Author: khforsythe

I am a lover of language. Read continually. Write often. I’ve had many excellent teachers—both formal and informal– through the years, who have helped improve my skills.

I learned to love books at Fulton Elementary. Mrs. Bragg sweetly greeted us when we entered the tiny library, the size of a modern walk-in closet. We started with those high-interest biographies: presidents, explorers, Native American leaders and famous cowboys. My grandmother, our 4^th grade teacher, read aloud The Little House on the Prairie after recess. We listened quietly at our desks, resting our heads on our sweaty arms, and imagined being Laura’s schoolmates. We were all “county kids,” familiar with the damp of the woodlands, the sway of tall grasses, and the sounds of different animals and insects at night Laura so richly described.  

In middle school, real academics began. We studied grammar and learned to dissect sentences. I loved sharpening my pencil and diagramming sentence after sentence in Mrs. LaFrance’s classroom. We read stories and discussed them as a class, further cementing my fondness for literature.

My initiation into unsavory language started in second grade, after Mrs. Harmon sharply commanded, “Jimmy! You come up here! I’m going to paddle you!”

Horrified by Jimmy’s situation, I looked up at Mrs. Harmon, looked back at Jimmy who was slowly getting up from his desk, and looked over to my friend Donna. I whispered, “What did he do?”

Donna shrugged her shoulders and said, “Oh, he swore.”

“What’s swearing?” I asked, completed stumped. Donna shook her head and went back to solving her math problems.

My mom clarified things for me when I got home. My parents were strict about how we spoke to one another and our word choices. Our home was peaceful, and the harshest words spoken during my early years were things like “fiddlesticks!” or “shoot!”

During the hot summer before fifth grade, my dad had farrowing coops (individual shelters for sows and their piglets) in a field around the house. We soon had an infestation of rats under the little houses, and we spent several Saturdays helping Dad move the coops and eliminate the rats. But the most memorable event of that summer involved trying to catch a sow who had escaped. My brothers and I did the best we could, trying to help Dad get her back in her pen, but each time Dad circled that old sow back around, and we tried to direct her to her waiting pen, she wouldn’t have it. She squealed and pushed by us. Dad, who never uttered a profanity, completely lost his fatherly composure, and chased that pig around and around, yelling those forbidden words (and a few I had never heard before).

But Mrs. Noble in 7^th grade PE class delivered the best language lesson of all. We girls were in the middle of a heated dodge-ball game. Balls were slamming, girls were ducking, and the worst-of-words were flying. The sound of Mrs. Noble’s whistle rose above the noise. She motioned us over, and we circled around her. She stood, statuesque and strong, and we waited, sweaty and out-of-breath, for her sentencing.

“Girls, Girls, Girls!” she said. “You must use those words sparingly. Save them for when you really need them!”

Her advice stuck and has served me well in my professional relationships. But it is in my personal life where its practice is most helpful. Like using strong spices, if I sprinkle those words only when necessary, my message is heightened, highly efficient and effective.

 Thanks, Mrs. Noble.

It’s a Fine Life

Several years ago, Dennis and I saw Mrs. Noble, who is now in her nineties and still active. I reminded her of her lesson. She just smiled.

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A collection of my first twenty columns from the South County News is now available on Amazon.

Each morning I pass this storefront on my way to work.

The streets of the village are nearly empty. It’s 6:30 A.M. and my thoughts are filled with lists and tasks waiting for me in the day ahead. I am already feeling pressured and pre-occupied instead of simply appreciating these quiet moments.

Then here it is, this lovely gift, radiating a beautiful, warming comfort.

I am thankful for this snippet of joy during this season of darkness. A reminder.

Vaccines are coming. Peace and calm will eventually return.

And our little hometown remains.

My heart is full.

As we anticipate the eventual winter storms, I maintain a well-stocked pantry: I learned the importance of preparation from my mother who was raising four of the five of us when the blizzard of 1967 caught many in Michigan by surprise. My parents listened to the radio for most of their news during the 1960s: WKZO radio, AM 590. I can still hear the sports roundup music, Carl Collin’s voice for the noon farm reports, the advertising jingle for Be-Mo potato chips. I’m sure my mom was working in the kitchen and listening to the morning shows when it was announced that area schools were closing: Winds had increased and a blizzard had begun.

Mr. Jager, Fulton Elementary School’s principal, entered my second-grade classroom, announcing we would be going home. We shut our workbooks, pushed them into our desks, and found our boots and snow gear. The sky was dark, the snow coming sideways.

 I rode home with my grandmother, who taught fourth grade in my building. Her white Thunderbird thumped and bumped through the quickly drifting roads; as the wind howled and the snow swirled, I struggled to see the houses and farms on the familiar route towards home. Each time the wind gusts increased, all my landmarks disappeared. I wasn’t frightened, but I also didn’t converse with Grandma whose gloved hands tightly gripped the wheel.

Once safely home, the storm increased its rage. We were snowed in for a week. The wind blew for several days, forming huge drifts which swept upwards to the roof of the old garage, covering our back porch. From the front window we watched Dad work his way through the snow, cross the road, and enter the cattle barn to check the water and feed the animals. At that time, all the feeding was done inside and mostly by hand. The barn was cozy and warm with glossy-eyed steers jostling for position. Many days I accompanied Dad for evening chores, so I knew exactly what he was doing: He would remove his heavy coat, climb the inside silo chute, and shovel the silage to the wooden cart below. He then pushed the cart down the center aisle, filling the troughs as he went. He would repeat this process at least four or five times. I knew he was safe, but I was still relieved when the door closed, and he was back with us again.

Mom cooked and cooked, filling us with warm soups, casseroles, or scrambled eggs and toast.  She organized and patiently supervised our activities: We played lots of games, worked jigsaw puzzles, rediscovered toys, and read books. And when the winds finally subsided, we ventured out into a transformed world – a white wonderland full of opportunities for tunneling and discovery.

There have been other blizzards since, but none quite as memorable as that storm from my childhood. As long as my friends and family are off the roads, I do love a snowstorm and find comfort in my cupboard’s inventory. And as we watch the weather reports, I look forward to the gift of time to cook, care for my family and rediscover the beauty of a winter storm.

It’s a Fine Life

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Check out my first book, self-published on Amazon. It includes my first 20 columns featured in The South County News.

I have read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s The Long Winter several times since 4th grade. I still find it an amazing story.

As 2020 comes to a close, I am both relieved and re-invigorated. It has been a year of challenges and new learning.

Teaching virtually involves a new set of skills, skills I didn’t possess until I was forced to acquire them. I will emerge from this school year better in many ways and certainly much more appreciative when we can all safely return to physical classrooms.

When Sue Moore died, I assumed the role of editor/publisher of the South County News. It was (and is) both humbling and inspiring. Humbling, because I didn’t have a clue how to do this: Inspiring because of this amazing team of people who tirelessly support me and our community effort.

And lastly, after much prodding from my mother, I published my first little book. And again, this was definitely a challenge involving a new skill set. My son Drew gave technical encouragement and support and my friend Leeanne Seaver gave some sage advice; and this collection of my first twenty “It’s a Fine Life” columns is now self-published on Amazon! And, the best news of all is that copies arrived in time to surprise my mom for the holidays.

Check it out!

Wishing you and yours health and happiness this holiday season!

It’s a Fine Life

Some people just have a knack for gift giving. These folks understand how to select and beautifully wrap their unique finds. While I am certainly not a perfect gift giver, I have always enjoyed shopping for Christmas presents, which started in my early years in the little family-owned shops on Main Street.

During December, the stores in Vicksburg were open late every Wednesday night, and most of the village restaurants took advantage of the increased traffic and offered late suppers or desserts for the holiday shoppers. There were many downtown retailers during the 1960s and 1970s; most were family owned and staffed by the proprietors and their families. The village featured two pharmacies, two ladies’ dress shops, a department store, two hardware stores, and a satisfying mix of other gift, specialty and variety stores. Retail business was steady and reliable.

In the December twilight, my mom parked the station wagon on Main Street: two of my brothers and I had an hour to shop before we were to return to the car to check in. Scott and Steve joined forces, and I set out on my own. To buy my gifts, I had saved money, a total of $20, and with that, I purchased presents for my four brothers, my parents, and my two grandmothers. The gifts were obviously nothing extravagant, but they took serious thought and budgeting.

Because we always tagged along with our parents as they frequented the various businesses, I knew each of the storekeepers. There was such a sense of security in that! And while I certainly didn’t spend much that day, they treated this 12-year-old customer with kindness each time I parted with my crumpled bills. I imagine my brothers had a similar experience during their separate expedition.

After returning home, we carefully wrapped our special finds, using miles and miles of tape, then we placed our little parcels in separate piles under the tree and counted the days until Christmas. I was as excited by the gifts I had found, as I was for the gifts I would receive.

While many families participate in gift-giving traditions, this holiday season will be different for most of us; many people are distancing from loved ones, will not be travelling and are facing hardships. And while we know this is temporary, it is still difficult.

Yes, physical gifts are nice, but this current situation has provided me much clarity: truly the most important gift is the time we can spend together. I recall my holiday celebrations throughout the years: the laughter, the tears, the conversations, and yes, even the disagreements. I will miss it all this year.

I am so thankful for my many memories with our friends and family.

Yes, of course there will be special presents under our tree, but never again will I take the perfect gift of togetherness for granted.

It’s a Fine Life.

During the sixties and seventies, Thanksgiving meals were carefully planned since groceries and retail stores were closed. In fact, it was difficult to find even a gas station open.

And as today, families gathered to share the holiday meal.

Our tablecloth-covered, china-laden dining room table stretched nearly the length of the room: we added three or four leaves to the massive old table, and a card table perched at the far end. Often, my parents invited older couples without children nearby to join us. And sometimes, when my grandmother was still alive, our Gaylord relatives came, raising everyone’s excitement level.

 We feasted, as many families do today, on traditional Thanksgiving foods: turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes with gravy, green bean casserole, and squash. Then the coffee and delicious pies emerged.

After dinner, my grandmother, the queen of frugality, pulled the turkey from the bone as my mother packed the other food, usually stashing the containers on the front porch – a major perk we northerners realize during the cold months. My dad and brothers sprawled in front of the television, mesmerized by the football games, occasionally snoozing in after-meal drowsiness.

It was a busy day, especially for my mother.

But the best part, the event we waited for all year, was not Black Friday outings or the huge Thanksgiving meal, but the incredible leftover casserole my mother served Friday night. Unlike the formality of Thanksgiving dinner, when it was time for Friday’s supper, this massive casserole sat on the stove, covered in foil, with the serving spoon stuffed inside. Pickles, olives, cranberry sauce remained in the jars, forks and jelly spoons submerged. Good dishes washed and shelved, we used paper plates and played games together with whoever was able to come.

There is no official recipe for the day-after casserole. Many families assemble a similar dish. One of my friends said at her house they call it “glop.” That sure doesn’t sound appetizing to me, but trust me, this dish is delicious no matter what it is called. My family talks about it all year, and the kids suggest more than ask, “We are having the casserole, right?” Well, of course!

The ingredients include leftover turkey, dressing, potatoes, and gravy. Add cream of mushroom soup, sour cream, and perhaps a purchased jar of turkey gravy. Layer it all in a big, greased roasting pan, cover it loosely in foil, and bake at 350 until heated through. Sprinkle french fried onions on top and bake for probably 10 minutes more. Add some salt and pepper to taste, and you have my mother’s family-famous leftover casserole.

I am now decades from the Thanksgivings of my childhood. Eventually girlfriends or boyfriends, fiancés, spouses, and the next generation joined the circle. And now, as it should be, each of my dear brothers has developed traditions in his own home. But after my family gathers around the holiday table, and as I pull the turkey meat from the bone, I will remember those wonderful days.

And I will look forward to the generational tradition of another day of togetherness and the legendary casserole.

It’s a Fine Life.

It’s hard to pick a favorite month, but I do love October. The cool nights, the fresh apples, the first frost. When we were children, October meant Dad was putting in long days harvesting the corn and filling the silos.

Sometimes Mom packed up our suppers, loaded us in the station wagon, and drove us to the field where Dad was working. Often, Dad was on the other side of the field, and we watched eagerly for his wave, signaling he saw us. He carefully guided the corn picker or combine, chopping the straight rows of corn he and Uncle John had planted that spring, working his way towards our end of the field.

Then we would settle on the hood of the car or perch on the rocks along the edge of the field and have dinner together. So happy to see us, he would talk about his day and ask us about our day at school. Dad’s gentle hand rested on the tops of our heads before he climbed back into the combine and we left for home. I remember Mom’s relief, hearing the tractor or combine after dark, announcing his return home on those harvest days. He entered the warmth of home, dirty, tired and ravenous, but always confident in the goodness of life, in what our fertile land could produce, and in the love of his family.

I do love this month, the beauty of these fall days, and all the memories they hold. Anne of Green Gables said it best: “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.”

It’s a Fine Life.

By Kathleen Oswalt-Forsythe

Nostalgia and I are long-time friends. Growing up the fourth generation on a family farm, I eagerly welcomed this constant companion. Reminders of the previous generations and their hard work were visible daily: the hay barn’s hand-hewn beams, the old horse collar in the shop, the field stone foundations. My great-grandparents planted two pear trees to the west of the farmhouse in 1908. From my bedroom window, I could watch those knobby branches drop their fall fruit, twiggy fingers wiggling in the breeze.

The childhood faces of my father, uncle, and their neighbors smile from their annual school picture on the steps of the Harper School – a charming old black-and-white photo in my album. Dad’s one-room-schoolhouse days were part of our growing-up-folklore: the mile walk to school, the tag and softball games at recess; the neighborhood’s contribution to salary and firewood. It all sounded magical to me.

When I started kindergarten, I rode to Fulton Elementary School with my grandmother – our 4^th grade teacher – in her white Thunderbird. I couldn’t see over the dashboard, so I watched the trees click by or traced the powerlines as we drove the six miles to school. I loved being with her – my striking grandmother in her little tweed suits with the lapel pins, her suntan hose, and her spectator pumps. After parking, she opened the car’s heavy door for me, saying, “Have a good day, dolly.” I assumed everyone’s school experience was as wonderful as mine; the only way it could possibly be better would be going to “country school.”

Last spring, a frank discussion with my mother-in-law about her one-room-schoolhouse experience revealed a different narrative. She had attended several one-room-schools in rural Illinois before going to high school in a larger town. My mother-in-law is smart, loves numbers, and remembers everything. I’m sure she was a sharp and thorough student, quickly finishing anything her teacher assigned. But when she finished one year and entered a different “country school,” she learned that her teacher had not introduced her to important math concepts, leaving her terribly unprepared for the next year’s expectations. “I was angry. I had lots of work to do to catch up.” Catch up she certainly did, but it was disappointing and stressful for her.

So those really weren’t the “good old days” for many students. Isolation and lack of support in outlying areas created gaps in student learning I hadn’t considered. Today, teachers plan and team at grade level, following curriculum that guarantees students’ exposure to the most important standards. Also, in the 1940s and ‘50s, many students didn’t go beyond the 8^th grade. Many students today are eligible for and receive much needed services and supports, also helping more students complete their schooling.

I will always enjoy looking at those charming school photos or seeing the old structures on Sunday drives, but I am also reminded of the historical and continued need for equity and opportunity for all students.

It’s a Fine Life

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My dad and I enjoyed this story. The main character is a teacher in the rural west.

In fourth grade, my grandmother read these books to our class as we rested our heads on our cool desks after recess. I just loved them and imagined being Laura.

If you haven’t read this book, do. It is amazing.