One of the earliest memories as a student at East Side Elementary School in Benton (now named for my principal, Angie Grant) was being told how we could protect ourselves in case of an atomic bomb blast. The old â€śduck and coverâ€ť jingle still resounds in my head as well as remembering how we were expected to hunker under our desks and get into a little ball.
Later, we learned in the event of a tornado bearing down on our school we should rush to the hallway and assume the same position, but â€śhold onto the wallâ€ť and we would all be safe.
And they named the baby John ... Marsha ... Billy ... Joan ... Henry ... Ellen ...
Whatever moniker is chosen, it sets the tone for the rest of the child's life. And unless drastic measures are taken, it's as permanent as the color of one's eyes.
Some people love their names; others hate them. Most parents put some thought into the naming process, but I have to wonder sometimes whatever could they have been thinking when I come across something that surely has caused the kid grief throughout a lifetime.
First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt is credited with having this to say about housework: "Personally, I never devote more than 15 minutes a day to it."
I consider the statement a mark of her intelligence and am surprised that she actually would have spent even that much time on such menial activity.
Few people choose housework as a form of recreation. One notable exception would have been my late mother who in her prime could get absolutely exhilarated anything that0 needed the spit-and-polish treatment.