Only a few days remaining before the big event – our 50th Class Reunion! There was a song we used to sing – I’m wondering who remembers the melody? Also wondering if you remember who Mister HBL was?
Get those vocal chords in shape! You may want to do some singing at the reunion! See you soon!
“Be True to your School” – the Beach Boys
Watching a Beach Boys cover band last week brought this almost forgotten song to mind and fond moments to remember from Dixie Hollins High School back in 1969. We were definitely true to our school! We’re still looking for memories to share from our high school days or memories from your high school days which brought you to who you are today. Were you a great parent? Top chef? Successful writer? Teacher, minister, business person? How did you contribute to others in the last fifty years? How did high school influence your thinking, actions, and goals achieved? Whether simple or grand – every achievement is worth the share! You are appreciated!
One of my favorite words is “perspective.” Why? Because it’s yieldable to the many different views we take on for the same subject over years on our journey to maturity. My perspective – armed with research, knowledge of current trends (real news trends – not fake), and the opinion of others, has opened my mind to diverse points of view that I might not have found so easy to accept when I was younger. In my morning reading, I ran across this little gem and thought you might enjoy it too. Thank you Dr. Joy Finder!
As always, if you find anything you think might benefit the group feel free to send it in. We want to hear from you! Looking forward to seeing you soon! Nancy
LIFE MOVES AT A FAST PACE It’s tempting to pursue life with such breathless haste that you risk missing all the good stuff there is to enjoy. And here’s the thing, most of the good stuff is free. It doesn’t cost you to enjoy it. So, as you journey through the years, take the time […]
Memories of lost lives, of service to country
Era’s past and present
Murder, mayhem, dictatorial reign
On foreign shores far from home
Readying for battle – recruits, drafted, enlisted, then
In the blink of an eye, lives forever changed
Leaving souls, earthly presence behind
Dying so that
Yearning to be free, remain free…
On this Memorial Day, 2019, we honor those who lost their lives in the name of freedom. We honor those who bravely served yesterday and serve today. Thank you for your selfless commitment to country and citizenry throughout the world.
As we draw closer to our reunion, it’s a good time to refresh our memories of one moment in time synonymous with 1969. The Baby Boomers – The Woodstock Generation. Were you there? What did you think when it happened? What do you think about it now? Add a comment. Leave a reply. Thanks!
It’s been almost fifty years since our graduation from Dixie Hollins High School and we certainly have some catching up to do.
Over the years we’ve gone into different vocations. Many of us became teachers or worked closely with students of all ages. Those who didn’t may have fond memories of a teacher who inspired you to enter your chosen field.
National Teacher Appreciation Week is May 6th through May 10th, 2019. Do you have a fond teachable moment or a favorite teacher memory you’d like to share? If so, click on “reply” to share. We’d love to hear it!
That said, here’s special appreciation to all teachers past and present – especially those who realize(d) the true meaning of education as espoused by Sydney Smith…
THE REAL OBJECT OF EDUCATION
Our Dixie Hollins Class of 1969 Blog Community is steadily growing. Some of you have asked how to upload your photo to replace your community member avatar. The following directions are easy to follow. We’d love to know who’s here! Hope to see your smiling face in our community soon!
Special thanks to fellow graduate Michael Taylor for submitting a memoir from his published book ‘Growing Up Floridian.’ For more information on Michael and his book click on the link provided below.
“A Date with Gladys (October 18, 1968)”
Wind controlled the steering wheel almost as much as I did and forced my gray turtle, actually a 1960 Rambler American, from one side of 66th Street to the other. Having worked up enough courage to ask Maureen out, I wasn’t about to let Hurricane Gladys cancel our date. As the only car on the road, I had the advantage of fighting the gusts across three lanes without the danger of hitting another vehicle. I managed to avoid curbs and telephones poles often by slight margins using the power of forearms developed from three years of high school football.
In the late 1960’s, television weathermen forecasted the path of a hurricane with a lot of guesswork and plotted the course on wall boards that held outlined sketches of the United States. Using black markers, they would draw big arrows indicating the direction of the impending weather system and would use cartoonish symbols indicating wind velocity and cloud cover. With that limited information, I only had a general idea that a big storm was headed our way off the Gulf of Mexico, but knew nothing of actual wind speeds or possible storm surge. I had always taken a much more literal interpretation of Bob Dylan’s 1965 “Subterranean Homesick Blues” and thought that I didn’t “need a weather man/To know which way the wind blows,” at least for this date.
Maureen’s parents were skeptical about allowing their daughter to go off in the storm, but their concrete block home with heavy drapes that fell ceiling to floor and were pulled across every window made the storm’s effects seemed rather tame within the house’s confines. Since Friday night’s football game with Manatee High had been postponed as Gladys raced up Florida’s west coast, I had suggested seeing a movie. Telephone calls had also revealed the only theater open, Central Plaza, offered The Heart is a Lonely Hunter starring Alan Arkin and Sandra Locke.
Tail winds buffeted and, then, aided the drive to and up Central Avenue. Maureen’s faint patchouli perfume infused the car as her wide eyes reacted to bending palm trees, scattered debris whipping along the streets, and occasional emergency vehicles with a mixture of fear and fascination. My heart pumped a little faster as she slid across the bench front seat to sit closer and gripped my arm when blasts of wind and rain shuddered the car. What teenage boy would not want to indulge in such a glorious adventure?
As the last notes of Marvin Gaye’s”Ain’t Nothing Like The Real Thing” faded from WLCY-AM on the radio, we parked in an empty lot and were greeted by an unenthusiastic ticket seller who clearly wanted to be elsewhere.
“The movie will start in a minute. You’re the only people here. Are you sure you want to see this movie?”
I nodded; Maureen shrugged; the ticket taker sighed.
An empty theater, center seats, fifteen rows back, and the moan and whistle of the wind at the exit doors created a romantic setting that encouraged an arm around shoulders and a yielding to a pull to snuggle closer. The emotional impact of the movie which offered a story line about a desperately lonely deaf mute in search of companionship whetted the emotional tension between two seventeen year-olds.
When the wind jerked the exit door out of my hand and flung the heavy metal barrier against the wall, my stalwart turtle just waited patiently as a palm fond bounced off the rear bumper and flattened against the deserted ticket seller’s booth. Maureen’s skirt whipped against her legs as we fought to navigate the hundred feet to the Rambler. Inside, the rhythmic swaying of the car, interrupted by sudden shudders born of violent gusts, kept us welded together.
“Well, let’s go see what’s left of Pass-a-Grille.”
My suggestion generated an unconfident nod, a soft.“O.K.,” and a slide to move a little closer. WLCY-AM appropriately offered “Windy” by The Association, and I thought we did have “wings to fly.”
The wind, no more violent or threatening than when we entered the theater at 6:42, was now no less violent or threatening at 9:10, but the familiar ebb and flow of the wind’s power bred a foolish confidence in my driving responses. Water became a complicating element as ripples in the streets varied in depth, only inches in some places, more than a foot in others. My turtle chugged along; the flathead six engine taking whatever Mother Nature threw at her. With the sparkplugs on the top of the simple six cylinder motor, the car could wade through three feet of water without stalling as long as she kept moving.
Gulf Boulevard on St. Pete Beach was as deserted as St. Petersburg’s Central Avenue, and eerie shadows danced amid pelting raindrops. Just past the vacant pink castle, the Don CeSar Hotel, which had witnessed several hurricanes in its 40 years, a St. Pete Beach police officer stood on the hood of his partially submerged cruiser waving frantically. He obviously did not want us to drive further down the beach, but a couple of feet of water lapping at his bumper didn’t give the chugging Rambler pause. We passed by sending a gentle wake towards the officer’s shoes.
No coins were needed for the parking meters on Pass-a-Grille Beach. The wind raging through the Australian pines screamed in protest as the wave action tore sand from their roots. Both sides of the bench seat folded back with the flip of levers to rest against the back seats. Salt spray dashed against side windows, the back window, and the windshield in odd rhythms while we ducked and snuggled closer. A half an hour later, the 30-foot tall Australian pine six feet in front of us fell into the waves in slow motion as spray now slapped the windshield in time with the waves’ pounding cadence. Inside the swaying turtle, two teenage hearts pounded an increasing rhythm. The black and now foggy windshield offered little beyond a sounding board for rain and sea spray.
A change in the tempo of the wind and rain occurred suddenly. Perhaps we hadn’t been as keenly aware of the storm during the previous half hour, but a curious quiet descended that we recognized as the outer edge of the eye of the hurricane.
Little wind pulled at the door as I pulled the lever up. Maureen’s eyes flashed under the dim dome light as we realized the beach, now three feet lower than the street, lay strewn with the Australian pines planted to shade the parking area and replace similar trees that died in the freeze of 1962. Gnarled wrecks with giant black spidery roots pointing skyward gave testimony to the power of surging waves. Now, gentle waves caressed the devastated beach and pulled at the trailing pine needles from the uppermost branches, which floated in the foam at the water’s edge. Streetlights no longer obscured by those pines reflected off wispy clouds racing overhead in an uneasy calm. A lone gull’s cry broke the lull and seemed to freshen a softer swirling wind. Again Maureen’s skirt flapped as stronger gusts signaled the eye’s edge was giving way to the returning surge of the backside of the storm. Close to the car, I grabbed both a parking meter and Maureen to anchor us and keep her from being blown into the street. We staggered our way back to the Rambler and agreed retreat might be the best course.
Down the street, the abandoned police cruiser had witnessed another retreat. Standing water had subsided as Gladys’ eye passed by in the Gulf but was building again from the sheets of rain that snapped down Gulf Boulevard in long cascades. Maureen leaned forward with a tissue to enlarge the fog-shrouded circle above the steering wheel. My right arm pulled her closer as my left fought the wind for control of the car in a now familiar battle.
Frantic parental arms broke apart a rain splattered kiss and snatched a wayward daughter home moments after we arrived at Maureen’s house. The six hours her parents spent wondering about the fate of their daughter on a date during a hurricane were a few too many. That anxiety produced a stereophonic command: “You will never go out with that boy again!” Those words and any further romance were lost in Gladys’ gales as I sought the shelter of the Rambler.
Newspaper report: Hurricane Gladys (October 13 to October 21, 1968)
The 1968 hurricane season had been relatively quiet until Gladys formed in the Caribbean on October 15. Tropical Storm Gladys was forecast on a slow northward course and, with further intensification expected, the threat to Florida’s Keys and lower west coast increased. Gladys became a hurricane shortly before crossing the south coast of western Cuba and continued to strengthen while crossing this narrow but mountainous part of the island. Gladys emerged into the Florida Straits and continued slowly northward. Gladys took a temporary jog to the north-northwest and passed abeam of the lower west coast. The center passed inland between Bayport and Crystal River, very near Homosassa, about midnight on the 19th. Gladys began to accelerate, crossing the peninsula just north of Ocala, and back out to sea near St. Augustine around daybreak. As Gladys crossed the state of Florida, about 85% of the citrus crop was affected to varying degrees. Gladys moved from the upper coast of Florida to the northeast and skirted the coasts of Georgia and the Carolinas. The center passed very near Cape Hatteras early on October 20 while continuing to accelerate northeastward. With 85 mph winds and tides 5 feet above normal, Gladys was responsible for two deaths and $6.7-million in damage.
From Growing Up Floridian by Michael Taylor
About Michael Arthur Taylor
The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines Rite of Passage as a ritual, event, or experience that marks or constitutes a major milestone or change in a person’s life.
Our graduation in 1969 was a major rite of passage. We were leaving a community we finally and hopefully had found a sense of belonging to and venturing to new communities as yet unknown – the workforce, military, vocational school, college…
We were the fortunate ones – attending high school when memories were less fleeting, longer lasting, and more enjoyable to make. With no limitless technology to distract us, we focused on each other, what we sought to accomplish, and making memories.
We gather soon to once again reminisce and relive the memories we made in high school. We’ll remember those no longer with us and those unable to attend.
It’s been fifty years.
New memories remain to be made.
Here’s to seeing you soon.
Whether you still live in Pinellas County or plan on joining us from another state, a leisurely stroll at St. Petersburg’s Saturday Morning Market may be for you. It’s a very brief walk from the St. Petersburg Hilton and if driving – there are plenty of parking garages nearby.
The market is touted as the largest once a week fresh market in the Southeast U.S. and draws more than 10,000 customers a week!
Market hours are 9 a.m. – 2 p.m.
A great post I ran across on the “Retirement Reflections Blog.” Enjoy!
Yesterday, my husband and I attended his 50th high school reunion. It was a great evening, and a wonderful weekend back in the area where he grew up. Richard enjoyed catching up with old friends and classmates. I loved getting extra snippets of his life before we met (way before we met)! It really was that simple.
Then, when preparing to write this post, and playing around with potential titles, I begin to type “should you go….” into my search engine. Instantly the words “to your high school reunion” appeared on my screen to complete the sentence. How weird! I had never previously made any similar searches on my computer. Besides, I could think of several sentences that start with “Should I attend…” – most of them having nothing at all to do with school reunions.
Since I had attended my husband’s reunion, not my own, I then made my…
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If you’re not familiar with TED TALKS, Jane Fonda’s talk will be a great introduction! Life’s Third Act offers a wealth of wisdom and guidance for anyone past the age of fifty. It’s especially worthy of attention for those of us readying for our 50th class reunion. Enjoy!
As we develop our Dixie Hollins Class of 1969 Blog, we will be adding items to keep you apprised of all that has happened in the fifty years since we walked the halls of Dixie together. We have added and are working on a memorial section in the right column of your blog page to remember those no longer with us.
Over the years there are things we remember and things we forget. An experience so common to one may be easily forgotten while the same “new” experience to another is remembered well.
I reached out to Janet Pollard Shaffer, a friend and neighbor in the 60’s after discovering she was on our Missing Alumni list. I was lucky to find her on Facebook. She sent me her phone number and I called her. We talked about our lives, families, and the reunion. We had a wonderful time sharing stories of growing up in the old neighborhood. She said she remembered coming to my house one day and seeing eggplant slices all over the place on kitchen towels and thinking – What is this? My mother (a fabulous cook!) used to soak eggplant slices in salted water to get the bitterness out, and then dry them on clean kitchen towels before making her delicious Eggplant Parmesan. Janet said she’d never seen anything like that! We laughed so hard at the thought of it.
After we said our goodnight’s I realized Janet had rekindled a sweet memory in me that I had all but forgotten. I spent the evening recalling other memories from that time and wondering what the other neighborhood kids had been up to over the years.
Our brief visit brought back memories that I know I’ll never forget. It made me realize how special this 50th reunion is. Back then…
We all made memories in high school. Maybe there is someone you’d like to reconnect with.
Join us at this very special time in our lives – our 50th Class Reunion. Revive the memories. Share in the fun. Hope to see you there!
Nancy Pimpinelli Ellington
Time is drawing near! Can you help us find our missing alumni? If so, have them connect to us by visiting one of the following addresses: Thanks!
Do you remember reading our school newspaper – The Rebel Rouser? The May 23rd, 1969 issue was well read by all! Most couldn’t wait to see if they were bequeathed anything by a graduating senior!
Do you remember what your graduation will bequeathed and who you bequeathed to?
One of the best things a school can do for its students is to offer artistic opportunity in drama, music, and art. Dixie did that for the class of sixty-nine and more. Did you see the show?
Leave a reply to share your memories…
Do you have memories to add to our blog? If so, remit to nanisss@ verizon.net. Thanks for caring to share!