Daughter of Levi L. Buckner and Clara Fannie (Coston) Buckner. Never married.
No time for tomfoolery,
plenty for Oregon tales
By Jerry Easterling
Of the Statesman-Journal
Wednesday, May 26, 1982
Daisy Buckner was just shy of her 90th birthday when she was told she would be the grand marshal of the Linn County Lamb and Wool Festival.
The festival was held in Scio last weekend. She was embarrassed by all the folderol.
Buckner had a good idea who was behind it all, and several times she mentioned the guilty party's name as she perched on the edge of a couch in Jason Lee Manor.
But the smile, the laughter she punctuated it with, and the way her eyes shone behind the thick lenses of her glasses said better than words that no real harm was done.
BUCKNER IS small, feminine, warm and friendly, all dressed up in a lacy pink dress. With a cloud of white hair and a round face beaming with good cheer, she could be anyone's choice for a grandmother.
Unfortunately, she is no one's. She has no family. She was never married "because you didn't find a husband standing on every corner then," she said. And there was another reason, which she got to later.
She was born on June 4, 1892, near Lebanon, on a land claim staked out by her grandfather (Samuel Thomas Miller) in the 1850s.
He had a strict sense of morality. After studying law, he "finally decided a lawyer couldn't be an honest man," Buckner said. From then on he was a circuit-riding Presbyterian preacher who spread the gospel up and down the Willamette Valley.
SHE NEVER KNEW him. He died before she was born. But she got to know her grandmother (Mary Elizabeth Gibbens Miller), who was living in Scio, where he had moved his family from Lebanon. She went to live when she was 10 or 11 so she could run errands for her Aunt who was a seamstress. And had no say about it.
"Long ago," she said, "they didn't ask kids what they wanted to do."
Aunt Vina (Melvina Miller Randall), who had remained at home (sic).
Sic)
(Sic) the light (sic) home to take care of her elderly (grand) mother, kept the child busy. Buckner remembers well the groceries she carted home in the little four-wheeled wagon she pulled all over Scio, a community of about 600 people then, about 20 miles southeast of Salem.
THE FIRST MONEY she ever earned was for delivering a gallon of milk from the dairyman to the top of a post in front of Dr. A.G. Prill's house every day. Prill's wife paid her 10 cents a month.
Buckner's diligence paid off later. In 1905 the Prills took her with them when they visited the Lewis & Clark Expedition in Portland, which was a world away in those days of slow trains and slower horses and buggies.
The Lewis & Clark Expedition was the grandest thing that had ever happened to Oregon, she said. It included a spectacular fireworks exhibition she wasn't able to see until she had gained altitude by sitting on someone's shoulders.
AT FIRST SHE said, "There wasn't any recreation" when she was growing up. But when she placed the tip of her finger between her eyes and thought for a moment, that "most memorable Fourth of July" came flashing back.
"Oh, dear," she said, as though surprised by the vividness of the ride she and other children took on "The Liberty Wagon," which traveled through the cow pastures just out of town where the Fourth of July celebration was held.
For the occasion she wore "a little new dress," she said. "And it was beautiful. I know it was." All the children riding on the old wagon were decked out in their Sunday best.
SHE NOTICED that the wagon was traveling -- "what's the word -- erratic?" Not until later did she learn that the driver was drunk. "But we didn't have an accident," she said, "because the horses knew where they were going."
(Sic)
In 1911 she was one of five seniors who graduated from Scio High School. She considered herself lucky because she got a job as an assistant in the Scio Post Office.
She learned to do everything, which equipped her to become postmaster in 1914 when the Scio post office was elevated from fourth class to third class. That lasted four years.
Then she lost her job. She was told it was a political plum. When a new administration was elected in 1918, someone else got the plum.
AFTER HER grandmother died, she continued to live with her Aunt Vina. But employment prospects were so slim in Scio, she moved to Albany, where she worked as a clerk and bookkeeper until she received a call from O. A. Wolverton, the Monmouth postmaster.
The man responsible for the call was L. Gooding, who was the principal of Scio High School when she graduated. Later he became principal of a school in Monmouth.
When he learned that Wolverton was looking for an assistant, he recommended Buckner. She started working in the Monmouth post office in the early 1920s.
After the death of her mother, Aunt Vina married. And when Buckner moved to Albany, Aunt Vina and her husband followed. When she moved to Monmouth, they were right behind her. And when she transferred back to Albany they were pleased as punch, she said, because they liked Albany better than Monmouth.
AUNT VINA WAS the main reason she never married. "She was a protective old aunt" who scattered would-be suitors, Buckner said. Aunt Vina didn't tolerate any tomfoolery, and she was "pretty sneaky."
Buckner wasn't allowed to dance when she was growing up. "That was a no-no for me," she said, "because that's where the devil was." Even when he wasn't there, Aunt Vina was.
One night Buckner and other young people held a party in the Odd Fellows Hall above the Scio Fire Station. When Aunt Vina slipped in to see what was going on, she was horrified to find Buckner "playing Skip to My Lou." Aunt Vina pounced on her, and she promptly left the party.
AND BUCKNER TOOK care of Aunt Vina in her old age.
Buckner finally retired in the early 1950s -- if her memory serves her correctly. "What difference do a few years make?" she asked serenely.
For a while she remained in Albany. Then she moved to Salem and bought a house. A few years later, she sold it and moved in to take care of her ailing brother (Fred Buckner), who was also living in Salem.
She has been at Jason Lee Manor in Salem about 4 1/2 years. She has an apartment in the new brick building that replaced the old Methodist retirement home three years ago. It's clean and warm and comfortable, and the lobby is a quiet, restful place with big windows that look out upon smooth, green lawns.
IT'S NICE. SHE wouldn't deny that. "But, I'm a rebel," she said as she glanced out at a string of ducks waddling arrogantly across the lawn. "I'm not from the South, but I'm still a rebel."
One of her rebellions was against the amount of some pensions. And she considered herself as guilty as most.
"I'm not going to tell you how much it is," she said of her pension after 40 years of federal service, "but it's more than some people make in wages."
In her eyes that's disgraceful. She said the government must cut spending somewhere "because we're in a very precarious position."
"And it's sad -- everybody fighting. And it even came down to our town," she said.
WORRY OVER THE future crowded the smile off her face, but only momentarily. When it returned, it was as bright as ever. She has a lot to be thankful for. Except for a spate of high blood pressure, which has been controlled, she's in good health. And she enjoyed talking about the past. "I don't often get a chance to reminisce," she said, as she leaned back on the couch.
She had ample opportunity to reminisce during her reign as grand marshal of the Linn County Lamb and Wool Festival. For a little while she was back home again. For a little while it was just like old times again.
No time for tomfoolery,
plenty for Oregon tales
By Jerry Easterling
Of the Statesman-Journal
Wednesday, May 26, 1982
Daisy Buckner was just shy of her 90th birthday when she was told she would be the grand marshal of the Linn County Lamb and Wool Festival.
The festival was held in Scio last weekend. She was embarrassed by all the folderol.
Buckner had a good idea who was behind it all, and several times she mentioned the guilty party's name as she perched on the edge of a couch in Jason Lee Manor.
But the smile, the laughter she punctuated it with, and the way her eyes shone behind the thick lenses of her glasses said better than words that no real harm was done.
BUCKNER IS small, feminine, warm and friendly, all dressed up in a lacy pink dress. With a cloud of white hair and a round face beaming with good cheer, she could be anyone's choice for a grandmother.
Unfortunately, she is no one's. She has no family. She was never married "because you didn't find a husband standing on every corner then," she said. And there was another reason, which she got to later.
She was born on June 4, 1892, near Lebanon, on a land claim staked out by her grandfather (Samuel Thomas Miller) in the 1850s.
He had a strict sense of morality. After studying law, he "finally decided a lawyer couldn't be an honest man," Buckner said. From then on he was a circuit-riding Presbyterian preacher who spread the gospel up and down the Willamette Valley.
SHE NEVER KNEW him. He died before she was born. But she got to know her grandmother (Mary Elizabeth Gibbens Miller), who was living in Scio, where he had moved his family from Lebanon. She went to live when she was 10 or 11 so she could run errands for her Aunt who was a seamstress. And had no say about it.
"Long ago," she said, "they didn't ask kids what they wanted to do."
Aunt Vina (Melvina Miller Randall), who had remained at home (sic).
Sic)
(Sic) the light (sic) home to take care of her elderly (grand) mother, kept the child busy. Buckner remembers well the groceries she carted home in the little four-wheeled wagon she pulled all over Scio, a community of about 600 people then, about 20 miles southeast of Salem.
THE FIRST MONEY she ever earned was for delivering a gallon of milk from the dairyman to the top of a post in front of Dr. A.G. Prill's house every day. Prill's wife paid her 10 cents a month.
Buckner's diligence paid off later. In 1905 the Prills took her with them when they visited the Lewis & Clark Expedition in Portland, which was a world away in those days of slow trains and slower horses and buggies.
The Lewis & Clark Expedition was the grandest thing that had ever happened to Oregon, she said. It included a spectacular fireworks exhibition she wasn't able to see until she had gained altitude by sitting on someone's shoulders.
AT FIRST SHE said, "There wasn't any recreation" when she was growing up. But when she placed the tip of her finger between her eyes and thought for a moment, that "most memorable Fourth of July" came flashing back.
"Oh, dear," she said, as though surprised by the vividness of the ride she and other children took on "The Liberty Wagon," which traveled through the cow pastures just out of town where the Fourth of July celebration was held.
For the occasion she wore "a little new dress," she said. "And it was beautiful. I know it was." All the children riding on the old wagon were decked out in their Sunday best.
SHE NOTICED that the wagon was traveling -- "what's the word -- erratic?" Not until later did she learn that the driver was drunk. "But we didn't have an accident," she said, "because the horses knew where they were going."
(Sic)
In 1911 she was one of five seniors who graduated from Scio High School. She considered herself lucky because she got a job as an assistant in the Scio Post Office.
She learned to do everything, which equipped her to become postmaster in 1914 when the Scio post office was elevated from fourth class to third class. That lasted four years.
Then she lost her job. She was told it was a political plum. When a new administration was elected in 1918, someone else got the plum.
AFTER HER grandmother died, she continued to live with her Aunt Vina. But employment prospects were so slim in Scio, she moved to Albany, where she worked as a clerk and bookkeeper until she received a call from O. A. Wolverton, the Monmouth postmaster.
The man responsible for the call was L. Gooding, who was the principal of Scio High School when she graduated. Later he became principal of a school in Monmouth.
When he learned that Wolverton was looking for an assistant, he recommended Buckner. She started working in the Monmouth post office in the early 1920s.
After the death of her mother, Aunt Vina married. And when Buckner moved to Albany, Aunt Vina and her husband followed. When she moved to Monmouth, they were right behind her. And when she transferred back to Albany they were pleased as punch, she said, because they liked Albany better than Monmouth.
AUNT VINA WAS the main reason she never married. "She was a protective old aunt" who scattered would-be suitors, Buckner said. Aunt Vina didn't tolerate any tomfoolery, and she was "pretty sneaky."
Buckner wasn't allowed to dance when she was growing up. "That was a no-no for me," she said, "because that's where the devil was." Even when he wasn't there, Aunt Vina was.
One night Buckner and other young people held a party in the Odd Fellows Hall above the Scio Fire Station. When Aunt Vina slipped in to see what was going on, she was horrified to find Buckner "playing Skip to My Lou." Aunt Vina pounced on her, and she promptly left the party.
AND BUCKNER TOOK care of Aunt Vina in her old age.
Buckner finally retired in the early 1950s -- if her memory serves her correctly. "What difference do a few years make?" she asked serenely.
For a while she remained in Albany. Then she moved to Salem and bought a house. A few years later, she sold it and moved in to take care of her ailing brother (Fred Buckner), who was also living in Salem.
She has been at Jason Lee Manor in Salem about 4 1/2 years. She has an apartment in the new brick building that replaced the old Methodist retirement home three years ago. It's clean and warm and comfortable, and the lobby is a quiet, restful place with big windows that look out upon smooth, green lawns.
IT'S NICE. SHE wouldn't deny that. "But, I'm a rebel," she said as she glanced out at a string of ducks waddling arrogantly across the lawn. "I'm not from the South, but I'm still a rebel."
One of her rebellions was against the amount of some pensions. And she considered herself as guilty as most.
"I'm not going to tell you how much it is," she said of her pension after 40 years of federal service, "but it's more than some people make in wages."
In her eyes that's disgraceful. She said the government must cut spending somewhere "because we're in a very precarious position."
"And it's sad -- everybody fighting. And it even came down to our town," she said.
WORRY OVER THE future crowded the smile off her face, but only momentarily. When it returned, it was as bright as ever. She has a lot to be thankful for. Except for a spate of high blood pressure, which has been controlled, she's in good health. And she enjoyed talking about the past. "I don't often get a chance to reminisce," she said, as she leaned back on the couch.
She had ample opportunity to reminisce during her reign as grand marshal of the Linn County Lamb and Wool Festival. For a little while she was back home again. For a little while it was just like old times again.
Daughter of Levi L. Buckner and Clara Fannie (Coston) Buckner. Never married.
No time for tomfoolery,
plenty for Oregon tales
By Jerry Easterling
Of the Statesman-Journal
Wednesday, May 26, 1982
Daisy Buckner was just shy of her 90th birthday when she was told she would be the grand marshal of the Linn County Lamb and Wool Festival.
The festival was held in Scio last weekend. She was embarrassed by all the folderol.
Buckner had a good idea who was behind it all, and several times she mentioned the guilty party's name as she perched on the edge of a couch in Jason Lee Manor.
But the smile, the laughter she punctuated it with, and the way her eyes shone behind the thick lenses of her glasses said better than words that no real harm was done.
BUCKNER IS small, feminine, warm and friendly, all dressed up in a lacy pink dress. With a cloud of white hair and a round face beaming with good cheer, she could be anyone's choice for a grandmother.
Unfortunately, she is no one's. She has no family. She was never married "because you didn't find a husband standing on every corner then," she said. And there was another reason, which she got to later.
She was born on June 4, 1892, near Lebanon, on a land claim staked out by her grandfather (Samuel Thomas Miller) in the 1850s.
He had a strict sense of morality. After studying law, he "finally decided a lawyer couldn't be an honest man," Buckner said. From then on he was a circuit-riding Presbyterian preacher who spread the gospel up and down the Willamette Valley.
SHE NEVER KNEW him. He died before she was born. But she got to know her grandmother (Mary Elizabeth Gibbens Miller), who was living in Scio, where he had moved his family from Lebanon. She went to live when she was 10 or 11 so she could run errands for her Aunt who was a seamstress. And had no say about it.
"Long ago," she said, "they didn't ask kids what they wanted to do."
Aunt Vina (Melvina Miller Randall), who had remained at home (sic).
Sic)
(Sic) the light (sic) home to take care of her elderly (grand) mother, kept the child busy. Buckner remembers well the groceries she carted home in the little four-wheeled wagon she pulled all over Scio, a community of about 600 people then, about 20 miles southeast of Salem.
THE FIRST MONEY she ever earned was for delivering a gallon of milk from the dairyman to the top of a post in front of Dr. A.G. Prill's house every day. Prill's wife paid her 10 cents a month.
Buckner's diligence paid off later. In 1905 the Prills took her with them when they visited the Lewis & Clark Expedition in Portland, which was a world away in those days of slow trains and slower horses and buggies.
The Lewis & Clark Expedition was the grandest thing that had ever happened to Oregon, she said. It included a spectacular fireworks exhibition she wasn't able to see until she had gained altitude by sitting on someone's shoulders.
AT FIRST SHE said, "There wasn't any recreation" when she was growing up. But when she placed the tip of her finger between her eyes and thought for a moment, that "most memorable Fourth of July" came flashing back.
"Oh, dear," she said, as though surprised by the vividness of the ride she and other children took on "The Liberty Wagon," which traveled through the cow pastures just out of town where the Fourth of July celebration was held.
For the occasion she wore "a little new dress," she said. "And it was beautiful. I know it was." All the children riding on the old wagon were decked out in their Sunday best.
SHE NOTICED that the wagon was traveling -- "what's the word -- erratic?" Not until later did she learn that the driver was drunk. "But we didn't have an accident," she said, "because the horses knew where they were going."
(Sic)
In 1911 she was one of five seniors who graduated from Scio High School. She considered herself lucky because she got a job as an assistant in the Scio Post Office.
She learned to do everything, which equipped her to become postmaster in 1914 when the Scio post office was elevated from fourth class to third class. That lasted four years.
Then she lost her job. She was told it was a political plum. When a new administration was elected in 1918, someone else got the plum.
AFTER HER grandmother died, she continued to live with her Aunt Vina. But employment prospects were so slim in Scio, she moved to Albany, where she worked as a clerk and bookkeeper until she received a call from O. A. Wolverton, the Monmouth postmaster.
The man responsible for the call was L. Gooding, who was the principal of Scio High School when she graduated. Later he became principal of a school in Monmouth.
When he learned that Wolverton was looking for an assistant, he recommended Buckner. She started working in the Monmouth post office in the early 1920s.
After the death of her mother, Aunt Vina married. And when Buckner moved to Albany, Aunt Vina and her husband followed. When she moved to Monmouth, they were right behind her. And when she transferred back to Albany they were pleased as punch, she said, because they liked Albany better than Monmouth.
AUNT VINA WAS the main reason she never married. "She was a protective old aunt" who scattered would-be suitors, Buckner said. Aunt Vina didn't tolerate any tomfoolery, and she was "pretty sneaky."
Buckner wasn't allowed to dance when she was growing up. "That was a no-no for me," she said, "because that's where the devil was." Even when he wasn't there, Aunt Vina was.
One night Buckner and other young people held a party in the Odd Fellows Hall above the Scio Fire Station. When Aunt Vina slipped in to see what was going on, she was horrified to find Buckner "playing Skip to My Lou." Aunt Vina pounced on her, and she promptly left the party.
AND BUCKNER TOOK care of Aunt Vina in her old age.
Buckner finally retired in the early 1950s -- if her memory serves her correctly. "What difference do a few years make?" she asked serenely.
For a while she remained in Albany. Then she moved to Salem and bought a house. A few years later, she sold it and moved in to take care of her ailing brother (Fred Buckner), who was also living in Salem.
She has been at Jason Lee Manor in Salem about 4 1/2 years. She has an apartment in the new brick building that replaced the old Methodist retirement home three years ago. It's clean and warm and comfortable, and the lobby is a quiet, restful place with big windows that look out upon smooth, green lawns.
IT'S NICE. SHE wouldn't deny that. "But, I'm a rebel," she said as she glanced out at a string of ducks waddling arrogantly across the lawn. "I'm not from the South, but I'm still a rebel."
One of her rebellions was against the amount of some pensions. And she considered herself as guilty as most.
"I'm not going to tell you how much it is," she said of her pension after 40 years of federal service, "but it's more than some people make in wages."
In her eyes that's disgraceful. She said the government must cut spending somewhere "because we're in a very precarious position."
"And it's sad -- everybody fighting. And it even came down to our town," she said.
WORRY OVER THE future crowded the smile off her face, but only momentarily. When it returned, it was as bright as ever. She has a lot to be thankful for. Except for a spate of high blood pressure, which has been controlled, she's in good health. And she enjoyed talking about the past. "I don't often get a chance to reminisce," she said, as she leaned back on the couch.
She had ample opportunity to reminisce during her reign as grand marshal of the Linn County Lamb and Wool Festival. For a little while she was back home again. For a little while it was just like old times again.
No time for tomfoolery,
plenty for Oregon tales
By Jerry Easterling
Of the Statesman-Journal
Wednesday, May 26, 1982
Daisy Buckner was just shy of her 90th birthday when she was told she would be the grand marshal of the Linn County Lamb and Wool Festival.
The festival was held in Scio last weekend. She was embarrassed by all the folderol.
Buckner had a good idea who was behind it all, and several times she mentioned the guilty party's name as she perched on the edge of a couch in Jason Lee Manor.
But the smile, the laughter she punctuated it with, and the way her eyes shone behind the thick lenses of her glasses said better than words that no real harm was done.
BUCKNER IS small, feminine, warm and friendly, all dressed up in a lacy pink dress. With a cloud of white hair and a round face beaming with good cheer, she could be anyone's choice for a grandmother.
Unfortunately, she is no one's. She has no family. She was never married "because you didn't find a husband standing on every corner then," she said. And there was another reason, which she got to later.
She was born on June 4, 1892, near Lebanon, on a land claim staked out by her grandfather (Samuel Thomas Miller) in the 1850s.
He had a strict sense of morality. After studying law, he "finally decided a lawyer couldn't be an honest man," Buckner said. From then on he was a circuit-riding Presbyterian preacher who spread the gospel up and down the Willamette Valley.
SHE NEVER KNEW him. He died before she was born. But she got to know her grandmother (Mary Elizabeth Gibbens Miller), who was living in Scio, where he had moved his family from Lebanon. She went to live when she was 10 or 11 so she could run errands for her Aunt who was a seamstress. And had no say about it.
"Long ago," she said, "they didn't ask kids what they wanted to do."
Aunt Vina (Melvina Miller Randall), who had remained at home (sic).
Sic)
(Sic) the light (sic) home to take care of her elderly (grand) mother, kept the child busy. Buckner remembers well the groceries she carted home in the little four-wheeled wagon she pulled all over Scio, a community of about 600 people then, about 20 miles southeast of Salem.
THE FIRST MONEY she ever earned was for delivering a gallon of milk from the dairyman to the top of a post in front of Dr. A.G. Prill's house every day. Prill's wife paid her 10 cents a month.
Buckner's diligence paid off later. In 1905 the Prills took her with them when they visited the Lewis & Clark Expedition in Portland, which was a world away in those days of slow trains and slower horses and buggies.
The Lewis & Clark Expedition was the grandest thing that had ever happened to Oregon, she said. It included a spectacular fireworks exhibition she wasn't able to see until she had gained altitude by sitting on someone's shoulders.
AT FIRST SHE said, "There wasn't any recreation" when she was growing up. But when she placed the tip of her finger between her eyes and thought for a moment, that "most memorable Fourth of July" came flashing back.
"Oh, dear," she said, as though surprised by the vividness of the ride she and other children took on "The Liberty Wagon," which traveled through the cow pastures just out of town where the Fourth of July celebration was held.
For the occasion she wore "a little new dress," she said. "And it was beautiful. I know it was." All the children riding on the old wagon were decked out in their Sunday best.
SHE NOTICED that the wagon was traveling -- "what's the word -- erratic?" Not until later did she learn that the driver was drunk. "But we didn't have an accident," she said, "because the horses knew where they were going."
(Sic)
In 1911 she was one of five seniors who graduated from Scio High School. She considered herself lucky because she got a job as an assistant in the Scio Post Office.
She learned to do everything, which equipped her to become postmaster in 1914 when the Scio post office was elevated from fourth class to third class. That lasted four years.
Then she lost her job. She was told it was a political plum. When a new administration was elected in 1918, someone else got the plum.
AFTER HER grandmother died, she continued to live with her Aunt Vina. But employment prospects were so slim in Scio, she moved to Albany, where she worked as a clerk and bookkeeper until she received a call from O. A. Wolverton, the Monmouth postmaster.
The man responsible for the call was L. Gooding, who was the principal of Scio High School when she graduated. Later he became principal of a school in Monmouth.
When he learned that Wolverton was looking for an assistant, he recommended Buckner. She started working in the Monmouth post office in the early 1920s.
After the death of her mother, Aunt Vina married. And when Buckner moved to Albany, Aunt Vina and her husband followed. When she moved to Monmouth, they were right behind her. And when she transferred back to Albany they were pleased as punch, she said, because they liked Albany better than Monmouth.
AUNT VINA WAS the main reason she never married. "She was a protective old aunt" who scattered would-be suitors, Buckner said. Aunt Vina didn't tolerate any tomfoolery, and she was "pretty sneaky."
Buckner wasn't allowed to dance when she was growing up. "That was a no-no for me," she said, "because that's where the devil was." Even when he wasn't there, Aunt Vina was.
One night Buckner and other young people held a party in the Odd Fellows Hall above the Scio Fire Station. When Aunt Vina slipped in to see what was going on, she was horrified to find Buckner "playing Skip to My Lou." Aunt Vina pounced on her, and she promptly left the party.
AND BUCKNER TOOK care of Aunt Vina in her old age.
Buckner finally retired in the early 1950s -- if her memory serves her correctly. "What difference do a few years make?" she asked serenely.
For a while she remained in Albany. Then she moved to Salem and bought a house. A few years later, she sold it and moved in to take care of her ailing brother (Fred Buckner), who was also living in Salem.
She has been at Jason Lee Manor in Salem about 4 1/2 years. She has an apartment in the new brick building that replaced the old Methodist retirement home three years ago. It's clean and warm and comfortable, and the lobby is a quiet, restful place with big windows that look out upon smooth, green lawns.
IT'S NICE. SHE wouldn't deny that. "But, I'm a rebel," she said as she glanced out at a string of ducks waddling arrogantly across the lawn. "I'm not from the South, but I'm still a rebel."
One of her rebellions was against the amount of some pensions. And she considered herself as guilty as most.
"I'm not going to tell you how much it is," she said of her pension after 40 years of federal service, "but it's more than some people make in wages."
In her eyes that's disgraceful. She said the government must cut spending somewhere "because we're in a very precarious position."
"And it's sad -- everybody fighting. And it even came down to our town," she said.
WORRY OVER THE future crowded the smile off her face, but only momentarily. When it returned, it was as bright as ever. She has a lot to be thankful for. Except for a spate of high blood pressure, which has been controlled, she's in good health. And she enjoyed talking about the past. "I don't often get a chance to reminisce," she said, as she leaned back on the couch.
She had ample opportunity to reminisce during her reign as grand marshal of the Linn County Lamb and Wool Festival. For a little while she was back home again. For a little while it was just like old times again.
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