From Frogs, to Hell---In a Single Bound

Today, I am unable to keep myself focused on completing  any project I have started.  I am all over the place. I filled three totes with books to deliver to our local  shelter;  if I don't remove them from the house soon, I will slowly, book by book, place them back on my shelves. Books are extremely hard for me to give away.

I have a load of clothes in the washer and one in the dryer waiting for me to get inspired and fold them. I am a long, long way from inspired right now.

I stopped the laundry to make a sugar free dessert for dinner tonight. The only reason I did this, is because the ice cream in the fridge is talking to me. I am desperately trying to ignore it. It is just a matter of time  before I cave. I know me!


I had a random conversation with Tommy about frogs. There was  a story running through my mind and I needed some first hand information on frogs.  Somewhere in the midst of that conversation, the subject of "Hell" was brought up. How we went from frogs to hell I cannot remember, I think it may have been when Tommy asked, "Why in the hell are you writing about frogs?" All I know for sure is, that by the time I walked back to the computer the frogs were gone and this true story was waiting to be told.


I was a little girl about seven years old, living in the midst of a humid Kentucky heat wave. Our church was having a week's revival. The revival would start at 7 p.m. each night and would usually last about a hour.  A guest minister was always invited to preach, trying to rouse the congregation with a new desire to serve the Lord. This minister preached "Hell Fire and Damnation." We weren't used that kind of preaching. The church was full, waiting to see what would happen next. Some people were eager to hear the sermons, others were annoyed by the shouting. I kept waiting for someone to burst into flames!


I usually slept during the sermons. Since the church wasn't air conditioned, the heat seemed to have been stored up during the day, to explode on the congregation at night. Every pew had several old hand held fans  featuring pictures of Jesus at various stages of his ministry, stapled to long wooden handles; they could be found among the songbooks. Almost everyone had a fan. The breeze from the fan was a small help, but better the sweltering heat.

That night I wasn't sleepy. The minister had caught my attention. I hung on every word he had to say. The visiting preacher was talking about the 12 virgins and  the oil they needed in their lamps. His voice rose, his hands waved the Bible in the air.  He walked and paced the podium, sweating profusely, while I sat mesmerized. I didn't know what he was talking about BUT I knew we did not have any lamp oil at home....AND  I was worried.


I kept trying to ask Mama about the oil and she kept telling me to be quiet. The more he talked, the more unsettled I became. When the service was over, we strolled out into the night air and breathed in a slight, cool breeze and maybe a sigh of relief.  The stars were circling  us in every direction. Ordinarily, I would have stood outside for awhile, looking for a falling star to wish on, but that night my mind was far from wishing on stars....  it was on our missing lamp oil.


We lived close to the church, one house separated us belonging to Mrs. Klapp.  By the time we reached our house, I was crying. I wasn't crying silently. I was crying out loud and my knees where knocking together. I thought I was going to throw up. I finally told Mama what was wrong with me. It was hard for me to put it into words. Her response was no where, even remotely close, to what I was expecting; she was mad at the minister for scaring me. Mama seldom lost her temper;  that night she was livid. She couldn't make me understand what the minister had been talking about. 

Mamamae and Mama  put me to bed,  although I was still crying and scared. They walked back to the kitchen and began talking about me again.  Mama picked up the telephone saying she was, "calling THAT preacher to come and explain this whole mess to me!"


I pulled the covers up over my head. Not only was I going to hell for not having any oil, THAT preacher was going have to get out of bed, walk down Beeler Hill  and make me stop crying. I uncovered my head long enough to say "Please don't call him, he is gonna be so mad"  Mama said ,"Good, I hope he is as mad as I am."


My knees were still knocking, I was crying when I turned my face to the pink bedroom wall and asked God "to not let me die without Him".  That was all I said, my knees grew still, the tears stopped and I fell into a deep sleep, all in a matter of seconds. 


Thank God Mama noticed that I was asleep!  That fact saved the preacher a trip down the hill to our house: saved embarrassment for our family, saved a lot of things in general, and me in particular.
It also showed me Someone out there, who has the time to listen to a very scared, curly headed little girl, with a potty mouth cry and pray. Someone in a split second calmed all my fears. To me, that kind of Power should never be dismissed lightly or taken for granted.

A Window of Mystery with a Story to Tell

I love this picture.  From the first time I saw it in Victoria's album, I knew I had to have it.  I am not a person who is drawn to the new, expensive or lavish things.  I can admire them for their beauty, but they have yet to exist long enough to have a history, a past or memories. All of that is in the future, for the making. For other pictures, 40 years down the road, when they will at last have a story to tell.

I like to look at a picture and see a story, whether it is true or not. Hearing the actual story would be even better, although seldom possible. This is where the imagination---one of the greatest gifts a person can have comes in to play.  With a good imagination, a person is never alone, there is always an adventure lurking behind a curtain.  A mystery waiting to be written, because  of a door left ajar where only a smidge of light can be seen, and a touch of red, barely visible but not out of sight, is leaking down the wall and on to the floor.


When I saw the picture above all sorts of stories ran through my mind.  I noticed how old the window seems to be. When damaged, it was repaired instead of replaced. Caulked, painted roughly and unevenly  with a shade of Dutch blue. The person who lived here did the best he could, with what he had.

The blue paint is chipped in places, weathered in others, showing the uneven painting in the soft gray daylight.  Bars have been added to the large window, 
either for protection or decoration.  The owner used them as a trellis for the pink roses he grew.

Partial white door frames are seen in background. A black and white cat keeps guard at the window. The cat is watching something intently from the ledge. Alert, uneasy.


As I look at this card, a story forms. It is of a brick apartment building, occupied only on the second floor, one apartment, all the other apartments are vacant and have been for quite awhile. 

An old man lives alone, taking care of his deceased wife's roses and her cat. He is used to being alone, so is the cat. Both are used to the rattling of glass and falling bricks, as the bombs continue to rearrange his home. They are used to the uncertainty of life, however they will never get used to the fear the noise instills in them.

It is in Croatia, fifteen years in the past. A war is raging outside.  Piles of rubble and rock block the outside entrance to many places. People venture out after dark. The old people delay as long as possible, the trip for food and water.  There is no electricity. There is little help for anyone.

The cat is his only companion. His wife named her Nonia, he makes sure she eats.  He shares his water with the roses. Something beautiful has to survive this carnage. He takes a chance every time he places the roses in the window, they have to have light and yet they are a sign of life.  Dangerous for all, but he is long passed caring. Scared yes, caring not even a little bit. He lives for the roses, the cat and his memories.  Eventually, the war ends. Life goes back instead of forward for the old man.


The roses are permanently placed in the window, where they grow and bloom easily.   The cat and the old man will never be the same, but they manage, they cope. They continue to live in fear.


If the eyes are the "windows of the soul", why are windows so important in that quote?   They are the fragile panes keeping the world at large. They protect, they invite and they conjure stories from strangers.....and I love them.

What is my fascination with old windows and doors?  It is hard to explain, but I feel it when I see them. They have withstood the elements, attacks, bugs, birds and humans of every mindset.

I like to imagine the stories known from the outside and the secrets held within. I look at them while my mind wanders, sooner or later a story will form.

Finding Memories Among the Junk

   When I woke up this morning, I had no intention of writing a blog today.  I had every intention of cleaning my art room so I can actually think when I happen to wander in there.  
   It used to be my favorite room in my home. It was mine and I had it arranged exactly like I wanted it to be.  That was a long, long time ago. Somewhere along the way, it became the "catch-all room"!!  Just open the door and put any and everything in there, because I had nowhere else to put the "stuff".  Shut the door quickly before anything got out and pretend everything was "just fine!" Worked fine until I retired! Since then it has been a "niggling" in my mind that will not go away, will not be quiet. 

Today my plan was to purge that room of all the unnecessary junk and reclaim my territory!!!  Sounded good, until I started actually sorting my memories and trying to decide what to get rid of and in some cases try to figure out why I kept the "stuff" in the first place.
   I started with my books. I have a home full of bookshelves and I have decided to donate a lot of my books to the shelter in Fulton. Also, Tami wants my James Patterson novels.  After separating those books, I still had four bookcases full of wonderful words, that I am not yet ready to part with. 
  I sat down in the middle of the floor--finally, I found a spot-- and began to go through boxes marked 1980, 1996, and 1998.  I found the first Bible that I ever actually read in 1980.  It is an old King James Bible that has been highlighted, underscored, notes written in the margins and is as rugged as an old love letter that has been read time and time again.
  I sat there and reread scripture I had marked for my daughters, my husband, and many other people. I read promises I had made to God and promises He had made to me. It bought back a lot of memories. It went in the pile to keep and bring into the den.
  I found New Years Resolution from 1996. I had to laugh, the first thing it said was "lose 30 pounds". The same one I have had for years, only in 1996, I didn't need to lose 30 pounds, just thought I did:)
  There were letters from Tommy from 1978  when he lived up here and worked at the nuclear plant. He was looking for us a place to live. I found several journals, mostly started but not completed. Still, they were interesting to read. One of the journals had pictures of places I wanted to live. Here are a few of them. There is no doubt about what I like. It is all there in the pictures. 

  I don't remember where I found these pictures.  But I still like them. I love the steps and windows the flowers and the colors of the homes. I wanted us to rent an apartment in a place like this and just wander the streets, making memories for a summer. 

 

   Look at the colors, the flowers winding up a stone wall. The arched doors with a mailbox beside the door.  The shuttered windows filled with flower boxes.
The people one could meet and the stories they would tell. Marvelous adventures, I have in my imagination.

                                                     
  This picture suggests a getaway spot for just a couple.  Sounds good. We would send the girls to Kentucky and take a month to live perhaps by the Mediterranean Sea. I visualize a rented home with arched doors opening into a courtyard. A place where coffee is served each morning.  We would do the cooking ourselves and dine out in the evenings.  The sea is close and the air smells of salt, water, and damp moist earth. We are surrounded by a thicket with enough coverage that what we do will be unobserved. We drink wine by candlelight and swim whenever we want.  There are no clocks, no deadlines, everything is played by ear.

                                        
  I bet when I bought this picture I was thinking about a vacation with the girls. It looks like a fun family place.  Everything is colorful, close, handy and very enticing.  My daughters would have had a wonderful time there. The memories we could have made....yes I am sure they were in my thoughts when I bought this picture.

                   

  This is a real memory and it is all mine. I love the ocean.  My muse goes there a lot to regroup and get us new ideas. I was sitting on a blanket watching the sunset and thinking "this is as good as it gets" why do I ever ask for more or settle for less?

  
  Whoever painted this was stealing my dreams while I slept.  A dock or small pier to walk out on to paint or photograph the beauty all around.  A place to write a story or create a poem.  A place to read but only for short periods of time. I can read when it snows!  Today, I will soak up all the sights, smells and sounds of this corner of the world.

   
  Another real memory added to the mix of wishful thinking. This was one of those rare perfect days--a storm and a promise.  Life was good that day.

               
  I don't remember what I was thinking when I bought this picture.  When I look at it today, I think of a place where my girlfriends and my daughters would have a wonderful time. The ocean isn't far, flowers are abundant and Becky would be in heaven.

                  
  This is my imaginary place where I go to write, paint and regroup.  In my mind, it is on the coast of South Carolina.  It is an imaginary page out of a Pat Conroy book, that only he can write. I would live here six months out of the year. Although I do not remember buying this picture, I guarantee what I am thinking now is pretty much what I was thinking then.  My family would come and go as they pleased. Each doing the things that make them whole and happy.

  The art room still isn't cleaned. It is better than it was. The day isn't over, I may venture back in there again. I am really glad I went in there today.  I am keeping the Bible, the letters and the pictures. I will share their story with you.  Until next time........ remember, it is never to late to make a memory. You never know when or where they will turn up.                                        

Martin Luther King, Jr. Integration, the way I Remember Life Back in 1960's

Today is officially Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday. Tomorrow has been declared a federal holiday in his honor. Schools, all federal buildings will be closed, the mail will not be delivered. Speeches will be made from the deep South to Washington, D.C., and everywhere in between. From the East Coast to the West Coast, Dr. King will be remembered and honored.

A hundred years ago, this would never have occurred. America has changed over the course of time.


Not every word spoken will be in honor.  There are always a few fringe groups who will make an appearance and protest the changes in our country. The words will be peppered with hate and racism.  It will come from both sides.

Dr. King was born in 1929.  He was 20 years older than me. By the time I was a freshman in high school he had already lived most of his young life growing up as a second class citizen in his own country.

I was raised in Kentucky, where segregation was the normal way of life. The way it had always been.  I never thought a lot about it until one day we took Nathaniel, a black lady who did our ironing once a week, home.

We were far from rich. When Granddaddy hired Nathaniel to do our ironing, Granddaddy was keeping a promise he had made to my grandmother, years ago.

Soon after Mamamae and Granddaddy were married, Granddaddy was in an accident while working on the railroad.  His right leg was badly damaged. Month after month he was unable to work. Mamamae cleaned other peoples homes and took in ironing's just to be able to pay the rent and put a little food on the table. They had two small children. Granddaddy was forced to sue the railroad. Something he knew nothing about.


Unfortunately, Granddaddy's lawyer was probably a crook.  When the railroad offered Granddaddy a settlement of $10,000. He had to appear in court to collect the settlement. The lawyer never told him to come to court, causing the case to be dismissed. Finally they were notified of the courts decision.  Granddaddy had lost his case. That day, Granddaddy promised Mamamae that once he was back on his feet, and could work, she would never have to iron again.  He kept his promise.


Nathaniel was a quiet woman. She had a lazy eye and her right hip constantly caused her pain. It was either a birth defect, or her hip had been broken and had not healed correctly. I never knew the whole story, or her last name.


She smiled easily and talked to me like an adult. I liked that.  I remember always trying to get her to sit down and drink some water.  I don't think she ever did. When she referred to me it was "Miss Vicky", I was about 6 or 7 and I thought that was the oddest thing, to call a little girl "Miss".

I never felt like we were poor. We lived in a shotgun house on South Washington Street. It was a small home, I loved it. The reason it was called a "shotgun" house is because a person could stand in the living room and fire a shotgun, the bullet would go straight out the back door. 

Granddaddy always drove a new car. His favorite car was a Buick. He traded cars every two years.  There was plenty of food on the table and I was happy. I also had green eyes and white skin. I wonder how "happy" I would have been, if I had black skin and brown eyes? 

The first time we took Nathaniel home was a shock for me. Nathaniel lived in the "colored" part of town. It was located behind the viaducts. To get there we drove under the old railroad tracks.  Emerging on the other side was a world I knew nothing about. 


The houses were run down, not much more than shanties.  There was no color anywhere. The houses all needed to be painted. The porches were loosely attached to the house, with boards missing.  Steps needed to be repaired and windows needed to be fixed. More than one house had cardboard in place of a window pane. When we drove through the area to Nathaniel's home, people stopped and looked. I locked my door. I wonder if Nathaniel noticed.

I lived in a bubble. In my "bubble" things usually worked out for the best. I never questioned why "colored" people ate in the back of the restaurants, or why "they" sat in the balcony at the theaters.  That was just the way things had always been done. My green eyes did not question to any great extent what I saw. I accepted things I would not want to endure as a black child, as normal. This is hindsight speaking.

When I was a little girl, I just assumed that because I was happy, everyone must be happy too.  Then along came Martin Luther King, Jr. and he let me know in no uncertain terms that not everyone in the United States  was "happy".         

                              
Our schools were integrated for the first time, my freshman year of high school. It was a HUGE deal in the South and all across our country.  People were killed, schools burned, the State Troopers and I even think the military had to be called in some places in the deeper South to keep the peace.  Children had to be escorted into schools. Hatred ran rampant on both sides. It wasn't our finest hour by any means. Integration bought out the best and the worst in most people. It was hard to see past years of acceptance, the idea of being wrong.



When our high school was integrated, there were several bomb threats. All of them were taken seriously by the adults.  School would be closed, the police would come in and search every nook and cranny, trying to find a bomb that did not exist.

Tonight, I wonder probably for the first time, if the black kids were afraid of being blown up, for wanting a better life?  If they took seriously what I laughed about. I am sure their parents took it very seriously.  I know mine did, but I didn't. I was just glad to be out of school for awhile.

However, once again I am remembering with green eyes and white skin, my youth. 



I do believe integration was harder for the adults than for the teenagers.  I don't remember being mean to anyone or causing fights.  It may have happened, but I never saw it.  We just went to school.  Maybe for awhile we were a little standoffish, but soon that was eased out of the picture.  We mixed when it was time to mix and we went our own separate ways when school was over.  Change, a real change of the heart and mind, doesn't happen over night.

We all had a lot of "firsts', pushed in our faces and down our throats. It came from all sides and at times all at once, it seemed. Integration, Pres. Kennedy's assassination, the Vietnam War, drugs, free love.  Everything changed. Some of us questioned everything we were taught, some of us never questioned anything.


Later that year, as the marches grew stronger and the violence worsened, Dr. King made his famous speech "I Have a dream" at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. I think there was a crowd of around 200,000 people. I watched it on television and I remember thinking, "If I were black this is exactly how I would feel." Not exactly the feelings Dr. King wanted to invoke in my white mind, but it was a start, a beginning.  He was calling for a change and for action. I sat passively and thought.  It made me start see things differently. He put questions in my mind and made me want to look for the answers. I can still quote part of that speech.

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character." Impressive.


This past October,  Melodi and I stood on those very steps, in the same spot Dr. King stood. We looked out and tried to imagine tens of thousands of people in one place, in one accord, listening to words of freedom. Words spoken for them and to us. Words to make a nation stop and think.  Words to make a nation desire to look at their country through new eyes.

                                  

The speech was 17 minutes long, but spoke volumes.

On April 4, 1968, two days before my 19th birthday, Dr. King was assassinated.  I was in my dorm room when I heard screaming, crying, young black women running up and down the halls yelling. I ran out the door and was told "A white man just killed Dr. King". I thought all hell was going to break loose and it did for a little while. Insults spewed from crying girls. A few white students said they were "sorry", most people were too shocked to speak. Doors slammed and were locked. Others embraced each other and openly wept. Instinct took over that afternoon.

People began to turn on radios, or tried to get on the phone to call a loved one to see if it was true.  Some parents who lived close to the college, came and picked up their students. Tension was running high and peoples emotions were just under the skin, anything could happen. It wouldn't take but a wrong look or word and things would blow sky high. This lasted for weeks. It ebbed and receded, like the tide.

Thankfully, nothing horrible happen to cause a riot.  At least not at our college. Not that these green eyes can remember. 

There are so many sides to this story. Things and events happened, everyone has their version of the truth.  Somewhere in the middle is a thread that links it all together. 

It is strange in a way, but most of the people who had the biggest impact on my life were people I never met. These people influenced my thinking, making me question all the things I had been taught. They gave me a new way to see the world. Something new to fight for and believe in.

The people who influenced my life varies greatly. President Kennedy, with his, "ask not what America can do for you, but ask what you can do for America",Martin Luther King, Jr., Anne Sullivan and Helen Keller.  They confirmed my belief in miracles. Anne Frank, showed me how to be young and strong in my willpower and to think of death differently. Leon Uris' writing introduced me to a land and people who lived and fought each and every day to survive. Maya Angelou showed me just how strong a woman could be. The list is long and varied, able to change on any given day. These are a few people who always remain somewhere in the long list of inspiration.

My classmates and friends who went to Vietnam will always be in that list. Their letters spoke of a life I will probably never know. These are just a few of the many, many people who have left a mark on my mind.



The ones who helped make me the woman I am today, are the people I ate dinner with every night for years, my family. For them I am thankful. Even though we had blue eyes and green eyes and white skin, we learned to see the world through new eyes.  Slowly ever so slowly. They taught me to use my mind and listen to my inner voice. To be open to change and to give it a chance.

It didn't come fast and it didn't come easy and some times it didn't even come at all. But eventually the playing field has been leveled and change happened. Gray eyes helped. 


It is not over by any means.  As long as there are people, injustice will raise its head every chance it gets. We have come a long way. We have a long way to go but we are moving forward, a little faster and easier than years ago. But then again, that is my green eyes and white skin talking.
                                                     

January 4,1971 Lisa's Birth-----The Making of a Mama

On January 4, 1971 at 7:59 a.m. on a Monday morning in Yuma, Arizona; Lisa Jaye Carter was born.  My life forever changed that day. 

Tommy was in the Marine Corps and we had been transferred from NAS Atlanta, Georgia to Yuma, Arizona.  Actually, we had a choice of 2 duty stations, New York or Yuma.  We picked Yuma because neither of us had ever lived in the desert or lived only a few miles from another country. It sounded exciting to us.

We were 11 or 14 miles from Mexico and we went there often.  No passports were needed to cross the border.  Just a little money and a full tank of gas was all that was necessary.  Even then, we made sure someone in Yuma knew where we were going or another couple went with us. Just to be on the safe side.


It was a cold Sunday night in the desert when I went into labor. My mother was visiting us for Christmas and to be there when the baby was born.  Everyone was nervous and easily rattled that night.  The tension was almost tangible.

I remember Bonanza was playing on t.v. when I told Tommy I thought we should go to the hospital. He wanted to wait until Bonanza was over.  That was like throwing gasoline on a hot fire!!!  Tommy was outnumbered by a mother hen and her very pregnant chick.

In hindsight, we could have stayed home another 10 hours.  As soon as we arrived at the hospital, I was placed in an examination room. My doctor asked me if I cared if he went to his neighbor's belated New Years Eve party.  He assured me that the baby would not be born until the next morning and he would be there for the birth.  So the doctor went to his party.  His nurse  told me that she would be in the next room and not to bother her.  She grabbed her novel and left. There I sat, by myself, scared and very uncomfortable. I wanted Tommy. I knew for certain that I was not staying in that room alone all night. I grabbed a hospital gown and put it on like a robe and out I went to find my family. 

As I was about to leave, I heard a young woman crying in the next room.  I peeked in on her.  She was a beautiful young Mexican girl about my age and just as scared. I tried to talk to her but neither of us spoke the right language. I held her hand and pointed to the door.  I guess she thought I was leaving because she refused to go with me.  That decision is one that I would redo if I could. I would have stayed longer with her. She needed someone to hold her hand that night.


When I finally found Tommy and Mama, they wanted to know what all the doctor said----another explosion occurred when they found out the doctor went to a party and the nurse was reading!! 

Around this time the contractions kicked in good and hard and Tommy and I started walking the halls. When a really hard contraction would occur I remember putting my face on the cold concrete walls. It felt good to me.  Tommy was holding my hand and he whispered in my ear, " I think your mother is pissed at me!!  Don't let her see you grab the wall!!"  I think she was pissed at him too!!  We decided then and there that from then on when I had a baby, it would just be the two of us there. And it was.

The young girl and I delivered babies within a few minutes of each other. Her family was there to be with her. She had a little boy. 

Lisa and her son looked so much alike. Beautiful babies.  Dark complexion, black hair, beautiful.

Tommy's life changed that night too. He grew up even more. He felt the responsibility of being a husband and a father.  He wasn't perfect, but he was just what I needed. Someone who had faith in me that I could be a good mother and wife.  He also had a great sense of humor and didn't get upset or rattled when I was human and made mistakes.  We had so much to learn. I had never changed a diaper or fed a baby.  Thank God Tommy was from a large family and grew up around babies.  He was always my right arm, what I didn't know he did.


However something happened when I held my daughter, the things I didn't know didn't matter any more.  Instinctively, I knew how to take care of Lisa. It was gut instinct and love.  I must admit that the first diaper I put on Lisa fell off the minute I picked her up.  Instead of being scared we thought it was funny. I put another one on and miracles of miracles--it stayed on!!

The only baby book we had at the time was written by Dr. Spock and I didn't care for his ideas. To me babies are supposed to be rocked and loved and maybe spoiled just a little bit.  Hopefully, you are only that vulnerable once in your life, enjoy it.


Every day I learned something new either about cooking or babies, husbands or budgets.  Some days I learned about all of them.  I wouldn't trade anything for those memories.  That is why I write now, to share with my children, grandchildren and their children's children our story. To tell it to friends and family so that their story---our story will not be forgotten.


When Tommy and I made children, we made magic.

                                    
This was made the day Mamamae and Mama left Yuma.  Mamamae surprised me and was waiting the day I got home from the hospital. Some memories I never want to forget. I know it was very hard on them to go back home and leave us on our own.  I will believe to my dying day, it is the best thing that could have happened to us.

I will always wish they could have seen more of Lisa, I also know I had to learn how to stand on my own two feet and be a mother--Carter style.

What Elvis Meant to Me

If memory serves me right, today would have been Elvis Presley's 77th birthday.  He was born on Jan.8,1935 in Tupelo, Mississippi.  He was a twin and the only child to survive. He brother's name was Jesse Garren, thoughts of him haunted Elvis for most of his life.  It is reported that Elvis "talked" to Jesse and felt guilty that he was the one to live. Understandably so, even though it was a burden a little boy should never have to carry.  I can understand where he got this idea and how it molded parts of his psyche.

Elvis was 14 years older than me.  By the time I was old enough to appreciate music, he was the "King of Rock and Roll", and had changed music for all time. 


The first and only record player I ever owned came with a stack of Elvis records.  I listened to them over and over. My mother liked Elvis' music even more than I did.  She took me to see all his movies.  That was a good memory for me.

Mama couldn't drive at that time.  We would catch the Greyhound bus in Clinton and ride to Fulton to see a movie, get ice cream or shop.  Then we'd catch another bus back to Clinton.  We did this almost every Saturday or Sunday.  I looked forward to this each week.


My mother was beautiful and more than one bus driver had his eye on her.  Mouthy little kid that I was, I ran interference for her. I remember telling more than one man off.  Informing him that "my Daddy would not like us going out with him!!" I was about 5 and didn't know they were divorced.  Mama just told me Daddy had to work "in construction" and traveled all the time.  For some reason that satisfied me.  Whenever Daddy would show up, I was elated.  In fact, I usually puked over and over the first night I knew he was at Mama Pearls. I was so excited to see him and then he would be gone again, just like he arrived.

When Elvis got drafted in 1958, I was 9 years old.  I was afraid he would get shot. I cried.  Mama explained that he would be stationed somewhere safe and not to worry.  When I said my prayers at night they always included and, "Jesus bring Elvis home safely".  And He did.  Two years later he was discharged.


He made more songs, more movies and by the time I was 13 the Beatles were on the scene and I was "In LOVE WITH PAUL McCARTNEY"  The Beatles consumed our generation. They changed our music and to some extent our lives. The 60's were alive and well and ready for a change---and change we got!!

The world still reeks from some of our decisions.  However, it was a good time to be a teenager. The music rocked and was awesome.  Admittedly we pushed the limits on just about everything, but we have some great memories to share.  I think the statue of limitations has run out on most of the things we did:)

Elvis still recorded songs and had hits. His music evolved too. Then one day on August 16, 1977, Elvis was found dead at his home in Graceland.  I was working at a factory then in Union City, Tennessee. It was a horribly hot southern, humidity filled day. The air conditioner at the factory had quit and we were all just about sick from the heat.  As soon as I walked in the door, Lisa told me Elvis was dead.  I hadn't heard and I was sure someone had killed him.  He was too young to die.  I raced to turn on the t.v., coverage was everywhere--on each channel and the radio.


We soon learned the facts, or as much as the press was allowed to tell us. We mourned his death.


I believe there are some people who are bigger than life.  They can't age, get old like the rest of us.  We won't allow it.  They have to always remain beautiful, young, vibrant and forced to deal with their demons by themselves.


This is the way it was for James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Elvis Presley.  They were all bigger than life, charismatic and troubled and we loved them.  All these years later, we still do.

2012 A Message to My Friends and Family

Good morning friends and family, and welcome 2012. 

I started writing a blog yesterday but I was forcing the words and images to surface and join me.  They wanted to be anywhere else but with me.  So I will spare you the story about my "Fabulous 5 Dollar Tomato Plant."  Hmmm, even I don't want to hear that story!!!  Although the tomatoes were great!

I was at a loss for the right story.  My muse was still hung over from New Years Eve and didn't feel like talking to me.  I hate it when that happens, she has the morals of an alley cat at times!!!!  But I do miss her when she is not around. 

Today, she showed up as I was reading a Face Book page. I read a quote that immediately started a mini movie in my minds eye. The movie was going at warp speed and I had to just stop what I was reading and start jotting down ideas.

I started trading postcards almost a year ago.  I enjoy the cards but I enjoy the people more.  They have become an extended part of my family.  We exchange letters, cards, emails, and talk on face book. We aren't afraid to tell each other the truth when asked a difficult question.  We encourage each other in our life pursuits. I care about these people I have never met and they care about me. 

My husband thinks I am just a tad bit CRAZY in this area.  Maybe other areas too, but this one for sure. He really does not understand the concept of being friends with people you have never met. It is so easy, all anyone has to do is be themselves, open your mind and heart and let the friendships find you. And they will. How long the friendship lasts, no one knows, but that is the same with all friendships. Some people come into our lives for a "reason, others for a season and some for life"


I talk about my friends to him, share stories and he looks at me like I fell out of a tree.  So I have quit sharing my friends with him.  That is fine with Tommy, although I do think he misses the stories. When he asks about someone, I will tell him what is going on in their life--but he has to ask first.


Sometimes I will be staring off into space, and he will say something like, "What country are you in right now?"  When I tell him, he will shake his head and say something like, "sure hope we don't go to war with them!!!"  Or "hope he isn't a terrorists"  One day as I was opening my mail, Tommy said and I quote, "You know the CIA has a file on you, don't you?"  I shot daggers at him and then let it go.  He is just messing with me, like he did when he was a kid.  He doesn't have to understand, as long as I do.

 The following quote is the reason for this blog.  "Family isn't always blood.  It's the people in your life who want you in theirs; the ones who accept you for who you are. The ones who would do anything to see you smile and who love you no matter what."  Author Unknown . I received this from Abran.

That describes my postcard, face book family to a T. In fact, I wish I had written that quote. It is perfect for the people in my life. With all this said, I am closing with my usual ending on face book. Have a wonderful day, make lots of memories and love to all.  2012 is going to be a wonderful year.  I am looking forward to sharing it with all of you.