Happy 50th Anniversary Clyde and Anne

Today was the 50th Anniversary celebration for Clyde and Anne Stevens.

July 6, 1957



July 6, 2007



I stopped by the car dealership this afternoon to say hello and wish them well. Jackie and Kim and Kent and Lisa had celebrated with them today with a lunch and they had lots of well wishers dropping by.

Anne was showing me their wedding album, her book where she noted various things about the engagement and wedding.



I think my favorite part of the book was where she noted all the gifts they received and in true southern girl fashion, the date she sent the thank you note.



I even found my own name on its pages. There was another Patsy Terrell who was a classmate of theirs. I don't run across a lot of other Patsys, much less Patsy Terrells, so it jumped out at me.



They also had the 1957 Ballard Memorial Annual, The Bomb. (We're "The Bombers," a reference to a nearby plant that made - you're ahead of me, right - bombs.) Appropriately enough, tonight was a class reunion celebration, too, so they had a very full day.



I happend across Patsy's photo in it.



Anne was kind enough to give me permission to share some of their photos. I just took digital pix of their wedding album, so they're not the best, but you can get the idea. I think my favorite was this one of her cousins and her - it's just such a nice moment.



Anne's mother made her wedding gown, which was beautiful.





She joked that in this one it looks like she's pulling on his arm. But, as I pointed out, he doesn't look at all unhappy about it.



Clyde and Anne already celebrated by taking the whole family to Las Vegas. That's what they wanted to do and so they all went a few weeks ago. But, today was THE actual day and it looks like they had a fabulous time.

They are wonderful folks. The kind of folks you're proud to call family.

Congratulations Clyde and Anne!!!

Poking At Old Lives

I've been poking around at old lives. My old lives.

My life seems to be divided into distinct segments. One of those was lived, ever so briefly, but seemingly neverendingly, at Murray State University. I left for college when I was 17 and moved an hour away to Murray.

I lived in White Hall, my one and only dorm experience. I never wanted another one. And, for the record, I even had a private room. (Thank you, Mama.) My roomie, Helen, who I'd been friends with in high school,  moved in with someone else who's roommate didn't show up, because she had sense enough to realize we were not going to remain friends if we continued to live together in that small space. Helen and I later lived together in Lexington in a one bedroom apartment for a year and made it fine. But that's another life - a long life, even though it was compressed into one year - a lot happened that year. But, that's a tale for another time.

Keeping the room at Murray private was some ridiculously small amount of money - well under $100 for the semester then - and Mama thought it would be best. Thank goodness she was looking out for me because I don't think I could live with anyone in that small of a space and come out liking them or me after a few days.

I can remember which room I had at White Hall - it was next to the last one on the front - on the left side - but I can't remember which floor. I am pretty sure it was 6th floor, but maybe it was 8th. Funny how things that can seem so important at the time have absolutely no significance later. I remember wanting to take the plaque that denoted the room number. Now I can't even remember what floor it was, although I'm 98% sure it was 6th floor. I think it was room 618 - maybe that's where I'm getting the "8."



Some important things happened in that room - probably most important was that I decided to leave it and go to the University of Kentucky. That was the place for me to go in state, and I'll be forever grateful to my mother for just accepting that statement when it came out of my mouth - surprising even me a little bit. I did not belong at Murray. It was not for me. I went there because it was close and it's where my friends were going and it was safe. I was 17 for heaven's sake, 16 when I was making the decision, and too young to be even be living an hour away from home. It was a transition time for me.

I became friends with Evelyn in that room. She lived on the other end of the hall and would make the walk down to my room every morning and we'd go to class together. We talked about music and her home in Florida and what we wanted from life. She already knew. I had no clue, but I knew what I was finding at Murray wasn't it.

I got to know Carla there. She was an art major who lived down the hall. Carla was very studious and very gracious. I was not so learned in being kind as Carla was. I went to Carla's home in Elizabethtown one weekend and auditioned for a show at Bardstown. I didn't get the part and looking back I wonder how things would have changed if I had - you never know. Odd how life works in circles. Some years after I had left Murray I ran into Carla's sister, Nancy, at the Kentucky Derby while we were both in line for the ladies' room. I had only met Nancy that weekend in E-town, but she recognized me. It was a weird moment.

I curled up on a twin bed in that White Hall room with another girl friend, who's identity I will still protect, who cried all night thinking she might be pregnant. We spent a fitful night huddled together on one of those beds, me rubbing her back, and saying the things friends do in such circumstances - "I'm sure you're not pregnant" - all the while thinking about what I was going to say when it was confirmed. She wasn't pregnant, however, so I never had to press those thoughts into service. The next day all was magically resolved. She learned her lesson and got birth control. I suppose you could say the lesson was abstinence, but as we all know, that hasn't been working well for a few thousand years.

I got to know "the Debbie's" across the hall from that room. They were both named Debbie and had been best friends since second grade. They were from Marion, Illinois and their fathers both worked at the Federal prison there. I went to the wedding of one of them a couple of years later. She married a man from Iran. It wasn't a happy marriage, I hear. But before she was past it she died of a rare blood disease. It was sudden. I got the call late at night from a mutual friend. I had moved on and lost touch with many people from Murray, but someone did call me. For years I had a black umbrella in my car that someone had left there the night of Debbie's wedding in Marion. Everytime I would see it I would think I should get it back to her family. Instead I sent a sympathy card. It was all surreal. Whenever I hear "Supertramp" playing I think of the Debbies because they played that one song over and over and over again. Funny... I can't even remember their last names now.

In that room I got to know my sweet-mates - Christy and Susie. Susie was a pretty little brunette with girl next door looks and the nicest disposition you could imagine. Christy was a very tall, thin girl who was a Mormon. It was my first "cross cultural" experience and to say it wasn't smooth would be an understatement. Christy went on a lot of dates because, as best I could understand it, that was part of the mission of college - to find a husband. But, she saw no point in dating anyone who wasn't Mormon because they were not marriage material. There aren't a lot of Mormons in Murray, Kentucky. I would ask that question now, but I didn't then. Needless to say, her stint at Murray was brief.

After I left Murray I had some photos I'd taken of her and Susie and mailed them to Christy in - was it really Utah - I think maybe it was. Anyway, I mailed her photos and they came back with "refused" stamped on the envelope. That was the first time I had any clue that she didn't think much of me. Suddenly I didn't think much of her, either.

Fortunately, many pleasant experiences with LDS members since then have made me not write off an entire religion as jerks, but I came close. Maybe Christy wasn't any more able to make wise decisions than I was. I just put the photos in another envelope without a return address and a little note inside with my address so I'd know if they went to the dead letter office, and sent them back. Obviously, she got them, and found they were not the devil in an envelope, or whatever the Mormon version of the devil is, but just innocent pictures of college roommates.

In that room of White Hall, I kissed a boy named Tom. He was a sweet boy, one of those guys from "a good family" as your parents would say, but he didn't excite me - not even when he kissed me. Fortunately, even at 17 I had the good sense not to tell him that. That's just not something any man of any age wants to hear, particularly not at 19, which is what he was at the time. Tom was looking for a wife and I was looking for some freedom. It wasn't a good mix. Pity he wasn't a Mormon - I could have introduced him to Christy. But he wasn't. He was a good Baptist boy.

Tom wanted to settle down and have babies. He wanted to work in his father's bank and make a life in the community where he had grown up. It's not that that's a bad life. It's a wonderful life. I just wasn't ready for that life then - I'm not sure I'm ready for it now. But then I knew I wasn't. I hadn't seen anything, I hadn't done anything, I hadn't been anywhere. I wanted to. I needed to.

So... when I left for UK it was a logical break, not that we were serious or anything. We exchanged a few letters, a phone call or two, but happily drifted our own separate ways. But I would send a Christmas card every year, and get one back off and on, so Tom has been on the periphery of my life all these years.

A few years ago, I called Tom when I was headed to Kentucky for a visit. We met in Paducah and had dinner at Ruby Tuesday's in the mall. It was nice to see him, but if I'd had any doubt at all I made the right decision it was squelched somewhere between stories about business trips to Hopkinsville and being a Boy Scout leader for his sons' troop. I hadn't seen him in 22 years so I expected more. I'm not sure what, but more. Again - it's not a bad life, but I don't want 20 plus years to pass for me with a Hopkinsville business trip being a highlight.

Yes, that room at White Hall was where I lived a whole life in two semesters. It was a really important time in my life, but looking back I realize I was so incredibly miserable there. I was out of my element - not only in music, but in the people I was around. I had bided my time in high school thinking, "I just have to get to college, there must be other people like me in the world." But they weren't at Murray - at least not large numbers of them, although there were some. By and large it was just a bigger number of the same clicques that existed in high school - they just all moved to college and mixed with others of their kind there.

That year was one of the saddest of my life. I knew it should be a happy time and it wasn't, which made it all the more difficult.  I was sad practically every day - no wonder I didn't want to get up and go to class. Not only did I not enjoy the music program, now I realize I was probably clinically depressed. It's a wonder I managed to make good grades - I guess just because I had to - there was no other choice in my world. There were certainly good times, but I needed others "of my tribe." I couldn't define what the was, and I'm not sure I can even now, but I knew I wasn't meeting them there.

The biggest and best part of Murray was that I left it. In doing that I learned you can leave things that you don't like - even if there are scholarships involved and even if everyone else is doing it and even if people think you're crazy for it. The people who really matter - in this case my mom - will support you. They give you credit for knowing what's best for you - even when you're just a kid. In leaving I learned that following your whims and doing things that scare the bejeezes out of you can be very, very good for you.  Those two things have done well by me for many years now.

I guess, when you get around to it, I learned that lesson while sitting in that very dorm room watching a UK game on TV. That's when I decided I was going to UK. I ran down the hall to tell Helen, who was shocked but said she wanted to go too. And things just started happening for that to be possible. Helen only stayed in Lexington one year, but it was such an important year for me. I loved it at UK. She didn't. But that year gave us both time to learn and transistion.

Some of my great life lessons happened in that room. I just didn't recognize them for what they were at the time. I guess that's the benefit of poking around in old lives.

The Lone Ranger

Happy Fourth of July!

On this most American of holidays, I thought I'd share with you another very American product - The Lone Ranger.



I have to confess, The Lone Ranger was before my time. I never heard it. I never watched it. I never played it. But, I recognize it as a truly American creation. And, since I feel good about very little the US government is doing these days, I thought I'd celebrate the Fourth by sharing these with you. I will refrain from talking about Bush, since it is the Fourth, and  because my brother and sister in law, Jim and Mattie, and Mattie's brother James, and I had a lengthy discussion about the administration today so I kind of got it out of my system. What did I do on the Fourth of July? Counted the days until regime change - 565 in case you're wondering.

My brother, Jackie, picked these Lone Ranger puzzles up at a sale. Each box has four different puzzles in it - they are the kind where you try to get the little BBs into holes.  These were made back when we trusted people to actually parent, and when kids had some amount of common sense. So, they have real BBs in them and the casings are metal and the fronts are glass. The backs are cardboard, but since they were made for children who didn't do things like tear open their toys for amusement it wasn't an issue.  Today they'd be encased in some indestructible plastic that has a half life of a million years. When did we become so stupid and so lacking in common sense that we couldn't be trusted with toys? Obviously, not all children are this way, but we're doing all this for someone. These were probably also made before shampoo was labeled, "lather, rinse, repeat."

In these puzzles, The Lone Ranger is doing everything from protecting people as they pan for gold, to fighting mountain lions. Why don't we do cool stuff like pan for gold anymore? Or fight mountian lions. OK, really, I don't want to do either of those, but they sound far more interesting than sitting in an office all day talking on the phone. People used to pan for gold, now they write email. We've lost something major in that translation.



But, back to The Lone Ranger... geez... his talents seem to know no bounds. What a guy to have around. And look at him - that's a real man - you can tell. He can handle anything that comes up, including wild beasts.

I'm reminded of something Oprah said on her trip across country with Gayle - "There's something about a man who can handle a horse." They were watching some cowboys in Oklahoma work cattle at the time as I recall. All I can say in response is, "Amen, Sister."

Although I didn't see/hear The Lone Ranger, the fact that he is pictured on his faithful stead is reason enough for to me assume he falls into the category of  a man who can handle a horse. I believe that would be "Silver" with the four hooves.

One of my favorite things on these boxes is that you can see the price - 89 cents - written in pencil on each one. I don't think you can even get a pack of gum at the check out stand for 89 cents now.



I'd like to go live - just for a little while - in the world where you could get something cool for 89 cents, where you could give it to your kid without worrying they'd kill themselves with it, where The Lone Ranger rode about the countryside protecting damsels in distress, and where all men could handle a horse.

Eight Years

Miranda and Jacob are my great, great niece and nephew. Yes, I have an odd family tree - lets just sum it up by saying I was born late in my parent's lives, after they had already raised my brothers and my brothers were married with kids. If you think on it, you'll understand. I came into the world an aunt, was a great aunt by the time my teens hit and... well... you see the trend.

Miranda and Jacob have no idea who I am - they know I'm grandpa's sister, but other than that, I'm a mystery. There's no reason they should know who I am. The last time I saw them was in May of 1999. Jacob was in diapers. I've not seen either of them since they've been old enough to be forming memories.

When I realized it had been eight years that made me think about how long eight years is and how much can change in that amount of time.

Eight years ago I was still working in radio, and although I was thinking I'd like to do something else had no specific thoughts about what that might be, other than I was looking in to going to grad school. Ironically, I was considering getting my counseling degree. I now work in the mental health field. Life has a way of working out.

Eight years ago I had just returned from a trip to Egypt and would go to Central America that fall, although I didn't know that yet. On both of those trips I met people who have been instrumental in my life since. People who gave me reason to think differently, to ask different questions, to perceive myself differently. Each of those trips had specific moments where my world shifted. Dramatically. I remember getting on the plane in Nicaragua, thinking I'd never see some of these important people again, only to find them in my life again here and there - one in Nashville, one in Amsterdam, one in Seattle.

Eight years ago my mother was still living and doing well. I was someone's daughter. I was someone's priority in life. When you have parents, someone is concerned about you every moment of every day on some level, regardless of how old you are. The first time I went on a trip after my mother died I remember being in the airport and realizing I had no one to call to tell them I had landed safely. No one was worried about me. No one was thinking about if my plane had touched down. No one was waiting for the phone to ring. It was shocking to be no one's priority - I had known it intellectually, but the reality of it hit me like a ton of bricks. I cried like a baby in the car on the drive home. But, alas, this is the circle of life. It's not that no one cared about me at all, but I was not anyone's priority anymore. I'm still not used to it, but it's just the way it is. That's not something anyone in your world can fake. It just is as it is.

Eight years ago I was not a home owner. I was still living in an apartment where I had lived with a boyfriend who had broken up with me after we had lived together for a long time. It was for the best for both of us - he was just strong enough to do it - and eight years ago I was almost past the serious pain of it. Going to Egypt gave me a new lease on life in many ways. I'm a big believer in geographic therapy. But I hadn't even started to entertain the idea I could have a house.

Eight years ago I hadn't even met the man I would next fall in love with. In eight years we met, fell in love, had a passionate five years together and split. A lot can happen in eight years.

Eight years ago I didn't have a blog, I hadn't ridden a steam train, I didn't have creative sisterhood, I hadn't travelled Route 66, I wasn't involved with Chicks, I hadn't seen the Anne Frank house, I hadn't walked the streets of Brussels and I didn't yet know some of the people I now consider close friends. I lived in another neighborhood. I worried more. I sang less. I worked with different people. Oddly enough, I longed for much the same things I do now.

Eight years has been time enough for my heart to break and heal three times. I sometimes wonder how many times it can do that successfully, but it seems to be a champ at the process. I sometimes wish I were a person who didn't ask so much of it, but life seems very fleeting to me and I try to soak it up at a pace that means I live life at 110 mph all the time. You get a lot in that way - and life is a swirl of bright colors as they rush by. But when you hit the wall going 110 it really, really hurts. Really hurts. But I don't know any other way to be. Life for me is all about getting as much living in as possible and the only way I know to do it is by "running wide open" as my brother says.

Eight years ago I was in my thirties. Eight years from now I will be in my fifties. Those sound like very different things. I'm sure if I do this exercise then I'll have a new list of changes.

Eight years doesn't seem like a long time, but it's long enough for a kid to go from diapers to real conversation; and it's long enough for a life to change dramatically.

Dean of the Pretty Green Eyes

Once upon a time there was a boy named Dean...

OK, this isn't really a fairy tale. Dean was not a prince, and I was not a princess, but he taught me something important about myself, which I just realized yesterday. Considering it has been more than a couple of decades since I've seen Dean, it's amazing to make this connection.

When I was at the University of Kentucky, Dean Boggs was another telecommunications student. We had a lot of classes together and we did a lot of projects together. Radio and TV requires lots of team efforts - it's complex and there's limited equipment to go around - and we were part of a small group of students who often worked together.

Our group produced memorable works such as the radio drama, "Candy and her Professor" - in which Dean and I had the starring roles, complete with bow chicka bow bow music - (we were in the studio - get your mind out of the gutter). Don't ask. We were young. We thought we were funny. And we got A's - despite the fact that our actual professor "Long John" started playing it for his freshmen students without previewing it first. Long John (the professor's nickname - because he was very tall - and his name was John) was a cool guy and got the joke. Hence the A's.

This is all just background to get to the point - you knew I had one, right?

One night, Dean was at my apartment at 1261 Village Drive, and we were playing music. This was way back in the long ago days, children, when we had albums. Yes, those big vinyl disks with the colorful cardboard sleeves they fitted into.

Anyway, Dean was flipping through my albums and said, "Wow!"

I was in the kitchen getting us something to drink (No, just pop - not all college students stay drunk and high all the time) and came back into the living room and said, "What?"

"You've got some AC/DC... and April Wine... Pink Floyd and The Stones... and Billy Squirer..."

"Yeah?" I wasn't sure what the point was, but it was obvious there was one.

Dean laughed heartily - those pretty green eyes sparkled so nicely when he laughed - and said, "I never would have taken you for a girl who listens to something like 'Stroke me.'"

---OK--- So that was the pivotal moment, although I didn't catch on to it until yesterday, when I heard "Stroke me" on the radio, and this came flooding back to my brain. Billy Squirer isn't exactly Top 40 stuff, but I was flipping around and caught the song. And, you know what, it's still a catchy tune, so there you go.

When I heard it yesterday I realized Dean was pointing out something that would be a recurring theme in my life - people's perceptions of me are very different than the reality of who I am. People think I'm rather standoffish, maybe a bit of a prude, a little cold. In actuality, I'm none of these things. Honest. I have references. Really. I can be fun, really. Honest.

At a conference recently, someone I had exchanged business emails with, but not met before, was shocked to find I was very different than how he perceived me. As he put it so kindly, "I expected you to be a rather homely girl, quiet and stuffy... and you're not." I decided to just take that as a compliment, although I guess there's a lot of room between not being "rather homely" and being anything resembling "pretty," and I guess not "stuffy" doesn't necessarily mean "fun." When I asked why he had this idea he said it was because of my interests. I don't even remember having this exchange but apparently I had mentioned liking art and he equated that with being homely, quiet and stuffy.

So... back to Dean Boggs... little known prophet in my life... Dean pinpointed it lo those many years ago when he was holding a Lynyrd Skynyrd album in his hands. I just didn't catch on to it. I think I've finally got it. Pity I don't know where Dean is so I could tell him. I think he was from Ashland, Kentucky but I just don't remember... too many years and too much rock and roll ago.

But I do remember Dean of the pretty green eyes.

How Your Garden Grows

I was looking through some of my digital pix tonight and found this one of the herb garden taken on June 3. Quite a change from how it is now that I posted a couple of days ago.




At some point things just go wild, and June in the time, obviously. I just posted that pic of the tomatoes and herbs a day or two ago so this really struck me when I ran across it. Hard to believe that's less than a month's time.

I grew up on a Kentucky farm, and we always had a big garden. I guess when you have a bunch of people to feed, you get pretty interested in a garden. My mom canned green beans and peas and tomatoes, and froze corn. We ate potatoes fresh from the garden and never thought a thing about it.

When I bought my house, one of the considerations was that I wanted enough land to have a little garden - nothing big - just a little garden. I adore fresh tomatoes and in the last couple of years have really loved having fresh herbs. It seems each year the garden gets a little larger. I don't think that's a bad thing at all, just curious.

Gardening used to be a necessity. Now it's more of a nicety. However, I've started to think of it as an esential. We are spoiled because we can go to the farmer's market, but not all of the things sold there are fresh out of the ground. We're fortunate because there's a large number of Amish and Mennonite farmers around here that still farm and bring their goods to the farmer's market. But there are also places that just buy the produce elsewhere and sell it at the farmer's market too. I can just go to the grocery store for that.

Thinking about gardening caused me to think about all the other things that are no longer essentials, but that we might all be better off if we did nonetheless. Think about how often you cook dinner compared to how often your grandmother did. I'm in the same category myself. I don't cook as much as my mother did, or as much as I would like to. But it's easy to go out to eat. It's social and it happens a lot.

We used to rest on Sunday. Even those who weren't religious rested on Sunday. Now we run like maniacs, trying to cram in more weekend time because we have no time during the week to take care of our lives. And, ironically, the people I know who are church goers seem busier and more frazzled on Sunday than those who don't go to church. I'm not sure when the "rest" part comes in - for any of us.

Why are we all running crazy all the time? There are still 24 hours in the day and people were working much harder 100 years ago than we are now. They found time for all kinds of things, so why can't we? We have dishwashers and laundry facilities and cooktops and yet we can't get it all done. They were hauling water and building fires and killing chickens.

There's something wrong. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but there's definitely something wrong.

Of course, I've always known about myself that I would have made a very good 1950s housewife - all except that answering to the husband part. Other than that I would have been excellent at it. Excellent, I tell you! I'm made to be a corporate wife or other such thing. I throw great parties, I'm a a good cook, I lunch with the best of them, I still write thank you notes - I would be so good at it in so many ways. I just am not willing to have no control over my life financially. It's too scary in a world where divorce rates are over 70% to let my future be determined by someone else. That has always been the problem.

I love the idea that one person in the couple is staying home to raise children these days, but I'm scared for everyone of them. If you're not being paid to stay home with your child, and can therefore save for your future - and that of your child's - in case of divorce, you have no financial standing. I know all about child support and alimony (a rarity these days), and I also know how much of it is owed. I just could not bring myself to be that trusting - especially not with a child's welfare at stake. Of course, no one ever thinks they'll get divorced. None of those 70% that did thought so either.

Well, I have meandered... no big surprise there... but I think I'll stop for the night...

Times Change

I have always loved old houses. I've always wanted to live in one. I've always wanted hardwood floors, and great woodwork and high ceilings.

I can remember telling someone once that when I bought a house I wanted hardwood floors. This was years ago and they looked at me like I was from another planet.

"You don't want carpet?!?"

"No! No carpet. Nasty stuff."

"Of course you want carpet. You just don't know..."

"Trust me, I know... it's nasty... put a rug down and walk on it for a week and it's filthy. Why do you think tacking it down on the edges so you can't clean it makes it get less dirty?"

"Oh, you want carpet... you'll see... you won't be happy without it..."

"No. I want hardwood."

Well, if like me you've been a long time lover of hardwood floors and other "old fashioned" ideas, are you not enjoying the fact that these same people who have sung the praises of carpet are pulling it out and slapping down plastic faux wood floors now? I can barely control my chuckles each time I hear that story. Yet again.

My sunporch downstairs didn't have hardwood - it was just subfloor. I was thinking about getting real wood to go in there - not plastic made to look like wood - but splurging for real wood. When I went shopping for it, every salesperson warned me not to - that if you could see old hardwood from the room with the new you'd never be happy with it. And these were people who stood to make some money from selling me the stuff.

They were in consensus so I put down slate tile instead. I'm very happy with it. It's a natural product - like the wood. And I think they're probably right. My old hardwood has a beautiful patina of age.

Everytime I walk on my hardwood floors that creak a bit here and there, and have imperfections after 100 years of use, I smile because I always knew they were the thing to have. The rest of the country is just catching up with those of us who have been in love with such things for a long time.