The Breakers Hotel on Palm Beach, a place I never stayed. Photo by Nick22aku at English Wikipedia, CC BY 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6426605 The other night I dreamed I couldn’t get oriented, which isn’t out of the realm of possibility, even though I’ve lived in this valley for most of my life. This morning I saw a photograph of a datura blooming, and it took me right back to the years I lived in West Palm Beach. That city, whatever its failings, had the sense to name its downtown streets in alphabetical order, using the names of flowers, for a long stretch. As a writer, I thought it was so much more pleasant than numbering them, though they did begin numbered streets after Clematis, the street the public library was on. Datura followed, with Evernia, Fern, and Gardenia behind. Many of the flowers, including the datura, were not familiar to me. Having the ocean nearby also helped as I oriented myself to my new life far from Ohio. (I still drive by kinetic memory in Akron; I have not much sense of where I am, big picture.) In West Palm, I had only three directions to worry about. If I went east, I’d land at the intracoastal and then the Atlantic Ocean. “Walk east,” was a favored insult in that region. I could get almost anywhere in West Palm without too much trouble, although if someone asked me whether Delray Beach was north or south of home, I had no idea. (I’ve consulted a map; it's south.) I just knew what ramp to take, or which way to turn on U.S. Highway 1. Lake Park, where faculty friends lived, required a left turn. Downtown, and the three bridges to Palm Beach, was a right turn. General confusion results from the lack of creativity in naming the towns. There’s the overarching “the Palm Beaches,” and Palm Beach itself, the home of the ultra-rich. One of the over-the-top places to drive past was the Breakers Hotel, where Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald stayed and played in the Roaring Twenties. There’s North Palm Beach and West Palm Beach and Palm Beach Gardens. There's a town north of the county named Palm Bay. I will admit that palms, whether Royal or Poinciana varieties, are impressive and lovely. But a bit of variety would be appreciated.
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This is an engagement photo of Nicholas II and Alexandra of Russia. She looks less than thrilled. I’m not sure what it was about teaching history/civics/government, but we went through history teachers rapidly. After my first year, the man who'd been teaching history left. Then Sammi was let go, then a woman came who left to get married, then a man came who had a nervous breakdown in the middle of class. Finally, we got Jennie, and life got better on so many levels. She was a graduate of Bob Jones University, so she was conservative, acceptable to the administration. She was also on her way to the mission field, but she stayed with us for several years. At least one of those years she lived alone in a place she called “the cave.” None of us was ever invited to visit or permitted to enter. Some of the time, off and on, she lived with Alicia and me, adding New England astringent humor to our Midwest sensibilities. Language was sometimes an issue. Her accent was thick—it took me a long time to understand her one day in her quest for creematata, which turned out to be cream of tartar. And one Thursday night after visitation when as she got out of the car, she said she was going inside to read before bed. "Are you still reading Roots?" I asked, with a Midwest accent, pronouncing the oo like a u. “Roots? Roots? No, I am going to read Roots (long o sound). Roots is like roof, which is what a dog says,” she replied as exited the car and stalked inside. Alicia and I were laughing so hard we couldn’t get out of the car. No one could make me laugh like Jennie. Generally easygoing, Jennie warned us: "Don't mess with my man, don't mess with my food." None of us had a steady man, but the second prohibition was valid. She had a stash of junk food; we never dared trespass. True but now embarrassing: Jennie and I went through a period when we passed notes during our study halls, which met concurrently and were separated only by the science lab. We were playing a game with it, because Jennie was obsessed at the time with Nicholas and Alexandra, the last czar and czarina of Russia. If memory serves, Jennie signed her notes Nicholas, and I signed mine as General Foch. [Foch was a French general; I have no idea why I chose his name, but I wrote messages from the front.] We used students as couriers. They included the Swedish ambassador (a big, blond football player), the Spanish minister (a Cuban-born student), and Private Howdy, who always did his duty. We were young; we were bored; we thought ourselves very clever. |
Baptist GirlI was a conservative Baptist girl who grew up to become a career Christian, working first in a Baptist school and then in a Baptist college. For about three decades, it was very good until it wasn’t, and I had to leave. But the Baptists formed me. This is my homage to the good times and good people of the world I left, finally, at forty-three, when I became an Episcopalian. These are my memories; others might disagree with my recollections. So be it. Archives
January 2024
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