"Love is not just a spoken word" by Noemi S Rabina

This was submitted as a Valentine's story -- I have been negligent in waiting so long to publish it. But, when you think about it, any day is a good day to be thinking about love. ~ Bonnie

Coming from a meeting one beautiful Thursday morning, as I drove along Downey ave. I was annalyzing the message that I heard from the speaker about love. She based her message on I Corinthians 13. What struck me most were the passages that says, "(V4) Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. (V5) It is not rude, it is not self seeking. It is not easily provoked, it keeps no record of wrong doings. (6) Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. (7) It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

God's love is always directed toward others, not towards ourselves. It is possible to practice this kind of love, giving love to others and expecting nothing in return. We can give without loving, but we can not love without giving.

I thought of my sister living not too far from me. We have not talked nor have seen each other for a long time. Both of us were busy doing our own activities. While I was on the road, I saw the newly built bakery shop on Downey Ave. I stopped to get some pastries for my sister to surprise her with a love gift since Valentine’s Day was around the corner. I called her up and said that I will just pass by on the way to my Memoir Writing Class. She invited me in but I just stood by the door for they have a big watch dog inside. The dog loves me so much that it will leap on me and sit on my lap. Not this time when I have to go to my class.

Since then, my sister and I have talked more often, putting aside small petty disagreements. Another sister of mine lives across the ocean and I also love her. I always remember her with gifts from the heart. God made us sisters and all that God has created are good. It is better to build bridges than putting a fence between friends, relatives, and especially, sisters.

Valentine's Day Memories, by Bonnie Mansell

On Valentine’s Day Steve and I drove down to Balboa to have dinner at BJ’s. We parked on Park Avenue, next to the alley that runs behind the old Island Rooms Motel, where I used to stay as a child with my mom, her sisters, and Grandma & Grandpa, along with all the cousins.

Steve and I walked down that well-lit alley and I showed him the tiny house in the back that we used to rent. Tiny as it was, we only rented half of it. I can hardly believe how many people we got into that little space.

We walked down to the ferry and rode it across the bay to the peninsula. We were the only pedestrians on the ferry on this calm cold night - a contrast to the bustling crowds drawn to this spot in the long, warm evenings of spring and summer.

The quiet atmosphere and clear sky encouraged both romance and nostalgia. We reminisced about crossing on the ferry with our children when they were little, about my own childhood memories of that same crossing, and about my parents as they enjoyed grandparenting our children.

The ferris wheel was turning, but only a few brave souls were riding it on this windy night. We were not even tempted. As we walked through the fun zone, we remembered my mom riding the merry-go-round and ferris wheel with our kids, while my dad watched. We passed the bakery and I remembered the doughnut holes that Grandpa used to buy for us.

When we got to BJ’s we found to our relief that it wasn’t crowded. This was the BJ’s where we took the kids to celebrate their birthdays, so our memories were filled with the chaotic joy of those days. We used to sit in a booth, crowding in as many people as possible and putting high chairs at the end.

It was here that my mom showed the kids how to tear off one end of a straw wrapper, blow through the straw, and “shoot” the wrapper across the table at each other. She also showed them how to scrunch the wrapper, accordion style, into a teeny ball, drop small amounts of water on it from the straw, and watch it “grow” and wriggle like a worm.

After dinner, we took the ferry back to the island. We walked around the island before going back to the car, another tradition full of memories. I could see that Steve’s hip was hurting, but this is part of the way he gives himself to me. He knows how much I love walking, so he walks with me, even though it hurts.

As we walked, we talked of simple pleasures – Balboa Bars, kids walking on the retaining wall, the changes that time brings. I am grateful for places like this in my life – places I couldn’t afford to live, yet completely accessible for pleasant evening walks, places of beauty and wonder, where the memories are free.

IN THE DARK ON DR. KING'S DAY by Kacie Cooper

On Disneyland commercials on TV I would often hear the "Happy Birthday" song. They were singing to Goofy's birthday I think. Yet it wasn't till this morning as I was watching the Tavis Smiley show that I learned that Stevie Wonder actually wrote it for Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday. Why am I always the last to find out these things? Is it just me? Maybe it's a matter of being at the right place at the right time.

Growing up in Southern California in the 60’s I was never aware of all the injustices going on in the world. Was it my young age? My location? The Anglo leaders in my life? I'm not sure, but I hope to make a difference in my "One and Only Granddaughter" Tiana's life.

In school I never learned what the African-American went through with horrible hatred and lynchings. Never heard about the discrimination the Mexican-American went through. No clue to what the Native-American suffered or how the Japanese-American felt being hauled off to internment camps. Nothing was said to me about what the Jewish people being gassed must have felt during the holocaust. Perhaps if I had known then, I might have died from the fright of it all. My heart, at this age, dies a little each time I read about it.

I just finished Anne Moody's book "Coming of Age in Mississippi" and I still can't believe "man's inhumanity to man." While I wish I had known the truth years ago, I want to educate my Granddaughter on the history so that she will know. . . now. She is of English, Irish, Welsh, German, Mexican, Native and African-American descent.

It is not good being in the dark. Dreams come true with our eyes open. Dr. Martin Luther King's life was dedicated to the dream that he had for the future: that children and adults of all races, creed and religions would live together in harmony. He gave his life for that dream and it will stay reality if we don't live in darkness. Dreams come true with our eyes open.

Stevie wrote that birthday song for Dr. King's birthday. We celebrated it just a few days ago. But I believe we should celebrate it every day in the way we live our lives....

Christmas, 2010 -- by Peggy Knorr

Christmas was different for me this year. 

 

I was surrounded by a multitude of wonderful friends, both in physical and spiritual form, who gave me of their limitless love and caring while Joe, my husband of just under 65 years, began his final journey into the great beyond.  

From his 95th birthday on December 13th, to Christmas Eve, when he slipped peacefully away, I was comforted and supported by their great and bountiful caring. 

Especially, I hold my undying gratitude to Michelle, my beautiful neighbor, who was constantly present in every aspect of this difficult time. From every turn this drama took as it unfolded, from the decision making times, the exasperating times, the physical strength-needing times, the spiritual wisdom-needing times, to the inevitable comical times, and her willingness to be available at any hour of day or night with her undivided, support, I am awed and eternally thankful. Because of her it was possible to have this hallowed experience at home where we all wanted it to be.

For all my friends and family, known or unknown, I send this message of love and appreciation.

The Rose Parade, by Evelyn Watson

Parades were never much of a big deal for me, even the world famous Rose Parade on New Year’s Day didn’t much thrill me, except it was special time with my dad. Dad loved the Rose parade and looked forward to it each year.

Just he and I went; mother wasn’t really able to endure the long day of standing and, like me, I don’t think she relished parades much either. She never said that, but I never got the impression she felt she was missing anything by not being able to go.

We never sat in bleachers or camped out on the streets as is done today. In fact we didn’t leave the house until about time for the parade to start. We didn’t pack a lunch or take anything with us except dad’s camera and film.

I don’t remember any of the details of where we parked or where we were positioned to watch the parade, but we never had any traffic or parking difficulties. We heard and saw everything without difficulty being able to view the floats and bands up close as they passed by.

Dad was in his glory and took lots of pictures with his slide camera delighting in showing slides to family and friends afterward. I’m sure they had all watched the parade on television and seen the floats, but dad enjoyed this tradition and no one ever refused looking at them.

After all these years I still have those slides. Dad was so proud to show his slides and brag about going to the parade without the hassle of traffic or parking problems. How we did that I can’t imagine and the fact that we never had anyone ask to go with us seems strange because it seems everybody is thrilled by the Rose parade except me.

I don’t bother to watch the parade on New Year’s Day. To me it is boring. That is not to say the floats aren’t beautiful and clever, because they are. You marvel as to how they were able to create them.

A few years ago we went with friends a day or two after the parade to where the floats are taken for viewing. I was not happy being charged to view them and as beautiful as they were I grew bored and tired before we finished.

But I’ll never forget dad’s love for the Rose parade. It was probably the thing he looked forward to the most.

New Year Celebration in the Philippines, by Noemi S. Rabina

For a few days before the New Year lots of sidewalk vendors will be selling different kinds of fire crackers. There is a ban on them due to accidents that have resulted in the loss of lives, limbs, or properties; still many people delight in following the traditional way of greeting the New Year. With the introduction of aerial fireworks in modern times, it became an art form. They are displayed in places where the people can safely see and enjoy.

December 31 is usually not a public holiday but most people are given the day off so that they can prepare for the New Year's Eve celebration. It is a busy day for all families preparing the food for "media noche," the midnight dinner. People are rushing to buy firecrackers.

The children have a good time blowing their toy trumpets, called "torotot." They enjoy their "watusi," a kind of small firecracker that, when rubbed on a rough surface and released, crackles into a little spark work dance.

There are some beliefs and practices that are believed to bring good luck, fortune and prosperity in the New Year:

·         The noise of the firecrackers is said to drive away the evil spirits.

·         Putting coins and money in the pockets will make the next year prosperous.

·         In the same way, wearing polka dot shirts or dresses symbolizes money.

·         Opening windows and doors, and turning lights on will make all the graces come into the house as the New Year is welcomed.

·         Some people pay off their bills at the end of the year in the hope that they will be debt free in the coming year.

·         Most people go to church before midnight to thank the Lord for all His blessings.

At the strike of 12:00 midnight, the noise becomes very loud. Fire crackers rule the sky; church bells ring; old pots and pans are clanging in homes; radios are turned on full blast as happy people sing the "Auld Lang Syne."

Blowing of cars' horns and ambulance sirens will last for full one minute. The loud noises and sounds of merry making are supposed to drive the bad spirits away. Children have to jump 12 times so that they will get taller the next year. 

When the noise stops, the air is filled with people's voices. The family starts to eat the thanksgiving feast. It is also believed that when much food is on the table, there will be sufficient food the year round. 

Some can afford to have a whole roasted pig, called "lechon" on the table. That is one Filipino delicacy. There could also be ham and homemade native cakes.  Twelve round fruits of different kinds must be on the table to signify 12 months of prosperity.

These are traditions that the Pilipino people carry along where ever they may be as they welcome the New Year. 

Memorial Christmas Trees for Mom and Dad, by Charlene Farnsworth

My best friend, my dear mother, passed away in November 1998 at the age of 85.  This was a particularly difficult time as it was the week of Thanksgiving. 

With my significant loss, particularly at the holidays, I needed an extra push to accomplish the usual “much-to-do.”  To ease my loss and better my motivation, I decided to decorate a Christmas tree that would be a dedicated memorial to Mom.

I felt the most appropriate decorations for Mom’s tree would be hearts.  In my craft supply, I already had a variety of dainty doily hearts in red, white and gold.  There were many family members and friends who had comforted my Dad, brother Jim and me in our loss through beautiful flowers and plants and lovely cards and notes of sympathy. 

How could I use the doily hearts to acknowledge the thoughtfulness of so many?  With my own heart filled with love, it was easy to answer that question.  I went about decorating the hearts with various Christmas seals - candy canes, wreaths, snowflakes, etc. 

Added to each heart, in script, was the name of a person, family or couple who had lovingly remembered Mom and acknowledged our loss.  Fortunately, I took a picture of Mom’s unique Christmas tree to capture forever her special remembrance.

Two years later, in October 2000, our Dad passed away at the age of 88.  Again, Jim and I received a significant outpouring of kindness and sympathy from other family members and friends. 

Dad, of course, must have his own memorial Christmas tree in his honor.  Mom and I had learned how to make envelopes of various sizes when we were struggling with the art of origami.  That was the inspiration for Dad’s tree. 

I made colorful miniature envelopes of like size with a facsimile thank-you note peeking out from the top of each envelope.  These brief notes were typed in script and acknowledged each family member or friend’s personal contribution in offering comfort.  I had the good fortune to also photograph Dad’s memorial Christmas tree to reflect upon for years to come.

Although few of the people who were identified on the hearts and envelopes that decorated Mom’s and Dad’s memorial trees were present during the Christmas holidays, those who were present enjoyed the enchanting effects.  Personally, it was an immense comfort to honor and pay tribute to our parents who were no longer with us during the holiday season.

The Christmas Treasure, by Annette Skarin

I stood in the middle of the second floor of the mall known as the Galleria. I was overflowing with joy as I clutched my purse with the sixty dollar Christmas bonus we had quite unexpectedly been blessed with that year. I was a single mother once again, but this time with three children instead of one.

The shoppers swarmed around me – many of them with lemony looks on their faces and empty glazed eyes. Occasionally someone would smile and say “Merry Christmas”, which would brighten my spirit and charge me with the energy of the season as I cheerily returned the greeting. Christmas tunes were dancing in the air and all the shop windows were dressed up and alluring.

I had been so poor in the previous years that I hadn’t been able to afford presents for Christmas. I already knew in my heart the special gift I wanted to purchase each one of my children. A special VHS tape (remember those) that had just been released showing shots of whales and dolphins underwater for my son. A pair of pretty earrings with turquoise stones for my oldest daughter. And last, but not least, a photo album for my youngest daughter.

I was pleased with my selection and had a little money left over, so I stopped at the candy store to get a few of my favorite jelly-belly jelly beans (my favorite was popcorn). I set my purchases down next to me and weighed out and purchased my treats and then quickly left the crowded store.

It only took a few minutes before I realized my bags were no longer with me. I hurried back to the candy store and saw the now empty spot glaring at me. I asked the person behind the counter if they had seen a bag or if anyone had turned one in. She said, “No, I’m sorry.”

I left the store in a panic and backtracked to every store I had been to. Every answer was, “No, I’m sorry” until someone suggested I report it to mall security. Numbly I found my way to the security booth; by then tears were beginning to form. I told my story between sobs and garbled speech. They tried to keep me calm while they called security personnel on their walkie-talkies but they all came back with the same answer. Sorry!

My heart sank and I wanted to scream out, why? I finally went home and lay there bawling uncontrollably. Our Christmas was ruined.

My children had been at school but when they arrived home they asked me, “What’s wrong Mom?” I told them what had happened and all of them said almost in chorus, “It doesn’t matter Mom, as long as we have each other.”

I have never forgotten that lesson. I am blessed to have such loving children.

* * * * * 

For more stories from Annette, please check her blog:  Annette's Blog

A Christmas Story, by Gloria Hannigan

T’was the week before Christmas

and all through Memoir class,

Not a person was missing, nary a lass.

The seniors were nestled snug in their seat

Waiting for the teacher, Bonnie, to greet.

When all through the classroom murmurs did sound,

Through the open doorway Bonnie did bound.

She opened her briefcase with a practiced ease,

Turned to us all and said,” Quiet, please.”

We went right to work our stories to read;

We laughed and we cried whatever the need.

Then promptly at the hour of three

A festive Christmas feast we did see.

We arose from our chairs to eat our fill,

Secretly hoarding that antacid pill.

On Mina, On Judy, Randy, Kasey and all

Come Evelyn, Margaret, Dora don’t stall

It’s time for this tale to come to a close

So from her chair, Bonnie arose.

We heard her exclaim as she drove out of sight

“Merry Christmas to all, and remember to write.”



For more of Gloria's fun, please visit:  Gloria's Blog:

For Display Only, By Yolanda Adele

I was five years old the Christmas that my mother promised to take me to see Santa at the big store downtown. She said that all I had to do was to be patient while we first stopped at the appliance department.

As soon as we got off the streetcar I could feel and smell the fresh mist in the air, mingled with the scent of cinnamon churros, my favorite fried sweet bread sticks, coming from the vender’s cart. I didn’t dare ask Mama to buy one for me because today I was going to try to be on my very best behavior.

The multi- colored Christmas lights from the decorated street lamps reflected in small puddles of rain water. It looked magical to me.

As the sales person talked, talked, and talked some more, I could hear the sounds of laughter and Jingle-Bells coming from the main lobby where I was sure that Santa was sitting, waiting for me!

I quickly grew impatient. I made many trips to the drinking fountain. Mom was so enveloped by the prospect of owning a new wringer washing machine that she turned a deaf ear to my pleas and demands. I had to go "potty!" I was afraid if I had an "accident" Mama would have to take me home WITHOUT seeing Santa.

Minutes later an irate salesman approached my mother and asked in a loud voice, "Is that your child on the floor model commode?" He didn’t give Mama a chance to answer. “If so, remove her at once, and explain to her that that latrine is for display, ONLY! We have sanitation laws you know!" With that he handed my red-face mother a box of tissues.

That day I learned: what “displays only” are not for. I finally got to see Santa in person -- on my sixth Christmas.

My Thanksgiving Flower, by Margaret (Peggy) Knorr

Today my husband brought me in a single flower from the profusely blooming camellia bush in our garden. Let me explain why that to me was such a momentous experience.

Joe, at almost 95, is in the netherworld of dementia. He pretty much lives wrapped up in himself and his own immediate needs and affairs, most of which are off balance with what we perceive as reality. His idea of thankfulness has never been very present in his psychological makeup, and at present he seems to have little or no awareness of the extent of the loving care and attention he is receiving. He is angry in moments when he realizes his entrapment and then his moods usually turn to helpless and hopelessness, but in between times his underlying sweetness often comes into play changing his behavior for a little while into child-like living.

Today, while he was wandering around the garden, he must have been awestruck when he came upon this glorious bush, covered with brilliant pink flowers. I would have loved to have heard his inner conversation. Was he drawn to the innocence of the blossoms, something like he himself, blooming for no apparent reason, or did he just have a sudden urge to pick one and bring it in to give to me? I wonder what tickled the remnants of his mind that prompted him to break a single branch and come inside the house, saying simply "I have brought you a flower. It's for you."

This may not be so full of wonder had he ever given me flowers before! He never had! He was just not that sort of a person. This was the first flower he had ever given me in all the 64 years of our marriage! My treasured thanksgiving flower speaks testaments of love and faith and thankfulness.

I wonder if he had caught the Thanksgiving energy that is circulating in our hearts at this season. Had it automatically seeped into his psyche? It sometimes seems to me that demented minds have keener sensibilities in different dimensions than those we ordinarily have. To me, that calls for us to dwell on lofty ideals. To do that has awesome power to work for good.

A post script, added at a later date:

Since writing about this happening, which lit Joe's mind with thankfulness and lifted my spirits so much, his recall of it became engulfed into the dark caverns of his unconsciousness to become yet another forever lost memory. It is now locked inside Joe's ever diminishing capacity of remembering....a sweet thing living where all the other orphaned memories reside. They call to me fervently to recreate them once again. My answer is that thankful deeds of kindness can never be forgotten. I tell them that my pen is the sacred instrument through which they shall live again.

Giving Thanks, by Gloria Hannigan

I am thankful for –

Time to remember the past

Health of body and spirit

Acts of kindness received

Nature’s colors revealed

Knowledge gained through living

Smiles shared with strangers

Generous spurts of humor

Intelligence still growing

Variety in friendships

Imagination in abundance

New days ever dawning

Gifts of shared laughter

For more of Gloria's stories, please visit: Gloria's Blog

Thanksgiving with God, By Yolanda Adele

It was 1991. Getting together with the family for Thanksgiving Dinner was not something that I was looking forward to, having lost my father, whom we called Popi, just two months earlier. Yet I felt an obligation to my mother and the rest of the family to be there to help alleviate the obvious void that was left in my parent’s home.

On holidays before my dad died the house and neighborhood had been filled with the sounds of Mexican music blasting from dad’s reel-to-reel tape-recorder. That tape recorder could play non-stop for 24 hours and sometimes did, often times to the annoyance of the neighbors, and always to the frustration of my mother, who was hard of hearing. I could hear it the minute that I turned on to their block in Huntington Park, though their house was almost at the end of the street.

Popi enjoyed having lots of activity around him, especially since my eldest daughter Yvette made him a great-grandfather, first with Jaime, born in 1986, then with Brandon who was born in 1990.

It amazed me to watch Popi interact with his great-grandchildren in a way that he never could with his own children. I came to realize that both grandparenting and great-grandparenting were God’s way of giving parents another chance to get the bonding thing right if they didn’t fare well the first time.

Jaime loved her Popi. The last time that she saw him alive she was five years old. She came with her parents to visit with Popi in his bedroom where he lay on a hospital bed. My mom called us to the kitchen to eat. I told Popi to rest and that we’d return in a bit.

After a while Jaime left the table. I got up to look for her. I went to the living room where her toys were spread out on the floor; she was not there. I checked in the bathroom; she was not there either.

I walked down the hall to my father’s bedroom. There I saw the sweetest sight. Jaime had somehow managed to squeeze through or climb over the hospital bed’s metal side guard and was lying on her side facing her Popi. They were both smiling at each other as Jaime gently stroked the top of his head.

Now the family gathered without any lively Mexican or any other kind of music playing. In fact the only sounds beside our voices were the harsh clattering of the dishes, and silverware. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this strained family gathering.

We held hands around the table and said grace. Then, with a voice like an angel, Jaime proclaimed, “Popi is so lucky. This is his first Thanksgiving with God.” Suddenly I felt all the bent up tension leave my body. A smoothing peace washed over me. Someone turned on the radio, filling the house with a joyful noise… then I knew Jaime was right.

Let's Be Thankful Every Day, by Barbara Sparks

Recently my son decided, after listening to the CD series by Anthony Robbins, that we should start our morning walks by saying things for which we are grateful.  It has been a wonderful activity for us. Though Thanksgiving is a time when we think of our blessings, it is important that we think of our blessings every day not, just one day a year.  

As Thanksgiving approaches, I think about how I celebrated Thanksgiving 12 years ago.  I went to the store to buy all the traditional items for a Thanksgiving meal.  All of my life my mother had cooked the Thanksgiving meal. However, since my mother passed away three days before Thanksgiving I was to prepare the meal for my cousins who flew in for her funeral, which was to take place on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  I, of course, said, “Don’t worry.  I’ll cook the meal.” Unfortunately. on Thanksgiving Day  no one was able to cook, so we all went to Hometown Buffet instead.

I remember what my mother said a week before she died.  She said, “Barbara you have to let me go.  God has blessed me with 80 years.”  In response, I said. “God has blessed me with you for 55 years.”  I think about that time and all the other times in my life when my mother had always found the bright side of difficult situations and made me remember that in all things to be grateful.  She was a continuous inspiration to me throughout my life. 

Since my mother is no longer here to celebrate Thanksgiving with me, I now have a new Thanksgiving tradition.   Every Thanksgiving my son and I travel to Olympia, Washington where I enjoy Thanksgiving with my uncle, three cousins and their children.  It is wonderful to share the holiday with family.  We enjoy a delicious feast that is cooked by my uncle, two of my cousins and my cousin’s daughter while we share family stories.   The house is filled with the aroma of turkey, dressing, green beans, mustard and collard greens, macaroni and cheese, sweet potato pie and the sounds of laughter and love. I am so grateful to be able to enjoy this time with them.

So as we approach this wonderful time of year let’s all think about our blessings which include family and friends. Each day, remember to celebrate life and the events that bring a smile to your face.

Happy Thanksgiving

Veteran's Day, 2005, by Charlotte Boquist

I salute you, the men and women who bought my freedom.  It is not possible to isolate one veteran.  The life I enjoy today is the result of two hundred and fifty plus years of determined and courageous protection by hundreds of thousands of men and women.  Many of whom paid dearly so that I can live the life I enjoy today.

I salute the handful of men who were on Bunker Hill and stood up to the English soldiers, and vicariously to King George, the most powerful ruler in the world at the time.

I salute the soldiers who fought for freedom, even when they were called to stand against their brothers in a conflict that nearly tore our country apart.

I salute the brave men who marched off to the “War to end All Wars”, and the many Johnnies who didn’t march back home again.  This terrible bloody conflict was ended on November 11, 1918 by the signing of an armistice.  For years, America celebrated Armistice Day, as a day to remember.

I salute the Veterans of World War II, the 1100 sailors that lie entombed on the “Arizona” in the waters of Pearl Harbor--and that was just the beginning,  the many, many lives lost on Omaha Beach and all over the world, and the service men wounded in body and spirit.

I salute the veterans of the Korean Police Action in which my husband served in the army--close behind that came Viet Nam when my son Paul put in his time.  Desert Storm next, my grandson Jeff was in the Coast Guard during that skirmish, and now Iraq.  There seems to be one for every generation.

 Somewhere along the way Armistice Day became Veterans Day--the day to remember ALL veterans who have kept us free and the Stars and Stripes flying.  Thank you, thank you all!!

Postscript added November 2010-

Still we are at war-now in Afghanistan.  And this year I have two Great-Grandsons in the service, Steven who is in the Air Force and Kelley in the Army.  Be safe!!

A Halloween Miracle, by Peggy Knorr

On receiving photos of my two out-of-state great-grand children, Logan and Kailey, in their Halloween costumes and hearing they would be wearing their finery in the school parade, I wondered if that event would be conducted in the same manner as it was in my daughter's (their Grandma's) childhood days, 56 years earlier. At that far off time, while the kids were excitedly hopping around showing off their fanciful apparel, the teachers were standing by, busily judging which costume was the "best."

Patsy, my daughter, was about 8 years old at the time, and we were living in East Los Angeles, (a very poor neighborhood.) She wanted to be "an old fashioned lady" so I shopped the Goodwill, and at very little expense, using my resourcefulness and skill, picked out likely pieces and sewed them into a nice little hooped skirted costume.

I had no idea that there was to be a judging of best costume. I was surprised and a little disturbed when I realized they were conducting the parade as a competition. One of my neighbors, afterwards, said Pat's costume clearly should have won first prize, which it didn't; even though it stood out from the circle of kids as a gem of color, it didn't even place! I have a feeling that the school thought I had purchased an expensive costume and that it was not fair competition against what the poor people of the neighborhood could afford. Actually, for the most part they were no more "poor" than we ourselves were!

I have always found competition in that sort of setting a little distasteful; a reward for work well done is one thing, but a prize for something to which the child probably had not contributed much, was another. I felt the concept of being judged "best" versus that of "never winning anything" often started lifelong patterns of negative character formation. I knew this from my own still remembered sensitive and vulnerable childhood feelings. How much better it would have been if the kids could have just partaken of the fun of an unusual event without any aspersions as to who "won" and who "didn't."

Pat's classroom teacher, though, told me how she had noticed a complete change in her posture when she arrived at school wearing her costume that morning. From a slumped, uninterested bearing, it had changed to one of poise and pride in herself. She was holding herself up tall, regally and proudly, actually becoming the imaginary personality which she was portraying.

I think that was a turning point for her in her feelings of self esteem and confidence which grew from then onwards. It didn't seem to matter to her that she hadn't won a prize, though in the end she did get one, but in a different form than any competition could have ever brought about. I am hoping Logan and Kailey will receive as much from their associations with costumes as their Grandma did those many years ago.