Got a story to tell? We’re here for you. C’mon, people, it’s getting a little thin! We need submissions to the “Everybody Has a Story” feature — where you get to tell your own story in your own words.
We’ve had cross-country treks, spelunking expeditions, battles with big fires and big fish, adoption sagas and spiritual solos. We’ve had fond memories of neighborhoods in the good (and awful) old days, as well as recent news.
We must be in a post-holiday slump, because submissions are down to a trickle. Send us your stories — as long as they’re true, original and relatively brief (800 words). Relevant photos, especially digital ones, are welcome, too.
Got questions? Call Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525. Got a story? Send it to neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver, WA 98666.
Got a story to tell? We're here for you. C'mon, people, it's getting a little thin! We need submissions to the "Everybody Has a Story" feature -- where you get to tell your own story in your own words.
We've had cross-country treks, spelunking expeditions, battles with big fires and big fish, adoption sagas and spiritual solos. We've had fond memories of neighborhoods in the good (and awful) old days, as well as recent news.
We must be in a post-holiday slump, because submissions are down to a trickle. Send us your stories -- as long as they're true, original and relatively brief (800 words). Relevant photos, especially digital ones, are welcome, too.
Got questions? Call Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525. Got a story? Send it to neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver, WA 98666.
Growing up, I moved many times. In Aberdeen, the first house I remember was on Alder Street. That’s where I lived when Dad taught me to tell time and print my name. Before Christmas, Dad would help me write my letter to Santa. Then, for days after, we would listen to the radio waiting for Santa to come on the air from the North Pole. I would hear the blustery sound of the wind as the connection was made and then — there was Santa’s voice. It was so exciting to finally hear him say, “I have a letter from little Carol Ann Brown.”
We moved twice more before I started school. Then, in second grade, we moved to my dad’s home state of Wyoming. I went to a one-room school house. First- through third-graders were on one side of the room and fourth through sixth were on the other. My Aunt Jo was cafeteria cook. I remember being served food that seemed unusual to me: stewed tomatoes and mashed potatoes with no butter or gravy.
I did not like it there. More importantly, neither did my mom. She was seven months’ pregnant and said there was no way she was going to be so far from a doctor and hospital. So back we went to Aberdeen and I was right back in my comfort zone with my second-grade class and teacher, Miss Blunt.
In third grade, we moved again. When Mom took me to another new school, I was so unhappy I was in tears. The teacher, Miss Welk, seemed stern and unsmiling. For three days I sat in the corner by myself and cried. She offered no comfort.
My family moved again, thankfully for the last time, when I was in sixth grade. I was sad to leave my friends and move to the neighboring town of Hoquiam.
Once again, I had to start all over. Not easy for a shy girl to do.
I had become very happy at Washington Grade School after I quit crying. I had my first “boyfriend,” Bruce, who gave me a ride home on his bike. In sixth grade, I sat at the back of the room by the door. I had my first “job.” The principal would open the door and wiggle his finger for me to come to the office to help answer phones or count and roll coins.
Mr. Roberts was my fifth-grade teacher. He was a handsome blue-eyed blond and my first male teacher. I had a crush on him and unbelievably, I was teacher’s pet. The first time I ever heard my voice on a tape recorder was in his class. All the kids got to take a turn singing a song and then he played them back for us. When my rendition of “Jingle Bells” was playing, another teacher entered the room, listened for a few seconds and then with a pained look on her face, asked Mr. Roberts, “Who is that?” Mr. Roberts said, “It’s Carol.” I now understood why my mom never let me sing at home! I knew I sounded horrible!
But then there was my fourth-grade teacher, Miss Nordgren. She was a kindly, gentle, soft-spoken woman — a positive change from Miss Welk.
There was one very large girl in the class, Judy. And there were two thin girls, Joann and me. Miss Nordgren decided Judy would be better if she lost some weight and Joann and me if we gained some weight. So each day she had Judy get up in front of the class and share when she had not eaten something that she wanted to eat. Joann and I had to tell what we had eaten the previous day. Miss Nordgren commended our efforts.
I didn’t think much of it. But when I told my mom about it, she was not happy. She said, “There’s nothing wrong with your size, you are perfectly healthy!”
Mom called the doctor and made an appointment for me to have a physical. She explained to the doctor why she was doing this midyear, even though I’d already had my normal physical. He looked at my mom, who was about 5 foot 7 and 125 pounds, and he asked about Dad’s size. Mom said, “Five-six and 135 pounds.”
The doctor left the room. He came back with a note to give to Miss Nordgren. I begged my mom not to make me give it to her. Mom relented, but she talked to the teacher and none of us had to share with the class what we were eating anymore.
I still have that note and after all these years, I still chuckle when I read it. “Dear Miss Nordgren, You can’t make St. Bernards out of Fox Terriers. M.F. Fuller, M.D.”
