Forever Young

Just Scratching the Surface

2011-10-09T21:18:00.003-06:00

“Today I’m participating in a mass blogging day! WOW! Women On Writing has gathered a group of blogging buddies to write about Special People We Know and Love. Why? We’re celebrating the release of Joanne Lewis’ and Amy Lewis Faircloth’s debut novel. Wicked Good (Telemachus Press, LLC, 2011) is about the unconditional love between a mother and her adopted, special needs son and the adventure that brings them closer together. Visit The Muffin at http://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com/ to read what Joanne and Amy have to share about their special people and view the list of all my blogging buddies. Then be sure to visit http://www.amyandjoanne.com/ to learn more about the authors."

Just Scratching the Surface

“Enjoy him. You won’t have him for very much longer.” The voice was as clear as though someone were standing right by my side, speaking to me quietly. I looked around, expecting to see who might have spoken the words, but there was no one there. Jay (our son), his band members, and a few Melonheads who always showed up for the gigs early were there, but they were busy getting set up for the evening’s performance at Trinity’s in Mobile, Alabama, another lively evening with Velvet Melon, Jay’s band. I shrugged and immediately dismissed the words for the moment.

The stage at Trinity’s was above the bar, a strange location but one that was perfect for bands because they were up high where everyone could see them. Not a bad seat in the house. All evening I had a perfect view of my boy and the other guys in the band. Talent shouted from all of them as they played originals by Jay and Mike and cover tunes by bands such as Crowded House, Human Radio, and Billy Idol. Jay was obviously the leader and had the audience in the palm of his hand. If he told them to sing with him, they sang; if he said for them to dance, they danced; if he motioned for them to clap, their hands couldn’t wait to smack together. They loved him! And the feeling was mutual.

Between sets, he “worked the crowd,” as he called his moving from one group of friends to another, from one group of first attenders to another; this evening to one girl sitting by herself. She wasn’t a pretty girl, not made up like the others, not dressed in provocative clothing, not dancing and flirting. In fact, she was a bit homely and obviously by herself. During the set of originals, she had had eyes only for Jay, and he noticed. Instead of heading to beauties in the crowd—those girls whom he and Mike, the keyboard player, referred to as “swanks”—he made his way to the lone girl, spending several minutes visiting only with her, obviously making her day.

This night at Trinity’s was just one of hundreds at bars all over the Southeast. Frank and I attended all of Jay’s gigs if the band was playing in Pensacola, and we went to gigs in other cities whenever we could. Since bands don’t begin until 9:00 p.m. and since we both had to be up early the next morning for work, we’d usually go for the first set—always the band’s originals—and then leave so that we could get to bed at a halfway decent hour. We had done this for months, maybe even years, and not thought a thing about our schedule. One Monday after a Sunday-night gig, the phone rang in the teacher’s work area in the school where I taught. The call was for me. It was Jay.

“Hey, Mom,” he said. “I’m really put out with you and Dad.” Put out with is Southern for disappointed in.

“Really? Why?” I asked, shocked by his words.

“Because y’all come to the gig, stay for one set, and then leave without telling me ‘good-bye.’”

Now that really was a shocker. What twenty-something boy is insulted because his mom and dad don’t tell him good-bye in front of all his friends? Jay Young, that’s who. You can be assured that we never left a gig without hugs right in the middle of the bar after that revelation. The music that flowed from his sax was beautiful, but his words on the phone that day were even more beautiful. They were music to my ears.

As most people know, the atmosphere in a bar can sometimes be a bit raucous and racy. The bars where Velvet Melon played were no exception, so I’m told. I say “so I’m told” because even though the young people in those places were energetic and the music much too loud for parents’ ears, most of the time we didn’t see too much that we’d object to. Why? We found out when one of Jay’s friends told us that just before we were to arrive, Jay stopped the music and announced, “Hey, guys, my folks are gonna walk through that door any minute, so cool it!” I think there had been some banter back and forth between the Melonheads and the band that Jay didn’t want us to hear. What a boy!

I could write a book about Jay’s friends and his relationship to them. For now, though, I want to write about only one—Gary, a young man who, in his junior year in high school, had been warming up for the 100-yard dash at a track meet, when a policeman had lost control of his motorcycle and literally flown into Gary, leaving him a paraplegic. When Gary returned to school after a lengthy healing period, kids in his own class didn’t know how to react to his new situation and, instead of being friendly and conciliatory toward him, practically ignored him. Sometimes we just don’t know what to say to those who are suffering. Not so with Jay and some of his classmates, young people a year behind Gary in school. Instead, they flocked to Gary, not concentrating on his handicap but endeavoring to make him feel normal . . . like them. Jay was a ringleader in the Let’s Make Gary Feel Good group.

Gary told me that one day Jay was late to band and saw Gary sitting in his wheelchair in the commons area of the school. Jay, in his unabashed way, asked Gary what he missed most in his new life.

“Running fast,” Gary immediately answered. He said that sometimes he’d go to the track and wheel himself around just to feel the fresh air blowing through his hair.

Jay said, “So you miss going fast?”

“Sure do,” answered his friend.

“Hang on, Gary! You’re about to go for the ride of your life!” And away they went all through the halls of Pine Forest High School. As Gary said, “It was so exciting I almost lost my water!”

Jay loved all sorts of people, no matter the person’s physical condition, station in life, intelligence, or talent. People and music were his passion. I don’t think I ever heard him hang up from talking to a friend without saying something like, “I love you, man!” And he never hung up from talking to Frank and me without telling us that he loved us. We even have a tape of one of his songs in which he leaned close to the microphone and said, “I love you, Mom.” What made him do that, I don’t know, but you can bet I love listening to that recording.

My boy was funny, but that’s an understatement. He was hilarious. He and his sister, Wendy, could entertain us for hours just playing off each other. Before I ever saw Saturday Night Live, they used to have us in stitches on Sunday morning, “replaying” the program from the night before. The first time I saw SNL, I didn’t think it was nearly so funny as our children were. He was an entertainer from the core. Just the most insignificant event took on magnitude when Jay told it. He didn’t lie; he just embellished. Something that could have been serious was comedy when he finished telling about it.

Just as with most mothers and sons, Jay and I had a very special relationship. Many mornings I’d be up grading papers before getting ready for school, and he’d be just getting in from an out-of-town gig. We’d sit and drink coffee and chat before he went to bed and I headed to the bathroom to get socially acceptable. He’d tell me about the gig he’d just finished, and I’d tell him about projects that my students were doing. Just chit chat between a mom and her boy . . . times I’ll never forget.

The things that I’ve mentioned about Jay just scratch the surface of his personality and give merely a taste of the reasons that he is so special to me. Every incident that I’ve mentioned taught me, the mother, something . . . compassion being the main thing. His love for people is what endears him the most to me, his love for me being included.

Our son died on July 2, 1992, when he was twenty-four years old, much too young to go. I can tell you, and Jay would agree with me, that God had a reason for his going to be with Him so soon. Someday both of us will understand. In the meantime, I still hear the voice that I heard only four months before he died: “Enjoy him. You won’t have him for very much longer.” The voice told the truth.

Not long after Jay died, I read a book called My Dream of Heaven (Intramuros) by Rebecca Ruter-Springer. At the beginning of each chapter, she inserted a quotation. One of the last quotations grabbed my heart and though I’ve read many books since then about losing children, this quotation has remained my favorite, and I can’t conclude this piece without showing it to all who read because it sums up my feelings for my boy:

There is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity; and if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her by misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him.

—Washington Irving

Celebrating Masako!

2011-08-17T13:08:00.003-06:00

On August 1, 2011, our little Japanese sister-in-law, Masako, died. She was Sam's wife and the first of Frank's siblings and their spouses to go. She and Sam, Frank's older brother, have been two of my favorite people for almost fifty years, and I miss her very much. Masako leaves behind Sam; her son, Tim; his wife, Molly; and their three children -- Mackenzie, Becca, and Harrison. Becca and Harrison can't remember a day when their grandma didn't live in the same house with them. Since Mackenzie is a little older, she may have memories of a time before Sam and Masako were right there with them. I doubt it, though. The whole family has a lot of adjusting to do, so all of us in the family are praying for them.

We drove to Bremerton, WA, to be with the family in order to celebrate Masako's life, and that's just what we did -- celebrate. Don't get me wrong . . . there were tears, but there were also smiles and laughter as we remembered so many things about her. We told lots of stories!

Sam asked Frank to speak at her funeral and the third of the older brothers to sing. It was a delight . . . yes, a delight . . . to hear Frank and Jim honor their sister-in-law. Though I didn't say anything at the funeral (now, that's a surprise, isn't it? The Mouth of the South quiet for once . . .), I wrote a letter to Masako, recalling my special memories of her. Here it is . . .

August 15, 2011

Dear Masako,

I’m writing this letter with a combination heart—part of it is heavy because you’re not here with us; the other part is light because of all the good memories that I have of us for the past almost fifty years. Today, I’m concentrating on the light part.

I can hardly remember what I had for breakfast yesterday; however, I remember vividly the first time we met. The beautiful memory that I’ll always carry with me is of you on December 16 and 17, 1961. Those were the dates of our rehearsal dinner and wedding in Pensacola, and you, Sam, Shurly, and Fred were there. You brought two absolutely gorgeous kimonos, one silver and one gold, to wear to our two events, and you were the loveliest one there.

Almost a year later, I saw you again, this time in Eastern Washington in the middle of the night, when Frank and I went with Grandma and Grandpa to rescue you, Sam, Bob, and Kay because your car broke down when you were coming home from Maine. We were together for a few days before you and Sam left for San Diego. I remember that my tender heart was broken, seeing you and Sam leave. I didn’t know when I’d see you again, and the tears began to flow. Grandma turned to me and quietly said, “We don’t do that in our family.” Well, dear sister-in-law, I did it! And I did it again when you left me this time.

The next real memory I have of being with you was again in Fall City, in that lovely old house that Grandma and Grandpa lived in. It was unlike anything else I’d ever seen, and I loved it. My picture of us is in the bathroom, the two of us bathing a couple of very dirty little boys who had been playing outside all day. I can just see that filthy bath water now. And I also see Timmy doing something that didn’t please you, then you swatting him with your hard little hand, and then Jay screaming in pain for his cousin. And what was Timmy doing? Just looking at you. What a memory! One of my favorites!

Next I see the two of us many years later in Pensacola, where you were living so that Sam could do two things that he’d always wanted to do—work in a retail store and go to college. He did both while you turned that little house on Jackson Street into a lovely home. Tim and Jay attended Bellview Middle School together and got into mischief after school and on weekends. What I remember best is that you and I both received microwaves for Christmas that year and attended cooking classes at Escambia High School one evening a week. All we learned that stayed with us was to put a cup of water in the oven, heat it for three minutes, and use a damp cloth to clean the crud out that had been softened by the steam. Worked fine for years. Now the experts tell us that we can’t do that anymore. The cup of water will explode and give us awful burns. Maybe so, but I still clean my microwave this way and think of you and smile every time I do it.

Through the years, we’ve been to your and Sam’s home so many times, and each time was so much fun, even the Christmas that Frank, Jay, and I were in Fall City and then in Bremerton with you. You may remember that we had to extend our stay for a couple of days because we were snowed in. That extension was no problem because we were with the Youngs!

I guess, though, the visit that will forever stay with me was the last one, the one this spring. You were so ill, but you managed to perk up a bit when we went wig shopping. Sam asked me to go with the two of you, and I agreed, knowing full well that I knew nothing about shopping for a wig for you. But we had a good time going to the vocational school where wigs and “head warmers” were given freely to cancer patients. We had such a good time laughing as we chose from wigs, wigs, and more wigs, some of them not nearly good enough for you, as far as I was concerned.

We walked out with about a dozen warmers and three beautiful wigs. I was so excited for you to have the wigs because I know that a lady always feels better, even when ill, if she looks pretty, and you, my dear sister-in-law looked very pretty with your new hair!

As we left your home in April 2011, I knew that I’d never see you again, and yes, the tears came as we drove away. I will always remember you, and you’ll always have a very special place in my heart. Pictures will always come to mind, but the one that I want to keep in the forefront is our beautiful Masako in her lovely kimono on December 17, 1961 . . . at our wedding almost fifty years ago. I love you, Masako, always have, always will.

Jay Week 2011

2011-07-09T15:06:00.003-06:00

Not a day goes by during every year when I don’t think of my boy. Just walking down the hall from the family room to the laundry room brings a rush of memories because the Jay walls are there. Every individual photo, whether a part of the collages that some of you helped Wendy construct right after Jay died or lone photos of him playing at Trinitys or at Cinco de Mayo, brings back a memory. So many good memories!

This year, though, I’m not going to reminisce about personal memories or insert photos to talk about; instead, I’m going to use words of his friends and relatives to recapture Jay. Some of you know that soon after Jay died in 1992 that Angela Hinkley got in touch with lots of his friends and asked them to help her with a project. But let me share Angela’s words with you instead of trying to paraphrase:

Since I met Jay through my writing, it seemed really appropriate to summarize my relationship with him in writing also. As I began writing, I recalled so many memories of Jay. It made me think of how many other people must carry within themselves an almanac of “Jay” memories. If only I could unleash them!

I started the idea for this book by wanting each individual in Jay’s life to write down their own favorite memories. It became apparent, almost immediately, that this was going to be an impossible task. If I excluded those who were not in this area, I would probably have created quite a simple publication. I realized that the phone would be a helpful tool in compiling all the information necessary. I knew that people would need a little help and a little prodding to begin their personal thoughts about Jay with me. I hope I succeeded.

For the past month, I have totally immersed myself in the life of Jay Young. I have laughed with, cried with, listened to, comforted, and assured these people who would be so kind as to share private times of their lives with me. I’ve never before been so involved in the investigation of a human life, other than my own. During this time, I haven’t even been able to converse with Frank and Sandy for fear of “spilling the beans”! I’ve learned so much I wanted to share with them. I’ve had to hold everything in, except for sharing with Wendy, who I know has probably heard every account in this book five times each!

I really thought I knew a lot about Jay. I probably did, but there was so much more to learn and to appreciate about this profound human being. The people he touched through his life and music were far beyond anything I’d imagined, even after witnessing the lines at the funeral home. People genuinely love him. I’m so pleased to have been able to compile these recollections. I want Jay’s memory to live on, not in mourning but in the wonderful celebration of a life—his life.
Angela Hinkley
Christmas 1992

What a beautiful “giff” (to use Jay’s pronunciation) Angela gave Frank and me! Wendy helped her by designing the cover of what we have titled The Jay Book.
It is one of our most prized possessions, and I can assure you that if we ever had to evacuate, it would be one of the treasures that I’d take with me.

Choosing which of your memories to include was a task that almost wiped me out, I’m afraid. Why? Just the choosing itself was very difficult because I wanted to quote each of you. The main wiping out came, though, in the reading. Such beautiful memories! But my “rememberer” is attached to my tear ducts, I’m afraid, so the mama shed lots of tears during the choosing. But that’s okay. They were happy tears. The ones that I’ve chosen will give all of you, both those who knew Jay and those who didn’t, a glimpse of my boy.

• Suzy Ward: Jay had a wonderful love-hate relationship with New York. He worked so hard to make a got of it there. In spite of his irritation at life in the City, financial problems, Winnebago problems, his eyes lit up whenever he saw the night lights or walked down Bleeker Street. He loved the music scene. He loved the weirdness. Jay always loved the crowds. He gave money to homeless sax players, turned cartwheels in the subway, drove through Harlem at 2:00 a.m. so Wendy could shoot photos, and spoke to every celebrity and pseudo-celebrity he would recognize on the street. Living in New York is a thoroughly exhausting endeavor. Jay made it energizing for me.

• Patrick O’Donovan: The night I decided to leave Velvet Melon was perhaps the most difficult decision of my life. I was so afraid of what everyone, but especially Jay, was going to think of me. We had rehearsed and then I told Jay I needed to talk to him. We went for a drive. I was so scared to tell Jay I was leaving. I was afraid he would be upset with me. Most of all, I was afraid of Jay being disappointed in me. Jay had grown to become my brother. His opinion and views affected and meant so much to me, both professionally and personally. I slowly told Jay the news, carefully outlining all the reasons I needed to leave Velvet Melon. Expecting disappointment, anger, and even despair from Jay, I was so surprised to hear what he had to say. He told me he understood. He said he was disappointed I was leaving the band, but he was proud of my desire to return to school. He told me I had to follow my dreams. I’d been with Jay Young every day for the previous many months. However, I’d never felt closer to him in my life.

• Jimmy Mills: My memory starts with picking on Jay in middle school, through the good times in high school, where we both developed our skills as musicians and best friends. Later, in 1984, we bonded even more on our trips every other weekend to Tampa to further develop our skills in Suncoast Sound Drum and Bugle Corps. We never quit looking for ways to be better as musicians. All my memories of Jay seem to always center around music, but there are a few occasions where we were just buddies having fun. I’m pretty sure we all know which nights those were! (When I woke up on the floor of Sandy’s bathroom one morning in my underwear! Ha! Ha!)

• Nathan Tracy: My best memory of Jay . . . so many. Jay did a perfect imitation of Pete Payton. He would talk and gesture just like him. It was so funny! Jay used to say there was nothing like going to Mariner Mall and licking the telephone receivers. He was so crazy!

When we played soccer together, we always ragged Jay because he would leave early for piano lessons. We called him a “girlie” and just gave him a general hard time. Jay always took the heat. He turned out to be the best musician any one of us ever knew.

• John Buck: To remember Jay is to know how spontaneous a person he was. He was so tremendously talented and such a positive person. I think Jay may have been the most talented kid I ever taught in all my 22 years of teaching. There is not enough I could say about him.

• Lisa “Farmer” Hall: In 1989, Velvet Melon was playing at Apple Annie’s in Seville Quarter. Jay and I had had a disagreement, and Jay really hurt my feelings. I knew, however, that all my friends were going to be there listening to Velvet Melon. I decided to go to Seville anyhow and worry later about the deal with Jay. I arrived and the guys had already started playing. I went over to the bar for a drink. About halfway there, I heard Jay announce, “This next song is for Lisa Farmer. I did something really stupid and hurt her feelings. I’m really sorry.” The next song the band played was for me. I couldn’t believe Jay had humbled himself to me in front of hundreds of people . . . and on stage. It showed me just what kind of person he really was.

• Tim Weekley: The first time Jay came to Bible Study was so memorable. We had been holding Bible Study for a few weeks. Jay showed up and listened intently. I didn’t know Jay spiritually at all at that time. I knew he was raised a Christian. However, not knowing exactly where Jay stood, I did not want to direct any questions of comments directly to him. During Bible Study, we would always ask people to read a passage from Scripture to exemplify our discussion for the evening. I asked who would like to read this rather obscure Old Testament passage. To my surprise, Jay immediately volunteered, located the passage without hesitation, and began to rread. I was amazed. After that first Bible Study, Jay expressed a great appreciation for the group. He came as often as possible and we enjoyed his presence and participation so much.

Right before Velvet Melon left for New York, they were scheduled to play at Trader Jon’s. Jay asked me to come down after the gig and pray with the band before they left for New York. I woke up at 3:00 a.m. and went to Trader’s to pray with them. I really appreciated that opportunity. Once the guys moved to New York, I would call regularly on Monday nights to get their prayer requests for the week. I’d always remind everyone at Bible Study to pray for the band and their success.

• Kevin Totowian (Tall Stories band): Jay was such a profound and outgoing person. He was really positive and sincere and that came out in his music. In New York, there is a great competitiveness between bands which is almost vicious. There was never any of that with Jay and Velvet Melon. There was a real professional respect and friendship present there. Jay was so extremely talented. He stood out to us all as such a brilliant musician.

• Lisa Lassiter: Before I knew Jay, I was at Trinity’s one night when Velvet Melon was playing a gig. We all noticed this kind of unattractive girl who was just really taken with Jay. She was staring at him the entire first set. After that set, at least six girls came at Jay, most of whom were really attractive. However, Jay excused himself and went over to this girl, sat down, and began talking with her. Everyone could see that this girl was just beside herself. Jay was making her day! There were several beautiful girls around, but Jay chose to notice someone who probably wouldn’t be noticed by anyone else. I was so amazed at what a down to earth person he was.

• Andi Olsen: Velvet Melon played at my beach house in the summer of 1987. While the guys were playing, the balcony attached to the house collapsed. When the police came to investigate, their report states that the vibrations from the band’s music made the balcony fall off the house. From then on, we knew Jay and Velvet Melon as the “Band That Rocked the House Down”!

• Gary Powell (d. 2009[?]): Back at the time of my accident, all my friends kind of dumped me. (Gary was paralyzed after his accident.) My sister’s friends kind of picked me up. Jay was one of those friends. Jay always, no matter where he was or how busy he was, would take the time to sit down and talk with me. Not everybody did that. Even if Jay was running late and supposed to be someplace else, he would make time for me. It was enough to know that he cared that much for me.

One time in high school, Jay was late for band practice. I was in the commons and Jay sat down to talk. We were discussing running before my accident. I was telling Jay that although I could not run any longer, I would often push my wheelchair on the driving range for exercise. I would go fast, then pop the brake to spin around. I told Jay I couldn’t really go very fast, though. Jay got up and told me to get ready because I was going to come as close to flying as I would ever get! Jay took off, driving my chair at top speed through the hallways. We flew so fast I thought we were going to crash! I was so scared I almost lost my water. My heart was in my britches!

I really appreciated that no matter how large the crowd around him was, Jay always made time for me. He wanted to get personal with people.

• Phyllis Anderson: My fondest memories of Jay were when we played at Seville. He would come and sit in with us. Just when I thought I couldn’t go on another song, Jay would fly through those swinging doors and totally light up the room. He would blow that horn and remind me of why I do what I do. Jay would play that saxophone and the entire room filled with his energy, his power.

Jay and I talked many times about the Lord. In our business, it is so difficult to express and share your feelings about much without the use of music. I knew Jay was a Christian, and he was so refreshing! It was like Jay knew I needed to converse and share my words and feelings about the Lord. We talked one night until 3 a.m. about being able to feel close to God and carry on a personal relationship with Him, despite our occupation.

Jay Young was a refreshing, wonderful human and a tremendous musician. I know that the Lord is caring for Jay and that Jay is with Him.

• Todd Vannoy: Jay was always an individual. He went to church with long hair and an earring. I’m sure a lot of people stereotyped him for that reason. Jay showed everyone that you could love God and be a Christian just as you are.

• Doug Stiers: My most memorable time with Jay was the moment I met him — until the day he died.

• Scott Miller: Jay and I were in ninth grade and we were entered in the school talent contest. We dressed up in Long Johns and sang “satisfaction” with some guys from jazz band. This was before we had ever thought of bands or singing or Velvet Melon. We were just a couple of crazy freshmen with enough nerve to get up in front of the entire student body and sing our hearts out. There we stood in our pj’s doing our Mick Jagger imitation. It was the most exhilarating experience of my life. And we won the contest!

When I entered public school in third grade, Jay was the first person to walk up to me and say, “Hi! My name’s Jay.” The rest is history. It is a history of which I am so proud to be a part.

• Andy Waltrip: Jay was a true friend to me and he made me laugh so much. I enjoyed our friendship immensely and still do, when I look back on those times. One of the things about him was that he always made me feel like I was supposed to be there, that he always had time for me. Jay made everyone feel that way. Out of all the people I’ve ever met, I have never met anyone else who had such a magnetic, energetic, charismatic personality. I, just like so many other people, miss having that personality around to make the day more enjoyable. I looked up the word charisma in Webster’s Dictionary. It’s incorrect. It should have a picture of Jay next to the word. Jay Young defines charisma. I can’t wait to see him again.

• Ted Berquist: Frank and Jay came into All-Pro to buy Jay a drum set. It seems that Jay was going to learn go play drums. I sold them the set and they were on their way. A short time later, Jay came in to buy a keyboard. This kind of confused me, but, hey, a sale’s a sale. Even later on, Jay returned again to buy a bass guitar. Jay told me he was learning to play bass for his band, Velvet Melon. He invited me out to hear him play. When I finally went out to hear the band, I looked to see Jay playing not one of the three instruments he’d bought. The guy was playing a saxophone!

• Wendy Young: Let’s see, a memory of Jay . . . a memory of Jay . . . a memory of Jay. Well, I guess my first was the night Mom went to the hospital to give birth to my new baby. I hoped and hoped it would be a boy. I remember receiving the phone call at the neighbor’s house where I was staying. Nothing could have made me happier. This new entity in the house brought me great comfort. If I got scared in the night, which I was often, I could go to his room and sleep on the bed next to his crib and be okay.

As he grew, I took great delight in dressing him up in totally outrageous costumes and parading him in front of company. Maybe that’s why he had absolutely no inhibitions in gront of a crowd. We also used to stand on our toy box and lip-synch to Mom’s old 45’s from the fifties, like Elvis’s “My Baby Left Me” and Tennessee Ernie Ford’s “Sixteen Tons.” Jay’s favorite was “Mostly Martha” by some group I can’t remember and “Ape Call” by Nervous Norvus.

Music was a big part of our childhood, so it came as no surprise that he became an accomplished musician. I can remember him sitting at the piano practicing. His back was always so straight and his fingers always in perfect position. Being his older sister, I could not resist coming up behind him and grabbing him by the shoulders, and giving him a good big sister shaking. He never missed a beat and never told me to stop. I think he enjoyed the challenge.

It seems funny to me that I don’t remember any of the arguments or fights we had. There weren’t very many. All I remember when I think of Jay is fun. Whether we were eating supper, hiking in canyons, or listening to Led Zeppelin albums backwards to hear Satanic messages, we had a blast!

• Angela Hinkley: Jay was such a clown. Clowns enjoy life, seeking only to bring happiness to others through the life they lead. Jay was like that.

I remember that in October 1987 I traveled to Gainesville to sing at a frat party with the guys. We arrived and located our accommodations. Of course, the guys were staying in the dorms. I remember how funny the frat social chairman looked at Jay when Jay asked him where I was going to sleep. It was obvious that they had not planned for me. Jay told the guy I was his little sister and that we were orphans. He explained that I was still a minor and that he had to take me every place he played. Jay went on and on about how we were only in the music business to save enough money to get our granny the operation she needed. Mike and Wes were straining to keep straight faces, while Darin had to turn and walk away. I couldn’t stand it another second and broke out in laughter. As I was doubled over, Jay, who never cracked a smile, told the guy I was manic-depressive as well! Sometime much later, Jay let the poor guy off the hook. However, I can only imagine what stories went around about that band and its manic-depressive, orphaned, granny-saving sister!

Wendy asked me a few minutes if I had decided to copy the whole book here. Sometimes it seemed that I was; however, I assure you that there are lots more memories in The Jay Book. Maybe I’ll retype the whole book sometime so that we’ll have it on my computer, but not right now. Today is the nineteenth anniversary of Jay’s death, so I want to post this piece somewhere so that anyone who wants to can read it.

All of you know how much I love my boy and how much I want to preserve his memory. I think all of us — you included — are doing a good job of memory saving. Some of you have joined me this week in posting photos of Jay, Scott Miller (Mullah) in particular, and I’m very much grateful. Even more of you have written notes to Frank and me today, telling us that you’re thinking of us, and we love all of the messages. Thank you so much. As I copied what some of you said in The Jay Book, some of the dominant themes were that Jay was happy, smiling, funny, caring, exuberant, charismatic. Thanks for impressing these traits indelibly for all to read and remember. These are the things about Jay that I want to remember and that I want others to remember. Because of you and of the memories that you’ve written about my boy, today is a day of celebration . . . celebration of a life that will always be remembered.

Frank and I love all of you!

Happy 43rd, Jay!

2011-02-12T20:36:00.003-07:00

Give me a topic, and I can usually write about it. My approach and details may not be what others would write, but I can come up with something. Tell me to think of a topic, and many times I sit here with my nose against a brick wall—all I see is either a wall with nothing written on it or so many scribbles of ideas that I can’t make out anything because of the position of my nose on that wall.

I find myself in the latter fix today. I want to write about Jay because it’s his birthday week, and I always write about him on his birthday. But how do I narrow my topic so that I don’t just roam around in his 43 years, never really alighting on anything? Won’t someone help me? Let me sit here for a while to see if I hear anything. (Picture about two hours going by with Sandy just sitting before the woodstove on a beautiful New Mexico Saturday afternoon, waiting for some kind of inspiration.)

Eureka! I heard you! It’s the voices of former students groaning and complaining about yet another quotation that I want them to write about, to identify with. “Mizhung (that’s Southern for Mrs. Young, you know), you ought to do what you had us do . . . react to quotations. Find other people’s words that remind you of Jay and write to your heart’s content.” Good idea, my dear former students. Once more, you’ve come to my rescue.

So, as my mother-in-law used to say, there you have it. I’ll find quotations that remind me of Jay and put the long, skinny fingers to the computer keypad write away.

Son, you outgrew my lap, but never my heart.
—Author Unknown
I have a picture in my mind right now. It’s of Jay and me sitting in the rocking chair in the living room in Pensacola, his long legs dangling at age six and his head splitting from a migraine. He and I spent many an afternoon in this position, lights off and not a sound in the room except an occasional squeak from the rocker. We’d sit there for an hour or so, just mother and son. We both might snooze a bit, and soon his headache would abate, and he’d be off and running, probably out to play with Walter Glenn. Later, after he discovered that music was in his soul and after he had outgrown his rocking place, he’d still have headaches, but can you guess what he substituted for my lap? Rock ‘n’ roll. That’s right. Loud music. Don’t ask me to explain. That was just my boy. Out of my lap but not out of my heart . . . ever.

He who can be a good son will be a good father.
—Author Unknown
This quotation is a daydream. Jay didn’t live long enough to be a father, though back in the early days after he died, I often wished that a young woman would show up at our door to tell us that the little child with her was Jay’s. I’d have welcomed that young woman and that child with open arms; however, that visit never materialized. But . . . if you’re out there . . . . I still wonder sometimes what it would have been like for Jay to be married and to have children, children that we’d love so very much, just the way we love our Corey and Jackson. I like to think that he would have been a good father, putting his wife and children above everything else, even above his music. In my heart of hearts, I think he would still be a musician, but maybe by this time, he might not be on the road all the time. After all, rock stars (you know that’s just about all he ever wanted to be, and I believe he would have achieved his dreams) can choose how often they want to travel. Perhaps his wife and children would have traveled with him, his children being home schooled. But maybe not. I know he would have been a good provider and that he’d spend quality time with his family. He and his wife would have set examples for their children as far as their relationship to God is concerned. Those who read this may remember a line from one of Jay’s songs “I don’t mix drugs with rock and roll./ I’ve got Jesus in my heart to save my soul.” He’d want his children to have Jesus in their hearts, too. Also, Jay loved traveling with Wendy, Frank, and me when he was a little boy, and he’d want his children to have the same kinds of experiences that he and Wendy had. Family was important to Jay, and he’d want family to be important to his children. Jay was a good son; he’d have been a good father. Of this I’m sure.

My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it.
—Mark Twain
After a child dies, it’s difficult for the parents not to remember him as perfect. Most mothers and dads don’t want to dwell on trouble that the kid got into, near misses that he had with the law . . . unless those parents are Sandy and Frank Young, whose son could “’fess up” after the fact and bring tears of laughter to their eyes or whose son’s escapades even at the moment that they happened were just hilarious. I must confess on our parts that we laughed about a lot of things in our family that other families would consider just terrible and probably mete out punishments that the kids would never forget. In retrospect, I don’t think we were very good disciplinarians. Anyway . . . on with the trouble.

(1) When Jay and Walter were in seventh or eighth grade, there was a rash of fights at Bellview Middle School. Those two little bad boys decided to stage a fight before school in the hall right outside their first period class. They were really going at it with fake punches and lots of “Oohs!” and “Ouches” and such, with their teacher looking on, enjoying every minute of the “fight” and laughing with the kids. Out of nowhere came Pete Payton, the assistant principal, who had just about had it with fighting middle schoolers. “You two boys . . . come with me!” I wish I were an artist. I’d draw a picture of his mouth, turned down at both corners . . . and you’d see Jay’s impersonation of him. I imagine those two little boys were pretty much worried as they followed Mr. Payton to his office. I don’t remember who went in first, and I don’t remember Walter’s story, but I know that when Jay went in, Pete said, “Do you want ten licks or ten days’ suspension?” (That evening when Jay related the story hilariously to us at dinner, he said that he was tempted to say, “Please, Mr. Payton, may I have both?” but he didn’t want to push his luck.) Needless to say, he took the licks; however, just before he bent over, he remembered that he had a Visine bottle in his back pocket and that he’d really get what for if Mr. Payton found that. You see, the administration had put the word out that kids having “squirt” bottles would be suspended, and that’s exactly what that Visine bottle was. Jay managed to remove it before he bent over, probably by giving a Jay twirl as he bent. I know. I know. Back in my day, kids were more afraid of what their parents would do to them when they got home, the parents having been notified by the school authorities of their precious children’s bad behavior. In Jay’s day, there were lots of parents who would have paddled their children even harder after finding out about the punishment at school. My true confession is that Wendy, Frank, and I just doubled over as Jay told his story. If you knew Jay, you know that he could embellish a story and entertain as no one else could. Enough said about this adventure.

(2) We took Jay to Europe with us the summer of 1985. It’s a bit of an exaggeration to say that he went kicking and screaming, but it’s not far off. He’d much rather have stayed at home playing music, Velvet Melon being in its infant stages at that time and Jay wanting to spend every waking hour with the guys in the band. As it turned out, he had a great time, but you can believe that he and his closest friends managed to get in some amount of trouble while we were there. The only thing that we found out about while we were traveling was the piercing of his ear, something that we had laid down the law about at home. He would NOT have his ear pierced. We had some really strange beliefs about ear piercing back in those days, and when he and two friends came back to the hotel with earrings, I cried. Yes, I cried. I was so embarrassed. Through the years, I changed my mind about my boy and his ears, though, and when Jay died, he had three “holes in his head,” and I sent my very much macho brother-in-law to buy new jewelry for my boy so that he’d be all dressed up for his funeral. What we found out when we got home, though, was really scary. He confessed: The afternoon that we arrived in Madrid, he and two other boys got in a car with a stranger and went to his home. Can you imagine what might have happened to those inexperienced teenagers? Nothing did. I’ve always thought there was a quotation about the Lord taking care of fools and babies, but I can’t find it. Even so, I think it applies here. He also told us that one of his friends brought rappelling equipment with him. One night, three Florida boys went out the window of their room and out on the town in Rome, Italy. Remember by quotation about babies and fools? Applies here, too. The third confession was that on the night before we left London, headed home, he and these same rapscallions rolled the Tower Bridge. You heard me right. They took rolls of toilet paper from the Tower Hotel and rolled the bridge in the dark of night. After all the shenanigans were over and we were safely home when the confession poured out, what could we do but laugh and say, “Thank you, Lord” that those children . . . yes, children . . . didn’t wind up in jail.

(3) I’m not going to give lots of details on this trouble, but here’s the gist of it. Just before Jay turned 21, he and the guys in Velvet Melon went to New York City to make their fortune. I could write a book about their nine months there and how, instead of making a fortune, they almost starved, but the NYC adventure is not the topic of this remembrance. The guys planned to be back in Pensacola for Jay’s birthday to play some gigs on the Gulf Coast so that they’d have a little money. On the evening of February 10, after they had set up at Coconut Bay for their gig, Frank and I took Jay out to eat at Darryl’s. We had just placed our order, when Jay leaned back in his chair and announced to us, “Well, folks, now that I’m 21 and legal, I probably should tell you about some things that have happened in the past.” Then he entertained us for the whole meal about things that he and Jimmy Mills had done that truly almost got them in trouble with the law. Jay could have gone to jail! I don’t know that I could ever reconstruct those stories, but I might try some time. Just know that one of them involved going before a judge.

(4) The last trouble that I’ll talk about for now (and I know you’re happy about that) happened at least once a week at our house. Mark Twain said that his mother enjoyed the trouble he caused, and I loved this particular trouble that Jay brought into my life. Periodically, Jay would come into the kitchen, where I was preparing dinner, come up really close to me, and sometimes plant a kiss on my cheek; then he’d say, “It’s time, Mom!” I’d say, “Please, Jay . . . not right now!” At that time, he’d laugh as only Jay could laugh, enjoying himself completely. He’d put his arms around me and lift me off the floor, delightedly announcing, “Yep, Mom, it’s time to put your head in the fan.” I’d laugh and squeal, just what he wanted me to do, as he walked toward the ceiling fan. Then he’d raise me up to about two inches below the fan, having the time of his life. I don’t know how putting his mom’s head in the fan originated, but it was so funny to both of us and to anyone else who happened to be in the room at the time, especially if he or she was witnessing the event for the first time. It’s a memory that I wouldn’t take anything for!

There is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity; and if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her by misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him.
—Washington Irving
If you’ve read other pieces that I’ve written about Jay, maybe you’re familiar with this quotation because I’ve used it before. Shortly after Jay died, I discovered it in a little book that meant so much to me at the time—My Dream of Heaven (Intramuros) by Rebecca Ruter-Springer. I don’t know how many times I’ve read it, but I know I’ll read it again and again now because I’ve just purchased it for my NOOK e-reader. It brought comfort to me when my heart was broken, but the part of the book that meant the most to me was the quotation by Washington Irving. Every part of it applies to Jay and me, every single part. Recently, a friend told me that she was offended by the quotation because it sounded as though I love Jay more than I love Wendy. This is not true. I love both of our children with the same amount of mother love. I could change “son” to “daughter” and make the masculine pronouns feminine and have this quotation be about Wendy. But this piece is about Jay. I love this quotation!

If you made it through to the end of my recollections, thank you. I thoroughly enjoyed reminiscing about my boy. I still miss him every day, but I love thinking back over the exciting times that we had with him. God gave him to us for a short while, but all of us who knew and loved him were richly blessed by his enthusiasm for life. To all of you who continue to remember him and to let Frank, Wendy, and me know that you are thinking about him . . . thank you!

A special day for me

2010-07-02T07:04:00.001-06:00

This is the fourth JAY WEEK since I’ve been blogging. I think about Jay every day, but I always set aside this week as a special time to reminisce and to write about my boy. On Friday (July 2), all of us in our family will do some special reminiscing I imagine because that day will be the 18th anniversary of Jay’s death. July 2 in 1992 is a day we’ll never forget; however, we won’t sit around with a terrible case of the mully-grubs. Instead, we’ll remember funny things that Jay said and did, favorite gigs, Melonheads who will always be part of our family. I still cry over certain poignant memories, but on July 2, we’ll all be upbeat. That day, we’ll probably hear from some of you who are reading this, and getting messages from you will make us smile and smile.

The first year that I wrote about Jay on July 2, was in 2007. That year, I just wrote some favorite memories of Jay and of Melonheads. I loved writing that post, and I loved getting messages from so many of Jay’s friends (our friends, too). I even heard from Suzy (we haven’t been able to connect with her again, though, after writing a couple of e-mails that year).

During the rest of 2007 and the first part of 2008, I kept ruminating about what I’d write in the summer of 2008, but I couldn’t think of anything until right before the big day. Then it hit me . . . I’d use some of the memories that I added to Angela and Wendy’s “Jay Book.” Those memories had the very creative title of “A Mother’s Memories,” and I just copied them to my blog.

Last year, deciding what to write was easier. Since the days and dates in July 2009 exactly corresponded to those in 1992, I determined to write every day, copying what I wrote in 1993, the year after Jay died. Again, I heard from many of you, some of you saying that at last you had closure. You never really knew what happened, how he had died. All you knew in 1992 was that your good friend was gone. I’m glad that I could help in your healing.

And now, here comes July 2, 2010. What will I write this year? A couple of weeks ago, I came across a notebook that looked old and worn and interesting. When I opened it, I immediately recognized Jay’s scratch. Evidently, it was a notebook in which he intended to write lots of songs. Each page has a letter of the alphabet at the top: he intended to write a song for each letter. Well, as with many of Jay’s plans, the very detailed notebook didn’t really materialize; however, at the beginning of his notes is one song . . . a song which eventually became a hit with Melonheads and family, not that we weren’t Melonheads, too. A Melonhead was anyone who followed Velvet Melon. I hope that those followers still refer to themselves by this special name. Here’s the background for that song. I hope you remember it.

One Saturday, I came home after doing the weekly shopping to find Frank in an absolute stew in the yard. He was so angry with his son that I really feared that Jay might get the first whipping that he’d had in about ten years. I tried to calm my sweetheart by telling him that I’d take care of the problem. All I knew was that Jay was inside writing music when Frank needed him in the yard on the mower. I found Jay sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, long skinny legs stretched out under the coffee table, elbows sprawled, and fingers going ninety to nothing writing words to music that was obviously racing through his head. He was holding his mouth just right, tongue sticking out the left side of his mouth, and I knew the creative juices were flowing.

Taking my life in my hands, I approached him. “Jay, your dad is so angry with you that I really don’t know what he’s going to do. You need to get outside right away and get that grass mowed.” I was always such a scary mom, don’t you think?

“Mom, I can’t stop. I’ve got this great song going, and if I don’t write it down right now, I won’t remember it. Dad will understand . . . eventually!”

I can’t say that I really remember what happened that afternoon after the “genius” finished his inside job and got to his dad’s outside job. I do know that there was no beating of the child, as if there ever had been. But I do know that Frank was plenty mad (yes, mad . . . as in crazily angry . . . and not just plain angry). But he got over it, especially when he heard the song.

The song is about a special young lady, who begins her life as a “very strange girl” and winds up being what the guys in Velvet Melon would call a “swank.” Maybe you’ve known someone like Leola. Here’s her story in Jay’s words. I’ve taken the leave to help him with his spelling a bit.

LEOLA

Leola was a very strange girl, a very strange girl.
She lived in her own world.
If she stayed in her room one more day,
Her life would be wrecked.

When I saw her, I was so confused.
I didn’t quite know what to do.
Leola was a very weird girl,
But with a name like Leola (Hey)
What can you expect?

She loved to eat glue.
She liked to make things out of doo doo;
“Row Your Boat” was her favorite song.
She wore horn-rimmed glasses,
Used a straw to drink molasses.
Where did she go wrong?

Chorus:
Leola Leola Leola Leola Leola Leola la Leola,
Leola Leola Leola Leola Leola Leola la Leola.

Leola went to school one day,
The kids did not know what to say.
Leola brought her dead pet squirrel.
She threw up on her desk,
She had a cardiac arrest.
Leola was a very weird girl.

She did the hula dance for show and tell,
Called the teacher “Orson Welles.”
Then she got in trouble.
The teacher told her to be quiet,
But Leola didn’t like it.
So she went home on the double.

(Chorus)

Leola said, “It’s time to change,
Take my life and rearrange,
Listen to some rock ‘n’ roll.
Gonna turn around, twist and shout,
Show ‘em what I’m all about,
Fill my body with some soul!”

She changed her clothes,
Blew her nose, made herself look like a rose.
Then she mosied down the stairs.
She called up the boys,
She said, “Let’s go and make some noise.”
Everybody seemed to stare.

Now she wears cool clothes
Like satin and bows
And contacts so she can see.
All the guys like to hang around
‘Cause she’s as fine as she can be (wolf whistle!).

(Chorus)

I know that the words and rhythm don’t really sound like a hit song, but believe me, “Leola” was a hit among Melonheads. And you Melonheads need to remember that I’m working from the first copy of the song. I know that there were a few changes in it when the guys in the band got hold of it. They just made it even better. From the first time Velvet Melon played it at practice in the game room at our house, it was one of my favorites. I just wish I could attach the music for you!

The second song that I want on this music memory page is one that I think he wrote while Velvet Melon was in New York. Maybe some of the guys will read this and help me get the time right. Anyway, it’s a beautiful song with a haunting melody. Once again, I wish I could put the music here. To me, the chorus is prophetic: we have only one chance in this life, so we need to get it right. Here are my boy’s words:

LIGHTS

Some people’s lights go off at night,
But their lights stay on all day.
Some people lead a sheltered life;
Some people see no other way.

Collect the check and close the door.
What’s the use of working anymore?
What’s this life worth living for?
We can’t sit and beg for more.

I see better when lights are on.
Won’t be long before we’re gone.
Won’t you please leave on your light?
Got one chance to get it right.
Please just turn it on tonight . . .
Tonight . . . tonight . . .

We paid our price—lost our pride;
So now sit back, enjoy the ride.
If we can’t change our attitude,
There’s just no way to see it through.

I see better when lights are on.
Won’t be long before we’re gone.
Won’t you please leave your light on?
Won’t you please leave on your light?
Got one change to get it right.
Please just turn it on tonight . . .
Tonight . . . tonight . . .

I’ve tried for years to understand everything in this song, but I never can come up with exactly what Jay was saying. I just loved the words joined to the tune, and I loved watching him sing it. Again, the chorus has special meaning to me. You’ve probably heard the saying “Life allows us one great performance; it is not a dress rehearsal” or something along that line. I believe that, and Jay believed it, too. Maybe that’s exactly what he meant in the chorus.

Jay’s life was a performance . . . every day of it. Someone said at his funeral that he lived more in 24 years than most men do in 70. He relished life—he turned on his light. And he touched so many of us with that light. For the touching, I am grateful.

I am also grateful for two lines that he included in one of his songs, maybe “I’m Not Crazy.” Then again, it might have been in another one. It doesn’t really matter where they appeared; the important thing to me is that they were there and that they were a testimony from Jay. To my “mother’s heart,” they are precious.

I don’t mix drugs with rock ‘n’ roll;
I’ve got Jesus in my heart to save my soul.

I’d know it even without the words, but with the words, I have assurance that one day Jay and I will be together again. He’ll meet me at the gate, arms wide open, saying . . . no, yelling as only Jay could yell . . . “Mom! What took you so long? You think those songs were great; just wait till you hear the new ones!” Music was Jay’s life, and I know he’s been sitting at God’s big coffee table, legs stretched out, fingers flying, knowing that Jesus will understand if he’s late mowing those heavenly lawns. Of this, I’m sure.

Jay Week 2010

2010-06-28T11:27:00.005-06:00

This is JAY WEEK in my heart. July 2 is fast approaching, the 18th anniversary of Jay's death, and naturally, I'm thinking about what I'll write about my boy. Last year, I posted all of the writing that I did one year after he died. Many of you, Jay's friends and ours, read the posts and wrote to me to thank me for sharing my year-after thoughts. You told me that reading about those last days in Jay's life here on earth brought closure for you. Again, I thank you for letting me know how my words affected you.

I've been wondering for almost a year whether or not I should post parts of a letter that I received after my posting and the reply that I wrote to the person who penned the letter. I decided this morning that I wanted to place it on my blog, not really intending for anyone to read it but just to save it for myself.

Dear Sandy,

This letter is in response to your blog post about Jay. I hope I don't say anything that will upset you or hurt your feelings. I guess my motives in writing this are to be helpful to you and also to satisfy my curiosity.

Years ago I read a book, Necessary Losses, by Judith Viorst. (You could probably get it from the public library.) She lists the stages of grief in the order most people experience them: shock and denial, intense sorrow, anger, guilt, idealization, acceptance, adaptation.

It doesn't seem possible that you could have been stuck in idealization for 17 years, but that is how your blogging came across to me. I would love to be re-assured that you have reached the full acceptance stage and have adapted to that loss.

My immediate response to the letter was hurt and, I'm afraid, anger. I couldn't believe that my words would be so misinterpreted. After Wendy and Frank talked to me, though, I understood that she just didn't understand. All of her children were still alive, and she had no idea of the way different people handle their grief. So . . . I wrote a letter in response to her letter, trying my best not to make her feel bad . . . just to let her know my heart. Here's what I said . . .

Let me assure you of a couple of things right away—you neither upset me nor hurt my feelings by what you wrote. (Yes, usually honest Sandy lied!) Mostly you confused me by your doubt as to my dealing with Jay’s death. Let me assure you this minute that both Frank and I have come through all of the stages of grief and have accepted our son’s going to live with the Lord. I feel, though, that I need to explain some things about losing a child and what happens to that person’s very being. The death of any loved one, whether it be parent, brother, sister, cousin, aunt, uncle, niece, nephew . . . or child, is heartbreaking; however, the death of a child is very much different from any of the others. Children aren’t supposed to die before their parents. It’s just not natural. Children are supposed to bury their parents. But who are we to question God’s decisions, right? I certainly don’t.

Almost every writer who writes about grief lists different stages. The writer whom I read (Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, an author considered an expert in the field of grief) lists the following: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Judith Viorst’s listing isn’t too much different from Kubler-Ross’s, and I rather like Viorst’s list. It’s a bit more inclusive and certainly not wrong. I never quite understood Kubler-Ross’s “bargaining” designation, to tell you the truth.

As far as going through all the stages, I can assure that both of us have found ourselves in each one. The one that you’re concerned about, idealization, is certainly a valid one but one that I don’t consider myself stuck in. I’m not really sure what you see of idealization in my blog, so I’d welcome some specifics. If writing about Jay, the things that he did and that I remember so well, his charisma, his talent, his ability to make friends, the love that he had for others and that others had for him make you think that I’m idealizing him, you’re really wrong. These are facts mingled with the love that a mother had and still has for her son. I hope I’m not sounding harsh to you: I just want you to understand and not to worry.

Right after Jay died, the way that I got through those days was by feeling the strong arms of God around me, knowing that my friends and family loved me and were praying for me, and reading. I read every grief book that I could put my hands on. I devoured books written by parents whose children had died because only a parent who has lost a child truly understands that death, no matter how much a person thinks he or she does. The hole left in a parent’s heart never heals, no matter how many times he goes through the stages. Yes, the parent goes through those stages many times . . . back and forth and back and forth, until finally he gets to the last one, either acceptance or adaptation, and pretty much stays there. A person must adapt; he has only one other choice, and taking his life certainly isn’t in God’s plan. So we accept and adapt.

But what do we do to get through? Some parents shrivel up inside and won’t let others help them; some remove all remembrances of the child, almost pretending that he hadn’t ever been there; some don’t ever mention the child within the family or to others outside the family. I don’t understand any one of these methods. Frank, Wendy, and I chose to talk about Jay as much as we could; we wept and we laughed hilariously as we remembered so many funny things that Jay said and did. We talked to others about Jay, and we were very much open in our grief and about our grief. Our friends and family knew that we were grieving, that we were going through those stages, but they knew also that we were getting through them with God’s help. And get through them we did, each in our own way.

One of my ways was to write about Jay. I read early on that one of the fears that parents have when a child dies is that they’ll forget their children. I must admit that I had that fear deep within. So what did I do? I wrote about my boy. What you read is what I wrote the year after Jay died so that I’d remember the details of those days surrounding his death. I had to remember everything, both for me and for others. I put them on my blog this year so that Jay’s friends and ours could read about those days. Several of his friends wrote to me to let me know that finally they could come to closure. They never really knew all that happened during those days, and they wanted to know because they loved Jay. His death left holes in their hearts, too, just as it had in ours. You didn’t know Jay, but he was the kind of person who attracted friends of all ages, and they loved him just as he loved them. I can’t tell you how many young people came through the line at the funeral home the day before the funeral and told us that they were Jay’s best friends. Yes . . . he had lots of best friends.

I could write forever about my boy because I loved him so much (and still do) and want to preserve his memory and my “mother’s love” for everyone who’d like to read about him. That’s why I wanted you to read what I’d written . . . so that you could get a little insight into him and could know and understand that “mother’s love” . . . the same kind of love that you have for your children and that you’d want others to know about.

And so I’ll close for tonight, hoping that you know that you don’t need to be concerned about my being stuck in any of the stages of grief, that I still miss my boy and always will (I don’t ever want to get to the point that I don’t miss him, that I don’t cry when I hear certain songs, even rock music), that I write because through words I can preserve his memory both for me and for others who loved him. I also want you to know that I treasure you and your prayers and that I hope you never quit praying for me and for my family.

Thanks for writing to me. And for asking about my grief. You might have gone for the rest of your life worrying about something that you didn’t need to worry about.

This isn't my post for my boy this year. I have something in mind much lighter in tone. Stay tuned for more stories about Jay Young . . .

My boy, Jay

2010-04-19T16:47:00.003-06:00

Several weeks ago, Keith Brooks asked me to write a bio of Jay for him to post on a new Web site that he and his wife, Kim, have created -- I Will Always Remember. It's a site where people can write bios of their loved ones. Keith was so patient with me. It took me several weeks to get in writing what I wanted to say. Check Keith and Kim's Web site: http://www.iwillalwaysremember.com/JayYoung.

Around the same time that Keith asked me to write, my friend Mary, a member of our Writers' Group, said she'd read what I've written and posted about Jay but that she'd like to know about his life. So . . . I had two good reasons to write once again about my boy. Hope you enjoy!

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Writing a short biography of my boy, Jay Young, is like trying to paint the Grand Canyon on the tip of a pin—there’s just too much to fit. Someone heard a group of his friends talking before his funeral service: “Man, Jay lived more in 24 years than most people live in 75!” How true. He had done so much of everything that he set out to accomplish—had his own band , taken that band to New York, played all over the Southeast, learned to play virtually every instrument that he picked up (the standup bass being the one exception), owned a motor home, bungee jumped, sky dived, even got a good lei from Hawaii although it was after he died. He lived life to the “fullest,” sometimes “fuller” than his mom wanted him to. I must admit at the outset that my bio of Jay is from my point of view, which may differ from that of others, but, hey, I’m the one writing this bio. Right?

On Thursday, February 8, 1968, at my weekly checkup, my obstetrician, Dr. Girourard, told me three things: (1) that Jay wouldn’t arrive for two weeks, (2) that he would be out of town, and (3) that the other doctor—the one with the big hands—would deliver our baby. I wasn’t pleased with not having my real doctor in the delivery room, so I told him that the baby needed to arrive sometime before he left town. “There is no way that this baby will be finished ‘cooking’ by the time that I leave,’ he told me. And I said to myself, “We’ll see.” Well, I honestly believe that Jay and I had such a bond even at that time that the little fellow determined that he’d arrive when I wanted him to.

At 4:30 on the morning of Saturday, February 10, 1968, Jay made it known that he’d arrive that day, a great day for me because it was my dad’s birthday. My boy needed something special to tie him to his Papa because Wendy was my daddy’s heart. Two things gave Jay that special tie: (1) he was a boy (we have very few boys in our family), and (2) he was born on the right day. Don’t get me wrong . . . he didn’t edge Wendy out—he was just welcomed with open arms. Throughout his life, Jay was determined, and I think that determination reared its head before he appeared on the scene. He knew that he needed to enter the world on February 10, 1968, so that his mom didn’t have to face the “other” doctor.

He loved me right from the start. You see, I was his only source of nourishment, and he came into this world fascinated with a certain part of my anatomy. He just about wore me out. He’d nurse on and off all day long, with short periods in between feedings, and then just when I’d be certain that I’d get a long nap around midnight, he’d be yelling for me again. Needless to say, we developed a special relationship during those early days. We talked a lot during the night, and he’d just look at me as though I were the only important person in the world. We always had special looks for each other. I worried so much because he wouldn’t eat “real” food, but the doctor assured me that if he continued to gain weight at the rate that he was going, he would weigh 50 pounds when he was a year old. I quit worrying. Eventually, he ate, but he never “lived to eat,” as some folks do. I sometimes thought he was part camel, storing up food so that he wouldn’t have to waste his time on such mundane matters as eating. He had much more important things to do.

I suppose Jay’s life really began when we moved to Pensacola, FL. Our home there is the only one he ever remembered. Later in his life, in the Velvet Melon years when he returned home from New York, he ran from room to room, shouting, “My house! My house!” It truly was his house. Someday, I’ll tell lots and lots of stories about Jay and the house on Wilde Lake Blvd.

Wendy is 4-1/2 years older than Jay, but even with the age difference, they played well together most of the time. One of Wendy’s favorite things to do with her little brother was to dress him up, especially if we had company. She took great delight in parading him through wherever we had congregated, and he loved being on display. Even when he was two 2 years old, he loved an audience.

One of my favorite memories of Jay in his early childhood took place in our car one afternoon. He must have been around five years old, and evidently he and his dad had had a misunderstanding about Jay’s climbing on Frank’s truck. We were riding down the street when he announced that he was going to be a fireman when he grew up. He said that he was going to be married and that he and his wife would have about 12 children. He’d take his fire truck home at night, and he’d let his children climb all over it. I said that that was nice and asked him if he knew that those children would be my grandchildren. Of course, he knew that. Then came the great question as I asked, “Will you bring your little children to see me, Jay?” A slight pause . . . and then, “Oh, Ma, you plolly be dead by then!” This is one of my best stories of Jay. I love it. It’s a real mother’s story. Those 12 children never came into the world. How I wish that they had! Sometimes things don’t happen in the right order. Children are supposed to outlive their parents.

Jay always had a tender heart. Just a scolding was usually enough to get him back on the right track if he had strayed, and he strayed often. He also cried often. For instance, until Frank’s Aunt Bill came to stay with us for about six months, he cried every morning when I went to work and left him either with a maid or at a baby sitter’s house. He had no reason to cry with Aunt Bill there because they spent days reading stories and playing games and going to the beach. If he woke up during the night, they got up, read more stories, ate cookies, and went back to bed eventually. What a life for both of them! He also cried in the second grade. His teacher insisted on calling him Frank (his real first name but one that we didn’t use). He was so upset by this that I sent him to school with his “Here Comes Trouble” tee shirt that had JAY written on the back. That didn’t help, so I wrote a note. That didn’t help. Everyone at the school knew how unhappy he was. I’ve always thought that his first grade teacher helped by having him moved to another teacher’s class, thus saving a little boy from a miserable school year.

When he was in the third grade, he began two activities that he continued throughout his life—kissing girls and playing the piano. I didn’t actually see the kissing activity, but I heard about it; however, I was right there for the piano playing. From the beginning, he was good. I can see him at the piano, sitting there with his legs dangling from the bench, playing songs that really were too hard for such a little boy. But he was gifted. Always gifted. Frank and I recognized his gift, and later in life, he did, too. His piano teacher recognized talent and entered him in many contests—one of which stands out. He and two other little boys were in a certain level of competition. I could hear them practicing behind the curtain before the contest began. Jay’s playing stood out from the others—he was so sure of himself. He won, hands down. As we drove away from the University of West Florida parking lot, I asked him about what went on behind the curtain before the contest. He said, “I couldn’t believe how scared those other kids were. I told them that I could hardly wait to get out there to play!” Guess he psyched them out. I never knew Jay to be nervous before a performance, unless I count the time that he lost his singer just two days before a performance and knew that he’d have to do all the singing himself. That was just one of the times that he asked me to pray lots about his performance. I did. He did fine.

One of the reasons that Jay’s death was such a shock to all is that he was so healthy. The only health problem that he had in his lifetime (except for having to have hernia surgery twice) was that he suffered from migraine headaches occasionally. Every time that he’d have one, he and I would sit in the rocker in the living room and rock in the dark. That’s the only way he got relief. Those were special times for me. I don’t remember that I did many motherly things when our children were growing up, but that’s one motherly thing that I did. On his first day of first grade, I left school early, checked him out of Beulah Elementary, and took him to the doctor to find out the cause of those headaches. We were told that he had classic migraines. While we were sitting in the examination room with him, the doctor noticed some little red spots on his arms and legs. When asked what they were, Jay looked up at the physician innocently and solemnly said, “Child abuse.” What? The doctor, however, was smarter than Jay thought and said that he didn’t believe that; he had had a sister, and he recognized the signs of sister/brother horseplay when he saw it. A third headache memory that comes to me is associated with Jay’s one and only attempt at football. All the other kids were playing, so nothing would do but that Jay had to play, too. We outfitted him, and he began going to practice. His football “career” lasted just about a week. He had a couple of headaches during that time, and the coach accused him of trying to get out of practice. He made him go out on the field even though his head was splitting. He never liked to be accused of lying if he wasn’t, so he said he’d had enough. I admitted readily that I had, too, and we turned in his uniform. The closest he ever came to playing football after that was playing xylophone in the band at Pine Forest High School.

Even though Jay had taken piano for several years during his elementary-school days, his real love of music began in middle school—it was during this time that he joined a band. He “blew the sax.” I know that’s a strange way to put it, but it was such an awful sound at first that “playing the sax” just didn’t fit. The screech didn’t last long, though, and soon he was playing really well. Another interest that emerged in middle school was running, and he put that interest to good use in soccer. Jay never wanted to be anything but a star, so naturally he aspired to be another Pele. Alas, he was no star, but he did well for such a little fellow. His lack of stature never bothered him. In fact, he loved the nickname that one of his teachers gave him—“Too-Tall Young,” after some famous athlete. He took pride in being the shortest in height but often the “tallest” in accomplishments.

Just before he left Bellview to go to Pine Forest, he announced that he wouldn’t be in band in high school. Instead, he’d run cross country. It seems that he didn’t think it would be “cool” to march and play his sax at the same time. I mentioned earlier that Jay was determined, and that determination was present in his decision. Wendy, though, proved even more determined than her little brother and would have no part of that silly decision. She took him outside at our house for a little brother-sister talk, and when they came inside, she announced that he would be the xylophone player that the band director needed. Was it scary to Jay that he had never played mallets before? Not one bit. He knew he could learn, and he did.

Jay and his friend Jimmy Mills applied to and were accepted to Suncoast Sound Drum and Bugle Corps when Jay was a sophomore. I could write a book about the year that they traveled down to central Florida twice a month during the school year for practice and then toured the East Coast that summer with the Corps, but I’ll just say that during his Suncoast experience, Jay learned to play drums, completing his percussion education. During his senior year, he wrote the cadence for Pine Forest’s band. Every time the band marched in at the beginning of the football game, this mother’s heart beat right along with the cadence. I’m not sure that I could ever describe the pride that I felt every Friday evening. Once during half-time, he played the trap set on the field. Again . . . such pride. Another instance of pure pride surfaced at Honor’s Night his senior year, when John Buck, his band director, gave him the Band Award, saying simply that he had never known a student with so much talent. Six years later, after Jay died, John said that Jay still held that honor.

In January 1985, Velvet Melon was born, and from the inception of the band until Jay died, it was the most important thing in his life, aside from friends, family, and God. Actually, Joey Allred, the first keyboard player in the band, had the initial idea of forming a band; however, together the boys had the dream of making it big in Pensacola. That dream came to life every Saturday morning when about a dozen boys congregated in our game room to practice, letting up during the four hours that they were there only to consume dozens of hot dogs. That’s all I could afford to feed them at the time. Even though the band was Joey’s idea, Jay took the lead. He was determined, and he was talented. All of them were talented, but Jay had the personality and drive to hold the guys together through discouragement, debt, arguments, unsavory habits, and other such problems that young men aspiring to fame encounter. Most of the guys each played one instrument in Velvet Melon; Jay played several: keyboards, bass, saxophone, and drums. At one time, he was the drummer. After he changed mainly to bass and sax, I asked him if he sometimes wished he were still on drums since girls have an affinity for drummers. “What?” he exclaimed. “And move to the back of the stage? Are you kidding?” As I’ve said before, he wanted to be a star, and a star he was in his band! Someday I’ll write a book about my boy and really address his talent. For now, though, I’ll just say that he was truly gifted. Gifted by God . . . and he knew that.

Though Joey wasn’t in the band for very long, the dream that he and Jay had continued to grow. All of the guys worked together to take Velvet Melon to the top in popularity in the Southeast, playing venues in Alabama, Mississippi, Florida, and Georgia and making a name for themselves everywhere they went. Then in 1989, Velvet Melon moved to New York. Another book, or at least a long chapter in a book, is what I’ll write about that experience. For now, though, I’ll just say that they played at The Bitter End and Kenny’s Castaway in the Village and at various places on the Jersey Shore and grew a following in both places. However, they almost starved, and all of them wound up with everyday jobs so that they could pay rent and eat. I believe that Suzi Ward, Jay’s girlfriend, and Andy Waltrip, best friend to all of the guys, bailed them out many times in the food and rent categories. Frank and I are forever indebted to them!

For seven years, Velvet Melon was a major part of our lives. Frank, Wendy, and I were the number one fans and followed them everywhere. Just before Jay died, he moved the band to Nashville, where they were just about to sign with an enthusiastic agent who recognized the tremendous talent of the guys. At the time of Jay’s death, the guys in the band were Jerry Dawson (guitar), Mike Magno (keyboard and guitar), and Todd Laws (drums). Jay played bass and sax, and Jimmy Mills ran sound. All of these young men, plus all of the others who had been in the band at one time or another, were like sons to us. We were “Mom” and “Pop” to these sons and to countless other young people, fans of Velvet Melon, all over the United States. All of us suffered when we lost Jay on July 2, 1992; however, because Jay made such a positive impact on almost everyone who knew him, his memory continues to live. Frank and I are so appreciative every time we hear from his friends, most of whom talk to us about their good memories. We love all of these “children” that we have, thanks to our son. And we are especially grateful to Kim and Keith Brooks for setting up this Web site where we can officially remember our boy, Jay.

There is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity; and if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her by misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him.
Washington Irving

"Throw me something, mister!"

2010-02-16T14:47:00.001-07:00

The date is a Tuesday in mid-February1948. The place is Palmetto Street in New Orleans, 8326 Palmetto Street, to be exact, in an upstairs apartment, which might be considered almost ghetto quality today. At that time, it was in an almost new building, having been built probably in 1945. I think it was new when the family moved to New Orleans from Mobile that year. There’s excitement in all four apartments and in all of the apartment buildings in the neighborhood. In fact, there’s excitement all over the Crescent City. It’s Mardi Gras!

The family in the apartment, the Cheathams—Nina, Arlie, and their third-grade daughter Sandy—are up early so that they can get ready for the trip downtown. They eat a quick breakfast and head down to the first car that Sandy remembers, a big, bungling, grayish-brown, second-hand Packard from an earlier year, probably sometime in the '30s. Their destination is Canal Street, the main thoroughfare for the famous Rex parade. Some people dress up in costumes for the parade even though they’re not participants. It’s just part of the festivities to be someone else for the day. But Sandy doesn’t do this. She’s a shy child, and regular clothes will do. It’s a bit chilly out, so she wears blue jeans and a jacket, something comfortable and borderline ladylike because she’ll climb up on her daddy’s shoulders to watch the parade.

Bumper-to-bumper traffic and streetcars filled to overflowing with parade goers are the norm. A festive, party spirit is everywhere . . . even in traffic. After Arlie parks the car on a side street (no parking meters in those days . . . just find a place where your car fits, and park), the three walk several blocks to Canal Street and find a good spot, a spot where Sandy can catch lots of things that the people on floats throw.

They can hear the parade coming before they see it because the wave of voices and music swells as the marchers and floats get closer and closer. Sandy is on her daddy’s shoulders now and can see everything—the bands from local high schools in their flashy uniforms, the floats with streamers and flowers and ladies in gorgeous costumes, the policemen on horseback keeping the crowds back. She hears the shouts of adults as they recognize neighbors riding on the floats . . . but most of all the cries of children either crowded around their parents’ knees or up on those special Mardi Gras shoulders of their dads, and she joins right in, “Throw me something, mister!” And throw things they do . . . beads, other trinkets, candy, and the always-present moon pies. The most popular children at school on Wednesday will be the ones with the most beads!

After a lunch of hot dogs purchased from a vendor with a cart, the tired little family heads home, where they’ll re-live the day, count the beads, and head for bed. After all, Sandy has to be on her way to Judah P. Benjamin School early the next morning.

2009 . . . A Year to Remember

2010-01-01T17:19:00.029-07:00

January 1, 2010

Someday I may get my Christmas letter written before Christmas, but as Jay used to say, "That (probably) ain't gonna hap'n, Cap'n!" That said, here's a New Year's letter with some of what went on in the Youngs' lives in The Land of Enchantment . . .

We managed to squeeze in a little bit of travel this year but not nearly so much as in other years. In February, we went to California to visit Irina for a couple of days and then to join our friends Susan and Boyd Christensen at their condo in San Diego. For the past two years, we've gone with them to Mexico; however, they decided that Mexico wasn't necessarily the best place to go this year. What a wonderful time we had in the Christensens' hometown! They knew exactly what we needed to do in that beautiful city.

Last year, when our niece Patti arrived for the Young Family Reunion and Frank's 75th birthday party, she declared almost immediately (on the way home from the airport in Albuquerque) that she already felt at home in New Mexico and that she intended to move here sometime in 2009. That determined young lady did just that. Her original plans of purchasing a bed and breakfast didn't work out yet, but she's definitely a New Mexican now, living only about ten minutes away from us in a lovely little casita and working at Beaver Toyota in Santa Fe. We love having her as a big part of our little family!

My annual trip to Pensacola was as good this year as it always is. Friends, family, and seafood are the things that I miss about my hometown, and I managed to squeeze in all three. I think I started in on the seafood as soon as I arrived and didn't stop eating it every chance I got until I arrived at the airport in New Orleans on the way home. Good visits with my brother-in-law Bob; with my special girlfriends Fran Crumpton and Annice Webb; with Carol and Jim Wilson in a late-lunch get-together in Montgomery; with Sherry Coleman and Paul Morin, two favorite former students, also in Montgomery; and with Andy Waltrip and his family (his and Beth's little boys are grandchildren to us!). To give details of those visits would take more room in this e-mail than my little computer can handle! I always stay most of the time with my sister/cousin JoAnn and her husband, Fred, when I go back to Pensacola. Such fun I have with them, especially those mornings when Jo and I just sit in our robes drinking coffee, reminiscing about our childhood, and just generally catching up. She and Fred are wonderful hosts!

Wendy, who continues to work with a New Mexico photographer, Gay Block, took some time off in June to go to North Carolina to photograph Jo and Fred's granddaughter's wedding. The mother of the bride, Angela (Jo and Fred's daughter), and Wendy have always been such close cousins and friends that it was only fitting for Wendy to "shoot" that important day. I probably should have put a picture of the bride and groom here, but I just couldn't resist a picture of the cousins. I went along, too, and managed to squeeze in visits with my cousin Nancy Posey and her family, my college suitemate Betty Thompson and her husband, and Carol and Jim Woods and their family (Wendy, too, on this visit) during the five days that we were there. So much fun and such a beautiful wedding!

Ever since we've been in New Mexico (six years), we've had lots of company, and I think anyone reading this letter knows that we welcome company. This year was no exception to visits. During the spring and early summer, we had visits from Anne and Bill Duncan (Pensacola), Judy and Bob Sanders (College Station, Texas), and Sandy and Joe Dorsett (Austin, Texas). Anne and I know each other from teaching days, but we've become even better friends after retirement. Judy was a college friend of ours and was our "wedding planner." Sandy and I graduated from Pensacola High School in 1958. We didn't know each other well in high school, but we became good friends during the planning of our 50th Class Reunion, when we discovered that both of us had lost our sons. Believe me, that loss draws folks together. We did the same things with each couple, but I won't tell you what they were because when you come to see us, we can surprise you with our "tour."

In our family, we love the Fourth of July and spend the whole day together, beginning with a visit to the Plaza in Santa Fe to listen to patriotic music. The medley at the end always gives me a Southern thrill because the band includes "Dixie" in it . . . a song I grew up with and love for sentimental reasons, not for un-politically correct (or is it politically un-correct?) ones. After the concert, we head somewhere for breakfast, then mosey on down to Madrid for the big Fourth of July Parade. You must get there a few minutes before noon to claim a good viewing spot. It's just about the only event in New Mexico that begins on time, and it's over in about seven minutes. Short and loads of fun! We all rest for a while in the afternoon; then we congregate at our house for a cook-out. This year was especially good because Irina and Meyer were here, and Grace and Bob Hollen and their granddaughter joined us. Good food and good fun!

My cousin Leah Pruitt and I decided in June 2008 that we needed to have a Kolb Cousins Reunion in 2009, and that's just what we did on Labor Day Weekend. After months of planning, five of the eight first cousins who are still living gathered at Hilltop Lakes, Texas, for a fun-filled weekend of non-stop talking, hugging, and eating. In addition to us first cousins, we had seven second cousins and a third cousin (Jackson). Hope I've counted correctly. We had a great time!

Frank's Big 76th Birthday Bash was a week after the reunion, so I hit the deck running when we returned home from Texas. Last year, we had about 125 here for the celebration, but this year's party was considerably smaller . . . only about 75. We had a new menu this year -- Mexican -- not the usual brisket and pulled pork. I made five or six freezers of ice cream. Family Coal, our local bluegrass band, entertained us. They're always a hit! Lots of eating and "fellowshipping" at our house!
We had other birthdays this year, of course, and we celebrated every one of them -- mine on May 6, Jackson's on May 21 (4 years old), Wendy's on May 24, Todd's on June 2, and Corey's on Halloween. I can't believe that our "firstborn" grandchild was 22 this year. Yesterday, she was just 4!

Thanksgiving this year was a bit strange because Wendy, Todd, and Jackson were with Todd's folks in Gallup, and Corey and her boyfriend, Zach, were in Pensacola. We managed to round up seven for dinner, including Patti and Susan Findley, our friend from Albuquerque whose parents are good friends of ours in Pensacola. Another good day even if a little different. We missed our kids!

December brought lots of cooking, lots of parties, and so much fun. On the 5th, Wendy, Todd, Jackson, Todd's folks, the Hollens and their granddaughter (Maya), and Frank and I went to Chama, NM, to ride the Cinder Bear Express, an old steam engine train. The kids were fascinated with Santa and Cinder Bear, and the adults loved seeing the little ones enjoy the day. We enjoyed it, too!

Next were four parties at our house within a week and a day. First, on December 12, was our Christmas Open House for our church, with about 40 as our guests. The next night was our annual participation in The Compassionate Friends Worldwide Candle Lighting, an evening when we celebrate Jay. This year we had other friends to join us in remembering their children who had died. It's always an uplifting event with lots of funny stories about our children. You can imagine that a few tears fall, but we try to make it an evening to remember for fun. On the 17th, we had our annual Christmas Open House for our neighbors. This year we had the largest turn-out ever . . . 105 at last count. Frank and I do all the food for all of these parties. We put in lots of hours, but the payoff is tremendous! This party just happened to be on our 48th anniversary. Many are already looking forward to 2011, when they assume there'll be a big celebration for #50. On the 20th, we had a house concert with Stephanie Bettman and Luke Halpern as our entertainers. They've performed in our home before and are soooo talented! After these get-togethers, all we had to get ready for was Christmas Day. Our whole family was here for dinner, except for Irina, who is in Ukraine with her family. We're hoping that she'll be with us next year! We were happy that Corey's boyfriend was with us for most of the day, but he had to go to work before dinner. Poor Zach!

I know this letter is way too long and is more than you want to read, but I can't close without giving a little update on what the individuals in our family are doing. Corey is working lots of hours as office manager of a catering company in Santa Fe, plus she just completed a very successful semester at Santa Fe Community College. We're all so proud of her! By the way, she's an excellent writer, and you know that makes her Grammy happy. Wendy is still working for a photographer and teaching part time at SFCC. I took her digital photography course this fall and can assure you that she's a great teacher. Todd is forever busy with his graphic design business and is a great work-at-home dad, having Jackson right there with him most of the time. Grammy and Pop are happy to "relieve" him whenever Todd gets swamped. That little boy is so much fun, and we love having him here at our house. Sometimes he stays with us just because we need a Jackson fix! Frank is as busy as ever taking care of our land and house. He finished the garage this year, and it's a beaut! It houses his big truck, my little car, and all of his tools. He had a terrible time with shingles (NOT the kind you put on the roof!) in the spring, but he didn't let it keep him down long. However, he still has vestiges of it from time to time with pain and itching way down on the bone. I retired from the publishing company and am doing some editing. I may take a writing course in the spring semester, and my business partner, Grace Hollen, and I may take some courses to give us more oomph in our editing. We're really good (and very humble), but we want to be the best!

We still love New Mexico and being so close to our children. We surely would like to introduce you to our good friends out here, so come to see us! We'll show you all the sights and feed you really well. No expense on your part except for getting here. We'll take care of all the rest!

We hope your Christmas was merry and blessed. Happy New Year! Hope it's a happy and prosperous one for all!

Love,
Sandy . . . and Frank, too

PS -- As if this letter weren't long enough, I just must add one more photo. It is the perfect picture of the love between a little boy and his Pop.

Christmas Greetings 2009

2009-12-22T09:37:00.002-07:00

Make a Smilebox slideshow

In Praise of Al

2009-11-04T13:44:00.003-07:00

I am not an angry person by nature. In fact, those who know me well will probably say that they’ve never seen me angry. Usually, when something upsets me, I just internalize and fume and pretty soon forget what made me so angry. If you asked me to recall the last time I was angry at a person, I probably couldn’t tell you unless you were asking about this morning. Just a little background . . .

Around this time last year, my friend and editing partner Grace Hollen asked me to join a group called the Editorial Freelancers Association (EFA). She assured me that editors who are serious about getting business join it. I joined. And I’ve been so happy about my membership. I’ve applied for some jobs through the organization, but nothing has materialized yet. I still have one application out, and I would love to get that job; however, even with the references that I have, I doubt that I’ll be hired. That’s okay, though, because I’m now going back to work for Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (my old company and the one that I sent the application to) in inside sales, conducting WebEx presentations. As usual, I digress.

One of the perks of being a member of EFA is belonging to the EFA Digest, a group list that comes out almost every day. I have learned so much from the people in this group, everything from how much to charge to errors in the Chicago Manual of Style to whether we should call ourselves copyeditors or copy editors to sharing of jokes about editors. All sorts of helpful as well as funny stuff there! I look forward to reading the list every day, and I have even asked some questions and received great responses, even though I had a terrible typo in my first post (spelled proofreader, proofreaded). No one even mentioned my error, though one person did correct my spelling in the headline before answering me. I liked that!

I have written to several of my co-members in emails . . . personal topics that I didn’t want to share with the whole group and have received kind answers. One of the members, Al Sabado, is a member that I really wanted to get to know because it was very much obvious to me that she is a dynamic Christian. In the public sector, it’s not the usual to find a person who has in her signature John 3:16, written out in words for everyone to see. This Scripture is attached to every post that she makes, and I’m sure it’s on everything that she writes, including correspondence with customers. She’s surely not ashamed of Jesus. Because of her signature, I wanted to get to know her outside the EFA digest. Because of her name, I was afraid to pursue a friendship since I thought she was a man, and I certainly didn’t want a man to interpret my correspondence as “hitting” on him. I bit the bullet, though, and sent an e-mail. I can’t remember if I asked if she had a Facebook page or if I suggested that she get one, but soon I saw a picture of this “man,” Al, on Facebook and discovered that she was a beautiful young Filipino woman. Whew! What a relief.

We immediately became friends and did some sharing of editing business as well as Christian beliefs. I loved her from the beginning, and when I heard about the devasting storm in the Philippines, I, along with members on the digest, was was concerned about her safety. Many days after the storm, one of the members posted that she had heard from Al and that she was safe, having suffered mainly water damage in her house. She had a mess to clean up, but she didn’t lose family members. I think she might have lost a dear friend, though. I gleaned this from something that she said on Facebook.

So back to my anger. I wish I could find her first post after the storm, the one that rankled a few members and caused their vituperative comments about Al. If I remember correctly, she was thanking God for sparing so many even though others were lost in the rain and wind. Those few attacked her for her beliefs and then latched on to their feelings about her signature. My heart broke for her. I even prayed that she wouldn’t see the comments, that she wouldn’t bother to catch up on everything. But in my heart of hearts, I knew she’d read them and that she’d be terribly hurt by them. In my heart of hearts, I also know that she relied on Jesus to get her through. In all of her posts previous to the storm, she has never proselytized; her witness is only in her signature. She has given excellent editing advice, but her advice was never mentioned in the back and forth criticism of her . . . only her relationship to Jesus. I must hasten to mention that there were several members who stood firmly by Al’s side through all of the comments. I couldn’t even tell if any of them shared her beliefs. I do know that Jews and atheists came to her rescue, and I am forever thankful for these friends, these kind people who recognize that all of us are entitled to our beliefs.

Al’s post either today or yesterday is what put me over the top in my anger. This is what she wrote:

Dear listmates,
Thank you for all your messages. I regret that this is going to be my last post here. I wish you all the best.
Sincerely,
Al

Al Sabado
Freelance Editor
Your personal editor online...
Marikina City, Philippines
_http://www.alsabadohttp:_ (http://www.alsabado.com/)
_al@alsabado.al@_ (mailto:al@alsabado.com)

"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." -
John 3:16 (KJV)

I cried for at least an hour after reading this. Just could not stop. What an injustice to a sweet, Christian editor! I’d love to post a message on the list pointing members to my blog post to see my feelings about the whole thing; however, I’ve decided that there’s no need to stir the pot any more. Probably wouldn’t do Al any good. I’ll write to her and ask her to read my post. Maybe she will, maybe she won’t.

Al, if you DO read this, just know that your friend Sandy is so sad not to be able to read your posts on the digest but that she is so proud of the mature, Christian way that you handled the whole matter. No venom, just a kind good-bye. I’ll still be asking for your advice through Facebook, and I’ll be counting on your posting more good places for me to link to for editing advice. Your leaving the EFA digest is our loss.

The Tie That Binds

2009-07-15T11:21:00.016-06:00

Blest be the tie that binds

Our hearts in Christian love;

The fellowship of kindred minds

Is like to that above.

John Fawcett

As I think over the past couple of months and the visitors that Frank and I have had in our home, I'm reminded of this old hymn. Our hearts truly are bound to those of our visitors in Christian love because all of us are believers. However, the common beliefs that we hold were just part of the reason that we had so much fun together. Let me share our friends with you.

Our first visitors, Anne and Bill Duncan, came in May. I've known Anne for years, but I didn't become close friends with her until after she retired from teaching English at Gulf Breeze High School. Shortly before she retired, her husband died; however, after a few years, she met Bill, and soon they were married. A better match I've never seen! They are so happy, and that makes all of their friends happy, too. This summer, they took a trip to the Southwest, with stops in

Texas for Anne's reunion with college friends, Taos, the Grand Canyon, and Cerrillos, NM. What an honor that they'd include the Youngs in their itinerary! There was no dead air in this house while they were here, I assure you. Since Anne and Bill are members of our dinner group in Pensacola, The Taste Buddies, we had lots of folks to catch up on, plus they filled us in on Pensacola goings on. Naturally, we gave them a tour of Cerrillos, Madrid, and a little bit of Santa Fe, always our pleasure with folks who visit us for the first time.

They arrived on Monday afternoon, May 26, and left on Thursday morning, May 28. What a great time we had!

Next came Judy and Bob Sanders, from College Station, Texas. They, too, were taking a vacation in the West and made our house one of their stops, actually, the first one. Again, we were honored. Judy, Frank, and I have been friends since Mississippi College days, back in the late '50s and early '60s. In fact, Judy was our "wedding director." In college, we called Judy "Mookie Mae," but that's a story for another time. I remember Judy always talking about Bobby Sanders when we were in college, so I never thought she'd marry anyone else. They've been married just about as long as Frank and I have, and that's a long time. They have four children and a veritable gaggle of grandchildren! Such a beautiful family! Again, there was no dead air in this house from the afternoon of Monday, June 8, to Thursday morning, June 10. We took Judy and Bob on the same tour that we took

Anne and Bill on, and all four loved our new digs. Where we live now is so very much different from our Southland, where all of our visitors still live, that it's quite a shock to find the Youngs in their new surroundings. The villages of Cerrillos and Madrid are shockers to them because they're such "wild west" places in comparison to Pensacola and the green parts of Texas. We'll see Judy and Bob again Labor Day Weekend, when my family gathers only about 30 miles from them for our Kolb Family Reunion. It'll be so much fun to be with them again after such a short time.

Sandy and Joe Dorsett were our third visitors. I've actually known Sandy the longest of the "girls" who came to visit; however, I really didn't know her well until last year. She and I graduated from Pensacola High School in 1958, but we really didn't know each other in high school. When we wrote our bios for the PHS Web site last year, we discovered that we had something in common -- both of us had lost our sons. Her son, Tom, died in an Air Force plane crash in 1990, and our son, Jay, died in 1992. We immediately connected. When she and Joe told me last year that this summer would be their "westerly" vacation, I immediately invited them to come to see us. They are RVers, so they parked their motor home in Santa Fe. We met

them for dinner on Wednesday, July 8; the next day they went to Durango for the train ride to Silverton; they returned to Santa Fe on Saturday, July 11; and we spent all day Sunday, July 12, together. So much to catch up on! Again, we gave them the tour . . . just Cerrillos and Madrid, though. One thing different for them, though, was that they were here on Sunday, so they could go to church with us. As good Episcopalians, they expected to find Rodeo Road Baptist Church stuffy and stodgy -- the way they thought all Baptist churches would be -- and were ever so pleased to find our little church quite lively and our pastor right on target with what they believe. I managed to squeeze in a couple of hours of visiting with them at Starbucks on Tuesday before they set

out for home in south Texas on Wednesday, July 15 (today). Another great visit!

Before these three visits, the ladies were the ones whom I knew best. Now, however, the husbands, too, are good friends. We're all very much different in personalities, looks, ideas, but we all have that "tie that binds," and these three couples will always have a special place in our hearts! Anne and Bill, Judy and Bob, and Sandy and Joe . . . I hope you know that we love you and welcome another visit anytime.

(6) Seventeen Years Ago -- July 2, 1992

2009-07-02T14:38:00.008-06:00

(continued from 7/1/09)

I'll begin the entry today, July 2, 2009, with a quote concerning what I was feeling one year after Jay's death (July 2, 1993):

"To continue the last sentence from yesterday . . . Tomorrow will be difficult. Last night I had the hardest time going to bed. I don't really know why. Maybe I thought I'd just lie there and cry, and I really didn't want to do that. I detoured by Jay's room and sat there for a few minutes, just holding the soprano sax and looking around. It was almost as though I could feel his fingers on that instrument. That physical closeness is one of the things that I miss the most because there was hardly a time that Jay came into the room where I was that he didn't stop to give me a hug. Homesickness is one of the worst illnesses in the world. I know because I've been both homesick and physically ill, and in most cases, I'd choose the physical illness over the homesickness. I'm homesick for Jay . . . have been for one year now, and there is no way that the feeling can be eradicated. Someday when I'm 'home' with him again, the feeling may abate. This morning, I called Mrs. Gaines to check on Fred and Jo's progress in moving. During the course of the conversation, I mentioned that today is the anniversary of Jay's death. Once again she told me that it would get easier to bear but that the grief would never go away. I believe her. She knows. I suppose it's been twenty-five years or so since her daughter Nelda died in that tragic accident while she was on the way home from college for Thanksgiving. At the time, I didn't have even an inkling of what the mother was feeling. I couldn't imagine ever losing a child. Nothing like that would ever happen to one of my children."

To continue my narrative . . . Most of you who are reading this don't know the people whom I mention in this entry. Just know that they are all either relatives or very dear friends and that we couldn't have gotten through our ordeal without them.

"Frank and I got up rather early and started for home. I have a few impressions of the day . . . nothing really specific until later that evening. Breakfast at The Cracker Barrel on the way out of Nashville, many naps because of the medication that I was still on for vertigo, a quick ice cream just before leaving I-65 (the last 'meal' we would have for almost twenty-four hours), still more dozing, the 'maintenance required' light going on in the van just after we turned on to Wilde Lake Blvd. . . . could that light have been prophetic?

"We arrived at home around 5:20, just about ten minutes after Jay and Todd (the drummer in Velvet Melon) came in. As I was walking up the stairs with my suitcase, I asked Todd where Jay was. He told me that he was asleep, but I didn't think anything strange about that; many times he went straight to bed after getting home from a road gig. How he did love to sleep! Not at the times that I would choose, but he lived on a different clock from mine. I went into our bathroom and did something that I rarely do: I unpacked my suitcase immediately and set it on the ledge just outside my bathtub. I wish I hadn't been so industrious. My laziness might have saved my boy's life, but I doubt it. Then I went downstairs to read mail. Frank had gone outside immediately after we got home, and when he came in, I asked him if he'd be satisfied with Pizza Hut pizza for dinner. Of course. I still wasn't feeling well, and he was concerned about me. Shortly after he came in, Frank heard a thud in our bathroom, went to check -- fearing that I had fallen from my dizziness -- saw my suitcase on the ledge, and assumed that he had heard me drop it after unpacking. These actions don't really coincide, but we were both tired and not thinking very clearly. I don't think I've written things exactly as Frank tells them, but that's not important. Frank then lay down on the couch upstairs to watch the news. We had been out of touch with the world for a few days.

"I called Pizza Hut with our order so that I would be ready when I went to pick it up; then I went upstairs to brush my teeth, forgetting that my overnight bag was still downstairs. Oh well . . . I thought I'd just go to the bathroom while I was there, and that's when I discovered Jay. We don't really know how long he had been there. Was it he that Frank heard fall when he thought it was my suitcase? We'll never really know, but it wouldn't have made any difference anyway. When I cried out Jay's name, Frank ran in and told me to dial 911 and to ask Todd what Jay had had to eat that day. Todd was coming up the stairs at the time. When I asked him, he told us that Jay had had nothing to eat that day but that he had had an awful lot to drink the night before and had been sick all day. As I was giving directions to the 911 operator, Todd began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on Jay, to no avail, of course, because he was already dead. Poor Todd. He tried so hard to revive his buddy, all the time crying and begging Jay to respond. An eternity passed, so it seemed, before the paramedics arrived. They hooked up all sorts of mechanical and computerized things to my boy, but he never responded. He was breathing, but only with machinery.

"Frank wouldn't let me go back into the bathroom, but every once in a while, I would walk around just to see for myself what they were doing to my child. I was numb. Actually, the operator stayed on the phone with me for a long time, until the paramedics arrived. It really wasn't very long . . . probably only five minutes or so from the time that I called until the first crew came. To a mother, it seemed like forever. I sat in my recliner most of the time, praying. My immediate prayer was, "Oh, Lord, please don't let him die!" Then I thought about what I had said, and I added, "But please don't let him be a vegetable." Death would be far better for Jay Young than life if he could not live it the way he wanted to. He would not have been a gracious paraplegic. Who knows how long his brain had been without oxygen? But then, who knows what the Lord could have done in the way of miracles? I certainly don't.

"The medics had done all that they could do. I could hear the flap-flap of the helicopter blades. What a shame that Jay couldn't enjoy the ride! I remember thinking that, realizing that he was dead. Frank didn't know that I knew, but I did. He knew, but he was trying to protect me. This is so strange, but as I followed the stretcher down the stairs, I saw mud on the carpet and thought, 'Maybe I should get out the vacuum and get this up before it leaves a terrible stain.' What weird things the subconscious does! The stain is there to this day. It will not come up, but do I wish I had stopped? No. It's just one more reminder of my boy. I don't worry about it. Frank claims that it's a different stain, but I know better. To me, it's a reminder.

"Another strange thing . . . As they were taking Jay across the front lawn to the preacher's yard, where the helicopter was parked, Adrian Webb and someone (I don't remember who) came up to see if something was wrong with Frank. He discovered that it was Jay, disappeared, and never came back. How strange. I don't know. Maybe he couldn't face the death of one so young. I've seen him in the grocery store several times during the past year, but he has never mentioned Jay.

"I remember calling to the last of the paramedics to ask him if Jay was breathing. His reply was, 'Not on his own.' I knew what his answer would be. I remember walking over to the mailboxes and watching the helicopter take off with my boy in it. What an empty feeling. And I hadn't even hugged him as he left the house the night before.

"Before we left to go to the hospital, I tried to get in touch with Wendy. No answer. A brief message on the machine telling her and Steve that we had gone to the hospital because of Jay. Got through to Jimmy, though, and he beat us to the hospital. Todd rode with us. Silence. As we parked, Frank turned to me and said, 'Don't get your hopes up.' I wouldn't. I already knew. But every time that the nurse came into the little waiting room where Frank, Jimmy, Todd, and I sat, my 'mother hopes' rose, thinking that I might hear her say something like, 'We were mistaken. He's fine. He sat up, looked around, and said, "What's happenin'?" You may take him home now.' Instead, each time she entered, she said something to the effect of 'The doctors are trying everything . . . They're doing their best . . . .' Then, 'They did everything that they could. I'm sorry.' Would we like to see him? Of course. The room was so cold; no wonder he was blue. No, it was just death on him. Death on my precious little boy. I hope I don't sound maudlin; I don't mean to be. I just remember the awful color, his cold skin, no life. No life here, that is. I knew immediately that my boy wasn't in that cold, blue, hard body. My boy was with Jesus. Jay said, 'I don't mix drugs with rock and roll/I've got Jesus in my heart to save my soul' . . . said it right in 'I'm Not Crazy' . . . right out where everyone could hear him. He was not ashamed of his God.

"The ride home was quiet. Before we left the hospital, I remember clinging to Frank and begging him not to leave me. I really don't know why I did that. Guess I've read one too many stories and articles about families falling apart after the death of a child. On the way home, I recall saying that I didn't want to put the pictures away. Again, too much reading. Frank probably thought I was crazy.

"When we arrived at home, I called JoAnn. Naturally, she was devastated. She agreed to call the relatives for me. We had so many calls to make. I think we called Fran and Bob next, but they weren't at home. Maybe we left a message on the answering machine . . . anyway, they returned our call soon, and Frank told them what had happened. Almost immediately our phone started ringing. Frank called Wendy Bennett, who called Sophia, who called Melrose . . . etc., etc., etc. Anyway, our friends were with us immediately. Frank had called Bob right after he called the Crumptons, and he and Deb were here for us just as soon as they could get themselves together. Others who came immediately were Tim Key, the youth director at church; Bill and Louise Santo; and Jim Wilson. I had called for Carol, but she was at her mother's house in Alabama. Jim came just as soon as he could. What a relief!

"I remember sitting at the dining room table with Bill Santo, discussing arrangements. We had decided on Harper-Morris Funeral Home, with the funeral itself being held there, as well as the visitation. The Fourth of July weekend would pose a problem for us. Even though Jay died on Thursday, we couldn't have the funeral until Monday because of the holiday on Saturday and because no funerals are held on Sunday in Pensacola. Bill and I talked briefly about how it would be all right to have the funeral there instead of at the church because numbers would not be a problem. Wrong! My mother had instilled into me the idea that it's not good to have a funeral at church because you'd always think of it during the services each Sunday. I concur; however, it might have been a good idea to make an exception in this case.

"During the evening, I tried to get myself together enough to call someone in the Singles department at our church; however, I never could muster up whatever it was I needed. Around ten or eleven o'clock, I looked around to see several of them walk in. What relief! My best friends in the whole world were here! They have come to our rescue after a death so many times. Maybe that's why God put us together so many years ago. They have seen us through Grandpa, Mother, and now Jay. I always get the feeling that I've never done anything for them when they come to our rescue. Truly, the only thing we've ever done is to open up our hearts and our home to them. Maybe that was enough for them; it doesn't seem like much to me.

"I vaguely remember calling Mike in Nashville. I didn't handle it well. The words 'Mike, Jay died' just tumbled out . . . no warning . . . just the fact. Just as we feared, they started for home immediately. Terri was pregnant, and the night travel worried me. Sure enough, when they arrived, she didn't look well; she hadn't slept at all. Jay was dead. Who could sleep?

"One of the Singles vacuumed up the paramedic mess for me. I was thankful. That mud really bothered me. Wendy and Rob Bennett went out for survival equipment -- breakfast food and paper goods. What would we have done without them? I don't even want to think about it. The Hinkleys arrived with 'guardian angel' pins in hand. I wore mine gratefully. The Hinkleys, the Bennetts, and Bob and Deb would be our salvation during the weekend. There was hardly a time when at least one of the families wasn't here. Angela handled all calls. Superwoman!

"The biggest problem after we came home from the hospital was finding Wendy. Frank called Patti and told her what had happened. She didn't know where Wendy was either, but she called Joy Waters (Wendy's co-worker in pre-school) to see if she had heard Wendy say anything about where she was going after pre-school. She hadn't. I've always been thankful that Patti made that call because Joy and Bill are the ones who let the Singles know about Jay. We were so worried that Wendy would hear about her brother from someone besides us because word was spreading rapidly. Finally, around nine o'clock, Wendy and Corey came in, wondering what kind of party we were having because of all the cars around the house. I can't even remember how we told her. I'm afraid, though, that I just blurted it out the same way that I had done to Mike. What can I say about Wendy's reaction? It was what any normal sister's reaction would be, a sister who loved her brother unconditionally. She was devastated. Corey just didn't know what to think. She wanted to know where Jay died, and I told her; however, I said, 'Grammy just can't go back up there right now, though.' She wanted to go alone, and she did. When she came back downstairs, she said, 'Look what I found, Grammy.' Opening her hand, she revealed Jay's cross . . . the one that matched Tara's. She wanted to keep it, but I told her that I needed it. No problem. Todd had already attached himself to Jay's watch and bracelets. That was fine. The nurse at the hospital had given me Jay's earring, the one made from Tara's ring. I wanted her to have that.

"Speaking of Tara, Frank made the call to her. I could tell that it wasn't going well. Her dad had died just a year ago, and she was still grieving for him. This wasn't fair to her. Once again, life had been jerked from her grasp. Not fair. I can't remember if Cheryl brought her over on Friday or Saturday."

So here I am at the end of my writing from June 27, 1992 - July 2, 1992. I actually have lots more in my "One Year Journal," and I may post what I wrote about other days someday. I'll let you know if I do.

Thank you so much, dear friends, for joining me in my "Jay Week" reminiscences. And thanks for all of the beautiful responses that you wrote on Facebook and as comments on my blog. I'd have a difficult time telling you just how much you lifted my heart. Just trust that you did!

Frank, Jackson, and I were in Santa Fe today, and as we were eating lunch, Frank said, "It's so nice that Jackson's with us today." I heartily agreed and replied, "Little did we know at this time on July 2, 1992, what was in store for us later that day; and little did we know how much God would bless us thirteen years later by giving all of us Jackson." He's named for Frank and Jay, you know, and reminds me so much of my boy from time to time.

(5) Seventeen Years Ago -- July 1, 1992

2009-07-01T15:20:00.005-06:00

(continued from 6/30/09)

"I lay on the floor most of the morning. I remember Jay coming to check on me occasionally and Frank wracking his brain about what to do for/with me. We remembered that Bill Puryear mentioned his ear doctor in the office on Monday, so we called him to get the doctor's name. I was so happy when Frank discovered that the doctor could see me around three that afternoon. Diagnosis -- vertigo. He prescriber something . . . I forget what . . . for me, but I don't remember taking very many doses of it.

"Eventually, I began to feel better. After showering, I felt much better. Frank and I had decided to accompany Jimmy (the sound man for Velvet Melon) and a girl (Mimi, I think) from Chattanooga to a neat restaurant that night because Jay and Todd were leaving around six to go back to Chattanooga to hear Steve Ebe from Human Radio play drums with Head of Phineas Gage at Yesterday's. As Jay left, I remember looking at him and thinking that I understood exactly why the girls loved him so much. He never looked cuter -- denim shirt, jeans tight rolled, and multi-colored belt . . . and those shoes . . . the ones that he said that people in the audience always commented on at gigs . . . the mustard colored ones . . . the ones that the other guys liked so much that they bought their own. They were in such a hurry that I barely told him good-bye. I've always been sorry about that. I don't think I even got a hug. That means that he didn't either."

(4) Seventeen Years Ago -- June 30, 1992

2009-06-30T20:32:00.006-06:00

(continued from 6/29/09)

"We awoke, after a wavy night, to the scent of bacon frying. Jay was cooking breakfast for us! It was delicious, mainly because of the cook. I'm afraid that he hadn't yet developed much of a sense of the proper way to put a meal on the table, but it tasted great. Bacon, eggs, toast, juice . . . just what he liked every once in a while when he saw the world in the morning. Since all they were doing that week was writing and recording, he had no late, late nights; therefore, he could get up at a reasonable time in the morning, say 8:30 or so. Therefore . . . breakfast!

"That day was probably the laziest, most unproductive day for us. We just lay around all morning and into the afternoon, reading and listening. I remember getting antsy some time in mid-afternoon because my old body just has to be up and doing occasionally. I really didn't feel comfortable tackling housekeeping chores in someone else's house, but I'm sure that Jay wouldn't have minded. Actually, they hadn't been there long enough for things to get too dirty. And let's face it . . . I was on vacation and really had no desire for hard labor.

"About four o'clock, we decided to get out of the house for a little while. I think we went to some book stores just browsing. We had dinner at a really neat Oriental restaurant near Jay's house. I've never seen so much food! I took about half of mine home to Jay, who promptly devoured it. He asked where the restaurant was so that he could go there himself sometime. The time never came.

"That night was our third one on the perilous water bed. Around three o'clock in the morning, I awoke with my world spinning around me. I could barely lift my head from the bed. After spending a long time in the bathroom, trying to throw up my stomach, I finally relegated myself to the floor in hopes that the room would settle down. What a night! It was probably my most miserable night ever; however, I would look upon it later as sent from God."

(3) Seventeen Years Ago -- June 29, 1992

2009-06-29T22:08:00.006-06:00

(continued from 6/28/09)

" . . . we just lazed around reading and listening to the guys. I always loved to hear them write and record, especially write. Since I have virtually no musical ability, I have the utmost admiration for those who do, and it never ceased to give me a thrill to listen to those talented musicians compile their abilities and come out with a beautiful song. So much of it was trial and error, give and take, play and record. Then re-record because the first one didn't sound just right. Someone didn't come in exactly when he should. Someone missed a beat. Someone hit a wrong note. Always perfecting. Sometimes shouting. Always laughing. Always laughing. That laugh that I can't forget. I love it. Does Jesus love it just as much as I do? Oh, how I hope so. (My friend Ellen Lett died yesterday. I'm so selfish since Jay died. I want him to be the first one to meet everyone who goes to Heaven. As soon as I heard of her death, I'm ashamed to say that I didn't immediately mourn. Instead, all I could think of was that she would see Jay . . . that maybe he was the one to meet her. I doubt that he was because she has so many closer loved ones there, and I know that they were scrambling over each other to get to her. He had to wait in line. But I know he gave her one of those great Jay hugs as soon as he reached her. I just know that's what happened! I guess I've gotten a little off track, haven't I?)

"Sometime during the morning, Frank looked at me and said, 'These kids need a washer and a dryer in this house. It's not right for Terri to have to carry clothes out to the laundromat in her condition.' (Terri was Jerry's wife. He was the guitar player in Velvet Melon. And Terri was very much pregnant, as if she could be a little bit pregnant.) Thus, the washer/dryer idea was born. Jay concurred, and we approached the guys. They agreed to make the payments each month if we would put the appliances on our Sears credit card. We also suggested getting a mower since their rental agreement stipulated that they must keep the lawn up. To this they agreed, also. So later that afternoon we would run errands with Jay, including going to Sears for our purchases.

"I might mention here that I thoroughly enjoyed myself by reading to my heart's content during the days that we were with Jay. The two books that I definitely remember relishing were Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man, by Fannie Flagg, and The Outer Banks, by Anne Rivers Siddons. I laughed all the way through Daisy Fay, and I worried all the way through Outer Banks. I firmly believe that both were intended for me at this very time. I needed to laugh -- the greatest tragedy in my life was just around the corner. I needed the Siddons book because of the ideas presented, namely dealing with the death of a child. Isn't it strange how you can pick up a book and not know the treasure that awaits you? That book is about a woman's dealing with the death of a young child, not exactly what I would deal with very soon; however, her negative reactions came to me frequently in the immediate days as I tried to cope positively with Jay's death. I didn't copy the heroine in her attitude; rather, I tried to avoid her feelings. This probably sounds very strange.

"That afternoon, we went with Jay to see Bill Puryear from Crescent Moon Talent Agency. Bill very much wanted Jay to sign with him exclusively. We sat for about two hours in his office, listening to Jay and him talk business. I remember sitting in the background, saying nothing, just listening to my boy in his adult role. He was a peer with this thirty-something man. Proud is a mild adjective to use for what I felt. I was puffed up! Why was this very successful businessman pursuing my boy? He's just a boy. Just my little boy. Just my son. WRONG! He, too, was a man. He, too, was a businessman. He was important. He had something that Bill Puryear wanted -- talent. And he would have gotten that talent exclusively had Jay lived. Probably within a couple of weeks. But it was not meant to be.

"Later, we went to Sears and made our purchases, with the promise that they would be delivered on Thursday, July 2. Jay and I acted silly while Frank did the business of the day. We invited the saleslady to be on the lookout for Velvet Melon in the Nashville area and to attend a gig. I wonder if she ever thought of that again. Probably no. I feel sorry for her because she never got to see Jay in action. ('No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.' -- John Donne) We went to eat at a great restaurant afterwards. It was so wonderful to be with Jay alone. I always got a real charge out of watching him eat. He would eat for a while and then rest for a while. When resting, he'd put his arm over the back of the chair and just sit there as if he were waiting for the food to digest before continuing. All the time, he'd be talking, entertaining, laughing. And he'd tell stories . . . just little scraps of things that had happened during the past days, little things that people had said to him . . . but they would become great things, wonderful tales. Nothing was ever ordinary with Jay. Nothing. (He certainly 'gathered rosebuds,' evidently realizing that 'old time is still a-flying.' I surely am literary tonight. It's difficult to read that 'stuff' for as long as I have and not have some lines to slip in every once in a while.)

"I know that what we did together that afternoon probably sounds ho-hum to many, but even as it happened, I felt that it was a gloriously important day. I felt fulfilled as a mother. It's been a long time since that afternoon and evening. Monday, June 29, 1992, was the last time that we would have alone with our son. Does the 'glory' of that day need further explanation? I doubt it."

(2) Seventeen Years Ago -- June 28, 1992

2009-06-28T18:17:00.008-06:00

(continued from 6/27/09)

"On the morning of June 28, 1992, Frank and I got up, had a leisurely breakfast somewhere, I'm sure, and headed for Nashville to spend several days enjoying Jay and his new home. Notice how I always refer to the house in Nashville as Jay's home. To me, that's just what it was . . . his home . . . the others just lived with him in it. We stopped at a little winery on the way to Nashville, and I gloried in the gift shop while Frank looked at and tasted a bit of the wine. I bought Jay some special hot sauce, if I remember correctly.

"When we arrived at the house, Jay was like a little kid with a new toy as he showed us around. I had seen videos, but the real thing was ever so much better! He was especially proud of his room and his water bed. I must admit that his room was the most special to me. He had up some pictures that have always been favorites: the one of the lady of the evening in New Orleans very obviously being paid for her services, the Boardwalk picture with Jay leaping in the air, the cute picture of Tara looking over her shades, and the lovely photograph of the four of us . . . Frank in his brown suit, me in my pink dress and pouffy hair (wig!), Wendy in her brown dress with the leopard collar, and Jay in his red plaid jacket --- what a lovely family! That water bed would play an important role during the next two days.

"The main goal of the guys for the time that we would be in Nashville was to write and record. I could hardly wait to listen. In fact, they were just taking a break when we arrived. Listen we did for a while; then we decided to go out to eat and to take in a movie . . . a rare treat for us. We ate at Chili's and then went to see Patriot Games, an excellent thriller. Afterward, it was home to bed . . . the water bed. Jay's was very much different from ours. Ours is waveless, but his was wavefull. I have never been on anything so wavy in my life! So ended our first day in Jay's home."

(1) Seventeen Years Ago -- June 27, 1992

2009-06-27T21:16:00.006-06:00

Seventeen years ago from right now, Frank and I were sitting in Yesterday's, a popular bar in Chattanooga, watching Jay play his last gig. In 1993, I wrote a piece that I titled "One Year Journal -- A Piece of My Heart." Here are a few paragraphs from my recollections of that night:

"I remember feeling the usual thrill of pride as Jay strode into the club, flipping his hair, and looking around claiming his territory. If only I had the words to describe exactly how he looked as he walked into those clubs. All who knew him know exactly what I mean. Usually the first sound that we'd hear after he walked in was either a "Hey, man! How ya doin'?" or that laugh that started in his toes and traveled up to that Jay smile . . . the same one he had had since he was a baby. There's not another one like it. Sometimes in the strangest places I hear that laugh, and I laugh through my tears. I know that somewhere on all these videos that laugh is recorded. Someday I'll listen, but not yet . . . not yet. When will it not be too soon? Someday.

"That June 27 gig was just like all the others that we attended at Yesterday's . . . young people wall to wall, too much drinking, lots of noise, so many people that it was almost impossible to get to the restroom, great rock 'n' roll music, love flowing from the stage to the audience, especially from Jay. I recall that there was one guy who kept throwing money at Jay; someone told us that he was absolutely captivated by my boy. Not anything weird . . . that's not what I mean. He just enjoyed watching Jay perform. He was one of the first to buy one of the new t-shirts that had the guys in the band on the front and Jimmy on the sleeve. Frank and I were wearing them, too. Actually, mine is different; it has only the VM logo on the front. I don't know why I didn't want the other kind. Maybe a little premonition . . . I don't know. I don't really enjoy wearing the shirts with Jay's picture on them. To tell you the truth, I don't like the one I was wearing that night either. Crazy lady, I guess.

"The audience was wild that night . . . absolutely wild. I remember that Jay came to sit with us during the second break. I can never understand parents and children who don't have the relationship that we have always had with our children. Jay was always proud to have us in his audience, and he always found time to sit with us for a few minutes. As he sat with us that evening, sweat dripping from him and the hands going in the usual manner through his hair, he said something that I will never forget. Neither will Frank. We've told so many people those words. He was sitting there with the chair turned backwards, between his mom and dad, and he said, 'You'll never know the feeling . . . the feeling of having the crowd right in your hands. It's so great! There's nothing like it!' With that, he pushed away and was off to table hop, making everyone feel special That was just his way. We all know that."

Just feeling a bit nostalgic today and wanted to get some ideas down, even if the original words came from so long ago. It's hard to believe that Jay has been gone almost as long as we had him here with us. I still miss him every day.

Bonds of Friendship: A Tribute to Gary Powell

2009-06-14T22:00:00.004-06:00

Frank and I belong to an exclusive group. It’s one into which we have no desire to induct new members, and it’s one into which no one wants to be inducted. We have no formal meetings encouraging all members to be present. Occasionally, we seek each other out, especially looking for those who have recently found themselves members. No one pays dues once he or she is a part of the group—all of us have paid lifetime dues before becoming members. Those dues are an absolute necessity before joining the group, and they are dues that we pay kicking and screaming. You see, we are all members of the Parents Whose Children Have Died Society.

On May 29, 2009, Betty and Ward (Wop) Powell became members of our group. None of us are happy that they have joined, but we all welcome them in the sense that we love them and know that they need the steadfast support of those of us who truly understand how they feel right now. Their wounds are raw and green, and they need our assurance that they will survive. And survive, they will. If they will accept the love of their friends and if they will allow God to wrap His strong arms around them during this tender hour, they will get through this unhappiest of times. Please note that I didn’t say that they’d ever get over the death of their son. They’ll get through the active grief period and on to—not life as it was with Gary—but a different life . . . one without Gary but one with each other and their sweet daughter Debbie, who loved her brother with a love that only sisters and brothers share.

By the time that I met Gary Powell, he had been a quadriplegic for several years. His paralysis was the result of a tragic, fluky accident when he was fifteen-year-old sophomore, just two weeks away from his sixteenth birthday. Gary was a runner on the Pine Forest High School track team; and one Saturday morning in 1983, while he was waiting for a race to begin, a policeman suddenly lost control of his motorcycle, the vehicle hitting Gary, bruising his spinal cord and causing the injury that would change his life forever.

My introduction to Gary was during the heyday of Velvet Melon, our son Jay’s band. I knew that he and Jay had been friends in high school; however, I was unaware of the strong bond that had developed between these two young men. One Sunday afternoon, Jay informed me that Gary and his mother, Betty, would be at the gig that night at Coconut Bay, a local bar. I immediately began to worry about how Gary would get through the crowd, where he would sit, how the “kids” would treat him—all those mama worry things. I should have known that there was no need for concern.

Jay knew exactly when Betty was scheduled to arrive with Gary, about half way through the first set. Just before Gary’s arrival, Jay stopped the music to make an announcement. “OK, everybody, here’s what’s gonna happen. In just a few minutes, Betty Powell will be coming through the door with Gary, so you need to spread out to make a path for him. Hey . . . those of you right next to Jimmy and the sound board, make a place for him. Thanks!” And so it was every time Betty and Gary showed up for a gig. Jay took care of his friend. The bond was still there, stronger than ever. As soon as the set was over, Jay would head for Gary to visit for a few minutes before he began to “work the crowd,” as he called making the rounds from friend to friend.

Through the years, Frank and I came to love Gary and Betty and were always so happy to see them coming into Coconut Bay. We also felt great respect for this mother and son, neither of whom ever complained about their lot in life. Instead, both of them always had smiles on their faces and upbeat attitudes—such beautiful examples to all of us.

When Jay died in July 1992, Gary and Betty came to our house. I wish I could remember exactly when they came, but I can’t. From almost seventeen years’ distance, it’s difficult to remember exact times of visits. In my heart, I think it was a few days after the funeral. We were so happy to see them. We needed them. In the South, almost everyone who visits the bereaved comes bearing food. In my memory, I see them coming in with a ham, something that could help feed the hoards of young people who made themselves at home in our home for days. They stayed for a long time, reminiscing about Jay and making us know just how much both of them loved our boy. They made our hearts happy at a time when happiness was elusive.

Just before Christmas that year, Angela Hinkley and our daughter, Wendy, presented Frank and me with what has come to be called The Jay Book, a collection of stories about Jay, written by friends. Angela had gotten in touch with many of Jay’s friends and relatives and had asked them write remembrances of Jay. Gary was one of those friends. His recollections about Jay show the personalities of two good friends:

"Back at the time of my accident, all my friends kind of dumped me. My sister’s friends kind of picked me up. Jay was one of those friends. Jay always, no matter where he was or how busy he was, would take the time to sit down and talk with me. Not everybody did that. Even if Jay was runnind late and supposed to be someplace else, he would make time for me. It was enough to know that he cared that much for me.

"One time in high school, Jay was late for band practice. I was in the commons and Jay sat down to talk. We were discussing running before my accident. I was telling Jay that although I could not run any longer, I would often push my wheelchair on the driving range for exercise. I would go fast, then pop the brake to spin around. I told Jay I couldn’t really go very fast, though. Jay got up and told me to get ready because I was going to come as close to flying as I would ever get! Jay took off, driving my chair at top speed through the hallways. We flew so fast that I thought we were going to crash! I was so scared I almost lost my water. My heart was in my britches!

"I really appreciated that no matter how large the crowd around him was, Jay always made time for me. He wanted to get personal with people."

During his short twenty-four-year life, Jay had hundreds of friends. Some of them were just acquaintances to us, and I hate to admit that I have trouble remembering them. Gary wasn’t among those whom I can’t remember. I’ll never forget him and his family—Betty, who was always by his side, who devoted her life to him after his accident; Debbie, who was such a caring, loyal sister and who told me just this evening that she’d happily do all that caring all over again and do it even better; Ward, whom I never met but who I know was right there for Gary along with Betty and Debbie. The Powells are such a special family to Frank, Wendy, and me.

God has promised that when our lives on earth have ended and we Christians join Him in the heavenly home that he has prepared for us that these old bodies that we’ve had here will be perfect . . . free from illness, pain, infirmities. We’ll have new bodies, whole bodies. On May 29, Gary Powell went to be with Jesus. He welcomed Gary with open arms and gave him that new body with strong arms and legs and absolutely no pain. I picture our friend running and leaping and having the time of his life. I also picture my boy greeting him with a huge smile, throwing his arms around him in a big Jay hug, the kind he used to give to me, saying, “Gary! What took you so long? We’ve been waiting for you. You’re gonna love it here!”

A Good Day at Grammy's House

2009-05-30T13:46:00.006-06:00

When Jackson comes to Grammy’s house, it’s a good day. If you ask him what makes Grammy the happiest, he’ll tell you in a heartbeat that she’s the happiest when he’s at her house. And he’s absolutely right. Jackson Matthew Yocham brings sunshine to his grandparents, and here’s how . . .

The day starts when he gets out of bed and announces, “It feels like I need to go to Grammy and Pop’s house today!” You know what that little declaration does to our hearts.

As this bundle of energy hits the front door, he heads for both of us with hugs. Now, don’t get me wrong—his hugs aren’t with his arms; they’re more a leaning in to us with his head. But we know that they’re hugs. Most days, he comes in dragging his Handy Manny suitcase (really a backpack with wheels) filled with extra clothes and underwear, snacks, and a toy or two. The only part of the contents that he needs is the clothes and underwear because he wants only two snacks at Grammy and Pop’s house—chocolate milk and round crackers—and both of them are right here. He seldom needs toys of any kind because he’s far too busy helping us. And no toys are required for that.

He immediately asks for chocolate milk after his daddy leaves, and you know he gets it. Since he knows where it is, he goes directly for the pantry. The organic chocolate milk box has rows of three little individual boxes in it. If Jackson is trying to get his milk from a full row and is having trouble, I remind him of our motto: If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Yes, I know it’s an old mantra, but it’s new to him, and he likes for us to use it, and he likes to use it on his parents at home. Round crackers—Ritz Crackers— come later.

After being rejuvenated with chocolate milk, he goes to Pop’s garage to help him with some project, like wiring, putting in circuit breakers, putting up lights, examining and learning about tools, hanging garage doors, and installing the garage door openers. Or maybe he’ll help

outside with moving sand or laying flagstone or watering the trees in the “orch-red,” as he calls the orchard. He can tell you the names of almost every fruit tree there. He and Pop may take a little break to rock in the wicker chairs on the portal. Since I’m not invited to those sessions, I don’t really know what those boys talk about, but I’m sure it’s important. It may be that they talk about the mama bird and her eggs, the growth of the grape vines, the inadvisability of messing up Pop’s sand on the terrace just down from the portal, or the name of the bird making “that” sound. They talk about all sorts of things.

At least twice during the morning, he’ll run inside wanting to know if it’s time for lunch yet and if he can have tomato soup and croutons when the time comes. That’s what he has every day that he’s here. Never tires of it, and the little sweetheart eats almost a whole can of soup and croutons made from two slices of bread all by himself.

I think you need to know that five people in Jackson’s life have nicknames for him and that no one else can call him by these names. To his dad, he’s Little Man; to his mom, Sweetie Boy; to Pop, Buddy; to me, Sweetheart and Darlin’; and to Chris, one of our good friends, he’s Short Round. Quite a range of names, huh? I’m not sure why I thought you needed to know all of this, but now you’re educated and know not to use those names yourself.

When lunchtime does roll around, right at noon, the three of us gather, and Jackson says the blessing: “God is great; God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. By His hand we must be fed. Give us, Lord, our daily bread. Ah . . men!” When he first began to be in charge of this part of the meal, he kept his eyes wide open to be sure that everyone else had his/her eyes closed. Lots of pauses to remind folks. Now he squinches his eyes closed, but if you dare to look, you’ll know that he’s still peeping out through little slits so that he knows what we’re all doing. His intonation reminds me of that of a television evangelist.

After lunch, it’s naptime. You might think that he can twist Grammy around his little finger and avoid snooze time. Not so. We have a little ritual that we follow, and I think the pleasure of completing it makes taking a nap worthwhile. First, we get the bed in the guest room ready: one pillow with a sham on each side of the bed, his special pillow between them, the colorful blanket (an afghan crocheted by my mother) ready to cover him, the ceiling fan turned on (even in the winter). Now we’re ready for the next step. “I’ll turn the dryer on, Grammy!” We put his towel in the dryer for about two minutes so that he can snuggle up to it. Now he’s all set, and we each say, “’Night, ‘night, I love you!” about three times, and he’s off to dreamland. He used to sleep about three hours, but nowadays, an hour and a half is a good length.

When he wakes up, he comes very quietly to wherever I am . . . sometimes in my office, sometimes here on the sofa answering email, writing on Facebook, or writing for my blog. If I’m in my office, he plays office while I work. That means that he punches holes in paper with my hole punch or sits there pinching the staple puller together, listening not too carefully to my admonishing him not to poke his fingers. If I’m working on my laptop in the family room, sometimes he begs to write on his blog. I pull up a new page in Word, and he types away. Here’s an example of his talent:

4666tggeygyywgwyegyegwygefgrreffefgewrgrr6g3r3rrg3g7383g3g3g36reteregth77ijhiildgyhhjrgthgrreer9ijrrrrr8ryrt4rtqvrferfrftgthghyhtr4rrerereeeherryrtyrurruy

Beautiful, isn’t it? I love having him work with me, no matter what we’re doing.

Just a few minutes after he gets up from his nap, he asks me if he can have a “little treat.” Actually, he asks several times during the morning, but the rule is that he can have it after his nap. He seldom forgets. Now, you may be thinking that a “little treat” is a handful of cookies or a bowl of ice cream. No . . . his “little treat” is one Junior Mint, not one box of Junior Mints . . . just one little piece of nickel-sized candy. He’s perfectly content with only one. In fact, he knows where the boxes are stored and will go there and get his one “little treat.” Wendy and Todd didn’t give him any sweets until just a year or so ago, and he’s now four. The only kind that they let him have then were cookies that I made because they knew what was in them. He’s not really attracted to sweets much . . . just his “little treat” and sweet biscuits on Sunday morning at his house . . . ones that I make. He calls them cake.

Another thing that Jackson almost always does when he comes to Grammy’s house is work with me in the kitchen. Oh, my goodness, can he ever bake biscuits! On second thought, I guess I should say, oh, my goodness, can he ever make a mess! He pulls his little stool up to the counter where I’m cooking and announces that he’s going to help me cook. That means that I need to get two bowls, the sifter, a measuring cup, a couple of measuring spoons, and some

flour ready. I’m not exaggerating when I say that he can stand there for 30 minutes or more just sifting flour from one bowl to the other. And is my kitchen covered in flour? Oh, yes, and so is he! After we finish cooking, he just moves his stool a few inches back and helps me wash dishes. That process is very similar to biscuit making: he has one sink, and I have the other; he has a measuring cup, a spoon, and lots of suds to pour between them. And is there soapy water everywhere? Oh, yes. But does he have a grand time at Grammy’s house. Double or triple that yes!

When Jackson’s daddy comes to get him, Grammy and Pop are a bit weary but ever so happy for the good day. Jackson, named for both Frank and Jay, is so precious to us. I don’t even let myself think about what our lives would be like if we hadn’t moved to Cerrillos in 2003. So many things would have been different. Perhaps the most important one would be our not being close enough for Jackson’s proclamation, “It feels like I need to go to Grammy and Pop’s house today” to be fulfilled almost every time he makes it. You see, it is, indeed, a good day when Jackson comes to our house.

AR the Blogger Boy

2009-05-15T10:48:00.004-06:00

Just as I make “new best friends” everywhere I go, I find “new favorite blogs” almost every time someone mentions that he or she has started one. Just this week, I’ve added Pardon Power, Our World in 3-D, and The A-train Journal. Pardon Power is authored by P.S. Ruckman, a former student, and concerns presidential pardons; Our World in 3-D is Rodney Taylor’s blog, and like mine, concerns a little bit of everything; The A-train Journal is being written by Andrew Reed Waltrip and is a photo journal.

This morning when I checked my email, I found a message from Beth Waltrip, one of our best friends in Pensacola and the wife of our “son,” Andy, one of Jay’s best friends and one of “my boys.” The purpose of Beth’s email today was to let friends know that Andrew Reed, her and Andy’s little 71/2 year old boy, is posting to his very own blog, The A-train Journal.

As soon as I read Beth’s note, I went to Andrew Reed’s blog. What a work of art! Since his momma’s a photographer, he’s already traveling with camera in hand and taking really good pictures. GrammySandy, the name he gave me years ago when he was just a little boy, immediately posted a comment telling him how proud she is of him . . . especially of his composition skills and of his great vocabulary. All of us bloggers love comments, so I know he’ll like hearing from me.

I also told him that I’m happy to see him calling himself a redneck. The dictionary definition of a redneck isn’t very complimentary; however, people from parts other than the South have used the term about us for so long and so unkindly that we Southerners are tired of it and have decided among ourselves that it’s not such a bad term. We like rednecks. They’re good country people. And little AR is a country boy. He and his family live out from Pensacola in the Perdido area. I love to go to their home because it’s so peaceful, a bit like our place out here in The Land of Enchantment, in solitude and quietness, that is. In appearance, quite different . . . think “green, lush” when you try to get an idea of their place.

I hope you’ll check my blogroll sometime and give yourself the pleasure of reading Andrew Reed’s blog and looking at his photos. Tell him that you read about him on GrammySandy’s blog. He’ll get a real kick out of that!

(Just a little aside . . . AR isn’t an only child. He has a very creative, energetic, equally-as-handsome-as-he younger brother, Wil Tyler. Someday I’ll write about him!)

Facebook, the Great Connector

2009-05-14T21:00:00.008-06:00

Almost thirty of my friends on Facebook are former students. The majority of them I have not seen since they graduated. They are all dear to me in one way or another, but for today’s post, I have chosen to write about only three of them. They just happen to be the three with whom I’ve been in touch the most recently. If I know myself, I’ll wind up writing about everyone before my blogging days are over. You’ve heard the expression “Let the buyer beware”; there’s another one—“Let the reader beware”—and I’m invoking the latter today. Why? Because this is one terribly long post. Consider yourself warned!

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True confession—I have a MySpace place, but I much prefer Facebook. MySpace is too hard for me. I don’t know why. Maybe the reason is that I haven’t really tried to learn how to use it and haven’t given it a chance. One thing I didn’t like had nothing to do with my learning ability: I didn’t like the query as to my mood for the day. Silly, huh?

Ordinarily, I don’t think of myself as having moods, so I don’t want to choose a mood for the day. I’m certainly not a moody person, but I don’t guess being in a mood necessarily means being moody. Today, for sure . . . I’m in a mood. And what mood would that be, Mrs. Young? Nostalgic, that’s what. And why do you address yourself as “Mrs. Young,” to be pronounced “MizYoung” or better yet, something like “Mizzhung.” Because my nostalgia is caused by former students, and these young people are the ones who, for the most part, pronounced my name that way. For thirty-two years, I was MizYoung to a host of teenagers, mostly at Woodham High School in Pensacola, Florida.

Thanks to Facebook, I have been reunited with many of these youngsters, some of whom are between the ages of 40 and 50. To me, they’re still young. Three of them are rooted so firmly in my mind and heart today that I’m impelled to write about them. If they read this, they don’t need to worry about my telling any deep, dark secrets. I doubt if I knew any back when I saw each of them every school day during their senior year, and even if I knew secrets back in 1986, 1979, and 1977, I wouldn’t remember them now. You know the elderly and their memories! And so to my Thursday nostalgia . . .

I’ll begin with the young man most recently my student, Todd Cathey, who was in my Advanced Placement English class in 1985-86. Todd found me on Facebook earlier this year, and we’ve been playing catch-up ever since, especially during the past couple of days. If any of you who are reading this are now teachers or were teachers in the past, you’ll understand when I say that teachers grab firmly to any compliments that they receive. When I engage in this action, savoring every positive word aimed in my direction, I feel really guilty for not going back to my teachers to let them know what an impact they had on my life. This is what Todd wrote on the “25 Things” questionnaire on Facebook, and I immediately got the big head:

High school was so intellectually unchallenging for me that I missed half of my senior year from sheer ennui. AP English was the saving grace - and I'm not saying that just because Sandy Young is one of my friends on Facebook!

How I do love a big head!

Two other reasons for Todd’s being on my mind today are his being an author and his connection to my boy. He pointed me to a Web site called gather.com, where I was able to see his Web-published pieces. I thoroughly enjoyed a story/memoir titled “It Was Always Tommy.” I’d love to teach that story! And then Todd mentioned Jay and how he found out about my boy’s death from Todd Laws, the drummer in Velvet Melon at that time, in a chance meeting at the airport . . . how shocked he was—as were we all. This is what he told me about Jay: “He'll forever be that vibrant young man, singing and playing his heart out and reaching for the stars.” Thank you, Todd Cathey. You have made my heart sing today. I hadn’t forgotten you through the years, but I hadn’t thought of you for a while at the time that you found me on Facebook; however, I can assure you that you won’t be far away from my thoughts now.

The nostalgia for the next student has been building for weeks. One Saturday evening just before I went to bed, I had two Facebook friend requests from former students from the Class of 1979. In case you need math help . . . that’s 30 years ago! Robert Sims and Candy Bellamy Carter found me, and I was ecstatic. I could hardly sleep that night. I’ve been in touch with both of them a lot during these weeks: with Robert mainly because of their Class Reunion this summer; with Candy because of so many things. Today, I want to talk about Candy. Robert will come in another post, I’m sure.

Candy Bellamy . . . what a beautiful, smart, friendly young lady in my Honors English class from August 1978 to May 1979. I remember her as an excellent English student and one of the few students through the years (few in comparison to the hundreds, maybe thousands, of young people that I taught) who actually wanted to get to know her teacher. Candy and I became friends. I’m sure that I, along with others during that year, was a bit disappointed that Candy wouldn’t go to The University of South Alabama the next year because she would marry Arthur Carter even before graduation since he was going into the Air Force and wouldn’t be back in the Pensacola area. Adults shouldn’t be criticized for being doubtful about young people getting married this young because the track record for them isn’t all that good. We didn’t need to worry. The marriage of Candy and Arthur was meant to be, and none of us should have been overly concerned. They are still happily married and will be celebrating their 30^th anniversary by spending five weeks in Europe this summer. And by the way, Candy told me that she still uses the pie plate that I gave her as a wedding plate. A pie plate! It must have been a good one. I just hope it was pretty, too.

Early in their married life, they were stationed in Germany; Candy tried to keep up with me while she was there, but I was a pitiful correspondent. Just think . . . I could have been keeping up with Candy through all of these thirty years instead of just re-connecting lately if I had just answered her letters. Yes, I have apologized, and she has graciously forgiven me. Candy is another student who has heaped accolades on me, especially for making grammar finally make sense to her. What a great compliment to one who became an English teacher largely because of being able to teach our language to teenagers and possibly helping them to love the language as much as I do. Candy credits my grammar instruction with making it possible for her to learn the German language. An English teacher’s dream is to be able to claim such credit!

Candy is the first former student to share a certain happiness with me: We are both grandmothers! We have become such good friends because of Facebook, and once again I’m so thankful that I took the leap and joined. By the way, envy is not a Christian virtue, but I’m certainly feeling a bit envious because of her trip in August! Candy and I will not let ourselves get out of touch again.

Isn’t it funny that memory can pick up on happenings from decades ago and transform them into nostalgia? That’s exactly what has happened to me with a young man who must be at least close to 50 by now. Pete Ruckman (AKA Peter Ruckman and P.S. Ruckman, but always Pete to me) graduated from Woodham High School in 1979, and I will never forget him . . . or his cohort, his “partner in crime,” Chris Tredway. They were unstoppable and unpredictable. Today’s post is just about Pete, though; maybe someday Chris will admit that he lives in the twenty-first century and join Facebook. Then perhaps I’ll write just about him.

Pete Ruckman . . . my goodness, what a character! If you’re familiar with the USA Network, the expression “Characters welcome” won’t be unfamiliar. Pete was truly a character, and he is truly welcome to my nostalgic mood today. Unlike other students from long ago, Pete has almost always been within my reach. I don’t know exactly how I knew where he was . . . maybe he dropped by school to keep me up to date. I don’t know. At some time, I found out that he was living in the Chicago area, teaching in Rockport, IL. I always intended to get in touch with him when I’d go to Chicago for McDougal Littell sales meetings to see if he might come to see me, to let me take him and his family to dinner; however, deep down, I’m a bit shy, and I didn’t want to hear that he couldn’t come. Pretty silly, now that I think about it.

Before I talk about having him in my College Prep class, let me hasten to say that Pete was an excellent student, a student who could do well with anything I was teaching but who could bring hilarity to the subject, making it fun for us. I don’t necessarily mean fun for the whole class, but for the two of us. Most of the time the fun was in writing because Pete was relatively quiet in class with just an occasional comment that would break us all up. His sense of humor was wonderful but still in the developmental stages. I noticed on his Facebook Profile that he belongs to a "sarcasm" group. I'll bet that today both his humor and his sarcasm have fully flowered and are a work of art. I hope so, anyway.

I don’t always have very specific memories of students’ activities in my classroom, but Pete Ruckman was different. I’m thinking of one day, probably on Thursday before research papers were due on Monday. Pete spoke up and asked if the class could have an extension on the date. I don’t know what happened to my head, or maybe my heart, but I gave them a few more days. Before I knew what was happening, that young man was at the front of the room. He grabbed my foot and kissed it . . . well, he didn’t literally kiss it. He just pretended, but the class thought the action was real. They cheered. Another time, he saw me in the hall and fell down at my feet, probably begging for something. What a character! The last memory that I’ll mention is gleaned from my memory of a day shortly after the students received their yearbooks, the Mnemosyne. My habit during those early years at Woodham , if a student happened to ask me to sign his or her yearbook, was merely to write something like “I enjoyed having you in class this year. Have fun at college! Come back to see me . . .” Well, when I wrote this inane comment, or something similar in his book, Pete once again ran to the front of the room, this time to chastise me for not writing a more personal comment. After all, we had enjoyed the year, and I should give him more than an enjoyed-the-year little nothing. You guessed it . . . I wrote something with meaning. This young man taught me a valuable lesson: I needed to be able to think back over the year quickly and mention something personal in each student’s precious Mnemosyne . . . and that’s just what I did for the next 20 years. For re-connecting actively with Pete Ruckman, thank you, Facebook.

I can’t believe that I forgot to tell you what these folks did after high school, what they’re doing now:

· Todd lives in California and dubs himself “musician by day, nurse by night.” He’s a registered nurse who loves playing bass. Check out this video, in which he’s playing in Seville Quarter with Joey Allred, Darin Boyd, and Mike Magno, original Velvet Melon members, along with Jay: http://www.youtube.com/solitaireg

· Candy Carter went to law school, passed the bar, and became a lawyer. After an automobile accident, she was left with disabilities that caused her to close her law practice. She’s hopeful, though, to do some mediation work after updating certifications later this year. She and Arthur have two sons and one granddaughter, Alli, the light of her life.

· P.S. Ruckman is an Associate Professor of Political Science at Rock Valley College in Rockford, IL. He is married and has two little boys. At the risk of sounding simplistic, I’d term Pete an expert in presidential pardons. I’m sure I’m supposed to say that differently. He has written a forthcoming book: Pardon Me, Mr. President: Adventures in Crime, Politics and Mercy. Check out his blog at www.pardonpower.com.

Nostalgia is “a bittersweet longing for things, persons, or situations of the past” (The American College Dictionary). Today, nostalgia set in, and these three persons of the past, along with their situations, were very much a part of it. I loved today, and I’m very much grateful to Facebook for re-connecting me with these young people, my link to a past made up of some of the best years of my life.

Blogging with the Stars

2009-05-13T10:51:00.002-06:00

Earlier in the spring, I enrolled in a great online course called Blogging 101, offered through Editorial Freelancers Association. Each Wednesday for the four weeks that the class lasted, we received a lesson. As my friend Cecily used to say, “I waited with bait on my breath” for our teacher’s expertise, comments, advice to arrive via our class blog. What a wealth of information and encouragement we received for four weeks!

During those four weeks, we students also became friends via email, the class blog, and our personal blogs. I added three of my classmates’ blogs to my blogroll and check them periodically to see what they’ve written.

Dee writes a blog all about Disney. Honestly, she knows enough to write a veritable tome! I don’t know how many times she’s visited both Land and World, but she’s headed back to Orlando in three months and three days. On her blog, she writes about everything Disney, from clothes to characters to the monorail to . . . you name it, she writes about it. What a fun blog! (http://disneyholic-dee.blogspot.com/)

Laurel has become a true friend as a result of taking the course together. She was the first person to encourage me to write a memoir. She likes my voice! There’s not a nicer compliment that another writer can give me than to say that I sound like a real person talking, and she doesn’t even know what I sound like. Laurel is an editor by trade, and when I do write my memoir, I’ll hire her to edit for me. She even offers classes over the phone to talk the will-be writer (her term . . . so much kinder than “wannabe writer,” which is the designation that I usually give myself) through her book. Because of the suggestions for writers in her blog, I have unsubscribed to my subscription to a professional help-for-writers company and use her posts for my personal writing advice. (http://yourbookyourself.blogspot.com/)

Michelle’s blog is about language . . . about funny things that she’s heard and/or read, things she’s said herself that brought the house down, anything “quirky” (her word) about language. So you know I love this blog. She makes me wish that I’d kept a journal of all the funny things that my students said and wrote during my thirty-two years in the classroom. I could write a book or two or three, I’m sure. I read Michelle’s blog for my language fix! (http://linguabrava.wordpress.com/)

Each of these bloggers is a person to be admired for her writing ability, her dedication to the “cause” of good blogging, and her willingness to share thoughts with fellow bloggers through comments on blogs. Each one is a star in my estimation. Each of them commented on my posts, encouraging me to write a memoir, and one day I'll so just that. I am indebted to them, and I’ve told them so!

Sexagenarian Sandy

2009-05-12T10:53:00.003-06:00

Now don’t get all hot and bothered. I’m not getting ready to write about a very personal aspect of my life. Wild horses couldn’t drag that info from this old lady. A sexagenarian is simply a person between the ages of 60 and 69, and 69 is exactly what I became on Wednesday, May 6, 2009. Next year, I won't be one, so I feel compelled--by what I don't know--to write about these past years.

My official entry to the sexagenarian decade came in 2000. I remember having thoughts about that far away year when I was a child. Surely no one would even be alive then! The twenty-first century? Impossible! But the century changed, and so did my life, mostly for the better and crammed with lots of fun:

· September 11, 2001 changed everyone’s life, not just mine. I was at a McDougal Littell sales meeting in Chicago when disaster struck our country. Thank goodness, I didn’t know anyone personally in the towers or on the other planes, but I knew people who knew people. Every American and many others all over the world grieved for America. Since all of the airlines closed down, we attendees in Chicago got on chartered buses and headed home in all different directions. Maybe someday I'll write about that experience, complete with pictures.

· In June 2003, Frank and I, somewhat like the Beverly Hillbillies, packed up everything and moved west . . . to Cerrillos, New Mexico. Could a sixty-three-year-old Florida girl from a relatively large city find happiness in a village of 200, where she knew no one? Would she ever have friends? Oh, yes, think "yes" to both of those questions. We love our new digs, and we have friends galore. At Frank’s 75^th birthday party on September 14, 2008, about 125 of our closest friends and family joined us for the celebration. Happiness abounds at Two Rocks and a Hubcap! The name for our home is fodder for another post.

· Also in June 2003, my McDougal Littell friends in Florida gave me the big retirement send-off, thinking they’d never see me again unless I made a pilgrimage back to Florida or they made the long trek to New Mexico. Retirement didn’t last long for me . . . 79 days, to be exact. I just couldn’t bear the thought of these little schools out here not having someone visit them to sell them the new textbooks. So I became a per diem consultant sometime in September or October of 2003, traveling the highways and byways of New Mexico for the next five plus years and enjoying every minute (well, almost every minute) of my time with teachers. For one year—the 2004-05 school year—I was the sales rep for our state. I loved that year! I’m much better at sales repping than I am at being a per diem.

· The fall of 2004 saw the organization of our Bible Study group in Cerrillos. Every Sunday morning, Frank leads our study, and I make sweet biscuits for our fellowship time. One of our members, Glenn, devours so many that we have re-named them Glenn Biscuits in his honor. We gather each Sunday from 8:30-9:00 at Wendy and Todd’s house in Cerrillos for study, spend another hour in fellowshipping, and then Frank and I head to Santa Fe to Rodeo Road Baptist Church for worship. Appropriately, Wendy has named our group The Renegade Bible Study because we are something of a rebel group. We’re a bunch of Christians who love the Lord and love to study His Word, but we’re not associated with any denomination, though I’ll have to admit, Frank and I are such died-in-the-wool Baptists that our beliefs creep in. If they go too far, though, our friends are quick to rebel. You see? We’re renegades.

· The fall of 2004 also saw the biggest blessing of our lives since 1986. Wendy was pregnant again. Corey was born in the fall of 1987 (on Halloween!), and Jackson would come in the spring of 2005. He arrived on May 21, just three days before Wendy’s 42^nd birthday. We never thought we’d have more than one grandchild, and that was fine with us because we love Corey so much; however, with the addition of Jackson (named for Frank and Jay), we found that we had a whole “nother” heart full of love to shower on a grandchild. We are doubly blessed!

· June of 2006 brought one of the most exciting months of our lives: Corey graduated from Santa Fe High, and the next day we left for a three-week tour of Europe visiting our European family in Germany, Croatia, Switzerland, Holland, and England. No room for details here. Just know that we visited all of our “daughters,” one “son,” and “sisters and brothers” that we have accumulated during the past twenty plus years and that it was our Dream Vacation. I wrote a book of pictures and memories when I got home and sent each one a copy. What fun I had in getting this thank-you gift ready for them. I think they liked my gift.

· The travel bug really bit us that year, and in 2007 we were still feeling the bite and headed across the Atlantic for another three-week trip, this time to Ukraine to visit Irina and her family. Another great trip with all of our time in Kiev, at the home of the Andrushenkos (my favorite part!), and on the beaches of Yalta. We have been truly blessed by friendships with so many Europeans. I can’t imagine our lives without them. As many of you know, Irina is truly like a daughter to us, and we love her parents and sister for being so willing to share her.

· I’ve already mentioned Frank’s Big Birthday Bash in 2008, but I didn’t tell you that about twenty of those in attendance were his brothers, sister, nieces, nephew, one sister-in-law, and cousins from all over the U.S. (Washington, California, Montana, Connecticut, Florida, Maine), plus friends from Mississippi, Georgia, and Croatia. We hosted the first Young Family Reunion since 1940. It was right here at our house in Cerrillos. What a grand time we had! Someday I’ll write a post about it. Just a couple of things right now, though: Everyone sent old family pictures, and Wendy made a lovely slideshow for us; Bob rode his motorcycle from Florida to NM; several of our neighbors opened up their homes to our family so that they could stay out here instead of in a hotel in Santa Fe. Our friends Ivana and Andrea from Croatia stayed a bit longer than others because they had come such a great distance. Andrea went home after a week, but Ivana stayed for two weeks, and there wasn’t a minute of dead air the whole time she was here. I even took her on the road with me because I had to go back to work. She was great company and a tremendous assistant!

And now I’m to 2009, right now. The biggest event of 2009 for me is that I’m getting ready to hang up the van keys for good. When I first mentioned that I’d retire at the end of the school year, many friends and family members said, “Yeah, right. You’ve said that before, but we know you’ll never retire.” I assured them that this time I would. I don’t think they knew how smothered it made me feel when they doubted me. What if they were right and I really wouldn’t leave the company? What if I’d be leaving home at oh-dark-thirty, heading for Roswell before my eyes were really focused just so that I could be there to talk to a teacher during her planning period at 8:30 for the rest of my life? I wanted out. I wanted to stay at home, not to be a couch potato, but to work with Grace in her editing business, to get myself on a writing schedule, to be here for Frank, to play with Jackson whenever I jolly well pleased. When they doubted me, I just wanted to scream! Without going into the negative thoughts that I've sometimes had about the company that I’ve worked for for the past couple of years, I’ll just say that I’m ready to “be shed of” it. I’ve loved the people that I work with, just not the company in general. If our company had remained just plain old McDougal Littell, instead of the merged company that it now is, I'd probably have worked till I dropped, but I didn't need to do that. Just as I didn't want to teach so long that someone discovered me dead in the classroom one morning, hunkered over a set of papers that I had been grading, I didn't want to be found on the side of Hwy 285, doing my best to make that early appointment, eyes still glued to the road and hands cemented to the steering wheel of my old red van.

So . . . I’m beginning my last year as a sexagenarian with a smile on my face and lots of goals in mind. I just love a new beginning!

The Twenty-first Century, Here I Come!

2009-04-07T09:50:00.003-06:00

A few weeks ago, Jackson, our almost-four-year-old grandson, came to spend the night with us because his mom and dad were really under the weather with the New Mexico crud and allergies. He was so excited about staying all night with Grammy and Pop, and needless to say, we were elated to have him.

During the early evening, he was fine as he ate dinner, chatted with us, punched holes in paper; I think we even watched one of his videos. As bedtime grew near, however, he started talking about going home to sleep. We tried talking to him about how sick his folks were, but nothing comforted him: he wanted to go home. I thought maybe putting his pajamas on him and reading a story would help, but it didn’t. The tears came, and my heart broke. He wanted to talk to his mommy.

I made the call; Wendy tried to convince him that he was a big boy and would be just fine. Their being ill didn’t impress him one bit. Frank was sympathetic with the little fellow, but I was empathetic. I could put myself in his place because flashes of my childhood kept coming back to me. When I was a child, I absolutely would not spend the night away from home. I got so homesick for my mother that she would have to come to get me, sometimes at 2:00 in the morning, even if I was just next door. Homesickness is the sickest sick in the world, and my heart went out to little Jackson!

We all knew that he would stay with us, but getting him to sleep was quite a problem. We read his favorite book twice; I lay down with him for about fifteen minutes; he assured me that he’d be okay. Just as I pulled the covers up when I finally went to our bedroom, he began to cry again. Sigh! It would be one of “them nights.”

When I went back to Jackson’s room to try to convince him that he could go to sleep, that everything would be fine, that pretty soon he’d wake up to a brand new day (his term for the next morning), he looked up at me with those big teary blue eyes and very solemnly said, “Grammy, if I could just listen to your iPod, I think I could go to sleep.”

Imagine his surprise when I told him, “Jackson, Grammy doesn’t have an iPod.”

“You DON’T?” He was amazed. Everyone has an iPod in his little world, maybe even more than one.

Did Jackson ever go to sleep without music, without an iPod? Oh, yes . . . after I lay down again with him for about 30 minutes, this time not getting up until I knew that he was asleep.

And just why have I written about this important event in my life? I just want everyone to know that I have truly entered the twenty-first century because of a little boy with a broken heart, a little boy who is my heart. Never again will he wish for an iPod at our house. I now have a lovely little turquoise iPod Nano. It really is neat, and I think I’ll even use it for my own entertainment, not just for Jackson’s.

Just Talk Through Your Fingers!

2009-04-06T17:57:00.002-06:00

I became an English teacher for two reasons, one of which is the main reason that most people choose to enter the profession, one of which is something that many would just as soon not have anything to do with: I love to read, and I wanted to lead young people to be lifelong readers; I also loved grammar, the study of language and how it works and wanted my students to share my love. You may notice that I mentioned nothing about loving to write and being eager to teach my students to be good writers. The truth is that I never enrolled in any writing classes past the mandatory Freshman Composition. My college, from 1958 to 1964, didn’t offer any courses in writing except one semester of creative writing. I had no desire to write short stories or poetry, so I shied away from that elective.

For about twenty-two of my thirty-two years in the classroom, I struggled with teaching writing and with getting students interested in writing. Oh, I could teach them the five-paragraph essay in the inverted pyramid form, but I couldn’t get them to be enthusiastic about writing, not even about persuasive papers in which they could promote their biases.

After I participated in a writing workshop one summer, led by three teachers from Ft. Walton Beach, FL, I discovered what my problem was: I didn’t like to write, so I couldn’t instill a love of writing in my students. During those two weeks in 1986, when my “new best friends” presented us with activity after activity intended to help students become better writers and to enjoy writing, I became a better writer who could hardly wait to get her fingers on the keyboard.

Two truths that I brought from the workshop into my classroom were that I needed to write with my students to show them that I loved to write and that I had to find my voice before I could teach my charges to find theirs. I had always thought the third-person approach to writing stilted and wanted to get away from it, but I almost had the idea that writing in any other point of view was practically illegal. I know that’s crazy; however, in composition classes, I had always been taught that using first person was a no-no.

Early August in 1986 found me breaking in my students with one of my new activities: I know, I think, I wonder. On the very first day, after I had given my annual this-is-how-things-are-done-in-Mrs. Young’s-classroom speech, I had them write this very informal assignment addressing what I had just told them. I loved reading these journal-type pieces in which they let me know what they knew about my expectations, what they thought about them, and what they still wondered about Old Lady Young’s class.

Through that first year of my new approach to writing, I wrote along with my students. Sometimes they liked what I wrote; sometimes they didn’t. I had found my voice: I sounded like myself, and that’s just what I wanted. Now my job was to help my students find theirs.

They balked at leaving their comfortable third-person voices, voices in which they didn’t have to expose themselves because they were just spitting out what someone else thought, whether they were writing literary essays or research papers. I was asking them to have original ideas and to talk to each other and to me about them. I had to un-teach what my friends had been drilling into their little heads for years. Each year, including the first, I would walk slowly to the door of my classroom, close it, and say, “We need to talk.” Then I’d begin my teaching of voice, telling them that I expected them to use I in many of their papers during their senior year. They wrote the occasional essay in which I required them to write in third person just so that they wouldn’t be lost in college. But for the most part, they used first person. One year, a girl who had rebelled against first person all year wanted to write her autobiography in third person. Oh, brother!

Though at times I wanted to throw my hands up in frustration, teaching students to talk to the paper through their fingers, either with pen in hand or on a computer, was one of the most rewarding things I ever did in the classroom. If teaching voice were the only thing I had to do there today, I’d go back in a heartbeat.

(If teaching English happens to be something you’re interested in, you might want to check out my post on October 16, 2008, another adventure in first person.)

Music and a Mom

2009-04-06T16:24:00.004-06:00

Frank and I had been looking forward to it for a couple of weeks. Every night, as we watched our favorite shows—CSI, NCIS, The Mentalist, Eleventh Hour, and other such gory, yet interesting and entertaining, programs—we’d see the promo and determine that we’d watch. So the closer it got to 7:00 last night, the more excited we became, and at 6:55 we changed the channel from CMT, where we were watching O, Brother, Where Art Thou?, to CBS so that we could settle in for an evening of the Country Music Awards.

If a person has to be a redneck to like country music, then just call me a redneck. Reba McEntire was the host. She’s such a cute little country girl who’s made it big. I haven’t really followed her career closely because I’m not a person who follows the careers of entertainers; however, I remember how my heart hurt for her when, in the spring of 1991, seven of her band members and her manager were killed in a plane crash. I wondered how she would ever recover from such a tragedy and whether or not she’d get on with her career. I don’t know that she recovered, but she managed to get through, and she certainly has gotten on with her career. At the time of the crash, our son was still alive and playing with his band, Velvet Melon. I remember that he suggested that he and the guys in the band apply for the jobs of Reba’s “Crazy Eight,” as she referred to her band. Jay was only half kidding: he was a very confident, charismatic young man who never saw his dreams as impossible.

Anyway, we loved watching such stars as George Strait, Carrie Underwood, Rascal Flats, Taylor Swift, Brad Paisley, and lots of others perform. The female stars were especially stunning in their sparkly dresses—some long, some short, some exceptionally revealing, but all beautiful. Brad Paisley opted not to be in Las Vegas in person because his wife, Kimberly, was practically to the giving-birth stage with their second child. What a great husband!

Both Frank and I teared up as we watched star after star accept awards and give credit for their success to friends, family, and God. The whole evening was very emotional but lots of fun. Probably one of the main reasons that it was emotional for me was that I could picture Jay winning awards someday had he lived, not in country music but in rock music. (For more about Jay, see posts from July 2, 2007, and February 10, 2008.) He would have been a star. As I watched Carrie Underwood’s mother hug her every time she won an award, my heart soared for her mom because I could see Frank and me sitting next to Jay at some celebration, hugging him every time his name was called. I know I’m a dreamer, but moms are supposed to dream, especially about the success of their boys.

Breakfast in the Boonies

2009-04-06T14:50:00.009-06:00

If you were to drive South on Gold Mine Road just outside Cerrillos, NM, you’d swear that Frank and Sandy live in the big middle of nowhere almost all by themselves. You’d see a house now and then, nestled down among the junipers and pinon or up on the ridge of a hill; however, you’d never guess that there are hundreds of people far off the road, so far that they’re considered “off the grid,” meaning that they have solar power for their electricity. We do live in the big middle of nowhere, but we definitely have neighbors.

When our Russian daughter’s mother visited us, she was very much concerned by our lack of neighbors because, as she said, “What happens when you need to borrow a cup of sugar?” Not important to us—we shop at Sam’s Club and have a pantry stocked well enough to feed the proverbial army. Borrowing from neighbors isn’t really a priority to us; however, being in touch with them is. And just how do we connect? In lots of ways, most of which I’ll write about later. One of the best ways that we’ve found is through The Alternative Builders’ Breakfast Club, known today as simply Breakfast Club.

Back in 1992, five of the ladies out here in our hills decided to form a group that would meet monthly to discuss innovative projects, specifically the things that they were doing on their property to make their lives easier, to conserve energy, to live off the land as much as they could. These ideas included such things as hay-bale construction, fences made of aluminum cans, solar power, lots and lots of other ideas, most of which I don’t even know. In addition to their discussions, they, naturally, included breakfast goodies. What’s a meeting without food, huh? I imagine that they invited other neighbors to join them on the first Saturday of each month, going to different people’s houses and having everyone take a “covered dish” to the designated house. Three of the original ladies still live in the ‘hood, but only one is still active—Annie Whitney, our very efficient and very much loved organizer and group leader. Annie deserves a post all her own, and she’ll get one soon.

Today, instead of 5 neighbors gathering on the first Saturday, we now have anywhere from 50 to 100 folks eagerly heading to someone’s house for a morning of catching up on the news and stuffing themselves with some of the best cooking in these parts. Though we still talk about innovative projects (in the twenty-first century, you’re likely to hear lots of exchanging of ideas about Internet connections and other such ultra-modern topics), you might hear just as much about grandchildren, travels abroad, and recipes. We have a wonderful time, and since Frank and I love a party, especially if it’s at our house, we have hosted Breakfast Club twice: the first time in July 2005; the second, last Saturday. I tried to count the number present, but it was impossible because our friends kept moving from the
kitchen to the Two Rocks and a Hubcap Music Hall (explanation to follow in another post), also known as the company room. I believe, though, that there were about 60 in attendance.

Even though Frank and I are the hosts at our house, we manage to flit around enough to visit with lots of our friends. Most of the people in attendance on Saturday are special friends whom we’ve known most of the time that we’ve lived in New Mexico; however, many new folks were here, too. We collect “new best friends,” and I added all of them to our email list for invitations to our concerts, Frank’s birthday party, and our Christmas Open House. As I said earlier, we do love a party, and we had a glorious time on Saturday.

Here are a couple of photos from Breakfast Club: Tom Fulker, Annie’s husband; and our daughter and son –in-law, Wendy Young and Todd Yocham. You have an open invitation to come to our get-together on the first Saturday of any month!

Online Courses and Blogging 101

2009-03-27T10:25:00.005-06:00

Most of you know how much I love to go to school, whether it be attending and learning or teaching and learning. In the past year, I've discovered online courses, and I thoroughly enjoy them. First, I took "Essentials of Copyediting," in which I discovered that editing (my soon-to-be new profession) is not much like grading papers. Then I enrolled in "Fundamentals of Technical Writing." Wow! What an eye-opener that was! I learned lots and felt really stupid from time to time. Now I'm taking "Grammar Refresher," the third online course through the ed2go program at UNM. This one, so far, is not very interesting. The teacher of the copyediting course warned me that it would be a "baby" course, but did I listen? No. So here I am learning what subjects and predicates are. Not very stimulating yet, but maybe it'll get better.

Sometime last fall, I looked at a list of courses offered by EFA (Editorial Freelancer's Association), of which I am a member. I found my dream-come-true course: Blogging 101. You know that I love blogging, but I know that I'm not very much dedicated and go for months without writing anything. That's about to change because I have to commit to writing a certain number of posts each week for the next four weeks. I'm hoping that I'll get addicted to writing on/in (which is it?) my blog, just what I planned for myself when I began blogging in 2007. Guess I just need someone to crack the whip! We have a great teacher, and I love her already! Teachers are almost always my favorite people, but she just seems special, so personal.

I'm so excited because one of my classmates wrote to me, after I posted an introduction, that I should write a memoir, which is exactly what I've been planning to write for years. Just recently, I've become more excited about memoir writing because of editing Joyce Adrian's memoir and because of reading RoseAnne Coleman's memoir, The Stories I Keep. (Joyce is our cousin in Maine, and RoseAnne is a longtime friend from Pensacola.)

Anyway . . . I'll close with my "Introduction to Sandy Young" that I posted for our class:

Hi,classmates! Do you remember how exciting the first day of school was when you were a child, even a teenager? If you were ever a teacher, you remember that same feeling. The euphoria usually fizzled by second period, but you had that heart-thumping feeling for a while anyway. That first-day-of-school excitement is just what I'm experiencing right now. And to think that my classmates are all of you . . . you who come to this class with loads of experience in writing, editing, working in the corporate world, living with technology all around you. I'll be able to absorb some of your knowledge, and I'm honored to be able to learn from you and with you as Rebecca (already I know that she's a great teacher!) leads us through Blogging 101. Sorry . . . I just had to tell you this before introducing myself. My background is quite different from yours.

WHO I AM
I graduated from college with both a B.A. and an M.A. in English, all set to go out into the wide world to teach high school English. And that's just what I did for 32 years, most of those years in Pensacola, FL. Yes, I was in the classroom with 35 - 40 teenagers, mainly seniors, every hour of the school day. And I loved it. However, when I was in my mid-fifties, I decided to see if I could do something else before being put out to pasture. I became a sales rep for a publishing company for seven years, retiring in 2003, never to lug another book or talk my way past a secretary again. My husband and I moved to Cerrillos, NM, to be near our daughter and her family. I stayed retired for 79 days before going back to work for the same publisher, doing essentially the same job--driving about 1000 miles a week, lugging books from my van to the schools, getting to know secretaries in hopes that they'd let me see teachers even if I had arrived when they were in class, presenting my books to teachers trying to convince them that they should adopt and purchase them, feeling tired but very much satisfied at the end of the day because I am still in the education business and helping students by selling excellent textbooks for them to use. I just don't have to discipline teenagers or grade their papers. Now I'm ready to really retire and get serious about working with my friend Grace in her editing business. Just a minute . . . I thought I didn't want to grade papers. Guess it's that full circle thing! Seriously, though, editing isn't very much like grading papers. It's much more intense. Never thought I'd say that anything was more intense than grading papers, but what did I know?

WHY I'M TAKING BLOGGING 101
I'm a relatively new member of EFA, having joined sometime last fall. Grace, my editing partner, encouraged me to join so that I, too, could see the job listings that she was receiving. We've applied for some of them but haven't had much success with landing anything. I discovered, however, the classes offered by EFA and was immediately interested in some of them, especially Blogging 101. I'm very much interested in blogging, but I realize that I don't know much about it. I also saw that blogs can be a way to round up customers for our editing business. Ever since I heard of blogs, probably in 2005 or so, I've wanted to be a blogger. And I already am one, just not a very good one. So . . . I'm here with an open mind and heart, eager to be a good blogger!

WHAT MY BLOG IS LIKE
Yes, I have a blog, and I love writing on it. My problem is that I'm not very well disciplined and tend to write only on important days. A friend walked me through the steps of setting up my blog on Blogger sometime in the fall of 2006. I finally got up the nerve to open it up and write a little silly piece in the summer of 2007, just to see if I could do it. As you can see, I'm not very brave when it comes to technology. Then, on the morning of July 2, 2007, I awakened in a blue funk, feeling myself go down in that grief pit that I didn't want to enter. That day was the 15th anniversary of our son's death, and I usually spent Jay's "death day" just missing him. Instead of doing that, though, I got myself together, headed for the computer, and wrote to my heart's content about my boy, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, but feeling ever so much better when I finished. I then sent emails to lots of his friends,asking them to read what I had written. Many of them did, and then they wrote to me, telling me how much they still missed him and what a fantastic character he was. Blogging and emails made my day! I've even had a magazine to pick up a piece that I wrote about Jay and publish it in their December 2008 issue. So . . . because of my blog, I'm a published author. To an old retired English teacher, being published is icing on the cake of retirement.

I apologize for the length of Introducing Sandy Young. I always have a difficult time getting started with writing and an even harder time stopping.

Sandy
www.foreveryoung279.blogspot.com

I'll try to make my posts during the class shorter. I know you don't have all day to laze around in my blog.

Forty-Seven Years and Counting

2008-12-17T10:00:00.006-07:00

Forty-seven years ago today in Pensacola, the weather was bright and sunny, warm enough for Mother to go to the church to be sure that the air-conditioner was turned on for the festivities at 3:00 P.M. I was filing my fingernails and giggling with my soon-to-be sister-in-law, just killing time until noon, when I would start getting ready for the most exciting day yet in my short twenty-one years. Mother found a few minutes of privacy with me just to check to be sure that I knew the "facts of life." Fine time to check. I assured her that I did, not letting her know that what I really knew was just a bit more than that the stork delivered babies. Just kidding. I was a little more knowledgeable than that, but no more details on this subject!

Nineteen sixty-one was a long time ago, but I remember lots of details, such as the following:

--The owner of the bridal shop where we bought my dress ($50 and gorgeous) came to the church to help me get dressed.
--I dressed in the balcony of Brownsville Baptist Church.
--The pictures taken with my mother and dad are priceless and precious. The look in Daddy's eyes said, "I love you more than words can tell, little girl." How I wish I could re-live those moments alone with my parents!
--Frank and I smiled and smiled as I walked down the aisle. He looked so handsome in the only tux that fit. The groomsmen all had something wrong with their tuxedos because the person who placed the order for them at the shop in Pensacola just didn't believe the measurements that Frank sent in for them.
--Brother Dodson, our minister, called me Sandra, but that was okay if that's what it took to make our marriage official.
--Frank wouldn't tell me ahead of time whether or not he would kiss me at the end of the ceremony. He did. I was happy!
--The reception was lovely, very old-fashioned by today's standards, with a receiving line, cake, and punch. Very traditional and beautiful, held in our church dining hall.
--The groomsmen painted my parents' new white Oldsmobile with black shoe polish, forcing them to get a paint job later.
--They also painted my 1959 Ford with white shoe polish, which came off in a car wash.
--We drove to Chipley, FL, less than a hundred miles from Pensacola. We found one restaurant open that Sunday night, had a nice nervous dinner, and backed into a pine tree outside the restaurant when we finished. Very embarrassing for Frank.
--My dad had recommended the Chipley Motel, where he stayed while traveling in his job, so that's where we stayed that first night of married life. I forgot my toothbrush, and nothing was open where we could buy one. I used Frank's. That's a bit too intimate, isn't it? No more information about that first night except to say that the years have been good to us. You can figure that one out!

Today, December 17, 2008, is somewhat different from that same day of the year in 1961. We aren't turning the air-conditioner on this bright sunshiny day; instead, we're loving the snow, some of which has accumulated, some of which has melted. More on the way tonight. No more sitting around filing my nails and giggling with Sally. Instead, Frank and I are both in the kitchen getting ready for our big Christmas Open House here in Cerrillos, NM, a place where you'd never have convinced me forty-seven years ago that I'd live someday. On that day so many years ago, I'd hardly been west of the Mississippi River and certainly didn't have any idea that I'd live anywhere except the Deep South. But here we are in our retirement home, just about five minutes from Wendy and her family and as happy as can be. Of course, we still love each other; however, even more important . . . we still like each other. Pretty neat, huh?

Enough reminiscing for now. Back to the kitchen. Gumbo and cookies call!

The Reading Anthology

2008-10-16T10:34:00.002-06:00

Sometime in August, I went to Dubuque, IA, to conduct an inservice session on Conversation Circles. During the inservice, I mentioned a project that I used to do with my seniors at Woodham High School in Pensacola. I've mentioned this project, The Reading Anthology, in several presentations/inservices, but no one has ever asked me for instructions. Three middle school teachers in Dubuque wanted to know how to do the project. The following is a pretty much lame attempt to inform them. This may not be very interesting reading if you're not an English teacher, so don't feel obligated . . .

How I wish that I had kept the disk that had all of the instructions on it! I’ll try to reconstruct what I did a dozen years ago. Here’s a little background first:

One evening in 1990 (or thereabouts), I decided to look through old issues of The English Journal, my favorite “teacher” book, but one that I had neglected for several months because of the mounds of papers that needed grading. The EJ had always been my source for new ideas, ideas that I usually tweaked to make my own. Because of my “borrowing” from this periodical so much, I would later refer to myself as a copycat teacher. Very true!

As I sat cross-legged on the floor of my office, I happened upon one particular EJ that changed my teaching life forever. I had always thought that students should have a definite say in what they read. A teacher never gave me that opportunity, and I wanted my students to be able to choose. But I was at a loss as to how they could do that and still have the kids read quality literature. I hope that somewhere in boxes out in our storage building I still have that particular issue, but I doubt it. Anyway, as I thumbed through the issue (probably somewhere between 1988 and 1990), one article almost literally jumped out at me. It was by Anne McCrary Sullivan, a teacher in Texas, and was titled “The Reading Anthology,” or something similar to that.

I fell in love with the assignment immediately because Anne had opted to give her students literature types to read, but she let the students choose the specific titles. Why couldn’t I have thought of that? I’m no dummy. Maybe I didn’t think of it because the Lord meant for me to meet Anne in person. My detective skills kicked in, and I found her. It wasn’t easy, but I did it, and I think it was in 1992 that she and I finally got together at NCTE. There’s quite a story in our meeting, but what you want to know is how to do the assignment.

Now to the instructions. I’m going to give them to you in bulleted format, just suggesting some things that you might want to do. Before beginning, however, let me remind you that I taught high school seniors, and I required of them much more than you’ll want to require of middle school students. The assignment can be done with any grade level and any ability level, as long as the number of selections and the depth of writing are adjusted.

• Before assigning The Reading Anthology (through the years, my assignment came to be known as The Dreaded Anthology, mainly because seniors like to gripe), write the assignment in an enthusiastic manner so that students see that they’re in control and that the assignment can be fun and meaningful. They’ve never been able to choose their own literature before. This may be a problem for some of them, but you’ll encourage them and make them see that they can do this. If the three of you are working on this together and can get together to agree on what to assign in the way of types of lit, I think you’ll enjoy the project more. I was a “voice crying in the wilderness,” and many times I wished for a companion teacher just to bounce ideas off; however, I’m pretty much a loner in most teaching, so I did fine. Good instructions are a must! You may have to adjust the assignment as you progress the first time, but the students will like that because most of the time, your adjustments will make the assignment easier for them. Seniors are probably more devious than middle school students, so you may not have this particular problem: three of my boys decided to sabotage my beautiful assignment by twisting my words to mean something other than what they meant to me. I have to admit that they were successful to some degree; however, I found ways to lower their grades because of their mis-interpretations. They didn’t really win, but I re-worded instructions the next year.
• The following are the categories and number of selections that they had to read: Southern novel (1), British novel (1), Southern short stories (3), British short stories (3), poems (10) [the second year, I changed this to (5) for my survival], young adult novel (1), children’s story (1), cartoons (5), magazine article (1) . . . I think there were other categories, but I’m drawing a blank right now. Remember that my students were seniors; be sure to adjust the types of literature and the numbers of selections that they have to read. Don’t make an assignment that will suffocate them. Give them plenty of time to read and write.
• And now to the writing: My students had specific instructions for the essays that they’d write about each type of literature. The essays that they wrote were definitely personal, very much informal, but with definite guidelines. I’m sure you have your own instructions for writing about fiction and nonfiction. Just be sure that the instructions are not onerous. You want the students to enjoy writing about the selections that they’ve chosen. Don’t make the assignments too long because YOU must read and evaluate them.

Here are a couple of other things that I had my students do:

• Every Thursday after I made the assignment, they had to turn in a memo to me. I just had them use a regular memo form. The first paragraph was a summary of the kinds of reading that they had done during the week. The second was a comment on what they liked and/or didn’t like in their reading. And the third was a projection as to what they’d do during the next week. Frequently, a student would come to me bemoaning the fact that he or she didn’t like his or her selections for the anthology. My reply? ABANDON! Do not read something that you wouldn’t want to include in a book that you’re putting together! Occasionally, a student would bound into the room announcing, “I’ve abandoned that short story, Mrs. Young!” And we’d all cheer!
• I also had the students do double-entry journals for novels and short stories. You’ve probably done this before, maybe using a different title for the assignment. The students had to quote sections of the selections and comment on them . . . sometimes agreeing, sometimes disagreeing, often questioning the passages. This was always one of my favorite assignments in the classroom. I can’t remember how many I required, maybe seven or so from a novel and three to five from a short story. Frequently their comments were a page or so long.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I evaluated an assignment of such magnitude. Believe me, I made it fairly easy for myself by creating a good rubric beforehand. The students had a copy of this. The main ingredient that I looked for in the assignment was their real reaction to the literature. I also evaluated them on how well they followed my instructions and whether or not they read and wrote about the full number of required readings. You’ll have to determine all of this for yourselves, though. Make this YOUR assignment!

I never marked anything on their finished product because it’s an assignment that they’ll be proud of and will want to keep. I made copies of the rubric and wrote on that for each student, mentioning page numbers in their “books.” Grammar, punctuation, capitalization, etc., were important but not the deciding factor on the excellence of their anthologies.

I gave extra credit to students who made a copy of their anthologies for me to keep to show students the next year. Don’t let them give you their original because you’ll want them to keep them. Their parents will want them to keep them, too. Will it be a problem for middle school students to use computers for their final copies? I doubt it.

Have I told you enough? Have I overwhelmed you? I do hope that each of you will make The Reading Anthology an assignment that both you and your students can enjoy. Please be sure to let me know whether or not you choose to do this and how everything turns out. I’m eager to hear!

Every Day Is Saturday

2008-10-15T16:43:00.001-06:00

As of Friday, October 10, every day is Saturday to me. Yep . . . I received my “walking papers” from dear old Holt McDougal on that day. I should say that I received my “sitting papers.” Sandy won’t be traveling until January, if then.

The pitiful economy has caught up with the publishing companies, at least with the publishing company for which I work. Ask me if I’m sad. The answer: a resounding NO! The only thing that makes me sad is that I won’t be earning any money while I sit at home. Since I still haven’t been paid for the first week in August, all I can say is “So what’s new?” My constant theme song is “Maybe a check will come today!”

Enough sarcastic comments! I enjoy my job and hope to get back to work in January. In the meantime, I have plans. Nothing’s definite yet, but the following are some projects that I’m considering, some that I’m looking forward to and some that I’d rather skip:

• The number one project that I don’t want to do is some much-needed housecleaning. I have “glory holes” galore (these are cluttered areas like drawers and closets, according to my mother-in-law, Elsa Young) that are much in need of attention. Baseboards are crying for cleaning, and the mice have chewed their way into countless bags of dry foods in the pantry, so I could spend days in that closet just finding more things to throw away. We’ve gotten rid of the mice, but evidence of their busy-ness is still around. I had to make cornbread from scratch today because they’d been nibbling on my Marie Calendar’s mix. Now, that’s a shame!

• Years ago, when I first started my career in the publishing business, Frank took over almost all the cooking. I’d call him every evening, mouth watering, just waiting for his description of what he’d had for dinner. He’s a fantastic cook! But I fear that a project that will fall on my shoulders virtually every day is thinking up the meals and preparing them. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate this project; I just don’t look forward to tackling it every day. I think my sweetheart will pull his weight from time to time, especially when he wants something really scrumptious and/or exotic. I’m a “meat and potatoes” cook. Frank will help with cooking more than I’ll help with building the garage, I assure you.

• Getting away from the negativity, I’ll address the positives . . . the projects that I look forward to. Almost at the moment that Scott, the rep for whom I work, gave me the news about my job, I said to myself, “Well, this gives me time to write! And who knows, maybe the Lord is telling the old lady that it’s time to hang up the van keys permanently.”

• So what kinds of writing to I want to do? Well, here I am writing on my blog for the first time since July, when I wrote about Jay. On January 1, 2008, I wrote that I might do some scribbling every day in 2008. Obviously, I’ve missed the mark, but I can get back to writing every once in a while since I don’t have to be on the road, in schools, making presentations, conducting inservices. I look forward to “talking” on my computer.

• One of my good friends, Grace Hollen, is encouraging me to look into editing as a new profession. I’m investigating the possibilities; however, I’m not sure that grading papers for thirty-two years will qualify me for anything. People usually want proof of experience before hiring anyone for editing. I’m afraid my resume isn’t very impressive. But I may try this!

• I just found a Writing Workshop through Writer’s Digest that sounds very interesting to me, and I may sign up for it: Scrapbook Journaling. I doubt that I’d get anything published with this workshop, but publication isn’t really my goal. I just like to write!

• Here’s one that doesn’t pertain to writing or cleaning house: getting together with my Cerrillos girlfriends whenever I want to. Sigh! It’ll be so nice to be able to say “Yes” every time one of them wants to get together for lunch. Even nicer will be my ability to invite them to my house whenever I want to. Frank and I have such great friends out here in our hills. My never knowing for sure that I’ll be at home when something’s going on has been a heartbreak for me. Now my heart can mend.

• Several months ago, my cousin, Nancy Posey, gave me all sorts of suggestions for starting a book club. I just may investigate to see if friends in our neighborhood might be interested in forming one. Another check that I may do is to see if anyone is interested in writing his or her autobiography. The autobiography project is one that I’d like to do at Rodeo Road Baptist Church, too.

• A big project that’s coming up is one that we do every year but one which is difficult to get going and to complete because of my being out of town so much: our Christmas Open House. I can start baking as soon as I want to this year!

• The last “project” that I’ll mention right now is one that always thrills my heart: having Jackson at our house for a day every once in a while. I have no desire to be the every day babysitter for our precious little grandson; however, I love to be able to step in to help Todd when he gets really pushed in completing a job. Jackson makes us smile!

Anyone reading this post will know not to feel sorry for me for my having been “fired.” During the almost fifty years that I have been either teaching, “repping,” or working per diem, Saturdays have been the days when I could do just what I wanted to do. I know I’ll enjoy all these Saturdays that I have now!

A Mother's Memories

2008-07-02T15:55:00.024-06:00

Here we are again at an anniversary of my boy’s death. After receiving some poignant notes from friends and calls from Andy Waltrip and Susan Findley, I’m doing really well this year, though a couple of days ago, I didn’t know how I would handle July 2.

Since I found writing so cathartic a year ago, I decided earlier to write again this year. But since I reminisced about Melonheads and gigs last year, I didn’t know what I wanted to write. If you’ve read anything on my blog lately, you’ll know that I used pieces that I wrote years ago on my mother’s birthday (she’d have been 100 this year) and on Father’s Day. I still liked those pieces, and it made me happy to post them for all to read. They were parts of my autobiography, and very few people have read that volume.

What did I have that would do Jay justice? Aha! THE JAY BOOK. Some of you may remember that beautiful book that Angela Hinkley masterminded and Wendy provided photographs for. Some of you contributed stories about Jay for it. Only Angela, Wendy, and Frank know, though, that I wrote my part of the book after we received it. It was sort of a “thank you” to Angela. I loved writing it in December 1992, so I decided to copy it here, with a few deletions and additions. I don’t think Angela will mind.

I must warn you ahead of time that it’s VERY long, so don’t feel obliged to read it in its entirety. The pictures in the memory are all either scanned or taken up close with Wendy's digital camera. She works miracles with old photos! By the way, if you click on the photos, they will enlarge. Here are some of my favorite memories of my boy . . . your relative or friend. I hope you never forget him! No chance that I will . . . If, as you read, you feel that I'm talking to someone besides you, remember that I am -- to Angela Hinkley, one of Jay's very best friends.

A MOTHER’S MEMORIES

First of all, I can’t write A memory of Jay, just as some who wrote about him in THE JAY BOOK couldn’t. I’ll begin with a couple of memories of Jay before he arrived, and then I’ll proceed through a few that are not necessarily the most important ones or ones that others will remember, but they are ones that keep coming back to me. Though my recollections are long, They won’t be exhaustive, but they'll give you a little flavor of Jay and his mom. Let’s see . . . maybe I’ll title the periods for you . . .

BEFORE BIRTH

Jay’s determination was evident even at this time. You have to know at the outset that Wendy arrived in this world pretty much when we planned for her. That’s not to say that she’s predictable now, but her arrival was. Jay, however, began his unpredictability early. We knew, just as with Wendy, when we wanted to have him. He, however, had other plans. He waited until I had just settled into the job of my dreams before he let us know that he was on the way. Wouldn’t you agree that he did things in his own time frame during the part of his life that you knew? To further illustrate his behavior, he wasn’t due until around the 20th of February in 1968, but since my doctor was going to be off duty at that time, he came on February 10, my dad’s birthday, so that Dr. Girouard could deliver him and so that he’d have a real “in” with Papa, since Wendy was the only light of his eyes at the time.

IN INFANCY

I remember that he loved me right from the start. You see, I was his only source of nourishment. He came into this world fascinated with a certain part of my anatomy. Hmmmm . . . I wonder if that had anything to do with later interests . . . Shame on me! Of course not! Anyway, he just about wore me out. He’d nurse on and off all day long, with short periods in between feedings, and then just when I’d be certain that I’d get a long nap around midnight, he’d be yelling for me again. Needless to say, we developed quite a relationship right then. We talked a lot during the night. He’d just look at me as though I were the only important person in the world. He always had a special look for me, but there were lots of other important people later in his life. I remember that I worried so much because he wouldn’t eat “real” food, but the doctor assured me that if he continued to gain weight at the rate that he was going, he would weigh fifty pounds when he was a year old. I quit worrying. Eventually, he ate, but he never “lived to eat,” as some of us do, did he? Many other vignettes are flitting through my mind, like the time Wendy and I ran all over town letting pharmacists look at the weird spot on Jay’s cheek because I was convinced it was ringworm, only to be told finally that it ws a mark left by his pacifier while he napped. Talk about stupid! I don’t think I was the best mother in the world. Onward . . .

Here's a family picture from Jay's baby days and Wendy's little girl days. Frank and I were considerably younger then, too.

BEFORE SCHOOL DAYS

I suppose Jay’s life really began when we moved to Pensacola because he had no memories before that time. The only house that he could ever remember our living in is this one. This was truly home to Jay. (A later memory which I’m afraid I’ll forget to mention is of Jay, running from room to room when he returned after being gone for seven months to New York, shouting, “My house! My house!” It still is his house.) Wendy can probably remember some specifics about Jay as a child in Pascagoula, but nothing comes to my mind right now. But I do have a few (!) memories of his childhood in Pensacola.

He did not like for me to leave him when I went to work each morning. Can you imagine how I felt each day when I left him squalling either with a maid here at home or at the baby-sitter’s house? I guess he got over his attachment by the time that we began to leave him at Children’s World. He really liked it there. That was before the times of having to be so careful about day care centers. Anyway, it was a good one. I recall, though, that he didn’t like taking a nap with the other children, and the teacher would put him in a room by himself. Independent little kid! Actually, some of the children misbehaved during nap time, and it scared him to hear the teachers yelling at them.

I almost enrolled him in one of the Pensacola Christian day care centers; however, when I investigated and found that if he talked on the bus, he wouldn’t get any dessert at lunch, I changed my mind. That probably wouldn’t have been too much punishment for him, though, since he never did care much for sweets. But can you imagine anyone’s trying to squelch Jay’s talking? We used to have to tell him that we had to play the quiet game during meals at home because he’d still be sitting there talking when Wendy and Frank and I had finished eating. Some things don’t change, do they?

A man named Dale Godbold used to work in our store. His brother died, and Jay heard us talking about someone named Godbold having passed away. You can imagine Jay’s surprise when Dale walked into the store a couple of days later when we were there. Jay turned to him in complete consternation and said, “Why, Mr. Godbold! I thought you died!” Yep . . . even back then, he said what was on his mind.

This is one of my favorite memories. I guess he must have been around five, and evidently he and his dad had had a “misunderstanding” about Jay’s using something of Frank’s. Anyway, we (Jay and I) were riding down Pine Forest Road when he announced that he was going to be a fireman when he grew up (Never anything ordinary for him!) and that he and his wife would have about twelve children. He’d take his fire truck home at night, and he’d let his children climb all over it. I said that that was nice and asked him if he knew that those children would be my grandchildren. Of course, he knew that. Then came the great question . . . “Will you bring your little children to see me, Jay?” A slight pause . . . and then, “Oh, Ma, you plolly be dead by then!” This is one of my best stories of Jay. I love it. It’s a real mother’s story, don’t you think? That’s really the order in which things should happen, but they don’t always.

And a picture of Jay with the Jolly Old Elf . . .

That’s enough for this period in Jay’s life . . .

IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

Days at Beulah School! What wonderful years! I loved it out there. Everything was so much more peaceful than it was at the big schools in the city. Thanks so much, Angela, for talking to Beverly Gunn and Vera Gainey to get their remembrances of Jay. They were two of his favorites. Let’s see what I can remember about those days. So much . . .

Once Mrs. Gunn had jury duty for a whole week. Jay cried every day before he went to school because she wouldn’t be there and he didn’t like the substitute. I went by one day to get a look at her myself, and she was pretty scary.

By the time he was in second grade, we had so many kids at Beulah that Mr. Winters, the principal, had to form a second class after school started. Jay really didn’t like the teacher whose class he was originally in, and neither did we. She insisted on calling him Frank because that was his real name. Jay cried about that, too, so one day I wrote a note asking her to call him Jay. I also dressed him in his shirt that had “Here Comes Trouble!” written on the front and “Jay” on the back. Shortly after, he was moved to the new teacher’s class. I have always thought that Mrs. Gunn had something to do with that. Anyway, I’ve always thanked her in my heart for it.

Third grade was Mrs. Vickery! What a lady! All he ever mentioned in later years was boobs and breath when her name came up. I’m forever grateful to her for making both Wendy and Jay learn their times tables before they could be promoted to fourth grade. She was a rather old-fashioned teacher. I like old-fashioned!

I made sure that he was placed in Mrs. Gainey’s room in fourth grade because we had loved her for Wendy. Sure enough, she allowed him to be creative, just as she had Wendy. He was happy in her class. Of course, the principal almost killed me because I told all the mothers in the neighborhood to call and request Mrs. Gainey for their fourth graders.

I think that fifth grade was about the time when he and Walter Glenn had such fun at the Fall Festival, kissing the girls out behind the portable classrooms, a practice that never went away for either of them.

From third grade on, I have definite memories of Jay and the piano. I can see him sitting on the piano bench with his legs dangling from the bench, playing songs that really were too hard for such a tiny kid. I also remember piano contest Saturdays. One in particular stands out. He and two other little boys were in a certain level of competition. I could hear them practicing behind the curtain at Pensacola Junior College before the contest began. Jay’s playing stood out from that of the others; he was so sure of himself. He won, hands down. As we drove away from the parking lot, I asked him about what went on behind the curtain before the contest. He said, “I couldn’t believe how scared those other kids were. I told them that I could hardly wait to get out there to play!” Guess he psyched them out. I never knew Jay to be nervous before a performance, unless I count the time that he lost his singer just two days before a gig at Fennegal’s and knew that he’d have to do all the singing himself. That was just one of the times that he asked me to pray lots about what he was doing. I did. He did fine.

Can a person inherit headaches? I think so. My dad passed them on to me, and I shared them with Jay. Mrs. Gunn mentioned Jay's to me. I have some specific memories of these agonizing times in my little boy’s life. One of these memories actually covers many instances. Every time that he’d have a headache, he and I would sit in the rocker in the living room and rock in the dark. That’s the only way he got relief. Those were special times to me. Rocking my boy was one motherly thing that I could do. Another memory of those headaches involves taking him to the doctor to find out what caused them. We were told that he had classic migraines. While we were sitting in the examination room with him, the doctor noticed some little red places on his arms and legs. When asked what they were, Jay looked innocently up at the physician and said, “Child abuse.” You can imagine our chagrin. The doctor, however, was smarter than Jay thought and said that he didn’t believe that (Whew!); he had had a sister, and he recognized the signs of sister/brother horseplay when he saw it. That kid! A third headache memory comes with thoughts of Jay’s one and only attempt at football. All the other kids, Walter and Joe probably, were playing, so nothing would do but Jay had to play, too. We outfitted him and began going to practice. His football “career” lasted just about a week. He had a couple of headaches during that time, and the coach accused him of trying to get out of practice and made him go out on the field even though his head was splitting. He never liked to be accused of lying if he wasn’t, so he said that he’d had enough. I admitted readily that I had, too, and we both threw in the towel . . . ‘scuse me . . . uniform. The closest he ever came to football again was playing xylophone in the high school band. On to middle school . . .

IN MIDDLE SCHOOL

Even though Jay had taken piano for several years during his elementary days, his real love of music probably began here, for it was at this time that he joined the Bellview Middle School band. He blew the sax. I know that’s a strange way to put it, but it was such an awful sound at first. As I’ve said before, however, the screech didn’t last long. Soon he was playing really well. I don’t remember any specific instances in band in middle school. Isn’t that strange?

He also was tremendously interested in running during this time. Soccer was a love, too. You know, Jay never wanted to be anything but a star. During these years, he aspired to be another Pele. I took him to countless soccer practices and games. I remember one particular game when I was sitting in the stands cross-stitching and watching. Yes, I could do both at the same time. I looked up just in time to see Jay butt the ball for a goal. I yelled, “That’s using your head, son,” and was immediately relieved to know that he hadn’t heard me because he would have been really embarrassed. I’m not much of a sports fan, I fear.

He was so little in middle school. One of his teachers called him “Too-Tall Young,” after some famous athlete. I never understood. Jay didn’t mind; in fact, I always felt that he took pride in being the smallest but the “tallest” often in accomplishments. He never longed (pun intended) to be tall. I recall once his telling me that he had no desire to be a big person. But he was big, wasn’t he?

I think that it was probably during his middle school years that he rushed into the house crying about something that had happened in the neighborhood. After he was about eight or so, he never cried much, so I was really surprised. (The only time after this one that I recall him crying was about three years ago when he and Suzy had had a horrible falling out on the phone on Christmas Eve. The only solution that I could offer was for him to call her to apologize and then to come home to spend the night with us. He did both. We all felt better.) It seems that Joe Jacobi had thrown Jay’s new Nikes into Walter’s pool. He was so angry. I can’t even describe it. I don’t think I ever saw him that angry again. Thank goodness!

Jay loved school. Don’t get me wrong. He was not a wonderful student. I’d never try to convince myself that he was. However, he loved people and fun, and that’s where both were . . . at school. He also loved his teachers, like Mrs. Gunn, Mrs. Gainey, Mrs. Jackson, Mr. Whitten, Mr. Ewing, Mr. Buck, Mr. “Longwoit,” Mrs. Crumpton, Mrs. Thompson, Mrs. Livingston . . . and lots of others (and Mr. Hand, of “Don’s Subs” fame). But there was one teacher in middle school that he did not like at all. She embarrassed him. I think she taught math and science. Once when he made an F on something, she told the whole class. He just couldn’t stand it. His grades plummeted in her class, so we went for a conference. She was not a delightful person. We understood why the kids would misbehave. They wanted to be put into the “hole” for punishment. Jay spent a lot of time there. We never complained.

Just before he left Bellview to go to Pine Forest High School, he announced that he wouldn’t be in band in high school. Instead, he’d run cross-country. It seems that he didn’t think it would be “cool” to march and play his sax. Don’t ask me where he got that idea. But if he got an idea in his head, it was there to stay. Well, Wendy would have none of that. I remember that she took him outside here at home and talked to him for a while. When they came in, she announced that Mr. Buck had an opening for a xylophone player and that Jay was going to fill the spot. Had Jay ever played mallets before? Nope! Did that discourage him? Nope! Does this sound familiar (like when he needed a bass player, so he learned to play bass in just a couple of days)? Yep!

IN HIGH SCHOOL

Most of my memorable moments with Jay in high school involve band. PFHS band was not new to us. We had been through fours years with Wendy, so we were very much familiar with meetings and duty at the concession stand and contests and last-minute ironings of uniforms . . . and on and on and on. We loved John Buck and his band. I must admit that it was difficult to be a teacher at Woodham and a parent at Pine Forest. I had to work really hard not to mix the two. When Jay and Jimmy Mills were in Suncoast Sound Drum and Bugle Corps the summer of 1984, he learned to play drums. That completed his percussion education. He wrote the cadence for drums his senior year. My heart beat right along with the drums as the band marched in. Pride!! The night that he played his trap set on the field was almost too much for this mother’s heart. We even have pictures somewhere. I suppose, though, that the time that my heart thrilled the most was at Honor’s Night when John Buck gave him the Band Award, saying simply that he had never known a student with so much talent. Jay still holds that place in John’s heart. He told me so this summer when Jay died. Again, John brought joy to a mother’s heart. This memory thing is so hard to write. Sometimes I can heardly see the screen through my tears. Sorry. (The same thing is happening in 2008.)

Of course, I remember the night in January of 1985, when Joey Allred called Jay. I was doing dishes, and I heard Jay say something about a band. At that moment VELVET MELON was born. (The name of the band didn't come that night, though. It was months later that Jay's current girlfriend, Gina Forsberg, told him that she had seen something strange carved on a desk at Tate High School: Velvet Melon. Jay exclaimed, "That's it, Gina. Our band is Velvet Melon!" And he announced it to the guys that evening . . . immediate acceptance.) Jay and Joey had a dream. It came true every Saturday morning around 10:00 and went on for about four hours, letting up only for the guys to consume dozens of hot dogs. That was all I could afford to buy that whole bunch of boys who all looked and sounded alike to me. Even though Joey and Jay together formed Velvet Melon, Jay was always in the lead. I could hear him giving orders as I set out the food. It’s so funny that a month before the band came into existence, Frank was preaching about the ills of rock music, and I was shouting “Amen” to what he said. According to Frank, that rock beat would mess up your heart. I wonder. Somehow, though, when our boy began to play and sing the “stuff,” it wasn’t quite so bad. I was immediately in love with all that Jay did. Frank, Wendy, and I were Jay’s #1 fans, and Steve wasn’t far behind. Naturally, certain gigs stand out more than others. We went to all of them, except for the private parties, which, by the way, were usually broken up by the police, who were responding to the complaints of neighbors. It’s probably a good thing that we weren’t invited to these gala events anyway because we might have seen some things that our tender eyes didn’t need to see yet. The fact is we did see some things that we shouldn’t have; however, we thought it best to ignore some of them. The gigs that I enjoyed most were those at Pine Forest (sock hops, talent shows, even concerts). I can’t remember when they started to play in clubs, but it was probably after Jay was out of high school. But the clubs that I enjoyed most in the early days, whenever they were, were Longnecker’s and Fennegal’s. I never did care much for The Rex.

I enjoyed Jay’s high school days right along with him. But on to later days . . . But first, here's a picture from high school days, maybe his senior year . . .

AFTER HIGH SCHOOL / IN VELVET MELON

I’ve already written about many of my memories of this time. They were such good years. It has occurred to me that I probably should say something here. None of my memories involve some of the “trouble” that middle schoolers and high school students sometimes get in to. I found out in later years that we didn’t escape some of these “events”; we just didn’t know about them. Even though we discovered later some of the things that Jay did and that we didn’t approve of, we were happy to know for sure that he was not involved in drugs. It really is a miracle in the twentieth century and especially in the rock music circle for a person not to be involved in this aspect of the lives of young people. I never feared that Jay would have anything to do with drugs. In fact, I can remember telling him that he might get in trouble because of his outspoken abhorrence of them. I feared that someone might slip something into a drink just to prove to him that he, too, would do drugs. That never happened. Thank you, Lord! That one line that he wrote in an original always comforted me: “I don’t mix drugs with rock and roll/I’ve got Jesus in my heart to save my soul.” Isn’t that a wonderful line? Wish he had felt the same way about beer!

There are far too many gigs for me to mention too many specifics. Here are just a few:

The performance at The Bitter End in New York on the trip before the move . . .

Times at Longnecker’s . . . Suzy, Rick Holt, New Year’s Eve, taking my seniors in after the Senior Banquet . . . mentioning how good the band sounded one night and then getting the dreaded call about Keith’s accident just a few hours later. By the way, remember that math and science teacher that Jay didn’t like? She taught the kids CPR, and Jay used it on Keith that night. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.

And speaking of Suzy . . . here's my favorite picture . . .

The beach house fiasco . . . We had just left when the balcony fell . . .

The French Quarter . . . spending two days snowed in in motor homes with nine kids in their twenties . . .

The gig on the riverboat . . . Jay got a bit sick when he looked out the window while they were playing.

The night at Coconut Bay just before he was going to let the drummer go. I kept looking around for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Finally, I spotted him, do-rag on his head, huddled in fetal position off in a corner, obviously praying for help with his task. How my heart hurt for him. He knew what was best for his band, but that guy was his friend, and he couldn’t stand to hurt him. So many times he said to me, “Please pray, Mom. I’ve got to have help.” And I prayed. And he did, too. I wonder how many people know that about my boy. A few do.

Many nights at various gigs when he grabbed me just as we were leaving to give me a big hug and a huge kiss . . . right there in front of everyone. Not many young people honor their mothers in such a way. In fact, I remember one morning last spring when he called me at school to register a complaint. It seems that he had had it with us! We would go to his gigs, sit through one set, and then leave . . . without telling him good-bye. What greater compliment could a twenty-four-year-old son give his parents? None, as far as I’m concerned. Then there was the time that he called me at school. Becky Mc answered the phone in the teachers’ work area. He wanted to speak to me, but before she went to look for me, she told him that we were all burning up because the air conditioning wasn’t working properly. She said, “Your mom’s really hot today.” His reply . . . “My mom’s always hot!” Now, that’s a compliment, too!

Oh, and there was the night of October 31, 1987, when Velvet Melon played “Rebel Yell” for Wendy and “My Girl” for Corey. Corey had just entered the world about four hours before the gig. The guys were dressed in their costumes . . . Jay was the Punk Monk that year! Everyone was so excited about their new little mascot. Corey has truly been right up there with the #1 fans! So many times Jay has played songs for her while she was at gigs. She was a light in his life. He truly loved her. He didn’t always know exactly what to do with her, but he loved her. He learned from my mother not to “mash her head”! That was always a great line, but you had to be there to understand, I’m afraid.

Probably the gig that will always be most memorable to me, though, is the one on the night of June 27, 1992, his last gig. I wouldn’t take anything for that evening. We were there at Yesterdays in Chattanooga, TN, from beginning to end. We heard every lick, saw every wink, loved every minute of it. He came and sat with us during one of the breaks – as he always did – and said, “You’ll never know the feeling. The feeling of having them right in the palm of your hand!” He loved performing . . . leading the audience in whatever direction he wanted them to go. Andy was right. Jay had charisma . . . he still has it. Witness the hordes of young people who are still drawn to our house. Check this picture very carefully. You may see yourself in it. It's a small portion of the collage that Wendy made right after Jay died . . . one of the collages that we had on display at the funeral home on July 5.

And then the four days after that gig when we spent time in Jay’s home in Nashville. I wouldn’t take anything for those days! This picture is of him trying to look fat. The guys composed and recorded . . . I read . . . we (Jay, Frank, and I) shopped for a washer and dryer, and Jay and I acted crazy while Frank had to be serious with the saleslady, whom we invited to gigs in the Nashville area (she’ll never know what she missed) . . . my heart soared as I listened to Jay negotiate with Bill Puryear, an agent ready to sign Velvet Melon . . . we ate out . . . Jay cooked breakfast for us . . . he ate my leftovers from the Chinese restaurant that he never had a chance to go to . . . I was “smitten” with vertigo (thank goodness) . . . I watched him leave for the last time, dressed in the outfit that we buried him in. I thought as he left, “I can see why the girls love him. He is SO cute!” The rest is history. You know everything that’s happened since.

SINCE JULY 2, 1992

I guess I’ve almost come to the end of my memories for now. This hasn’t been easy, but it’s been a good catharsis. It’s a beginning for some of the things that I’d like to write. Each of these little vignettes could be expanded into pages. Maybe some day I’ll get around to writing more, but for right now, this is enough.

As you know, Angela, I’ve been doing a lot of reading since Jay died. Before, I always read novels, something to immerse myself into, to live another’s life but still come back to my own. I haven’t read one novel since July. Actually, I finished one that I had started in Nashville, but I haven’t read anything in addition to it. Instead, I’ve read books about grief and the afterlife. Some have been good; some just fair. One that I read recently was excellent. I wept when I found the following quotation in it. The book is called Intra Muros (My Dream of Heaven) by Rebecca Ruter Springer. Here’s the quote:

There is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity; and if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her by misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. – Washington Irving

Isn’t that beautiful? It was very near the end of the book, and at that time, I knew that it was meant for me to read that book. To me, it means that a mother would do anything for her son, would love him no matter what. My feelings exactly for my son . . . and for my daughter, too, for that matter. The book tells what heaven may be like. In fact, it’s a dream that the woman who wrote it had while she lay ill of a disease for weeks. I love her account because it’s what I’d like for heaven to be like; however, I’m not so sure that it’s true because no one has actually been there and returned. She says it was her dream. I’ve read other accounts of people who have been near death, and those accounts are equally as wonderful. I’ll find out exactly what it’s like in time . . . in God’s time.

As Jay would say, “I’m outta here!” This epistle is far longer than I intended for it to be, but I just wanted to jot down some feelings and ideas. I love you, my dear Angela; I truly love you.

New Family in the 'Hood

2008-06-25T10:01:00.007-06:00

If you didn’t already know this, you’ll know it now: I am a city girl, and I’ve never seen a real live bird’s nest in action. Can you imagine that I’ve reached the age of 68 and have never watched the building of a nest, the hatching of eggs, and the feeding of little birdies? Well, that’s the truth . . . and here’s what’s been happening right outside the window where I sit to peck away on my little Mac.

I guess it was a month or so ago when Frank noticed some birds building a nest on the other side of our “company room” or “Two Rocks and a Hubcap Music Hall,” as it is called from time to time. Every time the little critters would begin a nest, he’d tear it down, bad boy that he is. Didn’t want the poop all over everything. So, Mama and Papa Bird did what any good parents who were being evicted would do . . . they found another spot to construct: this side of the CR or TRAAHMH. When Papa Frank discovered what Papa Bird was doing, he put some items on the beam in hopes of discouraging the feathered father. Didn’t help one bit because one of the items was a piece of 4” PVC, just the right size for a nest. Oh, well . . . let him build!

Papa Bird built something akin to a condo, I do believe. It’s really plush . . . first a layer of grass and twigs, the usual building material for a nest, I suppose. Then he lined it with rabbit fur and, for all I know, some Maizy hair, too. Really beautiful! After about a week of flying in and out and patting down just so with his little warm body, Mama Bird took occupancy. I really don’t know when she laid her eggs; I just know that one day they were there.

She’d come home several times a day to sit on her precious eggs. This activity went on for a couple of weeks, Mama screeching at Frank and me whenever we ate supper out on the portal, where her home is located. We were very much an interruption to her routine. Frank would yell at her, “But we were here first!” Didn’t console her at all.

Finally, one day, we saw movement in the nest. How “my heart leapt up”! As I mentioned earlier, I had never seen baby birds in a nest. We think there are five babies, and believe me, they keep both Mama and Papa busy all day long bringing a little something to eat for each one. They can’t carry food for more than one baby at a time. I don’t know how they know whom they fed the last time, for they all look alike to me. Guess it’s like people parents who have quintuplets . . . each one is different. Or maybe they have names or birthmarks or something. Beats me! In any event, those little ones call out for their parents constantly, and someone’s mouth is always open, waiting for a little sustenance.

Why am I so amazed and taken with this new family? It’s because once again, I see God in action. This little Bird Family can’t be an accident; it has to be evidence of God’s creation. I never can understand how anyone can look at nature and not see the hand of God.

By the way . . . my friends Annie and Susan identified the family as Say’s Phoebes, birds that are abundant in our part of New Mexico. All I know is that they’re oh so cute and that they don’t like for me to go out with my camera, but the Paparazzo doesn’t care. Here’s a picture from last week. Today, they play possum every time I go out with my camera.

Our photographer daughter, Wendy, has better luck and a much better camera. She took this picture this evening.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

2008-06-15T15:29:00.005-06:00

I surely do wish there had been technology like computers and blogs when my daddy was alive, not that he'd have used either one, but he'd have enjoyed reading about himself . . . a little tribute from his daughter, his favorite girl.

This morning in church, we all had the opportunity to say something about our dads. I loved telling everyone about Arlie Weaver Cheatham, my dad. On Mother's Day, I'd told them about funny sayings that my mother had, little saws that she'd used to bring me up right; however, I didn't have any of these for Daddy. Instead, I told them that he was a wonderful Christian gentleman who wasn't actually a Christian for most of his life. He had all the fine moral characteristics of one, but in his heart he hadn't accepted Jesus. That all changed somewhere around 1956.

At Brownsville Baptist Church in Pensacola, our preacher called for rededications of lives to Jesus every Sunday. One little girl went forward just about once a month . . . and she probably needed to. Just before I was to have probably my fourth ear surgery, I, too, felt the need to rededicate my life. Much to my surprise, my dad beat me to the front of the church. As I was rededicating my life, he was asking Jesus to come into his heart. You can imagine that my heart soared!

Just as I did for Mother on her birthday, I'd like to share with those who read this post the main entry that I have about my dad in my autobiography, Grammy Then and Now. My dad was the most special man in my life until Frank entered the picture. My autobiography was written to Corey, so whenever it seems as though I'm talking to someone, I am . . . Corey. Ta da! Here's Daddy . . .

My daddy . . . how can I describe this extraordinary man to you? If only you had known him! He would have been one of your favorite people, just as he was a favorite to ever so many who knew him. I can honestly say that I never heard anyone say an unkind thing about him. Well . . . Mother sometimes ranted and raved, but the faults that she saw really were faults. When we were all younger, he had something of a drinking problem, and that really made my mother stew. I don't blame her. I vividly remember the last time that he drank anything. It was on Christmas Eve in 1952; we had been to the office party at his boss's house. (The odd think about this particular Christmas party was the fact that the Browns were Jewish. But they always had the hugest, most beautiful Christmas tree and also gifts for the employees and their children. I loved Christmas parties with our Jewish friends!) Daddy and probably almost everyone else got drunk. I cried myself to sleep that night after we completed the rounds of short visits to the homes of friends. I was embarrassed for him because I realized how foolish he looked in that inebriated condition. For some reason, he never drank again. That next summer, we moved to Pensacola (August 17, 1953), and a few years later, he became a Christian. After that important decision in his life, I'm sure that a team of wild horses could not have made him take a drink. But I'm wandering . . . I need to tell you about my early memories of Daddy.

I really don't remember much about him at all in Mobile. He worked very long days as manager of the Western Auto store downtown. I do remember a particular evening when Mother and Daddy were having friends over for dinner, though, not for a specific incident with Daddy, but I know he was involved if only passively. I was about three years old. I sneaked into the dining room, where Mother had the table carefully set with the best dishes and a brand new stick of butter. Now, that butter won't mean much to you because you see a pound or so of it in our refrigerator all the time, but 1943 was during World War II, and lots of foods were rationed. That means that a housewife could buy only so much of any one thing, and butter was definitely rationed. I really don't know how much she could buy or how often she could buy it. All I know is that it was precious and that she was serving it at a very special occasion. She probably had no more. As quickly as only a three-year-old can, I grabbed the priceless stick of butter and ate about half of it before Mother discovered her little girl devouring the "bb," as I called it. I guess if the HRS had been in existence in the 40's, my mother would have been jailed for child beating many because she could wallop the daylights out of me in no time flat? Just with her hand or a little switch, you understand. I assure you her spankings hurt. And the marks ceertainly stayed more than thirty minutes! Anyway, I'm sure Daddy was around, and he didn't inteerfere in the disciplining. He approved of my mother's correcting me, but he didn't want to do it himself.

Daddy's dealings with me always involved the softer side: lots of hugs and kisses, gifts for no particular reason, singing and dancing, praise for even the least little accomplishment on my part. I never saw at this time of my life what I saw years later in Daddy's absence, after he died. In watching Mother's great grief at losing him, I began to realize that within this mild-mannered man was a strong family leader. My mother was the voice for the two of them, and I'm afraid she was blamed for strict discipline when really Daddy had just as much to do with it. He just couldn't bear to discipline me himself; he depended on her. But in her agony, I saw that she, too, depended on him . . . far more than I ever realized during his life.

My daddy took me places, too. You'll be very much surprised when I tell you where he took me. To bars. Yea, to bars. And I played the slot machines. Can you imagine your Grammy, who wouldn't put even a nickel in those one-armed bandits today, putting coin after coin in when she was eight or nine years old and winning? It's hard for me to believe, too.

We didn't have a car until I was about eight years old (an old Packard), but I vividly remember Daddy and me riding around and him asking me to sing for him. He's the only person in the world who ever thought I had singing possibilities. Sometimes we'd sing together; he had a truly beautiful tenor voice. "I'm Looking Over a Four-Leafed Clover" was our favorite. We weren't so bad.

I mentioned earlier that he traveled during the week. I have a really strange remembrance of him on Saturday nights during those years. Every Saturday evening after dinner, Mother and Daddy would sit down in the living room to do their weekly routine. He would sit at one end of the sofa, and she would sit on a chair next to him. As he rested his arm on the arm of the sofa, Mother would become his manicurist. Yes, she cut, filed, and polished (clear nail polish, you understand) his nails. I get my long, skinny fingers from my dad. In fact, most of me is like him: height, eyes, feet, hands, clumsiness . . . everything except the gorgeous naturally curly hair. Drat! His hair turned wavy when he was seventeen, so he told me; therefore, I figured that since I was like him in so many ways, if I followed his lead in that respect, too, then I also would have the miraculous change in my hair when I reached seventeen. It didn't happen, not even after I ate what probably amounted to truckloads of brread crusts as my mother instructed me to do if I wanted curly hair.

Parents didn't cry in front of their children in those days. Mine were no exceptions. I already told you about seeing my mother cry for the first time (when her parents' house in Logansport, LA, burned). I also remember the first time I saw Daddy cry. Mother had surgery, a hysterectomy, when I was in seventh grade. Daddy was so worried about her. I wonder if he thought she might die and leave him with a pre-teen to rear all alone. One evening we visited her in the hospital. I guess it was the day of or the day after the surgery, and she was still loopy from the anesthetic. She had said something strange, funny to a twelve-year-old, that evening. I still remember exactly what she said: "Hand me the soap . . . s-o-u-p, soap." That was hilarious to me, and when I recalled the incident later that evening after my dad and I were back at home, he burst into tears because I was making fun of Mother. That really made me feel bad because I couldn't stand to think of hurting my daddey's feelings, nor did I want to ridicule Mother. I had a tremendously active conscience, one that kept me awake at night. I don't remember sleeping very well that night.

My dad's job was his life. He ate, talked, slept, lived his job. I never remember him taking a day off. Even on Sunday, he would call the managers of the stores which he supervised, asking them about closing reports for the week, always wanting to con firm that Auto-Lec Associate Stores were doing fine. He always had a little piece of paper in his wallet, and on that paper were the results of his calls to those managers. Even after he opened his own Auto-Lec Store in Pensacola, he had a little list concerning his own business. I have the last one that was in his wallet. It is a treasure. Speaking of his not taking any time off . . . I remember only one family vacation. We went to Biloxi and stayed in a little motel with a kitchenette. Mother was not particularly happy about that part because she didn't think it much of a vacation if she had to cook every meal. What I remember about Daddy during that week was that I didn't see much of him. He spent most of his time in the Auto-Lec stores in Biloxi and Gulfport, doing what he always did . . . certainly not vacationing. We went home before our vacation time was over because Daddy just had to get back to work. That's the way I remember it, but I'm recalling the time from a great distance.

Daddy wanted me to be a doctor. I learned that early on. Because that's what he wanted, that's what I wanted, too. He was so proud of my good grades that he was convinced that medicine was the field for me. Thank goodness, when I grew up and decided to become a teacher, he didn't try to hold me to the vocation that he had chosen for me. I would have made a pitiful physician! I can't stand the sight of blood, and I get queasy just watching someone else get a shot. He always thought I was best at everything. It's a good thing I lacked self-confidence when I was growing up, or I might have believed all the wonderful things he said about me. He thought I was the most beautiful, the smartest, the most talented girl in the world. I could look in the mirror and at other kids' report cards and listen to others play the piano and know that he was wrong. I was good , but not great. But that was my daddy. both of my parents always built up my ego. For that I am thankful . . . very thankful.

This mutual admiration society that my daddy and I were members of never dissolved. We loved each other unconditionally until he died on March 24, 1973. And I still love him!

And that's what I wrote in my book. On this Father's Day in 2008, I've been thinking about my dad all day. I can't close without mentioning one Father's Day regret. I don't remember the exact year, but our children and I got so involved in celebrating the day with Frank that I forgot to call my dad on his day. I was so embarrassed and heartbroken because of my neglect when Mother called to see why I hadn't even called. Since my tear ducts are so easily moved, I cried and cried and apologized profusely to both of my parents. I just know that I hurt Daddy very much that day, and I'll always be devastated by that. It was a case of spilt milk, but I'll never forget. To be truthful, Daddy probably never even gave it a thought. But my mother always said, "Do anything you want to me, but leave my child, my husband, and my money alone (not that she ever had much of the green stuff)." I had injured her husband, and she didn't like it one bit.

Sometimes everything in my life now would be even better if I could just sit down for a little father-daughter chat with Arlie Weaver Cheatham, Daddy to me, PaPa to our children and Frank. My, how I loved that man!

My Mother, My Best Friend

2008-05-17T16:58:00.008-06:00

I never forget my mother on May 17, always think back over special times in our lives; however, this May 17 is even more special than others in the past. Nina Mae Kolb Cheatham, my mother, would have been one hundred today, had she lived. What a celebration we would have had!

Recently, someone asked me if, every time I remembered her, I thought of those last days, when she was a resident at Baptist Manor, a nursing home in Pensacola, those physically painful days for her and mentally and emotionally painful days for me. My answer . . . Of course not. I remember funny incidents, lots of instructions on how I should behave, times when we just sat and talked as friends, and, naturally, scoldings and punishments when I was a child. Seldom do I remember how angry she was with me much of the time before she died simply because she was so ill and in so much pain. That's not the Mother who is so dear to my heart.

Fourteen years ago, I wrote my autobiography along with my students. I like the part that I wrote about Mother, so I'm just going to copy it here. It gives a pretty good picture of the woman our children called Mema. I wrote my book for Corey, our firstborn grandchild, so you'll hear me talking to her in this passage. It's a bit long, but so am I. Pretty typical of me.

. . . . . .

You know that I was an only child, just like you at this time in your life. Because of my "only" status, I, just like you, was very close to my parents, especially to my mother. Since my dad traveled throughout each week, my mother and I were left alone much of the time. She was a very protective mother; therefore, I was not given much freedom and managed to spend lots of time with her. First, I'll tell you some things that I know about her before I was born; then I'll tell you what I knew of her from living with her.

Her name was Nina Mae Kolb before she married my dad. From what I can gather, she was a very feisty young person. She had lots of boyfriends and almost married the man whose family owned the Chevrolet dealership in Logansport, LA. His name was Stubblefirld, I think. I can't imagine a world without cars in it or even with very few, but she grew up in such a time. One of my favorite stories of her is one that she told of taking her baby sisters (twins, Ressie and Tressie) rideing in one of these new-fangled contraptions. As she sped down a country road in north Louisiana, Ressie squealed with delight, but Tressie wept, threatening to tell Papa (her father, your great great grandfather) if Nina didn't slow down. My mother screeched to a halt, looked Tressie squarely in the eye, crossed her arms over her chest, rolled her head back and closed her eyes, then said, "You'll be sorry when I'm dead and in the grave like this." Don't ask me why that should change Tressie's mind about telling Papa, but it did. I think I'll ask Aunt Tressie and Aunt Ressie to tell me their versions of this story. It might sound diffferent from them. Anyway, that's a story from my mother's early adulthood. (5/17/08 -- I'm sorry that I never did get around to asking these dear ladies.)

I also know that she came from a family of eleven children, two of whom died before I was born. There was a little girl who died when she was about two years old, and one was a young man named Clyde. I don't recall how he died, but I believe he was around nineteen. I knew all of the others: Oma lea, whom I called Big Auntie (she was actually little; it's just that she was the oldest); Edwin, who was nicknamed Ty for Ty Cobb, a famous baseball player of his time (remember that their last name was Kolb . . . it just sounds the same), and whom we all called Uncle Ty; Ruth (don't know how an ordinary name like this appeared in this strangely named group of children); Nina, my mother; Waymon, whom I remember as always being sick; Inez, Aunt Jo's mother; Orie, nicknamed Chris because he was as mean as some man named Chris, but called Bud by all of us grandchildren; and Ressie and Tressie, the twins.

I know my mother was a very bright student. She told me so! She was never known for her humility! When she went to school, there were only eleven grades. Can you imagine that? When she graduated from high school. she moved from Logansport, LA, her hometown, to Shreveport, about forty miles away. That's not very far today, but back then, it was quite a distance. She went to business school, where she studied shorthand, filing, bookkeeping, and typing. Your great grandmother was a well-educated young woman for the times, though she didn't go to a regular college. Actually, not too many young people did back then. "Back then" was in the late 20's and early 30's, I suppose, because she had been in the big city for several years when she met Arlie Weaver Cheatham, my dad, in the summer of 1933. They married on September 26, 1933. Short relationship that led to a very long married life. (When my dad died in 1973, they had been married almost forty years.)

My mother didn't like for my dad to tell this story, but he told me that he first saw her when they were working buildings across the street from each other in Shreveport. He was attracted to her because of her figure; she was quite buxom in those days, and he, like most men, immediately noticed that. He motioned to her to give him her phone number, and she did. I guess you'd have to say that he picked her up! They had a date that evening . . . and the rest is history.

After they married, they both worked in hotels in order to have food and a place to live. Those were the days of the Great Depression, and people did lots of things to earn money. I wish I could remember the names of the people in their liv es at that time and the names of the hotels where they worked, but I can't. I didn't listen carefully enough when I was growing up. Their lives were hard, but they were happy. Now back to what I remember of my mother firsthand.

A few details that are associated with Mobile, the first place I remember living, come to me from time to time. I remember her telling me not to talk to the new neighbors until we could find out something about them and then my telling the people what she had said. Another memory is of her reading a letter while weeping as she sat on the back porch of our apartment. She told me that her parents' home in Logansport had been destroyed by flood. That's the first time that I saw my mother cry; in fact, I rrecall being surprised that she cry. I remember picking flowers from the Catholic church yard and her making me confess (though we weren't Catholic) to the priest. He, however, was happy to provide my bouquet and invited me to gather flowers any time I wanted to. Still another memory comes to me, one involving fowl. One Easter, I received two little ducks from the Easter Bunny. After I had had them for a couple of weeks, Mother set them in a box on the back porch to get a little sun and fresh air. Shortly thereafter, a cat came along and ate one of the ducks. Naturally, I cried; Mother didn't. The next day she set the one little duck out, ostensibly to catch the cat. What she was going to do with the cat, I don't know, but that's what she said she was tying to do. The cat ate the other duck. That was in 1944. In 1961, my husband to be, your Pop, doubled over with laughter when he heard the story. Somehow he couldn't buy it.

In New Orleans, our next home, I have quite different recollections of Mother. She comes to my mind as a meticulous housekeeper. In addition to keeping everything clean and neat and demanding the same of me, though she often didn't get her desires, she painted the complete apartment and varnished all the hardwood floors every spring. I can't imagine doing that, can you? She also kept those hardwood floors shiny by waxing them at least once a month. In relation to one of those waxing days, I recall one of the worst tongue-lashings I ever received. She specifically told me not to walk across the floor, yet I, faithful little only child that I was, followed her out the door so that I could be with her. Not a smart move! Nightlife also comes to mind when I think of my mother and my early years. It seems to me now at such a distance from actuality that she played bridge with the Bazins, the Nettleships, the Stipskys, and the Wests almost every night while my dad was traveling. Probably, we didn't go roaming around more than one or two nights a week. On those bridge nights, however, I can still recall the dread feelings of going to sleep in someone else's bed to the chatter of happy friends enjoying an evening together. I think that I developed an aversion to the game early on and have never had any desire to learn to play. In fact, the few times that I have tried to learn that card game, I have been much unsuccessful. The memories are not especially pleasant. i would have to be guided a block or two in the sometimes cold night air half asleep to get to my own bed, only to be awakened much too soon by the alarm clock or Mother calling out that it was time to get up.

She loved to shop, and even though she didn't have much money to spend, she and her friends would go to town on the streetcar on Tuesday to stroll through D.l H. Holmes and Maison Blanche department stores, eat lunch at Morrison's, and then hail a taxi to get them home before we all arrived from school. You know, I never recall a single day going home to an empty apartment. Every afternoon, I hit the downstairs hall calling, "Mother!" She always answered. I wish children today were so blessed.

I think that she was always the room mother for my class at Judah P. Benjamin School. That's the way I remember her, anyway. She was also the Girl Scout leader. And she was president of the Mothers' Club at least once. It seemed as though she were the perennial president, but I'm sure she wasn't. a couple of good school stories come to mind. One year, I came home and elatedly announced to her that we were getting a Thanksgiving basket together for a needy family. That was fine until I told her that I had volunteered her for the turkey. "What?" she exclaimed. "Buy a turkey for a needy family? I can't even buy one for us!" Oh, well . . . so much for my generosity. The other story involves her Girl Scout work. Once again, I was involved. We were going to present a grand play to the school. I think we were actually presenting several short plays so that everyone could perform. Mother wrote the names of the characters on slips of paper, put them into a box, and directed us to draw for our parts. I couldn't believe my luck. I had drawn the lead part! I would be the star! Alas . . . my happiness was short lived. When she discovered that I had drawn that one, she made me trade with some poor little soul who had drawn the part of the "scene shifter," an invented part just to provide enough parts for everyone. I still remember my lines even after some forty-five years. All I did was to walk onto the stage between scenes, turn the handle of a flour sifter, and say in a supposedly enthusiastic way, "I am the scene shifter; I shift the scenes." Needless to say, I won no Academy Award for that one.
from Grammy . . . Then and Now, 1994

. . . . . .

I realize that all of the above concerns my mother and me during my childhood years. Someday I'll write about my teen and adult years with her. The same close relationship between the two of us continued until her death. To capture the essence of that relationship, I'd say that we were best friends. Today, almost twenty years after her death, I still miss my mother.

If you've read this far and are interested in reading more about this lady, read my post on New Year's Day 2008. She was a hoot!

Happy Birthday, Jay!

2008-02-10T18:03:00.001-07:00

On February 8, 1968, I informed my doctor that the baby HAD to arrive on February 10. Dr. Girard laughed at me and said that the little one wasn’t finished cooking and that it would be at least two more weeks before he or she arrived (back then, we had no way of knowing the sex of a baby ahead of time . . . just knew that if a mother carried the baby low, it might be a boy – or maybe it might be a girl. I forget. Pretty much speculation back in those days.). I implored him to induce labor so that Cassie or Jay would be born on the second weekend in February, the last weekend that Dr. Girard would be on duty in February. I didn’t want that doctor with the big fat hands to deliver our little baby.

Finished cooking or not, Jay needed to be born on Saturday, February 10, 1968. Those who knew Jay well in his adult years seldom heard him say that he wanted something; he always needed it. And why did he need to be born then? Because he knew that his papa was having a hard time even thinking of having another grandchild. Wendy was my dad’s heart, and Jay needed an advantage in order to really be accepted. He got just that! Two things immediately made him special: the fact that he was a boy and the fact that he was born on his papa’s birthday. Pretty neat, huh?

By 1968, the Lord had given us two beautiful children. We brought up both Wendy and Jay thinking that they would be alive throughout our lives and would live to keep our memories alive for their children and grandchildren; however, in 1992, we found that Jay was just “lent” to us. Here’s a beautiful poem that has brought much comfort to me through the years and which proves to me how much God loves me.

LENT FOR AWHILE by Edgar Guest

“I’ll lend you for a little time a child of Mine,” He said,
“For you to love the while he lives, and mourn for, when he’s dead.
It may be six or seven years, or twenty-two or three.
But will you till I call him back, take care of him for Me?

“He’ll bring his charms to gladden you, and should his stay be brief,
You’ll have his lovely memories as solace for your grief.
I cannot promise he will stay since all from earth return,
But there are lessons taught down there I wish this child to learn.

“I’ve looked the wide world over in my search for teachers true,
And from the throngs that crowd life’s lanes I have selected you.
Nor will you give him all your love, nor think the labor vain,
Nor hate me when I come to call to take him back again?”

I fancied that I heard them say, “Dear Lord, Thy will be done,
For all the joy thy child shall bring, the risk of grief we’ll run.
We’ll shelter him with tenderness, we’ll love him while we may,
And for the happiness we’ve known , forever grateful stay.

“And should the Angels call for him much sooner than we’ve planned,
We’ll brave the bitter grief that comes, and try to understand.”

I love this poem. I discovered it for myself a few years before Jay died, and I cried as I read it, thinking of the grief that poor bereaved parents must feel. I wondered how they could survive. A student brought the poem to me a year or so before Jay died because she was so moved by it. She and I cried together. The third time I read it was in a sympathy card sent to us shortly after July 2, 1992. Frank and I wept. Edgar Guest touched my heart three times years ago. He touches me still.

Another selection that I love is by Marjorie Holmes . . .

HE WAS SO YOUNG

He was so young, God.
So young and strong and filled with promise. So vital, so radiant, giving so much joy wherever he went.
He was so brilliant. On this one boy you lavished so many talents that could have enriched your world. He had already received so many honors, and there were so many honors to come.
Why, then? In our agony we ask. Why him?
Why not someone less gifted? Someone less good? Some hop-head, rioter, thief, brute, hood?
Yet we know, even as we demand what seems to us a rational answer, that we are only intensifying our grief. Plunging deeper into the blind and witless place where all hope is gone. A dark lost place where our own gifts will be blunted and ruin replace the goodness he brought and wished for us.

Instead, let us thank you for the marvel that this boy was. That we can say good-by to him without shame or regret, rejoicing in the blessed years he was given to us. Knowing that his bright young life, his many gifts, have not truly been stilled or wasted, only lifted to a higher level where the rest of us can’t follow yet.
Separation? Yes. Loss? Never.
For his spirit will be with us always. And when we meet him again, we will be even more proud.
Thank you for this answer, God.

I may love this piece even more that the first one. Both brought great comfort to me in the early days after Jay died, and they continue to do so.

So . . . today, on this Jay’s 40th birthday, I’m wondering what my boy would have been like had he lived. Would music still be his life? Would he still love the crowds and the joy of having them in his hands? Would he still eagerly anticipate the breaks between sets when he could “work the crowds,” as he called that time? Would he still want his dad and me at gigs? Would he and Wendy still crack me up as no one else has ever been able to do? Would his hair still be long? Would he still say, “My mom’s always hot!”? Would he still have a charisma that drew people to him like a magnet? So many things to wonder about. Such a reunion to look forward to!

If you’re a talk show listener, as I am, you may be familiar with Rush Limbaugh’s very conceited comment about him and God. I just roll my eyes every time he says it. I’ll borrow from him, though, and say that Jay truly was “on loan from God.”

Lord, we are forever grateful for that loan. You know that I wish full payment hadn’t come due as soon as it did, but I firmly believe that You don’t make mistakes about anything. Thank you for trusting us with Jay. To say that having him with us was a pleasure is surely an understatement. It was a glorious adventure!

Such Good Memories

2008-02-05T13:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes articles in The New Mexican grab my attention. One such article was in today's paper, "The Religion Factor," by Pete Iaconelli. The author wrote about the influence of Christian coaches on young athletes' choosing certain colleges to attend and to play football for. The main coach that Iaconelli referred to was Tommy Bowden at Clemson University. I love Tommy just because he's Bobby Bowden's son, and I admire the Bowdens for their unashamed Christian witness in all that they do. The article goes on to tell about excellent Southern athletes who are choosing Clemson because of Coach Tommy Bowden's concern not only for their athletic abilities but also for their spiritual lives. He will continue the Christian upbringing that their families have begun. As a result, the families feel confident in turning over their "children" to him. My heart soared just thinking of the meaningful college years ahead of these young men!

As I read the article, my mind kept wandering back to 1957 and my choice of Mississippi College as the place that I would spend my college years. No, I wasn't a recruited athlete (my natural clumsiness would never allow me to play any sport); I wasn't even recruited for academics, though I might have been if I had made any overtures in that direction. I chose MC for my home away from home because of the Christian influences that I knew would be all around me for at least four years (as it turned out, it would be for more than four years, every year being better than the one before).

And what exactly were these Christian influences? For starters, we were required to take two Bible courses as prerequisites for graduation: Introduction to the Old Testament and Introduction to the New Testament. Everyone took these courses; no questions asked. Christian Bible professors taught them. These courses weren't meant to encourage students to dispute the Bible. The Bible was taught as the inspired Word of God. To quote Wordsworth: "My heart leaps up" when I think of those courses. To say that I was inspired by these professors, especially Dr. Ernest Pinson, is an example of litotes (understatement). I was so moved by what I learned in just the basic courses that I went on to take enough courses for a major in Bible. They just weren't the right courses for a major. I took ones that were of specific interest to me. Most of the ones past prerequisite level were ones in which I was the only girl. All the other students were ministerial students. Dr. Pinson used to call me the "rose among the thorns." I loved that epithet! My greatest joys in those classes came when I outshone the "preacher boys"!

Bible professors weren't the only Christian professors at MC. During those years when I was there (1958 - 1964), I'd say that virtually all professors were Christian. I remember seeing almost all of them at Wednesday night Prayer Meeting at Clinton Baptist Church, and many of them taught Sunday School classes on Sunday morning and/or were deacons at the church. It was the norm rather than the exception that classes were opened with prayer, either by the professor or one of the students. I never remember a student refusing to lead in prayer if called on. I, too, began my classes with prayer when I was a fellowship teacher while working on my master's degree. I do remember one time that I was sorry that I called on someone to lead in prayer, though. On November 22, 1963, I went to my afternoon class in Freshman English and asked a young man to pray. What a mistake! He was much too shaken up and refused. I should have led myself, not called on anyone else. Maybe I should have cancelled class for the day. With President Kennedy's having been shot just a couple of hours before, none of us had our minds on class. If I had known then what I know now, I might have given the students an assignment to write about the day before the next class period and dismissed class immediately. Maybe I would have just dismissed class.

As members of the Baptist Student Union (the original BSU), and most of us were members, we were encouraged to have prayer partners. My one and only prayer partner during my years at Mississippi College was Jan Cutrell. She and I clicked as soon as we met. If I had known the term at that time, I would have called her my "new best friend" as soon as I met her. What a pair we were! Jan was probably the shortest member of the Class of 1962, and I was almost certainly the tallest. We referred to ourselves as "Mutt and Jeff." If you're reading this and don't know who Mutt and Jeff were, you're just a youngster! We were different in another way, too. She was the most talented musician in our class; I struggled just to be able to read music and filter it through my fingers. I took basic organ lessons; Jan could make the organ sing. She had a beautiful voice; I could barely carry a tune in the proverbial bucket. But in one respect we were "kindred spirits": we both loved the Lord and knew the value of prayer. Therefore, we met regularly in the prayer rooms either in our dilapidated Whittington Student Center during our first two years of college or in the brand new B. C. Rogers Student Center during the latter years. In both places, we spent many hours pouring our hearts out to each other and praying for each other and others who we knew needed our prayers. What a meaningful, joyous part of my college education!

Unlike many today who view their college years as dull and mere drudgery in getting to their professions, I loved my college years. I didn't mind the early curfews, the late nights at the library (especially after I met Frank, and we had really good footsies-under-the-table evenings there), the strict dress codes (for girls, no shorts or jeans unless we wore our raincoats over them). I felt that I was truly called to that little Baptist college in Clinton, Mississippi. My education was stellar, and the Christian influences that I had helped to mold me into the woman that I am today. I'm thankful.

As usual, my post has gone on far longer than needed or wanted by those who read it. Sometimes, though, an article just connects with me, and I feel the need to write. Pete Iaconelli truly inspired me today. Thanks for reading!

You'd Better Eat Those Black-Eyed Peas!

2008-01-01T11:03:00.001-07:00

My mother, Nina Mae Kolb Cheatham, was a sassy Southern lady. She was sassy in the way she dressed, in her mannerisms, in her choice of words, in her everyday sayings, and definitely in her New Year's Rules. This post, written on New Year's Day 2008, is my tribute to my mother. I never called her Mom, just Mother or Mema after May 24, 1963, the day that Wendy, her first grandchild, was born.

I'd have to write a book or two in order to tell readers everything that I knew and loved and sometimes feared about Mother. For right now, I'll concentrate on her everyday sayings and then her New Year's Rules. Those everyday sayings were ones that I've never heard anyone else attribute to his or her mother. I think my mother made them up. In any event, she believed in using them on me. And you can believe that I heeded them! Maybe she thought what she said would help me in some strange way.

One of them, I must admit, I used on Wendy and Jay. In fact, once when I told Jay that I was going to "skin him alive" if he didn't stop doing something, Wendy burst into tears and said, "Please don't tell him that, Mommy! It's so scary!" I never thought much about Mother's skinning me alive, but my use of the expression really did have an adverse effect on my Wendy. I don't think I ever used it again. My mother used it a lot, though. Since I always stopped doing whatever it was that she didn't want me to do, I never knew whether or not she'd really take the action.

I'd never be able to remember the number of times that she said to me, "For goodness' sake, Sandra (she always called me Sandra because, as she used to say, 'That's what I named you.'), don't cry. You look so ugly!" I know you're thinking horrible things about my mother about right now, but I'm thankful that she told me not to cry. As a result, I do try not to cry in public. After all, I work pretty hard trying to make myself presentable, so why would I want to look ugly if I can help it? I really do look ugly when I cry, unlike my friend from years ago, Linda Umphress, who I always thought looked pretty when the tears came. She never agreed with me, but, then, she never agreed with me when I told her how pretty her upper arms were . . . a lot bigger than mine . . . but I digress.

My friends now find it hard to believe that I was a shy little girl. By little, I mean "little" in years, not in size. No details here because I could write a long essay about my size when I was a child. Anyway . . . back to my shyness and also to my fear of teachers. Many a day, as I was walking out the door of our apartment, on my way to Judah P. Benjamin School in New Orleans, she'd say to me, "For goodness' sake, Sandra (yes, she began many sentences that way), quit worrying. She (the teacher) can kill you, but she can't eat you!" That saying was supposed to make me feel better about my concern over not having my homework done correctly or my fear of failing a test. Again, you may think my mother cruel; however, that's not the case at all. As her result of drumming the "kill but not eat" saying into me, I'm no longer shy, nor do I fear people nearly so much. You notice that I didn't say that all fear has been washed away. I'm just not quite so fearful in my adult life as I was in earlier years. I'm really grateful to Mother! I must admit that I used to tell our children this saying; however, it was a joke in our house because I had explained its early use on me. When I said, "Don't worry . . . she can kill you, but she can't eat you," we'd all laugh, and the fear would disappear.

The last of the everyday sayings probably made my friends more uncomfortable than it did me. Inevitably, when someone came to our house, she bombarded them with questions: How's your mother? And your dad? Have you had dinner? What did you have? Where are y'all going? Who's going with you? You get the picture. Her reason for all these questions? As she would say, "You never learn anything unless you ask!" She was so right. Questioning people is a great way to learn who they really are. It's just difficult sometimes to draw the line between curious and nosey.

I can't leave Mother's everyday sayings without telling readers that during the past couple of years, I've used the last three sayings in textbook presentations, the first two because it relaxes the audience when I begin by asking, "What kind of mother did you have? I wonder if yours brought you up on sayings the way mine did." When I get to the one about questions, that leads me exactly where I want to go . . . asking them a question: What are you looking for in a new math (or literature or science) book this year? They're putty in my hands! Well, sometimes, at least . . .

I guess you thought I'd never get to Nina Mae's New Year's Rules, but here I am. She lived by these rules on New Year's Day. As I said before, she was a Southern lady. Many of her beliefs were rooted in the Deep South; however, only one of her rules is Southern as far as I know. I'll alert you when I get to it.

She truly believed that it was bad luck to leave Christmas decorations up after New Year's Day, and I never remember seeing any red and green after January 1 at her house. Where she got this one, I'll never know. Of course, I don't know where she got another steadfast rule for her . . . that Labor Day was made for washing windows. We always washed windows on that holiday, and I honestly think I was an adult before I knew what Labor Day was really for! Anyway, at our house, I've never been able to keep to the decorations rule. I try, but I'm always too busy the week after Christmas to even begin de-decorating. This year is no exception. In fact, I have the Christmas lights on right now. I'll get busy this week if I don't have to go to Denver to work early next week. If I do have to go, the beautiful decorations may not come down until mid-January. Who cares? Mother does.

Now, this one is Southern. You absolutely MUST eat black-eyes peas on New Year's Day, or you won't get rich this year. I can never remember dinner at my parents' house on this day without black-eyed peas, and I'm still not rich. Maybe I didn't eat enough of them. No matter the tradition, we don't usually have the peas because no one in my family will touch them except me. I like them, but what a waste to cook them (all that soaking of the peas, gathering of the ingredients, cooking) if no one eats them except me. I've even bought delicious chow-chow (that's Southern for great tomato/onion relish) to put on them, but to no avail. The bowl passes by everyone until it gets to me. This year is no exception for no black-eyed peas at our house. Did you know that back in the old days, the wife cooked the peas with a nickel in them, assuring that whoever got the coin would surely get rich? I think a starving dentist thought this up in order to assure him more patients!

The last of Nina Mae's Rules is this, and I love it: Whatever you do on New Year's Day, you'll do all year long. Through the years, I've enlightened many friends about this rule; however, not one has seen the encouragement that I see in it. They all groan, but I take it seriously. Back in my school-teaching days, I tried not to grade mundane assignments on New Year's Day. I'd gladly tackle a couple of autobiographies because I enjoyed reading/grading them; however, I'd stay far away from vocabulary tests. Today, I'm cooking dinner for my family and a couple of Wendy and Todd's best friends . . . and I'd love to do that all year long. Also, I'm writing this post. My only New Year's Resolution is to write more this year, hopefully every day. So I'm getting a start on my plan. By the end of 2008, I want to be able to refer to myself as a writer, not just someone who likes to write. When I'll cross the line between the two, I don't know yet. Maybe I'll determine that in 2008!

My mother was a feisty and loving little lady. She always wanted the very best for me, her only child, and I knew that even though she had strange teachings to prove it. Until I fell in love with and married Frank, she was my best friend. At that point, our friendship took a different turn. She was still A best friend, just not THE best friend that I had. We remained very close during all of her years, even when she was so ill and couldn't really demonstrate her love. I knew even through her crankiness caused by cancer that she loved me better than anyone else in the world. And I loved her! Thanks for reading my tribute to my mother!

Happy New Year to all who read!

Compassionate Friends -- Worldwide Candle Lighting

2007-12-08T15:01:00.001-07:00

When our son, Jay, died on July 2, 1992, our lives changed forever. The Lord and our “compassionate friends” brought us through our immediate grief, so when people began to mention the international group called The Compassionate Friends, we didn’t feel that we had a need to go to their meetings, though we knew that such groups brought relief to parents whose children had died. Though we knew that we could benefit from such a group, we didn’t seek out TCF; instead, we joined a “grief group” at First Baptist Church, our church in Pensacola, Florida. At that time, I had no idea that TCF would eventually touch my life in a very meaningful way.

A few years later, after we had moved to Cerrillos, I happened on an article that would begin a love affair with TCF, even though we would never be official members. The article told of an event sponsored by The Compassionate Friends, an event that would become a joyous part of our holidays. Since I’ve never heard anyone else mention this activity, I’m just not sure that many people -- people who should know about it, parents who have experienced their worst nightmare, the death of a child -- know about something that could give them great pleasure during the holidays which have the possibility of causing much sadness because they miss their children so much more at these special moments.

Here’s what happens around the world each year just before Christmas and Hanukkah. It has come to mark the beginning of the Season for our family. The Compassionate Friends’ Worldwide Candle Lighting began in 1997 as a simple internet activity; however, the world community soon caught on, and now it is probably the most comprehensive candle lighting in the world. On the evening of the second Sunday in December, at 7:00 local time, bereaved parents around the globe light a candle to remember their children so that “their light may always shine.” People gather in stadiums (Albuquerque), in event centers (Hobbs), or at the homes of those involved in Compassionate Friends (Los Alamos). These celebrations for departed children are large gatherings where parents and grandparents bring pictures of their loved ones and light a candle in their memory for one hour. Music and readings are usually a part of the program, which lasts for an hour. What a wonderful way to remember our children in an understanding atmosphere! Just imagine the wave of candlelight around the world!

Our “celebration” is a bit different because it’s held in our home with friends and family gathered for introducing Jay to those who never knew him and for remembering him for those of us who knew him well. This year on December 9, we will invite neighbors in for our fourth Celebration of Jay. Here’s what will happen . . .

Our home will be decorated for Christmas, and as our friends arrive – some having come in other years, some coming for the first time – they’lll feel the festive holiday atmosphere. Since Jay was an uproariously funny, life-loving rock musician, be assured that we’ll be having a good time. Our daughter Wendy, my husband Frank, and I will tell funny stories about Jay, some of which most parents wouldn’t find amusing. We might tell about the time that he had almost 500 fans of Velvet Melon (his band) in and out of our house one night while Frank and I were in Europe taking care of other people’s kids. He had proof of the numbers because he charged a dollar a head, as he called it. For years afterward, young people around the town tolod us of how our house rocked that tnight. Our insurance agent paced in front of his house all night, just knowing that the next minute would bring a call telling him of someone’s having drowned in our pool. No call came. Or Wendy might tell about the time that she and Jay hiked down to the floor of the Grand Canyon. Only she can make us feel the agony that she felt as she hiked up slowly behind Jay, who had run most of the way out of the Canyon carrying the only water that they had between them. He was in big trouble by the time his big sister made it back up to civilization! I usually try to read a poem or a section from a book of his friends’ remembrances of him; however, the old mom has a little difficulty even after so long. So Wendy finishes for me.

Wendy is a photographer, and her favorite subject was Jay; therefore, we always have photos and/or videos. We can count on whatever she comes up with to be entertaining, funny, sometimes poignant. At our celebration, we make sure that there’s lots of laughter because that’s what Jay would want. Telling stories about Jay and poring over pictures and videos of him have been our way of getting through our grief. Stories and pictures have also been the vehicle for introducing our friends here in New Mexico to our boy. No one out here knew him except Wendy, Frank, Wendy’s daughter Corey (who remembers him, too, only through stories and pictures), and me. And we certainly don’t want to deprive our friends of knowing a young man (he was twenty-four when he died) whom they surely would have loved!

The celebration lasts no more than an hour, usually less, so as soon as we finish, we head for the table. Guests never come to our house without being fed, and the second Sunday in December is no exception. We don’t have an elaborate dinner . . . just sandwiches and Christmas cookies.

The Young Family will be indebted forever to The Compassionate Friends for introducing us to this wonderful way of keeping Jay’s light shining and of ushering in the Christmas Season, truly the most joyous season of the year.

(I originally wrote this to enter in an Christmas Essay/Short Story Contest sponsored by our local newspaper, The Santa Fe New Mexican; however, I didn't see it as contest worthy after reading it aloud. Just wanted to save it on my blog. Thanks for reading!)

Stan the Man

2007-10-15T16:09:00.001-06:00

Dear Stan,

I think I just need to reminisce a bit. I know that’s what I need to do because that’s the way that I remember things that have happened and people that I love. Your family and ours go back a long way, Stan. I don’t think you were at home the evening that really sealed the closeness of Fran, Bob, Frank, and me. I’m sure you remember the Amway days. Who could forget them? You might never have known that they began with a lie.

One Friday afternoon, I called your mom and told her that Frank and I would be in their neighborhood that evening, ostensibly for eating at a restaurant somewhere near the beach. I told her that I needed to pick her brain about how she was teaching Julius Caesar that year. I guess that wasn’t completely a lie, but the real reason for our visit was for Frank to “prospect” Bob for Amway. He took the bait . . . and our lasting friendship began. And so began, also, the friendship between you and Wendy and Jay. It was also the beginning of many antics with the three of you.

You are exactly twenty days older than Wendy, making you about four and a half years older than Jay. That’s important for what I want to tell about the three of you. In the summer of 1975 (you and Wendy were 12, and Jay was about 7), the seven of us set out for Washington, D.C., in our Oldsmobile station wagon, headed for the big Amway Convention on the eve of our nation’s 200th birthday, dragging our trailer behind. You three children were so cute, playing on the back seat all day and cavorting in the campground in the evening. You and Wendy really knew how to keep a younger brother in line. In fact, Wendy refers to it as torturing the little boy. If I remember correctly, Jay poked the tiniest hole in the back of the second seat in the station wagon. You and Wendy assured him that if they told on him, we would practically kill him. What a great way to get a seven-year-old to do everything you wanted him to do! Even more mischief from the three of you . . . while we four adults were at the Amway rally one evening, you almost got us thrown out of the hotel by whooping and hollering and using the beds as trampolines. The manager scared you so badly that by the time we got back to the rooms, you were docile little children, assuring us you didn’t know why in the world he got so angry. The manager filled us in pretty accurately.

That vacation really tested the waters for the two families. We laughed often about the trip, and all of us thought that being together in a station wagon and a trailer at night for a whole week and still being friends when we got back to Pensacola was a true test of friendship. That was thirty-two years ago. Our make-up of our families here on earth has changed, but your mom is still a best friend. She has lots of best friends, and all of us will take care of her for you.

When Fran asked me to say a few words today, she knew that that word FEW wouldn’t be observed because I never said in ten words what could better be said in one hundred. I told her that what I have to say would be humorous in nature because I knew you best when you were so cute and funny . . . She gave me permission, so here goes with some of the things that I remember.

One day when you and Jay were playing in his room, Jay came running down the stairs (how do I say this delicately in church?) . . . clutching his privates. He was trying so hard not to scream in agony, but his efforts weren’t working too well. I said, “What in the world happened?” He told me that you and he had been playing with his BB gun, and it went off. He was so afraid that Mrs. Crumpton would find out and you’d get in all sorts of trouble. He knew that “tough love” that Fran used on you, and he thought you might not ever see the light of day again. This was a story that Jay loved to tell, and you know it grew more elaborate every time he told it.

I believe that story because I looked and saw the results of the BB gun; however, this next story is one that I always questioned. Jay could tell such good stories, playing to his audience and elaborating more and more with each telling. How I wish I had asked you about this while you were here with us, but I was always afraid Fran would hear me and worry about it in retrospect. Jay told us many years after the fact that one night you stopped at our house; Jay went out on the balcony and down to your car; and the two of you had a grand old time. I never asked for details, but I’ll just bet you did! There are some things that are just better left unknown to mothers. I never told your mom about this because I knew she’d use that “tough love” again. And I didn’t want to be the one who generated that!

Another thing I remember has to do with a good friend of so many of us . . . VS, Virginia Stephens. You two had a mutual admiration society if I ever saw one. All of us adults saw both her inner and outer beauty. I guess you knew about her inward beauty, but the outer is what you mentioned. One day, you said to your mom, “Mrs. Stephens always looks so pretty. Do you suppose she uses Oil of Olay?” Pretty observant for a little boy, huh?

And now, Stan, I have to tell you that you were a role model to Jay when he was growing up. And that was a good thing. You always had such a good head on your shoulders, but you also had a wonderful sense of humor. Do you remember your Johnny Cash imitation? I won’t do it now because it’s a bit too irreverent for church. You taught Jay well because he could do it just the way you did. He even had facial expressions that made me say, “That’s Stan!” And I loved it. Thanks for the influence.

When I told your mom that most of what I’d reminisce about took place when you were a little boy, she said, “Tell a story for me!” I love this one because it pictures both you and my friend, Fran so perfectly. Your mom took you to football practice every Saturday morning when you were about ten. This was during the time when you lived on the beach. Just about the time that she would turn at Hardee’s in Gulf Breeze, she’d begin to pray out loud. She’d pray for the safety of the team, for the little boys to play fairly, for the coaching ability of the man in charge. Pretty much what you’d expect your mom to pray for. One morning when she turned the corner and you were still putting on your football gear, you leaned forward and said to her, “You don’t need to pray this morning, Mom.” Fran was so surprised and said, “Why not?” “Because Coach will pray, and he prays for us to win!”

And here’s another one that Fran told me. When you were in Karla Summerford’s class in 9th grade, you played the part of Romeo in the class performance. The night before the play, your mom (ever the English teacher!) just had to give you some last-minute performance instructions. “Now, Stan,” she said, “don’t look into the eyes of the audience because some of your FRIENDS might try to get you tickled.” “Oh, mom, don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control!” And he probably did . . . until the time for the cast to introduce themselves rolled around. When your turn came, you said very self-assuredly, “I’m Romeo, playing the part of Stan Adams.” Was this a slip . . . or were you as usual trying to get a laugh? If I were a betting woman, I’d put my money on the latter.

This story is from your Pine Forest High School days. Again, though, it involves you and Wendy and Jay. Every year, a club (maybe Key Club?) had a talent show. You were always able to come up with something really creative . . . something that would make the audience howl with laughter. Steve Martin was very popular during the early ‘80s, and you capitalized on that. You and several of your friends (wish I could remember their names) did a hilarious rendition of the comedian’s “King Tut.” Oh, my goodness, but it was funny! You high school boys were a real hit, but you also had a little guy in your performance. During lunch that day, you and Wendy slipped off to Bellview Middle School and “stole” Jay. I guess the two of you made up some story about having to take him to the doctor or something, but those gullible secretaries in the office believed whatever it was that you told them. Before you began the routine, you set Jay on top of the speakers. He was so little that his legs dangled while he played the music on the recorder (flute). I think I remember that you guys won first place in the talent contest. If you didn’t, you should have! Years later, when Jay went to Europe with us, we had a talent show in Switzerland. Once again you were a model for him. He and a bunch of guys on the tour did their “King Tut,” complete with the same kinds of costumes that you and your friends had . . . towels wrapped around their middles and big spoons covered with foil and strapped around their heads for the “snakes.” Both performances were absolutely wonderful!

I could write lots more, Stan, but I need to bring this to a close. The last time I saw you was at the house in Mackey Cove. Your mom invited us to her house for dinner when Irina, our Russian daughter, and her mother, Olga, were visiting us. As always it was elegant. Nikki and a friend of hers were there, and you had prepared most of the dinner. It was delicious! I have a great picture of you standing at the stove putting the finishing touches on whatever it was that you were cooking. That culinary education at PJC certainly did serve you well! And that leads me to something else.

When Jay died, his friends immediately figured out why he was no longer with them. They were convinced that the Lord needed a new bass player in his Heavenly Band. I liked that. Well, we might be able to explain your early death in a similar way. All of your experience working with Miss Josie at Joe Patti’s Deli surely did prepare you. You remember all that fish that Jesus prepared for his disciples? I just wonder if He needed you to give him a little help at his big fish fries in heaven. I know this isn’t biblical, but it surely does give a little balm to the hurting heart right now.

And now to bring us right up to date. Be assured that we’ll take care of your daughter, Nikki. You might not have always liked that “tough love” that Fran used with you; however, from what I understand from Fran, you used a lot of it on your Nikki. You were probably a soft touch in a lot of ways, though. What a wonderful young lady she has turned out to be! Heredity and home training make children into responsible and caring adults. Your Nikki is a lovely young lady who exhibits these traits and many more. She’ll continue to make you proud.

I have a picture in my mind, Stan, and with that I’ll close. I know just as sure as I know anything that Wednesday morning, when you went from this life on earth, Jay and Bob and all of those other loved ones who went before you, were waiting for you. I can hear my boy Jay saying, “Stan the Man! What took you so long? Come on in . . . you’re gonna love it here!”

We already miss you, Stan, but we’ll join you someday.

Love,
Sandy

For Fran

2007-10-15T15:19:00.000-06:00

On Wednesday, October 10, 2007, Fran Crumpton's boy, Stan Adams, went to live with the Lord. Fran asked me to say a few words, which wound up being many words, at Stan's funeral on Saturday, October 13. And so I did. I've posted here what I said to Fran. The next post is the letter that I wrote to Stan. Please read and remember the good times that we had with Stan the Man Adams!

October 13, 2007
If you’ll excuse me for just a minute, I’d like to talk to my friend Fran before I reminisce a bit about our boy Stan. First of all, I bring you greetings, sympathy, love, and hugs from the Big Five of 1981: Wendy Young, Gus Krucke, Danny Stohl, Beth McLeod, and Earby Matheny, who is visiting Wendy right now with his wife and five children, and his mother-in-law. In fact, six of these people are staying at our house while we’re here with you.

Fran, you are an inspiration to everyone in this room. You always talk about others as being your role models, but you, my dear, are the consummate role model. During the thirty something years that we have been friends, you have lost both parents, your only two sisters-in-law, Stan’s father, Bob’s son, and then Bob. Through all of these losses, your faith has never wavered, you have comforted others when they were at a loss as to how to comfort you, and you smiled . . . sometimes with tears in your eyes, but nevertheless, we were cheered by that beautiful smile.

On Wednesday morning, Stan also went to be with the Lord. I’m sure you’ve asked, “Why, Lord? Why Stan? He was so young and had so much life still ahead of him.” Well, dear friend, you won’t get the answers to these questions in this lifetime. Someday we’ll approach Jesus with our list of questions, and these will be among yours. Right now, your heart is so broken that you may not be seeing any light at the end of the tunnel, but I’ll give you a little saying that the Lord gave to me right after Jay died, fifteen years ago. So many well-meaning people said to me, “How will you ever get over Jay’s death?” It was so clear to me. I replied, “It’s an English-teacher thing, a lesson in prepositions . . . we’ll never get over his death, but we’ll get through it.” And get through it we did because of our faith, our prayers and the prayers of others, and the love and nurturing of Christian friends like you, Fran. You, too, will get through this agonizing time with those same three things. We love you, Fran. Let us help you in your grief as we grieve along with you.

When Bob died, you asked me to say a few words at his funeral. I couldn’t refuse my friend Fran. As Frank and I drove home from the gathering at your house on the evening before the funeral, I was getting panicky. I still hadn’t figured out what I would say or how I would say it. Again, the Lord spoke to me and gave me the answer: “Write a letter to Bob. He’d like that, especially since you never wrote a letter to him while he was alive.” I knew when you asked me to speak today that I’d have to write to Stan, too. As I was preparing to compose my letter, a quotation came back to me. Every year in April or May, I’d write this quotation on the board so that my seniors could respond to it: “Nothing rattles like an empty mailbox.” My reason for giving this quotation to them was to encourage them to write to their parents when they went away to school. I thought it appropriate for you to have a letter right now because your mailbox may be rattling from the emptiness of not having Stan right here in person with you. This letter’s for you, my dear, dear friend.

BISCUITS I HAVE KNOWN

2007-07-05T10:22:00.001-06:00

Biscuits are the first not-in-a-wrapper-from-the-grocery bread that I remember. Surely my mother made biscuits when I was a little girl, but they don’t come to mind immediately. The ones that I remember first were made by my grandmother, Mama Cheatham, in Florence, Alabama. My mother, dad, and I (that’s our whole family) didn’t visit there often, but when we did, the first aroma wafting from Mama Cheatham’s kitchen every morning was the sweet, sweet smell of homemade biscuits. In that area of North Alabama, it wasn’t unusual to have the fragrance of fried chicken mingled with that of biscuits. Sounds strange, I know, but back in the ‘40s, it was common.

I never saw her actually make the dough . . . you know, sift the flour, add the shortening and milk. All I remember of the making process was that dear little lady reaching in to the ice box (that’s the old fashioned term for refrigerator for you youngsters), taking something out, rolling it out on a floured board, cutting very small circles of dough, putting them in the oven, and voila! melt-in-your-mouth biscuits appeared minutes later on a table laden with fried chicken, eggs, butter, jelly, and probably lots of other delectables that I can’t remember because that was more than fifty years ago.

My dad used to tell a funny story about him and his stepmother, my Mama Cheatham. Papa and Mama married after my dad’s mother died, not too many years later, I imagine. In any event, Daddy was a wild teenager at the time, I think the oldest of several children who now inhabited the home. He told me that many a morning, Mama Cheatham would go to his room, open the door, and announce to a sleepy teenager who had probably stayed out much too late the night before, “Arlie, get up! The biscuits are in the oven!” His reply, so he told me, was always, “That’s a helluva good place for them to be, Jack!” That’s what he called his stepmother, Jack. I think he probably dragged himself out of bed shortly thereafter because I can’t imagine anyone in his right mind missing those delicious biscuits!

The next biscuits I remember were the ones my mother made, but I don’t recall them until I was a teenager living in Pensacola. Maybe I just have a blot in my memory because I know she didn’t just learn how to make biscuits until that time. What comes immediately to mind from watching her make her delicious biscuits was seeing her pat out the dough fairly thin and then pour melted shortening over the flattened dough. Next, she’d fold the dough over itself, pat it a little more, and cut the biscuit circles with a juice glass, actually a small glass that probably had held pimiento cheese spread in an earlier life. And were they, too, delicious? You betcha! She never really taught me to make biscuits with a recipe or oral instructions. I just watched from time to time, and am I glad I did because when I was a newlywed, I learned to make biscuits from a friend, but she didn’t know the melted-shortening-fold-the-dough-over trick. By the way, I once asked Mother why she did that, and she said, “Why, don’t you know? That makes it so that you can open the biscuit to butter it!” I seldom questioned my mother, and this time was no exception.

When Frank and I married in 1961, we moved in to Kell’s Cottage, a rent-free house for ministerial students at Mississippi College. We both had jobs to support us while we went to school, Frank in construction and me as the Veteran’s Clerk in the Registrar’s Office at the college. While working there, I met a young woman who had been married a bit longer than I had, in fact, several years longer than I had. She was a cooker! And she knew how to make biscuits.

“It’s really easy,” Virginia said. “All you do is sift two cups of self-rising flour, add five tablespoons of Crisco, mix, and add one cup of milk. Stir it all together, roll out on a floured board, cut, and bake.” Sounded simple enough for me!
After trying several times, I realized that something was missing even though they came out well enough. They were absolutely edible, and my sweetheart was much impressed with my accomplishment. Then I remembered my mother’s trick: buttermilk (plus a little soda), melted shortening on the patted out dough, and the magical fold! Mmmm . . . now I had my mother’s biscuits, but I didn’t have to measure baking powder, salt, the always-needed-with-buttermilk baking soda because Virginia had introduced me to the wonders of self-rising flour!

In August 1961, Frank and I took our longed-for trip to Seattle, the trip during which I would meet my mother-in-law and father-in-law for the first time and during which Wendy was conceived. The former story may appear in another essay; the latter will probably never appear in print. Anyway, we borrowed my parents’ brand new Oldsmobile and headed west for my first trip to Seattle. While we were there, Grandma did lots of cooking. If I thought that biscuits were a Southern delicacy, I was wrong. Grandma made great biscuits, but I’m not so sure that hers were any better than mine. The wonderful thing was that she taught me how to make sweet biscuits! Oh, my goodness . . . I was in Heaven! They were scrumptious! Actually, I don’t think she taught me how to make them, as in giving me the ingredients and instructions. Once again, I just watched as she made the dough, rolled it out, spread soft butter on it, added brown sugar and cinnamon, and sprinkled chopped nuts on top. Then in amazement I stared as she rolled the dough up from the long side, cut the rolled-up dough, placed the spirals on a cookie sheet, popped them in the oven, and withdrew those delicious sweet biscuits. You need to know that my mother-in-law was a very frugal woman; therefore, I’m sure that she didn’t use nearly so much butter, brown sugar, nuts, and cinnamon as I do, but they were delicious anyway. I’m not even sure that she knew that I copied her those many years ago. The old saying “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” applies here because I’m always quick to tell everyone who eats my sweet biscuits the name of the dear lady who first made them. I’m sure that for Grandma those biscuits were a quick and economical way of feeding many mouths!

But that’s not the end of the Biscuit Evolution for me. Through the years, I have made them for our little family, usually for special occasions such as a leisurely Saturday morning or Christmas breakfast; however, now in 2007, they’re an every-Sunday-morning feast. A little bit of background is needed here . . .

We now live outside the village of Cerrillos in Northern New Mexico. Since there is no protestant church in our little town, Annie Whitney, our sweet Christian friend, organized a Bible Study for those of us who were interested in gathering each Sunday morning to study the Word together. Wendy volunteered Frank, her dad, to lead it; he accepted the opportunity after the Lord let him know that He intended for him to take the leadership position. For a while, we met in a local restaurant, where we all bought goodies for breakfast in appreciation to Joseph for letting us meet in his establishment. However, Joseph closed his business after we had been meeting there for several months. What were we to do? Where would we meet? What would we have for breakfast? Our daughter and son-in-law, Wendy and Todd, came to our rescue for the place. We’d meet at their house. But what about food? You guessed it. Sweet biscuits! I made them one morning, thinking that I’d come up with other breakfast goodies; however, they were such a hit, that I’ve been rising every Sunday morning in time to bake up a batch. One of our Bible Study members loves them so much and gives me so many compliments (sometimes threats about what will happen to me if I show up without them!) that I have re-named them. They are no longer sweet biscuits. They are now Glenn Biscuits, named for that quiet, always-faithful, God-loving man, Glenn Holleman. I doubt seriously that my biscuits will evolve much more.

I’m still making the old stand-by biscuits, though. After all, that’s one thing that I’ve always been able to bank on having our dear granddaughter eat. Corey’s not a big eater, but I can count on her eating her share of Grammy’s biscuits. I wish she could have tasted the ones Mama Cheatham made, though.

A CELEBRATION OF JAY

2007-07-02T09:07:00.001-06:00

In The Santa Fe New Mexican each week, I read a gazillion letters that families write to loved ones who have died. That seems a little strange to me since I doubt very seriously that those departed folks read the paper.
So . . . on this fifteenth anniversary of Jay's death, I'm not writing to him. I'm just writing some thoughts that are going through this mom's mind as she thinks about her boy. What I plan to write will not be morbid meanderings, I hope, but rather some good memories that I'm cherishing today as I sit in my little messy office here in Cerrillos, NM. Feel free to make comments!

How I wish that Jay had been alive during the digital camera age! You think I have lots of pictures from the point-and-shoot-and-take-the-film-to-the-store-to-be-developed age. Can you imagine what I would have if I'd had my trusty little Sony while he was alive? I'd have to have an external hard drive just for pics of my boy! Anyway . . . the picture on this post is a digital shot of an old picture that Wendy took at Mardi Gras in Mobile one year, maybe in 1992, not long before Jay died. My memory's not that good! One of the last exact things that I remember Jay saying to me was at his last gig, one of the many at Yesterday's in Chattanooga. During the break after the first set, he came to sit with us, as he usually did . . . just for a minute before he started "working the crowd," his term for visiting with everyone. He said directly to me, "Mom, did you see that? I had the crowd right in my hands! You can't even imagine what that feels like!" And he was right. I couldn't imagine it. But I have a picture that shows him with the crowd right in his hands! That's my boy! Maybe you were there that night. Maybe he had you right in his hands!

Today, I'm thinking about all the great times we had following Jay and Velvet Melon around all over the Southeast and even as far as New York. I'm also reminiscing about how you Melonheads always welcomed us old folks at the gigs, how some of you guys would always ask me to dance during my favorite songs (I was a bit clumsy in the movements, I'm afraid), how the waitresses would meet me at the door to tell me that someone had just put a fresh pot of coffee on for me, how Jay would always find time to come over to Frank and me during one of the breaks just to talk to his mom and dad. You may not be aware of it, but many a Sunday evening at Coconut Bay or Chan's Bayside I'd sit and write lesson plans on cocktail napkins during the sets. And many a time, Jay would check just to be sure I wasn't grading papers. No chance of that! Can you imagine what my students would say when I returned the papers and they got a whiff of where I'd been grading? Ah! Those were the good old days!

I'm also thinking of all of you Melonheads who gathered at our house right after Jay died and sat on the floor of our family room with Wendy, going through snapshots for her to put on the collages that she made and that we exhibited at the visitation and funeral. We needed you, and I firmly believe that you needed us during that time. In fact, Frank and I think we remember that Melonheads in various numbers were with us in our home for several days, maybe even weeks, after Jay died. We grieved together. And that was a good thing! I remember hearing several Melonheads say at different times, "Well, God needed a new bass player in his band, and he surely did get one!" That observation was music to a mother's ears, I can assure you! Another specific thing that I remember coming from one of you, this time just a little bit after the funeral, when we were all gathered again in the family room, came from Jack Canavan, if I remember correctly. He said, "The only thing missing from Jay's funeral was having all the cars (126, by Andy Waltrip's count) circle Cordova Mall, yelling good-bye's to Jay. Wouldn't that have been fun? As they say, "Hindsight's 20/20," huh?

Writing about my boy is one of my passions, but I'll end right now. Just had to get some words and thoughts down on "paper" today. Someday I'll put together all of my ramblings, hoping that some of them make sense in retrospect. If you were among the folks at the Velvet Melon Reunion at Beth and Andy Waltrip's house on April 28, we loved seeing you and getting all those hugs. If you weren't there, we missed you. Thanks, Beth and Andy for hosting! And thanks, Wendy (our darlin' daughter), for loving all of us so much that you'd spend literally months getting us all together! I'm still working on the VELVET MELON Reunion blog, so check back soon. Eventually, I'll put lots of pictures on Snapfish and send links to all of you.

Enjoy the day, and remember funny stories about Jay!

Road Trip to Pensacola and VELVET MELON Reunion

2007-06-29T11:53:00.001-06:00

What a surprise we had on April 28 at Beth and Andy Waltrip's house! I'll give a bit of background before describing the day.

Wendy, Frank, and I were supposed to make a road trip to Pensacola around Christmastime; however, we never could find a good date. We postponed our trip until spring. When Frank found out that Wendy and I had planned about a two-week trip, he balked because he can't be gone from his land for that long at that time of year . . . all sorts of "crops" planted, and they need tending. So Wendy, Sandy, and Jackson would make the trip alone.

A few weeks before departure time, Wendy called to tell/ask her dad something. Her end of the conversation went something like this: "Hey, Dad . . . I have a question for you, but you must answer 'Yes.' Then you can't ask any questions. On April 26, can you drive to Pensacola with Todd? (His answer had already been supplied.) Remember, no questions!" The "no questions" part went for me as well.

Our road trip was so much fun with lots of talk although Wendy said that our three days of travel were the hardest she ever spent since she couldn't talk at all about her surprise while we were traveling. Since I knew there was something wonderful in the offing, I made sure to disappear at least once every time we were with relatives or friends on our trip. As an aside, I need to tell readers about the excitement that we had on our way to Pensacola.

Early on the morning of April 19, Wendy, Jackson, and I headed out for Pensacola. Excited hardly explains what we were feeling. This trip would prove to be my first to drive all 1300 miles by myself. Wendy would have driven, but I really think I was trying to prove to myself that I could drive the distance alone if I ever had to or wanted to. You see, Frank's not much for traveling these days, and I have "travel" in my blood . . . not travel to distant lands, just travel to see those I love. This Pensacola Road Trip was travel that I really wanted to do, and I did it! Jackson was such a good traveler. Very contented most of the time. On this first day, he talked to his daddy and pop on his "none" a good bit of the time!

We spent two nights on the road, the first one being in Plano, where our cousin Kathy Resmondo and her family live. Kathy got in touch with two other cousins, and we had a grand family reunion at a great restaurant that my cousin Steve Trammell chose. My cousin Becky Keck and her family were there, too. About thirteen descendants of Mary and Jimmy Kolb ate dinner together that evening. So much fun!

This is almost the whole gang. We're missing just the guys, Steve and Lamar (Kathy's husband). They were in charge of the picture.

I have lots of other pictures, but I can't include all of them. So . . . I decided on this one of Steve and me. We decided that we haven't seen each other in twenty-five years, at his and Lenita's wedding. My mother and I made a wonderful road trip from Pensacola to Dallas, stopping every afternoon going and coming at Dairy Queen, where we pigged out on hot fudge sundaes. One of my favorite memories of my mother. Steve's dad, Jack, was one of only three boy cousins in the Kolb family . . . and one of my favorite people of all time!

Another day of driving . . . lunch in Monroe, LA, with my cousins Gail Gambino and Kay Holloway. Great visit and no dead air at that table! Kay is on the left, and Gail on the right. Gail and I grew up playing movie stars. I have some funny stories about Gail and me when she and her mother lived with us for a couple of months. Kay came along much later. We went with Kay to her and Jeff's house, which we hadn't seen. On the road again . . .

Then an evening in Clinton, MS, having dinner and much talk with a college friend, Ann Smith, her husband, and daughter. Ann and I hadn't seen each other in forty-four years. We just took up where we left off! Delroy and Angela became family immediately. Jackson had the first of very few meltdowns. He was just so tired; however, when he and Wendy left the restaurant, where we had a delicious dinner, to walk across the parking lot to our motel, he told everyone at our table good night, then proceeded to the other tables to "head butt" them, his unique way of taking leave.

The third day was a piece of cake, with only about six hours of driving. We stopped in Pascagoula, MS, to have lunch with a couple who were best friends of ours back when we were all young marrieds. Ann and Gary Holland have been our friends for so long, whether or not we lived in the same town. This visit was wonderful. We just reminisced and shared pictures to our hearts' content. The Hollands suffered a lot of damage during Katrina, but they have managed, through lots of hard work and dollars, to get it back to the beauty that it once was . . . maybe even more beautiful!

We were elated to finally arrive at JoAnn and Fred Gaines's house. Jo is my cousin (our mothers were sisters), but she's more like a sister. I love her and her husband, Fred, so much. Whenever I drive up to their house, I breathe a little sigh and feel as though I'm home. On this visit, Wendy and Jackson stayed in the house, and I had my own house . . . their trailer. What luxury! Sometime I'll write about staying with Jo and Fred. We have our little routines, and I'd like to tell you about them, but for now, I'll do a bit of "leaping and lingering." Just fill in the blanks if you want to.

Every time I go to Pensacola, almost every minute of every day is filled with appointments and visits. This time was no exception. I had lunch with my "Three Musketeers" teacher friends (Joyce Wiggins, Dee Boone, and Betty Spiegelhalter); made it to two doctors' appointments (one with my favorite doctor, Derek Jones, who also was one of my favorite students back in the good old days); visited with Annice Webb in Gulf Breeze and ate her favorite lunch, talked about everything under the sun; went to Joyce and Don Wiggins' home to chat for a while, finding out during the visit that Don has had a novel published (I'm so excited for him. Just wish I'd really get serious about writing and get something published.); ate out with Jill and Chig Findley at the Oyster Barn (I long for good seafood out here in New Mexico), during which time we caught up on everything (mainly their family) since last July when we had a surprise party for Chig at our house (celebrating his 70th!); riding over to Mobile for a bit of shoe shopping; and finally (though I'm sure I've left some things out), lunch at Fran's house with Hazel Scales and Annice . . . and of course, Fran, Wendy, and Jackson. Whew! What a week!

Then came the big day, the day Frank and Todd had driven 1300 miles in two days for. The day that Wendy couldn't breathe a word about during our three days on the road together. The day that she had prepared for all those months. April 28th!
That was the same day that Fran and the other Lunch Ladies had planned to have their every-other-month lunch, this time at Sara Klusmann's house. After a delicious lunch prepared by Chef Sara and delightful visiting with Fran, Hazel, Barb Lautner, Linda Sue Thomas, and Sara, Frank came to pick me up so that we could open the mysterious envelope that Wendy had given us that morning. Here's what was inside . . .

For you, Mom and Dad,
There's a reunion to be had.
Some folks are waitin'
So stop hesitatin'!
Get in your car,
And tho' it be far,
It's worth twice the drive!
Just don't drive TOO slow!
And here's where you go:
14300 Eitzen Road
(that's Beth and Andy's if you don't know!)

When we arrived, our first clue that we were at a Velvet Melon Reunion was Andy's VM t-shirt. I remember when those shirts rolled off the press. We were all so excited! Do any of you remember that Jay had a special one for Jimmy Mills? He was the sound man and wasn't on the front of the shirt. By the way, Jim, I campaigned for you to be right there with everyone else. But, no . . . Jay had your picture put in the "armpit" of the shirt. It really was funny, but your old mom wanted you on the front. Then I looked through the gate and saw Todd Vannoy. I knew for sure that we were having a Velvet Melon Party! Just like the old days! Later, Wendy asked me if we saw the balloons along the way. I had. Did I notice that they were pink and green? I didn't. So sorry. That little hint was wasted on the elderly.

(This post in in progress. Check back later for complete and edited version!)

2007-06-25T09:30:00.001-06:00

Jackson's Birthday

2007-06-23T12:51:00.000-06:00

Jackson celebrated his second birthday on May 21, 2007; however, we didn't do the real celebration until June 2, his dad's birthday, when we sang "Happy Birthday" to Jackson, Wendy, and Todd. Wendy's big day was May 24. So many birthdays in May/June! Jackson is sitting in his brand new red car that Grammy and Pop gave him. He absolutely loves to DRIVE!! One day last week, Todd moved their Saturn in to the yard so that he could drive a big car to his heart's content!

A First Posting

2007-06-23T10:00:00.002-06:00

Someone said, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life," but I can't remember who. Maybe today is the first day for me . . . at least in blogging. I've been trying to get around to setting up my blog since August, when my friend Dan Griffith helped me enter everything for my blog. Just no time to get serious during the school year, but now that summer is here, and there are no schools to visit, I'm going to try. Bear with me while I learn . . .