Kathryn Linman

November 22, 1963

PHOTO: Dianne's school picture, kindergarten 1959-60

When I was in kindergarten every Friday my class would walk down the hall to the other kindergarten classroom where Mrs. Kathryn Linman was the teacher. She would play the piano and we would all sing for an hour or so. 

PHOTO: Mrs. Linman's kindergarten class going on a train ride

PHOTO; Mrs. Linman's kindergarten class 1952

This is a photo of a page from a book of Bangor history. That's Mrs. Linman leading her class in the Memorial Day parade in Bangor, Michigan.

PHOTO: Dianne's school picture, 4th grade 1963-64

At some point, Mrs. Linman started teaching 4th grade instead of kindergarten. She was my teacher the first half of the year, before we moved to Hartford in the middle of the school year.  Mrs. Linman was a delightful person, and I stayed in touch with her through the years. When I graduated from Hartford High School, Mrs. Linman sent me a graduation gift -- a set of blue linen napkins, for my hope chest. (I didn't have a hope chest, but I did have a cedar chest my grandmother had given me. That's where I put the napkins.) Mrs. Linman was the person who introduced me to the book Little Lord Fauntleroy, which is my favorite book of all time. I was in Mrs. Linman's 4th grade classroom on November 22, 1963.

We were in school when President Kennedy was shot. They didn't really tell us what had happened, but they called the teachers into a meeting and told them. They let school out early and sent us all home. When I got home I found out what had happened. The main thing I remember was that all the grown-ups sat in front of the TV and cried for three days. The other detail I remember was when they showed John John saluting the coffin at the funeral. They showed it on TV over and over again.

And I remember Walter Kronkite making the official announcement that the President was dead.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6PXORQE5-CY

Here is a picture of Kathryn Linman after she was retired. She was on a trip to Alaska, and this picture was taken by a photographer for the National Geographic magazine. The picture appeared in the April 1969 issue of the magazine.

My First Date

 My first date

The first 'date' I ever went on was a hayride with the youth group of the Federated Church in Hartford, Michigan. I was 12 years old. I was in 7th grade. The boy who invited me was Steve MacGowan. He was in 8th grade. Everybody called him “Toad” — I don’t know where that nickname came from. He was the first boy I ever kissed. That happened on a school bus on the way to a football game in another town. (Sometimes the school ran a “fan bus” to away games.) The main thing I remember about that kiss was that Steve had braces on his teeth, top and bottom. (What we used to call "railroad tracks") He was a nice boy, from a nice family. I guess you could say he was my first boyfriend. 

This is the picture from his obituary. He died in 2012. I don't know his cause of death.

In 8th grade I started "going steady" with a boy named Jim Harmon. He was over six feet tall -- I always thought we must look like Mutt and Jeff. (Remember them?)

Jim spent a lot of time at my house. My mom liked him, so after a while he got to be considered kind of part of the family. My family even went to visit his family one Sunday afternoon. Mom liked his parents, too. (Much different than Mom's attitude toward any other boy I ever dated, or even my girl friends. She never liked any of my friends.) Jim even came to our house to visit once in a while after we stopped going together. The reason I broke up with him was that we went to a party one night and some guys got into a fistfight. Jim was one of them. I had found out by then that his family was sort of a 'street gang'. He had five siblings, and apparently they had some enemies. Even his mom and dad were part of the 'gang'. (No drugs or anything were involved, that I know of. At least I know that Jim didn't take drugs.) One time when Jim and I had gone to a movie, we were walking back to my house. There wasn't any sidewalk, so we were walking on the side of the road. All of a sudden Jim pushed me off the side of the road and I fell into the grass, and he jumped out of the road into the grass, just as a car passed by us. I was shocked when he told me that the person driving the car was one of his family's enemies and was actually trying to run over us. It was shortly after that when he got into the fistfight, and I just decided I didn't want to be part of that kind of lifestyle.

Coincidentally, the house where the fight took place was the home of my next boyfriend, Mike. He and I started dating in 9th grade and went steady for a couple years. I guess we would have ended up getting married if I had not been planning to go to college out of state. (Well, it wasn't exactly a 'plan' -- I ended up at a Christian college in Arkansas pretty much by default, as my mother had ruled out all the other colleges I wanted to consider. That's a long story for another day.) I didn't think it would be a good idea to try to carry on a long-distance relationship, so I actually broke up with Mike so he could date other girls our senior year. He did end up marrying the girl he dated that year, and as far as I can tell they have had a long and happy marriage. 

Scarlet Fever

 Scarlet Fever

When I was in 3rd grade I had scarlet fever. I had to stay in the house for 3 weeks. I remember my mother and the doctor were much more concerned about it than I was. And I don’t remember feeling very seriously ill, except for a sore throat.

The main thing I remember about it was that our apple trees blossomed while I was sick. We had two apple trees in our yard, and I wanted to climb them when they were in bloom. It seemed that it would be like sitting in the middle of a popcorn ball. I remember standing at the kitchen door and looking out the window at the trees and feeling sad because I couldn’t climb them. By the time I was well enough to leave the house, the blossoms were gone off the trees.

This picture shows where the kitchen door was (behind me in the photo). This was taken at Christmas. I had scarlet fever in the early spring -- April or May.

Uncle Ron and Uncle Pen

Uncle Ron and Uncle Pen

My uncle Ron was just 10 years older than me. He and my mom were very close, so he spent a lot of time at our house when I was a little girl. Uncle Ron could turn anything into a fun time. 

Everybody in my family sang a lot, but there are a couple of songs I especially associate with Uncle Ron. One of them is Uncle Pen. It’s a bluegrass song which I think was written and recorded by Bill Monroe. The only person I ever heard sing it in my childhood was Uncle Ron. I would sing harmony with him. “Late in the evenin’ about sundown, high on a hill and above the town, Uncle Pen played the fiddle, Lordy how it would ring! You could hear it talk, you could hear it sing.” (Hear is pronounced “hyear”) 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MeZPAQRl7TA&list=RDMeZPAQRl7TA&start_radio=1

The other song Uncle Ron sang was Peel Me a Nanner. “Peel me a ‘nanner, toss me a peanut, I’ll come swinging from a coconut tree. Peel me a ‘nanner, toss me a peanut… You sure made a monkey out of me!”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4IwGK7Jk73E&list=RD4IwGK7Jk73E&start_radio=1

Baptism

I don't have too many specific memories of the night I was baptized...

I was eleven or twelve years old at the time. 

It was during a "gospel meeting" (what the Baptists would call a Revival) where we had a guest minister who preached every night for a week. The preacher was Floyd Bonds. I believe the sermon that evening was titled Where Will You Spend Eternity? And the invitation song was "Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling." This was at the Watervliet Church of Christ.

I was there with my grandparents, Lester and Cleffie Burford. At that time my parents didn't attend church, but I always went to church with my grandparents, from as far back as I can remember. 

As I recall, the preacher and his wife were staying at my grandparents' house for the week. Or, at least they were there for supper one or more nights that week. I don't remember so much about Brother Bonds. (In the Church of Christ we don't use honorific titles for preachers -- everyone is 'brother' or 'sister' -- at least that's how it used to be. I don't know if it still is or not.) But I remember his wife, Jessie. She was one of those little energetic, perpetually cheerful women. (I'm sure we've all known one or two of them.) Just delightful to be around. 

I remember that after church that evening we went to the home of one of the church members for a party ("fellowship"). 

Well, the reason I thought about this today is that one of the first things I saw on Facebook this morning was a video of a young woman being baptized in a lake or river in Kentucky -- the old-fashioned way. And, much to my surprise, watching that video brought tears to my eyes. So I thought maybe I should pause a minute and reflect on why it affected me like that. 

This is not the video that I watched, but it's very similar. These are photos of my sister-in-law Polly being baptized in Paw Paw Lake by my uncle Morris Burford.

My baptism is not something I think about real often. It's one of those rites of passage that we all go through, those of us who grew up going to church. Yes, it was an important moment in my life. But my life was already steeped in Christianity, so to my mind it's not a particularly outstanding event -- not a matter of real conversion, turning away from a sinful life, or anything like that. It was just a step in the path that I was already on. And even though I was young, I had already figured out that my eternal salvation didn't depend on whether or not I was dunked underwater, or whether or not I was in the 'right' church. I already understood that God wasn't that narrow-minded, and judgment would encompass a much larger picture than that. God looks at the heart, not the church membership rolls.

*End of sermon.*

Well, I wasn't baptized in a lake or river. I was baptized in the baptistry of the church building.

This is not me. This is a Church of Christ baptistry. A lot of them have a scene painted in the background that is supposed to represent the Jordan River, where Jesus was baptized.

*I have this absolute gem among our family photos*

Puppy Love

 Puppy Love

In the first half of my fourth grade year in Bangor, there was a boy in my class who was hopelessly in love with me, for some reason. I wasn’t very nice to him, as I recall, but nothing would deter him. On the last school day before Christmas holidays, the teacher announced that my family was going to be moving to Hartford during the break and I wouldn’t be back in class the second half of the year. Poor Carl cried all day. 

I don’t think I tried to keep in touch with him at all after we moved to Hartford. But I do have his senior school portrait – don’t remember if he sent it to me in the mail or what. In the summer after we graduated high school, Carl asked me out for a date. I went with him to a restaurant for dinner, and I’ll be darned if he didn’t up and propose to me !! Bless his heart. 

Well, I was going out of state to college, so that gave me an excuse for turning him down. Actually, I had even broken up with my steady boyfriend for that reason. I didn’t want to try to maintain a long-distance relationship, and I didn’t plan to ever move back to Michigan. 

Believe it or not, I got another proposal that summer – from the boy who had been my steady boyfriend in junior high school. My mom liked him, and she would have liked for me to marry him instead of going to college. (Sometimes I wonder if she didn’t ask him to propose to me, for that very reason.)

Grandma and Papa Burford

 Grandma and Papa Burford

My most vivid memory of my Burford grandparents (my mother’s parents) is staying overnight at their house on Saturday nights and going to church with them on Sunday. We went to a little church several miles out in the country. It was a small congregation but we had great singing (no instruments because Church of Christ). It was a one-room building, the Sunday school classes were in the cement-block basement -- two classes, one for younger kids and one for teenagers. Papa always taught the teenagers' class, and he always taught the book of Acts. 

After church we usually spent the afternoon with some other church folks, either at my grandparents' house or at the other people's house, for a big dinner and then they would usually play cards until it was time to go back to church again for Sunday evening service.

Here are some pictures of some of the church folks I remember from way back then:

Albert (right) and Gertie (left) Brumley

Harmon and Myrl Parker

Herman and Dessie Bradford

Alma and Tom Hembree 

This poor old photograph got pretty beat up. The woman on the left is Pauline Yingling. She was my Sunday School teacher at Watervliet, until I got to junior high age and moved up to Papa's class.

(The woman on the right is Grandma Burford)

Hunting Lodge

When I was about 11 or 12 years old, a customer of my dad’s invited our family to come to a hunting lodge for a week with his family. (Dad was a sales engineer for a die cast metal products company.) The lodge was somewhere around the Detroit area, I think. The family’s name was Paterick (Jack and Polly). They had five children. I only remember one of their names – a girl called Libby. It was the first time I had ever heard of that nickname for the name Elizabeth. The main thing I remember from that week was riding snowmobiles through the woods. I don’t remember whether Dad and Mr. Paterick did any hunting at all while we were there. I’m pretty sure they had been hunting at that lodge before.

The other thing I remember about this event was that Mom threatened me and Rick to be sure to not get into a fight. He and I spent our entire childhood trying to kill each other, apparently. I don't remember if we got in a fight or not while we were at the hunting lodge. (I think we did, on the very last day. But I don't remember for sure.

I remember the last fight I ever had with Rick --

By that time, I was about 14 years old, and Rick was 12. He was taller than me, with longer arms and legs. And I remember that he got me kind of cornered in the little hallway by the front door of our house. I knew he was going to punch me in the face (which he had never done before). So I raised one leg and planted my foot right in the middle of his chest and shoved him back against the wall.

When he hit that wall, I could see in his eyes that he suddenly "came to" -- came out of his blind rage and realized what was happening. He just looked at me for a couple seconds, then dropped his arms and just walked away. That was the last time we ever fought. 

Recessive Gene

Continuing the timeline...

Recessive Gene

I had always thought I would have four children. Two boys and two girls, of course. Well, in the end, I got halfway there. And, in hindsight, it turned out just right.

One of the most joyful things in my life is that both of my sons were born with red hair. I was surprised the first time. The second time I was astonished. My dad was a redhead, and I felt like this was a great tribute to him. Of course, there is a red-hair gene on Keith’s side of the family, too. (Carrigan, and all that Irish genealogy, don’tcha know.) 

Still…

One of my favorite memories of Christopher growing up was the time he made me a very special birthday present. We had moved several times through the years, and a lot of our stuff was stored in sheds in various houses we lived in. A lot of it got ruined that way. One year for my birthday Christopher went into the shed and found my high school yearbooks. They were moldy and in pretty bad shape. He took the senior yearbook, cut some pictures out of the previous years’ books and glued them into the inside covers of the senior book, and gave that to me for a birthday present. It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever been given! 

When Christopher was still a toddler and learning his colors, he started correcting people when they would say something about his red hair. His reply: “It’s not red. It’s orange!” 

Once when we were at the health department to get his immunization, while waiting in the waiting room with Christopher in my lap, we were looking at one of his favorite books to pass the time. We had read it so many times that he had it memorized. So I was just turning the pages and he was saying the text for each page. There was a woman sitting across from us, and finally she asked, “How old is he?” I’m pretty sure she thought he was actually reading the book. I just looked her straight in the eye and said, “He’s two.” And I didn’t say anything else. 

One of my favorite memories of Casey growing up was the time he came home from pre-school and was telling me all about his day. He talked about playing on the playground with his friend Adam. He said they were climbing on the monkey bars. And then he told me they were walking on top of the monkey bars. Just as I was about to admonish him that it could be dangerous, he continued the story, telling about how they jumped from the top of the monkey bars… right OVER THE SCHOOL… Well, I never did quite figure out exactly when that tale crossed the line from truth into fiction. And that’s not the only time he ever did that. He was a great storyteller! 

Casey had an imaginary friend — a crab. One day he was calling out the living room window “Here, crabbie, crabbie, crabbie!” He continued talking to it, and after a while he hollered, “Get off that trash can, crabbie!” At bathtime that day he asked me if crabbie could take a bath with him. 

One day Casey's pre-school teacher pulled me aside one afternoon when I went to pick him up and said, "Did you know he can read?!" Well, it wasn't a surprise to me that he could read at age 4. I was reading when I was 4 years old, and both of my children were, too. I didn’t know that most 4-year-olds cannot read -- are not even supposed to be able to read at that age. Well, I did read to my boys a lot when they were babies, so maybe that helped. I had a good collection of children’s books.

Here’s a picture of one of my favorite memories of Casey. 

He is playing Boggle with his great-grandmother. He was three years old. (No, he couldn’t spell or write at the time. Apparently he didn’t know it.)

The Wedding

 The Wedding

During my college years I was in the choir and we were available to sing for free at the wedding of any present or former choir member. So we ended up singing at a LOT of weddings. Sometimes a few of us would form a quartet or small group to sing at someone’s wedding, too. By the time I got married — a year after I graduated, and one day after Keith graduated — I had seen just about every kind of wedding you could imagine. And my opinion was that they were all way too big, too formal, too complicated, and generally an occasion that made both bride and groom miserable — not to mention the bride’s parents who were paying for the lavish shindig. 

When it was my turn to plan my own wedding, Keith and I had been attending a little country church outside of Judsonia, Arkansas, where my best friend’s father was the preacher. That little community consisted of two or three extended families which comprised most of the congregation. We had our wedding there at the church. 

I bought a pattern and some fabric for my dress, and one of the church ladies made the dress for me. She didn’t charge me anything. I bought the veil.

Another one of the church ladies made the cake — again, for free — and some others brought flowers from their gardens to decorate the church. 

My parents paid for the bouquets for me and my maid of honor and the boutonnieres for Keith and his best man. Keith’s choir director performed the ceremony, and my choir director led congregational singing for the wedding music. (That congregation was full of really good singers, as are most Church of Christ congregations.) 

Keith and the best man wore tuxes that his choir used for concerts. I told my maid of honor to wear any kind of dress she wanted. 

The most expensive part of the whole thing was our rings, which we bought at a discount outlet. Altogether the whole wedding ended up costing about $150. 

It was a beautiful, sweet country church wedding. Several years later I saw a country wedding featured in a magazine, and it wasn’t even as nice as mine was. I had the perfect wedding.