When I was growing up in Minnesota, the night before Halloween was called Gate Night and was the night of mischief. I think it was called Gate Night because young people took the gates off of people’s fences and hid them in various places. I know of no one who actually did this, but in my neighborhood, it was a night where kids soaped store windows and tipped over garbage cans.

I could hardly wait to be old enough to participate in this mischief. It wasn’t parent sanctioned of course, but I have the feeling that they looked the other way on that night. At last, I reached the age of eight and along with five of my neighborhood friends set out after dinner to have a little fun. It was already dark and we soaped the window of Stanek Grocery and Kranz’s drugstore and then headed for the alley behind the nearby apartments. They were about a block or two away. The rule was that you never tipped a garbage can on your own block. After all it might be yours or a neighbors and you would be stuck cleaning up.

We approached noisily and full of adventure. Unfortunately, the police lay in wait in the alley with the lights off on their patrol car. Everyone picked up a can and I chose a large silver colored beauty filled to the top with ripe garbage, bottles, and papers.. Just as I picked it up, the lights on the patrol car flashed. There I stood guilty as hell, right in their spotlight. Petrified is hardly the word for what I felt. My legs turned to rubber, my stomach turned upside down and my arms became permanently glued to the sides of that garbage can.

I couldn’t put it down. Not for love nor life. Everyone else dropped their garbage cans and ran between buildings. Not me, hugging that silver albatross, I made a beeline straight down the center of the alley with the police car quietly following me at something less than a mile an hour. I know they were laughing, because I glanced over my shoulder and I could see these two huge faces in the patrol car window grinning. I still kept running.

The street loomed ahead and as I made a hysterical dash across it for the next alley, I still held the garbage can firmly in my arms. The police car mercifully turned right onto 36th street heading toward Harriet Avenue and disappeared into the night. Some more important call probably came in on their radio or they knew they had already scared the bejezus out of me making me powerless. I finally placed my dreadful treasure on the ground, sat down next to it, totally out of breath, and vowed never to lead a life of crime at least, until the next Gate Night.

Welcome to this Friday’s writing. The theme chosen for the Writers this week is Weather and Emotions. There are some very creative and astute writers in our group. I know you will enjoy reading their posts on the subject so I have included links to their weblogs. Please click on their names for some enjoyable reading. Ashok, Conrad, Grannymarr, Magpie, Marianna , Rummuser,. Gaelikaa., Helen, Judy

Seasonal and weather changes are subtle here on the desert. Summer slowly flows into fall and winter usually means colder nights, and temperatures in the 60’s and 70’s during the day. Spring slips in with moderate weather changes and if lucky, small patches of desert flowers Although summer’s heat is nearly unbearable with its high temperatures day and night: air-conditioning is plentiful. We are a land of great sunshine and our occasionally cloudy days are often gifts of change.

Does this have an effect on emotions? I believe it does, but not as much as in other places I have lived where the weather and the seasons are more obviously defined.

My first 28 years were spent in Minnesota and like all Minnesotans, I was in awe of the first snow in winter, joyful at the first budding of trees in the spring and unhappy when the much too short summer came to an end. However it was the end of summer and the beginning of fall that brought a rather haunting emotion to me.

As summer changed to fall and there was that first subtle suggestion of crisp weather, I always had moments of restlessness. Some years more than others. To say it bordered on anxiety would be false. It was far less intense than anxiety. It was more an awareness, a need to move, a need for change. Yes, I felt unsettled. Busy with classes and family, I never had the time to do more than acknowledge and wonder about this little emotional flutter.

Then in one of my College of Education classes in Children’s Literature, I came across this poem and realized it was my connection to other living things and to nature itself that caused my nomadic feeling. I believe Rachel Fields understood this restlessness and brought it to life in her poem:

SOMETHING TOLD THE WILD GEESE

Rachel Field

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go,
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered, “snow.”

Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned, “frost.”

All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spices,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.

Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.

No, I do not think I was a goose in a former life, although I have been known to act like a silly goose on occasion in this one. I just find that emotions, weather changes, and seasons seem to go hand in hand influencing humans, animals, feathered friends, and all other living things.

The Scientific studies are still inconclusive in their findings of emotion and weather, but I’ll put my money on Rachel Fields poetry for explanation.

While I was looking for the poem, I came across a beautiful and haunting musical rendition of Something Told the Wild Geese. I think it is the perfect accompaniment to my post.

Welcome to this Friday’s writing. The theme chosen for the Writers this week is Heroes. There are some very creative and astute writers in our group. I know you will enjoy reading their posts on the subject so I have included links to their weblogs. Please click on their names for some enjoyable reading. Ashok, Conrad, Grannymarr, Magpie, Marianna , Rummuser,. Gaelikaa., Helen, Judy

I am glad that we are writing about heroes this week. As many of you know, I have just returned from a week long trip to Washington D.C. America’s Capitol and home to the many Memorials of America’s patriots and heroes.

The reason for the trip was the 20th reunion of the United States Naval Reserve Midshipmen’s School at Columbia University, New York City, New York. There were 26 Classes (1941 to 1945) at Columbia and I was attended the reunion as the proud wife of one of the members of the 26th and last class to receive their Ensign, USNR commissions there.

This Alumni Group meets yearly in different locations. This year for the first time they met in our Country’s Capitol. Certainly an apropos place for these men who the Navy called “90 Day Wonders”. A name given them because they completed Officer Candidate School in the short period of three months. They were a very select group of young men ordinary in many ways, but called on to become extraordinary leaders in the battlefields of World War II and although they would be the first to deny it, they are heroes.

Although these men now call themselves “Ancient Mariners, Americans proudly refer to them as members of “The Greatest Generation”. As young men they enthusiastically and with determination left their homes, families, schools and universities to become military leaders in suppressing world domination by our enemies on two fronts.

So I salute these heroes who know too well that freedom is not free. That it comes with a high price. Many of the men that were their classmates and many of the men they led in battle, paid the ultimate price for freedom war while others returned sadly as wounded warriors.

The men and women who survived and returned to the civilian world took full advantage of the Government Issue (GI) Bill, Veteran Housing, and turned their military leadership toward post-war goals and accomplishments. They prospered, made light of their own war time sacrifice while gravely and somberly never forgetting,the ultimate sacrifice of so many countrymen and our proud allies.

Perhaps, these photos tell it all. The first was taken at Columbia in 1945 (my husband Robert is fourth from the left in the front row). Multiply that number by 25 to get an idea of how many young men graduated in the program over the four year period. The second photo shows the dwindling numbers. It represents all 26 classes attending the reunion. It was taken at the very unique Navy Memorial in Washington D.C. a few days ago.

So much life passed between the first and the second photo. I watched these heroes as they entered the building. It was a home-coming. Their step was quicker, their stature taller, and their smiles broader. They were greeted by younger men in navy blue uniforms. Rank was acknowledged and brief stories exchanged. The mutual feeling of respect between the younger and older men of the Naval Service was electrifying.

We were there for a Fallen Comrades Ceremony for fellow graduates of Columbia’s Officer Candidate School. It was a quiet, reflective time as 14 new names were added to the ever rapidly growing list of those who have left this earth. The Navy Hymn was sung, a wreath laid, and the haunting sound of TAPS filled the room. It was played softly for fallen comrades, old sailors, and for a time of patriotism, bravery, and heroic ways.

And so for three days, we toured the Capitol and wined and dined with old friends. The men swapped stories and enjoyed a camaraderie forged years earlier. Soon it was time for goodbyes and promises, if God’s willing, to meet again next year.

It is Consortium Writers Friday again and it was my turn to pick the topic. Since I am in Washington D.C. playing tourist and enjoying seeing friends and relatives, I am taking the liberty of repeating an earlier post on the subject before heading out for more sight-seeing. The subject for this week is Collecting or Collection.. The group is composed of truly excellent and skilled writers including Ashok, Conrad, Grannymarr, Magpie, Marianna and Rummuser. as well as a new member, Gaelikaa. Take time and enjoy our different approaches to the topic of Collecting or Collections.

I collect souvenir ruby red glass. You know the kind that comes from carnivals around the turn of the last century. The first piece I ever received was a small pitcher. It belonged to my Aunt Mary and although I became a Maria, my legal first name and maiden name are the same as Aunt Mary’s. On the pitcher, It says Mary Shaw 1908. It was a gift from her then fiancé, my Uncle Eugene. He brought it back to Decorah, Iowa from the St. Louis State Fair. I was probably 13 when my Aunt Mary bestowed this treasure on me. As young as I was, I knew it was very special to her and that it had a beautiful love story to go with it. The pitcher was both a responsibility and a joy.

It was my first piece of ruby red glass, but not my last. I am fascinated by people’s names written on these ruby red fair souvenirs. Often when I dust them or move them to a different part of the living room, I think about the people who bought them, the houses they were proudly displayed in, and how they ended up in some antique store or lately on Ebay. They are like my friends from the past and I like to make up stories for them. There is tall, handsome Walter. He is rather bold and not always likeable, but someone loved him enough to have his name put on a red glass vase in 1902 . Then there is a dark ruby tumbler with the name Blossom Farrow. What a woman she must have been! Blossom Farrow touches my imagination in the most intense way. How could one be anything but beautiful with that name. Was she someone’s lover or someone’s wife or was she an early feminist journalist blazing political trails. Then there are the beautiful red ruby salt and pepper shakers from 1906. There is the name Effie on one and Rose on the other. For awhile I thought they might be twin sisters or maybe Lesbian lovers, but my balloon burst when someone told me Effie was a guy’s name back in the early days. So now I think of them as an Iowa farm couple and I see the salt and pepper shakers in a place of honor on their sideboard. My latest acquisition is a sweet little pitcher that caught my eye on an Ebay auction. Emma Burk 1904 World Fair it read and I thought, “Have to have it.” Since I married a Burke, I thought Emma needed a special home with us. When I hold her cup, I see an Irish immigrant woman, a parlor maid at some wealthy estate in New York City. Emma is very young and full of life and it is hard for her to control her bubbly personality.

I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture. I have become an eccentric old lady not only with attitude, but with imagination as well. I love my imaginary friends from the turn of the century. The psychic Sylvia Browne. once said that if we are attracted to a certain time or place it may be that we lived a former life during that time or at that place. This could be why I am comfortable in a Victorian setting. Since early childhood, I have had dreams about a turn of the century boarding house. It is always the same and I can see the flocked wallpaper, the deep red mohair sofas, and I can hear the muffled sounds of music and conversation. Who knows. There are so many mysteries out there. Maybe just maybe, I knew some of the folks from the glassware in a past life or maybe I will meet them for the first time on the other side someday. In either case, I have a feeling they will smile and thank me for taking care of their names, times, and places written on the side of souvenir red ruby glass.

There is a group that write on a certain subject each Friday. The subject for this week was Speed. The group is composed of truly excellent and skilled writers including Ashok, Conrad, Grannymarr, Magpie, Marianna and Rummuser. as well as a new member, Gaelikaa. Take time and enjoy our different approaches to the topic of Speed.

Every few weeks, Bob sets up the video camera while I choose a favorite children’s story to read. Then I go on camera and read the story to my granddaughter and grandson. Bob makes a DVD and we mail the recording and the story to the twins who will be three years old this month. It is our way of staying closer while living too far away to share a nighttime story.

When the theme for this week was announced, “I thought Speed? What do I know about speed. I am at an age where I love simple and unhurried. ”

Then it hit me, I will follow GrannyMar’s example and make this post a video and like her breakfast post, I will multi-task . She fixed her breakfast on camera and then more than likely sat down and enjoyed it. I will write my Friday post and video tape a story for the grandkids. So sit back and listen to a tale that I know everone has heard. It is about speed and about slow and easy.