Writing for the blog

I was told at the picnic that many of you readers don't contribute to the site because you find the writing so intimidatingly good...that you feel you are unable to write anything as good. I say "Hooey!" Anybody can put a few words together if it gives others moments of pleasure. It doesn't have to be grammatically correct, spelled right or whatever....as Nike says...'Just do it!'

All of you seem to think you don't have any memories worth writing about....not true, some little incident that you share may bring a spark of memory to others. That is what the blog is all about sharing memories and bringing back the good times we all had. Sure there was sadness, and hard times, and bad memories...but let's celebrate the good times by putting something on this blog that will make someone else smile with delight remembering when they too did or said or saw the same thing.

In these troubled times when we are all a lot older, all have health problems, or money worries or both, isn't it absolutely essential that now and then we make each other smile? Come on folks, you can do it...write something!

Happiness

Happiness, that's the word that comes to mind when thinking about being a Woodsdale Kid in the 1950's. There were so many friends, so much to do: flip baseball cards, read and trade comic books, play Indian ball, shoot baskets in by backyard or with a friend across the street, read books on the front porch swing, get excited as the days for the bookmobile's arrival approached, see Vincent Purpura's vegetable truck stop in front of our house.

Living at 30 Poplar Avenue from the 1950's to the summer of 1962 was one of the happiest times of my life. I'm still in touch with the now 96 yr old woman who lived with her husband and daughter in the other half of our duplex. Playing with the Quinn Kids two doors down. These and so many other memories are still fresh in my mind. I vividly recall crying when I heard we were moving to Los Angeles the summer before my senior year at Triadelphia. We might as well be moving to the moon. California seemed so far away.

For me, Woodsdale was the perfect place to grow up. I have not been back in almost 50 years and circumstances now preclude my doing so, but that's okay. I prefer to remember Woodsdale the way it was: Woodsdale School with its solid stone able to absorb all the laughter, tears, and learning that occurred within its structure. The building is gone, the memories aren't. Perhaps the passage of time has made my time in Woodsdale more idyllic than I remember. I hope not!

Stuart Rubinstein, Los Angeles, California

Just a Couple More New Zealand Stories

This photo was taken in Pago Pago where my seatmate and I had an hour layover on our flight to New Zealand. I thought it was humid in West Virginia, but in Samoa it was like someone throwing a wet blanket over you as you emerged from the plane. My seatmate, Sara, was a Kiwi
(not the fruit, the people prefer this designation to New Zealander) and had just run a marathon in London. We decided to have a look around the island and since the pilot had announced we had a whole hour, we headed up a mountain.

While enjoying the view, I looked down to see our plane slowly taxing away without us. Sara, a great runner, took off down the mountain, out onto the runway, stopped the plane and we got on with much embarassment, but to a standing ovation for Sara. I later stayed with her family on their deer farm in Napier, New Zealand....had a great time and yes they do actually farm deer.

While hitchhiking around the country having a  "look/see" as they say down under, I found the slang pretty strange. A nice man picked me up and gave me a ride to the next town. He started his conversation with, "Do you like gridiron?" I knew he meant American Football ( in NZ football is soccer) and though I am definitely NOT a sports fan, I thought I should be agreeable so said yes.
"What team do you support?", he asked. "I root for the Pittsburgh Steelers", I told him. The look of shock on his face was followed by the question, "The WHOLE TEAM??!!". Yes, I explained, "you can't root for just one of them!" Well, he looked at me very strangely and was very quiet the rest of our journey. As soon as possible, I went in a tea room (snack shop/bakery) and repeated the conversation to a friendly woman behind the counter. She laughed til tears rolled down her cheeks and then explained that in New Zealand "to root for" means to have sex with! From then on, I was often asked if I was that Yank who roots for the Steelers. NZ is a very small country with 3 million and 70 million sheep so word spreads quickly...but I denied that I was that very wild Yankee gal.