D is for DANCE CLASSES

I know my mother meant well when she enrolled me in dance classes. The first ones met on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday in a small studio on Carrollton Avenue in New Orleans, Louisiana, in the late ‘40s. I was eight or nine years old, but the memories—no nightmares—associated with those lessons remain vivid.

On Tuesday afternoon, Mother took me to tap lessons. If you’ve never seen a too-tall-for-her age, very round girl shuffling strapped-on, long, skinny shoes with big taps on the toes, you’ve really missed something. It was a sight to behold, but I’m sure not one you’d want to remember. One shuffle, two shuffle, three shuffle, slide. One shuffle, two shuffle, three shuffle, slide. Over and over again. My mind was always somewhere else, so I made more mistakes than those slim little girls with the cutesy feet. The class lasted only an hour or so, but it seemed an eternity to me.

On Thursday afternoon, my mother, who was determined that I’d learn to be graceful by taking dance classes, took me to ballet. Same place, same eternity, same clumsy girl. This time, though, the sight was different. There I was at the ballet barre, holding on tightly while my long, log-like legs went up and down and up and down in the most un-graceful way imaginable, my mother sitting to the side, just rolling her eyes. When we put on toe shoes, I’m sure all she could picture was broken ankles; however, I never broke an ankle, but I surely did turn both of them. I never could get up on pointe and stay there.

Those afternoons were never pleasant as we rode the streetcar home to our apartment in post-World War II housing. And then came Saturday morning. Back to the studio we’d go so that I could take acrobat. Oh, my, but that was an experience for all! As I tried to do somersaults, I’d roll off the mat. As other girls threw their shapely legs straight up in cartwheels, landing gracefully on the mat on both feet, I’d look warily at the mat, sling my legs maybe a foot off the floor, and usually land right on my fanny. But the worst thing of all was flips. I was so much overweight and so uncoordinated that I had to have help. The teacher had assistants who would put a belt around my waist, hook on straps, and literally throw me over in a flip. So, so embarrassing and so, so uncomfortable. I never landed correctly even with help.

I failed to mention earlier that my teacher, Miss Beryl (in my mind, she was  Miss Barrel!), weighed about 300 pounds and couldn’t do even one thing to model for us. Her assistants, older prize students, taught us what they knew with coaching from the sidelines from the teacher. I think my mother realized that the lessons were futile after a year or so and withdrew me from lessons. But, never fear, my mother was determined!

When I was in seventh grade, she enrolled me in Saturday night ballroom dancing. Would she never give up on making me graceful and ladylike? I guess not. Those lessons were fun because I was with other kids who probably didn’t want to be there any more than I did. They were equally as embarrassing as the other dance lessons, though, because I was at least a head taller than any of the boys in the class, and of course, boys and girls danced together. We learned the foxtrot, the tango, the waltz, and the Charleston . . . but not the jitterbug. I don’t know why that one didn’t enter in to our repertoire. The son of one of my daddy’s bosses was in the class, a little shrimp of a fellow but a sweet boy with a sense of humor. He called me Giant Economy Size, and I called him Sample Size. We danced together as much as possible and had fun in a situation that could have been a disaster for both of us!

My mother never gave up on making a lady out of me, and today I’m grateful. She always meant well, and actually none of those dance classes did any harm. Today, I see only good from them if only for a laugh.

C is for THE COOLING BOARD

“Who’s sleeping on the cooling board?

“Not me!”

“Not me!”

“Not me!”

“Well, somebody is! I think it’s Gail and Sandy’s turn. So let’s get it ready.”

And so went the conversation every evening at my grandmother’s house when we girl cousins were all about eight or nine years old. Truth be told, Sandy (that’s me!) probably never slept on it with one of her cousins. I was such a mama’s baby that I wouldn’t sleep with anyone except my mother. So I imagine she slept with me on the cooling board, and Gail slept somewhere else; or maybe Gail and JoAnn slept on the cooling board, and my mother and I slept in the big double bed right outside the bathroom. Even though the bed was just two feet from the potty, we still had to have a slop jar beside the bed. My grandmother was a firm believer in having the slop jar (called in polite society a chamber pot, but we Kolbs in Logansport, Louisiana, weren’t polite society) handy in case of an emergency. I don’t recall ever using it.

So someone slept on the cooling board, a couch (sofa, divan, davenport) that made down into a bed, albeit a very uncomfortable bed. Now, don’t get the idea of a futon or a trundle bed or some other fancy contraption from the late twentieth century. You had to lift up the seat and back parts until they clicked against each other, then push the back of the couch back flat and pull the front down flat. Since both the back and the front were pillowy, there was a great chasm between the two when they were down. How to remedy that? Fold a blanket long ways, and stuff it down to try to make a somewhat flat bed. Then the sheets were put on as best they could be, then a blanket if all of us cousins were there in the winter. Most of the time, we visited our grandparents in the summer, though, so only a top sheet was needed in the muggy South. Not a very comfortable bed . . . but someone had to sleep there!

So why was it called a cooling board? Beats me! As I began to write this post, I thought I’d see if Google had ever heard of one. Of course, “she” had! It seems that in the old days, back in my childhood, a cooling board was what dead people were laid out on. Why in the world my mother and her family would refer to the fold-down bed as a cooling board is beyond me.

My family is a bit strange in some ways, I must admit, and this designation is just one example of their strangeness. I’ve asked my cousins if they remember the cooling board, but none of them do. Hmmmm . . . maybe it’s Sandy who is strange. Do you think I dreamed this? I don’t think so. There are lots of things from my childhood that I wish I had clarified with my mother while she was alive. She and I will have lots to talk about when we meet again! Surely do hope the Good Lord will let me have a computer so that I can get our stories really right.

Slop jars -- Ours were the speckledy blue kind.

A real cooling board for dead people

B is for My BOY

I have a special place in my heart for all sorts of boys, but my favorites are between the ages of twenty-four and forty-five. I refer to these boys that I love so much as “my boys.” I know that political correctness dictates that we not refer to males as “boys,” probably as a carry-over from times when it really was a derogatory term. To me, though, it’s a term of endearment. I call a young man “my boy” when he is respectful, loving, funny, affectionate, energetic, smart, and it certainly doesn’t hurt if he’s talented. My boys have been named Jimmy and Mike and Eric and Keith and Todd, plus many more. But my favorite boy and the one who first wore the badge was my boy . . . my son . . . Jay Young.

I have written enough about Jay in the past almost twenty-one years to fill a book; however, I never pass up an opportunity to write one more thing about him. So here’s a little bit about my boy, Jay.

Even though we always joked a lot in our home and even though I could hardly ever keep a straight face when disciplining Jay and our daughter Wendy, he knew that I was the mother and he was the child. He respected me. Even after he was an adult, he respected me. One night, in a bar, his respect really shone through. His band, Velvet Melon, was playing that night, and evidently, as one of his friends told me later, the crowd had gotten rather raucous, something not unusual for a room full of twenty-somethings. Jay must have checked his watch and immediately quieted his friends.

“Okay, guys, in about five minutes, my mom and dad will walk through that door. Let’s calm down.” And they did.

Jay loved people. I never heard him finish a phone conversation with a friend without saying, “Love ya, man!” And he always told us that he loved us. What a great memory! On one of the tapes that we have of Velvet Melon, he leaned very close to the microphone and said, “I love you, Mom” for no apparent reason . . . just because he loved me.

My boy was also funny. Oh, he could tell a joke and have everyone in the room laughing, but that’s not the kind of funny I remember. The funny about Jay is wrapped up in things he did. He’d come up behind me in the kitchen and say in a very sweet voice, “It’s time, Mom.”

“No, Jay . . . I’m busy. I don’t have time right now.”

“Sorry, Mom,  but it’s time . . . time to put your head in the fan!”

Then he’d pick me up and walk toward the ceiling fan . . . ostensibly to do just what he said he’d do. I’d kick and squeal and laugh all the way to the dining room, where he’d lift me up to about four inches from the twirling fan. Of course, he didn’t really put my head in the fan, and I knew he wouldn’t, but we both acted as though he would. Some mothers wouldn’t have thought this funny, but I surely did, and I’m so glad I did because it’s a great memory!

My boy was also affectionate. He never left the house without giving me a hug  . . . and he hugged all his friends, both girls and boys. He had lots of girlfriends, and I’m sure he was very much affectionate with them, but that’s not a mother’s business with her adult son, is it?

And oh, my goodness, was my boy energetic! He was never still on the stage and seldom still off it. Almost every song that Velvet Melon played ended with Jay about three or four feet in the air. He bungee jumped; he sky dived; he was athletic in his own way . . . just for himself.

I’m an avid reader, but even though my boy was very much like me in some respects, he claimed that Charlotte’s Web was the only book that he ever finished. Don’t get me wrong. He read . . . just not books that I’d choose. He read every magazine he could get his hands on if it pertained to music, musicians, any instruments. He was smart, but he wasn’t what anyone  would call a student in anything except music.  But that was okay if he wasn’t a student in “book learning”: he was a gifted musician.

Talent? It oozed from Jay’s every pore. He played piano, xylophone, drums, guitar, bass, saxophone and all of them “to the max.” You’d have to hear him to believe his talent. But you can’t because, as you’ve probably already determined from my use of past tense, my boy died. He left us very suddenly on July 2, 1992, at the age of twenty-four. He’d have been forty-five two months ago. Thus my reason for the ages of my boys. When I’m with these “boys” of mine, I always think of my boy and wonder what he’d have been like had he lived.

Do I miss him? Do I think of him every day? Of course, I do. But I know I’ll see him again. When I get to Heaven and hear music in the distance, I know I’ll find him playing bass at the front of God’s Grand Band, right where he should be, no longer performing in bars.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KM7aa4FKCec -- Jay on bass

ttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8aUGTiZIfIw -- Jay on sax

A is for ANTICIPATION

I awakened this morning with nothing on my mind except our upcoming trip to Pensacola—to my Sassy Southland. I know that many folks will disagree with my modifier for Southland, but I think it fits the South perfectly. Those of us who hail from Dixie are lively, smart, energetic, and extremely talkative, all synonyms for sassy.

Every time I hear the word anticipation, I think of the old Heinz Ketchup commercial—you know the one with two little boys waiting for the ketchup to pour . . . “Anticipation . . . an-ti-ci-pa-a-a-a-tion . . . .” Always loved that ad. Anyway, waiting for April 21 is just as much an anticipation as waiting for ketchup. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uoLoyg3JKRQ

Sugar-white beaches

Eating lots of fried seafood in New Orleans in 2012

I can’t wait to get to Austin and New Orleans and finally to Pensacola! Living in the Southwest is glorious, but at least once a year, I MUST get back to my hometown to see lifelong friends, to eat as much fried seafood and cheese grits as I want to, and to visit the beautiful beaches of the Emerald Coast, those beaches with sugar-white sand, so much unlike the brown sand of the high desert here in New Mexico.

I’m even excited about doctors’ appointments! I know that sounds strange, but a good chat with my ear doctor—Derek Jones, one of my former students—will be delightful. We’ll talk about his classmates and his other teachers, and I’ll get caught up on his sweet family. Can’t wait for my annual cleaning of my ear . . . and a big hug. I’m also looking forward to having my eyes checked—again another good visit with a longtime friend/doctor. Something else exciting about this visit is that I hope to get gas permeable contacts again. Maybe they’ll be comfortable in our super dry New Mexico climate.

Anticipating getting together with friends at Hall’s Seafood Restaurant is almost more than I can take. I made the reservation today, and I will send out invitations to about fifty friends to join us for our annual Dutch-treat dinner. So much to look forward to!

I’ll save the anticipation of my 55^th high school class reunion for another letter. With a little trepidation, I’ll say that sometimes the anticipation is more wonderful than the events themselves. Surely do hope that’s not true with this trip!

Blogging from A to Z

 I discovered too late a challenge called Blogging from A to Z. I was very much disappointed because I just began an Alphabet Journal in my Write 4 Life Journaling Class. Even though I was too late to officially join, the leader of the challenge said that I could post on my blog and then tell the challenge-takers on Facebook about my blog. Maybe some of them will read my posts. We'll see.

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