Bits and pieces of memory stuff float in and out, subject to the vagaries of my mind and the quickness of my pen in writing rough drafts of my tales of yesteryear. These gems (in my mind only, of course!) seem in greater abundance from my high school days than from my teaching days at Forestburg High School some 20 years later. However, one particular reminiscence is from the fall of 1967 when the school board had asked me to be the school principal.
I carried three-fourths of a teaching load with the rest of my time devoted to things a principal does. Two classes stand out in my mind. The seniors during 1967-68 were in my government class held in the northeast corner of second floor, the room where 25 years earlier I had had freshman English. They were an intelligent bunch consisting of Jeff Burrill, Greg Krueger, Jim Johannsen, David Kane, Larry Larson, Gary Olson and Kenny Cassens. On the feminine side were Mary Kay Larson (whose father’s funeral was the day I wrote this), Betty Olson, Judy Bauer, Beverly Schefsky, and my neighbor, Dianne Edwards. In my class, at least, they were well behaved, cooperative and quite willing to participate in the give and take of government discussion.
It was of interest to me that in former years I had gone to FHS with Mary Kay’s father, Jeff’s father and both of Gary’s parents. That senior class seemed more mature and sensible than other seniors I’ve known.
The sophomores of that year were less ready to respond in class unless called on, perhaps reflecting their two-year younger status. They were not as self-assured, and seemed to be concerned about what a classmate might think if they spoke out in class. There was one exception. Annette Larson, so much a carbon copy of her father, Lewis, had a mind of her own and spoke her mind when she chose. A good student, she was usually right on target. I recall the clear and precise manner in which her father spoke when he was a senior and I a freshman. Like father, like daughter. I really appreciated her frequent classroom contributions.
I need a family member or friend to help me set the dates straight. My freshman year was 1942-43, the same school year I thought Lewis was a senior. The Sept. 11, 2015, Mitchell Daily Republic obituary account places his FHS graduation in 1944, a year later than I recall him completing high school. A person would assume that a family obituary writer would be more accurate than the memory of a high school classmate, especially after 70 years.
A momentary PS: Just today (9/13/15) I picked up a copy of the FHS alumni publication from Dianna (Moore) Senska in order to verify other details for some of my stories. I went to the section of graduates from my era. Lewis’ graduation year was listed as 1943, suggesting perhaps that a typo occurred, or the family obituary writer was a son or daughter who didn’t remember accurately.
Incidentally, Dianna shared with me that she was born in the same year (1943) that her husband, Dean, graduated from high school. Did he rob the cradle?! Dean was a classmate of Lewis Larson, as were Harry Larson and Mary Hinde. I recall that Mary Ann Barta and Faith Nielson were also members of that class. Did I miss anyone? Unless you are 85 or so, there’s no one around to confirm or deny my listing and I don’t recall yearbooks were published then.

America—wake up! There is an insidious menace that is slowly but steadfastly creeping into our lives and destroying families. Make no mistake; it is as deadly in its own way and addicting as a shot of heroin, a hit of meth or a line of cocaine. Its allure is hidden behind a mask of practicality and convenience. I will give this serpent a name—“Cellphone.” Doesn’t even sound deadly does it? But put it behind a wheel with its user, and it can be.
I must admit to the fact that I have never been a “gadget” person. Esther still rubs it in my face that I wouldn’t learn to use a computer because I said it was just a passing phase. The closest gadget I’ve ever come close to being addicted to was television—Saturday morning cartoons as a kid. Even then you couldn’t enjoy the total experience ‘cuz your mom would “kick you outside to go play.” Televisions weren’t mobile enough to carry outside.
Eventually, a toll was taken on the family unit when dads weren’t the only breadwinners and women joined the workforce and began careers of their own. TV more and more stepped in to fill the empty hours as a form of entertainment and as an easy babysitter.
The technological advancement in communication brought us into the cellphone age. Cousin Janet brought me into the 21st Century by giving me my first flip phone, so she could contact me more easily. (She also gave me my first drink of alcohol…hmmm!) I was perfectly content with my little buddy and told myself I did need it in case of a flat tire.
Before I knew it, I was again quickly behind the times as smart phones came into being. All people could talk about was a thing called Facebook. Janet assured me I was totally missing out on the fun of pictures and messages. My little flip phone was continually made fun of by her and my son, Cole. Georgia and I both relented and bought one at the same time and have now become prisoners of social media. My smart phone is no doubt the most unused because I am clueless to its many uses like banking online, calling a taxi, etc., etc.
Now I look around and watch people glued to their phones and I consider it a monster in our midst, with only ourselves to blame. Cellphones are a wonderful gadget that was intended just to make our lives easier and to keep in touch with friends and family. I must admit it is handy in melon fields when you don’t have to drive back and forth to a land-line to talk to customers or you need assistance (like when I backed the pumpkin load into the ditch.)
It gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when you hear on the news of a car wreck and someone who was texting killed someone’s loved ones. That shows you how much of an addiction it is when drivers defy the law and continually drive and text. Go anywhere to shop, dine or the movies and the public masses are texting away. I attended the Mt. Vernon Christmas Concert on Thursday night, and the music teacher requested all cellphones be put away out of respect for the kids and the hard work they had put in to make the program enjoyable. The man in front of me NEVER put his phone down the entire time. I so wanted to tap him on the shoulder and tell him what I thought, but I didn’t want to cause a brawl.
Nothing makes me angrier than sitting down to a meal and people are on their phones. That is essentially telling the next person they are not interesting enough to converse with! I like the idea, at a restaurant, to put all cellphones in the middle of the table and the first person to use it buys the meals. Phones have taken over the intimacy between couples, for gosh sake!
The next generation might as well be born without mouths since they only text and they will also need extra coverage for carpel tunnel surgery. Think of the years we were phoneless and went everywhere without them. Now if I forget it at home, I am panic-stricken, wondering what I’m missing. I can honestly say in all the years I’ve owned one, the only important phone call I ever missed was in a movie when Gay had called to say Garth had broken his back and was on the way to Sioux Falls to the hospital. Otherwise, it’s basic trivial news.
I have included the picture that Cole sent me to make fun of how people have created their own prison due to cell phones.
No Texting and Driving,
Dee Baby

    In the 1930s, down-on-their-luck families sometimes lodged in county poor farms. Herschel and Hilda McKnight ran the Charles Mix County Home for the Poor in those years. It was housed in a four-story building that was once the Ward Academy in Academy, S.D., south of Mitchell. Before her death, Hilda told of her experiences to Marian Cramer, a Bryant farmwife and teacher who has written several articles for South Dakota Magazine.
Several times through the years, we’ve related Hilda’s story of a 14-year-old girl’s Christmas at the Home for the Poor. Here’s an abbreviated version.
Hilda said she always remembered the day that Carol arrived with her mother. “It was never easy to welcome people to a poor house. Herschel moved quickly to the door and opened it. He had a special way of putting people at ease.”
The McKnights strived to provide clothing so the kids wouldn’t look out-of-place at school. The mothers and two WPA seamstresses sewed and repaired donated clothing. Carol befriended the McKnights and offered to help in the laundry and sewing room as well. But one day in the fall she told Hilda, “I know how hard you and Mr. Mac worked to get us nice clothes. It really doesn’t matter, I guess. I have this lovely skirt and they still call us ‘poor house kids’ at school.”
Hilda gave Carol a hug, and to hide her tears she fussed with a missionary barrel that had just been delivered from a church in the East. “Let’s see what treasures we can find,” she said. Together, they laughed as they pulled out wool pants with the seat worn thin, a pair of long underwear with holes in the knees and elbows, and other useless things. But way at the bottom, Carol pulled out a chiffon scarf. Though threadbare, it seemed lovely to her eyes.
“Would you like to keep it?” asked Hilda. Carol’s answer was to hold it closely and nod. The scarf was her doorway to dreams. She would sit on her bed and finger the soft chiffon. She was not in the Charles Mix County Home for the Poor. She was far away. She always neatly folded her scarf and put it away.
The holidays came in 1933 despite the dust. Hilda and the women baked cookies and decorated the poor house with paper chains. The county allowed one clothing gift for each resident, so the McKnights shopped carefully to make it worthwhile.
A few days before Christmas, Carol tapped on the McKnights’ door. “You have been so busy for all of us, but you won’t have any Christmas presents, any Christmas,” she said.
Hilda assured the girl that they would celebrate Christmas together as one big family. “You are all our family, Carol. We are happy.”
On Christmas morning, Carol hesitantly returned to the McKnights’ room. First, she approached Herschel. “I don’t have a present for you,” she said. “Just a hug.” Herschel was a big man, and he enfolded the slim girl in his arms.
Then Carol said, “Mrs. Mac, I have something for you.” She handed Hilda a box wrapped in paper, and watched like a hawk as she untied the string. Beneath the crackling paper was the girl’s chiffon scarf.
Hilda fought back tears as she fingered its softness.
“It’s all I have, Mrs. Mac,” Carol said.
Hilda told our writer that she treasured it forever: “The frayed chiffon scarf is forever my symbol of Christmas and a true gift of love.”