On important occasions like these, the paparazzi usually shows up, and Sunday was no exception. They were there in full force, flashbulbs popping as they pushed and shoved their way to the best shot. Mother and Uncle Tom handled it all like real pros, though, ignoring the constant flashing, elbowing and pushing, and went on about the business of unwrapping gifts and blowing out candles.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Her quiet, serene dining room (before we descended).
The tree, heavy with ornaments from Pitty's collection.
Mother is our sun, around whom we all revolve.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
2 Ripe Bananas
6 Tbsp Sugar
1/2 Tsp Vanilla Flavoring
Whip up this mixture, slather it over your body, and take a shower. It will make your skin very soft, and as smooth as satin.
Think I'll stick to my trusty Jergens lotion.
And now I'm headed to the kitchen to see if I have any Vanilla Wafers. For some reason, I have a hankering for banana pudding.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
“Cooler weather was forecast, but it’s a warm, sunny day in Dallas," the newsman says, "So Jackie Kennedy is wearing a wool Chanel suit.” He chuckles. “She might get a little warm before the day is over!”
Suzanne loves her baths; she coos and gurgles as I soap her tiny bald head. But she stops, blue eyes studying my face, as I begin singing to her:
I wrap Suzanne in a towel and turn off the TV, and then I mix her oatmeal and heat her bottle, looking forward to getting back to the book I plan to read while she’s taking her nap.
But first, I’ll feed her while watching my favorite soap opera.
In Dallas, the motorcade is arriving at Dealey Plaza and turning right from Main to Houston Street. And then it takes the 120-degree turn into Elm Street passing the School Book Depository Building.
Shots ring out.
The right side of President Kennedy's head is blown off, a huge mist of brain matter and blood spewing over everything nearby, including Mrs. Kennedy. She crawls onto the trunk of the limo, reaching for a piece of his skull.
"I have a piece of his brain in my hand!” she screams, "My God…they have shot his head off!”
I have dressed Suzanne and I’m settling in my chair to feed her and watch As the World Turns. Between bites, I glance at the TV where Nancy Hughes is giving advice to daughter-in-law Lisa.
As I pause to wipe oatmeal from Suzanne's chin, Walter Cronkite suddenly appears on the screen.
“Here is a bulletin from CBS news,” he says, “In Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy's motorcade in downtown Dallas. The first reports say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by this shooting.”
I stop, spoon in mid-air: What?
Suzanne begins whimpering, but I am frozen, unable to move.
She whimpers again, tiny mouth open.
“Shhhhh,” I whisper, “Shhhhh…”
I panic, not wanting to be alone. I must to talk to someone!
As I head to the phone in the kitchen, I hear Cronkite’s voice again.
"From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official, President Kennedy died at one p.m. Central Standard Time, two o'clock Eastern Standard Time, some 38 minutes ago."
When I get back to the TV, Cronkite is pausing. He takes his glasses off and looks down, and then he puts them back on and swallows hard.
Our young, vibrant President is dead.
Why? Why would someone do this?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
Friday, November 21, 2008
* * *
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
It's fun being a observer on the tours, and it's fun guessing which house they will choose. I'm usually impressed with the houses and the couples' choices, but I'm often disgusted with the house hunters themselves. Especially first-time buyers, most of whom are young couples.
Many jump in way over their heads, thinking nothing of spending hundreds of thousands of dollars for their first homes. (Granted, location makes a difference; homes in Manhattan and cities in California, for instance, are outrageous. But many spend exorbitant amounts of money in all parts of the country.)
There are many young couples who use their heads and buy what they can afford, of course. But on House Hunters, there seems to be an inordinate number who throw caution to the wind, insisting on four or five bedrooms (one for each child), and three or more baths. (One haughty young woman insisted that each of her three young boys, all under 10, have his own bedroom and his own private bath. Another couple, who had no children, wanted six bedrooms. The misses insisted on a room for her scrapbooking, another for her sewing; her husband wanted a media room and a practice room for his rock band. And they both wanted an exercise room and an office.)
One woman strolled through a magnificent Atlanta mansion, raising her eyebrows and shaking her streaked-blonde head. "It's nice," she said as she viewed the huge great room and beautifully-appointed kitchen, cherry hardwood floors, six bedrooms, and a walk-in closet the size of Paris Hilton's, "But not as nice as our house in Austin." (She made that statement time and time again throughout the tour.)
The realtor should kick her a$$ all the way back to Austin.
Speaking of Texas, one young man was disappointed by the size of the basement and the garage in a huge home he and his wife were considering in an affluent suburb of Dallas. The basement was as big as a bowling alley and boasted a large recreation room, a kitchenette, a bar, a bedroom and a bathroom.
"I'll be honest with you," he said, "There's just not room for a pool table, big-screen TV, and couches and chairs for my buddies when we watch football."
His wife gave the realtor an indulgent smile, "He has to have his toys."
Twinkie and Tootie were their Poodles. Their tiny Poodles.
Nevertheless, the couple bought the house. And as the credits crawled down the screen at show's end, Twinkie and Tootie cavorted in the vast yard like cotton balls tumbling in the wind.
I'll be honest with you, Mr. House Hunter. You and your wife are a couple of dumbbells.
I was impressed by the beautiful living room, but even more impressed when we got to the kitchen. It was large and square and surrounded by sparkling white cabinets. An enormous island stood regally in the center of the room, and the appliances were brand new.
"Oh, my god! That island has got to go," the wife said, "It's not big enough, and the top isn't even granite!"
I watch her husband rush to her side: Ah ha! He'll bring her down to earth in a hurry.
"Just look at this," he said, running the palm of his hand along the cabinet countertops, "We would have to change this to granite, too." He suddenly jerked his hand away, as though a Cobra had sprung from the disgusting countertop and injected him with deadly venom.
"Needs a lot of updating," the husband said, "It would cost us a chunk."
I have owned four homes in my lifetime, three of which were new constructions. And when we built our first, I never wished for larger rooms, more baths, or better hardwood. I was just glad to have a new house. (I did, however, insist on a coppertone wall oven. I had longed for one since I saw the first episode of The Donna Reed Show!)
Despite it all, I will continue watching House Hunters while eating popcorn and bitching to my heart's content.
"I guess I have a love/hate relationship with House Hunters," I told Bill last night as he lay dozing on the sofa, "I love the show, but those people irritate me. Don't they know if they get everything they want in the beginning, there's nothing to look forward to in the future?"
Bill suddenly woke up, a startled look on his face. "Right!" he said, "If McCain is elected, there won't be anything to look forward to."
Saturday, November 1, 2008
I was afraid she would be kidnapped!
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Bill and I saw Oliver Stone's "W." tonight. It wasn't a Bush-bashing movie, as I thought it might be, and I was a little disappointed that it wasn't. But it was interesting.
"W" is a light-hearted drama about Bush's (played by Josh Brolin) rise to the presidency. The first scene is in the Oval Office, where the term "axis of evil" is coined. When one of his advisers comes up with the term, he says something like, I like that...he-he-he! (he sounded just like Bush!).
There are flashbacks throughout the film: Bush's college years, alcohol addiction, his romance with Laura (played by Elizabeth Banks), and his conversion. There are a few jabs taken at him, and because of his obvious deep-rooted insecurities, "W." almost made me empathize with him. Almost.
Bush, for the most part, is portrayed as a good man who should never have been president. James Cromwell and Ellen Burstyn play Barbara and Senior George, and it's obvious they both believe Bush's brother, Jeb, is their smarter son. Bush resents it, of course, and continually tries to get his father's approval. (He called him "Poppy," which made me sad, for some reason.) Cromwell looks nothing like Senior George; he just plays the part as a disappointed, concerned father. And it works.
There's nothing about 9/11 or criticism of his politics. This film explores who Bush is and how he got to be where he is today. Stone paints him as a good man with shady associates influencing him. That's true, of course, but I felt too much was left out, that he was a little too easy on Bush.
Brolin is very believable as Bush; Banks okay as Laura. But the portrayals of the minor actors aren't believable. (For one thing, Rove looked like Truman Capote. And acted like him!)
Richard Dreyfuss is excellent as Vice-President Cheney. At times, I felt he was Cheney...sneaky, cold-hearted, smirking. And Thandie Newton as Condoleezza Rice was great; she had that walking-on-eggshells look, that unsure voice. And those snake-like eyes (although she worked too hard at times to make them look snaky!).
The soundtrack and cinematography were great. But the scene where Bush choked on a pretzel should have been left out. I felt it was in very bad taste (no pun intended!).
Overall, I would say this film is worth seeing.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
I thought it was puppy love at first, but his love is growing deeper as time goes by. He barks with joy when she arrives; he grieves when she departs. And the minute she grabs her car keys, he whines: Don't go...please don't go!
Now that he's older, he somehow knows when it's her on the phone saying she's coming over. And when I hang up, he sprints to the front door, eagerly awaiting her arrival. If we walk her to her car when she leaves, he tries to hop in.
She visited yesterday, beautiful in her black-and-white outfit and red accessories. I wanted to take her picture, but she refused. She did, however, allow me to snap one of her pretty red high heels.
I knew Dudley was near; he never leaves her side when she visits. But imagine my surprise when I transferred this picture to my computer and found him at her feet, a look of pure love on his face. (Or is it lust? If you look closely, you'll see his tongue is hanging out a bit!)
There is also a deep sadness in his eyes. Suzanne had just picked up her car keys.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Earlier in the day, Eva hosted the monthly meeting of the George-Wilson Literary Club. We enjoyed ourselves, as always, and Eva's lunch was outstanding, as always. (She's a fabulous cook!)
Gina cranks up the music and gets us moving.
Go Pitty, go Pitty, go Pitty, GO!
Shake it, Eva, shake it!
Chair dancing at its best. You go, Mary Ellen!
Mother sits this one out. But there was a time when she danced the nights away to big bands on the Delta Queen!
And finally...time to get down to business and read our stories.
* * *
Have a blessed Sunday, dear friends.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Blue Waltz is a story close to my heart. It's a work of fiction, and most of the names have been changed, but it is based on fact. Although it happened many years ago, I can still put myself back in that time and place when I first realized anything can happen to anyone. Anywhere.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
"She's not pretty enough for him," I told Patsy, "He should've married someone beautiful."
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
My favorite book when I was a child was Anne of Green Gables. I discovered it when I was eight years old, and I read it over and over for years, lolling in the swing during warm summer days; curled up in a chair next to the stove during those cold winter nights, munching on a peanut butter & jelly sandwich. And in the bed at night, until Daddy made us turn off the lights.
The last time I saw the book, one of my younger sisters was reading it. Dog-eared and battered by then, most pages had been scribbled upon by our youngest siblings. And the peanut butter & jelly smudges were still there.
Wish I still had that original copy.
The book was about Anne Shirley, the orphan girl who comes to live with Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, middle-aged siblings who live at Green Gables, a farm in Avonlea on Prince Edward Island. The Cuthberts had decided to adopt a boy to help on the farm, but due to a mix-up at the orphanage, they send eleven-year-old Anne Shirley instead.
Anne is bright and quick, with a vivid imagination. But she is dissatisfied with her name, her pale skin, freckles, and bright red hair. She takes much joy in life, though, and adapts to living on Prince Edward Island in no time at all.
She soon meets Diana Barry, who becomes her best friend, and Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis. When classmate Gilbert Blythe teases her about her carrot-red hair, she turns on him with a vengeance, and although he apologizes many times, she refuses to forgive him. Both very competitive, they continually spar back and forth in class, one trying to outdo the other. And then one day, Anne suddenly realizes she no longer hates Gilbert. But she will not admit it. (That drove me crazy; I desperately wanted Anne to go ahead and be friends with him!)
The book also follows Anne’s adventures in Avonlea, her games with Diana, Jane and Ruby, her rivalries with the Pye sisters, and her mistakes, such as dyeing her hair green and baking a cake using salt instead of sugar.
One of my favorite parts is when Anne pleads with Marilla to buy her a dress with puffed sleeves. Marilla refuses, saying her homemade dresses will do just fine. But soft-hearted Matthew sneaks off to town one day and buys the prettiest puff-sleeved dress in the store. (That brought tears to my eyes when I was eight, and it brought tears to my eyes when I saw it in the movie, many years later!)
Anne, Gilbert, and a few other classmates eventually go to the Queen's Academy where Anne obtains a teaching license in one year. She also wins the Avery Prize in English, which allows her to pursue a B.A. at Redmond College. The book ends with Matthew's death, after which Anne shows her devotion to Marilla and Green Gables by giving up the Avery Prize. Since Marilla's eyesight is failing, Anne decides to look for a teaching position at a school nearby to help her. Gilbert has secured a teaching position at the Avonlea School but gives it up so Anne can take the position, enabling her to teach at Avonlea and stay at Green Gables. Because of Gilbert’s generosity, Anne fully forgives him and they become best friends. (Finally!)
Anne of Green Gables was written by Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery, who drew upon her own childhood experiences in rural Prince Edward Island for this wonderful book. It has sold more than 50 million copies and translated into many languages.
Montgomery was born November 30, 1874, and died April 24, 1942. At the time of her death, it was reported that Montgomery died of congestive heart failure; however, her granddaughter has just revealed that she suffered from depression and took her own life with a drug overdose.
There has been much speculation about this latest discovery, some people saying Montgomery’s image has been tarnished because she committed suicide. I disagree. In my opinion, Anne of Green Gables is one of the greatest children’s books ever written; it continues to enthrall young people to this day. And the fact that she wrote 20 novels (including Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea and other sequels), over 500 short stories, an autobiography, and a book of poetry while suffering from deep bouts of depression, just shows what a dedicated writer she was.
Anne of Green Gables was written in 1908, and events are planned all over Canada this year to celebrate the centennial. I’m sure Lucy Maud Montgomery would be thrilled and honored to know her outstanding book is still being read one hundred years later.
I predict that young people all over the world, and older ones as well, will be reading it two hundred years from now. Regardless of how Montgomery died.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
A few years later, Harry joined our family. A Chow/German Shepherd mix, he was two months old and thrilled to have a playmate. But Brandi put an end to that with a hiss and a slap of her paw. Later, as a dumbfounded Harry looked on, she sat bathing herself, shooting daggers at him each time he moved: Back off, you little toot or I’ll do it again!
Though Harry grew into a gigantic, formidable dog, the two lived in harmony the rest of her life.
Brandi had no use for small creatures. When Chase was a baby, she sat on the arm of a nearby chair, a look of disbelief on her face: What the heck is that?
As time went on, though, and with much work on Chase’s part (he loves animals), Brandi came around. But she was still a little guarded; lowering her head when he petted her and not completely relaxing until he was around six years old.
After much scrutiny, Brandi allowed a few more people into her circle: Gina and her husband and two daughters, Pitty Pat, Mother and Daddy. But she hid when anyone else came calling. And after our guests departed, she strolled back into the living room, ears back, looking up at me: About time they left!
Brandi hated the outdoors. When I tried to coax her out, she balked. A few times I picked her up and carried her out, but as soon as I set her down, she sprinted back to the door, looking around with apprehension: No telling what’s out there!
She was very picky. She only drank water (didn’t much care for milk), ate Purina Cat Chow, and tuna (water-packed). If I offered her anything else, she gave me a dirty look, flicked her tail and sauntered away.
She was brought to her knees a few times, though, by several catastrophic events in her long life. It’s a wonder she survived some of them.
One incident occurred when I went to Michigan for a visit.
I had left her alone many times before, with everything she needed: two big bowls of water, two big bowls of Purina Cat Chow. Litter. If I planned to be away longer than a day or two, I had someone check on her. And she always did just fine.
But after I had been in Michigan nine days, I suddenly realized I had forgotten.
I called Gina.
When she called back, Gina’s voice didn’t sound quite right. “First of all, Brenda,” she said, “Brandi is fine….she’s just fine. Now.”
My heart dropped. “What happened?”
When they got there, Gina said, Brandi was nowhere to be found. Her food and water had not been touched; her litter was unused. And from the bedroom, they could hear a faint meow.
“I was afraid to open the door,” Gina said, “I just knew she’d be nothing but skin and bones. And maybe dying.”
But when Gina peeked in, there Brandi stood, looking up at her. And none worse for the wear. “She was really glad to see us,” Gina said, “She couldn’t get enough petting!”
As it turned out, before I left for Michigan I had gone to my bedroom and grabbed a sweater, and rushed back out to the car. Apparently, Brandi had followed me and I had closed the door, not knowing she was there.
Brandi acted less haughty for several days thereafter and seemed much more appreciative when I fed her. Before long, though, she was back to her old self.
Another incident occurred when Brandi spent time in the country with Mother and Daddy. She somehow got out one night and Daddy found her on the deck the next morning, her throat almost slit in half. We determined she had gotten into a fight with a Coon or a Possum. Maybe both, knowing Brandi!
After a trip to Lone Oak Animal Clinic, she soon recovered.
Since she hated the outdoors, I never figured out why she sneaked out that night. Maybe she considered the deck just another room. Or maybe she saw a Coon and went after him. Or maybe she just stepped out to get a breath of fresh air.
As Brandi grew older, I began worrying about the inevitable. “She’s 10 years old,” I said to Suzanne, “What if she dies?”
I said the same thing the next year, the next. And the next.
And then one day I didn’t have to coax her to get into my lap. She just climbed up there and laid her big furry head on my knees. Which was unusual for her.
“What’s the matter, Brandi?”
She looked up at me and meowed, topaz eyes sad.
She was still eating well at that time, though, and acting normal. So I put it out of my mind.
A few days later, she walked up to me and meowed, and when I invited her onto my lap, she was unable to jump.
“It’s her kidneys. That’s what gets most cats when they get to be as old as Brandi,” my veterinarian said.
“What can you do for her?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “We should probably put her down.”
I refused and took her home, where she spent the next few days on my bed. She was getting worse, and I knew I would soon have to make a decision.
Suzanne and Chase came over the last night we had with her, and we all sat on the bed, holding her, petting her, and talking to her. Tears were shed.
The next morning at the Lone Oak Animal Clinic, I held her paw as she quietly slipped away. She was 17 years old.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
When I returned to this area in 1979, people often talked about a singer named Stanley Walker. So one night when he was playing at a bar in Paducah, I went along with friends. And I was glad I did. His voice was wonderful, deep and soulful, kind of a cross between George Jones and Travis Tritt. And his guitar-playing? Well, that was something else.
"He’s great!" I said, "I can't believe he isn't famous!"
In the 1980's, his band played regularly at the Executive Inn. I worked for the city then, and co-workers and I often headed there for Happy Hour on Wednesdays, sometimes staying later into the evening just to hear Stanley play.
Although I didn't know his name back then, I had already seen Stanley play. Years ago, and many times.
What I do know is things were really hopping in that big, smoke-filled place, people of all ages having a great time. Ray Smith was a skinny guy, enthusiastic, energetic, and singing like there was no tomorrow. It was obvious how much he loved his music.
One song he always sang was Elvis's Hard Headed Woman, and when he belted out those first few lyrics, everyone hit the dance floor, crinoline petticoats swishing, ponytails bouncing; Old Spice cologne wafting through the air, crew-cut heads bobbing to and fro, and white bucks slipping and sliding across the floor. The air seemed to snap and crackle.
Early on, Raymond Jones, a classmate of mine, played guitar in Ray's band, and when Raymond left, he was replaced with a boy who could really pick the guitar.
That boy was Stanley Walker, and he went on to play lead guitar for Ray Smith's Rockin' Little Angel, which sold several million records. It was recorded at Sun Records in 1961, and there were other songs as well. He toured with Ray Smith, appeared on Hee Haw, did solo recordings. And much more.
“I just can’t believe anybody would write that to me,” Stanley told Shull, “I didn’t know anybody knew me anymore.”
I agree with the good doctor; he did contribute to Ray’s records, and I, along with many people in this area and fans all over the world, certainly do remember him.
Congratulations, Stanley. No one deserves this honor more than you.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
He had a great sense of humor, loved playing jokes, and seldom visited without a bag of candy: He kneels, all of us kids gathering around him. "Who do y'all love?" he says. "Paw Paw!" we chorus. We all give him a hug and then he opens the sack and passes Mounds candy bars around. (My first bite of the moist coconut, sheathed in rich dark chocolate, brings tears to my eyes!)
When we spent the night with him and Maw Maw (which we often did), he kept us laughing: At the supper table, Paw Paw picks up a bowl of potatoes: "Would you care for some potatoes?" he says. He sets the bowl down in front of his plate, then picks it up again, "Why, thank you; believe I will have some!"
No matter how many times he did that, it was always funny to us. (We laughed so hard one night that Terry spewed iced tea all the way across the table!)
After we lost Maw Maw, we were worried about Paw Paw. He was 80 then, and she was his rock. What would he do without her?
He stayed in his home, Mother helping out, for years thereafter. I lived out of state at the time, and I imagined him there alone, sitting in his big recliner at night, dozing, watching television. And then dozing some more.
Long after his death (when he was almost 92), Mother showed me a poem Paw Paw had written when he was 87.
"Paw Paw wrote poetry?" I said.
"Yes," said Mother, "He wrote lots of poems to Maw Maw when they were courting."
So I had to revise my mental image of Paw Paw in his last years. Now I see him at his kitchen table, pen in hand, drawing on his wealth of memories as he writes a poem. More than likely, he's enjoying a bowl of ice cream (he loved ice cream).
I like that image much better.
* * *
School Days on College Hill
Edward T. George
When I was six years old, I lived on College Hill,
Haven’t forgotten it yet, and never will.
I started to school about 10 till eight,
Had a First Reader and 10-cent slate.
Teacher rang a little bell about 10 till nine,
All the kids would run and get in line.
We marched to our room down through the hall,
In about five minutes, we had roll call.
If anybody was late or played hooky that day,
The teacher called him up front and made him pay.
He’d have to stand in the corner ‘bout an hour and a half,
When the teacher wasn’t looking, we all had to laugh.
Some walked to school, ‘bout a mile or two,
Waded water and snow, but they got through.
They got to school with a smile and no fuss,
And there wasn’t such a thing as a car or bus.
We had a good time as I recall,
Playing “Wolf Over the River,” marbles, and ball.
The girls had a good time jumping rope,
Never heard of such a thing as kids taking dope.
Most all of my school friends have gone on before,
But someday I'll meet them on the other shore.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
I'll be honest with you. I haven't been working on my novel lately, nor have I been working on a short story. I'm kind of at a stand-still. Nothing serious; this happens occasionally. So I've been occupying myself with other things...housework, cleaning closets, reading Anne Rivers Siddons' Off Season, sipping Diet Coke. Thinking.
I'm also wondering what Eudora Welty did when she went through a dry spell. (That's her desk in the picture above.) Maybe she worked in her garden. Or baked a cake. Or played with her cats (don't know if she had cats, but she seems like a person who would).
As for me, after I have done everything else, I motivate myself by going through my Works-in-Progress folder, reading the first paragraphs of some of my stories:
C. J. Pickens loved walking to the post office. Excitement swept through his body as he awoke each morning, eagerly anticipating his two-mile trek into town to see what was going on, catch up on the latest gossip, and check his post office box. He never knew what to expect. Would it be Publishers’ Clearinghouse sweepstakes information? Entry forms for a trip to the Bahamas or Disneyworld? A letter from his cousin in Tiptonville?
* * *
Greek Grandma's Funeral
* * *
The Rise and Fall of Boyd K. Wilkins
From the time Boyd K. Wilkins was old enough to think, he knew there were great things in store for him. He couldn't wait to get out in that great big world and experience everything life had to offer. And the quicker, the better. He had long ago decided he would not be living out his life in a tiny, dilapidated old house, wearing bib overalls and worrying about how to pay for groceries. He would not marry and have a bunch of kids he couldn't afford. And he would, by god, have the things he had always wanted.
* * *
* * *
The Night Has Passed
We drive into Beech Grove, Kentucky on a cold Sunday afternoon in early March, turning down the street where most of the stores are perched: the little restaurant that serves up delicious slaw burgers each day; the small dry goods store where Momma bought our shoes when we were little, and a mom & pop grocery store, the aisles so narrow you are forced to brush against familiar-looking people to get by.
* * *
Jake, Duke, Dolly and Me
Jake Turnbow was 52 years old and owned the Jiffy Mart when I met him. The clerk hired me, and I didn’t see him until I’d been working there for a good little while. He never said nothing to me when he was around the store. But that was before I jumped into the back room. I used to jump a lot. Instead of walking from one room to the next, I’d kind of hang onto the door frame and jump into the next room. Of course, I was only 17 then. I don’t jump nearly as much anymore. Anyway, I jumped into the back room and you would not believe what Jake Turnbow did.
* * *
Maybe I'll get motivated tomorrow. Or the next day. Or something like that.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
I've been enjoying the songs of Elton John for the past few days, which I do quite often. In my opinion, no entertainer on the planet today can compare to him and his music.
I'll never forget the first time I was mesmerized by one of the British singer/songwriter's songs. It was in 1973, and Suzanne and I were meandering around a book store at Eastland Mall in Bloomington, Illinois. I had just stopped to thumb through Kurt Vonnegut's new book, Breakfast of Champions, when I became aware of a song playing somewhere faraway in the mall:
Oh I've finally decided my future lies
Beyond the yellow brick road...
I stopped and looked around: Oh, my goodness! Who is that? The lyrics and music were outstanding; the singer's voice spoke to me.
I bought the album that very day, and I played Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road over and over for months, not knowing, of course, that it would go on to become Elton John's best-selling studio album, or number 91 on Rolling Stone's list of the 500 greatest albums of all time. I also had no way of knowing that Elton would become the biggest pop superstar of the early '70s.
In the years since, Elton John has recorded many wonderful songs (charting a Top 40 single every single year from 1970 to 1996!). A few of my favorites are Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me, Can You Feel the Love Tonight, Your Song, Sacrifice, Daniel, Something About the Way You Look Tonight. But my all-time favorite is The One, which he recorded in 1992. So romantic!
As you know, Elton is not tall, muscular and handsome, as are many celebrities of today. But I'll take that little fellow in his earrings, odd spectacles and elaborate costumes any day over just about any other singer. Well...Bob Seger does have his place in my heart, as does Elvis. And a few others. But Elton John touches my soul with just about every song he records. They are classics.
Apparently, Queen Elizabeth II feels the same; she knighted him in 1998. (I can see her now, watching the video of Can You Feel the Love Tonight, head back, eyes closed, Corgis draped here and there: Their ears perk up and they begin yelping as the lions cavort across the screen. "Emma! Holly!" HM says, "Quiet, you bloody pooches, quiet!")
I would be remiss if I left out Bernie Taupin, Elton's lyricist. How did Elton find him? Believe it or not, Bernie responded to an ad Elton placed in a newspaper for a songwriter. So he has written many of those great lyrics (bless you, Bernie!), and Elton put them to music. What a collaboration!
I have long wished I could meet Elton and thank him for all the hours of pleasure his songs have given me. It's unlikely I will ever be near him, of course, but I was once near someone who is. And has been for years.
I was in London, along with Mother, Pitty, and my brother, Tony. We stopped at a restaurant in Kensington, that June day in 1996, for lunch. And as I sat in the cozy little restaurant, digging into my delicious meal and enjoying the lovely British accents floating through the air, I noticed a group of several men at a table a few feet away.
They were a lively group, not loud or obnoxious; just a bunch of British chaps chowing down on their fish and chips. They looked a bit different, though; kind of like hippies. Older hippies. One was tall and very thin, with long blond hair. He looked vaguely familiar.
It wasn't long before I realized a big commotion was going on around the hippies' table. Waitresses, faces flushed, were hovering over them, others standing in the doorway of the kitchen whispering and tittering among themselves. The cook peered over their shoulders.
Pitty and I looked at each other, then at the group. "They're really excited," she said, "They must be someone important."
We had finished our meal, and Mother and Tony were headed toward the register, when one of the waitresses rushed out of the kitchen.
I stopped her as she started past our table, "Who are they?"
"Elton John's band!" she said.
"Where's Elton John?"
"He's not with them today."
I gave Pitty my camera. "Act like you're taking a picture of me," I said, "so we can get one of the band!"
I know, I know...I look like a ghost, but I had to lighten the picture so you could see the band in the corner. (The little guy on the right was oblivious to all the activity; he just kept right on eating!)
As the band members were heading out the door, deep in conversation, the blond man hesitated in the doorway. So I grabbed my camera and snapped this picture. (I later learned he was Davey Johnstone, Elton's long-time guitarist.)
I considered asking him to tell Elton how much I appreciate the hours of enjoyment he has given me through the years with his timeless songs. Davey appeared to be a nice, friendly bloke; he would probably have smiled and said he would be happy to do so.
But I didn't. Now, I wish I had.
Be that as it may, if you are reading this post, Sir Elton John (and you probably are), all I can say is keep singing, my friend, and I'll keep listening.
And now, if you have time, relax with the Queen, the Corgis and me, and enjoy Can You Feel the Love Tonight.