and School in the Bronx, New York to begin my life’s vocation of teaching.
To top it off, when I asked my college placement director if there was any special reason why I was being placed in the Bronx, he said, “Well Bob, we’ve been sending graduates out to Our Savior in the Bronx for the last several years, and they all seem to soon leave because they say that they can’t get along with the pastor. I want you to go there and change that.”
So, the end of August, 1949 found me on a New York City Central train on my way to New York City. I arrived, explored Our Savior School and Church and quickly spent time with the pastor there, Berthold von Schenk. He was a very creative Christcentered person and a leader in liturgical Christian worship emphasizing the centrality of God’s Word and the Sacraments of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper, which were to also be central to the life of Our Savior Lutheran Church and School. I was soon head over heels in the life and work of the school and church, including handling the parish Sunday School and youth work while having positive life changing experiences under the leadership of Pastor von Schenk. When going out the Bronx, I was engaged to Arleen Vogel whom I had met at Concordia College, and we were planning to be married at her home church in rural Iowa the summer of 1950. She had been teaching in the two room Lutheran School she had attended as a child, but after our
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wedding in August of 1950, I took her from the farm country of Iowa to the Bronx, New York where we began our life together with our four children for the next 16 years.
The Bronx, with a population of over 300,000 is one of the five boroughs of New York City, together with Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens and Staten Island, and all five boroughs are connected by freeways, elevated rails, a great bus system and rapid transit subways. The Bronx itself has Manhattan College, New York University, Fordham University and Hunter College, plus the great Bronx Zoo, outstanding hospitals and medical centers and the New York Yankees, the Bronx Bombers and City Island and Pelham Bay Park in the southeastern section of Long Island Sound.
The population of the Bronx is very diverse, Caucasian, Hispanic, African-American and some Asian. Our Savior Lutheran School, where I became Headmaster after teaching there a few years, is located in an Italian neighborhood not far from the lower Bronx with its large Hispanic and AfricanAmerican population. At Our Savior School in the mid-1950’s the pastor and I brought the first African American students into the school, this taking place even before the integration of the New York City Public Schools. When I left Our Savior in 1966 to go to Hong Kong, our Savior School’s population was almost 50% minority, and in the Hong Kong International School which I opened in 1966, there were 35-50 different nationalities.
For the first five years of our married life in the Bronx, Arleen and I lived in Parkchester, 12-story buildings constructed and owned by the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company for 50,000 residents living in one square mile, quite a bit different from the onefamily residential communities in the nearby neighborhoods. I attended graduate school classes at Columbia University in Manhattan and one of the men seated at my table asked where I lived so he could offer me a ride. He lived in the Bronx and it turned out that he lived in the same building as me.
One fall weekend there was a complete 20 plus hour loss of electricity in the northeastern part of the U.S., including all of New York City. And yet, it was reported that that night experienced the lowest crime rate that had taken place over a long time as people rose to help when the need was there.
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Pelham Bay Park, photo by Joan Nilon
Jean Bullard
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Pitted Coral Joan Nilon 2
Gulls screech over the Florida Keys Clusters of creamy coral Jewels in a sea of vibrant turquoise Scattered like a fistful of opals in a tray of aquamarines Flicked with the finger of a master jeweler into a graceful crescent Slashed down its middle by a yellow-lined black-top aorta Lifeline to sun-glassed tourists snaking up and down its length Weaving toward the prize stone Key West Sultry city shrouded in shade The figure of Tennessee Williams under an old Banyan tree fades into hazy afternoon shadows Descendants of Hemingway’s cats lie limp and sleepy on the still brick patio
Out to sea
The eerie outline of an old man hunches over oars his boat listing against an orange sunset low on yellow waters with the carcass of a big fish in tow Hungry brown and white pelicans eyes on the Gulf brimming with life perch patiently on the deck of a pink shrimp boat rocking gently at dock their long needle beaks open in yawns
Across the Key
A raging Atlantic beats its exquisite azure swells against coral reefs taming them into milky foam at lands’ end.
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Fall
Joan Nilon
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Fall is beginning
Not end
Soft breezes invigorate All living things
Plants stand taller Flowers are firmer Their colors deeper More vibrant than Spring’s delicate first blooms Or summer’s bleached top heavy stems
Blood flows faster Air penetrates deep Into the brain Ideas flow
As leaves ripen
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Cathy Nilon
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In Memoriam — Robby Parkhurst
Joan Weeks 2
One moment, all is well, and then, it isn’t. Robby, dear, dear Robby; the kind, sweet man who was everyone’s friend but when you interacted with him, you felt he was your very own special friend and, in those fleeting moments, he was.
Nine years have flown by since I first started to live in the “apartments.” In the beginning, I was at the gift shop a lot. There was a time when I would work on my writing in there. “Let me help you.” Or “Would you like a latte?” And “Could I get you a cookie with that…or a donut?” The twinkly eyes…Robby was the consummate salesman, but he never, ever was overbearing.
On a recent afternoon, I went in looking for a thank you card. “How about this one, Joanie? It’s nice.” And he would point out some fine detail. I had my eye on two cards as possibilities.
“Oh, Joanie, look at this one—the rich, deep yellow. What do you think?” “Ah, yes, that’s it!” I said. And he’d smile, “Is there anything else?” “No.” And very soon, he’d have my change and the card in a bag, and, as I was leaving, I’d hear, “So good to see you…come back again soon!”
And he loved to talk about Hunter, his beloved grandson. His face lit up when he spoke of Hunter and if you would encourage it, he would tell you all about the latest news and whereabouts of Hunter.
Robby is not gone…no really; however, he is in a different place. The always warm man he was lives on forever in the memories of all who loved him and found whatever they needed in his shop, whether it was an item he helped to pick out, or simply, his special brand of hospitality.
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The Beacon Contributors
Deborah Boomer received a BA in Sociology from the University of Washington and a MA in Psychology from Antioch University in Seattle. After being central office technician at a Seattle phone company for 21 years, she spent 20 years as a private practice psychotherapist while also working as an emergency room clerk at Swedish. Deborah has one married daughter who she walked down the aisle in May 2017.
Jean Bullard graduated from Mount Holyoke College with a major in Zoology and became a writer/editor for the National Parks Service. She has also written several books. She and her husband, Bill, a national park ranger naturalist, raised four children in National Park areas and the family traveled to 36 countries. Jean also has seven grandchildren and four great grandchildren. At age 93, writing is still part of her life.
Robert Christian received a BA in Education from Concordia Teachers College in Illinois and an MS in Educational Administration from Columbia University in New York. Bob taught elementary and secondary education in Lutheran Schools in the Bronx, Hong Kong, and finally in Seattle. Bob and his wife, Arleen, have five children, nine grandchildren and three great grandchildren.
Terri Erickson earned a BS in Biochemistry from Notre Dame College, Ohio and a MS in Biology from Fordham University. She was editor of her high school newsletter and wrote for the Cleveland News. Terri is mother of seven children, 16 grandchildren and one great granddaughter. “I write because I take pleasure in writing.”
John Glover was born in Spokane, WA and raised in Wenatchee. He served 25 years in the Air Force as a Command Pilot. During that time he married his wife and they had four children together. Following the Air Force he spent 22 years working for Boeing. John has been living at The Mount for two years.
Joan Nilon, The Beacon’s Editor, earned a B.A. in Communications from Fordham University and a M.A. in Writing from New York University. She has published in several genres: Journalism, Newsletters, Fiction and Poetry and has taught both creative and business writing. Joan has three children and three grandchildren. Her daughter, Cathy, is a Chaplain at PMSV. “I write to reflect what I see and experience.”
Rita Schneider graduated as a registered nurse from St. Louis University’s St. John’s Hospital School of Nursing. She has been writing since childhood and put her memories of the early days of living in St. Louis into a book for her family. She has three sons and two granddaughters.
Lynn Wasson earned her law degree at the University of Michigan. After practicing law, she taught third grade for many years, which she loved. She started writing here at The Mount in her free time as ideas come to her and she illustrates her stories. Lynne has two daughters, one grandson and one granddaughter.
Joan Weeks earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Science from Oberlin College, Ohio, and did graduate work at Pennsylvania State University. Joan married an Air Force pilot who was killed in Southeast Asia. They had four children, nine grandchildren and five great grandchildren. “Writing has always been important in helping me to understand my life.”
Thank you to our contributing guest artists:
Jean Bullard
Caroline Crabtree
Sylvia Dongieux
Nancy Elliott
Terri Erickson
Lou Landino
Pauline Lemaire, SP
Cathy Nilon
Kenneth Sund
Lynn Wasson
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Contributions in support of the arts, resident programs, and those in need here at The Mount, are gratefully received and appreciated. www.providence.org/themountdonate 4831 35th Ave SW, Seattle, WA 98126 206-938-6194
4831 35th Ave SW Seattle, WA 98126
4831 35th Ave SW Seattle, WA 98126
Sylvia Dongieux
Lemaire, S.P.
