Amarillo Had a Snowstorm

Hubby brought to my attention today that Amarillo had a blizzard this week-end. The snowstorm brought more than 10 inches of snow to parts of the Texas panhandle.
You can see a slide show of the snow storm at the newspaper website.

This brought some memories of how I got to Amarillo to begin my teaching career in the first place. I was fresh out of the University of Texas with a life-time teaching credential and a bachelor’s degree in Education with a major in English and minor in Spanish.

The education recruiters who came to Austin that summer of 1962 were looking for native speakers to teach foreign languages. I don’t remember going to too many interviews, but I had narrowed my choices to either Deer Park of Dallas or Amarillo, way up north in the Texas panhandle.

Somehow the Amarillo job sounded more exotic since it was so far from home. In the months before going to Amarillo I had to buy a car and find my way to that far off city. The farthest north I had driven was San Antonio. I had driven to Laredo and even to Monterrey, Mexico, but I was going to drive into unknown territory. That sounded both scary and exciting to this sheltered, naïve girl.

I knew that Tío Miguel had been to northern Texas, so I asked his advice on how to get to Amarillo. He gave me some instructions, although I do not remember just what he said. Mom was to be my navigator and little brother was along to give moral support.

I guess we had a map of Texas with us, but I mainly remembered the sequence of towns we were to cross on the way to Amarillo. I don’t remember the number designations of the highways where we traveled. I remember that most of the towns had directional signs to either the next town or toward a larger city. I mainly guided myself by watching for those signs. My mom was not the best navigator (I can say that now that she is no longer here to deny it).

At that time the highways were mainly two lanes. The lanes were divided by a single white line, but sometimes there was also the yellow line. The yellow line was sometimes solid, sometimes broken and sometimes on one side of the white line and other times on the other side of the white line. I quickly figured out that the yellow line was to guide the driver when it was safe to pass, especially in the hill country.

It took us pretty much the whole day to get to Amarillo. We had packed food, and stopped only to get gas and the potty stops were only at gas stations in those days. There were no fast food places yet, and no rest areas--how did we do it, then?

When we got to Amarillo we went to the school district office, and the school secretary helped us find a place to stay. It was a small rental apartment in the back of a house in the north side of town. All three of us slept there for a couple of nights. While Mom and brother were still with me we found the local Woolworth and bought a couple of plates, forks, spoons, and I don’t remember what else. I might have even bought a skillet or pan.

Then it was time for them to leave. I drove Mom and brother to the Greyhound (or was it Trailways?) bus station. I stayed there until it was time for their bus to depart for Robstown. That’s when it really hit me! I was alone in a strange city, starting a position I was not experienced with, and I had to rely on no one but me!

I watched the bus pulling out of the depot and waved at my kid brother who was sitting by the window. I was trying to control my emotion of the moment, but when I saw my eight-year old brother crying as he waved good-bye, I began to cry, too. I walked to my car, sat there, and, knowing there was no reason for inhibition, just bawled out loud.

I did not stay in that apartment that was behind a house. When we had our teacher orientation the next day, the French teacher and I decided we should share rent on an apartment. When I went to pick up my things at the first apartment, I paid the lady for the couple of nights and settled for my teaching assignment at Tascosa High School. I think she might have asked for $10 for both nights.

And that brings me back to the snowstorm in Amarillo. Four or five months after the school year began I experienced my first snow. I recall the morning after we'd had a snowfall in the evening. I went from window to window to window in our small apartment. I was in awe of the beauty of that white blanket. It was a joyful new experience for me. Yes, this year was when I experienced a lot of firsts. Snow was just one.

Wildflowers

I was back in the garden pulling weeds today. I do not have exotic plants, but rather like the plants that can tolerate abuse. Maybe that is why I like the roses, geraniums, nasturtiums and others that I can rely on not to die if I leave for several weeks on vacation.

But I got to thinking about some of the weeds that are beautiful.

Living in California, we celebrate the California poppy. About thirty years ago we took a weekend trip north of Los Angeles just to view the hills that were orange. Although it was springtime the day turned cloudy, cold and windy. The children were great troopers, though, posing amid the poppies. The flowers were not opened because they only open for the sun. But the smiles on the faces of son and daughter were enough sunshine for me!



When I was in high school in Robstown (more than 50 years ago!), a small group of us took a field trip to San Antonio with our sponsor, Mr. Porter. The club was called something like the Junior Historians. We toured the missions and museums and took photos. Only three of us students went, so we all rode in Mr. Porter's car. The first photo was taken at the San Fernando Mission and I am the one with a pony tail; Celia and Ellen are the other two. The second picture was taken at some museum and shows Ellen Celia and Mr. Porter.

There was no I-37 at the time, so the street that took us out of town toward Robstown was South Presa Street. We were almost out of the city limits when we sighted a field of beautiful wildflowers. The wildflowers were right by the side of the road. I guess some of the flowers must have been bluebonnets, but I remember other colors, too. We stopped and all of us picked flowers, including Mr. Porter. I gave my flowers to Mom, of course. Later I thought how sweet that Mr. Porter had joined the students in gathering flowers for his loved one.

The photo below is of a bluebonnet field, but not the field of more than fifty years ago.

 

Going further back in my memory bank, the earliest wildflower I remember is the Mexican primrose. My abuelas called them amapolas. When I was in Robstown last month, I chanced to go by the house where my grandmother lived. My dad’s house (our house) was in the lot where that old house is barely standing. But, those lots were deep and as a kid I used to run in that backyard and enjoy climbing trees. Around this time of year there were always amapolas that grew way back in the yard, far from the house and far from any water source other than rain.

 

Mexican Primrose

To this day one of my favorite songs is Amapola. I remember Mom casually singing that song. Today, I especially like the rendition by Andrea Bocelli, but Placido Domingo does it great justice, too.

My Special Olympian Bowler

Just to add our two cents to Obama’s off-the-cuff remark on Jay Leno’s TV show. None in our family were offended. To look on the positive side of his remark, he has brought attention to one of the hardest working group in our population.

Yesterday, son bowled with his regular Saturday morning league of Special Olympians. His scores were consistent with his average. Not too shabby.

He has been bowling since he was about 10 years old, and bowling is something he truly enjoys. He never liked team sports. Because of his height and slender built people thought he would be perfect for basketball, but he did not like the idea that people were trying to take the ball away from each other—that’s not very nice. On the court, he would prefer someone else had the ball instead of him.

Son was also good, but not outstanding in track when he was in school. He was better at long distance rather than sprints. When he was very young (about six or seven), he thought it was nice to let others go ahead of him, and if someone else might stumble, he felt better to assist him instead of getting to the finish line first.

But bowling has been his sport of choice. He is in a class by himself, and it does not matter to him what the others score. He is able to follow instructions from his favorite coach, his dad! What is amazing is that son is a better bowler than dad. A case of do as I say, not as I do?

Next is a series of photos taken around 1977 or 78. It was probably the first time that Maxwell School participated in Special Olympics bowling.


Notice that the children were started by swinging the ball between their legs to maintain better balance before releasing the bowling ball.

This last photo shows that he was quite pleased with his effort.

The Special Olympics creed after all is:

“Please help me win, but if I cannot, let me be brave in the attempt.”

I Broke a Fingernail!

I broke a fingernail working in the garden. I always start out wearing my Martha Stewart garden gloves, but it's not long that I will remove at least one of the gloves. I not only get to really pull on the weeds, but I manage to get dirty hands and fingernails. I wear one of my late father's long-sleeved shirts, but sometimes still manage to get my arms scratched from the tree branches or the bougainvilleas.

 

  

 

This time of year is the best of times and the worst of times (to plagiarize Dickens) in my garden. It is the best because the rose bushes have come back after getting a severe pruning in January; the nasturtiums faithfully return without much attention; and most of the almond tree blossoms have fallen and the crop looks promising.


It is the worst of time because my eyes itch and water; my nose gets drippy; and Benadryl makes me sleepy. I think I will try some other allergy remedy. Today’s paper had coupons for both Zyrtec and Benadryl. I might give Zyrtec a chance.


Getting back to my fingernail, though, reminded of being told not to trim my nails on Sunday. I don’t remember what the dire consequences would be, but Mom and grandmas stuck by the custom. I think something embarrassing might occur if we committed the sin of trimming our nails!


That got me to thinking of another “don’t” that I remember hearing, “En martes no te cases ni te embarques.” --telling one not to marry or to embark on a Tuesday. The embark part is somewhat ambiguous, but it was usually meant not to start a trip, but it can also mean not to begin a business or some enterprise. So I guess if one can’t get going on Monday, one has to wait until Wednesday?


I remember being told that if I had to scratch one of my hands, it was better to have the itch on the left hand. That meant that I was to come into some money. But, if I had to scratch my right hand that meant that I was going to be shaking someone’s hand. How long I would have to wait for the money or the shaking of hands was never divulged, and I never bothered to ask—just like I never questioned why I could not trim my nails on a Sunday. However, I have already trimmed the rest of my fingernails--too much of the garden dirt under them!

Signs in the Rest Rooms

 

 

The “Decency” sign was discovered in a Chinese Restaurant in Garden Grove, CA.

The “Please Flush” sign was found in a Clubhouse of a Senior Apartment Complex in Azusa, CA.

I thought they were both humorous, but those signs brought back memories (though now a little hazy) of my two European tours.

My first tour of Europe was with Hubby in the summer of 1966. We had wed June 1965, went back to teach one more year at Tascosa High School, Amarillo, TX. I was a member of an organization of Teachers of Spanish and Portuguese. The organization and some University in Spain sponsored a 9-week course in Madrid. The course was optional, but we could take advantage of the charter plane. So the trip was sort of a honeymoon for us. We toured Europe on a shoestring. We were young and healthy and could walk long distances, climb stairs to the top of domes, sleep on the train, etc.

Fast forward to January 1998 and Daughter and I went to Europe for about 5 or 6 weeks. She was between finishing school and finding a job. I discovered I could not walk as far, climb as many steps, and I preferred sleeping on a clean, warm hotel bed. But the tour was a great adventure nonetheless.

On the second tour, I was also more picky on the bathroom facilities, especially those found in public places such as the train stations and restaurants. Even some of the older accommodations in Barcelona, Florence and other cities could have been brought to higher standards. Daughter and I began to joke and take notice of some of the signs found in some rest room facilities. I don’t remember specific wordings on the signs, but our lodging in Valencia, Spain was a place that had signs plastered on the bedroom walls as well as the rest room walls. Most of the signs had instructions or directions of things NOT to do. We thought the experience was very funny.


I feel very fortunate to have done that traveling--sweet memories of experiences with very dear ones.