FINALLY GOOD WEATHER

Up until three weeks ago, winter was still rearing its head and I was totally sick of it. 
But I was not alone--everyone was. And it wasn't just here for it seemed to be 
nationwide. Sick of snow, cold weather and being stuck in the house.

Finally spring arrived but it seemed to come slowly but I welcomed it with open arms.
Who doesn't love to see buds on trees or tulips start to pop up out of the ground?
And who doesn't love good weather?

We have had some chilly mornings as well as days but within the last two weeks, some
days have reached into the 80's. And that's a good thing when you've experienced a 
terrible winter.

Grass is growing at a rapid rate but then so are the dandelions. My yard looks like a 
sea of yellow. But there is no need to have the grass cut yet for two silver maples are
in my yard: If you aren't familiar with this type of tree, it's the kind that has clusters of
seed-like things that a lot of kids called "helicopters" for they literally fly down to the 
ground--and that is before the leaves form.

Last year I think that there were at least a million seed-like things all over my yard, 
sidewalks and the street. They dry quickly and become crunchy to walk upon. Some 
animals depend upon them as a food source while others ignore them. Off and on,
I've seen birds peck at them and either eat part or discard them.

In essence, they are a nuisance. But once all fall from the trees and dry out, the grass
can be cut and a leaf blower can pile up those seeds. It's all part of good weather where
you have to take the good with the bad.

Here's hoping that you are experiencing good weather finally wherever you live.
At least it's not snowing and that's a good thing!

Sherry Hill

The other day I picked some forsythia with buds on it as well as some quince as 
well as a few jonquils that hadn't bloomed yet. Came inside and put them in a glass vase. Now they're starting to bloom. And then I remembered something my mom had said 
and I just stood there and laughed to myself. When I was little, she would tell me
that she'd do this and bring them in and "force them to bloom." I thought she
meant that she literally grabbed a hold of them and shook them." Funny how
things like that stay in the back of your mind and then it comes forward.

And it’s also funny about how many expressions we have in the English language. “Force a bud to bloom is one of them.”

Sherry Hill

Copyright © 2015

Sherry Hill

All Rights Reserved

Photo from Microsoft Word's clip art.

THE LOSS OF TRADITIONS AND PATRIOTISM IN OUR CLASSROOMS

 

A friend of mine suggested that I write about the above subjects. Told him that it would be an easy task for as a former teacher, I taught traditions and patriotism in my classroom. But before that happened, I witnessed both as a student myself in not only grade school but all throughout my years as a student. It was the norm then for my teachers to instill traditions in us as well as patriotism.

As with today, we would all stand up and recite the pledge of allegiance to the flag but there was much more then. After the pledge, we said The Lord’s Prayer and then we always sang a patriotic song that our teacher had chosen. The song that we sang would be either “God Bless America” or “The Star Spangled Banner:” Sometimes our teacher deviated from these two and suggested we sing other patriotic songs.

We learned respect for the American flag and for American heroes or heroines. Many of our stories in our reading books were about these heroes which led many of us to want to learn more. Of course this was the fifties when patriotism was at its highest or so it seemed. Patriotism was not something that was just mentioned; it was taught—we learned a love for our county, our traditions and respect for those that fought in wars before us. There wasn’t a week that went by that patriotism wasn’t taught or ingrained in us.

Forward to junior high school and patriotism was still being taught. Movies were shown to us such as “A Man Without A Country” which is still vivid to me this very day. Not only did we learn it but we felt patriotic.

High school brought more of the same of teachers instilling patriotism into us as well as American traditions. Lessons were learned and many assignments were related to these two topics. Respect for the flag was still being taught. It was the sixties.

Upon entering college, there were many required history classes that continued the teaching of American traditions and patriotism. I would take what I had learned in these years and use them when I became an elementary teacher.

How odd it was for me to be standing in front of my own classroom while leading the pledge of allegiance, having my students recite The Lord’s Prayer and singing a patriotic song. Felt as if I had come full circle. I contacted a Boy Scout leader and asked him to come to my classroom; gratefully he did. And my students learned the rules of the American flag as well as the patriotism behind it.

This continued for years—that is until we could no longer say The Lord’s Prayer in the classroom: It was forbidden by a new law. But it didn’t stop me from teaching American traditions or patriotism for they were two fundamentally important subjects. And as for the patriotic songs? No more singing of “God Bless America” and yet there were other songs that my students sung. But I could see a turn and that turn was not for the better for the turn was a choked full day of scheduled classes leaving little time for instilling these two important subjects.

Right before I retired from teaching elementary school, I saw the dwindling of time for teaching both traditions and patriotism. Through thirty-five years I had taught both and what was left? The only thing left was the students standing and reciting The Pledge of Allegiance.

In this world gone crazy, there is a need to bring back these two fundamental subjects: Teaching American traditions and patriotism. We need our children to feel proud of America and feel the American spirit for if not, we will become a nation that is clueless about both. Time for it in the classroom? Time should be made for them less we produce a nation of students who could care less. And so I ask you “Do you want a nation of sheep that know nothing of our country?” “Do you want a nation of sheep that have no respect for the American flag and what it stands for?”

Time is of the essence. Surely the powers that be can allow time for teaching these two subjects for it not, our nation will crumble.
Sherry Hill

Copyright © 2015
Sherry Hill
All Rights Reserved

THE LOSS OF A HISTORICAL HOUSE "ROSEDALE" BUILT IN 1818

When I was 8 years old, my parents and I moved into one side of a huge mansion:  It had been converted into a duplex. It was located in St. Albans, West Virginia and sat on Hudson Street and the side faced Kanawha Terrace.  Having lived in three other places prior, it was the first time that I had my own bedroom. And I was thrilled beyond belief.

My parents knew that the mansion was old but would never find out just how old it actually was.  We were told that it had originally sat where  the high school is now located and that at one time had served as a stagecoach inn--the latter making sense and the main street Kanawha Terrace was formerly the James River Turnpkike which was basically a dirt road that was highly traveled in the 1800's.

Our side had the huge entrance, a spiral staircase and ceilings so high that my mom had to sew two full size flat sheets together just to make one panel. That's a lot of sheets for part of a mansion that had tall windows in every room. I'm guessing that the ceilings were at least 14 feet tall. And there was a huge fireplace. The floors were wooden and beautiful.

On the first floor was that huge entrance and to the right was a living room that was gigantic in size. No, we didn't have much furniture so it looked pretty sparse. Behind the entrance was a long hall to the kitchen which was on the back: It had many windows and was wide as well as long. I wouldn't find out until 4 years ago that it was not the original kitchen at all but at the time, it was an assumption.

One thing about the entrance was that it was so huge that my parents put a dining room table in it where many meals were served and eaten. Our table sat way back from the huge front door. In the entrance to the left, was a door that was under the staircase: I well remember my dad keeping his hunting guns and the like in there.

Going up the massive spiral staircase [where my imagination just went wild,] there was a huge hall and to the left was my bedroom. I couldn't begin to tell you the happiness I felt for just having it: It was my very own and I would spend a lot of time painting or writing in it. Being able to look out the second floor window made it all the more special.

In the hallway sat a huge roll top desk: Apparently the owner from whom we rented had left it there and my dad used if for his work as he was an insurance adjuster.

Across from my bedroom was my parent's bedroom: It was as big as a ballroom. Could have been one at one time no doubt. There were many times that I would put my aunt's old dancing costumes on and twirl around imagining that I was in a grand ball room.

If you're wondering where the bathroom was located, it was in the upstairs hall before you'd get to my bedroom. It was huge and had a claw-footed bathtub, a huge old sink and a tile floor. It was the only room that didn't have a wooden floor--although I'm sure it had been covered up in retrospect.

We just lived in the one side for a year but to me it was nirvana. I remember the woman that lived on the other side: She had two small children and was divorced.  The neighborhood was full of kids my age and for once, I had freedom to actually ride my bike and play.  To an 8 year old, it was ecstasy. 

And it would be the place where I would get my first pet: He was a huge black and brown tabby. Thinking he had come from one of the mansions that sat across the street on the side of our house, my mom made me go with her, with the cat in my arms, to the first mansion. "Nope not my cat" said the first owner. At the second mansion, we heard the same thing. Fate was on my side that day as the cat became mine: How he loved roaming the huge mansion. 

My parents decided to buy a house and after many weeks of searching too many houses in the nearby neighborhood, they found one and it was about four blocks to the east of the mansion but located way up on a hill. That house would be "mine" for 5 years.

During those 5 years, I was off our hill a lot and would pass by the huge mansion where we lived and remember every single detail.  I would think to myself "It's still there" and that gave me satisfaction.

At the end of living in what I thought was the most incredible house ever my parents decided to move back to where both of them worked. 

Extreme sadness came over me for I knew that things would never be the same and they weren't ever.

On the good side, I could still see the ancient mansion for my aunt, uncle and cousins lived four blocks from it:  I would spend many a holiday with my parents and them or spend the weekend with my aunt and uncle. Yes, it was still there--a sign for some permanence for me.

Years passed. 

Many trips were made by my driving down to this town to see the mansion as well as to visit my relatives.  The mansion stood there towering over other much smaller houses like some grand dame overseeing her property.

Two years ago a long time friend of mine took me back to see the mansion: It had a "for sale" sign on it. And it looked nothing like it did when I had lived there or the later years when I would see it. It had been converted back to its original state and was one huge place.  Did I peek inside of the windows? You bet I did and oh the memories came flooding back--of the side where my parents and I lived as well as the other side where the woman with two small children had lived.

I found myself thinking about buying the mansion knowing full well that it would have been preposterous and yet the thought lingered. That day I took many pictures of it with my camera and upon coming on, downloaded them to my laptop.

On facebook, a dear friend of mine who had lived on the next street from the mansion as a child and young adult,  messaged me that the mansion was on the historic register and had a name: "Rosedale." I found the site of the historic register and was just blown away to learn that it had been built in 1818 and was the oldest house in St. Albans, West Virginia. And aside from that, the entire house was pegged together.

Last summer I heard the awful news:  Someone had torched the very top of the mansion.  Even worse was seeing it on the news in its ravaged state:  It was still standing but the top was burned.  Yes, someone had bought it and there was no news of anyone living in it fortunately. But to me it made me sick at heart.  I couldn't call my parents to tell them the horrid news or the historic information I had found out about "Rosedale" for both of them had died nor could I call my aunt and uncle who lived close by due to the same reason.

High hopes were held by me that "Rosedale" could be restored for after all it was on the historic register of St. Albans, West Virginia. But on my part, I had no idea of the severe damage to the inside nor did I see it. Could I have driven down to see it in its horrible state? Yes but in actuality, I knew I didn't want to see it ruined.

And then the inevitable happened over a month ago: "Rosedale" in all its former glory but reduced to ruination was demolished. I saw the photos of it on facebook in a group in which I am in and there was nothing left of the grand dame but a pile of wood and rubble. One look at that photo was quite enough for me:  It made me heartsick. 

No, I didn't own it, only lived in it one year but it was the happiest year of my so-called life up till that time.  I will forever miss that house as no doubt all who live in the neighborhood feel the same way. But at least I have my memories of being able to live there--and nothing or no one can take that away.

Sherry Hill

Copyright © 2015

Sherry Hill

All Rights Reserved

I took this photo almost two summers ago.

This photo of Rosedale is how it originally looked as it sat facing Kanawha Terrace.  Photo from the St. Albans Historical Society. Notice the side part--it was not there when the mansion was moved.

PAPER SNOWFLAKES MADE IT SNOW

You’re thinking “What on earth?” But it was true. I taught second grade for a long time at Robins Elementary. And every December before Christmas break, all teachers had to put up bulletin boards for January. It was a “school” rule that all Christmas things must be put away.

One year an idea came to me to teach my students how to make paper snowflakes. I had learned how to make them and thought why not teach them? One specific thing about making them was that onion skin paper had to be used: Onion skin paper is very transparent. After showing my students how to make them, they wanted to make snowflake after snowflake. And I let them.

There must have been 100 snowflakes made. I put some on the bulletin board and some on the windows; the rest I saved for January. There was a huge mess on the floor of pieces of onion skin paper which we all picked up. Christmas vacation came and went and when school started again that year, the weather was frigid and snowy.

Not only were my students sitting there that first day back in a semi-stupor but so was I. The adjustment was difficult but within days, routine went back to normal. And in the back of my mind, I wondered what on earth we’d do with all of those paper snowflakes.

The classroom was hot as all get out due to the fact that the school had steam heat: It could have been 20 degrees outside but so hot inside that I’d have to open more than one window. Upon doing that one morning, one of the paper snowflakes that had been taped to the window fell off and flew down the outside bricks of the school. I looked down and it was stuck there near the first grade classroom below us.

“It’s snowing!” I heard a first grader say. How could I not for their teacher had her windows open as well. Laughed to myself thinking how on earth could a child think that a huge paper snowflake was snow.

And that’s when I got the idea to have my students throw their paper snowflakes out of our windows. To the first graders below us, it must have looked like a gigantic blizzard. Granted some stuck to the bricks of the school but most of them fell past the windows below us and landed on the ground.

When school let out that day, I saw many of those snowflakes clustered around the first grade windows and on the ground. I laughed, got in my car and headed home.

And what do you think happened the next morning? School was canceled due to a heavy snow. No, it wasn’t predicted; it just came with a fury. School was out for three days. Upon return and getting settled in the classroom, one of my students said “Those snowflakes made it snow!” I could see little mouths open with gasps—they wondered if that were true.

“I’m not so sure about that” I told my students as I smiled. Later on that day I was asked if they could make more paper snowflakes. “Yes you can make more but be sure to clean up the mess. We’ll save them and maybe I’ll let you throw them out the windows again sometime soon.”

Tons of paper snowflakes were made for by now my students had become masters of cutting out intricate patterned ones. They were carefully put away in the huge metal cabinet in the classroom but I felt the eyes on me as I did that: Each student saw where they went.

Weeks dragged by as they do in the winter—dreary days that seemed endless. I had shoved the thought of the put away snowflakes in the back of my mind but not my students. One afternoon a boy asked me if they could throw those snowflakes out of the windows again. “Why not?” I asked. I walked to the cabinet, gathered up the snowflakes and handed out several to each student. Windows were opened and the students took turns flinging them out. Again, some stuck on the bricks of the school but most flew by the first grade windows below us.

The first grade windows were not opened but I’m pretty sure that the first graders thought they were again witnessing a blizzard.

And what do you think happened the next school day? It had snowed overnight and school was canceled; in fact, it was canceled for two days. Upon return to the classroom, I was beginning to wonder myself if those paper snowflakes made it snow because my students were certain of it. I tried to explain that there was no way on earth that by doing what they had done would make it snow but on those two occasions, it did.

Realistically I knew it not to be true.

And yet upon a third time of flinging more paper snowflakes out of the windows, it snowed that night and school was canceled.

Back in the classroom, my students kept talking about the paper snowflakes and how magical they were. Trying to get them back on track of learning, I dismissed the idea and since it was February no more paper snowflakes were made. Oh there were more snow days yet to come that year but none of my students had flung those paper snowflakes out of the windows.

By the end of the school year, there wasn’t a single student that didn’t mention how magical they were.

And with a new school year, when winter came, I repeated teaching my students how to make them, throw them out the windows and well you know what happened—it snowed. Coincidence or magic or perhaps neither? But it did happen and would happen every single year that they were made.

Did paper snowflakes make it snow? Logically you know the answer—of course they didn’t. And yet?

Sherry Hill

Copyright © 2015
Sherry Hill
All Rights Reserved

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

One day late in wishing all of you a Happy New Year! 2015 seems impossible to write and it will take you and no doubt me, a while to get used to writing it.

I wish you happiness, wonderful upcoming memories and a great year.

Wherever you are, a one day late Happy New Year and take time to enjoy the little things in life that are in reality, the big things.

Sherry Hill

 Copyright © 2015

Sherry Hill

All Rights Reserved

*Photo from Microsoft Word

DO YOU HAVE AN ARTIST’S SOUL? PART TWO

Sometimes when you write something you think of all kinds of things that you left out.

And so, that is why this is the second part.

From the time that I was little till now, I have always seen things in or on things: An example would be sitting in a doctor's office with my grandmother or my parents. I would stare at the grain in the wood of doors and see a face or a tree or some object. Did I ever tell anyone this? No.

Happened again the other day when I was at my doctor's: I was sitting in the examining room where you stay forever and ever and since I'm antsy anyway, I started looking at the grain on the door. Been in this particular room before. And there was that man's face again--he looked like Zeus. And there was the tree I had seen before. If I'd had a magic marker, I could have drawn around those shapes and anyone could have seen what I saw. But no way would I take a magic marker to the doctor's office.

Abruptly, I quit looking at the door and focused on the chair in the room. Being able to see things such as this is not really an attribute but more of something I don't care for because it happens everywhere I go.

From grade school through college, whenever I was given a task to do, I never did it as anyone else did.

"Only you would see that!" was something I've heard time after time. When I was seven and in the third grade, I well remember taking a piece of cardboard out of my dad's shirt from the cleaners and cutting it up into four pieces. It was a Saturday and it was raining. There was a little boy who lived next door who must have been about four. Beside my house was a sort of gully-like place that collected water when it rained; it already had rocks in it--not big ones but smallish ones that hurt your feet if you were to walk on them.

I took those four pieces of cut up cardboard, took a knife and made four holes in each piece--one on either side of the top and one on either side of the bottom. Then I got some twine and took all this outside and found the little boy. Made us both "shoes" so we could walk on the rocks. Worked for about two minutes till the cardboard got soaked all the way through! There were no tennis shoes then, with the exception of black ones that only male basketball players wore. There were no plastic shoes or flip flops for they hadn't been invented yet. But so much for my creative mode with those "shoes:" They didn't work but I sure thought they would. And I had feelings of elation and disappointment within minutes.

I loved watching "Captain Kangaroo" on tv and my favorite part was when he would make something out of boxes. One day while watching him, he told us to go into our kitchens and get an empty cereal box.

Ran like lightning into the kitchen, found a full box of cereal, emptied it out into a bowl and rushed back into the living room to watch Captain Kangaroo work on the box. My heart sunk! He had made a car out of that box, had wheels on it and had painted it. How'd he do that I thought? I wasn't gone THAT long! Something was going on and I had to figure it out but as much as I tried, I couldn't until I told my parents. And then they explained that he had someone else make one ahead of time and while kids who were watching were scurrying into their kitchens, he swapped a plain cereal box with a pre-made finished product. From then on, when Captain Kangaroo started making something, I turned off the tv. He had upset me and tricked me.

I would find other things in my house to make and be satisfied even if no one else was. Loved taking objects and turning them into something else. Still do to this day.

The next year was the year I got my first paint by number kit: I was beyond thrilled.   There were oil paints and a cat picture to paint. Yes, I saw the numbers and the color code but I didn't want to use that. And so, since I knew what a cat looked like already and looked at the tubes of colored paint, I painted that cat my way and even went out of the lines. Shock.

I still have that picture to this day; my mom kept it all those years and I never knew that till after she died. I found it in one of her chest of drawers and the memory of my painting it came rushing back into my mind like it was yesterday.

My dad was a car insurance adjuster and he used huge tablets of paper for his cases when he went on the job. He would always bring me stacks of those big tablets and I made an office in my bedroom. I would cut and cut and staple and staple and make lots of books. And then I wrote stories in them and saved them. My mother was an executive secretary and she would bring home to me those steno tablets that had rings on the top. I was in sheer bliss making this and that. My girlfriends would make them along with me at times and to me, it was the closest thing to heaven that there was with the exception of painting.

I could tell you stories upon end but I won't. Had thought of the above things and wanted to share them for this making and creating never stopped once. You could tell that when I was little, I always dragged an accomplice in with me; I didn't want to appear weird all alone.

As I got older, I faced my artist soul on my own and came to grips with it. Over the years, I've had lots of failures and lots of successes as far as things that I have created. It is still an on-going learning process which has no end in sight, hopefully. But the drive to keep this up is inherent: No one is pushing me, no one is telling me what to do or when to stop and no one is standing over me with the exception of that nagging voice inside of me that says, "Make something! Write something!" And I do ignoring the basic things I should be doing and then I get furious with myself for neglecting those basic things: It makes me feel like one of those elves you see in Santa's workshop who just makes and makes and makes.

The satisfaction comes from seeing something in written form or on a canvas that makes me feel good.

It might not affect others but sometimes it does.

And then I am prepared for "Bring on the criticism!" My soul can take it...most of the time.

I hope if you read the first part of this, that you googled "artist soul:" Maybe you can empathize or maybe you can't. It is a gift and a curse but one I find that I just can't live without. Can't get rid of it.

Sherry Hill

Copyright © 2015

Sherry Hill

All Rights Reserved