New Job, New Bio

I have taken a new job in my retirement years; it is a full-time, part-time job writing for two small weekly newspapers. This is only my second week, yet it feels like a full time, full time job. Here is my bio for the staff introduction article.

Brenda Evers, a retired English and Journalism teacher, has been a writer (off and on) for most of her life. After college and between teaching jobs she worked for a small weekly, the Cherokee County Chronicle, in her hometown of Tahlequah, Oklahoma.  She married and moved so she would submit freelance stories to the daily newspaper where she lived in Oklahoma: the Muskogee Phoenix and the Seminole Producer.

While she was a high school teacher, her husband Byron was the Journalism professor at Seminole State College, and that is what brought the family to Colorado. He was the team photographer for the Seminole Trojans Junior College baseball team when they played in National Junior College World Series tournament at Grand Junction in the early ‘80s tournament. Byron and Brenda brought the family out and fell in love with the Grand Valley.

Byron has been at Mesa State College (now Colorado Mesa University) for 23 years. Brenda taught in District 51 for 21 years before retiring in 2010: twelve years at Palisade High School and nine years at Fruita Monument High.

After training so many students in language arts skills, such as reading, writing, speaking, yearbook, newspaper and life skills, Brenda is “practicing what she preached,” making time to work on her own writing skills.

“I love to talk to people and write the stories in their lives. I’ve been trying to write a book for years; it’s quicker and easier to go, listen, and laugh with some one else and write a feature story instead,” she admits. “But this is a part-time job writing for the Fruita Times and the Palisade Tribune, right? Maybe I’ll get back to my book soon.”

Be Careful What You Wish For

I've always wanted to be a writer. Wanted is the operative word. I did very little toward actually writing.

Yet I've had a very interesting life, so I have experiences to tell. But I haven't. Life got in the way.

Years ago I taught journalism, newspaper and yearbook in addition to English grammar, literature, etc. I even freelance and wrote for a weekly newspaper back in my hometown.

Now over 60, I am retired from teaching high school Language Arts, and my desire to write became stronger. I read, and I write. . . then I stop, put it in a notebook, drawer, computer file and leave it. I joined a writing group five or ten years ago. Still I did not produce any mass of "writings."

Two years ago I felt differently. I'm not teaching part-time after retirement. My children are all grown and gone to other states. Why not write? Daily? With a goal? With a plan? About time, I told myself.

So I took a college creative course. It made me write, daily, with a goal, with a plan. I produced a 7000 word first chapter about my years teaching at an Indian Boarding school. The instructor said it was interesting topic that I should develop. I kept writing.

It became a chore, harder than a short story. I stopped, put it in a notebook, then a drawer and even have a copy on the computer.

Until the fall--no classes, no job, no kids at home, but we had waves of family come out to visit us. Three to four weeks in a row of vacationers keep me busy, cleaning, cooking, siteseeing, but no writing. The call came at noon one day, "Papa Lon is dying. If you want to see him and talk once more, come now."

Memories washed over me with the spuratic floods of tears. I had to dig through boxes of pictures of my childhood, my teen marriage, my parents, and my in-laws. That's when I determined to get back into writing and this time stick with it. Finish a chapter, a story, a memory. Just do it!

I can't say I have published a book, but I have written more constantly in this last year than all the years before. At least I'm still writing.

Palisade Pedicab hoping to expand across Valley

For two years one man has been taking his business to the streets of Palisade. Now Shawn Robinson is expanding into the streets of Grand Junction.

Peach and wine festival visitors often stop and stare at the tall, sandy-haired driver peddling by in a lime green, three-wheeled bicycle with a two people seated behind him on a bench seat.

 “Palisade Pedicab” printed on the side of the bicycle cab proclaims Robinson’s pedal-powered taxi service designed to give passengers a safe, relaxing and eco-friendly ride anywhere they want to go.

Nine months out of the year, locals are familiar with the sight as Robinson is busy working downtown festivals, parades, Farmers’ Market Sundays, and touring through the wineries through the spring, summer and fall.

He only has one pedicab, but he and his wife Linda plan to grow outside the Palisade events. Shawn Robinson feels his cab can be enjoyed at many Grand Junction events.

“Last year I took my ped to JuCo for three nights. The first night was successful. The next two nights were not for various reasons, but I intend to be there again this month,” he said.

            When the Grand Junction Rockies start their season in June, Hamilton will be there with his pedicab services, taking riders leisurely and safely to and from their homes, cars or just peddling around downtown GJ.

            So, how and why did this couple start a second business?  

Robinson’s first job is in construction, but in 2010 when work slowed down, he and his wife needed to boost their income.

“I read about pedicabs in a cycling magazine. We had seen vehicles like this in Denver taking people to and from Bronco, Rockie games and other events, as well as Peds used all along 16^th Street Mall area,” he said.

 “Living here in Palisade surrounded by the orchards and wineries, we just felt it was another way for visitors to enjoy the beauty at a gentle pace. So we talked to Wine Country Inn about offering our services to their customers, just touring the wineries. Then I began driving passengers to and from the Palisade Peach Festival and the Farmers’ Market each Sunday during the summer.

“I have driven Santa through the Parade of Lights and then taken him back home,” he smiled as he talked about the fun aspects of his job.

The Palisade Pedicab man peddled its first wedding last year, delivering the bride in a beautiful outdoor wedding.

 “Who knows, maybe if this business keeps growing, we may have to buy another ped for the Valley,” Shawn considers.

He still feels, “It is a unique way to make a living, that’s for sure.”

Palisade Pedicab rates, pictures and more information is on Facebook, his webpage www.palisadepedicab.com, or contact him whenever he is peddling around Palisade. Shawn Hamilton loves to talk about his taxi business.

A favorite quote for the day.

Although I have no sister,
 I still like the sentiment.

Remembering the Stories

The 100^th Anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic has passed.

I have been so caught up in the stories: the one I wrote for the Beacon, the new TV movie, TV documentaries, the old movies from 1921 to 1998, the numerous books, to the on-line websites and video tributes.

Fifteen hundred souls went down with the ship. Seven hundred plus survived. 

Each had a story to tell.  

Fewer than 100 had their stories told, personally or by someone else, but the number of untold stories amazes and saddens me.

All are gone now. Their stories are dying with the passing of family members who knew and didn’t tell. We fabricate what they might have thought or done or experienced, but now we will never really know the truth.

I feel honored to have been written one person’s story, Charles Eugene Williams. There is no personal link to me or my family, but I feel a kindredship with him after learning about his survival from the sinking ship.

Yet, the basic facts of his personal life and career were few. Williams remains a Titanic victim with a mystery about how he continued on after this major event in 1912.

Charles Eugene Williams, World Champion Squash Racquets player from Harrow, England and Chicago, Illinois, traveled on, just as we all do even after we lose so much.

There are memorials around the world, but none lists the names of the passengers, who died or who survived. Even if they built one today, who would know all the stories of the 3rd class, crew, or upper class persons.

In Washington, D.C. the Vietnam Memorial Wall displays 60,000 names of those killed or missing. Millions more soldiers fought or participated in that conflict. Each one has a story. Like the Titanic tragedy, major battles and major names will generate stories in the movies and documentaries, but who will tell the stories of the loved ones' personal lives?

Don't wait for the 100th anniversary of any tragedy, remember each person and his/her life story and struggles through it. Write now.

Keeping the Receipts

          When old teacher friends call, we greet each other jokingly, “Hey, do you still have your receipts?”

            “Of course I do. Do you?”

            “You know it. I’m goin’ to keep them ‘til I die.”

            It’s a private joke, but Rhonda, Jeri and I still have the receipts from an unforgettable trip in 1986. Even 25 years later, we still expect the Tribal Office will call, asking for that debt to be repaid. We are ready. We keep our receipts.

            That summer the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma sent us, three Tribal boarding school teachers, to San Francisco to do training with the National Reading Teacher of the Year. Not to a conference with hundreds of other teachers, we went to his high school classes, sat in front row desks and learned the techniques personally.

 Our principal handed us plane tickets, a detailed agenda, and one American Express card to pay for everything: meals, rooms, and transportation.

            “Of course, you must turn in all receipts with the card when you return,” he advised us. “You are not allowed to use it for personal purchases.”

            Checking into our rooms in Healdsburg, California, we learned “American Express” is not welcome 82 miles north of San Francisco. Between us we had $1500 cash for souvenirs; now it paid all expenses: motel, meals, and transportation.

Back in San Francisco waiting for our plane home, I spoke up, “Okay, I can’t go home without souvenirs for my kids. So,” dramatically I pulled out the blue-silver card, and said, “If we keep our receipts and don’t spend over the allotted amount the Tribe owes us for our cash, we won’t have to pay them any thing.” I smiled at my reasoning. They agreed.

            We dashed from vendor to vendor, buying sweatshirts, tee shirts, and postcards, keeping the receipts.

            Of course, all heck broke loose weeks later. We had to report to the Tribal Complex. A financial officer yelled at us for illegal use of Tribal money. The only comment the Assistant Chief  made was, “The Chief will talk to you about this.” 

Subdued but stubborn, we knew Chief Wilma Mankiller had the power to fire us or make us pay, with our jobs or the money. We stuck to our reasoning and receipts.

“After we spent our cash for the trip expenses, we had to use the card for souvenirs. But we kept track of everything. We spent $1500—our cash amount. You don’t have to reimburse us any money,” I said.

Expressionless, Chief Mankiller asked, “So we don’t owe you any money? It came out exactly?”

            “Well, it might be off two or three dollars, but we will call it even.” Jeri responded.

            Her loud laugh surprised us. “Okay, let’s call it even. I’ll tell the finance office. But, don’t ever use our card like that again.”           

As we left, I whispered, “The Cherokee Nation will never trust us with their American Express credit card, will they?”

            Rhonda laughed before saying, “They won’t trust us, period.”

            Really, it was not our fault, but we hold on to our receipts, just in case.  (508)

Waiting for the punch line?

I’m terrible at remembering the punch lines of jokes, or even the whole joke, so it came as no surprise with my oldest son inherited the same trait. But we both love jokes, so we continue trying to tell the funniest jokes that come out not funny at all.

##        

   

Each summer we would drive 20 hours across country to Grandma’s house. In the days before DVD players, cell phones or hand-held games, we listened to the radio, slept, talked, sang or finally told jokes.

            “I have one! I have one,” seven-year-old L.J. called out from the middle row seat. The baby watched from his wooden porta-crib. His 12-year-old sister just rolled her eyes.

            “A man wanted to learn how to jump out of a plane,” he began.

            “You mean with a parachute?” she interrupted.

            “Yeah, Don’t ‘rupt me,” he frowned but continued. “So he went to the sky jumper school. . .”

            “Sky diver, school.” She persisted.

             “. . . after you jump wait 15 minutes before you pull the string.”

            “Fifteen minutes! Don’t you mean seconds? “

            “Leave me alone, Sister. I’m telling the joke.

            “So the man got in the plane. When it was up in the sky, he jumped out. He started saying, ‘plenty of time,’ plenty of time,’ plenty of time,’ plenty of time.’”  L.J. continued over and over. After more than a few minutes his repetition became sing-song maddness, going on and on and on.

 “L.J.! Stop!

“Plenty of time, plenty of time, plenty of time. . .”

“Don’t make me stop this van!” Dad pronounced over the continuing litany. Nothing stopped him, so his dad pulled the van over.

“. . . plenty of time, plenty of. . . SPLAT!” L.J. finished with a slap of his hands.  His grinning face faded to our quiet reaction to his joke.

“Spat, spat, spat,” rang out from the back of the van. Stunned silence became laughter as Baby Justin patted his hands and sang, “Splat, spat. . . ” 

We never forgot L.J.’s punch line. 

Palisade Friday

            I went for an interview at Palisade Tribune this morning, and guess what? I now have a third part time job: tax season Liberty Tax preparer, freelance writer for Beacon Senior newsletter, and now (possibly, I have to do one story first, then they will decide if I have the job for sure) a freelance writer for the Palisade Tribune.

Yeah!

            They want someone to cover and write up the Planning Committee meetings on Monday nights, and if I come up with feature stories about colorful Palisade, I can submit those for publication each week. I can do that. Plus, I am thinking up other ideas to put into the paper.

            Immediately after the hour and half interview, I walked through the newly moved and remodeled Palisade library. You know how I love books, reading and library stuff. Their building was lovely, so light and airy and smelled good as well.  I’m going to enjoy slipping over there to read and write about Palisade.
They accept donated books! The main library and Fruita branch do not, so I took in the two volumes of George R.R. Martin’s series The Song of Fire and Ice:  Game of Thrones and Clash of Swords.

            I made sure that they would catalog them and put them out on the shelves. Really, I gushed and told them the background of the first book that has already been made into a tv series, which is on DVD now, and the second book episodes start Sunday night. I don’t have HBO, darn it.

            Next I went looking for where Chalane Coit preaches, but didn’t find her or her church. BUT, I met Rev. Greg Sharp at the Palisade United Methodist Church. He didn’t know her where-abouts, but he gave me a story lead—his church will be celebrating the 115^th anniversary, which occurs in April, but they will save the celebration for May. Cool, huh?

            Palisade needs more senior organizations and activities. I went to the Chamber of Commerce; they didn’t know of any, but sent me to Parks and Rec. That organization just has “some senior activities” built into their upcoming summer activities, but not a lot. That gave me an idea.

            I stopped by the Beacon office to talk to Kevin, the publisher/owner. Finally I met my editor Cloie and the graphic artist who does the great layout and design. They showed the mock-up of my cover story and the two inside pages filled with the story of the Titanic survivor whose relatives live here in the Valley.

Kevin liked my idea. Since I am going to be at Palisade Tribune every Monday, I want to make it a Beacon beat. You know, find story leads on the over 50+ adults, and write up their stories for the Beacon. Once a month—I can do that.

So, I am all excited about this new adventure. In fact, I am ready to rent or buy a small house off I-70 to stay in while we rent or sell the McKinley House. I would save on gasoline, and we would be closer to Vega and the Mesa cabin. I would be happy in a newer, smaller house while Byron is up on the mountain, or teaching at the college.

I might even look into an old two story house with necessities on first floor, and use the top floor as storage or rent them. At least have them for when the eight grandkids come to visit with their parents.

YEA!!! 

The Past, the Present and the Future Met at a Funeral

           “Brenda Susan! What do you think you’re wearing?” My aunt’s voice stopped me from putting down my 20-day-old daughter in her basinet. My senses were dulled from getting little sleep and holding my new life together to think about my wardrobe to even comprehend why she was so upset.  Dressed all in black or gray dresses, the three oldest women in my family surrounded me like traditional warriors.

            I looked down at my white dress, my favorite dress and looked blankly at Grandma Owens, Mom, and her oldest sister. I said nothing, but I turned back to my little daughter, smiling at her sleepy face as I lay her down.

Aunt Dorothy stood at the doorway with massive arms crossed against her chest. “You need to change dresses and put on a respectable dark dress and dark shoes. Everyone is going to see you and think you have no respect for the dead.”

My mother had raised me to “remember my manners and always be polite to my elders,” and I had been all my childhood.  Today, I swallowed my words, and ignored the trio of authority. They did not move. Right now I was too stressed to listen to my aunt’s lecture about proper funeral attire. I had heard it before, many, many times.

“I have to finish getting ready. It is almost time to go.” I tried feebly to encourage them to leave me alone.

But Aunt Dorothy was not done telling me what I should or should not do, “Have you no respect for your husband? Your family? You can’t go to a funeral dressed in white. I’m not going to let you leave this house until you change out of that dress into something respectful.”

Those words burned through my layers of control, and my words and tears flooded over her, “I do not have a black dress. I will not wear a black dress to my husband’s funeral. Ronnie never saw me in a black dress.

 “I paid $12 for this, most expensive dress I ever bought when. But we could not afford that much. We were college students. He asked me to return it for the money. When the store said they would only exchange, not refund it, he said he wanted to see how I looked it in.

“When I modeled this sleeveless, white polyester A-line sheath, all white except for the embroidered roses on the stand-up collar, he smiled and said, “I will never forget how beautiful you are.

“So I AM going to say my last good-by to him in this dress.

I don’t care what people think. If they are coming to Ronnie’s funeral to criticize my clothes, they are disrespectful. I’m the one who lost my sweetheart, my husband. I’m not going to wear black just because it is tradition.

I love you Aunt Dorothy, but If you try to stop me, I’ll knock you on your big, fat butt and never look back.”

I took up my baby daughter, and we stepped toward our future because past traditions had to be broken.  

Source: susanameyers.blogspot.com via Gabriela on Pinterest

Charles Williams - Unknown World Champion, Survivor of Titanic

“Champion at Racquets Lost”

London, April 17---Among the Titanic’s passengers was Charles Williams,

 The professional racquet champion of the world who was on his way

to New York to play Standing, the American champion for a stake

 of $5,000.

[BY CABLE TO THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE]

Published in the Chicago Tribune, Thursday, April 18, 1912:

[The racquets champ survived; he died in Chicago in 1935.]

Charles Eugene Williams was one of 700 survivors of the RMS Titanic on April 14, 1912.  Lesser known than Margaret “Molly” Brown, Bruce Ismay, or even Lady Astor for their actions during the tragedy, Williams was a World Champion racquets player who rarely spoke about the event, but the sinking of the English ship forever overshadowed his life.

As family and fans around the world prepare for the 100^th Anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic on April 14, more stories about the lives of the survivors are being published. One Grand Junction family is finding out more about their ancestor who was a private champion.

Angie Antonopoulos, a local beautician, was watching the advertisement for the remake of the new 3-D Titanic film presentation of the fictitious story of Rose and Jack on the ship Academy Awards party when she casually mentioned, “My great-great grandfather was on the Titanic.

“He is my children’s grandfather, really, not mine. His name was Charles Eugene Williams. I only know a little.”

That little was enough to start an Internet search that lead to documents and articles that clarified the story of Charles Williams’ escape from death and his career after the ship went down.

More facts pieced together a better idea of  his personal survival story. The ship’s booking records were merged into one “list of the Titanic survivors” website which included the lifeboats records and personal interviews that were conducted on the rescue ship The Carpathia.

Twenty-three-year Charles Eugene Williams born in Harrow, England, was listed as a “Sportsman” on the list of passengers, and he wound up in lifeboat #14.

It was while he was on the Carpathia being interviewed for the records that he heard that the London newspaper had sent the above telegram of his death. He quickly sent his reply: Daily Sketch, 20 April 1912

Mr Peterman, hon. secretary of the Racquets Association, stated last night that he recieved a cable from Williams, the professional racquets champion, who was on board the Titanic. Williams was to have played a match in New York against G. Standing on April 29 for the championship of the world. The cable reads: "Match postponed; return next week. Williams." 

After hearing this, Angie smiled and said, “Yes, we knew he played rackets. He was something of a champion.”

He was more than “something of champion.” Born and raised in England, he graduated from Harrow, one of the oldest schools in the country. While the squash racquets coach there, he turned professional, and became the World Champion in 1911 and 1912.  

The sport of squash racquets was in its infancy, not a lot of money nor notoriety, but the World title was important enough for recognition in England, so Williams was traveling to New York to defend his title from the American champ George Standing.

From an article in the , dated April 20, 1912:

Mr. Charles Eugene Williams from Harrow, England, boarded the Titanic at Southampton as a second class passenger (ticket number 244373, £13). Williams was a squash racquets player. According to contemporary reports.    He was travelling to New York to defend his title.

Williams told reporters that he had left the squash racquet court at 10.30 p.m. and had gone to the smoking room. When he heard the crash he rushed out and saw the iceberg which he said rose a hundred feet above the deck. The iceberg broke up amidships and drifted away.

Williams said he jumped as far as he could from the side of the Boat Deck on the starboard side. He added that the boat he had to stand in water up to his knees in the boat that finally picked him up.

As he is not among the known survivors of boat A or B that match this description it is more likely that he got into lifeboat 14 when it was lowered from the deck (1).

He did make it to the tournament and defeated Standing, thus keeping the World title for England another year. But in 1913, his squash partner Jock Soutar from Philadelphia defeated Williams and held the title of the first American World Champion from 1913 to 1929.

            Charles Williams had moved his family to Chicago and continued to practice and complete with Soutar until he retained the World Title in 1929 to his death in 1935.  

His obituary in the Chicago Daily News was very short with no mention of his survival from the Titanic nor of his career title. Charles Eugene Williams was a very private celebrity.

Chicago Daily News  Williams—Charles Williams passed away Oct. 27, beloved husband of Lois Williams, fond father of Eugene, Ninian, John, Dorothy, Jean and Hilda. Funeral services Wed., Oct. 30th, at 2 pm, from residence, 5524 Lakewood av. Interment Rosehill cemetery.

Chicago Daily News, Tuesday, October 29, 1935, p. 27, c. 6:

“I have his obituary (the more extensive family one) and the spoon he had in his pocket when he was rescued,” Angie said. “My mother-in-law, that’s Dorothy, his daughter, gave it to me.”

Antonopoulos and her children’s ancestor are now the second Colorado link to the Titanic. They have many family stories about their great-great grandfather, that they can show documents and articles of his most public life events.

There is no evidence that Williams or his family went to the Titanic Survivors Reunion in 1931 or ever donated to the Titanic memorial in Washington, D.C. which was dedicated in  (Insert photo of Titanic Memorial)

Both of those projects were lead by the efforts of Margaret Brown. She spearheaded the fundraising to help the victims while in the lifeboat #3, on the Carpathia, and for years after she left New York. She was a very public person.

Charles Eugene Williams was a private man.  Only his family members can tell facts about his life after being one of 700 survivors of the famous ship. How did he cope with the memories, the death of his friends or shipmates, or even the fear of getting back on a ship?

On April 12, 2012, when Hollywood and the media play up the 100^th Anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic, remember it wasn’t a fictional story; 1500 people died, only 710 survived, and their stories continue to fascinate and haunt us the living.  Every person has a story.

The Titanic was the first memorable tragedy in April 12, 1912.

What will we remember about the people of the Oklahoma bombing 4/19/95?

Or Columbine High School shooting, 4/20/99? (1152 words) 

Free Education Boarding School

Two women stood up from the student desks in my classroom when I entered on my first day of teaching at SHS.

“Hi, I’m Jeri and this is Rhonda. We are your self-appointed welcoming committee and orientation guides for teaching at this Federal boarding school for Indians,” Jeri gushed, almost in one breath.

 Without pause Rhonda pumped my hand and asked, “Are you Cherokee?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much blood?”

  “My CDIB card says quarter, but my dad’s says. . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we know all about that untruth,” Jeri interrupted.

   Rhonda continued her drill, “Can you speak Cherokee?”

   “Only cuss words.”

   “That’s all you need to know around here,” Jeri said with a smile as she pushed me into a seat. “No one is allowed to speak any other language than English, especially not the kids.”

    “Why not?’ I questioned.

    Both of them rolled their eyes. “Because this is a Federal school, no one speaks all the languages.” Rhonda counted them off. “We have mostly Cherokees, more Seminoles. . .”

    “From Florida.” Jeri interrupted.

    “. . . some Creek, Osage, Pawnee, Chickasaw, . . .”

    “Pawnee. Oh, you already said that.”

    “and of course, Apache and one or two from other tribes,” Rhonda finished, taking a big breath.

    “It is BEST to have everyone speaking only English,” her friend stressed.

    I agreed, not knowing they were being sarcastic, “That would cause a hugh discipline problem, wouldn’t it?”

    They stared at me in silence until Rhonda spoke with exaggerated emphasis. “There are no discipline problems here at SHS,”

    “This is a boarding school. They have to live here; it is their home away from home. These kids are sent here by their parents or the law. If they misbehave, in the dorms, on the campus or in the classroom, the administration sends them packing.”

    “Wait,” I said anxiously. “Do we have time for this now? Where are the students? Why are the halls empty? When do we start classes? After six years of teaching, I’ve never started a school year this way.”

    “Well, sister. You’ve never taught at a Federal boarding school before. Get ready for a lot of differences,” Rhonda said. “We do things the Federal way around here.

     “Besides not being allowed to speak their 1^st language, these kids are ‘not allowed to wear, display in their rooms or be in possession of any tribal or cultural symbols.’”

      “What!” I was appalled. “Where is all this written?”

     Jeri ignored me and continued, “Plus, they cannot follow any tribal customs while here at SHS, such as: no medicine man, good or evil; no homemade herbal medicines, no ceremonies, no contests or challenges and no tribal foods, homemade or made here.” She paused, looked at Rhonda. “Am I forgetting any thing?”

      She laughed and said, “Probably. I can’t think of all the rules either. At least they can grow their hair long, and wear regular clothes, not military uniforms, like in the old days.” They both looked at me impassively and said, “You will learn the other rules each day.”

      Stunned silent, I did not speak for many seconds before saying slowly, “So why do they agree to come here?”

      “As we said before, parents send them or they get in trouble with the law, and the judge gives them a choice, ‘go to school or go to jail.’” Jeri was quick to answer.

      “Think about it, Betsy. These kids get three free meals a day, a room with a bed for just them, free, away from a troubled or poverty-stricken lifestyle, or freedom from abusive family members. Maybe for some, a better place to be than home or jail. And the best perk of all, they get a chance at an excellent American education—for free.”

        Saying that, these two teachers became my best friends for life at SHS. Finally I understood. This Boarding school was a sad joke that the Federal government was playing on the Indians. They would get all this “free” stuff, but at such a high cost—their culture, their ancestral beliefs, their language, their free will—and they would never realize what they were giving up.

       After four years there I never did read Dante’s inferno to my Indian students, but I believe they would have understood his famous quote about entering Hell, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

Squash Champion Survives Titanic 100 years ago

“Champion at Racquets Lost”

London, April 17---Among the Titanic’s passengers was Charles Williams,

 The professional racquet champion of the world who was on his way

to New York to play Standing, the American champion for a stake

 of $5,000.

[BY CABLE TO THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE]

Published in the Chicago Tribune, Thursday, April 18, 1912:

[The racquets champ survived; he died in Chicago in 1935.]

        Charles Eugene Williams was one of 700 survivors of the RMS Titanic on April 14, 1912.  Lesser known than Margaret “Molly” Brown, Bruce Ismay, or even Lady Astor for their actions during the tragedy, Williams was a World Champion racquets player who rarely spoke about the event, but the sinking of the English ship forever overshadowed his life.

          As the family and fans around the world prepare for the 100^th Anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic on April 14, more stories about the lives of the survivors are being published. One Grand Junction family is finding out more about their ancestor who was a private champion.

Angie Antonopoulos, a local beautician, was watching the advertisement for the remake of the new 3-D Titanic film presentation of the fictitious story of Rose and Jack on the ship Academy Awards party when she casually mentioned, “My great-great grandfather was on the Titanic.

“He is my children’s grandfather, really, not mine. His name was Charles Eugene Williams. I only know a little.”

That little was enough to start an Internet search that lead to documents and articles that clarified the story of Charles Williams’ escape from death and his career after the ship went down.

More facts pieced together a better idea of  his personal survival story. The ship’s booking records were merged into one “list of the Titanic survivors” website which included the lifeboats records and personal interviews that were conducted on the rescue ship The Carpathia.

Twenty-three-year Charles Eugene Williams born in Harrow, England, was listed as a “Sportsman” on the list of passengers, and he wound up in lifeboat #14.

It was while he was on the Carpathia being interviewed for the records that he heard that the London newspaper had sent the above telegram of his death. He quickly sent his reply:

            After hearing this, Angie smiled and said, “Yes, we knew he played rackets. He was something of a champion.”

He was more than “something of champion.” Born and raised in England, he graduated from Harrow, one of the oldest schools in the country. While the squash racquets coach there, he turned professional, and became the World Champion in 1911 and 1912.  

The sport of squash racquets was in its infancy, not a lot of money nor notoriety, but the World title was important enough for recognition in England, so Williams was traveling to New York to defend his title from the American champ George Standing.

From an article in the , dated April 20, 1912:

Mr. Charles Eugene Williams from Harrow, England, boarded the Titanic at Southampton as a second class passenger (ticket number 244373, £13). Williams was a squash racquets player. According to contemporary reports.    He was travelling to New York to defend his title.

Williams told reporters that he had left the squash racquet court at 10.30 p.m. and had gone to the smoking room. When he heard the crash he rushed out and saw the iceberg which he said rose a hundred feet above the deck. The iceberg broke up amidships and drifted away.

Williams said he jumped as far as he could from the side of the Boat Deck on the starboard side. He added that the boat he had to stand in water up to his knees in the boat that finally picked him up.

As he is not among the known survivors of boat A or B that match this description it is more likely that he got into lifeboat 14 when it was lowered from the deck (1).

He did make it to the tournament and defeated Standing, thus keeping the World title for England another year. But in 1913, his squash partner Jock Soutar from Philladelphia defeated Williams and held the title of the first American World Champion from 1913 to 1929.

            Charles Williams had moved his family to Chicago and continued to practice and complete with Soutar until he retained the World Title in 1929 to his death in 1935.  

His obituary in the Chicago Daily News was very short with no mention of his survival from the Titanic nor of his career title. Charles Eugene Williams was a very private celebrity.

“I have his obituary (the more extensive family one) and the spoon he had in his pocket when he was rescued,” Angie said. “My mother-in-law, that’s Dorothy, his daughter, gave it to me.”

Antonopoulos and her children’s ancestor are now the second Colorado link to the Titanic. They have many family stories about their great-great grandfather, but now they can show the documents and articles of his most public events.

There is no evidence that Williams or his family went to the Titanic Survivors Reunion in 1931 or ever donated to the Titanic memorial in Washington, D.C. which was dedicated in  (Insert photo of Titanic Memorial) Both of those projects were lead by the efforts of Margaret Brown. She spearheaded the fundraising to help the victims while in the lifeboat #3, on the Carpathia, and for years after she left New York. She was a very public person.

Charles Eugene Williams was a private man.  Only his family members can tell facts about his family life after being one of 700 survivors of the famous ship. How did he cope with the memories, the death of his friends or shipmates, or even the fear of getting back on a ship?

On April 12, 2012, when Hollywood and the media play up the 100^th Anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic, remember it wasn’t a fictional story; 1500 people died, only 710 survived, and their stories continue to fascinate and haunt us the living.

The Titanic was the first memorable tragedy in April 12, 1912.

What will we remember about the people of the Oklahoma bombing 4/19/95?

Or Columbine High School shooting, 4/20/99?

Mystery Man -- Charles Eugene Williams

Charles Eugene Williams, the name unfamiliar to me in the beginning, is now becoming "the mystery man" in my life.
        In February while attending the Oscar Party at the Double Tree Hotel, everyone was hushed and silent during the commercial for the coming remake Titanic in 3-D. Strangers surrounded me, yet we were all fascinated by the familiar scenes from the blockbuster film that would be released just in time for the 100th anniversary of the tragedy. As the music rose and faded away at the end of the ad, a single voice to my left spoke earnestly but softly, "My great-great grandfather survived the sinking of the Titanic." I heard that much clearly before other voices clamored over hers. She wasn't speaking to me, but to another person between us, but her words grabbed my attention. Here was a story, I wanted to know more.

Comparison Prompt: Deep in my Hope Chest

This week Write On Edge asked me to write about a time I found myself my comparing self, unfavorably, with someone else, to focus on the emotions involved and the outcome of your comparison, using 400 words.

When I was in my twenties, I dug deep into the depths of my cedar chest, just like every girl of my generation had. My daughter laughed when I explained why it was called a “hope” chest, “Young girls were expected to make and gather items that we would hope to use in our new home when we got married.”

We unpacked dozens of embroidered pillowcases and table linens that my mother and grandmother had forced me stitch. I pulled out my wedding veil and honeymoon dress and coat neatly folded on top of the many boxes of photographs. Underneath the last box I turned over a cheap reprint of Norman Rockwell’s “Girl at the Mirror.” At that moment I felt the air punched out of me; it so symbolized my self-reflection of how I felt when younger.

I grew up in a small town where girls were given the conflicting, unrealistic role movie and TV models of either sexual Marilyn Monroe or bikini-clad Goldie Hawn. Thus, putting my awkward 14 year-old-ego in conflict with the “always perfect hair and makeup movie stars” that I idolized.

Running around the hills of Oklahoma I was a tomboy who didn’t even wear makeup or know the reality of Hollywood. I just wanted to be admired and loved, confident and posed. So I would gaze into the magazine pictures then search the mirror for any signs of change in my looks or confidence.

Each time I would be pulled away from all that wishing and dreaming to do my chores or school work, I would say to myself, “I bet Jane Russell never had to feed the pigs and calves.” Or “I bet Judy Garland or Petula Clark never had a bad hair day when they were singing.” Finally I became too busy with my friends, who admired me, my sweetheart who loved me, and my career which gave me confidence that I forgot the “Girl at the Mirror.”

But the Rockwell print brought back all my insecurities of adolescence. That was what I thought I hoped to be, and I had packed away my wishes and dreams deep in my hope chest when I started to become the real me.

(P.S. I’m still working on the poise.) 

TASTY Recipe Club invitees--are you out there?

             As of this date I have not heard back from anyone about the Tasty recipe club donation I was sent last week. So if you are the 20 people I sent the club invite to, hurry up and send me a recipe or regrets. I'm anxious to share to talk about food.

Recipe Club out of the blue

Hi, I'm sending you my favorite recipe as per requested. 

My family loves my carrot cookies, and it was my dad's favorite cookie as well.

These are nothing like carrot cake at all, so don't moan and groan if you are not a carrot cake person.

It's more like a sugar cookie with carrots in it. This is a quick dessert that I have to make several times a year: January for my husband's birthday; February for Valentine; March for St. Patrick's Day (don't add green food coloring, it looks gross. I know from experience); April for Easter; May for our anniversary; in the summer months I don't bake; so come the fall, my husband grumbles that I haven't made Carrot Cookies in "forever," so I have to bake them for the holidays.

CARROT COOKIES from Brenda Evers' mom's recipe.

1 c shortening

1 c sugar

2 beaten eggs

2 c flour

1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 c mashed cooked carrots (more if you really like carrots)

3/4 c chopped nuts (we always use pecans because I like them the best)

Mix everything thoroughly in this order or any way you like to put them in.

Use a melon scoop or an ice cream scoop to drop the batter on greased cookies sheet.

Bake at 350 degrees until brown on edges. Because we live in Colorado high altitude, it takes about 18-20 minutes.

      You may have to vary that time.

Cool and ice with Orange icing:

1/2 box XXX (powdered) sugar

1 Tbsp butter

1 Tbsp grated orange rind (opt.) 

Enough orange juice to mix all ingredients into a smooth creamy consistency.

The frosting is optional (in my mind, but my husband will not eat as many if there is no frosting), so your choice.

I put on a light spread of the orange icing, but if I leave out the left over frosting, my husband double dips his cookies in it.

Enjoy for two or three days; after that they begin to take a turn in taste. I never have to worry about that. In two days they are gone.

Hope you like them.

Something Broken Prompt? Glass memories

A glass shattering crash woke us. My heart knew what had broken, but I prayed my children weren’t hurt. On the hard vinyl floor In their bedroom I saw my treasured Gone With the Wind lamp of Fenton glass destroyed beyond repair.

The children looked okay, no cuts or blood.  Their faces frozen in disbelieve and fear of what I would say or do. My seven-year-old daughter knew the importance of that lamp to me. The 14-month-old stood balanced with one hand on the side of the dresser, his other hand still held the cord that pulled the lamp down.

As though trapped in a freeze frame home movie, no one spoke or moved until my husband stepped behind me asked, “Is everyone ok?” I dropped to my knees, crying as I tried to gather each glass sliver. With each piece of the distinctive yellow roses design that had graced the globes, I would sob harder. Rebecca tried to comfort me, hugging me and saying, “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t cry. It will be okay.”

Baby boy L.J. screwed up his face and wailed with gigantic drops falling off his chin until his dad stepped in, scooped him up, and soothed him while taking both kids to the other bedroom.

I couldn’t stop my flood of emotions or tears. This lamp was my first wedding shower gift. It was the only object I had left from my first marriage. We were childhood sweethearts, wed before high school graduation. We had this lamp in our first home; we took it wherever he was stationed in the Army. When I moved back to my parents’ home, it was my light as I waited when he went to Viet Nam and he never came home to see his new born daughter.

Consumed with memories, I didn’t realize that my new husband of three years was back in the room until he made one long sweep of a broom readying all the glass shards for the trash can.

“No, no. Don’t do that. They’re mine. That’s all I have left!” I yelled and cupped my arms and hands around the lamp remains as I huddled over them with my entire body.

Byron took my hands away and pulled me up into his arms. He held me close and kept repeating until his words broke through, “Brenda, it’s gone. The lamp is gone. You can’t put it back together again. I’m sorry. L.J.’s sorry. He didn’t mean to do it. We’ll get you another one, I promise. Just like this one.”

 “ You can’t get me another one just like this one. It’s gone. Ronnie’s gone. I can’t get him back. He’s never coming back,” I moaned at him.

“I know. And I can’t bring him back either. No body can. But you’ve got Rebecca, and you will never forget Ronnie. Now you have L.J. and me who love you, and you will have another lamp to remind you of all of us.”

REMEMB(RED) writing prompt "Rainy night in Dusseldorf"

It was a rainy night in Dusseldorf.  My first night, I smiled. I lifted my hand outside the edge of the umbrella and waved my fingers in the light mist. No one was here to greet me; no one knew that I had caught a plane and left the USA early this morning. I was happily, deliriously free—just me, myself and I. Where was I going? What was I going to do? I don’t know and I don’t care. My future was beginning now.

            Fearless, Teresa walked down the block away from the hotel she had chosen from airport advertisements. She didn’t know the language, the locale, or the landmarks. Why had she bought a ticket to here? Why not, she answered herself. I have never thought of coming to Dusseldorf, so no one—family or friends would think of looking here.

           

            The rain was coming stronger covering her footprints just as she had covered her tracks as best as she could: withdrawing half of her retirement annuity in her individual checking account, changing it to buy her ticket, and two pieces of technology—a disposable cell phone and an electronic translator device. Teresa had signed up with a tour group that flew to Frankfort, but when they landed she slipped away to be alone. She was traveling solo to wherever she wanted to go.

She had grown accustomed to being alone after the kids grew up, moved to other states and rarely visited or called. Teresa was too busy to be afraid when she was working, but after she became unable to work the long hours she retired, ready to travel and see the world, her kids and grandkids, but Jim did not want to travel with her.   He was happy to stay home, up at his cabin or hunting seven months out of the year. He had told her, “It’s fine if you want to travel on your own. Go, fly, see the kids.”

I stopped my thoughts to glance and enjoy the foreign scene before me.  Various street signs shimmered in a language I couldn’t read or pronounce. The few people passing me gave weak smiles of hospitality as they passed. I smiled back, then I felt something trailing down my cheek. I reached up my hand. Startled, I realized it’s my tears.  (396 words)

Classic Oscar Party

To all my other friends who laughed when I said, "I'm going to an Oscar Party," see what you missed:
Great fun, great friends and glamorous people here in Western Colorado.

A little milk in your coffee?

It was the liquor of choice for all adults in the 1950s, but not for children. We were dirt poor farm folks, so grown-ups drank coffee, and children had to drink fresh-from-the-cow, right-from-the-bucket, lukewarm whole milk at every meal. Yuck.

         I suffered through years of the icky stuff three times a day with little relief until I hit the wise age of five. Sitting across the table, I noticed my Dad refilling his third mug of black coffee. He learned over to refill Mom’s empty china cup. She stopped him, “Just a touch, and then hand me the cream and sugar.”

My mother stirred in spoon after spoon, after spoon, after spoon of sugar. When she poured cream to the rim, I held my breath waiting to the white caramel liquid spill over the edge of the too full cup.

 She was an experienced pro, not a drop fell off the spoon or in the saucer as she slowly motioned her spoon round and round. With perfect balance, the full cup touched her pursed lips as she sipped delicately.

“Mommy, can I have a drink of your coffee?”

“’May I have?’” she corrected me automatically.

“May I?” I batted my big brown eyes slowly and looked at her hopefully.

“Oh, baby girl, you are too young. It will stunt your growth,” she sighed at me.

“Please, Mommy. I like your coffee. It’s pretty and doesn’t smell bad, like Daddy’s. I won’t drink much.”

“Your eyes will turn brown if you drink coffee.”

“But Mommy, my eyes are already brown.”

She let me taste the elixir of the adults, my mommy’s form of coffee—sugary cream with a hint of mocha. I asked for more, but the gods giveth and taketh away. Mommy had crossed the invisible line of keeping me on plain milk. Now that I had sipped, I was not going back quietly.

Writing Advice

Stumbled across great advice hidden in my piles of writing conference notes:

“You don’t have to be great,

  You don’t have to be bad,

   You just have to be consistent,

    and stable, reliable and just a tad bit

    of unforgettable.”

Great Oscar Party last night; No matter what Hollywood says

Here in our little sleepy town we had a great time at Laura's seventh annual Oscar Party.
Each year it changes where it's held, who comes and who wins.

This morning the media critics claim "boring,""drowning in old jokes," etc. But for 26 of us local fans who dressed in suits and formal gowns, walked down our little red carpet into the Double Tree lounge,  we enjoyed every minute of the show.  Thanks to Laura, her daughter Amelia, and the River City Singles Club.

 I will tell more and post pictures later.

The Raven movie is coming in April

Oscar Weekend--Are you ready?

It's that time again--Academy Awards presented Sunday Night!

I'm excited but not as anxious as in the past. Since they have made so many changes from moving the presentation date (March to February),  to doubling the number of categories and nominees in each category, the winners and the show have become cluttered and political in so many ways.

BUT, the Oscar Show is always a good reason to party while watching the movie stars walking the red carpet, presenting the awards, accepting the awards and enjoying the master of ceremonies.
This year BILLIE CRYSTAL is BACK! He is bound to be better than last year's presentors. Who were they any way? I forget.

Kids Aid, Founder and Volunteer

Local business man Mike Berry is constantly smiling when talking about his second job, a volunteer occupation, overseeing Kids Aid, a non-profit organization in Mesa County.

Few people recognize that particular title; they just know about the “Backpack program,” where hungry students are provided with backpacks of food donations, so that they would have food over the weekend.

Even fewer people realize that this nine-year-old program was started by a family meeting around the Berry’s dinning room table.  

He explained, “One October morning in 2003, my wife and I had walked our daughter to her 1^st grade class. . .when a little girl came running across the playground, crying. We stopped her and asked what was wrong. Her answer pierced our hearts.

“I’m cold. I’m hungry. . . “

This one little girl’s plea touched Mike, wife Debbie and their son and daughter’s hearts, but how could they help? 

After four years of researching and questioning about childhood hunger in Mesa County, the Berry family came up with a plan. Their daughter Kayla named it, the Feeding Friends Backpack program.

Mike and Debbie established the non-profit Kids Aid to run it.

And how it has grown.

They started with a trial program at Orchard Avenue Elementary. We fed 10 kids for the final 10 weeks of the 2007-2008 school year. By the next fall we had five schools and 156 kids,

This simple but revolutionary plan has grown into a hometown organization of award-winning proportions.

What started as a way to help hungry children in our local schools is now a Nationally recognized non-profit organization run by volunteers by individual and business donations of food, equipment and money.