A Mother's Memories

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

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!

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

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!

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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!