A Roller Skating Flashback

I haven't thought about roller skating in ages.  I haven't actually roller skated in longer than that.  But one particular memory of roller skating flashed back to me recently which brought on many more memories. 

Skating is something I used to do growing up like everyone else of a certain generation.  Friday night at the roller rink was kinda the hot place to be.  I could skate but I wasn't an excellent skater.  I could go around the rink forward fairly fast and I could skate backwards a tad if I had to.  But I wasn't an "in-the-middle-of-the-rink" kind of skater.  You know those kids--the twirlers, the couples holding hands, the ones who lifted a foot to gracefully put it in front of the other foot.  And then there were those that could glide around the rink going backwards, spin and then go frontwards for awhile.  Show-offs!

Personally, I much preferred being on the perimeter of the rink.  Plus it made it easier to stop (by gliding toward the wall with outstretched arms and grabbing hold when I got close enough!)  Like I said, I wasn't an excellent skater and I definitely was relieved when skating was not the Friday night thing to do.  However, I think bowling may have taken its place.  Oh dear, those memories!!!

Skating was one thing, but bowling...Bowling was physically painful.  I know one could fall at skating and that would be painful, but this pain had nothing to do with falling but everything to do with continued discomfort while bowling.  It wasn't because of the form I had when I bowled or that I chose a ball that was too heavy.  The problem was that bowling alleys put the size of the shoe you rented on the backs of all the shoes.  So?  You may say.  And if you do say that, then you probably wear a size 7 shoe, or 8 max.  Not me, nope.  Couldn't be so lucky! 

The luck I hoped for in the bowling alley (besides not having a gutter bowl every time) was for no one to hear me when having to say what size shoe I needed.  Back then, everyone had small feet--now I just refer to them as having "baby feet."  The girls would all wear a size 6 or 7 or possibly an 8.  No one else, I mean NO ONE, wore a size 10!  (Okay, actually, I didn't either--I really needed an 11!)

So what does a tall, skinny young girl do in a situation like that?  Clearly the solution is to ask for a size 9, right?  That's still big in comparison to my friends but at least it was a single digit and maybe if I were really lucky the size 9 would be old and fuzzy and hard to read.  At that young age, I could endure the pain for the couple of hours of fun!

Another solution, of course, was that this same tall, skinny girl could have asked for a man's shoe and that would be in a smaller size.  Sure!  But the men's shoes were a different color.  (How embarrassing that would be--a different color of shoe and a big one at that.  You know how important appearances are to teens.  Glad I'm way over that!!! Almost)  So, nope. That didn't happen!

Now that I think about it, skating was much better than bowling.  At least the skates didn't have sizes on the back.  But in my flashback it didn't matter anyway.  This flashback occurred after spending some time with a really good college friend.   

This friend and I were very close and so alike...except that she was petite, beautiful, and confident;  plus, she could skate, sing, and probably bowl.  Not positive about the bowling part. 

But she did have the skating and singing to perfection and she was definitely beautiful.  I'm not being subjective about that.  After all, she was a contestant in a beauty pageant during those college days. And that is what this flashback is about.

Every beauty pageant has a talent section, right?  This one, of course, did too.  Carol chose as her talent a song to sing that Barbra Streisand sang in the movie, "Funny Girl."  If you remember in the movie Barbra skated while she sang the song, "I'd Rather Be Blue."  So, Carol chose to not only sing as her talent but also to skate while singing the song. 

I must say that I certainly wouldn't have chosen skating (or bowling) as my talent in a beauty contest.  Actually, I don't think I would have chosen singing either.  But who am I kidding?  I wasn't and never will be in a beauty pageant.

But my friend was and she was great!  I remember her practicing her song with her skates on in the dorm room and down the hall.  I wasn't much help in either category as far as giving advice on her singing or skating but I was good cheerleader for her...supporting her and telling her how good she was doing.  Of course, it was easy to do that.  Not only was she talented and beautiful, she was sweet, kind and a good friend.

I met Carol in my freshman year at Ouachita Baptist University.  She lived at the end of the hall.  We shared some classes, some study notes, some meals in the dining hall and some really good times together.  We went to each other's homes for some weekends and got to know each other's parents and families.

Her family lived in a small town in Arkansas and at that time my parents lived in Memphis.  What a wonderful experience to get a glimpse of life in a small town.  Country girl and city girl--but actually she was much more sophisticated than me.  It didn't matter; we were friends.

Our friendship has lasted over all these years but not in the way you think it will when you are in college.  At that point in your life, you can't imagine not staying in contact, not being available to share things frequently in each other's lives;  you just know that you will be best friends forever. 

But circumstances will change things; life styles and patterns change--time goes by, life goes by and suddenly one day you realize that you haven't seen or heard from this best friend in months, so on and so on. But the great memories and feelings about that person are still important to you.

This is what happened to an extent with Carol and me after college.  We would see each other occasionally, maybe in a store, at a community gathering, over lunch if we were lucky.  But it always was easy to step back into a closeness and we always were able to catch up somewhat on each other's lives. You have friends like that, I'm sure.

Luckily we connected again recently and I am so thrilled.  As it happens, we now live within 5-10 minutes of each other.  Before Christmas, she had an Open House Christmas party and she invited me.  I went and enjoyed visiting a bit with her (not enough but after all, she had her hostess duties!), seeing her lovely house, and meeting some of her friends.  It was also fascinating to see the mutual friends that were there.  Who knew?

Then the other day I ran into her at a restaurant.  We visited for just a few minutes but we did a great thing...we made a commitment and a specific date to get together again.  (That's what it takes--not just the stand-by "We've got to get together" comment.)  She came to my house for lunch the very next week as we planned.   It was a lunch full of reminiscing, laughing, and listening with our hearts.

A few days later, she dropped off some wonderful Warren-grown tomatoes at my house. Yum!  I feel like we are getting to really know each other (again) but this time as adults with life-long experiences that have affected us and "grown us" to where we are today--strong women who have a "joie de vivre," a great love and pride in our families, and a positive view of life, God, and spirituality.

I am grateful for knowing her;  I am better for knowing her.  She is a valued friend, a beautiful woman with a kind heart and a loving attitude.  She is lovable and I love her whether I see her weekly, monthly, or yearly.  Plus, she inspires me and loves me.  How lucky I am!

It may be that we even start seeing each other more frequently--every week or so or we just may still see each other on occasions.  I'm not sure, but I do know we will get together again; after all, there are more stories and memories to share such as the roller skating beauty pageant flashback (which we didn't even get to last time, but I'm sure she remembers it!)  There are more laughs to have, more discussions, and more memories to create.

Who knows...we may even meet next time at the skating rink! 

Falling for Facebook...Teasers

I'm bored.  Going on for three days now, I haven't been able to speak above a whisper.  The first day it happened, I didn't even know it had happened.  I went to school early to open up as I usually do on  Thursdays.  I did the routine opening up things--turned on lights all over the building, unlocked the office doors, copied the list of instructions for some teachers to do, put some ideas I had gathered in the teachers' boxes, checked email, copied things.  Finally, the two early morning teachers arrived and I went to the door to let them in and greet them as I usually do.

There they were nearing the door.  I opened the door and said, "Hello," except nothing came out of the mouth.  No voice at all.  My mouth moved but that was it.  What a surprise!  Since I have no one else at home these days, not even a dog, I hadn't talked until that very moment and did not know that I couldn't talk.  I hadn't gone by Sonic for a coke; I hadn't had to run into Wal-Mart to grab something I had forgotten that the teachers needed.  I hadn't talked to anyone.

My throat was tight but that didn't mean much to me early on. 

Nevertheless, because I was practically useless--couldn't answer the phone, couldn't interact with the children, couldn't even greet parents beyond a smile and a wave--I soon went home and went to bed.  That felt good; I guess I really needed some extra sleep, but it didn't cure the voice thing.

I've spent the last 3 days (seems like months) in the bed napping, doing phone games, watching TV, and reading Facebook and not talking.   Oh, yes, and writing a blog or two.

But it is the reading Facebook for so long that got me thinking about writing this particular blog.

Do you ever read a headline in Facebook and the headline is so dramatic or scary or intense that you have to go to the next page and read more.  It's like you have to find out what the bride found out on her wedding day that would change her life forever, or why that waitress was let go without pay after she let out a huge cry, or if the baby was really born on a motorcycle going 75 miles an hour.  Okay, I made those up but you know what I mean.  Some of the headline teasers are about that extreme and I admit I have been curious enough to take the tease and read them...a lot (especially these last three days).

Who makes up these teasers?  I know why they do--it is to entice readers (gullible or bored like me) to continue the post but honestly!  Sometimes they have nothing to do with the real article.  Nevertheless, I decided I would try this method to entice more readers to read my blogs.  So, I am going to see what you think using a couple of the blogs I have written over the last month or so.  I will write the title of the blog and then enhance it with a Facebook-style tease and see what you think.

"The Case of the Missing Keys"-- 

• Read more to find out if a stranded little old lady was arrested for trying to steal a car from a parking lot...
  or

• Read more to find out if irate old lady does damage in upscale restaurant and why...

"The Day Dad Wore His Shirt Inside Out"--

• Read more about the business man who became confused and how he showed up at work....

    or

•  Read how a parent is humiliated in elevator and why...

Like I said, sometimes on Facebook, I have to look back on the original story to see what it started out being.  It seems it doesn't necessarily have to relate to the article and then if it does relate somehow it doesn't explain the teaser.  Same with my blog teasers!

Like I said, "I'm bored."  Please, Voice, come back so I ...

Read more to find out if old lady ever talks again and to whom...Then like and share if you love Jesus!  (But that's a whole other subject which I may get to someday or soon if my voice continues to fail me!)

The Case of the Missing Keys

My keys went missing this week--the car key with the red house key on it, that is, not the work keys with about 10 keys on the squiggly bracelet.  Yes, they were gone, but I didn't lose them, per se.  They just became missing.

There is a difference, you know.  I will admit to losing my keys upon occasion, both sets actually--just not at the same time.  I prefer to think everyone does or has at some time.  When the husband is home, I often hear, "Where are the blankety blank keys!' or "What'd 'cha do with the keys!!!" Or, depending on how long it is taking or how late husband is, worse things are mumbled.

Or maybe that comes after I say, "Why didn't you put them back where they belong--by the door!" (I don't mean to say that; it just pops out!)

It's so easy to be righteous and smug when someone else does something wrong that you have just done right, right?  (Never mind that you have done the same wrong thing many times, right again? )

Nevertheless, it is true--I have misplaced my keys a few times as well and it is very frustrating, especially when husband is not home because I have no one to blame but myself, no one to help me scurry around looking for them, and no one to yell at.

It's always interesting when you actually find them.  Then you remember why they are where they are.  You remember it all, maybe.  However, the worse place to find your keys is in the door on the outside the next morning.  Yep, I've done that a time or two but don't worry, it's not very often.

But here's the interesting part--when that does happen, and I have been looking by myself all over the house and in my purse, and pants, and everywhere, and then for some reason open the door and there they are in the keyhole, I am not scared at what I had done or worried, not at all--I am thrilled!  I am thrilled that I have FOUND my keys and now can go to work or wherever. 

Hopefully, you don't leave your keys in the door or lose them and certainly I hope they don't just go missing like mine did, but I would bet that misplacing them happens to everyone sometime.  However, as I think about that statement, my dad comes to mind.  I don't think Daddy ever lost his keys because he would always come in and go straight to the bedroom and put his wallet, keys, change on the same tray every day.  I cannot recall a single time he didn't do this, even in his old age.

So how do you lose your car keys when you have used them to go to a store, restaurant, wherever, and get out of the car, click the lock on your key fob, and then when you come out of the wherever, you don't have the keys.  Of course, you are thinking, well, you simply left them in the store.  I, too, have thought that and actually did think that the evening my keys went missing.

Here is how it happened:  Just a night or two ago, I went into a favorite restaurant close by
to pick up a salad for a friend and me to share for dinner at my house.  I visited with another friend who was on the patio and whom I hadn't seen in awhile and then went in.  I stood in line to order, flirted with a cute little toddler girl and visited with her mom until it was my turn to order and get the dinner.  I got my salad, paid for it, scooted over out of the line to get my keys out of my purse, so I could quickly jump in the car and get home before my guest arrived.  Well, guess what?  I couldn't find them.  They were no where in my purse!  They were missing!

Dang it!  I hate this.  I am really bad about just throwing money, keys, receipts, etc. in my purse willy-nilly.  Things are never put back in an organized manner.   When I can't quickly retrieve something in my purse, I vow to be more conscientious and put things back in order--forevermore.  I also vow to have a holder of some kind where I put my car key every time I get out of the car.  Same vow that evening. And I do that unless I get distracted or I'm in a hurry or someone is waving at me from the patio.

Nevertheless, I took everything out, (twice), looked back at the register where I paid, went out to where my friend was, explained to her the problem, looked around her table while she looked through my purse (again and even commented on the fact that there were dollar bills and change everywhere but in my wallet).  No keys.  My keys had vanished.  They were simply missing!

I even went to the car to check to see if I had dropped them there or if somehow they were still in the car. No keys by the car; no keys in the car from the window I was peeking in; no keys anywhere.

So I turned around, went back in the restaurant and questioned the waiters behind the salad bar again.  No one had seen them. I looked on the floor under the counter between the legs of the waiting customers.  ("Excuse me.  Excuse me," I said eyeing the floor and inadvertently bumping into them); I looked on the counter again.


All the time I felt the eyes of the preppy young people roll as they were watching the little old lady look for her lost keys.  "Bless her heart!" "Poor thing."  I know they were saying that even though I didn't actually hear them say anything.  But you know they were.  I probably would have been at their ages.

Then I asked a young lady behind the counter if any keys had been turned in.  The guy at the register said, "Yeah, she was just in here and paid for her salad and she's already been back once."  (Hey, I can't leave without my keys, ya know, fellow!)  Well, the young lady went around the counter and pulled out the shelf between the salad bar and the counter and there they were--she heard them before she saw them as they jingled when she moved the counter!!!!

VINDICATION!  I am NOT a forgetful old lady who probably left her keys in the car or in her purse.  They were STOLEN by that counter.  NOT MY FAULT!  See, I am NOT a forgetful little old lady. 

Obviously, it must have happened before at least a time or two or that young, intelligent, beautiful, sweet, patient girl wouldn't have looked between the cracks. Thank you; thank you; thank you.

I then proudly went back outside, displayed my keys to my friend, explained where they had been, said good-bye again, and proceeded to the car.   All of a sudden, I realized that the car I was approaching--the exact one that I peeked in when looking for my keys--was NOT my car.

I quickly and sheepishly looked back to see if my friend was watching and thank goodness, she wasn't so I hurriedly scurried to my car which was a little further down the parking lot as fast as my little old lady legs would carry me, unlocked the door, jumped in (or kinda maneuvered myself in), turned on the ignition, backed up without hearing any beep, beep, beep, and swiftly left.  Whew!  How embarrassing that would have been to have my friend witness another "old person" event. 

I couldn't help wonder, though, as I drove off chuckling at myself (ya gotta laugh), if the owners of that mistaken car were also on the patio and had been watching the "little old lady" try to get into the wrong car--their car!

Nevertheless, the mystery is solved; I have my keys!  Now to find my pride and dignity again.  

The Day Dad Wore His Shirt Wrong Side Out

This story is an old one.  It happened years ago and you may have heard it before.  It's about Dad but not really about the way he dressed then or now, and actually not really about Dad.  But he did actually wear his shirt wrong side out.

The real story is about why he wore his shirt wrong side out.

It started on a Saturday night.  A friend and her husband came over to share a lovely dinner of steaks, greens, baked potatoes and salads.  What a fun evening.  We ate a lot, laughed a lot, and told a lot of stories.  Plus, we were both a lot pregnant.  Whether it was the delicious heavy meal or just my time, my body decided to go into labor during the middle of that night--or so I thought.  Butterfly McQueen and I had a lot in common, "I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies."  This was our first time, too.

After calling the doctor, we made our way to the hospital only to be told we needed to walk around.  It wasn't exactly time yet, they implied, but they didn't send us home either.  So we walked the floors in my beautiful hospital gown or I should say--gowns.  You know, one for the front and one for the back.

We walked slowly up and down, up and down, the silent halls of the hospital for what seemed to be hours.  Occasionally we would hear a bell calling for a nurse, or static from the nurses' station or nurses hurriedly walking to a patient's room. But on we walked, stopping only when contractions took over.  Let me just say, having contractions standing up was not discussed in our in Lamaze classes, I am positive.

Finally, they let us have a room and then the fun really began.  Contractions picked up; nurses came in and out; a doctor would appear and disappear.  It was like Grand Central.  If I ever had modesty, it certainly was all gone after that night.  Plus, I began thinking and probably saying, "This is NOT fun.  I will NOT ever do this again."  (By the way, it only took 2 years to abandon that declaration!)

After a night of labor, this baby came into this world. Our little baby came out to meet us at 8:00 on a Sunday morning and was a "she."  We were thrilled even though I thought in my grand knowledge of the future that the baby would be a boy.  Well, not happening--not then; not later.  We discovered we were destined for girls and started the tradition with that precious baby girl.

(Man, have things changed--back then you wouldn't know the sex of the baby nor when the exact day he or she would be born.  You would be given a "due date" which was an approximation by the doctor.  Actually, it only meant that the baby might come two weeks before or after that given date.  Now those babies often come out on the date chosen by the mother with names chosen by both parents, with big bows in their hair and their monograms already engraved on everything but the baby.)

Our precious first born decided herself when to come.  It was a beautiful Sunday morning on May 22, 1977 (much like this morning--May 21, 2017).  We did have a name picked out and a baby bed in the simple and bare (compared to today's standards) nursery.  Nevertheless, she made me a mother and what a thrill it was to become a mother, to become her mother.  Surprisingly, she didn't even complain about the nursery being so lightly furnished and decorated.

She was perfect--8 pounds of perfection in fact--the sweetest little face with reddish/blonde hair, sweetheart-shaped lips; 10 perfect little fingers and 10 perfect little toes.  Having her was everything I ever thought becoming a mother would be.  I still remember when bringing her home to our very first house how I hoped I would remember every little thing she did.  I didn't want to forget a thing.  It was all so sweet.

Of course I did forget many of the cute things she did--that's what happens.  I remember telling my sister how I wanted to remember everything and please, tell me how to do that.  She responded encouragingly but honestly--"You don't, but you do remember the love and joy that abounds." And she was right.  Those were indeed joyful days with a happy little baby.

One thing that does stand out during those first few hours and days after our little baby joined our family is her father's reaction to being a new dad.  I must say that the labor and delivery was tough and evidently not just on me.  Like I said, we had gone through the Lamaze method of training for labor and even though they skipped some steps (like how to stand up and have contractions), compared to other women's stories of their labors, ours wasn't too bad.

So, yes, birthing a baby is hard on mom and dad; in fact, that whole first day was exhausting.  We were excited and proud but having been without much sleep going on for 2 days now was beginning to show.  (Little did we know that the feeling of exhaustion would not end in a day or two.  In fact, as I recall it lasted for several years!)

But we were too excited to realize how tired we both were--well, especially me!   (After all, I did all the work, and he just did the coaching, "Breathe, Breathe.  Find your focus point.  Breathe!" Honestly, I may have responded with, "SHUT UP" at choice times, not sure! )

Putting up with all that would definitely be difficult especially if one has no sleep. 

Her grandparents did have sleep; we didn't call and wake them when we headed to the hospital.  They came immediately, though, upon receiving the phone call announcing her birth.  Of course, they oohed and aahed over her.  On my side of the family she was the 8th grandchild to join the party.  On other other side she was the first.  Needless to say, all four grandparents were thrilled.

Now I know exactly how they felt about becoming a grandparent or becoming one again.  Each child, each grandchild is such a blessing and a special miracle; who could not love and cherish, ooh and aah, over such a blessing.  And so it was with this one.

After birthing her, the day was spent in getting to see her and learning about what to do with her!  Taking care of her is different after birth than before, right.  We got all the instructions that first morning--how to hold her; how to nurse her, how to change her diapers, and then how to let her go back to the hospital nursery.  (Those were the days long before the baby stayed in the room with you.)

There was a lot to absorb with a sleepless brain and evidently Dad's brain was still asleep when he went to work the next day.

Here's what happened.  On Monday, leaving the new mom and new baby in the hands of the hospital staff, the new dad went to work--probably a little late considering what all the weekend had entailed.  Nevertheless, he did make it to work.  He got off the elevator all happy and proud, but dragging a little, I'm sure. 

Then he either looked down at himself or some helpful friends pointed out to him that he had his shirt on wrong-side out!  Everyone laughed as they knew why and knew what new babies can honestly cause you do.  But, hey, he had a shirt on, right?

I think that was the only time he did dress in such an unusual way--at least to go to work, but plenty of other things in our same-o, same-o life was now totally new and unusual.  Adding the dogs to our family a few years before was interesting and challenging, but nothing quite like adding a third real live little human being.

Everything was now centered on that little thing that weighed about as much as a sack of potatoes but was a lot wigglier, interesting, and smart.  As a matter of fact, she was probably the smartest baby ever born before that day.  She was so attentive, watched us as we talked to her, engaged in our conversations with plenty of coos and gurgles, and did almost everything on schedule if not early.  She was simply brilliant. (We, as first time parents, believed that whether it was true or not then; but, you know what?  She actually still is!)

When she was turning one, we would ask her, "How old are you?"  She would proudly put out one finger and say, "One," with a big grin.   Even before that age, she would listen to me and help me find things that I had lost or put away in a strange place.  (True sign of brilliance, right?!!?)

She loved books (and still does).  Being read to was a favorite thing for her.  I can't tell you how many books we read per day.  She would love to bring me books and I would love to read them to her.  In fact, when she was about 2 years old, she brought a Clifford book to her uncle and opened it and read, "Hi!  I'm Emily Elizabeth."

If you've ever read the original Clifford book, you know that is exactly how it starts.  My brother who has three older daughters of his own couldn't help but laugh and be impressed.  Of course, she memorized books because we read them so much, but still...isn't that brilliant!  :)

She was a National Merit Semi-Finalist in high school; she went to England to study through a program at Hendrix.  She graduated from Hendrix.  She can discuss anything with anybody because she knows so much.  She reads constantly; she writes daily.  She is creative and artistic.  She can sew; she can make quilts and baby toys; she can draw.  She is wonderful.

This baby who was just born a minute ago is now 40 years old.  Isn't that hard to believe?  She has added so much to our lives and we all love her so much.  Her dad only occasionally gets his shirt on wrong side out now (and just at home I might add).

I've learned a lot from her and I hope she feels and knows the pride her dad and I have in her.  I love her; we love her; and I love being her momma!  Always have.  Always will.

Thank you, God, for sending her to us exactly 40 years ago.  Happy birthday, sweet girl, our Holly Cherice Jones.

One Man's Living and Dying and Things in Between

Recently, a very best friend of mine asked me to help him write his obituary.  No, he is not about to die anymore than any of us are, but of course I said I would whenever he wanted me to.

Although this is not the obit he was referring to, his request got me thinking about living and dying and things in between.  So I decided to write these thoughts about him now and in doing so, I am reminded of what Jackie said in the movie, “Waking Ned Devine” about his friend Michael:

“Michael O'Sullivan was my great friend. But I don't ever remember telling him that. The words that are spoken at a funeral are spoken too late for the man who is dead. What a wonderful thing it would be to visit your own funeral. To sit at the front and hear what was said, maybe say a few things yourself. Michael and I grew old together. But at times, when we laughed, we grew young. If he was here now, if he could hear what I say, I'd congratulate him on being a great man, and thank him for being a friend.”

So here, my friend, Chuck Kelly, are my words and thoughts I want you to hear from me about you while you are alive:

When my friend dies, I will miss him like crazy.  He is intelligent, fun, and witty.  He is not handy or mechanically minded at all, but he is a most successful man.  He strove for excellence in his work and achieved it.  In the height of his career, most people around town knew him or recognized his face.

I first knew of him and recognized him from TV.  He was the news anchor on Channel 11.  Eventually, I got to know him personally from attending the same church as he did and was even in the same Sunday School class as he and his wife were.

We became fast friends as couples and socialized together as well as traveled together.  There was never a dull moment.  He told jokes, repeated jokes, and got laughs every time.  Rarely was he without a story, a joke, or a comment to entertain or inform us.

This man could write and he could make speeches.  He was a communicator.  Although he always claimed he was going to write a book, he has yet to get to that.  This is about the only thing he hasn't gotten around to doing.  Had he, it would have been good.

Professionally, he was a successful anchorman for many years.  Then, when he was ready to face another challenge, he accepted a position at AP&L, later called Entergy.  Soon he became a vice president there.  In both fields he was able to go many places and meet many people creating lots of material for a great book.

He worked hard throughout his career, but he found time to play as well.  He has always loved to spend his time watching basketball and football especially when his beloved LSU teams play as well as when the U of A plays.  At one point he was the kind of fan that would travel to games and tournaments whenever he could and hated to miss a game due to work.  He still hates to miss a game but now he is usually perched in front of the TV yelling at or cheering his team on. 

His interest in sports was not limited to watching football and basketball.  Somewhere along the way, he became obsessed with duck hunting and later fly-fishing.   When he took up duck hunting, he hunted every chance he could, getting up before dawn on the coldest of days to sit in the woods and wait for the ducks to fly over.  Only duck hunters absolutely get this insanity.  

When he became interested in fly-fishing, he was 100% committed to that as well.  He even became quite good at tying his own flies--a tedious job to say the least.  To indulge his love of fishing, they bought a house on the White River so he could have ample time and a convenient place to fish.  

Family and friends are an important part of his life.  He has been married for over 54 years and has two children.  Being a great host with his great hostess wife, their house is always open for friends to gather and eat, drink, and be merry.  For years, their Christmas Open House has been a must-do for old and new friends.  It is an anticipated event and has became a tradition.

Several years after retirement, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.  Once again, he has taken this challenge on as determinedly as any of his other challenges.  Being one who will only take an aspirin--at the most--and only if dreadfully sick, he has fought this ailment without medications for years by exercising and eating right. 

When he sets his head to achieve something, he achieves it.  This applies to his disease as well.  He has put 110% effort in working out and it has paid off.  His Parkinson’s has been slow in progressing but not surprisingly, it has progressed.

I have never heard him complain or become bitter about this unwanted condition and we have had many deep discussions from illnesses to solving the world’s problems to reminiscing about the fun times we have had which indeed make us grow "young again."  He is such a good listener and fun conversationalist.  No wonder he has been successful in so many areas of his life.

One couldn’t reflect on this man without acknowledging his wonderful voice and his head of hair which has become white through the years giving him a very distinguished look.  His voice isn't the singing kind of a great voice but the talking, narrating, speech-making kind.  It could be booming or gentle--either way it was significant. 

Although both hair and voice changed over the years because of the disease and the curse of getting older, it is a distinctive part of him as much as his habit of flicking his finger between his nose and mouth while concentrating or reading--or his color-blindness and inability to color coordinate his clothes to his wife's suiting.

Anyone who knows him quickly develops a respected relationship with him and would have plenty of their own stories to share from the interactions they have with him.

The special friendship between us--and as a matter of fact, between the four of us--will always stand out in our memories--the dinners together, Trivia Pursuit games, the beach trips, the tennis matches,  the miniature golf outings, the sleepovers at the river house, the New Orleans house, the Texas house, and even sharing a room in a quaint hotel in Northern California can't be forgotten...ever.  We, like many others who know him, consider ourselves lucky.

I can only add, as Jackie did in his farewell to Michael, "Congratulations on being a great man, and thank you for being a friend" who I love and who I will miss terribly when you are gone.

"I Wanna Hold Your Hand"

I love the idea of holding hands, don't you?  It is such a sweet connection between two people. I'm lucky--not everyone can hold hands at work.  (You know those laws about harassment.)  But I get to hold hands a lot  Of course, they are children's hands, but it is so sweet and enjoyable.

Of all the children's hands I get to hold, I especially love getting to hold the grandsons' hands.  Now, though, holding hands with first grandson is limited.  I get to when crossing a street and in parking lots.  He is 5.  Those are the required hand-holding times and he accepts that pretty well.  Other hand-holding opportunities with him are few and far between.  He drops the hand quickly.  Just as quickly, he "wipes off" the kisses I love to give him.  He's big now, you know.

Second Grandson who isn't even 2 years old yet has already stopped needing to hold my hand to toddle around.  He's quite good at toddling on his own these days.  He is still carried a lot which I love; but when he is older, I will definitely enjoy holding his hand for however long he will allow it--probably just the few minutes we cross a street or a parking lot, like big brother.

Holding those sweet little hands is so pure and uncomplicated.  But holding hands doesn't necessarily stay that way.  All too soon, it is anything but uncomplicated.  Remember the teen-aged days when it was thought about, longed for, dreamed about.  Then on occasion it could be icky, ignored, dreaded and avoided if possible.

Grown-up hand-holding is definitely an intriguing subject to me.  I'm a watcher.  I always watch those people who walk down the street hand in hand.  You see the teen-aged boy and girl holding hands as well as an adult man and woman.  These days it is not uncommon to see a girl and a girl or woman and a woman or guys of the same sex holding hands. All of them may range from timidly holding hands to boldly.  

This makes it quite interesting--thinking about and perhaps guessing about their relationships.  Are they in a new relationship?  Are they “old married folks?”  Just what is going on?  A lot of our couple friends hold hands and I think they definitely would fall into the “old married folks” category. They look comfortable with the act so I guess they have held hands for many years.  

This husband of mine is not a big hand-holder and I don't know why he is not.  I've given it quite a bit of thought through these 43 years of marital bliss.  On occasion I've even grabbed his hand and forced him to hold mine.  Well, for a bit.  Then the hand would fall off.  I've even tried to ask him about it and I will admit I even pouted about it while we've walked down the street not touching hands.  (Didn't help a bit!)

So why is it?  I can't figure it out but I wonder:  Is it because it hurts his hands?  Is it because it is awkward?  Is it because his hands secretly sweat?  Is it because he has hand-arthritis and never told me?  I don't think those are the answers.

Maybe it is just a disability.  Are there others in the world with this disability?   Wondering this, I went to the source of ALL information, Google, and typed in "holding hands." Surprisingly, I discovered that this simple action is much more deep-seated than anyone, especially me, would have guessed.

To be honest, I didn't think I would find much factual information about it.  I figured I'd find the lyrics from the Beatles song, "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" and maybe some references to other songs about "the act."  But no—I found that hand-holding "reveals the secrets of a relationship!"  Dang!  I should have studied this subject years, no decades, earlier.

Now I’m worried and it gets worse!

The great and mighty Google said, "Not only is hand-holding a very essential and fundamental part of any relationship, it is also reveals quite a lot about what you feel for the person you’re with."  Uh-oh.  Maybe we are in trouble and we didn’t know it.  

Don't get me wrong--I know we both love each other!  But what if we had held hands all these years?  Would we love each other more?  Would our relationship be significantly and essentially better? 

Now to add insult to injury, I discovered that there are nine different ways to hand-hold and the “secrets” of what they mean.  (Want to know these secrets?  You know where to go.)

So I read through all the nine ways.  They have names like “The Down-Facing Palm,” “The Tightly-Interlocked Fingers,” “The One-Fingered Hand-Hold,” etc.  Hmmm.  Very complicated and not at all reassuring to a half of a non-hand holding couple.  But I wasn't through.

Next, I decided to investigate in the same scientific way "couples who do not hold hands!"  Obviously, there are those, besides husband, who don't "wanna hold your hand." I read that some non-hand holders take offense and object to the analysis of it.  Some object to the idea that it is "romantic."  Some think it is only done to show "ownership." (yuck)  There were as many reasons not to hold hands as kinds of hand holding.  

So holding hands is perhaps NOT an essential part of a relationship.  Maybe it really doesn't reveal a thing.    Maybe it's not a guaranteed thing; maybe holding hands does not equal holding a marriage together.  After all, if  I remember correctly, some of our hand-holding friends from the past are now divorced!  Hmm.

But I must read on...

The most prominent non-hand holding couple mentioned was the Royals--beautiful Kate and William.  Did you realize that they are not hand-holders? I hadn’t really thought about it at all. 

According to Goggle, "Not only do the royal duo have immense respect for one another, but they also seem to be immensely happy and endlessly in love more or less all of the time...the reason they aren't [hand-holders] is simply a matter of decorum."  

So there!  That answers the question for them and maybe for others.  I'm feeling a lot better.  At least we are in good company.  Every scientific study has a conclusion, right?  So, after all this deep studying of my own about hand holding, I think I've finally reached a conclusion.  

Husband doesn't hold hands because...wait for it... he just doesn't like it.

He doesn't like beets either. 

P.S. 

My study did reveal important facts to me.   Husband and I are non-hand holders and that’s okay.  There are other couples that are also non-hand holders, and that’s okay.  We don’t fit in the Google categories, and that’s okay.  We do, however,  fit the quote below and that’s not okay, that is wonderful!

“He closed his eyes, and I closed mine, and even though we weren't holding hands, it felt like we were.  Because what we had, we knew.” ― Kami Garcia, Beautiful Chaos

Making Tea and Friends

If you live in the South, you have to know how to make iced tea.  If you live in the South, you also have to know how to make friends, right?  Many times the process of making friends starts by entertaining them in your southern home.  You know how it is and likely have seen it portrayed perfectly in the movies--the exquisite southern gentlewoman entertaining ladies who have "come calling." Usually they are served a tall glass of fresh iced tea with mint and perhaps a petit four.  Classic Southern Hospitality!

Yes, Southern hospitality is a way of life--not just a saying.  It has been documented in literature and newspapers throughout the years.  "Some characteristics of southern hospitality were described as early as 1835, when Jacob Abbott attributed the poor quality of taverns in the south to the lack of need for them, given the willingness of southerners to provide for strangers." (Wikipedia)

Abbott continues by saying, "Conversation flows cheeringly, for the southern gentleman has a particular tact in making a guest happy. After dinner you are urged to pass the afternoon and night...Such is the character of southern hospitality."  If a man successfully covered the definition for "southern gentlemen," then you know that the women automatically would take the whole concept of Southern hospitality to a whole new level.

Now I'm not saying I am a Southern gentlewoman by any means, but I do have characteristics of that Southern hospitality as described by Abbott.  I love having guests over (after I spend a day cleaning, rearranging, and most likely panicking to a degree).  I have been taught the skills of being a hostess.  Although I would never try to make "petit fours," I am willing to say that I can make iced tea (even though these days I tend to buy the ready-made gallons of the sweet variety in the refrigerated section of the grocery stores).

So having iced tea and ladies in my home is not an unusual event, but becoming fast friends because of my iced tea was a most unusual (thankfully) event.

Let me explain...

When we bought a house in Little Rock, we had one little girl and were expecting another one.  Before long, we were expecting our third girl.  So I was basically a stay-at-home-mother for awhile.  

Fortunately for me, there were some other young mothers in the neighborhood who weren't working.  It so happened that these moms all had little girls around the same ages as mine.  So immediately we bonded and would gather at each others' houses for visits while the girls played.   The adult conversations were always a welcomed change from continuous interaction with preschoolers.  Although I'm sure our conversations were frequently interrupted to settle squabbles ("You can't come to my birthday party" or "She said she won't be my friend") and sometimes to simply check on them when things got too quiet.

It was through one of these gatherings that I met the newest neighbor at the time.   We really meshed early on and I invited her to come to my house one afternoon with her little girl in tow.  Of course, as always when I have guest over, I did my rushed straightening-up-job and certainly had prepared some iced tea for the occasion.

We got the girls involved in playing with an assortment of dolls and then we sat down at the kitchen table to begin our visit.  Trying to be that gracious hostess, I offered some iced tea to my new neighbor.  While we chatted, I got the glasses out of the cabinet;  I filled them with ice.  I put the lid to the pitcher on, getting it ready to pour.  Then it happened!  No, I didn't spill the ice out of the glasses or knock off the glasses and break them.  No, the lid to the tea pitcher didn't fall off.  And, no, I didn't spill any tea.  It was worse, much worse than any of those goofs (although any of them could have easily happened).

When I was pouring the freshly steeped tea from the pitcher, not only did the tea come out of the pitcher but a DISHCLOTH almost made it out!  Yes, you read it correctly.  (Thank goodness I had remembered to put the lid on the pitcher.)  But somehow, someway, sometime when I wasn't looking a dishcloth had surreptitiously fallen into the pitcher.  (It was a clean one, though.) Evidently, it had fallen into the pitcher at some point when I had opened the cabinet where I kept dishcloths.  (Uh, okay...maybe I had thrown them up in the cabinet haphazardly in my usual "company's coming rush" to "clean" the kitchen--I don't know.  I just know that now one was now floating at the edge of the pitcher.)

We both looked at each other.  Although she had a wry grin on her face, I'm sure she was a little shocked and wondered what kind of southerner serves iced tea à la dishcloth.  A true Southern gentlewoman might have swooned and fanned away from her embarrassment, but even though I  was definitely embarrassed, I was also undone with laughter.  As soon as it actually dawned on me what it was, I started laughing uproariously.  She joined in with equal enthusiasm.

I did tell her I would make a new pitcher of tea.  However, she replied with something like, "Why bother.  It looks fine to me."  So we enjoyed that pitcher of tea that afternoon and a long, long friendship which has continued to this day.
 
We don't see each other very often anymore because she has moved out of the south--"bless her heart!"  (See, I told you I was a Southerner!)   But when she does make it back to this city, we take up right where we left off from the last visit--maybe not with my special tea, but we do enjoy our times together.

It was just this week that we got together again and the tea story came up.    It doesn't come up every time we visit but I never mind it when it does.  It was funny then and it is still funny.  We both learned a lot about each other in a split second, and I think we both liked what we learned.  It certainly moved our friendship forward very quickly and all pretenses were dismissed as we drank our sweet tea that afternoon.  To this day, we still know who we are and have an appreciation for each others' quirkiness.

That pitcher of sweet tea is long gone, but the friendship is still sweet which simply proves that the quote by Elbert Hubbard is all too true--"A friend is one who knows you and loves you just the same."  I'm glad for that.  Thanks, my friend, for knowing me and still being my friend!