When I was growing up in 1948
Nebraska, one of my favorite things to do on a Saturday morning was to
go "crawdadding" with my dad, two brothers, Bob and Junior and Dad's friends.
Hmmm, you don't know what "crawdads" are....well, lets see, in the south
they are called crawfish, the eastern United States folks call them
crayfish and some parts of this great nation refer to them as mudbugs or
yabbies. But in the central and western areas, they are just plain ole
crawdads….miniature lobsters.
I loved to go with them. We’d hop into Dad’s old Model T Ford and the
guys would discuss where the best spots would be. Dad had his favorite
places, depending on how much rain we’d had. Since he was the driver,
we’d usually go there.
Crawdaddin’ wasn’t involved, took absolutely no talent and was a great
way for us kids to get wet and muddy without being yelled at for doing
it. Mom would scold Dad for letting me come home covered with mud and
smelly pond water but all she’d say to me was “don’t come into the house
with those muddy clothes on”.
I can still remember the feel of the squishy mud between my toes and the
prickly thrill that maybe we’d get our toes pinched by a wandering
crawdad or some fish would "get" us. Occasionally a small water snake
would be sunning itself on the shore and would slither into the
pond…..it took a whole lot of persuading to get me back into the water after
seeing one.
Once we arrived at the right pond, Dad would hang a piece of beef liver
on a string tied to a piece of wood....then he'd toss it out into a pond
or slough (a muddy body of water). They'd throw out 10 or more floating
tidbits and wait for a few minutes for the smell to attract the
crawdads. They hung out fairly close to shore, under debris hiding from
fish, raccoons and other creatures that lived in the area. They were the
favorite food of whatever fish happened to live in the pond and had
learned the art of self-preservation.
The crawdads would swim up and grab the liver with their big claws. We
(the kids) would wade out, pick up the wood and slip a homemade net
under the crawdads and occasionally would find some 5 or 6
inchers....we'd really get excited if we happened to get those big ones!
Then we would come back to shore and dump the net into a gunny sack.
would
smell the spicy crawdads cooking, bring their beer and we'd have a
party! (the kids didn't get beer...don't remember what we had - probably kool-aid since it was cheap and easy to make. 
In late August, our youngest daughter, Nancy, asked if we could dog-sit their basset hound, Daisy Mae for a week. "Sure, when?....."Tomorrow?
..."dahhhhh OK" This had been a summer of dog sitting. Granddaughter
Jennifer called in July to ask if we could take care of her little
highland terrier, Oakley, then two days later came daughter Christine's
call from Chicago, "Mom, can you watch Cloe and Bella when we go to
Denver?"......."sure" Cloe is a cocker-poo and Bella is Shitz Tzu. So, Oakley, Cloe and Bella were here at the same time. The girls got
along great...once in a while Cloe, the oldest would get a little
peeved with the two younger dogs..."I'm too old to play "chase around
the yard!!!!". Their food dishes had to be in different areas...Cloe
eats like a horse and, if she can, she will eat whatever the other dogs
left in their dishes.
We put Daisy Mae in the back yard and I settled into a deck chair to
enjoy the beautiful cool morning, have a cup of tea and watch the birds
devouring the seeds in the bird feeder. Suddenly I realized that
I couldn't see Daisy Mae then caught a glimpse of her tail as she
slipped through the back gate. Yikes, she hadn't been in our care for
15 minutes and I've lost her already.I
started calling "Daisy, Daisy, come're girl"...she just kept going,
slowly but with determination. So out of the yard I went, house
slippers, nightgown and all. I caught up with her two houses away as
she started up the neighbor's front steps. Since I didn't have her leash
I had to grab her collar and try to get her back to our yard. She is
about 15" at the shoulder and weighs about 20+ lbs so I didn't try to
pick her up...I don't think I could have anyway. And, I couldn't bend
over and hold her by the collar while I shuffled her back home...I get a
backache even thinking about it. 
Luckily the
neighbors weren't looking out their windows or driving down the street
on their way to work....they would have seen a 74 year old grandmother
in a nightgown and fuzzy slippers trying to get an extremely heavy and
uncooperative basset hound back to the yard. Her little jaunt must
have tired her out because she spent the rest of the morning curled up
on our front room chair...which by the way was NEVER allowed when we had
dogs. Guess it's that ole grandma thing, grandkids and pets get by
with a lot more than they used to.
We have a nice-sized flower garden in our yard, complete with a pond with a little fountain. It’s Ken’s pride and joy. Every year we stock it with goldfish and once in a while, a tadpole or two. The fish are fun to watch, and will come to the surface if you twiddle your fingers on the edge of the water. 
However, this morning, I looked out of our kitchen window and saw a big cat on the back fence..at first glance, I thought, “oh my gosh” there’s a baby mountain lion”….four years ago a big, fully grown mountain lion, aka Puma was taking up residence in our neighborhood park. He is now living in the Henry Doorly Zoo cat complex.
I walked onto the back deck and called, “here kitty” and up he came. He stayed around for a while but decided to investigate the rest of the yard. I don’t know if he was a neighborhood cat that is allowed to roam or if he had escaped from home and was exploring. He didn’t have a name or license on his collar so there was no way to find out who he belonged to. And, he definitely did not want to come with me into the house…I didn’t want to be scratched or bitten so didn’t force the issue. 
If you’ve ever attended a College World Series (CWS) game in Omaha, Nebraska, you’ve probably seen my grade school, Edward Rosewater.
It’s on 13th Street, just opposite the entrance to the Henry Doorly Zoo and close to the "Zesto" ice cream store that is ALWAYS talked about by CWS commentators (I think they get a discount every time they mention "Zesto" on the air!) A big ice cream cone from Zesto was always a "must have" when we walked home from school ... $.20 bought a good-sized cone in those days.
Edward Rosewater School, was named after an Omahan who is credited for creating the first Omaha Board of Education and was regarded as the father of Omaha (NE) public schools.
Rosewater was the editor of the Omaha Daily Bee, had a reputation for always being "aggressive and controversial" and was influential in Nebraska politics as one of the leaders of the state Republican Party. During the American Civil War, while serving at the White House telegraph office, Rosewater was responsible for sending out President Abraham Lincoln’s “ Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863.
I LOVE my old school, although in 1985 it was converted to apartments. I think of the thousands of kindergarten to 8th grade student’s running (excuse me) walking through it’s halls. Whenever I drive past it, I remember the wonderful teachers I had, the great friends we all were, and the love for America and the American flag that was instilled in us. I entered kindergarten at Rosewater when I was 5 years old (1943) and graduated in 1952. My kindergarten teacher was Miss Brown (all the teachers were called “Miss” if they were single or not). We learned social skills…how to not fight over a toy (yep, we actually had toys in kindergarten), played house in the little play kitchen complete with dishes and pans and discovered that being the “mother” had a lot more responsibilities than we ever knew about.
We napped on our little rugs every afternoon and learned that the teacher was “boss” even if our mother’s thought we were special and above reproach. Miss Brown gently but firmly molded us into good kindergarten citizens. I was in school during World War II, and patriotism was strong at Edward Rosewater. We 
stood each morning before class, put our hand over our heart and recited, “I pledge Allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation, indivisible with Liberty and Justice for all” . "Under God" was added in 1954, two years after we graduated.
To this day, I can’t watch our Flag in a parade, hear a patriotic song or recite the “Pledge of Allegiance” without getting teary eyed. Can’t help it….this is my country.
Next time you are watching a sports program TV or are at an event where the National Anthem is sung or watching a parade when the American flag is raised or is carried ...look around you. Those people with their right hands over their hearts were taught that many years ago in school......and haven't forgotten.
Miss Reilly, our Principal (“always remember that the Principal is your “Pal”….well sometimes anyway), would call a school assembly every Friday afternoon and each class from kindergarten to 8th grade would sing. We learned all the verses to “The Star Spangled Banner”, “America the Beautiful”, “America" (My Country Tis of Thee), and every patriotic song she could think of. We sang the songs of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, Marines and probably some I can't remember....and we sang with gusto!
My brother Bobby, was in the Navy and at every Friday assembly, Miss Reilly would ask us to think about those who are fighting for our freedom. I don’t remember if she asked us to say a prayer for them, but at that time, she probably could have. I know my nighttime prayer always ended with “Please God, bring my brother Bobby home safe”
Several of the kids left Rosewater after kindergarten.….the neighborhood Catholic school, St. Rose, didn’t have kindergarten so the Catholic kids started kindergarten at Rosewater and then transferred to St. Rose Catholic School which was just down 13th Street from Rosewater.
Several years ago, we went on a family cruise.......What a fun time! On Aruba we stopped at a small zoo and the kids played with the baby monkeys.........of course, Jenny fell in love with them and would have liked to take one home. Its a good thing we were 1,000's of miles from home and on a cruise ship, or she would have talked her Dad into getting one for her! 
First of all, let me introduce myself. I'm Jean aka JeaneBee, a 74 year old retiree who loves tennis and plays 3 times a week at the 4.0 (used to be 3.5) level. I live in Omaha, Nebraska, smack dab in the middle of the great Midwest where we spend half our tennis life playing in the heat and/or wind, and the other half playing on indoor courts to get out of the snow….indoors is a great place to play, no wind, no sun and no low flying birds!
Years ago, when I was young and foolish, I used to snicker at senior players, watching them put on their knee braces, elastic arm bands, sun visors and after having a swig of water went ditzing around on the court, talking, laughing and having a good ole time, then going out for coffee afterwards. Then, somehow, much to my dismay, I turned into one!
I realize that although we’re not as fast on the court and our ground strokes aren’t as hard as they used to be, we’re out there hitting the ball with the same love for the game that we always had. And yes, we do a little giggling and talking between games (SOME of us even like to sit down---bringing our own chairs if seating isn't available on the court!!)
I took up tennis as physical therapy after having a stroke at age 29…. it was termed a self-induced stroke but a stroke nevertheless. My husband I were “finishing” our basement and my job for the day was putting plaster on the ceiling and making swirls in it with a sponge. It looked pretty good and I was at it for most of the afternoon. My husband found me unconscious, blood streaming down my chin from a bitten lip and limp as a dish rag. He called the rescue squad and I spent two weeks in a stupor, getting punctured from stem to stern. The final diagnosis was stroke, but cerebral hemorrhage and epilepsy were running a close second and third.
I was a healthy 29 year old, preparing for my 10 year high school class reunion. I rode horseback, took gymnastics for years, played softball and was an all-around tomboy growing up and kept at it after marriage. I wasn’t a couch potato, overweight or a smoker, and neither my doctors nor myself could understand why I had a stoke…shouldn’t have happened. Years later, while reading the health section of Better Homes and Gardens magazine, I found out why it did.
Having my head tilted backward and looking up for hours while putting plaster on the ceiling had caused pressure on the back of my neck…reducing the blood flow to my brain….wham, bam, thank you ma’m.... and.....hello stroke. 
Physical therapy after my stroke was practically non-existent. This was 1968 and physical therapy wasn't as common as it is now. A friend suggested that I take tennis lessons to improve my eye-hand coordination.....so my physical therapy consisted of learning to hit the ball against the YWCA wall and playing on a hardwood floor. Gradually I got better and better. I had good reflexes thanks to years of gymnastics (helps a lot when you take a fall while running after a tennis ball…you learn to “tuck and roll” gracefully and not sprawl all over the court) and my tennis improved.
Hey, you’re only as old as you feel – and we are a pretty frisky bunch. Most of us have played with and against each other in tournaments for years. We're familiar with each other's families, children and grandchildren. We care when one of us is hurt, sick or has a family member who is hurt or sick. We keep them in our prayers.
them next year.
I have always believed in angels, well sort of. I've read about strangers who appear when someone is in trouble, in an accident, or just needing help.....and then when the problem is over, just disappear. Not fade away like a movie angel would, they just are no longer there.
In October of 2008, my husband and I went on a 12 day train trip, starting in Chicago and making a circle through Nebraska, Colorado, California, Oregon, Washington, Montana, Minnesota and ending up back in Chicago.
We met 8 of his model train club buddies in the lower level of the Chicago depot. Some of them had taken a train from Omaha but we had driven to Naperville, IL where our daughter lives and then took the commuter train into the depot. Most of us were retired and were looking forward to this trip,
We met in the lower section of the depot and lined up to take the escalator to the upper level. We had to carry our luggage with us, suitcases and duffle bags.....2 or 3 apiece. We should have taken the elevator. One by one we stepped onto the escalator. I was behind an elderly lady holding her suitcase and purse and behind me were other people with theirs. Suddenly about half way up to the 2nd floor, a older man who was about 8 feet ahead of me lost his balance and went down on his knees, his luggage tumbling down onto the people behind him. He couldn't get up, and the escalator kept going, taking him closer and closer to the teethlike end where the stairs disappear into the floor.
He sprawled onto the floor at the top of the escalator, still unable to get to his feet. But the escalator didn't stop. It kept going, causing the rest of us to fall on top of him. I was so afraid that someone would get their clothing or hands caught in the end of the escalator. The lady in front of me fell on top of the person in front of her, I fell over her, and the people and luggage behind me piled up on top of us.
The escalator kept going and I yelled out "somebody help us"....there were people walking around on the upper level but no one noticed us or made a move to come over to help. Then a young man came out of nowhere and I heard "push the red button"....by that time, I was at the top of the escalator well within reach of it. I slapped it, and the escalator stopped. When I slapped the button, it was about as big as a silver dollar and bright red.
We are all so fortunate that none of us were badly hurt....bruised, scraped and scared, but not hurt. The gentleman who had fallen was so apologetic and felt so bad about causing the accident. All I could think of was that old Lucille Ball TV show where Lucy and Ethel were working at a candy factory and they couldn't package the candies fast enough and the candy on the conveyer belt kept coming and coming and coming.
The young man who had told me to hit the button was gone. Maybe he had to catch a train, maybe he had somewhere else to be, but he was gone. All I could remember about him that he was fairly young and had light hair...nothing else. And, none of our group remembered seeing him at all. So, did I really hear "push the red button" or was it in my mind?
After the trip was over and we were back in Chicago, we had to take the same escalator up to the upper floor. I looked for the red stop button and there it was at the top of the escalator. But, it had a plastic cover over it and it was a pushbutton about the size of a nickel. Not at all what I remembered.
So, did we have an encounter with an angel or just a nice guy? Personally, I think whoever it was had wings and other places to go and people to help.
NICKNAMES:
If Joleen, Marte and Jean go out for lunch, they will call each other Joleen, Marte and Jean.
If Mike, Dave and John go out, they will affectionately refer to each other as Fat Boy, Godzilla and Four-eyes.
EATING OUT:
When the bill arrives, Mike, Dave and John will each throw in $20,even though it's only for $32.50. None of them will have anything smaller and none will actually admit they want change back. When the girls get their bill,out come the pocket calculators.
MONEY:
A man will pay $2 for a $1 item he needs. A woman will pay $1 for a $2 item that she doesn't need but it's on sale.
BATHROOMS:
A man has six items in his bathroom: toothbrush and toothpaste,shaving cream, razor, a bar of soap, and a towel . The average number of items in the typical woman's bathroom is 337. A man would not be able to identify more than 20 of these items.
ARGUMENTS:
A woman has the last word in any argument. Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.
FUTURE:
A woman worries about the future until she gets a husband. A man never worries about the future until he gets a wife.
SUCCESS:
A successful man is one who makes more money than his wife can spend. A successful woman is one who can find such a man.
MARRIAGE:
A woman marries a man expecting he will change, but he doesn't. A man marries a woman expecting that she won't change, but she does.
DRESSING UP:
A woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the trash, answer the phone, read a book, and get the mail. A man will dress up for weddings and funerals.
NATURAL:
Men wake up as good-looking as they went to bed. Women somehow deteriorate during the night.
OFFSPRING
Ah, children. A woman knows all about her children. She knows about dentist appointments and romances, best friends, favorite foods, secret fears and hopes and dreams. A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in the house.
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY
A married man should learn to forget his mistakes. There's no use in two people remembering the same thing!
