Summer P Horton

One of the things that happens when you have a big, fluffy, muppet-looking poodle who goes with you eeeeeverywhere is that you get a lot of attention, whether you want it or not. I’m kind of an introvert, so that’s not really something I relish. I do my best to handle it gracefully, but oftentimes while running errands I find myself wishing for an invisibility cloak.

Why, then, am I wearing this?

Well, to be honest, I’m not totally sure yet.

For the last year or so I’ve had this idea rolling around, singsonging at me and poking me obnoxiously in the temple. “Wear a tiaaaaara. Make it an everyday thiiiiiing. You’re always saying there should be more tiara-appropriate events. Dooooo iiiiiit.” For well over a year, maybe two, I’ve laughed about the idea and then shoved it off, back into the never-never. “Ooh, you could be a princess!” it usually shouts at me over its shoulder as I push the door shut. “You could dress all princessly! BIG FOOFY DRESSES!” Slam.

Backtrack to a few weeks ago, when the idea suddenly clarified itself and got really loud. “Okay, so no foofy dresses. No big fancy project. Just… wear a tiara every day. For a year. You can do that, right? It’s just jewelry, really.”

I rolled my eyes at my (very persistent and unreasonable) subconscious. “Why?”

Ridiculous Idea: “Just because. Just try it. You’ll find out along the way. It’ll be an experiment. You’re a nerd. You like experiments.”

Me: “An experiment in what?! How to make people think I’m a total freak?”

R.I.: “Maybe. What do you care? You already walk around with a service dog who looks like a Sesame Street retiree.”

Me: “Yeah, and I’d like to draw less attention when I’m out, thanks, not more.”

R.I.: “It’s just one year. One year of wearing a tiara! It’s not like I’m asking you to take a job as a synchronized sewage swimmer.”

Me: “Ew.”

R.I.: “Pleaaaaase.”

Me: “No.”

R.I.: “Please please please please pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaase?”

Me: “No.”

R.I.: “I’m never going to shut up about this unless you do it.”

Me: “You’re from MY brain. I can shut you up if I want!”

R.I.: “Nuh-uh. You’re a writer. You know full well your imagination has a mind of its own.”

Me: “I hate you.”

R.I.: “One measly little year!”

Me: “I’ll think about it.”

S0 I took the idea to my writing group. I knew they’d help me out. It wasn’t going to be easy to have them tell me I was ridiculous for even considering it, even if I agreed with them, but it had to be done. So a few Saturdays ago, I waited for a lull in the conversation, and I blurted it out.

“I’mthinkingaboutwearingatiaraeverydayforayear.” I scrunched my eyes closed and waited for the awkward silence and/or hoots of laughter.

“YES! I LOVE THIS IDEA!”
“You’re going to write about it, right?”
“Ooh, you should take a picture every day, to document it!”
“That could be really interesting! You should totally do it!”

OMIGOD. YOU GUYS ARE NOT GOOD FOR MY NORMALNESS.

So anyway. Five days ago it was my birthday. My 32nd birthday. (I AM 32 YEARS OLD. I SHOULD NOT BE WEARING A TIARA TO THE GROCERY STORE.) I’d waffled and waffled and waffled about the idea, and that morning had finally said to myself, “Screw it. It’s my birthday and I can do what I want.” And pulled down the box of tiaras from the top of my refrigerator.

Fun fact. Ten years ago my let’s-see-what-happens experiment was pageants. I was an obese nerd who hated the feeling of makeup on my skin, and who was fairly miserable from some disability related-stuff that meant I had pretty much nada to brag about. Yup. Toooootally made sense for me to jump into pageants.

Anyway, I won a few titles and quite a few crowns. Several of the smaller ones were gifted to some cute little girls at a garage sale I had a few years ago, but I’ve kept four that mean a lot to me. So I figured I’d just plunk one of them on my head and call it good.

Except… well. They’re kind of big. Not for pageants – as pageant bling goes, they’re actually relatively understated. But for real life? Especially when I wasn’t feeling very brave at all about this whole idea? Three vertical inches of rhinestones on my head felt like a lot.

I couldn’t do it. I left for my birthday celebration tiara-less. But the idea continued to eat at me, and when I spied some kiddie sequin tiaras in the $1 basket at Jo-Ann Fabric later that afternoon, my heart lightened a little. I could wear those! To start, at least. They’d be ironic, right? See, I would look ridiculous on purpose.

I bought one each in silver, purple, and pink, and plunked the pink one on my head. (It matched my capris.) I’d like to say I felt miraculously confident about my choice and wore it with pride, but… I didn’t. I took it off and set it aside a few times during the evening. I wasn’t having an easy time with my birthday this year, and wearing a tiara wasn’t helping. And when I got home, I wasn’t at all sure whether the project would continue beyond Day 1. In fact, the way I felt, I was pretty sure it was already dead in the water.

But the next morning my mood was a little better, and I thought “eh. What the heck.” I trimmed down the silver tiara to something a little less “I’m a fairy princess!” and headed off to church with my mom. And I’ve kept putting on a tiara every day since. That’s not saying a LOT, given that it’s been less than a week, but I still feel like it’s some kind of accomplishment. To me, at least.

I haven’t told many people I’m doing this. My mom thinks I’m crazy, as usual. My writer friends support me, if only because they’re like me: nerdily fond of experiments. And my service dog just wishes I’d quit putting my tiaras on him when I get bored. Nobody’s flat out told me that it’s a terrible idea, so… I guess I’m doing it.

Just figured I’d better warn you all. You know, in case you want to start making a list of excuses to not be seen with me for the next 360 days.

(With thanks to The Princess Diaries for the post title. )

I need to rearrange everything I moved earlier this afternoon in order to fit my SUPER COOL AWESOME FANTASTIC NEW WRITING DESK WHICH IS ALMOST A HUNDRED YEARS OLD, K into my living room.  And I am going to attempt to go do that in a second.

But first, I wanted to attempt to put down in words something that’s been rolling around in my head for quite a while.  I’ve already tried to write this a couple of times previously, and then erased it because it didn’t come out right.  I’m not sure it will this time, either, but we’ll see.

Sometimes in articles about an individual person with a disability (as opposed to a group), you’ll see a quote where the person says that they don’t think of themselves as a person with a disability.  In Deaf culture, I’m learning, many people feel that being deaf is not a disability, and adamantly and loudly say so.  Just recently I saw a quote that said the only disability is a bad attitude, or something close to that.

While I understand what the people making those statements are trying to say – “I am not less-than, I am not broken, and I don’t want to be labeled as less-than or broken” – I cannot help feeling a little sad and hurt when I read these statements.  Why is “disability” an insult?  Why is it something less-than?  It’s not, not to me.  In the same way that many who are D/deaf are proud to be D/deaf because it’s a part of their identity, I am proud of who I am, too.  And I do have a disability.  It’s not a bad word.  It’s the same as a post I read recently about how it’s okay to say “deaf,” it doesn’t mean something bad.  It’s not something to whisper, or to avoid saying, because it’s not something to be ashamed of.

I am not ashamed of who I am.  I love me!  I’m a pretty great person!  And so are my friends, many of whom also self-identify as having a disability.  We are smart, we are funny, we are creative, we are involved in our communities, we work toward goals, we celebrate and grieve and obsess over tv shows.  And we also have disabilities, and that is part of our whole, and it is not a bad part of our whole.

I know nobody wants to be thought of as broken, or less-than, and so I absolutely understand the desire and instinct to distance oneself from a word that, because of widespread misconception, can be seen as something negative.  But you’re fighting the wrong battle, I think, because it’s not the word that’s wrong, it’s the perception of it.

I identify as lesbian.  Because of the time and place and community in which I’ve grown up, I sometimes feel a little hesitant to say that word, because I’m afraid someone will judge me for it.  I don’t want them to see me as bad, or weird, or anything else.  And I know those things aren’t what the word “lesbian” means, but I’m still afraid of it because I’ve seen that some people still have that perception, that some people don’t understand yet.  But I say the word anyway, and I do consider it as part of my identity, because it’s true, and it’s not a bad thing.  If I’m going to be in a romantic and/or sexual relationship, it’s probably going to be with a woman.  That’s all that word means.  That’s it.  If other people hear that word about me, and they think bad things, the problem lies with them, not with the word, and not with my identity.  I’m a pretty freakin’ awesome person, so I tend to think that by knowing me, and by knowing that that word is a part of my identity, they will come to understand that the judgments we have learned to make about some labels are just silly and unfounded.

In the same way, “disability” is also a part of my identity.  It doesn’t mean I’m broken, it doesn’t mean I’m less than, it doesn’t mean that I’m to be pitied, and it doesn’t mean that I’m sad about who I am.  All it means is that there is something about me that makes me work a little differently than the majority of the population.  If you took all the stats of all the people in the world, and you used them to make a pretend average person, I would probably be different from that person in some way.  That. is all.  it means.

I don’t make this post to condemn anybody who chooses to distance themselves from the word “disability.”  We’re different people, and different things feel right to us for different reasons.  And it’s fine.   I guess I just want to put this out there, because I feel like there’s this underlying perception, even among the enlightened, that if you’re saying you have a disability, it’s like admitting you have a weakness.  And that’s not true.  It’s an attribute.  It’s a catalyst for certain experiences.  But it’s not a weakness.

I am proud, SO proud, of who I am.  I am proud of my strength, I am proud of my wisdom, I am proud of what I’ve done and am doing with my life.  My having a disability doesn’t reflect poorly on me at all.  I have brown hair.  I have brown eyes.  I like to laugh.  I use visual examples a lot when I try to explain things.  I am different neurologically from many other people.  I think Miss Piggy is made of awesome.

Say you don’t want to be thought of as broken.  Say you don’t want to be thought of as less-than.  SAY those things!  Shout them, for heaven’s sake – people need to hear it!  But please consider not using “disability” as a synonym for those things, because it’s not.  I know I’m not.

<3

Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging!

My friend Bri reads like a crazy-space-rocket-enhanced-android-thing.  Seriously, I can loan her a book at the beginning of a writing group meeting, and by the time we say goodbye, she’s handing me back my book because she’s already finished it. To quote the captain o’ my heart, she’s fast like a freak.

As a result, Bri has read considerably more than I have.  So, when we were discussing terrible names for sets of twins (Ophelia and Desdemona! Pretty and romantic!  And also… uh… very dead and tragic and whatnot.  But pretty!) and I mentioned that I didn’t know Desdemona’s story, she was glad to fill me in on Shakespeare’s Othello.  (If you’re unfamiliar with it, here’s the Wikipedia entry.)

Now, that’s a great story.  Seriously, good stuff.  Nice going, Wills.  BUT.  I couldn’t help thinking…

What might an updated summary of Othello look like?

(Cue the Wayne’s World DOODIDOO, DOODIDOO, DOODIDOO dream sequence arms, please.)

“Oh, hai Othy.”

“YOU SLEPT WITH JIMBO!”

“You mean Iago?”

“WHATEVER!”

“I totally did not!”

“Handkerchief!”

“Uh. >.> I got that at a garage sale, k. My sister gave it to me.”

“LIAR!”  *muffled screams, pillow noises*

*convenient timing* “Hey, Des, do you know where my pink glitter tank is? I can’t find it – Oh, hey, Othello, what are you doing here?”

“Uh. >.> Nothing.”

“GASP! :O  YOU KILLED DESDEMONA!”

“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did!”

“I did not!”

“UH, SHE’S DEAD AND YOU’RE HERE!”

“… okay, I did. BUT IT WAS TOTALLY NOT MY FAULT, OKAY?! She was macking it with Iago at Roger and Susan’s wedding!”

“So you KILLED her?!”

“…well, yeah.”

“You don’t even know for sure!”

“HANDKERCHIEF!”

“Dude, you wack. HALP! HALP! THERE’S BEEN A DEADIFICATION!”

“What? No, don’t- argh.”

“Yo, Em, what up?”

“HE KILLED DESDEMONA!”

“What, seriously? Dude, not. cool.”

“HANDKERCHIEF!”

“Zomg. Iago, this is your fault. I told you that Jerry Springer stuff was going to cause trouble!”

*DEATH BY STABBINESS!*

“Whoa. That was kind of suspicious. So wait, Des wasn’t really getting down with Iago?” *FENCING!* “Mercy is the mark of a great man. (stab.)Guess I’m just a good man. (stab.) Well, I’m alright.”

“Guys, this is messed up. You are both going to jail.”

“NOT ME! *selfstabby* Ow.”

THE END.

As I pointed out to Bri, the above may be a good example of why I don’t work for Cliffsnotes.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

I strike a pose after climbing the rock wall at Job Corps.

I got a backpack yesterday.  That’s not a particularly remarkable event, unless you know the context.

Six months ago I mentioned I’d been accepted to Job Corps, and promised to share my observations about the experience via my blog.  And then… well, I went to Job Corps, and I got very, very busy.

It started with Career Prep, a period of three weeks during which new students are bombarded with information about Job Corps policies, available resources, health and safety information, and exploration of the various trades available for study.  There were fourteen of us in my input group (what up #395! ).  We were teenagers, twenty-somethings, and by the end of the three weeks, I’d turned 30.  We came from the city, from small towns, and from tiny villages in rural Alaska.  Some of us were shy, some were naturally outgoing, and our reasons for being there were many.  But all of us had chosen this, and we were all in it together.

Part of Career Prep was devoted to exploring the trades.  At Job Corps, a trade is something like your major.  It determines what classes you’ll be in, what you study, and what type of work you’ll be equipped to do when you finish.  New students have the opportunity to talk with instructors, try out assignments, and research career outlook information and learning styles to help them determine which trade to go into.  I chose Human Services.

After three weeks, we each began our own, individualized schedules.  Mine had  me in Academics for a week, then Human Services, then back again and so on.  Because I already had my high school diploma and had tested out of some of the academic requirements, I didn’t have quite as much academic work to do.  Mostly I brushed up on math required for being a grown-up (budgets, bank accounts, and the expenses involved with owning a car), some basic health, and some new career-oriented vocabulary.  I also put together the most neatly-labeled smiling skeleton you’ll ever see.  (His name is Fred.)

In Human Services, I made good friends with the computer, a variety of college-level textbooks, and Spell Check.  Our trade involves plenty of reading and writing, partly due to the fact that many careers in the field require a lot of documentation.  I’ve learned about confidentiality, group facilitation, a wide variety of mental and health disorders, and tons of variables which might influence a person’s behavior.  I’ve also learned my instructor hates the word “that” but loves commas. 

I finished my academic and trade work in about six months, just before Christmas.  Around the same time, I applied to and was accepted to the ACT, or Advanced Career Training, program.  This part of Job Corps allows the motivated student to continue his or her studies.  For me, this means college classes, about which I’m VERY excited.  Another student I know is taking plumbing classes through a local technical school, and culinary students may be eligible to go to San Francisco for advanced training.  When I first arrived I was told of a student who’d just returned from lineman school in New York.  It’s a pretty cool program.

I start classes at the college on Monday, and yesterday I received my textbooks.  Because I’m a part of the ACT program, Job Corps will cover my first two semesters of books and tuition, and they’ll help me find financial aid or other funding for the semesters after that.  They’ll also help me by providing transportation to and from the college, and continuing to provide meals, basic medical, and support.

So now you’re caught up.  Remember the backpack?  Well, yesterday I had a meeting with ACT program supervisors to schedule my weekly check-in meeting and get my textbooks.  There were about ten of us there, mostly continuing ACT students, and one other new ACT-er.  When the staff arrived, I was surprised by one of them handing me a backpack.  I was about to protest that it wasn’t mine when I noticed it had a tag on it, and they were handing one to the other new ACT student as well.

I opened the backpack to find a binder, paper, pens, pencils, and other school supplies.  It was nothing fancy, but the staff member who had put it together had taken care to match the colors of things where she could, a touch that made me smile.  Actually, beam.  That backpack thrilled me.

My backpack is purple and pink, and it’s sitting on my table, waiting to go to class on Monday.  It’s got my textbooks inside it, and my binder with all the dividers neatly labeled.  It’s also crammed full of things you can’t see, like the support of friends who are cheering me on, and the faith of staff who keep telling me they’re sure I’ll accomplish great things.  And stuffed into the bottom is my self confidence, which defies the laws of nature by making my backpack feel lighter the more it grows.

I’ve worked really hard this year, trying to move ahead with my life.  I knew I wanted take advantage of all the support and opportunity Job Corps offered me, and I feel like I have so far.  That backpack was unexpected, though, and serves as a good symbol for exactly what Job Corps has offered me.  Inside it is everything I need to tackle the challenge ahead.  Nothing fancy, but it gives me what I need to accomplish big things if I just put forth the effort.

I’m a happy girl.  I think it’s my favorite backpack ever.

My grandma Jean passed away on November 5th. It was about 3:30am, and my mom was holding her hand. I have mulled this post over and over in my mind, wanting to recognize the tenderness of her last several weeks with us. For some things, though, I seem not to have words. All I can say is that I am enormously grateful for the time I was able to spend with her in the last stage of her life, and for the love and pride she was able to communicate to me during that time. Because of that, I am changed.

Jean was born in Bellingham, Washington, September, 23, 1917, to Murry D. and Pearl N. (McLeod) Macaulay. She was 93 years of age. Jean moved with her parents and brothers from Deming to Forks, Washington in 1928. Following college and marriage, Jean and her husband, Richard Hart, moved from Seattle to Bainbridge Island in 1952; from 1957 to 1972 they lived in Long Beach California, before returning to their Wing Point home on the Island.

Jean received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Business Administration from Washington State College in 1938, and a Master of Social Work degree from the University of Southern California in 1961.

Jean loved her work as a Licensed Clinical Social Worker. She began her career as an accredited counselor and child welfare worker for LA County; she then moved on to complete a state pilot project for developing state homemaker services for the state of California. For the remainder of her career she worked in administrative positions in Long Beach, Paramount, and Compton, California; including, Child Protective Services Supervisor; Deputy District Director; Head Child Welfare Worker in Licensing; and Program Analyst to assess child welfare services. After retiring from LA County, she served as Administrator for the Melton Home for Developmental Disability. Jean was a member of the National Association of Social Workers, Certified Social Workers of California and the American Association of University Women.

Jean was an active member of Eagle Harbor Congregational Church. She was an avid golfer, had been a member of Wing Point Golf and Country Club since 1952, and loved a good game of bridge. Her daughters fondly remember her and their father’s love of camping and hiking in Olympic National Park during their growing up years, instilling a life-long love of the outdoors and the Olympic Peninsula.

Jean was preceded in death by her first husband, Richard D. Hart; second husband, Lawrence (Bill) Duling; brother, Neil Macaulay; nephew, Ladd Macaulay; sisters-in-law, Margaret Macaulay and Joanne Macaulay; step-son, Larry Duling.

She is survived by daughter and son-in-law, Peggy and Dwight Morrison of Bainbridge Island; daughter, Pam Horton of Willow, Alaska; daughter and son-in-law, Patricia Hart and Timothy Jewell of Bainbridge Island; brother, Hugh Macaulay of Bainbridge island; grandchildren, Stephen Schick, Susan Schick, Tamara Saylor, Summer Horton and Heather Horton; nephews, Tom, Mark, Doug, Bob and Scott Macaulay; niece, Leslie Macaulay; step-daughters, Jayne Munch and Lenora Daniel; great-grandchildren, Blake Culp; Cody, Cedar and Audrey Schick; Jachin, Kayleah and Corban Saylor.

Memorial services will be held at 2:30, Saturday, November 13, 2010, at Eagle Harbor Congregational Church, with reception to follow. Visitation will be 11:00-12:30 at the Cook Family Funeral Home on Bainbridge Island. Graveside services will be held for immediate and extended family, at 1:00 at the Kane Cemetery on Bainbridge.

Memorial gifts may be made to Hospice of Kitsap County, Eagle Harbor Congregational Church, the National Multiple Sclerosis Society, or the Southern Poverty Law Center.

I swear, every time I start a project, life gets in the way. In this case it’s a good thing.

HI THERE, INTERNET. IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME! I MISSED YOU! At first, it was just that I needed a little time to process the somewhat profound effect my time spent with my grandmother had on me. My grandma Jean, with whom I’d never really been close with before, told me stories about her life. She shared the things she thought were important, the things she wants to be remembered. When my mom visited without me, Grandma asked where I was. It was the first time in my life that I can remember us really enjoying spending much time with one another, and that was important to me.

Also heavy on my heart was the experience of watching my mom and grandmother together, of watching the whole family interact with the nursing home, of chatting with other residents and watching them interact with Radar, my service dog. The last portion of one’s life is an era foreign to many of us until we get there, and it is such a different world. Some of the residents were forgotten, never visited. Some of them were visited every day, by children, by grandchildren, by friends.

My grandma is one of the lucky ones. She has enough money to cover what she needs. She has three daughters who care about what happens to her and involve themselves in her care. She is visited usually every single day, frequently a few times a day by various people. Family and friends come to visit her, to catch up and to gossip with her about what’s going on in the community. She has a bulletin board on her wall kept full with a rotating selection of cards, letters, and photographs sent by friends far away. Her brother Hugh, at 93 a year older than she is, walks from his assisted living home to hers a few times a week to come sit with her. Sometimes they are grouchy at each other and just sit in silence, or argue. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they remember. But they spend time with one another.

Even with all of this support, it’s a struggle. There are misunderstandings with staff and doctors. There are days when my aunt calls my mom, at her wit’s end after another rough visit with Grandma. There are times when my feisty, opinionated, strong willed grandmother feels so down she’s sure the end is near, a transformation of personality that scares all of us.

I don’t know how those who don’t have the support my grandma does are able to do it. Who speaks up for them when they can’t? Who pays attention and notices when they’re being given the wrong medication? How do they feel when no one shows up to spend time with them, and the only people they see are staff?

It was a big experience for me to observe all of this, and gave me an enormous amount to think about. I needed some time to process it all, and so I waited to write my next post. When I was finally ready…

My computer broke. It’s been sort of coughing and wheezing for a long while now, but it always recovers. This time it didn’t. I tried writing posts in the library or the internet cafe, but found them too noisy and distracting. I thought, no big. I’ll get my computer fixed, and then post an explanation. And then I got a phone call.

Almost a year ago I filled out an application to the Job Corps center here in Alaska. If you’ve never heard of Job Corps, it’s a government funded program aimed at teaching low-income 16-24 year olds a trade, and how to succeed in the work force. Each Job Corps center seems to be different, and I hear some of them are pretty rough. Ours, however, seems to consistently earn awards and accolades for its safe, beautiful campus and its positive results. My younger sister and I visited last year, and I was so impressed that I decided to apply, being as college was not an option for me at that point. (Long story.)

Then, early this summer on my way home from the library, I got a call. I’d been accepted, and would be starting at Alaska Job Corps in June.

What followed has kept me very, very busy for the last few months. I’ll tell you more about Job Corps in a later post, but for now, just know that it’s pretty much taken up all my time in the last few months.

At any rate, I’m back, and I plan to post much more regularly. Because of my schedule with Job Corps, and how very much my day-to-day life has shifted, I’m going to de-schedule the blog and just post as I have time/energy/something to talk about. The Following Juliette project is still on, but as with the rest it’ll be on a post-as-needed basis.

So hello again! Thanks for sticking around.

This week’s Following Juliette post is being pre-empted by my desire to spend as much time as possible with my family and friends before I head home to Alaska on Friday.  In the meantime, check out this happifying article about a centenarian who finally got to fulfill her wish of being a Girl Scout. 

 Cool things in the works for the next couple of updates: an interview with my Grandma Jean, who was a Girl Scout leader half a century ago; reflections on what I’ve learned so far in my work on the Across Generations badge; a flashback to a Wider Opportunity trip in the 70′s; and hopefully a chat with a fellow Girl Scout alumna who says scouting was one of the best parts of her growing-up.   Stay tuned!

The paper is thin and smooth, just beginning to brittle.  It’s discolored to a soft, pale brown, like the props we dye in tea at the theater to look older.  But the aged look of these eight pages is genuine.  They are a typewritten flashback, a window of rippled-glass to let me peer into my family’s past.

I know very little about my Great-Great-Aunt May.  I know that she was born in North Dakota around 1886.  I know that she was married to Chart Pitt, who wrote wilderness and adventure stories, in 1909.  And I know that she, too, wrote, because eight aged pages of poetry tell me so.

April is National Poetry Month, and since I’m presently working on a badge that seeks to teach girls more about the generations before them it seems like the perfect time to share some of my writing heritage.

May Garden

My garden’s full of lovely things,
A gypsy wind, a bird that sings,
The butterflies, the humming bees,
A glimpse of far-off summer seas.

The scent of flowers that nod and sway,
And up above, and far away
Beyond the shade of pine and yew
The vaulted dome of Heaven’s blue.

- May McLeod Pitt

The Answer

I sought for peace and found it
In a lowly garden spot;
Where bloom the tall white lilies
And the Blue Forget-me-not.

I sought for hope, and found it,
In the tulips’ crimson flare,
And the golden cheer of jonquils
That blossom everywhere.

I sought for faith and found it
When the winter clouds hung low;
For I knew my garden’s glory
Lay safe beneath the snow.

- May McLeod Pitt

The Wanderer’s Wife

I had a red rose blooming,
‘Neath the dreary Arctic sky —
The cry of “gold” rang through the night,
And I left it there to die.

I planted a little garden,
On the rim of the desert gray,
But when it flowered and fruited
We were a thousand miles away.

Strange sights I’ve seen in alien lands,
And islands of the sea,
When I longed for a pansy bed,
And the neighbors in to tea.

Oft times my feet grow weary,
The trails are rough and steep,
But lies a valley beyond the hill
He must see before we sleep.

Now here in my seaside cottage,
I rose to meet the dawn,
And drop hot tears on the lilac buds,
Tomorrow “we”ll ramble on.”

- May McLeod Pitt

It’s inevitable.  It doesn’t matter which side of my family you’re talking about – get a few of us together,  and the memorieswill start pouring forth.  Do all families love stories this way?  I can’t remember a single family gathering – small, large, formal, informal, happy, sad, or utterly ordinary – that didn’t involve at least one “remember when?” 

This past Monday my mom had her second cataract surgery, which required a trip to Seattle and someone to drive her home.  Aunt Peggy was kind enough to volunteer, and I tagged along for moral support.  The surgery was relatively quick, and by late morning the four of us (Radar too) were tucked back into Peggy’s Little Red Sportscar ™, boarding the ferry back to Bainbridge Island.  Since I had my tape recorder with me, it seemed the perfect time to interview my mom and aunt about their memories of Scouting. 

“It seems to me,” Peggy said, “the Brownie uniform was one piece, was all brown, short sleeve, like a shirtwaist dress, and then we wore that gold sash.  And we had a little brown tam that we wore on our head.   And I don’t remember much about it, except it was fun.  And we just had a good time.   We had it at Walt Woodward’s house where he was building the boat in the living room.” 

“I went to the other end of the Island,” Mom said.  “I think it was Rolling Bay, to Cheryl Jones’ house.  And I was so impressed because her mother I think was the first woman captain, you know, that could captain a boat in this state.”

“What kinds of things did you do?” I asked.

“I can’t remember what we did,” Peggy said.  “Not as Brownies.  And even as a Girl Scout, I know we worked on badges, but I don’t have any specific memories of that.  I can remember going off to Girl Scout camp when I was in 8th grade, and that was an absolute blast.”

It’s been over half a century since either woman went to camp, but even so the names of three Washington Girl Scout campgrounds – River Ranch, Lyle McLeod, and Robinswold – came easily to the two sisters’ minds.  So, too, did the memories. 

“Swimming and canoing,” Mom said.  “That was my favorite, to go to the waterfront.  And I liked meals because you got to sing after.  And when I went to River Ranch, the kids washed the dishes.”