Mum (Enid Maude Hayden) was born in 1925; a teenager in World War II. This picture was taken before she started coloring her hair. At sixteen she worked as a "clippie" on the double-decker buses in London. Running up and down the bus stairs, punching tickets. She used to tell her brothers, Robin and Peter (Don was away at the war) "Who's got the best legs on the street and why have I?" Running up and down those stairs all day; no wonder! These were the times when London was being bombed, and she would take the train to London to meet some Yank she'd met and have to run home in the dark because of the lights out cerfew. They had a Morrison bed in the living room and she had to dash to it more than once - a steel cage contraption with a mattress inside. Often, as this picture shows, they used the top surface for a table.
Showing posts from 2013
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Originally published in Children magazine. What I Like Doing Best is Nothing! "What I like doing best," said Christopher Robin, "is doing nothing" "How do you do nothing?" asked Pooh after he had wondered for a long time. "Well, it's when people call out at you just as you're going off to do it, 'What are you going to do Christopher Robin?' and you say "Oh nothing' and then you go and do it" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "This is a nothing sort of thing that we're doing now." "Oh, I see," said Pooh again. "It means just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering." "Oh!" said Pooh. So that's what doing nothing is. Even back in 1928, when this Pooh story was written, the notion of letting children do nothing didn't last. When Christopher Robin prepares to go off to school he tells Pooh, "I'm not going to do nothin
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Will Geer's Theatricum Botanicum: Where a kid can meet Shakespeare under the trees "Registration for drama camp?" a young guy asks with a smile. I nod. "Over the bridge to the main stage." Over the bridge is a handwritten sign taped to an old post. Camp Registration is scrawled quite imperfectly with a felt tip marker. An arrow leads past another old bridge to a clearing, sur-rounded by trees and slightly dilapidated railings. Wrought iron, wooden and cement benches are placed about; dusty walkways promise to lead one and all astray. "This place is totally cool" Russell says, a trace of awe in his voice. The gardens are a bit overrun. A flagstone is missing here and there; the lawn chairs are mismatched, a rustic sign leads to Will's Shakespeare Garden where a bust, not of Shakespeare but of Will Geer, sits beyond the neglected arbor. I smile and tell my ten year old son I'm glad he likes it. I don't tell him I think the