Hair

There has never been any love lost between me and my hair. I can't ever remember having long hair, even when I was a child. It was always fairly short then, and now, it's really short, never below my ears.

Not so with our son, Jay, though. He was a true child of the 80s and had long hair, at least in the back. You may remember the mullet cut, short on the sides and long in the back. That was Jay! I loved it, and every time he went to the barber to get it trimmed, I'd say as he left the house, "Don't let him cut it too short!"

"Don't worry, Mom. I won't."

He really had a "nice head of hair," as we say in the South. Some mothers probably wouldn't have liked it, but I did. However, as beautiful as it was on the outside, there was something very different underneath.

If he lifted up his long hair to show you what was strange, you'd see that the hair under his long locks was just as kinky as it could be. For a long time, I attributed this to the fact that at one time he had had a perm. I didn't like that, but he just came home one day with his hair curled. So I kept saying that the curls were left over from the perm. But how long can one last? Finally, I had to admit that his curls were natural, but where did they come from?

My husband had the answer: Somewhere back in my history, there were blacks. I didn't believe him, but that's what he told me. He said that a certain photo of my great-grandmother proved that. He swore that she was black. Not so, according to family stories. She was an Indian.

Fast forward to 1994. I had my students write their autobiographies, and I wrote mine right along with them. All of us had great family photos in our books. Of course, Grandma Wiggins, my Indian grandmother, was right there.

The day came when we all had our autobiographies ready, and everyone was reading everyone else's, really just looking at photos. A sweet little black girl on the front row was reading mine. She called me over to her and pointed to Grandma's picture.

"Who 'dis, Miz Young?"

"That's my great-grandmother," I replied.

"She black?" my student asked.

"No, she's an Indian."

My dear little student looked me, rolled her beautiful brown eyes, and responded,"Unh hunh," being interpreted, "Who are you trying to fool?"

Out of the mouths of babes. Who knows . . . maybe somewhere down the line we'll have a beautiful dark-skinned, brown-eyed, curly haired child instead of the fair-complexioned, blue-eyed, straight brown-haired folks that populate our family now.

But how about Jay's hair? Did I continue to love it? Of course, I did. It was on my boy, and he always looked handsome to me . . . right up to the day he died at age 24. He still had that mullet cut, and everyone loved it. As his friends passed by his casket on July 5, 1992, almost to a person, they reached in and touched his hair in an effort to get it just right, just the way Jay would have wanted it.

In my mind's eye, Jay is still 24, with a beautiful head of hair, curls underneath and all.

This scrapbook personalized with Smilebox

What Goes Around

Ah . . . my fifth and final flash! This one, too, is memoir turned fiction. Ellen is Sandy, and Joe is Frank. This really happened!

What Goes Around

Ellen’s Friday had been typical but rough. She’d stopped at four schools that day, meeting with teachers, trying to convince them that her publisher’s textbooks were the ones to adopt for the next six years. She’d traveled back and forth across the county, keeping appointments that she’d set up days before. Even with the air conditioner going full blast, she never cooled off between stops. But always present in her mind as she worked was the weekend ahead. She could bear the heat outside and in the car and the negativism of some teachers as she thought of the fun in store for her.

Every year at some time in the spring, her husband, Joe, would drive all day to get to Chiefland, Florida, and would park their motor home on the Sewannee River, where he and Ellen would spend a weekend fishing and reading and eating seafood in quaint restaurants in Chiefland or Cedar Key. Small towns don’t have much in the way of entertainment, so they always joked about going to Walmart to watch the local characters. And sometimes they went there more than once during their little getaway to shop and to surreptitiously watch and smile about the locals.

Ellen knew that Joe would have everything they needed as far as food was concerned, so she didn’t need to stop at Walmart on the way to the campground, but as she drove, her mind kicked in. I’m almost out of toothpaste, so I’d better stop. Besides, I have some phone calls to make, and I can use the pay phone there. Since cell phones didn’t work in that area of Florida, she sometimes would have to use the pay phone on the porch of the campground office, suffering for days later from the mosquito bites that she’d get while talking. Walmart was air-conditioned and had no mosquitoes, making talking to teachers a pleasure instead of a slapping session on her legs.

I’ll be in and out in just a few minutes. Toothpaste and telephone. Toothpaste and telephone. But first I need to stop at the little girls’ room, she thought as she walked to the store. After her trip to the restroom, she strolled around the store, looking at interesting things—school supplies that she might use for her work, cosmetics, kitchen utensils, funny locals. Just a quick look through the store. Then she made four or five calls to teachers, setting up appointments and winding up her week in the Chiefland area. Now she could enjoy the weekend with Joe without having to worry about her next week in Central Florida. She was all set.

As she drove through the campground looking for their motor home and her sweetheart, she wondered if Joe had gotten there in time to catch some fish for their supper. If not, maybe they’d go out to Cedar Key to The Cove to eat. Either way, she knew their evening meal would be delicious. Having been gone all week, she couldn’t wait to see Joe. She’d entertain him with stories about the teachers that she’d worked with all week.

Ah . . . there he is! She parked the car, gathered up her work materials, and headed for the motor home. Joe met her, gave her a quick hug, and opened the door for her. Ellen turned toward the front of the vehicle and set her things down between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.

“Oh, no, Honey!” Joe exclaimed.

I can’t believe it. I’ve barely walked in to the motor home, and already I’ve messed it up! She knew that their home away from home would be spick and span and could just see in her mind’s eye that she’d tracked in mud or something.

At that moment, Joe reached out and pulled a strip of toilet paper about three feet long from the back of Ellen’s pants. Just thinking about the conversation at the supper table that night in homes all over Chiefland kept them in stitches for the rest of the evening.

“Hey, Mama. You shoulda saw the funny lady at Walmart this afternoon!”

A Signal

This is my fourth assignment for my flash fiction class . . . another memoir turned flash.

A Signal

Peggy awoke with a start. As always, she looked to see if any light was showing from downstairs. It was. The clock on my nightstand read 1:30. Jeff’s curfew was midnight unless he had a gig. This was a practice night, so he should have been home by now. She and Jeff had the agreement that when he got home, he’d turn off all the lights, signaling her that he was in bed if she happened to wake up.

Trying not to disturb Tom, she crawled quietly out of bed, grabbed her robe, and crept downstairs, where the light was shining.

A scene from years ago flashed in her memory as she sat down to wait for her son. Her and Tom’s daughter, Sarah, was notorious for coming in late when she was in her late teens. One night, as Peggy was standing at the kitchen window, anxiously looking out every few minutes, Jeff came up behind her, put his arm around her waist, and said, “I’ll never make you worry, Mom.” But that was a long time ago, and now he was the age that his sister was back then. And he had forgotten his promise.

Jeff’s band, Velvet Melon, practiced at their house, and sometimes Jeff had to take one of the guys home afterwards. Just the week before, Peggy and Jeff had talked about late hours and had come to a deal—if he knew that he’d be late getting home from chauffeuring, before he left, he’d leave a note so that his folks wouldn’t worry.

She heard a car door slam and then the back door.

“Mom! What are you doing up?”

“Waiting for you, of course. Are you trying to give me a heart attack? I thought we had agreed that you’d leave me a note if you were going to be late,” Peggy said with a catch in her voice, the tears close to the surface, more from disappointment than from worry.

Jeff approached his mother and held out his hand. She took it, and he led her to the kitchen, where he had taped a note on the window where he had watched his mother worry about Sarah: Mom – I had to take Derek home and will be right back.

Then he led her to the dining table, where a note with the same message was taped and upstairs right outside her bedroom, where a third note was waiting for her to read.

Jeff wrapped his arms around Peggy. “Mom, Mom, when will you remember what I told you? I promised not to make you worry the way Sarah did. I’m trying to keep that promise.”

Jay Week, 2012

Jay Week, 2012

June 30, 2012

Almost immediately after Jay died, I began reading books about children who had died and the effect that their deaths had on the parents and family. I remember reading one that amazed me. The mother had waited eight years to write a book about her son’s death. Imagine that! Here it is twenty years after Jay’s death, and I still haven’t written the book that I want to write about my boy. Oh, I’ve written lots of memoirs about him, probably more than most people would want to read in one sitting; however, I haven’t written the book.

In 2007, I began writing something about Jay on or around July 2, the day that Jay died. The first year that I wrote was the year that Wendy organized a surprise Velvet Melon Reunion for Frank and me. You can read about it on my blog at www.foreveryoung279.blogspot.com if you don’t know the particulars. It was a grand party held at Beth and Andy Waltrip’s house, and there were about fifty of Jay’s friends, band members, and families of friends there, plus several of our friends and relatives. This year, we’re having another VM Reunion at Big Lagoon State Park in Pensacola, and I can’t wait.

I’ve been thinking and thinking about what to write this year. So far, in past years on Jay’s day, I’ve written memories of Jay, a day-by-day account of the week leading up to July 2, 1992, a letter from Frank’s cousin telling me that I was stuck in the denial stage of grief and my response to her, memories from his friends as recorded in The Jay Book by Angela Hinkley Garrison and Wendy. This morning, as I was walking back to the laundry room through the Jay Hall in our house, it hit me: the collages that Wendy and Jay’s friends put together right after he died have Jay’s life recorded on them. Many of the photos that we had of Jay are there. My decision for this year was to choose a few of them and to write the stories behind the photos. I think the stories will be brand new to most of you!

Let me apologize up front for the quality of the photos. I had to take shots of the shrink-wrapped collages; I used my iPhone . . . not some fancy schmancy camera like real photographers have. Some of the pictures are a bit blurry; some more than a little distorted. Anyway, you’ll get the picture (pun intended)!

Two Hoboes

One of Wendy’s favorite activities with her little brother was to dress him up, especially if we had company. At one time, we were very active in Amway and had meetings at our house regularly, usually at least once a week. Inevitably, we could look for Jay to parade in while someone was “drawing the circles” (showing the business) to prospects. He’d be dressed in some outlandish garb, and Wendy would be hiding behind the door, snickering because he had interrupted us and because he looked so funny. We’d just shoo him out and carry on with our meeting.

This photo, however, isn’t of Jay entertaining our company. It’s of Jay and Wendy all decked out for the Fall Festival at Beulah School, where Wendy was in first grade. I’m sure that Wendy helped us get everything together for their costumes. Big sister knew exactly what she and little brother needed to look the part!

Mama with the Big Hair

This photo was taken at about the same time as the hobo one, but it was a formal family portrait. It was either one taken at a place like Olan Mills or at church. As I think about it, I believe we had it done at a photography studio. Be sure to notice Frank’s sideburns (very stylish), Wendy’s dress with the leopard collar and her long hair (also very stylish), Jay’s cute little suit (sort of par for the course for little boys at the time), and my beautiful hair, which was actually a wig (very, very stylish). What a lovely family!

When Jay moved out of our home and into homes of his own, most of the time with guys in Velvet Melon, whether it was in my mother’s old house in Myrtle Grove or on the beach or in New Jersey or in the Nashville area, he always had a framed 8 X 10 of that photo. Once, not long before he died, I said to him, “Jay, why do you always have that awful picture sitting out where everyone can see it?”

“What do you mean by awful?”

“It’s my hair that’s so awful. Everyone laughs at it now because it looks so funny for today.”

“Oh,” said my boy, “I never noticed your hair. I just have it out because I’m so cute!”

Always so sure of himself. That’s my boy!

One of Jay’s Heroes . . . Bruce Lee

 When Frank’s older brother, Sam, retired from the Navy, there were two things that he wanted to do—work in a store and go to college. Frank had a store, so if Sam moved his family to Pensacola, he’d have a place to work; and we had an excellent college (PJC), so he’d be able to begin his college career. Sam packed up Masako and Tim and headed for Florida. We helped them find a house in the Bellview Middle School district so that Tim and Jay could attend the same school. Jay was in seventh, and Tim was in eighth grade.

The boys saw each other every day at school and planned exciting things to do on the weekend, taking turns spending the night with each other. Just one of the things that they did was watch Bruce Lee movies. Their favorite was Enter the Dragon, with The Way of the Dragon (Chuck Norris) being a close second. They really got into the action of Bruce Lee and beat each other up regularly trying to imitate their hero’s style. Nothing would do but the next time we went to Seattle to visit his cousin and his family Jay had to go to pay a little tribute to his hero.

Jay and Tim were best friends the year that Sam and his family lived in Pensacola. Through the years, they remained best friends (of course, each one had other best friends, too) even though they lived 2800 miles apart. I know in my heart of hearts that they’d still be long-distance best friends had Jay lived. And that makes me feel very good!

There’s another story buried in this picture. Did you notice Jay’s sweat shirt? On this same trip, we took the kids to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs on our way to Washington. Our reason? We thought it would be really good for Jay to apply to the Academy. Okay . . . stop laughing. I know it’s a real stretch to imagine our Jay at anybody’s academy, but we thought we’d try. So much for good intentions on the parts of parents.

European Adventures

Back in the day, Frank and I used to travel with students in Europe every summer. In 1984, we signed up enough students for the trip to allow us to take Jay for free. He really didn’t want to go because Velvet Melon was in its infancy, and he wanted to stay at home to play rock ‘n’ roll and to develop his business. We insisted, however, that he go with us because it was probably the chance of a lifetime, and he needed to take advantage of it. So he went with us, drumming on the backs of the seats in the bus, on tables, on anything . . . probably on his friends.

Students were allowed to go exploring in the foreign cities in the afternoon if they were in groups of at least three. So The Four Musketeers in the photo disappeared one afternoon in Rome, only to arrive back at the hotel with their ears pierced. I was devastated! Ear piercing on boys was just becoming popular, and I thought it was terrible. After all, only girls should have their ears pierced . . . or so my conservative little mind led me to believe. And if you think I had conservative beliefs, you can imagine Frank’s! I hated to think of what his dad was going to say and do.

When I saw my boy with a pierced ear, I cried. Yes, I cried. I guess I just felt that Jay had let me down. We had talked about his having his ears pierced at home, and he knew that we didn’t approve. Even worse than our feelings, though, was my fear of what the other boys’ parents would say. Unhappy as I was, however, I had to have a photo. You can tell by the smiles that the guys weren’t unhappy. Everyone who knew Jay knew that he and I had a “mutual admiration society,” and because of the love that we shared, I never saw the earring again while we were on the trip.

But . . . sometime later in his life, he convinced his dad and me that an earring wasn’t the worst thing in the world, and by the time that he died, he had three pierces. On July 3, 1992, Frank’s younger brother, Bob, and his wife took us to Gayfer’s to buy burial clothes for Jay. I sent Bob on a mission—to purchase three new earrings for his nephew—while Frank and I shopped for pants and a shirt. I couldn’t have my boy buried in old earrings, could I? Of course not!

Before I close this little story, I must tell you that having their ears pierced was the least of the trouble that these kids got into while we were in Europe. That afternoon’s activity didn’t even hold a candle to their getting in the car with a stranger in Madrid and going to his mansion, with their rappelling down the walls of a hotel in Florence to roam the streets in the middle of the night, and with their rolling the Tower Bridge in London the night before we left for home. Jay confessed all of these activities one evening in Pensacola. Your parents might not have done this, but we laughed. After all, they didn't get hurt and didn't wind up in jail. Might as well laugh after the fact! We did a lot of this with Jay.

Jay, His Friends, and King Tut

Almost every year, when we went to Europe, we took the kids to Switzerland. And almost every year, we encouraged them to have a talent show. They had plenty of time to plan and to practice. The year that Jay went with us was no exception, and you can imagine who was the most excited about performing. That’s right . . . the one in the front, Jay. Years later, when Velvet Melon was in its heyday and Jay was playing sax and bass, I asked him if he ever wanted to be the drummer again. After all, drummers are usually the musicians that the girls are the most ga-ga over. “What?” he replied. “And not be on the front of the stage? Oh, no . . . I’ll keep on playing sax and bass!” This photo proves that his answer wasn’t something that he just made up on the spur of the moment. He wanted to be the star . . . and in the front!

And so Jay and his friends (that’s Scott Andress again on the right) performed Steve Martin’s “King Tut” routine. They were hilarious! They were the hit of the talent show! Four boys who had the same sense of humor as those “wild and crazy guys” on Saturday Night Live stole the show. Frank and I were so proud of them, and my best friends, Fran Crumpton and Annice Webb, and I have laughed so many times just remembering how funny they were.

They made their own costumes, borrowing towels from the hotel and a big spoon and foil from the kitchen for Jay’s headdress. I wish we had had video cameras or iPhones back then, but we didn’t. If we had had them, you could see my boy and his back-up for yourselves. Steve Martin’s performance will have to suffice to show you what Jay and the King Tutters did that night in Switzerland . . .

http://www.myspace.com/video/al/steve-martin-king-tut/28386077

I’ll never forget that talent show!

And as all of you know, I'll never forget Jay. I hope you don't think me too weird for continuing to write about him at various times during each year but especially on his birthday and on Jay Day, July 2. This is just a mother's way of celebrating her boy.

Almost every time I write a piece, I include my favorite quotation. You've probably heard it before, but I'll repeat it this time because it expresses exactly how I feel . . .

 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

Enjoy Jay Day! Tell some funny stories about a very funny young man. I’m sure he’ll be laughing right along with you. And I hope we see lots of you at the Velvet Melon Reunion on July 28!

Maintenance Required

This is the one that I sent in to my instructor today. Yet another memoir turned sort of short story.

Maintenance Required

As they rounded the corner to their street, the red “Maintenance Required” sign flashed on the dash readout of the van.

 “Oh, dear,” Peggy remarked, “guess I know where I’ll be going this week. Just hope I can get over this pesky vertigo so that I can drive.”

They had been to visit their son, Jeff, in Nashville, where he had recently moved his band, Velvet Melon, to be in the agent friendly area of Music City, USA.  A lunch date with one of the agents brought assurance to the band members that they would soon be on their way to copious gigs in the South. The guys were on their way to stardom!

When vertigo struck Peggy in the middle of the night, on June 30, it caused her and Tom to cancel their camping trip to the Great Smoky Mountains and head home for the Fourth of July weekend. As they rode, the couple had talked about good things coming from bad—at least now, they’d be able to go to Velvet Melon’s gig on Independence Day, something to really look forward to.

Peggy always worried when she knew that the guys were on the road, so she was relieved to see the band’s motor home in the driveway. Thank you, Lord, for another safe trip!

Soon Tom had all the camping gear unloaded, and Peggy had taken the food and clothes inside. Thank goodness that’s over. The only bad thing about camping is unloading, she thought as she put the last of the food away.

After having driven all day to get home, neither Peggy nor Tom felt much like cooking in the hot kitchen, so Peggy called Pizza Hut, ordered a pizza, and went upstairs to get ready to go to pick it up.

As she walked up the stairs, her mind wandered . . . What fun seeing our boy in action on the stage! But it surely is good to get back home. Just no place like it!  Nate, the band’s drummer, passed her going down to the bathroom.

“Hi, Mom,” he said drowsily.

“Where’s Jeff?”

“He’s asleep. Been sick all day,” was all that Nate said.

Kids! When will they ever learn not to burn the candle at both ends? she thought as she shook her head and smiled that mother’s smile, not really understanding but not condemning. I guess they’ll grow up someday and take better care of themselves.

Not too long ago, she had chastised Jeff, “You should get more sleep. I know musicians keep late hours, but I know you, son. You need more rest.”

Jeff had shrugged off his mom’s warning with, “Oh, Mom, don’t worry about me. I’ll get plenty of rest when I get to Heaven!” Then he’d given her that hug that only he knew how to give, lifted her off her feet, and swung her around, causing her to squeal, laugh, and forget why she was fussing at him. That boy! He had his mom wrapped around his little finger.

Peggy brushed her teeth, put on a little lipstick so that she’s be socially acceptable, and decided a quick trip to the potty room was in order before leaving.

“Jeff!” she screamed. There lay her boy, lodged between the toilet and the wall, obviously unconscious.

Tom ran in, saw his son, and commanded Peggy to call 911, as he was yelling for Nate, who was just going back to his room.

Neither Peggy nor Tom knew artificial respiration, but Nate did. He immediately began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on his friend while the 911 operator stayed on the phone with Peggy until the paramedics arrived. For Peggy, their arrival was an eternity when, in actuality, it was only about ten minutes.

Tom waved Peggy away when she tried to go in to watch what they were doing to try to revive Jeff. She immediately began to pray, Lord, please don’t let him die. Please. Please.”

Her prayer changed, though, when she heard clearly, “Are you sure that you want him to live, no matter what? “

I want Your will, Lord, but I don’t know how I’ll make it if my boy dies.

When she heard the next words, she also felt His strong arms around her. “I’ll get you through. I’ll be right here by your side.”

Peggy knew that the paramedics had given up hope for Jeff when, as two men carried him toward the helicopter which had set down in their neighbor’s yard, the one trailing behind had answered her question about whether or not Jeff would be okay, “He hasn’t breathed on his own, ma’am.” With that enigmatic answer, he left to accompany Jeff on a ride he had always wanted to make, one, though, that he had no cognizance of.

From that moment on, there would be “maintenance required,” but not for a van.

Understatement

And here's my second attempt at Flash Fiction. This one isn't based at all on anything that happened in my life.

Understatement

She had had the idea for quite some time now, but it had taken her until now to get up the nerve to execute her plan. The February morning had dawned crisp and sunny. Maybe it was the lovely weather that inspired her to carry out her decision.

Instead of riding down nine stories in the elevator, Maggie had walked down, probably to postpone the inevitable. Not even winded from the descent because she walked so slowly, she meandered across the lobby of her apartment building, stopping to talk to neighbors who were having their morning coffee and to check the headlines at the news stand.

Pushing leisurely through the revolving doors, she paused to talk to the doorman before hailing a taxi. One stopped immediately when she signaled.  Dang! Wouldn’t you know it? On any other day, I’d stand here for fifteen minutes before a cabbie notices me! Now I can’t turn back.

As she scooted into the back seat and gave the address to the cabbie, the memories flooded back, memories that she had kept submerged for too many years. The time had come for them to surface and to be acted upon. She pondered as the driver wound through the traffic.

The year was 1958; the place, Ole Miss. They had become friends immediately, having been placed together as roommates by some strange luck.

Luck? she thought. What kind of luck would put two people together, one of whom would become an ememy before their freshman year was over?

Maggie and Norma had lived together, taken classes together, studied together. They were best friends. They even did research together. And, in January, immediately after the professor had given them their term topic in their education class, they headed to the library to get started.

After weeks of practically living in the library, sometimes sharing references, always doing their own writing, never showing each other their work just to keep themselves honest, they both reached the point of typing. On some of those research days, Maggie had had to practically drag Norma to the library because she wasn’t the student that Maggie was.

Maggie was the first to finish the project, and she placed her completed paper in her desk drawer, away from prying eyes of other girls who might visit her and Norma’s room. She had never finished anything this far ahead of time, and she was proud of herself, now having time to get caught up on other assignments that she had neglected for far too long and just maybe to relax a bit.

Having finished her research with Maggie, Norma became the slacker that she usually was, putting off the final typing until the day before the project was due. How would she ever finish on time?

On Sunday night, the evening before the assignment was due, Maggie had the urge to look at her finished product one more time, not that anything could be done to make it better at this late date. As she pulled open the desk drawer, her heart sank. The paper wasn’t there.  In a Silas Marner-type of frenzy, she searched everywhere—the desk drawer, her chest of drawers, under the bed.

What could I have done with it? Could I have moved it and just don’t remember? Could someone have come in while Norma and I were sleeping? No, that’s not possible. While we were at the cafeteria? What will I do?

Through tears, she began to reconstruct her work. She prayed, Dear Lord, please help me get this done, as she frantically tried to piece her notes together into something resembling what she had so painstakingly written before.

Norma had gone home that weekend and didn’t return until early Monday morning. As she entered their room, she saw Maggie feverishly typing, trying to get done before class at 10:00 that morning. She told Norma what had happened and was surprised to find that her roommate had turned in her paper early.

The next week, when the professor returned the papers, Maggie was not at all surprised at her grade of C-; however, when she read the comment on the last page, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Miss Jones—To say that I am disappointed in you is surely an understatement. I know that you and Miss Fairchild are roommates and that you work together often. I never thought I’d see the day, though, when you, one of my star students, would stoop so low as to plagiarize another student’s work. Especially not your best friend’s. It’s obvious to me that she worked very hard and that you pilfered from her. For some strange reason, I gave you this grade instead of the F that you deserve.

Maggie was devastated but couldn’t bring herself to confront Norma. And Norma never mentioned her treachery to Maggie. To say that the air in Room 301, Gunnerson Hall, was icy for the remaining month in the school year is also an understatement. At the end of the semester, the roommates packed their freshman belongings, knowing that the two of them would never have a positive relationship again.

But today, Valentine’s Day, Maggie was in a taxi, headed to Norma’s apartment on the far side of the city. Through the years since Norma’s betrayal, Maggie had learned the meaning of forgiveness and how important it is for healing. She needed to tell Norma that she forgave her a long time ago and that it was time for Norma to know of the forgiveness. Maggie prayed that she would accept it. This was the perfect day to reignite that special love that roommates should have for each other.

She's Inside with Mama

I'm taking an online course in Flash Fiction, just another name for short short stories. The truth is that I'm not doing very well. Memoir is really my genre, but I thought I'd try fiction just to see if I could do it. So . . . I'm posting my stories in case anyone ever wants to read them. Here's my first one.

You can tell that I hadn't gotten the hang of needing to change the names "to protect the innocent" yet. I love my instructor, and she gave me lots of good advice about improvements. I'm not a good student because I didn't revise.

She’s Inside with Mama

A funny thing happened in the church at the funeral.  To be truthful, it was embarrassing to the max, but after the beet blush disappeared, it’s a moment good for a laugh.

My daughter, Wendy, and I had been out of town for the weekend, and when we returned, a neighbor told me that Old Mrs. Webb, whom we fondly called Grandma, had died. How sad, I thought.  I had been meaning to walk across the street to see her,but I am prone to let busy-ness get in the way of ought to do

As Wendy and I walked across the church grounds next door to our house that Tuesday afternoon, we spied a group of men standing around talking, as men are wont to do before a church service of any kind. I spied Howard, Grandma’s son, in the group.

What? There’s Howard. What’s he doing outside? How strange for him to be standing around talking when his mother is lying dead in the church!

I went over to him. “Oh, Howard, I was so sorry to hear about Grandma. I’d been meaning to go over to visit. I’m just so sorry.”

Howard looked at me quizzically and simply said, “That’s all right,” in his  Southern- gentleman drawl.

“Where’s Margie?” (That’s John’s wife.)

“She’s inside with Mama.”

How sweet. He just thinks of her as inside sitting with Grandma, keeping her company. Such a close family.

Wendy and I walked into the little Methodist church and signed the guestbook. Since this was my daughter’s first funeral, I knew I needed to fill her in on what we’d be doing. “Sweetie, now we need to go down to look at Grandma.”

“What? Do we have to? I can’t do that!”

“Oh, yes, you can . . . that’s what they do in these little country churches. It’ll be okay.”

We slowly made our way to the front of the church, Wendy lagging just a little behind me.  She caught up with me at the casket, and by that time, I was the one with the quizzical look.

“Oh, Wendy! She must have been really sick. She doesn’t even look like herself.”

By this time, Wendy had looked at Grandma and had agreed with me. As we were standing there, marveling at how much Grandma had changed because of her illness, a sweet, tiny voice came to us from the front row of the church.

“Why, Wendy and Sandy, thank you so much for coming.”

We couldn’t believe our ears . . . it was Grandma! As we turned in the direction of the birdlike voice, we saw Grandma, and sure enough, Margie was sitting with her, just as Howard said she’d be.

I rushed to her, hugged her, and assured her that we’d be over soon to visit. Of course, Grandma was happy to hear my promise, but she wasn’t nearly so happy  to hear it as I was to make it.

As we began to walk toward the back of the church, Wendy stage whispered, “Mom! Can we leave? You know what we’ve done!”

“Of course, we can’t leave. How would that look?”

Wendy just rolled her eyes and plopped down next to me in the pew, slumping down, trying to make herself invisible as only a sixteen-year-old can do.

I sat down and tried to look properly funereal. I don’t know what voice inside my head told me what to do next, but I very primly turned to the lady next to me and said, “Whose funeral is this?”

(Melanie – What do I do now? Do I stop here, or do I say something about the lady and her thoughts about the crazy lady sitting next to her? Do I say anything about who the lady in the casket was? Obviously, this a true story, a family story that I’m always encouraged to tell when folks are sitting around swapping stories and trying to one-up each other. I’ll try not to rely on autobiographical material next time. By the way, I left out lots of details that I always include when telling the story orally.)

Just Scratching the Surface

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


Just Scratching the Surface

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jay said, “So you miss going fast?”

“Sure do,” answered his friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Washington Irving

Celebrating Masako!

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

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

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

August 15, 2011

Dear Masako,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jay Week 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Frank and I love all of you!