Summer '56

         I was sharing my summer after graduation with Taylor - just comparing notes on the shock of moving from the High School world to the "adult world,"   Roger happened to be listening and commented." I never heard that story before."  Humm how could that happen?  
        As I pondered that comment afterwards, I realized that growing up with one's parents doesn't necessarily mean we know all about them.  In recent days I have been confronted over and over about the Heritage we leave behind.  So I hope to share stories and experiences from my many years of life that will help those who come behind develop a sense of purpose that is all their own.  So here goes--

         I graduated from Mitchell High School in Nebraska at the age of sixteen in 1956.  I had one singular purpose, to become a teacher.  Being the second of six children there was no money for college so we searched for a way and found it.  My brother, Don, sold a horse and paid for Summer School at Scottsbluff Junior College.  It was the last year that a person could take twelve hours of teaching classes and be certified to teach in a small country school.  So I drove the 10 miles to Scottsbluff in my Mother's car - leaving the house at 6:30 to take classes from 7Am until Noon.
In the afternoon, I studied until 4:00 (sometimes studying meant reading and evaluating children's book to my little brother and sister and their friends under the big tree in our backyard.)
      At 4:00 I reported for duty at the drive-inn café a few blocks from the house where I worked until close at Midnight.  Then it was clean-up for at least and hour, walk the few blocks home, crawl in bed which I shared with little sister, Linda.  She would say "Joanie" but her little arm around me neck and her knees in my back where we slept until 6 AM and I started this all over again.
     At the end of the summer, I interviewed for a job west of Kimball, Nebraska. The board member was concerned about my age but when he asked what I would do if I had a child come to my classroom who could only speak Spanish what would I do.  I said, "Well, I took a year of Spanish in High School."  What I didn't tell him was all I could do was count!!!  He gave me the job!
       My Dad drove me eighty miles to my new home and school, mumbling all the way that he'd have to come get me before the week was over.  I had to prove him wrong!  And I did!  But that is another story!







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