My Southern Heart...the Stories

The Christmas letter...

2011-12-08T13:39:00.000-08:00

The macho logger tree farmer sat at his desk yesterday afternoon and hammered out his handwritten Christmas letter in less than an hour. It was one-page, pleasant and to the point. I edited a couple of grammatical issues and typed it for him. He addressed the envelopes to his family and put them in the mail this morning. Amazing.

There's a blank computer screen in front of me with "Christmas 2011" at the top. I stare at it but the words don't come. The last multiple-page-with-photos Christmas letter I sent was dated 2003. Eight years? Life presented too many twists and turns during that span of time. Each year that rolled faithfully around, I committed to write "the Christmas letter". To be honest, I've received emails asking me if I've removed the sender from my letter list? No, I wouldn't do that. I just didn't write one. So now, the stark white screen stares back at me and I am resolute.

So, I think about this past year and take some mental notes...

2011 brought great joy. My youngest child and his precious wife had their first-born...a beautiful baby girl named Maggie. I loved her before I met her. The second I held her and her big blue eyes met mine, there was a bond formed that will last a lifetime...hers and mine. We will play hide-and-seek and bake cookies when she is old enough. I will read her lots of stories and sew cute little dresses. For now, I will hold her, love her and talk baby talk every chance I get...

2011 brought deep sadness and grief. My sister Gerry lost her courageous battle with Lou Gehrig's disease (ALS) and went home to be with the Lord on October 13, 2011. I rejoice that she is in Heaven and I will see her again. I know, in time, the tears will stop...just not yet. I miss her more than words can say.

2011 provided the opportunity to check one of my heart's desires off the proverbial "bucket list": Alaskan Cruise. Cruising through the Inside Passage, the scenery took my breath away on more than one occasion. As the ship meandered closely to a cove of ancient glaciers, I was thrilled by the sight of the blue ice and knew that, literally, I was seeing the tips of the iceberg. When we traveled by vintage train up to the Yukon in a parlor car with a pot-bellied stove, I was seeing history and incredible beauty. I treasured the views for I knew I might not see them again. (Link to Skagway, Alaska, part of the trip here.)

2011 I became a "goat herder" and the proud owner of six adorable full-blood Boer goats. I've also had to fight the same mountains predators the pioneer women fought as a cougar killed three of my goats. The macho logger tree farmer came to the rescue and built a cougar-proof enclosure for the goats at night. Hopefully, we can now rebuild our herd.

2011 We added to the farm: a 6 acre pasture, an orchard, a greenhouse, a barn, a fenced in raised-bed garden and a secure nighttime area for the goats with a new sleeping shed for them!

2011 We've enjoyed traveling this year (some together and a few by myself) - three times to Seattle for visits with Jim's daughter and her family, once to Iowa to visit my daughter and her family, once to Kentucky to visit my older son and his family, once to Chicago to meet my precious Maggie and visit my son and his wife and twice to the South. Sadly, the last trip South was for my dear sister Gerry's homegoing service. I will be forever thankful for the visit I had with my sister Gerry in June...making memories. In September, we met my daughter and her family at Yosemite National Park where we rented a house in the park and had a wonderful time together. During the first long weekend of November, we flew to Boston for a visit with Jim's younger daughter and her husband. We toured the historical downtown and I saw Boston for the first time. This sounds like a lot of traveling, but the truth is: the months between seeing my grandchildren pile up much too quickly and it is much too long between visits. I miss my children and grandchildren so much!

Hmmm....now, all is have to do is transfer these ideas to the blank white screen, insert a few more family photos, print them off, address all the envelopes, stamp them and mail them! Thanks for listening. Maybe I can write this Christmas letter after all...

The painting above by portrait artist, Gaye Frances Willard, is one of my favorites. Every knee shall indeed bow to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, Jesus Christ! May you have a blessed Christmas!

One amazing life...

2011-10-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

As published in My Southern Heart

In memory of my sister, Sarah Geraldine “Gerry” McGregor Harden.

August 1, 1930 – October 13, 2011

I was in Chicago when the sad news came. My sister had lost her courageous battle with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). She was, at that moment, in Heaven…surrounded by a host of loved ones who’d gone before. The Bible says “absent from the body, present with the Lord”. Praise God!

I changed my reservations and flew South. My plans had been to travel South on Sunday and spend the week with my sister…but Heaven needed her sooner. On Sunday, we celebrated the amazing life of my beautiful sister at her funeral service in the church she has attended for 50+ years. There in the midst of the beautiful stained glass windows and an exquisite blanket of Autumn flowers, a host of family and friends met to remember and grieve together. I was reminded of the song “Thank You for giving to the Lord” for that is what she did. Because she loved her Saviour, she gave so selflessly…to each and every one of us, her family…and the very long line of friends at the church. We love you and miss you, Gerry, but we’ll see you again in Heaven. How I thank God that I am so blessed to have called you SISTER.

The Fourth of July...

2011-07-04T16:13:00.000-07:00

Mama was born on July 4, 1904, in the "hills" of Mississippi to parents of Irish ancestry...parents who cherished their six children, three sons and three daughters. As a young woman, Mama had strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes and was very petite. Even at her tallest, before the osteoporosis in later years, she was barely five feet. Although she never had the opportunity to pursue training, she could play the piano and organ "by ear" and sang beautifully. An accomplished seamstress, she possessed an amazing talent with a needle and thread. Through the years, she made much of our clothing, quilts and curtains. She was artistic and could sketch whatever she wanted to create. Down through the years, I would see these same talents emerge in her daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

In the course of working on my family's ancestry, I found a newspaper clipping from the newspaper in the small Mississippi town where she, my dad and my sisters lived before I was born. There was a description of the large fourth of July birthday party the family gave for Mama and all the relatives who attended. It talks about everyone enjoying the great food, especially the homemade ice cream. I could just imagine all those tables set up outside beneath those tall Mississippi pines on a hot summer's day.

All through the years as I was growing up, and even when my children were young, my sisters and our families would get together for Thanksgiving, Christmas and the fourth of July for Mama's birthday. In later years, when everyone had their own traditions for Thanksgiving and Christmas, it was the Fourth of July that became our family reunion time...and a celebration of Mama's birthday. It was a fun time with the entire family together, celebrating with an abundance of good food and much laughter.

After Mama and Daddy both passed away, my sisters and I tried to continue the fourth of July tradition. Eventually, the family grew even larger with an ever widening circle as each of our children married, had children and started traditions of their own. In time, the fourth of July celebration was just a memory...but a deeply embedded one
.

My sisters and I...about 1960.

Memories in a song...

2011-06-26T14:25:00.000-07:00

Three years ago, I was visiting my older son and his family in the Andes Mountains of Peru where he was then serving as a missionary doctor. My three week visit was soon coming to an end and my granddaughers and I were feeling a little sad about that...especially Grandmommy. I found a tape recorder and we began singing songs together. They asked for a tape of me singing songs to them and so I recorded one for them.

During the last days of my recent visit with my older son and his family, now in Kentucky, it was my eleven year old granddaughter who sang for me. After a verse or two, my nine year old granddaughter joined in. Sweet, beautiful voices with perfect pitch. They knew every single word and verse. We sang that song in church this morning and the tears welled up. I couldn't help it.

Here's a brief portion of the song until I ran out of memory on my camera! Don't forget to scroll down and pause the blog playlist music first.

Father's Day...

2011-06-19T09:29:00.000-07:00

Today is Father's Day and my mind is full of memories. I was 45 years old when I lost my Dad at the age of 86. I look back now and realize that forty-five was young to lose my father, but my children would be younger still when they lost their Dad.

Life is precious...and altogether fragile. Five years ago, my children and I came face to face with that fact when their father had a sudden massive coronary; and, at the all too young age of 62, he was gone. He had been the love of my life for forty years...four decades. We'd had a sad ending to our story for after 39 years of marriage, it had ended in divorce. My heart had been broken, but I had loved him still even then. Seven and a half months later, he was gone. I was left with memories and a string of what-ifs. It was an extremely hard time for my children and me. We'd all had so much to deal with in the loss of the family as we'd known it and then a loss so great it would take years to heal. Time helps a little. Over time, pain has a way of softening at the edges.

He was a wonderful Dad and my children miss him so much. I miss him. I'm sad that he never really knew our grandchildren as they got older. That hurts a lot. I try to talk about him when I'm with them. I tell them little ways my son or daughter is like their father. I show them pictures and I tell them about him. I don't want them to forget him...although they were so young they barely remember him. I'd like to think that somehow he will know it when our newest grandbaby...a precious little girl...is born this September. I love my children so very much and I'm glad he was their father.

He died in the month of April, and that first Father's Day after his death, there was so much pain and hurt for all of us. I wanted something that would, in a way, be "from him" for our children. For our daughter, I chose the little Willow Tree "Father and Daughter" carving and for our two sons the "Father and Son" carving. I hope each time they look at it, they remember all the good times and the great memories...for there were a lot of those.

I'm in the process of scanning forty years worth of photos...a lifetime. I want each of my children to have a record of our family. It will take me a while but this is important; and I will get it done.

Just a few of the memories of a lifetime...

(The order of everything is still a time-intensive work-in-progress but I wanted to show the slideshow with this post.)

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Down memory lane...

2010-10-31T13:30:00.000-07:00

Growing up on Victor Drive, Halloween was a fun time. We dressed like hobos or some other easy costume and went "trick or treating". Walking around those tree-lined blocks, we'd gather homemade popcorn balls wrapped in cellophane, hand-dipped cinnamon redhot apples or caramel apples...and lots of candy bars. We never ventured too far from home. It was safe because these were our friends and neighbors...in a different time and place.

As our children were growing up, we'd often get together with my husband's sister and her family for Halloween. We'd have a Mexican fiesta and then go "trick or treating". Fun memories...

Eating candy in a little house on Rhea Avenue many years ago...
I'm sure I brushed their teeth! ;-)

I love those chubby little cheeks!

My youngest (left), age 5, and two of his cousins on Halloween in Memphis years ago...

Justin and his three cousins "trick or treating" in Memphis.

Twenty-five years ago! My baby boy's kindergarten party at Halloween...

My first grandchild dressed in a "skunk" costume my daughter made! The costume made the rounds through the years.

Awww, Mom! That's enough pictures! Let's go get some candy!

Now, baby sister was the skunk!

All these years later and my baby girl still likes dressing up for Halloween!

I was "Grumpy" here but wasn't too keen on keeping the beard on! Check out my grandson's "peregrine falcon" costume that my daughter created (totally her creation)! My grandson was studying birds at the time and that was what he wanted!

I have several really cute photos of when my oldest two were young at Halloween but can't seem to find those right now. I'll add them when I find them. I'm in the midst of organizing photo albums after many years...sound familiar to anyone else out there?!

First day in Heaven...

2010-10-29T16:11:00.000-07:00

As posted in my blog, My Southern Heart...

I've been thinking about Heaven since yesterday. My eighty seven year old "second mother" of almost four decades went to be with the Lord yesterday morning in Memphis, Tennessee. She had been really sick for the past two weeks, and we had all prayed so hard for a complete recovery. Our Heavenly Father answered those prayers. He took her home.

I've had the most wonderful, peaceful vision of her reunited in Heaven with her loving husband, her son (my husband of 39 years), her parents and grandparents, my parents, my sister and a host of other family and friends. I'm sure, by now, she has talked to Jesus and finds Heaven "glorious" (her word!).

For those who know the Lord, the Bible says "absent from the body, present with the Lord" (II Cor. 5:8), interlocking circles...not one single moment in time when we are not with Him. Sadly, due to the distance (I'm in Oregon) and the time (the funeral is tomorrow), I couldn't be there this weekend. I will be traveling South in a couple of weeks for some wonderful, unhurried time with family then...

This is Bobbie, my other mother of almost 40 years, and me at my younger son's wedding four years ago. As the music played at the wedding reception to introduce the wedding party and family, the two of us "danced" in together. She was fun loving...

Bobbie and Frank...this photo was taken many years ago when he was home on leave during the war. She was always a snappy, snazzy dresser. With red hair and green eyes, she loved dressing up and wearing beautiful, vibrant colors.

This photo below was probably taken about 1944. Bobbie and her firstborn, my future husband, taking a walk. I was born on his birthday exactly two years later. Notice her suit. I love the clothes from the 40's!

A sweet family portrait. This photo was probably taken during the early 50's. I love Penny's curls! Actually, my daughter's youngest daughter looks a lot like Penny here!

I think the photo below was taken at Libertyland in Memphis. They were probably about my age here.

Diane...

2010-09-20T14:23:00.000-07:00

I spent a couple of hours sitting on the floor of the closet this morning...surrounded by boxes of papers. In the process of searching for a particular document, I came across cards and letters that I've kept for decades. One of my favorite finds was a letter written forty years ago by my friend Diane, one of my dear church friends from my high school years. Born and raised in Louisiana, Diane was beautiful with the dark brown eyes and dark hair of her Cajun French ancestors.

Diane had married right after graduating from Memphis State and moved to California to be with her young husband who was in the Navy. From there, they moved to Colorado, and then, years later, to Okalahoma. We kept in touch for a while. She had a daughter and then a son. I had a son, a daughter, a son. We exchanged Christmas cards and phone calls from time to time. Then I went to nursing school and life got even busier. We moved out of state and, eventually, Diane and I lost touch.

Using the internet, I tracked Diane down about seven or eight years ago and telephoned her. We talked for a long time. She had bone cancer but was fighting it. We discussed trying to meet in Memphis in the near future. It had been so many years. Through my struggles of the past five years, Diane and I once again lost contact. I forgot her married name. I couldn't find her. Today, holding the letter from Diane in my hands, I had her last name. Once again, using the internet, I searched for Diane. This time, I found a beautifully written obituary and tribute. She died in 2009. Her husband passed away several years before her. Her sister Yvonne, another church friend from my teen years, had also preceded her in death. I sat at my computer, looking at the photos of her life over the past four decades and reading her obituary and I cried. I couldn't help it...

So, once again, I've been reminded how short life is. I made up my mind to write the Christmas letter again this year that I've neglected for the past five years and to reconnect with those long lost friends who are still living...

Mama and the pizza...

2010-09-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

It was the late 1950's. We were living in the house on Victor Drive with the sunny windows and the knotty pine dining room with the corner china cabinets. It was a time of early rock and roll, dancing and pizza. Our first introduction to pizza was from George, a big, strong, dark-haired cajun planter from Louisiana. All these years later, and I remember George Broussard like it was yesterday. He was Glenda's boyfriend and Glenda was Dot's best friend. So we all spent a lot of time together in that little house on Victor Drive.

George had a booming voice and a great laugh. His conversation was sprinkled with a few cajun words here and there, and he loved to kid Mama. One weekend, he brought a large, filled-to-the-brim pizza over for lunch. We'd never even seen a pizza. I have to admit, at first glance, I had my doubts. All these years later, I've had the best Chicago pizza in downtown Chicago...so I'd have to say I know good pizza. I don't know where George got it, but that was some pizza! Mama took one look at it and had her doubts too. It, obviously, wasn't Southern vegetables and cornbread. She almost didn't try it, but she did...and she fell in love with George's pizza. The best I recall all these years later, I'd say it was a thin-crust, SUPREME pizza and it was, indeed, delicious.

Quite frequently after that, George would arrive with Glenda on his arm and toting another gift for Mama...a pizza supreme. I'm not sure that George ever knew that Mama became a serious pizza fan after that. She tried making it from scratch from time to time, but when she was in a hurry, she'd resort to Chef Boyardee. Not too sure that George would have approved of that...

The paper trail...tracks in time: Mike

2010-09-10T09:57:00.000-07:00

When I was younger, and the family members with most of the answers were still living, I was too busy to care. I was a young wife with three children to raise, a home to take care of and a nursing career. It never occurred to me to search for "ancestors" or even to ask about them. What a shame - the answers were there.

For the past few weeks, I've searched for information about William Merle Jordan - or "Mike" as he was affectionately known. He was my oldest sister's first love...in all honesty, the love of her life. They met in Clarksdale, Mississippi, in the mid-forties. I wish I had asked my sister just how they'd met. I've seen pictures of Mike...a handsome young man with striking blue eyes. I see those blue eyes now in his daughter, Sharon. I see a remarkable resemblance to him in Sharon's son, Michael. My sister did tell me the story about the days not long after they'd met, when Mike worked as a "milk man" in Clarksdale. Quite often, on an early morning, he would leave two quarts of chocolate milk in the old-fashioned glass bottles on the door step of our home as a gift for my sister and the family, a sweet simple gesture and a luxury at that time.

Dot and Mike were married on March 1, 1947. They were young and in love...they were happy. They lived for a time in Clarksdale and then we all moved to Memphis. My parents purchased half a large two-story duplex on Chelsea Avenue. Uncle Lester and Aunt Ethel purchased the other half. Dot and Mike had the attic apartment, which my sister Gerry says Dot decorated like Country Living and that it was so cute.

My sister, Dorothy. She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties here.

My niece, Sharon, was born on September 16, 1948. I was two and a half years old at the time. I must have thought they'd given me a real live baby doll. She had a beautiful olive complexion and big blue eyes just like both of her parents. She also had a shock of thick, dark hair. I love the photos of her with that dark hair sticking straight up! She was a beautiful baby and is still beautiful.

My sister, Dot, holding Sharon and me sitting beside them. Notice my arm on Dot's knee and Sharon's little hand on my shoulder. You also couldn't miss my brown high tops! This photo was taken on the steps of the large duplex on Chelsea.

These were the years following WWII. Times were hard and jobs were scarce. Mike traveled to Texas with his brother Charles to find work. He had lined up a good job as a truck driver which was to have started the first day of February 1949. In the meantime, he was working on a shrimp boat. On Monday morning, January 24, 1949, there was an explosion aboard the Wilda L, a 54-foot shrimping boat, eight miles off the shore of Freeport, Texas. Both the owner of the boat and William Merle "Mike" Jordan were lost to the sea. A search of the waters and through the debris in the hull of the boat failed to locate their bodies.

My sister and Mike's mother traveled to Freeport, Texas, most likely by train, right after they received word of the explosion. Years later, my sister remembered those dark days, staring out into the deep waters of the Gulf, watching as the Coast Guard searched in vain. She was twenty-one years old at the time with a four-month-old baby girl. Mike was twenty-three.

On the telephone the other day, Sharon and I both cried as she read to me from the last letters that Mike wrote home to her mother from Texas. He had high hopes and dreams of a better life for them. He loved his baby girl and talked of dreaming about her for several nights in a row. He told my sister to "tell Dianne to be a good baby". I had never thought before about having known Mike, but I did. I had been his baby sister too.

Sharon says that, over the years, it was just too sad, too difficult, for my sister to talk about Mike very much. After a while, she just quit asking. Now, there are so many questions wanting answers. When Dot and I were working on the McGregor and Haney family histories, she was also working on Mike's family history. Through the archives of Ancestry.Com, I have found some information. Mike's younger sister, now eighty, was able to fill in some of the blanks, but, still, there are so many more unanswered questions.

We're not giving up. On my next visit South, we'll travel to Clarksdale and to the Mississippi State Archives in Jackson, Mississippi. Hopefully, before then, we'll find some of Mike's father's family members. Right now, it's still a mystery, but the answers are out there. Hopefully, someone will also have photos of Mike's father.

Sharon does have one small, piece of paper with her Dad's actual signature on it. Amazingly, it bears a striking resemblance to Sharon's...

Note: My sister did not remarry until Sharon was in high school, when she married Tom Kemp. He was a wonderful man who loved Dot and her family like his own.

The Mamie Road Mystery...

2010-08-02T13:43:00.000-07:00

It had been fifty-five years since we had lived in that little house on Mamie Road. It was bound to have changed - together with the neighborhood which had been in the countryside when we lived there. During my recent visit home to the South, Sharon and I both wanted to visit that house again and see the neighborhood. We knew, of course, it wouldn't be the same, but we still wanted to see it. We wanted to see where we had lived so many years ago...

She reminded me that, now, it isn't the safest neighborhood - definitely not one we'd visit after dark. I still wanted to go and so did she.

I can't remember what I bought at the grocery store for supper this week; but, in the recesses of my deepest memory, I found the street address for that little house - 3972. Strange, isn't it? As we drove down Mamie Road, however, nothing looked right. Time had brought so many changes and none for the better. There was a used car lot on the corner now and the little grocery store on the other corner where we used to walk to get things for Mama was now a rundown business of some sort. All too sad. There was some sort of compound behind an elaborate fence where one of the houses used to be and there was one too many houses.

We finally realized that when we lived in that little house, there was a treed vacant lot next door to us. That's why we thought we had such a big yard to play in and that's why there was room for a large garden. Once we realized that, we knew which house was ours. Sharon had a photo (which unfortunately I forgot to scan) that even had the house numbers on it. I was right after all...it was 3972 Mamie Road.

According to the records at the assesor’s office, the house was built in 1947…which meant we either bought it new or not long after. Thankfully, our little house on Mamie Road looked nothing like the current one below. Ours had white clapboard, a dark roof and black shutters. There was no front porch then - just steps. There was no front chain-length fence with a satellite receiver on it. There was an old-fashioned screened door which we'd, no doubt, get in trouble for slamming as we went in and out. There were tall trees and there was grass instead of a front yard of dirt. There was plenty of green grass to do cartwheels on. I do remember that...

Happy Birthday, Sis...

2010-08-01T12:14:00.000-07:00

Today is my sister's eightieth birthday. She is celebrating with the friends and family who are blessed to be there...I wish I could. Thankfully, I was able to spend time with her during my recent visit home to the South. We had a wonderful time as always. She gave Sharon and me another lesson on how to make her famous Southern cornbread, roast and gravy. Try as I might, mine will never taste as good.

I was almost three years old when she and her husband married. We were living in Memphis at the time, and the newlyweds were living in Mississippi. Her husband was working for the railroad at the time. They would travel by train every weekend so my sister "could come see her baby sister".

She has always been there for me and for anyone who needed her. Her heart is made of gold.

Happy birthday, Sis. I love you.

Left to right: my sister, Gerry, a little friend, and my sister, Dorothy. The photo was made about 1935 in Pontotoc County, Mississippi. I love their dresses which Mama made. Notice the smocking on Gerry's dress and the scalloped collar on Dot's dress.

My sister, Gerry, at age eighteen.

Throughout the years, we've always had a photo of the "four sisters" made at every occasion. This one is one of my favorites and sits on my desk...

This photo was made during my visit home to the South last year. We were enjoying lunch on the square in Oxford, Mississippi.

Sweet tea and mysteries...

2010-07-16T08:57:00.000-07:00

This reflective post was recently featured on my blog, Thinking About It...

My sisters, brothers-in-law, two of my nieces and I were sitting around the table after we finished lunch at my sister’s house in their small town in Mississippi. I was enjoying my second glass of sweet tea and the conversation that I would remember and miss when I returned home to Oregon. As I’ve shared with you before, I’m the youngest of four daughters…born when my parents were forty-one years old.

My parents bought a farm in the small village of Rena Lara, Mississippi, in 1935. I’ve always thought that I lived on that farm. I’ve heard the stories (I thought from my parents) that I had never been scared of the chickens and would march into the barn and tell them to “shoo”. I was told that I had wandered away from the farm and got stuck in the mud up to my little brown high tops at age two. It was my understanding that my big sisters had pulled me on the cotton sack as they “picked cotton”.

My sisters are 11 and 15 years older than I. My oldest sister passed away several years ago. SHE is the one who would have remembered all these little details. I sat down at the table with paper and pen and informed my family that we were going to do a “time-line” and to put their thinking caps on. An hour or so later, there was a very detailed timeline right there in front of me…a timeline that spelled out clearly that I had NEVER lived on that farm.

Evidently, all those stories really pertained to the sister who is eleven years older than I. Maybe my parents memories were a little fuzzy. Maybe they just didn’t want me to feel “left out”. I don’t know. They sold the farm in 1945 and moved to Clarksdale, MS., where I was born. My sister remembers pushing me in the stroller on the sidewalks of Clarksdale. There were no sidewalks on the farm. My niece Sharon was born in Clarksdale in September 1948. Not long after that, we moved to Memphis, Tennessee. I was almost three years old.

And so, for now, I have a bit of an identity crisis. For 64 years, I’ve thought that…at one time in my life…I was a farm girl. I rather enjoyed that picture. Me with the chickens, horses, cows and the big cotton fields. Evidently, it just didn’t happen.

Maybe it makes the fact I live on a farm now even more special…

Sweet moment in time...

2010-06-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

I remember the day this picture was taken...just like it was yesterday. Actually it was late June, twelve years ago. Our family had rented a large oceanfront house in the village of Duck, North Carolina, on the Outer Banks. The house was perfect with an almost floor to ceiling bank of windows and a spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean. We were all there - Bill and I, our older son and his new bride, our daughter, her husband and their 5 month old son (our first grandchild) and our younger son...as well as two good family friends who were there for a few days of our vacation.

The weather was perfect...perfect for taking long walks on the beach and playing in the surf. We had spent the morning building sandcastles and playing in the ocean on the day this above moment in time was captured. After lunch, my daughter had tried to get my grandson to take a nap. In the end, they both fell asleep on the over-sized L-shaped sofa in the family room.

There's something about seeing your baby with her baby, that tugs at your heartstrings and brings back memories. My grandson in the picture above is now twelve years old. He now has two younger sisters and a baby brother. My daughter was telling me just recently about how children grow up too fast. I know. Oh, how I know.

Mama and the violets...

2010-05-24T14:13:00.000-07:00

The post below was featured today on my other blog, Thinking About it... I hope you enjoy it!

African violets will always remind me of Mama. She loved them. She loved growing them...along with her peonies, daylilies, daisies, roses, their large vegetable garden and several varieties of fruit trees. She loved taking a "cutting" (a leaf at the steam) and creating a whole new plant - or propagating them. Mama never took a botany class or a horticulture class, but she grew up on a farm in Mississippi. Maybe that explains her amazing touch and love of all growing things.

The first time Mama started growing african violets, that I recall, was after Daddy retired and she and Daddy moved to Mississippi. There, they built a new house in the country, next door to my sister's house on the hill. There was a large laundry room with a nice sunny window and that's where the african violets lived. All colors and varieties lived happily side by side and thrived. Mama would mix up the special blue food for the violets, which she kept in a gallon milk container beneath the cabinet, and would feed the beautiful african violets regularly with it. I don't know how she knew what to do, but she did.

Several months ago, my husband, the macho logger tree farmer, came home with two small african violets for me. They were potted in the tiniest little green plastic pots and were beautiful. Totally different but each one exquisite. One had dark purple blooms and the other one white lacy blooms edged in purple. I sighed and shuddered at my next thought - I was afraid I'd kill them.

I tried to remember just what Mama had done and then I googled african violets. Come to find out, even without Google, Mama had been right all along. African violets need to repotted right away in a special soil mixture just for african violets. I purchased the special soil and two larger pots made of a lovely green glazed pottery. The tree farmer repotted them for me. I cautioned him that "they don't like to be touched", which they don't. Somehow, he managed to get them carefully in the pot.

African violets don't like to be too hot or too cold. Basically, they like the same temperatures that people do. They don't like to be too dry to too wet. They don't like water on their leaves! They need enough indirect light but not too much. Come to think of it, they're just downright finicky, but they reward you for your effort with the most beautiful blossoms.

I'm beginning to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I have inherited a tiny speck of Mama's african violet gene...

Reflections...

2010-05-23T12:01:00.000-07:00

One afternoon during my granddaughters' recent visit, I was sitting at the dining room table with them. The table was covered with fabric, thread, patterns and my portable Singer sewing machine. I was teaching my eight and almost ten year old granddaughters the basics of sewing - how to find the grain of the fabric, the selvages, laying out and cutting a pattern and safely operating the sewing machine.

In the midst of all of this, I mentioned that I wish I'd had a grandmother to teach me to sew and bake as I love to teach my grandchildren. It surprised them to learn that I had not known my grandparents. My father's parents died before I was born. My mother's mother passed away on June 10, 1951 and her father on June 15, 1952. I was five and six years old at the time of their respective deaths. I don't remember them. I don't remember what I called them. As I was growing up, my three older sisters talked about them...about how truly kind and good they were. Sadly, I don't have those memories. Consequently, all my life, I've been drawn to old people...kind, old people. Perhaps that's one reason I love being a grandmother so much...I know that I'm making memories for MY grandchildren.

Perhaps this is also why I'm so interested in my family's history. There are volumes of information and geneological history that I have collected thus far...my late sister Dorothy and I. I've loved finding nuggets of information during the course of searching through census records, ordering birth and death certificates and traveling to courthouses in several states.

I remember finding great++ grandparents...and realizing that had I been researching my family's history earlier in my life, my children might have had different names! I loved many of the family names I found. Some, not so much. There was a "John Benjamin", "Mahalley", "Matilda Caroline", "Octavia Caldonia" (with Caldonia, I knew her ancestors were from Scotland), "Silas", "Samuel Edward" and "Emmarella" to name a few.

I love the above photo of Mama. She was about eighteen here I believe.

My maternal grandmother, Mama's Mama...Modena Emmarella Seals Haney (1872-1951). She was most likely in her early twenties here.

I wonder what my sons would have thought about being named Benjamin and Samuel? And my daughter could have been Emma Caroline. Hmmm....

Music and memories...

2010-04-15T21:26:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, my older sisters (11, 15 and 18 years older) were playing the music of the fifties. I grew up listening to the sounds featured on the first youtube video below. My sisters were wonderful dancers. By the time I was ten and Sharon was eight, we could dance. I don't know...maybe we had watched my sisters enough. I don't remember that part. Neither Mama nor Daddy ever owned up to where (from which one of them) we all got the rhythm we had, but we could dance.

On the weekends, my sisters would occasionally go dancing. They would get all dressed up in the wonderful 1950's fashions with high heels and go dancing with their boyfriend/husband/fiance. Sharon and I were, of course, much too young, so we'd get in the hallway of the house on Victor Drive with the polished hardwood floors, turn the music up and "bop" (the swing music or boogie-woogie today). I don't remember Mama ever complaining that the music was too loud or that we were under foot. Most of the time, she and Daddy would be laughing at us. Eventually, we would get tired.

I was listening to some great fifties music this afternoon. Those mellow sounds of the wonderful saxophone of Ace Cannon were coming across the built-in speakers all throughout the house. I was dancing to Alley Cat as I cooked supper. I couldn't help it. The memories were tumbling in and I was a very young teenager again...dancing in the hallway of a little house in Memphis.

Of course, the music of the sixties brings back a whole new "set" of memories: high school, college, falling in love, being a young newlywed and, later, having two small children fifteen and a half months apart. Amazing, isn't it...?

*Remember to scroll down and pause the blog playlist music before you listen to the videos.

This is a neat youtube video with snippets of all the top songs of the fifties.

If you remember this time, you'll enjoy it.

If you don't remember it, you should enjoy it anyway!

These dancers are doing "the swing" but it looks a whole lot like "bop" to me!

After all these years, this is still fun...wonder if I could get my non-dancing husband to take "swing" lessons?!

All those questions...

2010-03-29T14:17:00.000-07:00

I was born when my parents were forty-one years old...the last of four daughters. Daddy was the youngest of seven children, born when his parents were older. I never knew my Daddy's parents. They both died before I was born. My mother's parents died when I was very young, so I really never knew them.

I was almost twenty-one when I married. Life was busy as we had children and our family grew. Searching my family's history was the last thing on my mind at that time. I was simply busy with life. By the time my sister Dot and I seriously began researching our family history, our mother had suffered a stroke and lost her speech. Not long after that, Daddy passed away. Since Dot was the oldest, she remembered a lot...still, there were answers she just didn't have.

Now, I want to know more. I want to find answers for all those questions I have. I wish there were more photographs...

In the circa 1911 photograph below, Daddy appears to have been about five or six years old, maybe? It appears he was holding something under his right arm. I wish I knew what it was. My firstborn grandchild has the same coloring as the great-grandfather he never met...the same dark brown eyes, dark brown hair and beautiful olive complexion (no other grandparent or great-grandparent has the olive skin).

My firstborn grandchild and me...

Just a few of the questions I would ask now if only I could...

How tall were your parents?

What color were their hair and eyes?

What were your grandparents like? Were they musical...artistic?

What was Mary Frances Cooper's father's name?! Mary Frances Cooper was my mother's grandmother. Mama would have known the answer, if I had only known to ask the question!

Did your parents or great grandparents ever talk about Scotland or Ireland?

So far away...

2010-03-10T11:29:00.000-08:00

As I've mentioned in earlier posts, I'm the youngest of four daughters. We lost my oldest sister to Acute Myloid Leukemia almost five years ago. While I do I love living on a mountain in Oregon, there are times when I realize that I'm so far away...too far away. I just heard this morning that my sister Gerry is on her way to an emergent surgery in Tennessee...and I'm in Oregon. That breaks my heart that I'm not there for her right now. I'm the RN in the family and should be there with her. There are phones and email, but it's just not the same.

So, for now, I'll just pray. That's the very best thing I can do for my big sister right now...

(The photo above was taken many years ago, in our annual sisters' "lineup" pose. I was fifteen in the picture.)

Update: The surgery went well and the outcome was good news. Thank God!

Happy Birthday, Daddy...

2010-02-17T13:44:00.000-08:00

As I remember Daddy's birthday today, I thought it might be a good time to share a few pages or memories from the family history book which my sister Dot and I were working on before we lost her to leukemia. I want to finish this book. I really do...because that's exactly what she would have wanted. If you've been reading this blog all along, then you know my Dad's whole world was my Mama and my sisters and me, and later the grandchildren too. He loved his family. He was a gentle, kind, loving person. In my entire growing-up years, I never saw him lose his temper or raise his voice. I never heard a curse word. Amazing, isn't it. I'm thankful that my parents were my parents. Happy Birthday, Daddy. I miss you.

an excerpt from the family history...

Daddy’s heritage lies deep within the gently rolling hill country of Mississippi, a fertile land with tall, green pines and abundant hardwoods. As we began the search for our family history, my sisters and I, once again, traveled down those winding country roads. We were struck with the quiet beauty of it all.

We found the little Piney Grove Baptist Church where our ancestors had worshiped, nestled in a sun-dappled clearing beneath the tall pines, and it would have been easy to believe we were standing in Cades Cove in the Great Smokey Mountains. Miles of farmland or forest stretched between homes as the wind whistled through the multitude of trees. It seemed time had stood still.

Although the site of the “old homestead” stands empty now, it was easy to imagine what life must have been like back then. Home for the Willis Nelson McGregor family was a large “dog-trot” style house which was built in the tradition of their Scottish ancestors who had migrated to Pontotoc from North Carolina and Tennessee. Situated on fertile farmland in the Springville community, their home was located just down the road from other members of the close knit McGregor family.

The youngest of seven children, Homer Stanley McGregor was born February 17, 1905 in Pontotoc County, Mississippi, to Willis Nelson McGregor and his wife Martha Sarah “Mattie” (Carpenter) McGregor. His brothers and sisters included Robert, Pearl, Quella, Lester, Daisy and Mazie. With two older brothers and four older sisters, Homer McGregor grew up in a home filled with the voices of family, laughter and music. With family roots deeply established, the McGregor children enjoyed the benefits of growing up in a community surrounded by a large number of McGregor and Carpenter (maternal) family members – including grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.

Highly respected for their strong family values and religious strengths, the McGregor family was well established early in Pontotoc’s history. Descendants of a Baptist preacher from Scotland, the generations that followed produced many other Baptist preachers and church leaders. Most of them were farmers and they all loved the land. There were often hardships that came with depending on the soil for their livelihood but they loved the challenges and rewards that came with each season.

My sister Dot penned these beautifully written memories of those growing-up years in Mississippi.

Sharing Memories. . .
by Dorothy McGregor Kemp

I will always remember Mama and Daddy as very hard-working and law-abiding people. Their family was the most important thing to them; and, in fact, the family was their whole life as they grew older.

Daddy had to work very hard as he had to support his family during some of the depression days, and things didn’t get much better for a long time after the depression; however, I remember that we had as much as most all of my friends and neighbors had back then. Daddy did his best to provide for our needs. Daddy had a lot of pride buying that little farm (in Rena Lara), and he graduated from plowing mules to a tractor which was much faster and easier. Daddy was so proud of that John Deere tractor. (I can just see him out in the fields now). Gerry and I, (Eunice wasn’t old enough) had to pick and chop cotton, but Daddy didn’t ask us to work as hard as some of the kids did, and Mama did not have to help in the fields like some of the wives did either. She took care of the house work, canning and sewing.

Mama always would have a huge and delicious dinner (not lunch) cooked for us at noon when we came home from the fields. The table would be full of several fresh vegetables, a meat (or maybe two), and always a dessert or cobbler, pie or cake, and everything was made from scratch. (She didn’t know what a cake mix was back then nor did she know what a “store bought” pie crust was. (It makes my mouth water to think about all the good food!) I can still visualize that table - actually, we had two; one long one in the kitchen and one on the screened-in back porch, where we ate often in the Summertime. And we had a long bench on one side of the table where we children sat.

Some of my best memories too, especially of Mama, would be the great tea cakes she would have baked for us when we got home from school - sometimes they were plain tea cakes and sometimes they would have chocolate icing (made from scratch) between them, and in the Fall and Winter months we always had baked sweet potatoes waiting for us in the oven. We had a wood stove, so the oven would stay warm for hours, thus the potatoes were too. (This was a snack for us - can you imagine children eating that now for a snack!)

Mama, as we all know, was a great seamstress. She made just about all of our clothes, except for the things that we ordered out of the Sears Roebuck Catalog. I will always remember that every Fall I usually would order a navy and a red cardigan sweater, and Mama would make me some skirts (always a plaid); and she also made us pretty dresses. (She was a perfectionist so they always looked great). We also ordered our shoes, and a coat occasionally, from the catalog. (Dear Old Sears - it’s too bad they don’t still have catalog mail ordering) but I still have my memories. Yes, Mama was proud of her daughters and she wanted us to look nice, so she did the best with the financial means she had.

We didn’t have much entertainment back in the 1930's and 40's, except for radio (and for a long time that was battery operated). But, I can still see Mama and Daddy listening to “Amos & Andy” while we ate supper every night which was (as I still remember) 6:30; and on Saturday nights we listened too the Grand Old Opry. On Sunday or Monday nights we listened to Lux Theatre. (Oh, if only the children now could use their imagination as we had to). Our other entertainment was “going to town” (Clarksdale) on Saturdays, especially in the Fall, after having picked cotton all week. Daddy would give each of us maybe a couple of dollars or less - which would probably equal to ten now - and we would go to the movie and also get a bag of popcorn, and usually after the movie, we would go to the ice cream parlor which really was a treat, as we only got ice cream when we made it in a hand-cranked freezer. (You see, for several years there we did not have electricity and had to keep our food cold in an ice box!) The ice man brought us say 100 pounds of ice that kept it cool, and we chipped off that for ice tea. (I can’t remember if the ice man came one or twice a week, but occasionally he didn’t make it and we were very disappointed). I remember that always around the 4th of July, for Mama’s birthday, we got extra ice to make lots of ice cream and our neighbors (the Hokes) would make some too. Oh, it took so little to make us happy then. Another exciting form of entertainment that we had were the traveling “tent shows” that came annually to Rena Lara and people within miles went to see that. Daddy always looked forward to going to those shows and taking Mama and us.

Daddy and Mama decided after living on the farm for several years to move to Clarksdale and then to Memphis where Daddy worked for General Electric until he retired. Then, I guess he wanted to move where the pace of life was slow, which would be the country or small rural area, so decided to make his final move to Grenada, Mississippi.

Mama and Daddy were kind people, and Daddy always had patience. Most of the time Mama had patience too, but sometimes her Irish got the best of her. I loved them both dearly and miss them so much! They were great people!”

Note: If you'd like to try my Mama's wonderful teacakes, you'll find the recipe here. Enjoy!

Sweet child of mine...

2010-01-10T20:06:00.001-08:00

Our youngest child arrived ten years after his sister...a precious baby boy with strawberry blonde hair and beautiful green eyes. From day one, it seemed he was carried around in someone's arms or had someone to entertain him...or someone he entertained. He never met a stranger. When he started talking, it was in paragraphs. He could carry on a conversation with anyone at an early age and still can. I understood his place in the birth order. I had been there myself...the youngest child with a large space between. It isn't an easy place but he achieved it. That and so much more...quite well. I can't believe he's twenty-nine now...

Don't forget to scroll down and PAUSE the blog playlist music before you play the video.

The Christmas Skates...

2009-12-02T16:09:00.000-08:00

Christmas was always a wonderful time on Victor Drive. Not because there were elaborate gifts or fancy decorations, because there were neither of those, but because we were all together.

There wasn't a lot of money, and so I knew better than to ask for anything expensive. It was simply out of the question. Roller shoe skates were definitely more expensive than my parents could afford, but that didn't keep me from hoping. I must have been about fourteen years old the Christmas I finally did a little more than hope and actually asked for shoe skates for Christmas.

Every Friday night, my friends and I went roller skating at the large indoor rink on Summer Avenue in Memphis, Tennessee. I loved to skate. I loved to feel the breeze in my hair as I went around and around the rink as fast as I could. It felt like I was flying. I loved to skate to the music...it almost felt like dancing on skates. I had learned to skate backwards and thought that was the ultimate accomplishment at that age.

My children will tell you that I'm terrible at keeping secrets at Christmas. I want you to have what I bought you right now. I'M the one who can't wait. So, about two weeks before Christmas 1959, I started snooping. The house wasn't that large so where could they be? I finally found the roller skates under Mama and Daddy's bed. I breathed a sigh of relief. They were actually there...I was getting roller skates for Christmas!

Christmas eve came and we all opened our gifts. No roller skates. Christmas morning came and no roller skates under the tree. I really can't remember what else I got that Christmas. Christmas afternoon came and no roller skates. The way it all evolved is locked deep within the recesses of my memory...but the bottom line is Mama simply forgot. She forgot she had hidden my roller skates!

I wish I could remember if I confessed or if she simply remembered on her own, but by Christmas evening, I was the proud owner of a pair of pristine white shoe skates. I'd like to tell you that I've gotten better at keeping Christmas secrets, but...well, just ask my kids.

Blessings...

2009-12-01T10:50:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving has come and gone. Today is the first day of December...my birthday. I love this time of year, Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I must confess...it makes me homesick. The memories come flooding in and I don't stop them.

I see Sharon and me as children making turkeys out of potatoes, construction paper and toothpicks. That was our contribution to the Thanksgiving table. I see my sisters and their families...all of us gathered around the table in the dining room on Victor Drive. Everyone is talking and laughing at once...I can hear it still.

I remember all the years - thirty-nine - that Bill and I shared the same birthday. I'm finally able to make it, for the most part, through my birthday now without tears...for I know in Heaven there are no tears.

Years pass...many years. My life is not what or where I imagined it would have been all those years ago, but I've learned that God is faithful. Through the disappointment, pain and grief, he has taught me that He is in control and is working all things out for my good and His glory.

Now, as I sit here at my desk and look out the window, I see the foothills of the Cascades across the valley and a ribbon of the Umpqua River below. It is the rainy season and a slow mist is falling. My Christmas list is on the desk in front of me, and I remind myself that there are presents to buy and packages to mail.

For now, though, I'm deep in thought. I'm thankful...truly thankful...for the blessings my Heavenly Father has given me. Three healthy, successful adult children. Each with God-given gifts and talents. Each uniquely different, and yet, in many ways, like both their father and me. I'm thankful for their wonderful spouses...each of which is very much my own child instead of an "in-law".

I'm thankful for the unbelievable JOY of grandchildren. I love each and every single one of them with all my heart. Each one is perfect...special...unique. I see "bits and pieces" of my children in them and it brings back memories of their childhoods. Three of my grandchildren are unexpected blessings: my beautiful dark-eyed adopted Peruvian granddaughter...a precious adopted Ethiopian baby boy, my grandson, whom I will meet for the first time on December 19th...and Mason, a beautiful blue-eyed baby boy, who technically is my husband's first grandchild...but very much my grandson too.

Had you told me years ago that Bill and I were not to grow old together, I would not have believed you. Had you told me years ago, that one day I would be living on a mountain in Oregon...I would not have believed you. Life is short. Life is precious. Why don't we know the things we know at this age when we're young and we need to know them? I don't have the answer either.

My life is different now. Now, I take one day at the time. That's all I ever had anyway. Now, I rejoice in the small things and try not to worry about the big things. I'm thankful for my macho logger tree farmer...my polar opposite. He has had his share of loss and grief as well. Given the best of odds, we know that we'll be two very old people if we're married as long as we were to our first spouses. So, for now, we find joy living on a mountaintop tree farm, which we evidently share with the bears, cougars, bobcats and lots of deer...

Note: The photo above was taken Christmas 1968 when our firstborn was four months old.

Making memories in the Midwest...

2009-05-27T09:10:00.001-07:00

We just returned from a nice, long visit in the Midwest. Prior to the past two years, I lived in the Midwest for fourteen years. Granted, I'm a Southern girl at heart, but I did enjoy my time in Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois and Iowa...

While my husband went trophy bass fishing on a lake in South Dakota with his brother, I stayed behind for a wonderful visit with my daughter and three of my precious grandchildren.

My daughter had just purchased a Viking sewing machine (drool), and the two of us set up a full-fledged sewing shop in the dining room. I washed, dried and pressed new pieces of fabric and cut them out...lots of them. Some, we made last week and the rest, she'll have all cut out and ready to sew. She liked that part a lot. It was so much fun having the children there and being able to try garments on them as I sewed. It always amazes me to see how much they've grown in the time since my last visit...

My grandchildren were happy that I was sewing for them but weren't too happy with the time it took away from our "play time". I did stop production occasionally to go for a walk, watch a movie, play "My Little Pet Shop" and tell stories. I even taught my eleven year old grandson how to knit. He amazed me by learning the technique in about ten minutes. I won't tell you how long it took ME to learn! I told him about the former professional football player, Rosey Grier, who needlepointed when he wasn't playing football!

Altogether, it was a splendid time of making memories in the Midwest...

Mother's Day 2009...The Heart Remembers

2009-05-10T19:27:00.001-07:00

It was August of 1994 and I had just lost my Mother at the age of 90. It was a deeply sad time for me and my three sisters and our families. I was working full-time and still had an eighth grader at home, so I did my best to keep life steady and "normal". I had lost my Dad four years before. I was only 48 and had lost both my parents. Years later, my children would be 36, 35 and 25 when they lost their father.

I would drive the short drive home from work every day and spend my lunch hour writing about Mama...and my family. It ended up being the best way for me, for as I typed, those salty tears fell and I grieved. I compiled a cookbook of Mama's recipes and included the following story with it.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama...

“The Heart Remembers . . . "

A soft rain was falling as we left for the cemetery after Mama's funeral service. We were taking her back to the "hills" of Mississippi to rest in peace beside Daddy. Driving through the winding country back roads of the small Mississippi towns, I noticed the pines, the fields of green crops and the scattered farm houses. This country haven had been the home of her youth, where she had lived with her parents and her five brothers and sisters.

Ninety years . . . The last of four daughters, I had been born when she was forty-one. Although she had always been young to me, still I had not known her as my older sisters had. Often they had laughed and talked about their youth and the days "on the farm". . . picking cotton, milking cows, riding a school bus to a small country school and the friends that they had known there. They had also talked about the hard times - the times that come naturally with growing up on a farm in a small Mississippi town.

Now, the windshield wipers beat out a steady rhythm with the softly falling rain, as the slightly rolling patchwork hills of green stretched out before us.

She had been a school girl once . . . a young girl who loved to sing and play hymns on an old pump organ in the house where she had lived as a child. I remembered the one picture I had seen of her as a young teenager. Petite, fair and pretty. In a later picture, I saw a young lady holding a parasol, dressed fashionably for the day.

She had fallen in love and eloped with my father and would be married to him for the remainder of her life. A quiet gentle man, he had loved and protected her and perhaps even spoiled her in his own way. He had been patient with her, especially after a stroke claimed her speech and altered her personality.

Now I wondered about the early years . . . what her parents had been like, about her childhood, if she had always been as creative as I had known her. Winter mornings often found her quilting over the "wooden horses" set up in the middle of the living room. She sewed beautifully and made many of our clothes, even my wedding gown.

She was in her mid-fifties when she went to driving school and learned to drive . . . seldom more than thirty miles per hour though . . . much to my chagrin. Whenever she set her mind to accomplish something, she was persistent. Years later, I would see that persistence again and again . . . as she recovered from a major stroke twelve years before her death and struggled to regain a portion of her speech . . . after she broke her hip and spent many weeks in rehab learning to walk again, only to break the other hip two weeks after returning home.

I was a teen-ager before I knew that she had a gift for writing. For some reason, long since forgotten, she began to recount a story about her brother, Bill, and something that had happened to him on one of his cross-country trips as a truck driver. Had I realized then how quickly time would pass, I would have encouraged her to write about her life . . . and the events I so wondered about now.

I smile to think now that I never thought of Mama as aging. I knew, of course, that time was passing. I grew up, got married, had a family - just as my sisters had . . . but still, for the longest time, she remained the same in my eyes. Of course, I would notice the subtle changes that age would bring, but the Loving Care "soft plush brown" covered her gray hair; and her indomitable spirit remained the same. Years later, recovering from a stroke, the "soft plush brown" would be forgotten. . . and we would laugh with joy to discover that Mama had the most beautiful soft white hair, the perfect complement to her blue eyes . . . and she would laugh at our amazement.

As we continued our journey to the cemetery, a song on the radio reminded me of an earlier time and place . . . a Christmas just a few years past when Mama and Daddy had spent weeks apart . . . in separate hospitals in Memphis. My sisters and I had shared the vigil of staying with each of them around the clock. For the most part, Mama's speech was gone, but she managed to ask often where Daddy was. I can't remember now whether or not we told her the truth - or whether we tried to protect her, but I do remember an early December morning, driving home after staying with Mama at the hospital all night, and the words to the bittersweet ballad by Kathy Mattea playing on the radio.

“. . .They'd never spent a night apart. For sixty years she heard him snore. Now they're in hospital in separate beds on different floors. . . .she soon lost her memory; forgot the names of family. She never spoke a word again.. . then one day they wheeled him in. He held her hand and stroked her head. In a fragile voice she said, Where have you been? I've looked for you forever and a day. Where have you been? I'm just not myself when you're away.”

A few days after that, we were able to take Daddy to the hospital to see Mama. It was a bright but bitter cold Saturday morning before Christmas. Though he was still very weak, he was cheerful and excited about our excursion and the fact that we had planned a surprise for Mama. My sisters were already there as we rolled Daddy's wheelchair into Mama's room. There wasn't a dry eye in the room as they reached out to touch one another and Mama said, clearly this time, "Where've you been?. . .You've been gone so long."

Now, many months later, as we faced the task of dividing our parent’s possessions, representing a lifetime together, we cried together and remembered. Each little thing brought back a memory, and we talked about it and cried again. Our parents had not been able to leave a great deal of wealth or material possessions, but what they had given to their four daughters was even more valuable. People of a strong but quiet faith, they trusted God in their daily lives. Family was immensely important to each of them and they rejoiced with each of our successes or joys and offered support and caring during the hard times we faced. At times, we would believe we were protecting them from some "bad news" or tragic event, but they were never surprised or unable to handle any situation . . . and usually had some words of wisdom.

A family is woven together with many different cords or "threads". Perhaps the strongest thread, lasting a lifetime, is love. The most precious gift, given to each of their four daughters, four sons-in-law, grandchildren and great-grandchildren was a strong love for and belief in each of us.

Our Amazing Baby Girl...

2009-05-08T09:08:00.000-07:00

It was December 1969 and our special Christmas gift arrived two weeks early...a beautiful baby girl. She was born fifteen and one-half months after her big brother. We were blessed and so thankful to have two healthy babies. What a wonderful time this was in our life...

Enjoy the pictorial video below of the first few years of our daughter's life. Don't forget to FIRST scroll to the bottom of the blog page and PAUSE (click the two vertical lines in a circle) the playlist music.

Buying our first house...

2009-05-01T14:21:00.000-07:00

After the birth of our first child in 1968, we bought our first house. It was small...maybe a total of 1,000 square feet. It had a living room, dining room, small kitchen, three bedrooms, one bathroom, a detached one-car garage and a fenced backyard.

There was a redbud tree in the front yard which had beautiful pink blossoms each Spring. Although Bill had never laid brick in his life, he decided that he would build a small circular brick wall around the base of the redbud tree. What we didn't realize was that the ground around the tree wasn't at all level, so our circular wall appeared to be waving...up and down. We laughed about it and filled it with flowers. I believe that was Bill's last attempt at laying brick!

This was the beginning of many years of progressively successful "remodeling" experiences. We painted every room, changed the carpet, painted the kitchen cabinets, installed a new kitchen countertop and new bathroom tile. Bill constructed a narrow laundry closet in the bedroom adjacent to the living room since the kitchen was too small for it. We used scalloped window shades in each window and I made window treatments. We also painted the exterior of the house a light olive green with dark green shutters. All in all, it wasn't bad at all for two total novices.

Little did we know when we bought that first small house in 1968 that we would eventually own nine homes over a period of thirty-something years. Through the process of trial and error, we would learn a lot. We mastered painting, special textures on the wall, wallpapering, hanging drywall, refinishing cabinets and installing wood floors. There was even electrical and plumbing involved with hanging new light fixtures, ceiling fans and changing out fixtures in the bathroom.

We made our share of mistakes, but over the years our confidence grew and we were pleased with the results. We enjoyed the warm colors, rich woods and the look of colonial America. Home was comfortable and a welcome refuge for our family...

It seems like yesterday...

2009-04-24T11:14:00.000-07:00

Memories are strange and funny things. Try to remember what you had for dinner three nights ago, and there's only a vague recollection; but the memories from forty years ago are fresh and clear. I hope you enjoy a brief look at the first few years of our firstborn's life. It really does seem like yesterday...

First, scroll to the bottom of the blog page and pause the playlist music...(just click the two vertical bars in a circle)...and then return and play the video.

Welcome to the world, baby boy...

2009-03-11T11:55:00.000-07:00

It was August of 1968...and time for two important milestones in our life...Bill's graduation and the birth of our first child.

It had been fun preparing the nursery. I made soft yellow window curtains in a sweet nursery print, and we bought a maple rocking chair that would be with us for years to come. As I recall, the baby chest we used had been Bill's as a baby. We had given it new life with a coat of yellow paint...and nursery decals. (Years later, our firstborn would paint that same chest and take it with him to Vanderbilt University!)

On August 24, our firstborn made his debut. He weighed 8 lbs. 5 ounces, was 21 inches long and 4 weeks late. I had begun answering the telephone with "yes, I'm still here", when he finally arrived.

Welcome to the world, baby boy! How much joy can one heart feel!

Spring snowfall...

2009-02-03T08:49:00.000-08:00

It was March 22, 1968. Sixteen inches of snow had fallen, and the city was covered in an amazing blanket of white...a rare sight for Memphis.

After Bill's brief resident engineer appointment in Arkansas, we had returned home to Memphis and rented a 2 bedroom, 1 bath, upstairs apartment. We would need the second bedroom for a nursery, since we were now expecting our first child.

So, on that snowy day, while everyone else was sledding down the hills near the art museum, I was watching and laughing as everyone tumbled down those snowy banks....

Decisions...

2009-02-02T09:29:00.000-08:00

There is a bank of memories for each of us. Sometimes, we have to reach pretty far back to retrieve them...but the memories are still there, layered in years of time.

In this case, I'm remembering an early Spring morning when I made the decision to "drop out" of college as a SENIOR. I had been sick and in the hospital for a brief time. I was working and trying to keep up with my college courses in spite of it. Somehow, at the time, it all seemed too much and the only decision to make. I remember even my college advisor tried to talk me out of it. My rationale was that I would return the following year and finish. As it turned out, it would be several years before I would finish a degree, and then, it would not be in English and Secondary Education, but Nursing. Amazing, the twists and turns our lives take...

After that, I took a full-time secretarial position for the Director of Distributive Education at what was then Memphis State University. He was kind and supportive and reminded me of Wally Cox, "Mr. Peepers". Bill now had the time to study without having to work so much, and I focused on making life a little simpler for both of us.

Bill finished his courses, but for some reason, wouldn't actually walk in the graduation ceremony until August. He took a full-time position with an engineering firm in Memphis. After a few months, they sent him to a little town in Arkansas as the resident engineer on a construction site there. We were young and didn't have children at the time, so we were elected to go. I had enjoyed my brief time as secretary to "Mr. Peepers", but I was looking forward to this adventure with my husband.

The great thing about accepting this short three-month stint in Arkansas, was that the company paid for everything: the move, our rent in a brand new apartment, our utilities and telephone. We took advantage of this time to purchase new furniture and a new automobile.

We spent weekends in the Ozark Mountains or touring other parts of Arkansas and Missouri or we'd return home to Memphis for the weekend with our families there. It was a good time for us and we enjoyed our brief visit in Arkansas...

In this photo, we're returning to our new little apartment in Arkansas after one of our weekend trips.

Our first dinner party...

2009-01-20T14:53:00.000-08:00

Forty-one years later, and I still remember our first...slightly disastrous...dinner party.

Thankfully, I was able to laugh then with everyone else and still think it's funny. We had invited Bill's parents, sister and grandmother to be our first dinner guests.

Bill and I had spent the morning cleaning our little duplex apartment. Between classes and working part-time for each of us, there wasn't a lot of time to do housework, but everything was now clean and polished.

I certainly hadn't perfected "cooking" yet, but had a few things I could do pretty well by then. I had prepared "Phony Spumoni", an Italian gelatin salad in a triple tier mold that morning, as well as potato salad, and set them in the apartment's ancient refrigerator.

Using a covered stoneware pot we'd received as a wedding gift, I'd made baked beans in the oven, and then prepared Southern fried chicken. I don't remember for sure, but I believe we must have had hot biscuits and a dessert.

Our dinner guests arrived. We enjoyed visiting a little while and then it was time for dinner. First, it was time to unmold the "phony Spumoni". I took it out of the fridge and turned it over onto a serving platter and a bed of greens. Splatter...splatter...splat...went the top two tiers of the spumoni. The old fridge had not done its job. We scooped up what we could that looked somewhat chilled, but the presentation had lost its effect.

I took the stoneware beanpot out of the oven and set it on top of the old gas stovetop. It burst. Yep. Beans went everywhere.

We all laughed and laughed, then ate what was left intact: fried chicken, potato salad, soupy spumoni and biscuits.

Christmas 1966...

2009-01-20T08:08:00.000-08:00

It was our first Christmas together, and we were starting our own traditions. Christmas would always be special in our family...

Through the years, there have been many elaborate, beautiful Christmas trees...but none quite so special as this Charlie Brown Christmas tree. All that little tree had were colorful paper balls and tinsel.

I loved it just the same...

My twenty-first birthday...

2009-01-19T10:09:00.000-08:00

It was December 1, 1966...our birthday. We had been married since September. It was my twenty-first birthday and Bill's twenty-third. Looking at the photo here, I'm wondering how many candles were on that cake...quite a few!

Funny how clothing and hair styles come full circle. I wish I had this ensemble I was wearing then now. Soft pink wool vest with covered buttons, an A-line skirt in the same soft pink wool and a white silk blouse. Remember, my Mama was a wonderful seamstress. The only problem is...even if I still had it, I couldn't get in it! I weighed all of 107 pounds here.

And, yes, I know. The hairstyle is still similar...just lots of silver now highlighted in blonde.

Our first home...

2009-01-15T19:17:00.000-08:00

Our first home was a small, rented yellow brick duplex on a well-kept, tree-lined street. It was located about fifteen minutes from Memphis State where we were both students. It had newly refinished wood floors, a small living room, dining room, kitchen, 1 bedroom and 1 bathroom. There were plenty of windows which let in lots of light throughout.

What it didn't have was a lot of furniture or the decorating expertise I've gathered all these years later. Don't we always wish we'd known "then" what we know "now"...

Somehow, we'd inherited a used, ugly sofa sleeper that weighed a ton, and Bill made a large square table which held our tiny black & white television set. That was it for furniture in the living room. We laughed for years about that television, for it basically operated on a shoestring...literally. The TV would turn on and operated fine for a while...then the picture would start turning dark. Bill isolated the fuse or whatever in the back of the TV and attached a shoestring to it. When the picture started to turn dark, we'd pull the shoestring and wah-lah! The picture came back on! Years later, there would be televisions in several rooms of the house, but none that brought laughter like that one did.

For $35, we'd purchased a used, hardrock maple round table and four captain chairs for the dining room...all in surprisingly excellent condition. Thankfully, I'd brought my new bedroom furniture from home.

We didn't realize, or couldn't have cared less, that our little home was sparsely furnished. We were newlyweds and so happy to be together. We were college students and each working part-time. We would study at our dining room table together or at the MSU library. We'd have friends over or friends would have us over. It was a wonderful time...

The beginning of a lifetime...

2009-01-14T09:56:00.000-08:00

It was Autumn of 1965 and I was falling in love...I just didn't realize it at the time.

I thought Bill and I were just very close friends - soulmates - who spent as much time together as possible, sharing our deepest thoughts and feelings.

I was still hearing from Ross who was at sea on the U.S.S. Forrestal, and Bill was still dating the tall redhead named Linda. I knew he wasn't serious about her, but she, evidently, had other plans. One afternoon in the BSU, I was sitting with a group of friends when Linda came over to our table. She had a notebook with her and commented directly to me, "I wanted to show you the menus I've planned for when Bill and I get married"...hmmm.

A loud bell went off in my head, and I remember the thought I had at that precise moment: "THAT'S what you think". Quiet little Baptist girl I was...but the thought was there all the same.

Not long after that, Bill and I started officially dating exclusively. It was a late Autumn afternoon, and we went to the movies at the Audubon Park Theater. When we came out, night had fallen and it was snowing....enormous beautiful snowflakes drifting down in the moonlight. We drove through Audubon Park with its magnificent trees covered in a blanket of white. Bill spun circles in the snow in his black little VW bug, and we laughed until we almost cried...

Bill asked me to marry him sometime in early 1966...I said no the first time. I'm not sure why. Maybe I was still a little scared of the whole idea of marriage...I don't know. I'm glad he asked the second time a few weeks later, when I promptly said yes.

We began planning a wedding for September 1966. We were both still in college and each working part-time. Needless to say, there was very little money; but we were young and in love, and that didn't seem to be a problem. My mother made my beautiful wedding dress. I had an exquisite bouquet of yellow roses, and my bridesmaids each carried a long-stemmed yellow rose with greenery and ribbons. The church was packed with family and friends. It was a beautiful wedding...

We couldn't afford an official "honeymoon" at that time, so we took special day trips to fun places within driving distance of our new little duplex home. We drove to Shiloh and toured the battlefields of the Civil War. We went to Pickwick Lake...and even managed to get an invitation to go below to see the inner workings of the huge dam there (Bill was an industrial technology major and loved that). We took a picnic to Shelby Forest. Without spending much money at all, it was still a wonderful time...

Leaving the church after the reception...back when everyone still threw RICE at you!

Shadows and highlights...

2009-01-13T09:42:00.000-08:00

As the new year has come and gone, I've been thinking about, and struggling with, how to tell the rest of the story...

Telling a story is much like painting a picture...only with words.

My grandchildren create the most wonderful paintings...quite magical paintings actually. However, my grandchildren haven't learned about shadows just yet. Their paintings are in pure colors...no dark shadows that would give their paintings realism and depth. Our lives are like this. The joyful times in our lives are the brilliant blues, reds, golds, vibrant greens and even bright silver...the highlights of our lives. Any painting without highlights is dreary and flat.

It's the valleys - the sad times...the losses...the grief - those are the times in which we grow. Those are the times that create the depth and dimension in our lives. Granted, while we're in those valleys, we don't comprehend that fact. We only feel the pain or loss. Those valleys are the times that stretch us, test us, strengthen our faith and propel us into the arms of our loving Heavenly Father.

So, life is made up of mountaintops and valleys. It's that way with each of us. I thank God for the mountaintops He has given me over the years, but I also thank Him for the valleys...and for being with me each step of way through them. So, as I struggle with how to put my life into words, I'll try to remember to be thankful for both the mountaintops and the valleys.

I discovered the following poem many years ago. It's still true today.

My Life Is But A Weaving

My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me;

I cannot choose the colors He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow, and I, in foolish pride,

Forget He sees the upper, and I the under side.

Not 'til the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful in the Weaver's skilled hand,

As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.

He knows, He loves, He cares, nothing this truth can dim.

He gives His very best to those who leave the choice with Him.

(author unknown)

(I recently discovered the treasured drawing at the top of the page in a box of old papers I was going through. The drawing is done in crayon on manila paper and is by my older son who just turned forty in August of 2008! My best guess is he was about 7 or 8 years old when he did this drawing. Actually, he did put some "shadows" beneath the ship, which was pretty clever for that age. He is now a missionary doctor in the mountains of Peru.)

Happy New Year 2009

2009-01-01T09:29:00.000-08:00

This Southern Heart of mine remembers the turn of many a new year in the South...my homeland...celebrating with the traditional New Years Day meal of black eyed peas, ham, coleslaw, sweet potato casserole, turnip greens and hot corn bread muffins. Just thinking about it makes me hungry and homesick! I just talked with my sister Gerry and that was exactly the meal she was preparing...wish I could be there to enjoy it with them!

Here is wishing each of you, dear readers, a blessed 2009...full of good health, love, joy and peace.

Blessings to you,
Dianne

September 1965...

2008-12-13T17:35:00.000-08:00

It was Autumn again. A whole year had passed since I had first come to Memphis State. Things seemed different now...no longer the strangeness of being new.

It had been an eventful summer and one in which I'd grown a great deal. I'd been challenged and come away the better for it. I thought often about the beautiful Pacific Northwest and all that I seen there. I also thought about how God had chosen to work in such a mysterious way...for my good and His glory. I kept the papers from the train reservation for many years...just in case I forgot.

Bill came over before school started back to ask me to speak to his church youth group about my summer in Seattle. I had taken many slides and felt comfortable sharing. He told me about his summer and his experiences at the Air Force flight training. He was taking flying lessons at a small airport in the county. One afternoon he stopped by my house on his way home from his flying lesson. He had completed his first solo flight. In keeping with tradition, they had cut off the back half of his shirt and signed it with the date. He couldn't wait to show me, and I was excited for him.

Once again, the BSU was the hub of activity with everyone returning back to school and sharing the events of their summer. Several of the students had traveled to other destinations as summer missionaries. It was fun sharing stories with each other.

Autumn of 1965 would also be when I realized that my feelings for Bill were more than just friendship...

A summer in Seattle...conclusion

2008-12-06T09:33:00.000-08:00

It had been almost forty-eight hours with nothing more than an occasional nap, but the lull of the train had finally rocked me to sleep. I had fallen asleep in the observation deck surrounded by the majesty of the Rocky Mountains. When I awoke early the next morning, we were just a few hours outside of Portland, Oregon. Trying to bathe in the quart-sized sink in the train bathroom was a challenge but I'd managed and then met my friends for breakfast in the dining car. There was such anticipation and excitement...as each of us wondered what lay ahead for the summer.

Portland was beautiful...with the beautiful Willamette and Columbia Rivers, snow capped mountains in the distance, the Columbia River Gorge and Multnomah Falls. Over the next two weeks, I would fall in love with the City of Roses...but my destination was Seattle. We were met at the train station and driven to the beautiful estate where the two-week orientation would be held.

Students from all over the United States now joined those of us from the East, South and Midwest who had met in Chicago. I'm sure the agenda over the next two weeks included training for what we would need to know as summer missionaries...but my memories are distinctly different. I remember the dormitory where the girls slept with open windows on three sides, inviting in the cool mountain air. That first night's sleep on a top-bunk was one of the best I've ever had. I remember the unexpectedly delicious meals in the dining room with big pitchers of ice cold milk. I remember the amazing view from the mountaintop setting. Most especially, I remember meeting new friends and having fun touring Portland together during our spare time over those two weeks.

Toward the end of orientation, a group of about twenty college students were selected to stay an additional two weeks in Canada at the end of summer. I was one of them. I changed my train reservation and prepared to stay. Little did I know then, the events that decision would precipitate.

There were several of us traveling to Seattle. We would be together off and on throughout the summer. We stayed with different church families who made us a part of their family while we were with them. I remember each of the families..maybe not their names after all these years, but their faces and their homes.

For the next ten weeks, I worked setting up and teaching Vacation Bible Schools all across the Seattle area...one on Vashon Island. We worked in several underprivileged areas. The children at each one tugged at my heart. It was difficult getting attached to them knowing that we would be leaving and moving to the next church in two weeks. It was a time of growing for me...a time of finding out just what I had to give.

It wasn't all work. Those of us assigned to Seattle got together as often as we could. We took the elevator to the top of the Space Needle and enjoyed the view of Seattle and the breathtaking mountains. We went night fishing at a trout farm. We took a ferry to historic Victoria, British Columbia. I loved it, especially Butchart Gardens. One of my friends, Shelby, rented a motorbike and I remember touring part of Victoria on the back of it with him. Another day, we traveled to Mt. Ranier, where I got an up close and personal look at a majestic mountain. I would laugh later when I got home and had all my film developed. I had taken a full roll of Mt. Ranier. I was captivated by this structure, this unbelievable display of God's incredible handiwork, and in my excitement took at least 24 photos which, of course, all looked alike.

Toward the beginning of my last week there, I began having some serious symptoms...among them fever, extreme fatigue, aching joints and shortness of breath. I had been seriously anemic prior to the trip and had endured several painful injections of iron to be able to make the trip...all the while insisting I was going. I thought the symptoms were related to that, but the "Mom" I was staying with at the time insisted on taking me to her physician. He examined me and ordered bloodwork. There were some issues with the blood work; but the doctor admitted he wasn't sure what it was and diagnosed it as "some type of rare virus". I wasn't a Registered Nurse at that time, of course, and didn't ask questions. I just knew I felt ill. The doctor did not recommend that I stay the extra two weeks in Canada, and he definitely did not want me traveling home by train. My home church took up a collection for me to fly home at the end of that week.

I don't remember whether or not the doctor had given me any medication, but over the next few days, I began to feel a little better and enjoyed my last visit with all the friends I had made there. It was difficult saying goodbye to everyone...honestly, I didn't want to leave the beautiful Pacific Northwest. I remember the Friday evening that I boarded the plane to fly home...my first flight ever. There was a battalion of handsome young Air Force men on the same flight. They had been stationed in Alaska for the entire previous year. With a big smile, the "full bird colonel" sat down next to me saying, "I have a daughter just your age...I'm sitting here." I understood what he was saying, of course, but confess to thinking "oh, heck". What better person to have sitting next to you on your first flight though than an Air Force colonel. He was excited about getting home to his wife and the daughter who was my age and told me all about them. Thankfully, he was there to help me make my tight connection at the O'Hare airport in Chicago...something I've done dozens of times since...but not before then.

Oddly enough, when I arrived at the Memphis airport I felt perfectly fine. There were no more symptoms, and my doctor did not find anything with his examination and blood work.

Two weeks after my arrival home, I was sitting on my front porch reading the newspaper. There in black and white was the account of a serious train accident. I remember running into the house and comparing my ticket, which I still had, with the newspaper account...it was the same train. I had goose bumps for days after that.

Only God knows if I would have been among the injured or dead, had I been on that train...but He intervened and orchestrated an early arrival home for me. I'm thankful for that and for the wonderful summer of 1965 in the Pacific Northwest. Little did I know then, that 43 years later, I would be living in the Callahan Mountains of Oregon.

A summer in Seattle...part one

2008-12-04T12:49:00.000-08:00

It was early winter 1965. I was nineteen years old and excited about applying to be a summer missionary through the Southern Baptist Convention Home Mission Board. There were thousands of college students applying across the United States, but only a certain number would be chosen. It was a lengthy process, but I completed it...then waited. We would know in the Spring. The summer missionaries would serve in their appointed destinations for ten weeks. By the time we were notified whether or not we had been selected, we'd have time to prepare to travel.

The Baptist Student Union was a busy place that winter. We'd meet there daily for lunch, NoonDay service and just to relax between classes. Several of the BSU students had applied to be summer missionaries, and there was excitement as we were all waiting to hear the news. Bill would be headed to the Altus Air Force base in Oklahoma for ROTC flight training that summer. Each day during lunch or on our long walks together, Bill and I would talk about our plans for the summer.

Word came in the early Spring from the Home Mission Board. I had been selected. My protective parents were opposed to the idea, but this time I didn't ask. I just said "I'm going"...maybe I should have tried that sooner. As my first choice on the application I had chosen an Indian reservation in Oregon. I didn't get it...I was to spend ten weeks in Seattle.

The Home Mission Board paid for the cheapest transportation to a summer missionary's destination. In my case, that was by train...four days and three nights by train to be exact. I remember the night that I boarded the train in Memphis...the Illinois-Central to Chicago. After traveling all night and then an eight hour layover in Chicago the following day, I would have to transfer train stations by bus. I would then board the streamlined, fully-equipped Union-Pacific train line for the cross-country trip to Portland, Oregon, for the two week orientation...such logistics for a nineteen year old who'd never been farther than 200 miles from home. Although the cross country train came equipped with sleeping cabins, I couldn't afford one. I was hoping I could sleep in my seat...unfortunately, sleep didn't come until the third night in route.

I love the classic movies, usually mysteries, that depict traveling by train...eating in the dining car...enjoying the stars by night in the observation deck. Basically, that's exactly what I did, along with the other summer missionaries that I'd met in Chicago...all headed to the Pacific Northwest. Spending that much time together on a train is a good way to get to know each other and we did. All these years later, I still remember names and faces...although, by now, those faces will have changed no doubt. Together, we all enjoyed the dining car with the white tablecloths and little lamps on the tables. We watched the ever changing landscape from the observation deck as the train steadily made its way to the Pacific Northwest. Since none of us could afford the sleeping cars, we did our best to try to rest in our seats.

As I traveled cross-country at the age of nineteen, I saw parts of this country that I'd only read about before. I was thilled to see my first mountain somewhere mid-way along the journey...and then awestruck going through the Rockies at sunset. I was in the first seat of the observation deck with glass all around me. The mountains stretched out forever before me as the train wove in and out of long tunnels making its way northwest.

Even after all these years, the memory of that train journey remains...

Our birthday...

2008-12-01T08:29:00.000-08:00

Today is the first day of December...our birthday, Bill's and mine...and, perhaps, the best time to begin telling our story.

The first time I ever saw his face was on an Autumn afternoon in 1964. I was sitting on the sofa by the fireplace in the BSU with some friends, when he walked in the door. He was wearing his Air Force ROTC dress uniform. He removed his officer's cap and placed it on the top shelf of the coat rack. I couldn't help watching him as he walked over to another group of friends and immediately became the center of attention...talking and laughing. I remember thinking he was handsome, very sharp and self-assured, almost cocky...much like a young Tom Cruise in Top Gun. He had beautiful green eyes and dark brown hair clipped short in the ROTC required style. There was something about him that I definitely found appealing.

His name was Bill. I had no way of knowing at that moment that I would spend thirty-nine years of my life with him. Life is a remarkable gift, but unfolds just one brief moment at the time; and at that time, I was dating Mike (the young Sean Connery look-alike), and Bill was dating a redhead named Linda, who was at least as tall as he was or maybe a little taller. Linda was a home economics major as I recall and it would, in the months to come, be a comment made by Linda that made me realize my true feelings for Bill...but that's later in our story.

The exact moment that Bill and I met is lost in my memory, but over the Autumn of 1964 we became friends. At some point during that season, Bill asked me to go to a church banquet with him which was held at a beautiful campgrounds. Memory is a funny thing...laid down in so many transparent layers...but it almost seems I can remember the drive out there in his little black VW bug. There's a canopy of brilliant colors flashing past as we drive along those winding roads...laughing and talking all the way. Many years have passed, but I remember the beautiful gardenia corsage he gave me. Gardenias would be one of his favorites for years to come.

As the months and seasons came and went, our friendship continued to grow. We would find an empty picnic table on the grounds of the BSU when the weather was good and enjoy our lunch together. He would share his Mom's homemade oatmeal raisin cookies with me, which I loved. After lunch, we'd go for long walks in the neighborhood surrounding the MSU campus. Looking back now, I realize we were wanting to get away from the crowd at the BSU...we wanted time to talk and get to know one another.

Little did I know that while I was growing up on Victor Drive, Bill lived just a few short blocks from me all that time. We went to different schools and different churches, so we had never met until that day in the BSU.

For years to come, I would tell Bill that I had been his birthday gift when he was only two years old...

Traditions...

2008-11-29T08:54:00.000-08:00

Mama cherished the holidays each year, because it meant we would all be together once again. Of course, there were other times throughout the year that the family gathered in one place, but the holidays were special. First, there was the Thanksgiving feast and just a few weeks later...Christmas.

Sometime during the week or so before Christmas, we would go to a small grocery store on Jackson Avenue that sold cut Christmas trees looking for that special tree. As I recall, it was usually a fragrant Cedar. Compared to our next door neighbor's tree, which looked like Martha Stewart would have decorated it, our tree looked a bit like a Charlie Brown tree. There were only the large colored lights, a little red or green garland roping, a few ornaments and icicles, but Sharon and I thought it was beautiful.

As I recall, there weren't a lot of presents each year, but I do recall one special gift. I must have been about fourteen that year. I had wanted my very own shoe skates and had actually found them hidden away a week or so before Christmas. Unfortunately, Mama forgot about them. She forgot to give them to me, and all the time, I knew where they were. I don't remember now when she finally remembered them, but I did, finally, get them that Christmas.

Looking at the elaborate felt stockings I have now, I remember our Christmas stockings all those years ago...nylon hosiery stockings filled with oranges, apples, walnuts, pecans and candy. I remember all those little stockings filled and arranged in front of our Santa gifts under the tree. Looking back now, it seems we opened our gifts to one another on Christmas eve, and then Santa arrived on Christmas morning. Santa didn't bring very much, but it was special all the same.

Our Christmas eve tradition was to have our evening meal, open gifts to one another and then drive around looking at all the spectacular displays of Christmas lights. There was one particular wealthy neighborhood that put up amazing displays of lighted Christmas decorations each year...all across their front lawns, trees and houses. My nieces, nephew and I could hardly wait for our meal to be over and gifts to be opened so we could go see the lights. It seems so simple with the telling, but it was a special time and a treasured memory.

As the years passed and we all grew up and had our own families, the traditions evolved. We took turns hosting the Thanksgiving and Christmas meals. Eventually, the next generations arrived, families grew larger and distances separated us...as it does now. Even so, the memories of those special times live on.

It's a cold crisp morning on the farm today and as I look out the studio windows, I see all those acres of enormous Douglas and Grand Fir, magnificent Christmas trees...but what I'm remembering is a special little Charlie Brown Christmas tree on Victor Drive.

Mama learns to drive...

2008-11-25T13:48:00.000-08:00

Mama was a wonderful homemaker, Southern cook and an artist with a brush, needle and thread. Although, she could read music by "shaped notes", she sang and played the piano and organ "by ear". She had a wonderful sense of humor and a quick and ready smile. For the most part, I think she was content to stay at home for she considered taking care of her family the most important role in her life.

Daddy was mellow and easy going. As the father of four daughters, I suppose he had to be. He was quiet but also had a good sense of humor. Sharon and I could easily get him to laugh. He had always been protective of Mama as well as his daughters; and perhaps that was the reason she had never learned to drive. She had never considered the fact she couldn't drive a problem, until Daddy began riding to work with a fellow employee...leaving the car at home.

Having a perfectly good automobile left sitting in the driveway and plenty of places she wanted to go was a different story...a motivating factor I would say. There were the fabric stores she loved, grocery shopping and a local shopping center with nice department stores. I was in college and not there during the day to drive for her, so Mama decided she would learn to drive. When Mama made up her mind to do something, there was no stopping her. The police academy offered driving lessons for adults and she enrolled. Mama didn't do anything halfway and became their star pupil.

She loved her newfound freedom in our 1957 Chevrolet, and now insisted on doing the driving herself...even when I was with her! I understood the feeling of those new wings and it would have been fine with me...if only she had driven faster than 25 miles per hour. With her genteel Southern upbringing, she could not understand why people were passing her or giving her unkind looks when she pulled out in front of them at a snail's pace. I believe, eventually, she did pick up her speed and gained her confidence behind the wheel.

I am my Mother's daughter in a lot of ways (no, not the driving - I drive much too fast). When it comes to a paintbrush, needle or thread, I find joy. It's almost as if I don't have a choice...I simply must be in the midst of creating something. As of yet, my quilting projects have been small ones, but I enjoy the process. I love to sew and made many of my daughter's clothes...and even a few for my sons...when they were growing up. I love to cook, especially Southern style. Most importantly, I have found my greatest joy in my role as a mother...and now as a grandmother.

Looking back after all these years, I think that it took great courage for Mama to conquer her fear and learn to drive at the age of sixty. I hope if I were faced with a similar challenge, that I might just have a little of her courage...

(Just for fun, check out the You-Tube black & white TV commercial on the 1957 Chevrolet link above!)

Life goes on...

2008-11-25T08:45:00.000-08:00

It was the first week of February 1965. I'd returned from visiting my friends on the campus in Mississippi feeling more than a little sad. Life had, of course, gone on without me there. All these years later, I remember the long Greyhound bus ride back home. It had given me time to think...mostly about the choices I had made. I made up my mind then to make the best of it at Memphis State.

Memphis State was much larger than the small Baptist college in Mississippi. My friends from church and I sought refuge and friendship at the Baptist Student Union. The BSU met in a craftsman style house which was situated practically right on campus. The house had historical character with its large rooms, built-in bookcases, wood floors and large paned windows that let in lots of light. There was a big front porch with a swing and enormous shade trees on the grounds. In the large front room, there was a fireplace, a baby grand piano, comfortable sofas, chairs and tables. It was a welcoming place.

This was our retreat between classes or any other opportunity we had. We'd gather there for "Noon-Day" services each day, where there would be a brief devotional and music. Afterwards, a group of us would sit around the long oak table and eat the lunches we'd brought from home. Occasionally, we would meet at the cafeteria on campus, but to tell the truth, I preferred the fellowship at the BSU. I was beginning to cherish the friendships I was finding there...with all the laughter and sharing. The BSU would also be where I would later meet the love of my life and the father of my three children...

I was dating a young man named Mike who was frequently reminded that he looked just like a young Sean Connery, and he did. It seemed I always ended up dating ministerial students for Mike was headed to a Baptist seminary after graduation. Most of the time though, there were groups of us who would get together to go skating, bowling or to the movies. One memorable Autumn Saturday night, there was a fun hayride and bonfire at a nearby farm. One long weekend, I went with a large group from the BSU to an international students retreat at Lake Barkley, Kentucky, where I met students from all over the world.

I had decided to major in English with a minor in secondary education. Among my other classes, I was taking a couple of advanced literature classes and history which I basically hated for all the essay questions. Nothing was easy. Honestly, I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do for my future. I thought I wanted to teach high school English and Spanish, and I proceeded in that direction. Little did I know then, that while I would spend time teaching in the classroom, that wasn't what I would eventually end up doing...

Looking back, I wish I had know then what I know now...don't we all?

Saying goodbye...

2008-11-24T12:57:00.000-08:00

The last semester of my freshman year was almost over. I had finally accepted the fact that I would have to transfer to a state university there in Memphis for my sophmore year. Financially, there was no other way. I could work through the summer and save enough for my books and tuition and live at home. It certainly wasn't what I wanted to do, but it seemed the only solution.

Jimmy, Linda, my roommate, and all my other friends pleaded with me to apply for a school loan. Looking back, I don't know why I didn't. Perhaps, transferring seemed the "easiest" thing to do at the time, and so I set the paperwork in motion.

It's odd that I don't remember how I got home from college those 45 years ago...there were obviously clothes and boxes to pack, but I don't remember that part. I do remember being sad to leave.

Those were the days before email and instant messenger. So over the summer, Jimmy and I wrote letters. Jimmy also came to visit me several times. He invited me down to visit his family in Florida sometime during that summer, but my parents said no. I suppose it was the distance from Memphis to Florida, for they liked Jimmy. It wasn't easy being the youngest daughter of overprotective parents.

Fall came and I registered at the university there in Memphis. I had close friends from church who were also going to school there and I would be riding to campus with them. It took several weeks before I began to stop missing my friends I'd been so close to for the past year. I became involved in the Baptist Student Union there and slowly began meeting people and making new friends.

Jimmy had been hurt and upset with me that I wouldn't at least try to find the funds to return to college there. Over the weeks that followed, we exchanged a few letters, but slowly grew apart. In February 1965, I had a school break and went back to college to visit my roommate and other friends. Evidently, they had told Jimmy that I was coming. I remember seeing him and briefly meeting the girl he had recently been dating in the cafeteria.

After supper, Jimmy came over the dorm and walked me to the campus movie that night. According to the old diary I'd found, we also stopped at the library for some reason on the way over to the movie. Later, after Linda and I had returned back to her dorm about eleven o'clock, Jimmy called. The dorm was situated around an interior outdoor courtyard. The telephone was in an old-fashioned phone booth on the second floor balcony - outside. We talked for a good long while. Jimmy wanted to talk longer, but it was very cold outside and I was freezing. He wanted to come over, but it was past visiting hours in the lobby...remember this was 45 years ago and boys weren't allowed in the dorm rooms.

I'm trying to remember if when we said goodbye that night was the last time that we ever spoke...I do believe that it was.

Roses in a fruit jar...

2008-11-21T20:51:00.000-08:00

Spring had come and with it, the warm days that felt like an early summer. The campus was ablaze with color...beautiful pink and red azaleas, flowering dogwood and fragrant magnolias. Yellow daffodils lined the historical brick streets in the nearby town and all the brick walkways across campus.

Everything on campus seemed in high gear. My weekly routine continued to include 18 hours in class, working 15 hours and trying my best to find time to study. I continued in the BSU choir and kept one mission trip a week in my schedule...to the nursing home. Trying to find time to even do my laundry was a challenge, and Jimmy continued to make sure that I didn't have any "down" time.

We frequently double-dated with his friend Raleigh and Raleigh's girlfriend. Jimmy was on scholarship and certainly didn't have much money. He was creative and found interesting places to go that didn't cost that much...like the zoo, movies and plays on campus, fishing, flying kites. The photo below was taken at the college swim and picnic day at a large nearby lake in late Spring. It was very warm that day and felt more like summer.
One day after work as I walked into the dorm, the student desk clerk said, "you have flowers". There were a couple of bouquets there - one that closely resembled a funeral arrangement and a beautiful bouquet of wild pink roses. About that time she giggled and said, "yours are the ones in the fruit jar". Thank goodness I thought. They were beautiful...tiny little wild pink roses...dozens of them. I took them to my room and put them on my desk. I was sure they were from Jimmy and certainly meant to thank him as soon as I saw him.

Two or three days passed and each time we were together, I would forget to mention the roses. That Saturday, Jimmy said he had something special to show me. I was swamped with work and needed to spend the day in the library. One look at his face though, and I said yes. He drove to a little lake surrounded by a grove of trees. It seems I remember hiking a long way around the lake to get there and then he said, "look".

There it was...an absolutely enormous wild rose bush covered in hundreds of tiny pink wild roses. I've never seen anything to compare to that bush since that day. I felt two inches tall. I'd forgotten to say thank you, and he had gone to all this effort just for me. I hugged him and thanked him for the roses. I assured him that I had loved them. He said "I thought you hadn't liked them because they were in a fruit jar...that's all I could find". "That was the best part," I said.

I learned a hard lesson that day and one I've remembered all these years - a gift from the heart is not to be taken lightly...especially if they're roses in a fruit jar.

Feeling the wind on the end of a string...

2008-11-21T14:05:00.000-08:00

After meeting Jimmy, my life on campus changed. He made sure I was never lonely or bored...not that I had time to be bored. With his energy and pure passion for life, he celebrated everything.

One day, not long after we'd met, Jimmy asked me if I'd ever flown a kite. I had to think for a moment, and then I realized that I'd totally missed that experience in my childhood.

"We'll soon take care of that" he said, and that Saturday morning, he picked me up at the dorm armed with two kites, each with a long tail, and lots of string. It was perfect kite weather...warm with a wonderful breeze. We walked to a large hill behind the campus where he proceeded to attempt to teach me the basics of launching and flying a kite. I'd run as fast as I could and try to get my kite off the ground, and he'd end up laughing at my antics.

Finally, my kite caught an updraft and the wind took it...higher and higher and higher. I felt the strong tug of a kite hundreds of feet in the air and realized what an amazing thing I'd missed as a child.

Meeting Jimmy...

2008-11-20T20:41:00.000-08:00

Classes resumed after Christmas at a furious pace. The professors piled on the assignments making up for lost time. I was struggling in botany and hated it. There didn't seem to be enough time to get it all done, not with working three hours each day, and I had no choice about that.

Looking back, it seems that my work at the infirmary helped pay for my meals, because I only received a small check once or twice a semester. So, if I received a dollar or two in the mail, which I did from time to time, it was needed and welcomed. For a brief time, I found another parttime job typing for an accountant there just to have some spending money, but that only added to the frustration of not enough time to study. Two jobs and 18 hours was altogether too much and overwhelming.

The occasional outings with the Baptist Student Union were good for me, and I tried to reserve the time for them. I loved going to the pediatric floor at the hospital where the children always made me laugh. Visiting with the women prisoners at the jail was a heartbreaking experience, listening to the stories of their lives and what they had experienced. I had nothing to compare to it, but I listened and hugged them. Somehow, that seemed to help and they welcomed us back each week. My favorite trip was probably to the nursing homes. Never having really known my grandparents, I had a tendency to adopt anyone older than 75. I loved them all, and they were so excited each week when we came for our visit.

The weeks had tumbled quickly by and it was March already...March 16, 1964. We were having a blowing rain storm...the kind that turns your umbrella inside out and wrenches it from your hands. I had managed to get across campus but was pretty soaked and freezing by the time I got to my speech lab. There, we would sit in our little carrels, wearing headphones and listening to difficult vocabulary words, repeating them quietly into microphones. I wasn't real thrilled with this exercise or too sure of the use of it, but I complied. Sitting there in my little cubicle, I had my sweater wrapped around me, still trying to get warm.

I was quietly repeating the words I heard in the microphone, when I heard these words in my headset: "WHERE have you been?".

"Huh?" I thought to myself...am I supposed to repeat that?!

"WHERE have you been? I haven't seen you on campus, and I KNOW I would have seen YOU!"

"Okay, what's going on?" I thought to myself. I looked up and there in the instructor's booth was a very handsome young man, looking directly at me and smiling.

"Where would you like to go?" he questioned...speaking softly into his microphone. "I'll close the lab and take you anywhere you want to go".

Now that I'm older and a little wiser, I would probably say, "you've been watching too many romantic comedies", but I was eighteen and he was cute!

Jimmy did close the lab class that afternoon, making all the students happy. By that time, the sun had come out and a beautiful rainbow made a timely appearance. We went for a long walk around the campus, and Jimmy pointed out things that had been there all along...but I'd never even noticed. A junior and a speech major, he was from the coast of Florida. He was there on a speech debate scholarship, and he was very good at it. A Methodist ministerial student at a Baptist college, his plans were to go to Duke University after graduation for his masters and to become a Methodist minister.

With a quick wit, beautiful blue eyes and a disarming smile, Jimmy was the proverbial tall, dark and handsome. He invited me to go to a play on campus that night...MacBeth. As I recall, it was a lovely evening...and the start of a close friendship.

Home for Christmas

2008-11-20T13:50:00.000-08:00

The days on the calendar flew quickly by. Thanksgiving had come and gone, and I was looking forward to a nice long break at Christmas. I was tired and "run down", to use one of Mama's expressions, after a bout with strep throat and a high fever. I had even managed to spend a few days and nights as a patient at the infirmary where I worked. The Christmas break would give me a chance to rest and catch up on all the school work I'd fallen behind on...not to mention preparing for the finals the week after my return to school. Not the best way to spend Christmas vacation, but I was thankful for the time.

It snowed the day before we were to leave for Christmas break. A deep blanket of white covered the campus. Icicles hung from the chapel and other buildings and weighed heavily on the tree branches. Everything glistened in the bright sunlight. It was a winter wonderland in the deep South. No one had come prepared with boots but we still tromped in the snow, throwing snowballs at one another and basically acting thirteen again. It added to the excitement of going home.

I was riding home with Sandra, one of my friends from Memphis, who was also a freshman there. Her boyfriend Mike had come down to drive us back to Memphis. It seems there was someone else with us on the trip...but I can't wait quite remember who it was. I gently remind myself that it has been forty-five years.

It continued to snow all that day, and the roads had turned into a solid sheet of ice. Driving was reported to be treacherous at best. Under normal circumstances, the trip took four hours. We left school about eleven o'clock in the morning right after our last class. It didn't take long, or very many miles, to know we were not looking forward to this trip. Mike was a good driver but totally inexperienced driving in snow; and now the snow had been packed under a sheet of ice.

I remember vividly that, at first, there was talk and laughter among us on the trip...and then silence as we realized how dangerous it was. We must have only been traveling about 20 miles per hour, but more than once, we slipped and slid totally across the road and into what would have been oncoming traffic...had anyone else been there. We passed dozens of vehicles abandoned on the side of the road or, even worse, wrecked. There were very few stores open and we needed to stop for gas. We also needed to get some food and something warm to drink. Unfortunately, this was before cell phones so we had no way to call our parents or anyone if, indeed, we were to need help.

We finally found a store open and bought some sandwiches and hot chocolate. We also filled the tank with gas. I remember calling my dad collect at that point. He said to find some where to buy chains for the car and that he would pay for them along with the gas. Luckily, we did find a store open and managed to get chains to fit. A little while longer and we were back on the road. The chains did help some, but it was still rough going. Twelve hours after leaving school, we pulled up to my front door. We were all exhausted but glad to be home.

Since that long ago journey, I've lived in Illinois and Iowa where it snows a lot. I've driven in snow storms and blizzards with white-out conditions. I've driven on sheets of ice. Yet, each time I do, I'm transported back in time to a car full of college kids trying their best to get home for Christmas...

And so it began...

2008-11-19T22:10:00.000-08:00

It was Autumn now and the campus was beautiful. The trees scattered all long the winding brick walkways wore jewel tones of gold, amber, amethyst and ruby. There was little time to enjoy it though since classes had begun at a downhill pace. I had to work hard to keep up with all my subjects in addition to working 15 hours a week at the infirmary. Finding a quiet place to study was another challenge in the noisy freshman dorm, so I would often escape to the library to study until it closed at night. I was struggling and frustrated that it was harder than usual for me. I was missing my family and friends at home...and Ross.

It wasn't all hard work though. I got involved with the Baptist Student Union and served on the BSU freshman council (photo below - I'm on far right). We went on special mission trips, such as to the city jail, pediatric wing of the hospital and the nursing homes. I joined the BSU choir (they didn't ask if I could sing). We traveled to several different places giving concerts throughout the year. We were boarding the bus for one such concert when the tragic news of JFK's assasination was announced. Being on that bus with all those students who were as stunned as I was will always live in my memory of that sad day.

Prior to the football games in the Fall, there would be a bonfire and a "hootenanny". When you hear the words "sixties music", it's that legendary 60's rock 'n roll that comes to mind; but the sixties were also a time of serious folk music. Musicians like Peter, Paul and Mary who sang the following songs made the folk music of the sixties also memorable: If I Had A Hammer, Go Tell It On the Mountain, Blowing in the Wind, 500 Miles, Cruel War, Puff the Magic Dragon.

It has been forty-five years, but I still remember those brisk Autumn nights sitting around the huge bonfire singing the words to Cruel War and all the other unforgettable folk songs...

First Impressions

2008-11-19T11:57:00.000-08:00

The days immediately preceding my freshman year of college were bittersweet ones. My heart was still tender and nothing was ready for my leaving home. Since I'd given up my scholarship, it meant Daddy having to get a bank loan for my meals, housing, books and tuition; and it meant my having to work on campus at the infirmary for anything else I might need. My sister Gerry helped me with the last minute preparations, remembering many things I hadn't even thought of, such as an alarm clock, iron and ironing board.

A few days before leaving for college, I was browsing through a friend's yearbook from the school. One photo in particular caught my attention - that of a young man whose face was literally, vertically half handsome and half distorted. I'm not sure if he had been born that way or at some point in his life had experienced severe nerve damage. At first glance, his face was disconcerting, and a giggle nervously escaped my lips. My friend glared at me, and said "that's John and he's wonderful".

The next few days were extremely busy as I packed and my parents drove me the four hours south of Memphis to school. The weekend before registration was hectic as I unpacked, set up my room the best I could and slowly met a few people. Honestly, I was still feeling very much alone and lonely.

It poured rain the Monday of registration. We stood in line, outside of course, with a line of umbrellas stretched one after the other. My umbrella accidently hit the umbrella behind me. I turned around to apologize...and there stood John. I looked into one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen in all of my life. He laughed, made some joke about the weather and we were instant friends. John was a senior at that time and a leader on campus...president of half the organizations there as I recall. He was a strong Christian and a great speaker. John became my good friend.

I learned a lot from John that year...I learned about overcoming from someone who had overcome and found great joy. I learned not to dwell on what could have been but to look forward to what my Heavenly Father had in store for me. I learned to look for what's on the inside of someone's heart...rather than the outside...and that first impressions aren't always right.

My friend John graduated with high honors and married one of my closest friends...a sweet and loving young woman who also just happened to be one of the most beautiful girls on the entire campus. I love it when God smiles...

Seventeen...

2008-11-15T10:41:00.000-08:00

The first time I saw Josh Lucas in Sweet Home Alabama, I was propelled back in time...as swiftly and surely as any time machine could have managed. It was June 1963 all over again and a Saturday night in Memphis.

Two sisters and friends from church, Diane and Yvonne, and I had just arrived a little late to the Saturday night gathering for Youth for Christ. They were showing the film A Man Called Peter, the story of Peter Marshall's life, and we had been looking forward to it.

It was crowded that night, and so we slipped quietly into the nearest row of open seats that we could find. I glanced around at those seated nearby...just as he glanced back at me...blonde, blue-eyed and a dead-ringer for a young Josh Lucas. I think that was the first time my heart had ever truly skipped a beat. I really did enjoy watching the movie that night, but I also spent a good bit of time checking to see if he was still there, usually just about the exact time he was doing the same thing.

When the film was over, I glanced around to see if he was there, but he was gone. For some reason, I was immediately disappointed. About that time, John, the director of YFC and an Irishman with a lilting brogue I can still remember, made his way over to Diane, Yvonne and me to ask us to go with a group to Pasquales for a pizza. Since none of the three of us had a car, I think we called their dad to arrange for a ride home later...at any rate, we said yes we'd love to go. There was already a crowd in the parking lot waiting to go to Pasquales. John pointed to the car waiting for the three of us. I opened the car door and there he was. It was one of those "you would have had to have been there" moments.

I remember sitting at a small round bistro table in a little Italian cafe named Pasquales in Memphis and falling in love at the age of 17 and a half...with a young man named Ross who was far from home. He was dressed in khaki trousers, a navy blue blazer with a baby blue oxford cloth shirt, a tie and loafers...so I had no way of knowing at first sight that he was a sailor. I had a "policy" that I didn't date sailors...my little rule that I would soon break for him. He was from Oregon...of all places...the son of a newspaper owner and publisher. He'd been to college in Oregon and then joined the Navy. He was headed to the U.S.S. Forrestal...at the age of nineteen.

Ross and I spent as much time as possible together over the next few months. He gave me a diamond solitaire engagement ring and I said yes. Now, as a mother of three young adults and a grandmother of six, I can see why my parents and older sisters were "fit to be tied". There were two obvious strikes against us from the start: Ross was from much too far away and I was only seventeen. My parents and sisters couldn't bear the thought of my moving so far away. An honor society student, my plans for college had been disrupted when I had given up my scholarship to a college in Tennessee. My life was in turmoil at that moment.

There are crossroads moments in each of our lives...the sad day came when I gave Ross his ring back and temporarily broke both our hearts. I ended up going to a Baptist college in Mississippi. Ross came to visit me once there, and we wrote to one another for a couple of years after that. When the time came, he got out of the Navy and returned to Oregon. My guess is that he still lives in the same little town where he grew up. I truly hope he has had a good and happy life.

Life has a way of turning on a dime. Who would have known that 45 years later, I would be in Oregon anyway.

A moment in time...

2008-11-12T21:08:00.000-08:00

Forty-six years ago we were standing there smiling...the shutter was pressed...and a moment in time was captured forever.

It seems to me I can remember that day. I'm not positively sure where the three of us (L-R: Nancee, Dianne and Kathy) were going, but I believe it was the Cotton Carnival. It would have been May or June 1962 and definitely already quite warm in Memphis.

I'm sure we took in a few exhibits, lots of rides, cotton candy, pronto pups, corn-on-the-cob, ice cream and, no doubt, checked out the cute boys. After all, we were almost 16 at the time.

We've all said it a million times...where did the years go? We grew up, got married, had children, grandchildren, joys and heartaches. Each of us had some dreams fulfilled and some disappointments. Life has a way of not waiting for us to realize it's moving on, and before you know it...forty-six years have passed!

Nancee always had the gift of music...a beautiful voice even as a teenager and that has definitely continued. She has worked in the music industry for years and has recorded several CD's. Nancee has also traveled extensively sharing her amazing story through her Whole Life Precepts. You can hear her beautiful rendition of Tennessee Waltz here.

Kathy still has that same radiant beauty she had even has a teenager and the same soft Southern voice. The minute the two of us get together, we're teenagers again and time never moved...it's like it's yesterday all over again.

Our graduating class had its 45th class reunion just a few months ago in Memphis. I wasn't able to be there, and I'm truly sorry I missed seeing faces I have not seen since graduation day in 1963! Sadly, we've lost so many during these years...I would like to have known about their lives. The funny thing is seeing photos of one another after all these years. I'm sure my classmates are wondering where the cute, skinny girl went...oh, well.

Chicken and dumplins'...

2008-11-11T12:29:00.000-08:00

Just as music can take us back to another time, so can the memory of certain foods...the sweet aromas coming from the kitchen of our childhood...

Mama's kitchen was painted a robin's egg blue with crisp white trim and white curtains. The cabinets, stove, refrigerator and clothes washer were white. There was no dishwasher - that would have been Sharon and me. One of us washing, one of us drying and singing while we worked. There was no clothes dryer...that would have been a clothes line outside and the bright sunshine. I was trying to remember the other day how she would have dried the clothes in the wintertime when the sun wasn't shining. Seems to me, there were clothes lines in the attic for those dreary winter days. I'm sure it would have taken twice as long to dry.

Mama had so many specialties that it would be hard to say which I liked best. She made a wonderful roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh green beans, fresh butter beans...all those fresh summer vegetables. Every Thanksgiving, I long for my Mama's chicken and dressing. My sisters and nieces and I have all tried our best to duplicate it...somtimes we come close. Mama made the best meatloaf in the world which made great sandwiches the next day if there was any left. Her biscuits were legendary, and I loved her desserts.

It's her chicken and dumplings and my longing for those that prompted this post. I tried last night to duplicate them. I sauted a chopped onion in a little butter and added a little celery, garlic and thinly sliced carrots too. I added some water and a nice 5 pound chicken, along with some salt & pepper, and cooked it slowly. After the chicken was done, I deboned it carefully. I sifted the flour, cut in the shortening, added the milk and rolled the strips out to just the right size. I dropped the dumplins' into the boiling stew and put the lid quickly on. After dropping the the temperature to just a little above simmering, I waited patiently for about 25 minutes, resisiting the temptation to lift the lid and peek.

Had I not had the best chicken and dumplins' in the world, I might have thought these were really good...but I know better.

Early morning quilting...

2008-11-08T08:10:00.000-08:00

After the harvest was over and the canning was done, winter signaled the time for Mama to begin quilting again. I remember her piecing together some of the most intricate designs. An artist with a needle and thread, she made some of the most beautiful quilts.

Once Mama had pieced together the quilt top, Daddy would set up the wooden "saw horses" in front of the living room windows. There, I would find her early of a winter morning, focused on her work...one tiny stitch at the time...creating the wonderful quilts that would keep her family warm for years to come.

The boy across the street...

2008-11-07T14:29:00.000-08:00

I can't remember when Larry and his family first moved in across the street...Larry, his older brother, two younger brothers and his parents. Not long after they moved there, his Dad died suddenly. I don't remember if his Mom went to work after that, but I'm assuming that she did. I do remember seeing Larry and his older brother frying chicken for their supper and caring for their younger brothers.

I don't know what it was about Larry. Maybe it was that James Dean look, but I was certainly drawn to him...crazy about him. We weren't in the same crowd at school. I was yearbook staff, honor society and Bible Club. He was sports and, most likely, a faster crowd I'd say. Larry and I would sit on my front porch and talk for what seemed like hours or take a long walk around the neighborhood block and talk some more.

After graduation, Larry joined the Air Force and went to basic training. I think I got a post card or two from him after he left. I finished my senior year of high school and went away to a Baptist College in Mississippi. On one of my first visits home from school, my roommate and I took the train home. My parents met us at the train station and told me that Larry was home on a brief furlough. They said he asked them if he could pick me up at the train station, but they had said no...talk about disappointment! At any rate, he came over as soon as we arrived home. If memory serves me right, we had a date that night...to the movies...along with my roommate and a friend of his.

I went back to college and he went back to the Air Force. Time marched on, and I heard he had married a couple of years later. I've often wondered what happened to Larry. I hope he's had a good life...a happy one. I've also wondered if he still looks like James Dean. I think I'd rather remember Larry that way...it's best I don't know if he's bald and fat now.

Velveeda...

2008-11-05T16:11:00.001-08:00

I spent the summer of 1962 working as a volunteer "Candy Striper" at what was then John Gaston Hospital, now known as the Regional Medical Center of Memphis. I was sixteen years old and had just completed my junior year in high school.

There were only two choices for traveling to the hospital each morning. I could take the city bus, which would have involved transferring at least twice, or my Dad could drop me off very early at the hospital on his way to work. Even though it meant getting up at the crack of dawn and arriving an hour earlier than the other Candy Stripers each day, I chose riding with Daddy.

I was assigned to work in pediatrics helping the nurses feed, bathe and generally help the young patients. Part of each day was spent in the "play room" where the children who were ambulatory would gather. There we would read to and play games with the children as their conditions permitted.

Velveeda arrived a few weeks after the summer began. A tiny little thing, she was about four years old. She had skin the color of ebony, huge dark brown - almost black - eyes and long black eyelashes. Her story was heartbreaking. She lived in one of the poorest areas of Memphis, born to a very young mother who had no idea how to care for her. Velveeda had somehow swallowed lye...literally destroying her esophagus and a large portion of her stomach.

Velveeda and I quickly formed an attachment to one another. She would make the nurses wait until I arrived each day to bathe and dress her. Velveeda's room was the first place I would go when I arrived each morning. Most of the time, she was awake waiting on me, and would give me a big smile when she saw me. If we were in the playroom with the other children, she would try to push her way to the front of the group and climb on my lap. She had a trach but would cover it and talk to me in spite of it.

Mama helped me to sew a special dress for Velveeda...it was white with little red hearts on it. Velveeda loved it, and would insist on wearing it almost every day. Unfortunately, with the trach, it meant I would have to wash it by hand almost every day too, so some mornings it wasn't yet dry. One summer morning, I arrived at my usual early time and went to Velveeda's room. It was dark and empty. At the nurses station, I found somber faces and the nurses in tears...Veleveeda had died during the night.

I didn't know then that, years later, I would go to nursing school and become a Registered Nurse. Over the years, I've cared for so many patients...young and old alike; but I still remember that sweet little face with the huge dark eyes and the great big smile.

The photo is a 46 year old newspaper clipping from the old Memphis Press Scimitar! Kathy's mother had clipped it out and saved it for me.

A Saturday in Memphis...with Elvis

2008-11-05T08:16:00.000-08:00

It was February 25, 1961 - a bitter cold Saturday in Memphis - and one I'll never forget. It was the day of the "Special Matinee Memphis Charity Show, starring Elvis Presley"!

I had just turned 15 in December and, like every other teenage girl in America, I loved Elvis and his music! My 15 year old best friend Kathy, my 12 year old niece Sharon and I were going to the concert, and I'm sure we'd talked about nothing else for days. Thankfully, Kathy and Sharon still had their ticket stubs, so we're sure of the exact dates. Between the three of us, I believe the story is quite accurate.

Sharon remembers that Daddy drove us downtown that morning, most likely on his way to work, so it would have been early - much too early for the concert. Kathy remembers that we walked to Goldsmiths (a large department store) to purchase our $3.00 tickets. I remember that it was COLD...with the winds coming in across the Mississippi River, carrying with them the type of damp cold that truly goes right through you. What we needed at that point in time were the L.L. Bean down jackets you could get today, but certainly none of us had them.

The tickets were printed: "Special Matinee Memphis Charity Show Starring Elvis Presley, Auditorium Amphi Theater, Admission $3.00. Doors Open 1:30 p.m. No Refund. No Exchange. (as Sharon says, "like we would have wanted to!")

I have a very vivid picture in my mind...yes, even after all these years...of the three of us girls standing in line early at the Ellis Auditorium. The doors didn't open until 1:30 p.m., but we were in line much sooner than that...standing there waiting and freezing to death in that bitter cold. Ellis Auditorium was on Front Street - as in river front - so you can imagine how cold it was. So, there we were...standing there waiting to see Elvis with our little sack lunches in our hands. For some reason, I love that particular part of the story!

As I recall, somewhere around 11:30 a.m., the janitor or some other angel who worked at the auditorium had mercy - or pity - on all of us (and by that time, there was a pretty good-sized crowd) standing in line. He opened the doors for us, and we RAN! The three of us ran like the wind, and amazingly managed to get seats on the THIRD row! Yep! The third row. THAT I can remember. Seems in my mind, it took a good while to warm up...but then we enjoyed our sack lunches.

A young, handsome Elvis Presley sang his heart out and the show was incredible. Yes, just in case you were wondering, Kathy, Sharon and I did our share of swooning and screaming - just like the hundreds of other teenage girls there. Since we were on the third row, it stands to reason that somewhere in the dusty archives of the former Memphis Press Scimitar, the Memphis Commercial Appeal or maybe even the A.P., there is a photo of three young teenage girls who had braved the bitter cold that February day in 1961.

(These two photos were made in August 1962 at the Memphis Zoo...Sharon and Kathy...and Dianne below. For some reason, I don't think we had our cameras with us at the Elvis concert!)

Four sisters...

2008-11-02T09:16:00.000-08:00

When I was born, my three sisters were 18, 15 and 11 years old. My parents were forty-one at the time. No doubt, I was their last hope for a son, but it was not to be. There would always be the four sisters. Even with the age difference, we have always been close.

My sister Gerry (left) married at the age of 18 when I was only two years old. At that time, her husband, Sonny, worked for the railroad in Mississippi. He tells the story that every Friday afternoon, Gerry had their suitcases packed and ready for the train trip to Memphis "to go see her baby sister".

Valedictorian of her class and president of the statewide Mississippi 4-H, Gerry married and finished her senior year of high school in Mississippi after my parents sold the farm and moved to Memphis. She won a trip to Chicago through the 4-H and also a beautiful gold Elgin watch. Sonny had just given her a watch as a gift, and so she set the Elgin watch she had won aside for me...saving it as a gift for my 12th birthday. It's engraved on the back with her name and the date she won it, and I will always treasure it.

After my oldest sister Dorothy (Dot) (below left) lost her husband in a tragic ship explosion, she and my 4 month old niece Sharon made their home with us. With that little head of very dark hair and big beautiful blue eyes, Sharon was my baby sister.

Family was always so important to my sister Dot. Maybe it was the fact she was the oldest...maybe it was enduring tragedy at such a young age. Whatever the reason, she was the family historian...the family preserver. She was the eternal optimist...seeking out the hope in any situation. She remembered birthdays and anniversaries and celebrated each special event.

Dot did not remarry until Sharon was in high school, when she married Tom. Each year they would host Mama's 4th of July birthday party. It was my sister Dot's dream to compile our family history into a book. She and I had been working on completing the research for that book, when she was diagnosed with leukemia. She died before we were able to complete it. I want to finish that family history for my sister. We all still miss her terribly.

When I was born, my sister Eunice was eleven years old...the beautiful young girl in the photo at right. She is quiet, soft-spoken and truly a gentle soul. I remember when we were living on Mamie Road, Eunice had a part-time job after school at a drug store which had a soda fountain. She used part of her earnings to buy me the cutest grey wool pleated skirt, yellow sweater and loafers.

Eunice has a quick smile and a ready laugh. Even though she worked as a secretary after graduation from high school, she loves creating a home. She enjoys decorating and excels at it...and like my other two sisters, she is a wonderful Southern cook. When we were living on Victor Drive she married Eddie. They lived in Memphis for a while before they bought a home in Mississippi.

My sisters and I have always had so much fun when we get together. There is always a lot of laughter...sharing...more laughter...eating...and more laughter still. From the time I was about thirteen, during every family get-together, we would have what we called the "sisters' lineup", the four of us girls.

Looking back at them now, through all the years...those photos are priceless.

Scan of a polaroid snapshot. Summer of 1962, left to right: Dot (34), Gerry (31), Eunice (27), Dianne (16)

Moving to Victor Drive...

2008-10-31T11:32:00.000-07:00

When I was about ten years old, my parents purchased a larger house about two miles away on Victor Drive. In addition to an extra bedroom, the house had a dining room which was paneled in warm knotty pine and had two built-in corner china cabinets. The sun filtered through the dining room windows and reflected against the pine, casting a warm glow on the large round antique dining table. That table was the scene for so many family meals and special times...(also the scene where Sharon and I would occasionally - well, okay, frequently - get sent from the table for uncontrollable giggling.)

Okay, no comments about my bangs! They sure weren't MY idea!

There was a large back yard with trees and plenty of room for Mama's vegetable garden. Mama and Daddy planted apple, peach and pear trees for a small orchard as well. Mama was an incredible Southern cook, and with the bounty from those trees made the most delicious jams and preserves I have ever tasted to this day. Those pear preserves on one of her homemade biscuits was truly a legend.

Our move to a new home had meant changing neighborhoods, friends, schools and churches. Thankfully, this school was only .31 tenths of a mile (map quest again) and a much shorter walk to school. The fact that we moved half-way through the fourth grade made it especially difficult. As I recall, I wasn't too happy at first, especially since the class was on a totally different subject in math - one I had not had. I had gone from being a straight A student, to having serious problems in math. One day, the teacher hit my hand very hard with a ruler because I didn't know the answer to a math problem. Mama, who was barely five feet tall and very soft-spoken, had a few well-chosen, but totally appropriate, things to say to my teacher. After that, the teacher took a little extra time and patience, and my good grades returned. Honestly though, I never was fond of that particular teacher after that. Unfortunately, I had her again for two more subjects in junior high!

All too soon...

2008-10-30T09:30:00.001-07:00

The seasons came and went on Mamie Road...and the years with them. My Dad had a good job at a manufacturing plant; but like everyone else in the fifties, there wasn't a great deal of money. My mother was a wonderful cook and there was always plenty of good food on the table. She had a big vegetable garden in the Spring and Summer and canned the abundant produce for the months to follow. An excellent seamstress, she made almost all of our clothes, except for my Dad's. As best I can remember the little jumper I'm wearing in the photo above left was a dark blue and green woolen plaid...amazing how far I'm having to reach to produce that memory.

The elementary school was .79 of a mile. I remembered that it was a long way for a small child to walk; but just in case I couldn't trust my memory, I used mapquest and confirmed the actual distance. Rain, sleet, snow or shine...we walked. There were little galoshes and raincoats for the wet days...warm coats, hats and mittens for winter...but we still walked.

One particular afternoon after school, I walked in the WRONG direction and got in big trouble for it! I must have been...maybe 8 years old...just the size of the little girl in the photo. A little friend of mine invited me to go home with her after school. She lived over the bridge (which crossed the large Veterans Cemetery) and down Bayliss Avenue. Altogether, about a mile in the OTHER direction. The days were growing shorter by then and it was getting darker. About the time we arrived at her house, I remember having some serious second thoughts. I called my Mama to brightly tell her where I was and what I had done. FIFTY-FOUR years and I can still hear her words: "you'd better get home right now and you're going to get it when you get here!" Sound familiar to anyone else?! It was almost dark by then, and, needless to say, I ran the whole way home. My grandparents, her parents, were visiting at the time, and she was particularly upset with me that I had done that with them there. I was rarely spanked, but I definitely got one that day.

The Wilson family lived in the house directly behind us. They were a young family with two daughters, Sandra and Katie, who were almost the exact same age as Sharon and me. Sharon and I were happy because now we had each other and two good friends. Mr. Wilson worked at a chemical company several miles away. From time to time, he would work the second shift, and when he did would give the four of us girls a ride to school. He was kind and gentle, and my child's instinct told me he was a very good man. One afternoon, we heard a loud explosion which literally shook the ground. Mama turned the radio on to hear the news. There had been a terrible explosion at the chemical company. She said, "I hope Mr. Wilson is alright"; but he wasn't. He died in that explosion. I was only a small child, but I remember being very sad...especially for Sandra and Katie.

Weekends during the fifties were much more relaxed than now. On Sundays after church and Sunday dinner, we'd go "visiting" OR someone would come visit us. There would be homemade pies or cakes, fresh hot coffee or iced tea for the adults and lemonade for the kids. In the Summertime, there would often be homemade ice cream...with the hand-turned crank. After a few hours, the news would have been exchanged...the memories relived...and we'd go home. Another Sunday afternoon destination was occasionally the Memorial Park Cemetery with its Crystal Shrine Grotto. It was a beautiful setting with a cave with amazing scenes carved out. Trees graced the entire setting and in the Autumn and Spring, it was breathtaking. The trees are magnificent now, much taller than in the photo above. Sadly, now though, it is also where my husband of thirty-nine years and the father of my three children is buried.

We are a composite of every experience we've ever had...every person who has significantly touched our lives...every decision we've ever made - each of us creating our own memories one day at the time. I'm reminded, once again, to enjoy each and every one of those days, because each one is over all too soon.

Summertime in Memphis 1950

2008-10-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

If I could turn the clock back here, it would be Summertime in Memphis, 1950. We were living on Mamie Road...then a tree-lined road on the outskirts of Memphis with small homes, large yards with beautiful flowers and vegetable gardens, friendly neighbors and a haven of safety for small children who loved to play outdoors.

If you've seen the Disney movie The Kid, you'll remember the scene when Bruce Willis (who has the once-in-a-lifetime, and only in Hollywood, chance of meeting himself as a kid and sees what his life was like as a child - great movie by the way) is standing with his new young friend (himself as a child) beside the playground slide which used to terrify him. He says "I remember it being bigger".

I'm sure if I could see this house today, I would also say "I remember it being bigger". If I had to guess, I'd say it was at most a thousand square feet...maybe less. It had a small living room, dining room, kitchen, two large bedrooms and one bath. There were six of us living there: myself, my parents, my sister Eunice who was still in high school, my oldest sister Dot and my almost 3 year old niece Sharon (Dot's husband had tragically died in a ship explosion when Sharon was a baby). I was an "Aunt" when I was only 2 and 1/2 years old and I loved it. Sharon was, of course, more like a baby sister. As you can see in the photo at left she was, and still is, beautiful. The four of us girls (Dot, Eunice, Sharon and me) shared one of the large bedrooms. I don't remember it being crowded...I just remember it being fun. Sharon and I would usually get in trouble for giggling long after lights out.

So many stories for Mamie Road...all twirling around in my head...

Once, about three years after the photo above was made, my mother sent Sharon and me down to the small local grocery store. It wasn't far and was safe enough "back then". It was early summertime and Mama was getting ready to plant her garden. She wanted us to buy ONE package of LONG cucumber seeds. Unfortunately, they didn't have LONG cucumber seeds. So, Sharon and I reasoned that you could put two SHORT seeds together and make ONE long cucumber! Remember, they're the ones who took me away from the farm when I was only two years old! How was I supposed to know?! It made perfectly logical sense to me. She sent it into the newspaper for the column "When Our Children Make Us Smile". After that, I was teased mercilessly by all my aunts, uncles and cousins who had been privileged enough to stay on the farm! Years later, I was to find out through sophisticated testing, that I'm pretty much divided down the middle: half analytical and half artistic, but I STILL don't have an excuse for the cucumbers...

Delta blues and cornbread sticks...

2008-10-28T07:06:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it's significant that I was born in the Delta of Mississippi, where the blues can be heard from the cotton fields to the Mississippi River. Music has always been such a part of my heart and soul. Granted, I'm thoughtful enough not to sing within anyone's earshot, but when I'm alone, I can belt out a tune with the best of them and have more rhythm than one person should be entitled to. Along with a history of producing its share of the best blues artists in the world, the Delta has some of the richest, most fertile soil in the entire world; and - like the rest of the South - some of the most gracious people.

I was born in Clarksdale, the youngest of four daughters, to the most gentle, kind parents in the world. It was a poor time in the South as well as much of the rest of the country, but not long after my birth, my parents bought a small farm in the little nearby Delta town of Rena Lara. There, they had a variety of farm animals, a large vegetable garden and a cash crop of cotton. I truly wish I could actually remember that time, but I've heard the stories for so many years that, in my mind's eye, I can picture it.

Evidently, the toddler in the photo of the post below (me) loved the farm and was fearless. My sisters tell me that I would march into the barn insisting that the chickens "shoo"! I'd wander across the little country cove lane to a neighbor's farm. Mrs. Hoke was famous for her cornbread sticks and I would ask for TWO of them (no wonder I had such chipmunk cheeks). As the stories go, I gave everyone a scare the day I wandered much too far from home...and they found me up to my ankles in the mud at a nearby farm. I had to laughingly ask them: wasn't anyone watching me?! I believe, after that, my sisters were assigned the task of pulling me on top of the cotton sack as they were picking cotton! That's probably where my freckles began...

Before I was three years of age, they had sold the farm and moved to Memphis. Somehow, there's still a farmgirl deep inside of me...one who longs to have a big red barn, lots of farm animals and a yellow lab who never lets me out of her sight. (see My Southern Heart for more about my longing for a puppy!)

My Southern Heart...Memories

2008-10-26T16:53:00.000-07:00

We each have them living deep within the recesses of our hearts and minds ~ memories that have been made one moment...one day...one event at the time. I have 62 years worth. Well, okay, maybe I can't remember THAT far back. Just like most of you, some of the memories I think I have are maybe just stories that I've heard so often that I just think I can remember them.

Memories are precious things. They allow people, places and events that have happened in our lives to go on living in our hearts and minds. You already know that I'm a Southern girl. Now, you know that I'm maybe just a wee bit sentimental. Family is very important to me...just as, most likely, it is to you. Our families have helped to shape us into the individuals we are today...given us our sense of deep worth, our values as well as our brown eyes and freckles. I'll try not to bore you in the coming days and months or however long it takes me to sort out the stories of my life...as well as share a lot of creations with you.

I confess I'm happiest when: I'm outdoors and the sun is shining (remember it rains 6 months of the year here!), everyone is well and happy, I can visit or at least see/talk with my children & grandchildren by phone or Skype, as well as the rest of my family and friends who are far away from me, and when I'm in the midst of creating SOMETHING!

I will look forward to sharing those memories and stories with you, as well as the creations... whether it's a sewing project, story, quilt, lame attempt at knitting, culinary creation or a very lifelike artist baby doll.

Please, take a moment to leave a comment and let me know you've tuned in...I'd love to hear from you!

Blessings to you,
Dianne