How Did I End Up at a G.L.C.? or "How to Choose a Lutheran College, Traditional Method #1" (J.L. Anderson's Scandinavian Humor)

All this talk about student loans finally affected me. For I realized that in my early-confused years as a Bachelor-ette of Arts, I didn’t have the burden of having to pay a student loan.
So, I woke up this morning actually feeling grateful.

I would have been a problem for any creditor, as I wasn’t so sure of teaching English. So on the whim of shooting for acting, I bounced about with not much recollection of high school shorthand, and typing that hadn’t been practiced much since then, and I took clerical jobs, quite a number of them.
But I’d heard from other friends that they had a heavy loan to pay off.

In high school, it had been common knowledge that I was bound for the University of Wisconsin. I was already the type. My daughter, as a teen, once asked me, “Mom, were you a normal teenager?” as if to say, “I’ll bet you weren’t”, which was true. I was pre-Bohemian. But I got religion at the fundamental level of understanding in my at the end of my junior year, so the brochures came in, and I started succumbing.

I got a book on Scandinavian Humor by John Louis Anderson, (Nordbook publications) which covered the issue of how kids end up at a good Lutheran college (i.e. G.L.C.). The author mentions that, “during the four years, you spend the time agonizing over why you are there. But there were 25 factors that may have made that happen. I could choose three of them:
#1. Your parents think it is a good idea and will pay for it.
#7. It is more than 150 miles from home. (One hairdresser remarked, it was “kind of out in the boondocks”.)
#19. You are a PK. (i.e. preacher’s kid, and might I add, BINGO!) While everybody expects a PK to act a little crazy, they also expect you to go to a Lutheran college and get yourself straightened out.
And, #25. You believe what your mother told you about teaching being a respected and secure line of work. (Ha!)

I would say that, with #19, the PK, the author elaborates on this as one of the 10 Lutheran college types. It certainly was that:
“an elaborate form of house arrest for errant younger members of the Lutheran theocracy.” (I will add that if you, as a PK, go there, you can pretty well bet you will STAY there.)
There, ‘theatrical excesses’ and ‘splashy rebellions’ are dealt with.
And of course you can’t predict what PK’s will become, anywhere from ‘exotic’ dancer to Lutheran ministry.”

Of course, I went back to teaching when I married, as they never called me when I left off my resume for switchboard operator. The necessary extra credits for teaching were inevitable, but eventually, my husband and I went out to Colorado, and that state insisted I get the extra credits without even being allowed to sub in the process. So, I called in desperation, to both his parents and my mother that we needed money for the out-of-state tuition. I threw in drama courses, as one of the schools I’d also considered before the G.L.C. fliers was the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York. And besides, I was paying a hefty amount of cash, so I should get all the credits I could. At last! : a normal college experience, where we both still looked young enough to party with the students. I got a scholarship for theater the following summer.

Upon returning home to the Midwest and having my daughter, there were still a few more credits to finish. So of course, I chose the practical route of theater, with the help of my mom (after a family meeting), who even voluntarily paid for theater improv cards. Another summer scholarship followed after I sponsored a practice teacher while teaching summer school speech.

All this was done without student loans, just nice people pitching in. Now, I wouldn’t recommend this way of doing things to others, any more than I would advise Hannity’s advocacy of rice, beef, and beans. It just fell that way.

Okay, so why was I at a G.L.C.? I think, because in high school, I admired an English teacher, a UW grad, who happened to be Jewish. Later at college, in a very deep crisis, I sought the help of a Lutheran Professor/Pastor, who I’ve figured out later, was very much like her. Perhaps, she taught me the “God Spell”, and he taught me the “Gospel”, in a whole new way…like “meeting Jesus AGAIN for the First Time”, and that “the Universe Bends toward Justice”. He was a friend/classmate of my brothers and also a UW grad.
And although my parents were conservatives, I got on the same Spiritual wavelength, and I’ve drawn on the metaphysical principles they taught, for a lifetime. My folks also kept working, so that I could continue going to school. And when my father passed, I became a "war orphan" and took a trip across the state to secure the tuition remainder from the Veterans Administration.

But I now know, you can appreciate your education, especially as a woman. My Aunt Nettie had wanted to go to school, but was needed at home on the farm. She’d only completed the sixth grade. She had a Zen wisdom about her, which later manifested in a grandchild, who invented a rare medical technique for repairing bones. My Aunt Selma was proud of her eighth grade diploma and put it up on her wall, while encouraging other family member that they MUST go to high school and college. (For more on this, see my link on "Crickets in the Field". Once there, access page 3.) My dad marveled at an elderly woman in our neighborhood, who’d completed college. He told me that in her era, it was highly unusual for a woman to do so.

I can’t say that being a kid’s drama teacher in fine arts schools made me a whole pile of money. Now that I’m a storyteller, who is a combo of volunteer and fly-by-night professional, that it does either.

But I’ve reconnected with good friends who were also at my G.L.C., and my life has been enriched. As a result of a liberal arts education and working in the public schools, I no longer think simplistically. It means as I’ve become politically aware, I’m not duped into thinking that racism, sexism, Tea-publicanism or any other kind of dangerous ism is acceptable.

Selma and Nettie would have been more than happy to go through high school (which I thought was a given) and even to proceed to a “cloister”, eventually to be introduced to the “world” in the form of big city theater, and later, regular state college theater education.

Realizing that, I no longer take my education for granted.

Plumber Phobia

There's a drip in the kitchen faucet, which Bill keeps trying to fix and re-fix. I can't say as I blame him. There's always the trauma of the plumber coming...
When I was a teen, the plumber came, whistling in our house as he worked, and then, gave me a sermon on being saved. I thought, as teens go, I was pretty saved.
The ones we got later, were political evangelists, one who was crestfallen that our candidate had won; the next "advised" me (with a smile) to vote for the guy who's now taxing teacher pensions. Update: 3/22/16, Ironically, on this governor's watch, a whole city's water and pipes became contaminated, which drew national attention.
Happens to others too. My in-law called his wife to warn he had a "Nazi" plumber in the house. Another friend, who's big on being saved, had a "Christian" plumber who eyed his "beverages" and told our friend he couldn't possibly be.
Apparently "plumbing school" also entails Bible school courses with equally simple politics.
But perhaps, it's just me who's traumatized.
Bill says he just wants to avoid paying the bill.

Garfield and Me

Although I've been more of a dog fancier, since I raised one from a pup, this cat is cool!

How I've spent my last three days, recovering.

How excited others are about my blog.

How Bill shouldn't tell me anything.

How the subbing part of my career was highly respected by students and others.

You see some cats evoke "MEMORIES"!

Christo-Pagan Holiday

It is the twelfth month, but December means ten. At the winter solstice, the sun is the most distant in the southern sky, creating the shortest day. So we create our own lights (once candles) and stand evergreens inside. Carolers sing to the Son, as they once did the sun. December 17th was the same date as the Roman Saturnalia. December 17-25, was called Yule, then, Christmas.
The mistletoe hung throughout Celtic Europe in December, a symbol of eternal life and an invitation for contact. Romans sent each other small wrapped gifts, and enjoyed cakes and wine.
In the 5th century A.D., the Christ child was introduced to counteract another feast, Mithras. The mass of Christ was introduced (i.e. Christmas). The Germans already celebrated with the Yule log ("wheel" of the sun). The Norse strung holly and evergreen for the goddess, Frey and the god, Odin.
By the middle ages, Christmas had become a festival of light, combining Pagan memories with the glories of the Christian faith, where commoners and royals alike envisioned one world.
Although the Puritans banned Christmas in America, immigrants restored it, including the German illuminated fir tree.
The real Santa Claus was Saint Nicholas of Bari. He was sorrowful, due to his compassionate concern for humankind, long, thin, elderly, generous, and caring. However, his legend grew. Saint Nick probably became linked with the all-father god, Odin. Odin rode through the skies on his eight-legged friend, Sleipner, and he was transformed into the kindly, night rider with flowing white beard.
Scandinavians continue to proudly put their "Julenisse" (Christmas gnomes, who bear some resemblance to Father Christmas' elven helpers) under their trees.
(paraphrased mostly from "The Dance of Time" by Michael Judge, as well as "Christmas this Year," by Booth Tarkington.)

OBITS, Andy Rooney Style

I’ve taken a look at the obits lately and, frankly, I get a little annoyed. The deceased are going to be with their Lord; they pass away peacefully; surrounded by their loving family.
These repetitive eulogies imply that others have no idea where they’re going; are glad to have done with it, so leave with great determination, after being surrounded by their dysfunctional family, (perhaps, hoping to make a better family choice next time).
So, I finally found a good one. A guy “passed from the world as we know it across the Rainbow Bridge (a little Scandinavian Mythology here) to be welcomed by his beloved Clyde and Puppy Boy, all of them restored to health and happiness to run and play once again together, welcomed also by his parents”*, etc. etc.
It wasn’t that the guy wasn’t religious, because it ends with “Trust in Our Lord Jesus Christ, Who has a greater plan for all who love Him”.*
The tone of it was rather joyful instead of implying that only certain people in the “right” religious club (although there’s an invitation here) get to go to the Great Beyond in the “right” way.

(*Credit for these quotes goes to our Local “Chronicle” Newspaper.)

Thoughts on the Help, a novel by Kathryn Stockett

My mother had help, but it wasn’t based on race. She had combination nursemaid/housekeepers in Europe, who were Caucasian.
Before my time, though, there was an African American called Willa Mae. I’d heard a lot about her, and had even seen a snapshot of her with my brothers. There were stories of the gems she said, reported in dialect, by my mother, a natural storyteller, especially in regards to my middle brother. He announced to Willa Mae that she was black. She said, “I’m not black. Look at my shoes; they black. I’m brown.” She probably wouldn’t mind that adjective if she were living now. Another thing she was reported to have said to him was, “You know what I b’lieve bout you? I b’lieve you lahk to cry.”
In my experience, there was a very pretty black teenager named Nora Lee, who worked part-time when my mother worked in the hospital as an R.N. I followed her around wanting to help her. She smiled and said, “I can’t let you dust. That’s my job.”

I felt the key lines in this novel were as follows (Chapter 24, p. 367-68) from Minny.

“She just don’t see em. The lines. Not between her and me, not between her and Hilly.”
Aibileen takes a long sip of her tea. Finally I look at her. “What you so quiet for? I know you got a opinion bout all this.”
“You gone accuse me a philosophizing.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “I ain’t afraid a no philosophy.”
“It ain’t true.”
“Say what?”
“You talking about something that don’t exist.”
I shake my head at my friend. “not only is they lines, but you know good as I do where them lines be drawn.”
Aibileen shakes her head. “I used to believe in em. I don’t anymore. They in our heads. People like Miss Hilly is always trying to make us believe they there. But they ain’t.”
“I know they there cause you get punished for crossing em,” I say. "Least I do."
“Lot a folks think if you talk back to you husband, you crossed the line. And that justifies punishment. You believe in that line?”
I scowl down at the table. “You know I ain’t studying no line like that.”
“Cause that line ain’t there. Except in Leroy’s head. Lines between black and white ain’t there neither. Some folks just made those up, long time ago. And that go for the white trash and the so-ciety ladies too.”
Thinking about Miss Celia coming out with that fire poker when she could’ve hid behind the door, I don’t know. I get a twinge. I want her to understand how it is with Miss Hilly. But how do you tell a fool like her?
“So you saying they ain’t no line between the help and the boss either?”
Aibileen shakes her head. “They’s just positions, like on a checkerboard. Who work for who don’t mean nothing.”
“So I ain’t crossing no line if I tell Miss Celia the truth, that she ain’t good enough for Hilly?” I pick my cup up. I’m trying hard to get this, but my cut’s thumping against my brain. “But wait, if I tell her Miss Hilly’s out a her league…then ain’t I saying they is a line?”
Aibileen laughs. She pats my hand. “All I’m saying is, kindness don’t have no boundaries.”

I also saw a couple of symbols in the book.

In Chapter 1 on page 6 in my edition of the book, Aibileen commented that Crisco was something you couldn’t dress up or fancy up no matter how hard you tried. Her son, Treelore, also compared Crisco to her ex, who left her and him, and was greasy, as well.
Minny has a completely different perspective on Crisco to Miss Celia as “the most important invention in the kitchen since jarred mayonnaise.” (Chapter 3, page 51-2) Its uses are many:
1) getting something sticky, like gum, out of your hair
2) slapping it on a baby’s bottom to prevent diaper rash
3) ladies rub it under their eyes, on their husband’s scaly feet
4) clean goo from a price tag
5) take the squeak out of a door hinge
6) stick a wick in it, burn it like a candle
7) and after all that, it will still fry your chicken!
So Miss Celia comments at “how pretty it is, like white cake frosting.” This conclusion is vastly different from “something you can’t dress up or fancy up.”

Why these characters have such different perspectives on the same thing, I don’t know for sure. But I do know that Minny is known for her excellent cooking and takes great delight in her children and her domestic skills. Aibileen, on the other hand, is more thoughtful and philosophical, “writing” her prayers for hours nightly. Her son, apparently, had a strong desire to write, also.

I thought Crisco was something called the Central Symbol, but then, I noticed another one…

It was the Mimosa Tree that Miss Celia disliked, yet gazed at for long periods. It seemed to be a symbol of depression. When Celia grew even more depressed regarding her antics at the Benefit Party, and would not get up out of bed, Minny finally told her the details about the “terrible, awful thing she done” to Miss Hilly. (Chapter 26, p. 397-402) So Miss Celia went out in the rain and finally took an axe to the tree, at Minny’s protestations. Celia would not stop until it was felled. That’s when Minny saw the note on Celia’s check to Hilly, a very deep dig. So, if some of Celia’s depression was “anger turned inward”, then, she succeeded in letting all her anger out on the tree.

How to Handle Rejection

Inside the envelope, was a letter from the publisher. She knew it was, because she saw the return address, Butterfly Magazine. Her hands shook as she carefully pulled out the open flap of the letter and pulled it open. Her eyes widened, as she glanced at the boldface lead, which said, “Just why do you small-town writers think you can send in your provincial garbage to our Chicago imprint company? We get literally sick when we see the trash from places out in the sticks that try to pass off their drivel as literature. Send manuscripts only when you’ve learned to become a real children’s writer, which is the grace period before becoming an author. Take a writing course. In your case, take several….” -- the Editorial Staff.
In a state of shock, she adjusted her eyes once again and reread the letter. “Dear Ms. Crockett, Thank you for submitting the your story to our magazine. Unfortunately, it does not meet the needs of our publishing company at this time. We wish you success as you submit to publishers with whom you share similar goals.”
Why did she read the letter before and get it all wrong? “Oh,” she thought, “it’s because I read between the lines. I know what they’re really saying."
So, she sat down at her keyboard to write a reply to the editor's email address, to show them how she could express herself.
“Okay, jerks; what makes you think you’re so high and mighty, just because you’re in a big Chicago office? You think you’re so great, as you judge me as an Okie from Muskogee? I’ll tell you where you can put your writing course suggestion.”
She knew that was fruitless, but it felt good, and she decided not to send it, so she erased it. It might make for bad public relations for the future, if there ever was any future with them.
She wiped her eyes, sniffed, and raffled through her publisher files and marketing books. She happened upon a flyer from a writing school, inviting her to take Course II for adult magazine writers. It was the first time she considered, maybe, they were right, and picked up the phone, “Hello, Intermediate School? I’ve reconsidered your offer…”
On the other side of the computer screen, a harried editor named Alexandra Maddox, had staggered into the publishing office of Butterfly Children’s Magazine. She had the mother of all headaches. The chief editor had appointed her as reader editing staff for newcomers. Amateur readers, she called it.
“What a slap in the face to put me into this amateur writers slot, to send in their unpolished crap! What an insult!”
There she sat, looking at the slush pile. “These writers think just because this link is for kids, they can send any garbage in, and we’ll just eat it up. I’m trying to build a reputation here, so just let them try!”
She read through the first account, with all its descriptive, confusing imagery and no decipherable plot. She nearly gagged, due in part, to the overabundance of partying the night before, when she drowned her low self esteem in beer.
“Okay,” she began typing on her keyboard to send to the writer’s street address, “I’ll try to be nice about this…”