Time Traveling Pilgrim

Imagine a time traveling pilgrim joined your family’s Thanksgiving celebration this year. After you got over the surprise of finding in individual wearing a tall hat, short pants, stockings, funny looking shoes, and possibly carrying an antique weapon in your dining room, you’d have to wonder about the differences between 1622 and 2014. Questions might include what this visitor thought about modern homes, holiday foods, and current pastimes to celebrate a national holiday that ties contemporary Americans to one of the first English settlements in the new world.

Wouldn’t that guest be surprised to find our homes outfitted with thermostat-operated heating units that don’t require a body to cut and stack enough wood to last the winter. Next, imagine eyes widening at the sight of water running through a faucet into a sink that drains and the exclamations of surprise when the traveler discovered that a simple flick of a handle turned that fluid hot. Astonishment would continue as the newcomer wandered about flicking switches that turned lights on and off and rotated knobs that made burners glow and ovens heat. I chuckle to think about the first trip to an indoor bathroom. Surely, this guest would yell in wonder when he heard that flush.

After recovering from so many unexpected surprises, the company would join the family at the table. While the lack of King James-style thous, thees, thys, and thines in the before-meal- prayer would confuse him, he’d recognize gratitude when he saw it. Despite feeling unsettled by all these new experiences, he’d identify the tantalizing scents wafting off roasting turkey and baked ham. That creamed corn and whole cranberry sauce might look a little familiar too, but he’d be confused at the selection of olives, celery, and okra on the relish tray. French-fried onion-topped green bean casserole, marshmallow-crowned sweet potatoes swimming in a bath of melted butter and modern stuffing would defy explanation. Despite the traditional beginnings of this feast, Mr. Pilgrim wouldn’t recognize much of its contemporary presentation.

After dinner, everyone, including this guest, would cave-in to the post pig-out nap urge. He’d follow the crowd into the living room or den. After folks settled into their seats on the couch, recliners,  and floor, he’d wonder about those tiny figures in helmets and bright jerseys hitting one another and  chasing after an elliptical shape on a flat screen. A youngster playing X Box in the corner would add to his confusion. How did that child control the characters dashing about and firing weapons that didn’t require immediate reloading in this contraption? Another youngster tapping away at the keyboard on a cell phone would catch his eye at some point. What caused those frequent dings and vibrations accompanied by the teen’s chuckles? Why weren’t folks talking to one another?

Life has changed considerably since 1620 when pilgrims first arrived at Plymouth Rock.  Some changes are good and some require consideration. It’s worth taking a moment this time of year when we count blessings to think about how a predecessor would view the world we have created.

               

The Ugly Side of Autumn

How is it that gun-metal skies, golden leaves, and russet milo fields can stun the eye yet cause eyes to swell, noses to run, and throats to itch badly enough that sufferers want to take a wire brush after them? Every fall, these irritating symptoms remind me that spectacular seasonal beauty comes with a price. I don’t even have to stand in a field of this attractive grain. Living in the vicinity is enough to drive me and others nuts.

That price includes twice-daily, high-powered allergy pills that seem to control the itches and drips two or three of the 24 four hours they promise to deliver. Add to that pill supply multiple boxes of Kleenex and rolls of super strong, soft Viva paper towels to handle obnoxious drainage. Eye and nose drops sooth irritated, red eyes and inflamed nose membranes. Nothing addresses the incessant throat itching that induces pig-like snorts and grunts or the itchy welts hidden under long sleeve shirts and slacks. Hard to believe, but acres of gorgeous russet milo are the fiend in this annual curse for Great Plains allergy victims.

These folks are everywhere.  You hear them sneezing and hacking in the row behind or ahead of you in church or at the movie theater. They’re the person with bulging pockets of tissues. Janitors dump trashcans regularly to stay ahead of these snotty people. Out of the corner of your eye, you see them discreetly wiping a drippy eye or nose. They itch, so you notice them trying to scratch without drawing attention to themselves. It’s a cruel season for those sensitive to milo.

Steroid shots offer significant relief, but they have side effects that I prefer to avoid. As a result, I try to tough out the worst of these annual symptoms. Unfortunately, I used up all my luck this fall. No matter how I timed taking allergy pills, I couldn’t get control of the drips, itches, and weird noises . I tried natural remedies like eating locally produced honey. I even resorted to mind over matter practices to control that terrible irritation that triggered those disgusting pig noises. Despite great intentions, I learned my mind wasn’t stronger than the allergens produced by this beautiful grain. It took everything in me to resist scratching my throat in public. How do you explain to a class of teenagers that their teacher isn’t really hacking up a giant hairball?

The turning point was when I couldn’t sleep through the night.  Burning urges to ream out my scratchy throat defied even the most pleasant dreams. Midnight bouts of violent coughing disturbed not only human household occupants but also our pets. I finally caved. I had to have the injection.

I don’t know why I waited so long to call the doctor. Within four hours of receiving an almost painless jab, I was a new woman. The sneezing and coughing reduced to almost nothing. My skin felt like new flesh, and the urge to make porcine sounds vanished.

One little poke with a sharp needle and I don’t mind driving past field after field of reddish orange grain. Heck, I might even volunteer to join a harvest crew and get right In the middle of my fall nemesis.  

Travel before Modern Technology

Before my students read a section of Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca’s travel journal about his exploration of Texas, I had them write directions from their house to a nearby destination. It sounded like a simple assignment until I add these qualifiers. They couldn’t use man-made landmarks or addresses in their instructions, nor could they use vehicles or GPS systems. They were limited to foot travel, and they needed to depend on the sun and stars for directions.

                Once I limited their options, the noise level in class increased exponentially. “How can we give directions without addresses or things like elevators, highways, railroad tracks, and bridges?” The next question was, “How can we travel without a GPS?”

                “Hmmm, how can you? What do you have to use?” I asked.

                After a great deal of hemming, hawing, and investigating Google Maps and Google Earth to see what natural features might direct a traveler to the writer’s objective, these budding explorers set to work detailing how a visitor unfamiliar with this area might get from point A to point B with the least amount of difficulty. 

                When they shared their products with the rest of their classmates, we recognized the best instructions involved specific directions that often referenced the rising and setting of the sun or the location of the North Star. Another writing strength was the use of geometric terminology such as “Walk parallel to Middle Creek for so many feet or miles until you get to the big cottonwood tree, where you will make a perpendicular turn to the west.” Some students established guidelines such as walk at a steady pace for an hour. This certainly provided an estimate to guide others, and it gave me an idea of who had actually traveled such a route at some point in time.

                This was a difficult assignment with the objective of showing students how difficult it must have been when the first explorers journaled about their discoveries in this country. After we read the short de Vaca passage in our lit book, we realized our narrator wasn’t only unfamiliar with the landscape, its vegetation, beasts, or its human inhabitants. He or the translator wasn’t very good with using pronouns either. This made it difficult for us to know whom or what the author was referring to on his expedition across what is now called West Texas. During the time he describes, this place didn’t have a name recognized by Europeans. It was simply described as a land of little water and food. Because of his confusing pronoun references, it’s difficult to identify individuals or cultures he refers to during this exploration. 

                This task offered a peek at one obstacle newcomers faced before section lines and roads divided our nation into an easily navigable grid. After completing our directions, my students and I realized that highways and technology make travel easier. I think we all have more respect for folks who entered uncharted territory and tried to explain to others how to follow. It also makes me appreciate KDOT and their efforts to guide travelers safely to their destinations.

Passing the Candy Bag to the Next Generation

Our daughter sent us a picture of our granddaughter dressed up as a pretty princess for her first trick or treat outing. Our kids waited until their daughter was almost four to let her join the ranks of smiling goblins knocking on doors in search of goodies on Halloween night, and it’s clear this cutie pie enjoyed her adventure. Her smile radiating above her flowing white dress switched on a deluge of happy memories from my brother’s and my years as beggars who also loved this holiday.

As a fan of “The Rifleman,” “Gun Smoke,” and “Combat,” my brother often costumed himself as either a cowboy or a soldier. He had the necessary plastic rifles and pistols along with hats, vests, and bandanas in his toy box. If he was tired of the old West, he had an equally fine collection of imitation WW II armament that he and dad used to aid actors on the TV show “Combat” during their firefights. At every commercial break, father and son chased Nazis down our hallway and out of closets. For Halloween, Kent could smudge his face with black and be ready to defend the neighborhood outside our front door as well.

During regular playtime in our yard, the tomboy side of me joined the boys in their shoot ‘em up western and army games. However, for Halloween, I didn’t want to be Festus to my little brother’s Matt Dillon. Some years I wanted to be a pretty spook so mom would let me sort through her flowing skirts, rope necklaces, bangle bracelets, and glittery earrings until I’d assembled a costume that would make a Roma princess green with envy. This was one of the few times she’d let me wear her eye shadow, lipstick, and rouge, which might explain why I often chose this costume.

As much as I loved to glide down a dark sidewalk in full gypsy array with my mother’s necklaces and bracelets clinking rhythmically against one another at each step, some years I dressed up as a sad- faced hobo. In the early 60s, folks still talked about men who’d ridden the rails during The Great Depression. Apparently, I found this notion romantic. I’d slide into mom’s too big britches, tie a piece of rope around my waist to hold her pants up, and wear one of dad’s huge shirts with tails that nearly reached the sidewalk. Some years, mom would draw a dark beard on my face with her eyebrow brush and once, she applied coffee grounds to my cheeks so it looked like I had scruffy whiskers. Top that with one of dad’s old felt hats, and a pig-tailed blonde became Freddie the Freeloader.

Halloween was a heady day for two youngsters who rarely roamed the neighborhood freely. We’d lug our brown paper sacks from one lighted doorway to another, knocking and chanting the requisite Trick or Treat. If we were lucky, a local mom handed out homemade popcorn balls. If we were unlucky, the grocery store had a sale on saltwater taffy just before the big night and the neighbors stocked up on my least favorite candy.

Times have changed considerably since my brother and I were trick or treaters. Despite the passage of time, the look on our granddaughter’s face in her first Halloween photo tells me that she has discovered how much fun it is to be a goblin one night a year.