'DO YOU HAVE A DISH FETISH? I DO!"

“DO YOU HAVE A DISH FETISH? I DO!”

I have come to the conclusion after surveying all of the sets of dishes I have as well as those that don’t match, that I indeed have a dish fetish. And so do two of my cousins: Therefore, it is genetic. Is that jumping to a conclusion? Maybe and maybe not for they too are overloaded in the dish category.

How many plates and the like should a person have? I once knew a man who only had four plates, four saucers, four bowls and four cups: His reasoning was that it was all he needed. Sensible? I suppose unless he had more than four people who were going to eat at his house and then he’d have been in trouble, to say the least. But his dishes didn’t take up much room at all.

Mine do and although I use a lot of them, some I have never used: I just like them [that is not a good thing.] My great great grandfathers’ middle name was “Meakin:” That is the same name of an English pottery factory. And oddly enough he was born in England. Maybe he is the one who had the “china” gene for it is on his line of ancestors that we have the dish fetish.

Whatever the reason I am sure that this gene will be passed onto my grandchildren: They just don’t know it yet for they are too young to care about dishes at this point in their lives. The gene skipped my mom, landed on me, skipped my sons so I know that my grandchildren have inherited it. And boy are they in for a lot of dishes is all I can say. If you have a dish fetish, I’d love to hear about it.



Sherry Hill

"A BIRD RAISING EXPERIENCE"

“A BIRD RAISING EXPERIENCE!”

About fifteen years ago, I noticed that a mom robin had once again left her nest and flown away. The nest was located at the end of my then-carport and if I looked up, I could see it but not what was inside of it. Worried me and after a week or so, my husband and I decided to knock down the nest for it was evident that the mom was not coming back. Here I was in a dress and high heels and was standing behind my house as he was on the carport with a big stick getting ready to knock down the nest and I realized that I would be holding baby birds. That specific fact is not something I have ever wanted to do in my life!

All I could do was to spread my dress out and catch the birds: First one, then two and then three baby robins complete with their feathers were in the skirt part of my dress and I was holding tight. Horror set in for although I love birds, I didn’t want them that close. They were chirping and moving frantically. “Go get something to put these things in !” I screamed.

An eternity passed before he showed up with a metal washtub and a small screen: I was never so grateful in my life. We placed the three baby robins in the tub, covered them with the screen and brought it in the house. I was worried that my huge cat would immediately pounce upon them but he could have cared less. It was my dog, Prince, a huge part elkhound and part St. Bernard who went balistic when he heard the birds chirping. What to do with the tub of birds? We decided to put it on the dining room table [a bedroom had been converted to a dining room at that time] and close the door. One episode down but oh so many more to come.

My only prior experience with a bird was taking care of my grandmother’s parakeet and I remember feeding it but these were wild birds. Went online and read that to feed them you  had to use an eye dropper and give the babies egg yolk as well as water. Had that covered but trying to feed all three at once was harder than taking care of a real baby: They were all in a furor to see who could get fed first. I had also read that these robins had to have real meat; there was no way on earth I was going to hold worms much less go out and get them—ever!

We decided to use ground meow mix along with the egg yolk to start with and then proceded to use ground beef. Weeks passed and I was worn to a frazzle and my dog paced back and forth in front of the shut door: He was more than jealous. The cat remained austere. With all animals, there is always one who is the leader and one who is the runt: I taught at J. E. Robins Elementary and so I named the birds “J,” “E,” and “R.” “R” was the runt of the three. “J” was the leader and one who wanted to be fed first while “E” was just there.

By this time the birds were growing rapidly and were taking up most of the content of the small metal wash tub. Keeping the small screen on top of it was becoming a challenge as the robins’ beaks kept ramming it. No way did I want three birds flying around the dining room and escaping out into the house: There was already enough chaos going on with taking care of a dog and a cat. And so, we bought a bird cage and already had an old stand: The ever-growing robins were so relieved to be in a bird cage as was I.

The days were becoming warmer and warmer and we made the decision to take the bird cage with the stand outside. These three robins could now feel the air on them as well as hear other birds and they not only relished in it but wanted out! “J” was the biggest, “E” was somewhat smaller and “R” was tiny but all three were in good health bird-wise. We would bring them in for the night but when outside, one of us stayed with them. This went on for several weeks and then when outside in the cage, they started ramming the cage with their beaks till “J” had bloodied his: It was time to set them free. I knew it but my husband didn’t want to let them go.

Several days later, I was outside with the birds in the cage and I was alone. And I decided to let them go free. You can’t imagine how fast they flew out of that cage—they flew like lightning and then landed on the grass. I watched as each one went his or her separate way and hoped that some other “mom robin” would adopt them. But I was never to know for my yard was full of robins in the daytime and I couldn’t tell one from the other.

I had hoped that “J” or “E” or “R” would return to me just for a little while as if to say thank you but that never happened. Relieved that I was no longer caring for the three and yet feeling remorse for lettting them go, I knew in my heart that it was the best thing to do. It was an unforgettable experience and one that I would never repeat again even if it did save their lives for the next year, the same mom robin did the same thing: She flew off the nest and left the babies. By some miracle, another robin took care of them till they could fly out of the nest. That robin was a lifesaver in oh so many ways! And as for the mom robin who left her babies stranded twice, she should have been reported but to whom? Where were the “bird police” when you needed them? Wish I had known.

Sherry Hill

"THE STORY OF A LITTLE GIRL AND THE MAILMAN"

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There was once a little girl who loved to write. She would write on paper and put it in envelopes and give them to her grandmother to put in the mail. Course they had no stamps on them but the little girl thought they would get to their destination. And to her shock as well as her grandmothers, those letters did arrive—as if by magic. Happened all of the time.



This little girl knew the mailman who delivered the mail: His was tall, handsome and his name was Mr. Haynes. She recognized him always for he carried a big leather mail bag and wore a uniform [no one delivered mail by truck then--they all walked their routes] almost exactly like the above picture. He always took time to talk to her and gave her the mail to take in; did he know that she adored him? Probably not and probably never did. She continued to write to people and as usual, these envelopes went into the mail and were received—still with no stamps on them she thought. She had started this at age four and by age eight, realized that there was no way a letter could be mailed without a stamp: Was it Mr.Haynes who helped these get delivered?

She didn’t even have a complete address on her envelopes and yet, they were received for people told her that they had gotten her letters.

Into her teenage years, she would see Mr. Haynes when she was at her grandmother’s house: He was his usual chipper self and still took away her breath. The thought of asking him if he were the one who put the stamps on those letters of her childhood entered her mind but by this time, she was reluctant to ask him.



One day she was at her grandmother’s house watching her grandmother work on a scrapbook; she had made at least 25 and this girl knew all of them by heart for she loved looking at them. But when she looked at what her grandmother was pasting onto a page, she was more than shocked: There was a letter that she had written when she was four or five. And it had a stamp on it!



“How did you get that letter Grannie?” asked the girl. “Mr. Haynes delivered it to me a long time ago. In fact, he delivered a lot of your letters.” She just couldn’t believe it and laughed hysterically! The secret was out finally although the girl suspected that the mailman had put stamps on her letters for no one else had. But she said nothing about it to Mr. Haynes as she felt embarrassed.



When the girl reached womanhood, married and became a mother, she lost her grandmother but she did inherit one third of those scrapbooks. While at her late grandmother’s house one day, she caught a glimpse of Mr. Haynes: He was of course older now and so was she. The fondness that she had for him still lingered only this time it was coupled with gratitude for what he had done: He had spent his own money to make a little girl happy.

Years went by and although her grandmother’s house was rented, she would see the mailman off and on should she be driving by and as always, they exchanged greetings. Then she quit seeing him and life got in the way as it can do. A couple of years ago, she asked a mailman friend of hers if Mr. Haynes were still alive and the answer was, “No.” Sadness set in for she never got to tell him how very grateful she was for what he had done for her so long ago.



You can guess that the little girl was me and I never quit writing on anything I could find. Those scrapbooks mean more to me than words can ever say that I inherited for those letters are in there pasted by my grandmother and stamped by Mr. Haynes: He was more than a mailman! He was a magician to a little girl and a man who truly cared about seeing someone happy. I will never forget him ever. How could I?

Sherry Hill

“CLASS: YOU CAN’T BUY IT!”




If you read my story about uppity people, then you know that fakey ones really get to me. Class is not something that you can buy: You can acquire it and maintain it but no way can you fake it. Class doesn’t come on one level; it comes on many levels be it low-income, middle-income or high-income.

The most prime example of a person who faked class was “Mrs.Drysdale” on the Beverly Hillbillies! Yes, she wore the pearls and dressed the part but did she have class? Of course she was a television character but still how she portrayed herself left you knowing that she was faking it due to the fact the her husband was a bank president and she realized his importance as well as hers. Even the tone of her voice was uppity when she spoke to Jed Clampet or anyone she felt was beneath her standing.

Several years ago I was at a person’s house: She was pointing out all the real crystal she had [I have my own] and then I looked at her coffee table: It had a glass top and inside I saw three empty boxes of Godiva chocolate. I have never seen anyone do such a thing. She could see my eyes on those empty boxes and said, “Oh those were given to me as gifts.” Hm? I said nothing but giggled inside myself—oh my.

Another example was when I was invited to a dinner with my first husband. The woman who had the dinner had also invited a local doctor and his wife to join us. The table was lovely set with fine china, silverware and paper napkins. What class faux pas? She always tried to pretend that she was extremely wealthy and the conversation that night went from one “rich” thing to another. Tell you one thing: The doctor and his wife were not impressed. And the paper napkins were a dead giveaway of no class—that is if you are having a very formal sit-down dinner.

I am not inferring that paper napkins are wrong as I use them a lot but they have their place.

Some of my friends are very wealthy and they don’t put on any acts: They are as down home as they come. And in no way have they ever attempted to be fakey which shows that they have class. They don’t brag about what they have or do [although it is apparent that they do have wealth] and that is what class is all about—it’s being real and mannerly. When people are putting on an act trying to be classy, they get a fake tone in their voice. It becomes high-pitched and you can certainly hear it and recognize it—every time, whether it’s a male or a female. And they use huge words which no one has ever heard of before. This has always left me wondering, “What on earth?” And wishing I had brought along a dictionary to look up those weird words.

When you are out and about be on the look for the “Mrs. Drysdale” types or men who act like she did or do you have to look for people like this? Probably not and they are so pathetic!

Sherry Hill

"OCHRE: A WALL COLOR THAT BOTHERS ME"

“OCHRE: A WALL COLOR THT BOTHERS ME”



We are all affected by color: How can we not be for it encompasses everything in our lives. Some colors appeal to us while others send us over the edge. It’s a matter of personal taste; if you were to see my four red rooms [they are painted a cherry red] you might jump with fright and yet, to me this color is soothing. But my living room is a light tan, kitchen a hunter green and hallway an olive green: All of these colors are ones that I love and also wear a lot.







Ochre is a yellowish-brown color and one that I sometimes wear, use in artworks and instantly recognize when I see coffee with some cream. But when this color is on walls, it really bothers me. And I can tell you two specific reasons as to why it does: When I was about four, some relatives took me to an elderly woman’s house to visit. The minute I walked into this woman’s living room, I noticed the colors of the walls: They were ochre. Had no idea of the color name at that age but the more I stayed in that room with the woman and my relatives, the more frightened I got.



And so, I associated my fear of her and that room with the color. Later on as a teenager, I watched “Gone With The Wind” and the minute I saw the death scene of Scarlett’s mother, there came that sense of fright all over again to me for the lighting in that scene was ochre. Disturbed all over again.





No matter how many times I have seen this movie [ forty times would be a guess,] when that scene appears, I can’t watch it. It’s a throw back to when I was four and in that living room with the ochre walls. The coffee you see in this pot is one hue of ochre and if you were to add just a little bit more yellow, that’s the disturbing color I am referring to.




Color is a personal taste and something that at times we can’t control for we are forced to sit in rooms or see buildings around us. But we can control it in our surroundings and I will tell you that no way, no how will I ever have any walls in my house painted “ochre:” Never have and never will. I will paint with this color for it is one that is found in nature and is always around us. I will wear it for I like the color on me but to have it envelope me in a room is disturbing and brings a pall over my feelings. And you know the two reasons as to why. Bring on the color but never bring on “ochre” in my house!



Sherry Hill

"THREE TEACHERS TORNADO BOUND!"



“THREE TEACHERS TORNADO BOUND!”



The year was 1991 and for starters, we had one blizzard after another to ring in this year. One was so bad that none of us had an electric for a week and the temperatures were below freezing. It seemed as if the snowstorms would never end as they were relentless through some of March. All of us were so glad the snow was over to say the least and welcomed spring with open arms!

Spring was joyous and as it can do, it gave all of us a sense of well-being and hope. And yes, I was teaching school—second grade and I had two co-teachers. We had spent one year prior to this year of writing units for our “Whole Language” reading program as there were none for our grade level. There were many times when the three of us didn’t leave till well past 8 p.m.—mostly like every single week night. We would find poetry and short stories that fit out units [such as Homes, March, Weather and so forth] and then make copies and I had to type what we had written. The three of us made such a good team as we got along great and really concentrated to make the units a success.

Came May and we had just finished the “Weather” unit: To culminate it, all three of us showed the movie, “The Wizard of Oz” that specific day. The students loved it as did we and the main purpose of it was to watch for weather in it. When dismissal time came, it was sunny and hot and almost a cloudless sky. But we couldn’t leave for we had to work on another unit; that meant another long evening of work.

My classroom was on the back of the building and we were all across the hall in one teacher’s room that faced the street. I had to go to my room to get a book and saw a substitute janitor running the sweeper on the carpet in my room. All of a sudden, I heard a noise that sounded like a freight train was coming: I ran to my windows only to see a huge black cloud come crashing by. The janitor jerked the cord out of the wall and ran out of the school, leaving us all three stranded. Rushed across the hall where my two co-teachers were only to witness something I had never seen: A tornado! The trees were bent down the ground, little dogs that lived down the block from school were flying in the air and trees started crashing everywhere.

I could look way up the hill and see my house! And I saw my forty foot pine tree crash on my house, watched my fence go down like toothpicks and told my friends that I was leaving right then! “No way” they echoed. And they grabbed me and forced me out into the hall with them. [In retrospect, I am so glad I didn’t attempt to go home!] So here we were out in the hall for what seemed like an eternity. Curious me wanted to go to my room on the back and look and they came along with me. The destruction that we saw was unbelievable! The heavy swing set was knocked down, trees were everywhere and the electric had gone off in the school and elsewhere.

The tornado was over and although it lasted several minutes or longer, it seemed like it had gone on forever and ever.

The three of went down the stairs and out of the school to see utter chaos and the parking lot and street littered with trees and other things. I’m not sure how they got home but I couldn’t get up my hill to my house: I had to drive around and around till I could get my car through a small path. There was no electric but all you could hear was the sound of chain saws that men were using to cut up the trees that blocked the streets. This sound would go on for weeks upon weeks.

School was out for a week as there was no electric and downed stop lights, power lines, trees and massive damage in Charleston. It was determined that the wind was well over 100 mph and the first tornado to hit our town [we would have another one several years later but not as bad] and all people could do was to drive around, if possible, and survey the damage. Some neighborhoods were spared while others got the full impact of the tornado.



When things returned to some normalcy, we were back in school and people were back to work. I will never ever forget the look on my students’ faces when they entered the classroom for like me, they too had been in a state of shock the week before. The first thing I said was,” I think that it was a very bad idea to show that movie, “The Wizard of Oz!” One little girl said, “No you shouldn’t have and I don’t ever want to see that movie again!”

What a strange twist of fate that my two co-teachers and I would have shown that movie at the end of the “Weather” unit and then be caught at school during a real live tornado. We were the very first teachers in Kanawha County to have “sheltered in place” and I never wanted to live through that again ever nor did they.

Our next unit was “Animals:” We were extremely afraid to start it as the circus was in town. After all, you never know what might have happened!

Sherry Hill

GOAT NUMBER THREE!

GOAT NUMBER THREE!



With considering all the brilliant, devious minds we had in high school, I don't know how we missed this one.



At a high school in Montana, a group of students played a prank. They let three goats loose inside the school.



But before turning them loose, they painted numbers on the sides of the goats: 1, 2, and 4.



School Administrators spent most of the day looking for No. 3.



*I got this in an email and whether it’s true or not, it’s funny.



Sherry Hill